Le Feu Follet's Letter

The hour is not for poetry. The hour is for poets. To all those who preserve the voice of Humankind. And to those who are made to fall silent. To suspended time.

Whether dissidences that herald upheaval or vain struggles that remain underground, dreams of justice or fantasies of chaos, the propositions are sometimes sterile, but opposition is always fertile. In this era of great divergences of visions about the future, a look at the past warns us that while the Yes is unifying, it is salutary to preserve the No!

Love—there indeed is the absolute reference. At last, a value that knows no criticism. No matter that societies condemn its diverse forms and only accept it when tightly corseted. Often used as a pretext for so many abuses and a breeding ground for so many disillusioned souls, literature delights in its struggles yet grants it so few victories, the excesses of its raptures inspire the arts while its mawkish sweetness remains stranded in our reality... Love was always cause for celebration but seldom the wars waged in its name. And yet beware, Valentine: your disciples are undisciplined, for love is plural and loves, singular!

This week, Le Feu Follet centers this week's letter on an inscribed manuscript score by Camille Saint-Saëns and a copy of The Clash's Red China signed by Joe Strummer himself. Two worlds, two eras, speaking to each other across time through ink and autograph. One from the velvet-draped salons of the 19th century, the other from London's sweat-soaked punk dives – yet both insist that music needs something tangible to outlast its makers.

Haute Couture Books

It is a difficult ascent toward harmony, And a dangerous slope toward chaos. It is acquired each day and never possessed. It is not a state; it is a struggle: Peace.

« The divine cosmos appeared to them torn by tensions, conflicts of prerogative and power. They also recognized unity within it; all these restless and diverse gods, Zeus holds them together under the unity of a single law. »

A FIRST SUMMER NIGHT'S TORMENT Feel-good books, fun facts, wellness therapies, good vibes, body positivity, mood boosters… — in a world seeking lightness, happiness now seems to lie in Anglo-Saxon neologisms. Yet writers rarely pursue lukewarm sentiments or the quiet chase for bland contentment. When French poets borrow from across the Channel, it is often in search of spleen rather than any easy ideal. On this longest day, Le Feu Follet dares to hasten the sunset, that its ‘wandering fingers’ might trace the ‘bloodstain’ of the Affiche Rouge and dip into Delacroix’s darkest inks for a Shakespearean question — should Madame de Rênal be so kind as to lend us her lover’s skull.