Our old days

With the heat wave, here are the vacation homework raining down, in the form of a thousand surveys. As one of the most interesting, I would gladly cite that of La Pensée française, which, through M. M.-C. Poinsot, asks us what we would think of a National Literary Fund, intended to ease the old days of writers over fifty.

Idea, in principle, excellent, but which I do not see carried out anytime soon. Because, if the regime once passed the law on workers' pensions, it was not, on its part, pure generosity. It was also that the workers of the factory or the land demanded this law and that it was necessary to reckon with so many thousands of voters. Whereas for writers, for this tiny minority of dreamers who have always preferred platonic grievances to the ballot, one can guess whether the regime is going to hurry.

But admitting that around Saint-Glinglin, the National Literary Fund opens its counters some day, by what resources to feed it? In this regard, various solutions have been proposed, to which I will allow myself to add my own: it would be to devote to the said Fund the considerable sums which are constantly wasted, in high places, for the celebration of centenarians. : Most of these solemnities lose, in fact, more and more their literary character to incline to the demonstration of a political order and, finally, the memory of our masters does not serve any more but the pretext with the expenses of these electoral rounds.

See what just happened to Banville. Centenary in Paris. Centenary at Moulins. Sumptuous parties, performances, ballets, banquets, galas... crazy expenses. Well! Wouldn't all that money have been better spent in the Literary Fund? national than in that of the forthcoming elections?

Fernand Vanderem