It is useless to spend much time searching for those responsible for this damning record. They are in every era, everywhere, exercising their sinister talents. They are priests or magistrates, soldiers or bankers, creators of the lowest works of History, destroyers of its illusions and providers of its graves. But, in addition to human beings, Michel Onfray also denounces perverted religions, betrayed revolutions, discredited ideals, subverted ideologies and misleading utopias with a desperate lucidity, From that, how can we not conclude, like Diogenes, that dog is better than man? Democritus' choice seems tempting where, if we want, we can take recourse to the forests in order to escape this filthy and corrupt world. In the second half of the show, the narrators tell us of the small pleasures of that wise hermit, living in seclusion in the sweet company of pigeons, swallows, the “croaking of frogs and the flute-like laughs of toads”. Preaching a sort of primitive and naive hedonism, Michel Onfray encourages us to rediscover the simple joys of nature: the taste of blackberries on the paths of our childhoods, a buttercup under the chin of a woman in a summer dress.
I will go, tinted with blue, to mimic the boar in the Forest. I will go, grunting with joy, to scratch my skin against the oak trees. With my hands in the shape of a beak, I will sing out the glories of all my false steps and my dreams are tossed away. Raised up to a marriage with death, a torus marking the place of my ancestors, I will hold my head high to chafe against the rocks, seizing my fear of not being able to resemble them. Exile will pull the moss away from my eyes, a pupil which passes the time by turning in on itself. The sound of my laugh will be the tombs of my nights. Ample once more, my breath will rediscover the use of its languages: the language of the bosom, language of the blood, language of building castles in the air. Three foreign sisters in conversation who will set the bodily boundaries of my exile. I will go into the Forest, because a life of turning my back on doors and mirrors is absurd. I will go into the Forest, because a life turned murderous through perplexity over a world which curses life is absurd. I will go into the Forest, to live endlessly. These dawns are always a feat.
A Rebel born never dies.
A yearning soul in a gateless barrier of mind
Measuring the motion of himself against distant realms
His freedom his own.
Prints himself in the gaseous vapors of Universe
A cocoon of dust and forest light.
He runs into the dark parts of unknown poets
Plunges into the mystery
The Rebel in his loneliness suffers for the world, awakens purpose for everyman because he took the risk.
Carries stars to keep in dark corners
Buries souls in hollow trees
Tastes the flesh of wind on his hand
Carries forest waters by eyes to the sea
Tangled in salt and memory
Bows to holy emersion
To dancing earth in her revolutions
The Rebel does not sleep
Dreams his waking dream
Rocks anchor his eye lids
Does not sleep
Becomes his own hero
Red fox smells rebel tracks hunts him down
In fierce hunger pretends compassion before attack
A rebel born never dies
Runs into forest deep wilds
Runs into the stillpoint of wind mind
Where trees weep in storm and shadow
Cradles in the final fold of bird's wing
Etches his soul on rock and doubt of a world left behind
Digs hands in beautiful forbidden mud of childplay
Smells hidden parts of animals long gone
Smears his humility on original impermanence
His seeds of lost remembrance, regenerates,
Shapes his body to tree rings in a thousand folds of ageless
The bigger view of miracles
Where the phenomenal world disintegrates towards infinity
Where time is neither a clock nor calendar nor having been disgraced by convention nor coming to where what makes time in the wild our rebel in shiny bones leaps to dare the heart.
To enter the primal source in the dignity of decaying leaves left to dust the graves of our hollowed ancestors
Whose bed prepares worms and things of bite
Indeed a prosperous dare whose rebellious soul dwells in everyman