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Octave M I R B E A UVoters strike
 
One thing astonishes me, I almost said stupefies me, namely, that in thisscientific hour at which I write, after so many daily scandals and revelations,there can still exist in our dear France one voter, one single voter that irrationalanimal, inorganic, hallucinatory who allows his life to deranged, all his dreamsand pleasures interrupted, merely to vote for someone or something.When one reflects for a moment on the surprising phenomenon, does itnot topple the sublest philosophies, and even confound Reason itself ? Where isthere a Balzac or Schopenhauer to give us the physiology of the modern voter ?Where a neurologist to explain for us the anatomy and mentality of thisincurable lunatic ? We await them. Oh, I understand how a salesman alwaysfinds suckers ; I understand that censorship finds it’s defenders, that musicalsalways find fans, the daily papers their subscribers, I understand all. But that acouncilman, senator, or president or whatever strange joker claiming whatever elective function, should be able to dig up one voter, that undreamed-of being,that improbable martyr who will nourish you with his bread, dress you in hiscoat fatten you on his flesh, enrich you with his purse, all this, only in the hopeof receiving in return for such prodigious generosity a smack on the head, a kick in the ass, or maybe a bullet in the belly ; verily, this surpasses even the most pessimistic opinion I’ve held till now of human beastliness in general andFrench stupidity in particular, our own “dear” and immortal silliness !I speak of course of the believing voter, the convinced voter, the philosophical voter who imagines that his is the act of a free citizendemonstrating his sovereignty, expressing his opinions, imposing political programs and righting social wrongs. I’m not talking about the voter who“knows the tune,” who mocks, who sees in his mandate nothing but right wingcold cuts or liberal stew ; the sovereignty of such a voter consists of guzzling at
 
the springs of Universal Suffrage and after all, why not ? He’s looking after himself and not hurting anyone else ; he knows what he’s doing.But... the others ? Yes, the others ! The serious ones, the austere ones, thesovereign people, those who feel a great intoxication seize them as they look around and say to themselves, “I am a voter ! Nothing can be done without me !I am the basis of modern society. By my will Congress makes laws which bindover 40 million people.” Where are these fools being manufactured ? ! How canthey be so stubborn, so swollen headed, so paradoxical as not to have becomelong ago discouraged and embarrassed by their actions ? How can one hope todiscover anywhere from the backwoods of Kentucky to the inaccessible regionsof Brittany a person so stupid, so irrational, so blind to what he sees and deaf towhat he hears, as to vote Blue, White, or Red without being forced, without being paid, without even a free drink ? What Baroque sentiment, whatmysterious mesmeric suggestion does he obey, this thinking biped endowed withfree will.So, I’m told, that he should delude himself, puffed up with his “rights,”into thinking he’s done his duty by dropping some piece of paper inscribed withsome name into some ballot box ? What can he possibly say to himself to justifyor even explain this extravagant act ? What does he hope for ? Because finally,in order that he agree to surrender himself to these greedy bosses who willsponge off him and bludgeon him to a pulp, he must tell himself something andhope for something so extraordinary we can scarcely imagine it. Somehow, bysome potent cerebral deviation, the idea of the Politician had come to stand for the idea of Science, of Justice, of Devotion, of Labor and of Probity. In the verynames of the politicians themselves, he must have discovered some specialmagic and seen, as if through a mirage, flowering and blooming in a gardensome promise of future felicity and instant gratification. And that’s what’s reallydreadful.It seems nothing teaches him a lesson, neither the most burlesque of comedies nor the most sinister of tragedies. Look how during Humankind’s longcenturies societies have risen and fallen, all alike in this one fact which rules allhistory : the great are protected, the small are crushed. And yet our voter stillcannot grasp the sole real reason for his historic existence : to pay for heaps of 
 
crap he’ll never enjoy, and to die for some political bullshit which is none of his business. Why should it matter, whether it’s Peter or John who demands, “Your money or your life !” since we’re obliged to lose both in the end ? No, really, doyou think one bunch of thieves and torturers preferable to another, and cast avote for the most rapacious and ferocious of the lot.One voted yesterday, again tomorrow; one always votes. Sheep run to theslaughterhouse, silent and hopeless, but at least sheep never vote for the butcher who kills them or the “bourgeois” who devours them. More beastly than any beast, more sheepish than any sheep, the voter names his own executioner andchooses his own devourer, and for this precious “right” a revolution was fought.Good voter, unspeakable imbecile, poor dupe, suppose for once that,instead of reading the same old bilge with which the morning paper regales youfor a franc (big paper, small paper, Right wing or Left wing, Moderate or anyother madness all earn their money by skinning you) — suppose that, instead of swallowing that flattery that caresses your vanity and props up our lamentableand tattered sovereignty ; suppose that instead of gawking and rubbernecking atthe weighty bullshit of politics, suppose that just once, you curled up by the firewith the work of Schopenhauer, one philosopher who has meditated deeplyabout you and your masters why, who knows, perhaps you might learnsomething amazing and useful. Perhaps, after reading his works or the work of  Nordau you’ll feel less obligated to put on again your air of gravity and coat andrun back to those murderous polls where, no matter whose name you choose,you’ve picked the name of your worst enemy. They tell you, those twoconnoisseurs of humanity that politics is an abominable lie, opposed to allcommon sense, justice and right, and that meddling in it will gain you no credit,you whose fate is already written in the grand account of human destiny. After that, dream if you will of paradises of light and perfumes, of impossible brotherhood, of unreal happiness. It’s good to dream ; it eases our troubledminds. But keep people out of your dream, for wherever humans are found,there too are sadness, hatred, and murder. Above all, remember that he whosolicits your vote is by that very fact revealed as a scoundrel, since in exchangefor your advantage and fortune he promises a cornucopia of miracles he’ll never deliver because he hasn’t the power to deliver them. The man you elect
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