So the friend Brice agrees to a pact of "national tranquility." And he added that "there will be as many laws as problems to be solved" and that he "will not hesitate to complain when the police are wrongly accused."
The best friend of thirty years of the president, best possible recommendations and doing work for a certificate of competence, seems to be exercised daily in a contest during playtime with his friend Besson.
is that which will go further, faster, stronger in stupidity, demagogy Poujadist, vindictive posture of one who claims to defend the weak and oppressed.
What is it that the "national tranquility?
Hortefeux we respond with the aim of ensuring " a quiet and peaceable life in all honest people, whoever they are and wherever they are, in our neighborhoods and our countryside. "
Sleep quiet good people, friends with built in video surveillance panopticon socially inefficient, will be at your side to provide peace of mind in everyday life.
Quiet as in Montauban, where he must painfully one month to the police to finally be concerned to question suspects and known racist morons all authors of a beating in order.
Quiet as can those who benefit from impunity de facto daily, regularly denounced by Amnesty International. Tranquil
finally as a friend Brice for not wearing that tie seems to allow him to slip regularly verbally, as yet Seignosse this summer. And if it
Disquiet that could save us, like the title of the book by Fernando Pessoa, "The Book of Disquiet"?
Here's an excerpt: " He sang, a soft voice, a song from a faraway land. The music made us familiar unfamiliar words. This evoked fado for our soul, but this song does look anything like him.
The song said, according to his veiled phrases and melody so human, things that are in the soul of each of us and nobody knows. He sang in a sort of drowsiness, ignoring the look the audience, lost in a small corner of ecstasy. People crowded
listened without apparent mockery. The song belongs to everybody, and sometimes the words we speak, some secret Eastern lost race. We heard nothing of city noises, yet we heard, and the carts were passing so close that one of them brushed against a piece of my jacket. But if I felt I did not hear not. There was an intensity in the singing of the stranger who had just caress what we dream, dream or attempts without success. It was a case from the street, and we all saw the police officer who had just turned slowly around the corner. He came up with the same deliberation, and remained motionless behind the small seller of umbrellas, as if he saw something. At this point, the singer stopped. Nobody said anything. Then the officer intervened. "
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