The Seventh Function of Language

As if he had been waiting for this all along, as if these preliminaries had no other purpose than to bring the conversation to exactly this point, Mitterrand leans back in his chair: “Giscard is a good technician. His strength is his precise knowledge of himself, of his strengths and weaknesses. He knows he is short of breath, but his phrasing is perfectly matched to the rhythm of his breathing. A subject, a verb, a direct complement. A period, no commas: because that would lead him into the unknown.” He pauses to give the obliging smiles time to spread across his guests’ faces, then goes on: “And there need not be any link between two sentences. Each is enough in itself, as smooth and full as an egg. One egg, two eggs, three eggs, a series of eggs, regular as a metronome.” Encouraged by the prudent chuckles offered from around the table, Mitterrand begins to warm up: “The well-oiled machine. I knew a musician once who claimed his metronome had more genius than Beethoven … Naturally, it’s a thrilling spectacle. And highly educational, into the bargain. Everyone understands that an egg is an egg, no?”

Eager to maintain his role as cultural mediator, Jack Lang intervenes: “That is exactly what Monsieur Barthes condemns in his work: the ravages of tautology.”

Barthes confirms: “Yes, well … let’s say the false demonstration par excellence, the useless equation: A equals A, ‘Racine is Racine.’ It’s zero degree thought.”

Though delighted by this convergence of theoretical viewpoints, Mitterrand is not sidetracked from the main flow of his speech: “Exactly! That’s exactly it. ‘Poland is Poland, France is France.’” He puts on a whiny voice: “Go on, then, explain the opposite! What I mean is that to a rare degree Giscard has the art of stating the obvious.”

Barthes, obligingly, concurs: “The obvious is not demonstrated. It demonstrates.”

Mitterrand repeats, triumphantly: “No, the obvious is not demonstrated.” Just then, a voice is heard at the other end of the table: “And yet if we follow your demonstration it seems obvious that victory cannot escape you. The French people are not that stupid. They won’t fall twice for that impostor’s tricks.”

The speaker is a young man with thinning hair and pouty lips, a bit like Giscard, who, unlike the other guests, does not seem impressed by the little man. Mitterrand turns spitefully toward him: “Oh, I know what you think, Laurent! Like most of our contemporaries, you think that he is the most dazzling performer of all.”

Laurent Fabius protests, with an expression of disdain: “I did not say that…”

Mitterrand, aggressively: “Oh yes you did! Oh yes you did! What a good television viewer you make! It’s because there are so many good television viewers like you that Giscard is so good on television.”

Fabius does not flinch. Mitterrand gets more and more worked up: “I acknowledge that he’s marvelous at explaining how nothing is ever his fault. Prices went up in September? It’s the beef, by Jove. [Barthes notes Mitterrand’s use of “by Jove.”] In October, it’s melons. In November, it’s gasoline, electricity, the railways, and rents. How could prices not go up? Brilliant.” His face is disfigured by a malicious grin. His voice grows husky: “And we are wonder-struck at being initiated so easily into the mysteries of the economy, at being allowed to follow this erudite guide into the minutiae of high finance.” He is shouting now: “Oh yes, oh yes, it’s the beef! Those damn melons! The treacherous railways! Long live Giscard!”

The guests are petrified, but Fabius, lighting a cigarette, replies: “A bit over the top.”

Mitterrand’s smile becomes charming again, his voice returns to normal, and, without anyone knowing whether he is replying to Fabius or attempting to reassure his other guests, he says: “I was joking, of course. Although, not entirely. But let’s be honest: it takes a high degree of intelligence to do such a good job convincing people that governing is about not being responsible for anything.”

Jack Lang slips away.