Onfray, Raoult, Zemmour, the shock trio of France next to their pumps

Difficult nowadays to open a newspaper without falling on one of these three lads. Whether in bad or in good, we evoke them as if they were key figures in the hexagonal media scene, which they are in more ways than one. One takes himself for the reincarnation of Nietzsche, the other thinks that medicine did not exist before his birth and the third, well, the third, this dunce of Zemmour, sees bearded everywhere and barbarians to every corner of green.

The three are paired and embody a form of radical thinking that appeals to the man on the street as much as the mad reactionary. Ah! This petulance, this gluttony in their eyes when they dare to say aloud what public rumor whispers! Ah! This confidence they have when they are defending the mediocrity of their fellow men in a ferocious language where their innate love for humanity is reflected! Ah! This audacity which is theirs to tackle the indestructible statues of contemporary thought, these little marquis of politico-medico-cultural orthodoxy whose sheepish behavior they like to ridicule in so many scathing interventions.

They do not do in half measures, they speak as they think to the point of causing each of their interventions series of mini-scandals which are gargled in dinners in town like formerly the eccentricities of an actress fond of partners male gave blissful redness to the notables of the beautiful districts.

They have their heart, their fans, their fierce admirers whom they seduce with triumphant speeches where they exalt the depth of their atypical thinking. They are the outlaws of cathodic exegesis when they denounce the mediocrity of some, the privileges of others, the blindness of the ruling classes so stiff with conformism that they forget the aspirations of the people, of these misunderstood masses which our three accomplices claim to embody, each in their own way, the taste for square things by denouncing charlatans of all stripes, from the doctor in knock to the loose thinker, via the service Arab, guilty of all the evils of Earth.

They are all three enlightened with their own knowledge. Often when they speak, they have the gaze of the chosen one who thinks they have been chosen to lead the way and speak the divine word. Possessed to the point of considering themselves as the center of the universe, of mad arrogance, of disproportionate pride, they believe themselves beyond all obedience, drunk with a freedom which is that which nature grants to beings exceptional.

One is a philosopher as some think themselves to be novelists once they have memorized the Correspondence de Flaubert or the Newspapers from Kafka. The other imagines like the reincarnation of Louis Pasteur who would have invented the pastis and the third, lost in his Judaism, glorifies a French genius who from all eternity vomits Jewishness and its loyal Israelites.

The three form the face of a populist France completely next to its pumps which, from back to back, from crisis to crisis, from rebellion to rebellion, draws the face of a country lost to itself where the fear of future is combined with the glorification of a prestigious past whose echo we would desperately seek through the evocation of personalities with behavior as troubled as rancid.

Onfray, Raoult, Zemmour, when the psychotics are among us.