Jean-Baptiste’s death was the defining event of my life: it left my mother a slave, and gave me my freedom.
There is, by the nature of things, no such thing as a good father. Don’t blame men, though: blame rather the rotten bond of fatherhood. There’s nothing finer than making children: and no greater injustice than having them! Had he lived, my father would have lain full over me, crushed me. Luckily, he died very young: while around me every other poor Aeneas staggers under the burden of his own Anchises, I cross unencumbered from shore to shore, full of contempt for those unseen sires mounted lifelong on their sons’ backs. I left behind a young man who died never having had time to be my father, and who by now could be my son. Was that good, or bad? I don’t know, but I am happy to subscribe to the diagnosis of an eminent psychoanalyst: I have no superego to loom over me.
Just dying is not enough: it must be done at the right time. Had it happened later, I would have felt a sense of guilt, as every orphan old enough to understand blames himself: his parents loathed the sight of him, and have gone away to their celestial dwelling-place. But as it was, I was delighted. My sad circumstances brought me respect, affirmed my importance; I numbered my bereavement among my virtues. My father was thoughtful enough to die when he had no right to. My grandmother always said that he had wriggled out of his duties; my grandfather, being justly proud of the Schweitzers’ longevity, would not allow that someone could pass away at thirty. In the light of this dubious demise, he came to doubt that his son-in-law had ever existed, and in the end he forgot him. I didn’t even have to forget him: Jean-Baptiste gave me the slip, and so denied me the pleasure of knowing him. Even today it amazes me to think how little I know of him. Still, he loved, he enjoyed life, he faced death; that’s enough to be counted a man.

Jean-Baptiste's death was the big break of my life: it enslaved my mother and gave me freedom.
A good father doesn't exist as a rule; this is not to belittle men, but only the business of fatherhood, which is rubbish. Making children is fine; but having children is a sin! Had he lived, my father would have leant on me with all his weight and would have crushed me. Luckily he died young; and I cross life's river alone, despising those invisible father-figures who ride astride their sons all their lives like Anchises on the back of Aeneas. I left behind me a dead youth who didn't have the time to be my father, and who could today be my son. Was this a good or a bad thing? I don't know, but I willingly subscribe to the view of an eminent psychoanalyst who said I have no Superego.
Dying is only half the battle: timing is of the essence. Had it been later, I would have felt guilty, as an orphan often blames himself, reasoning that his parents retired to their heavenly abodes because they couldn't stand the sight of him. But I was delighted. My sad condition earned respect and gave me importance; my mourning counted as one of my virtues. My father had been gallant enough to die in the wrong; my grandmother kept saying that he had evaded his duties and my grandfather, justly proud of Schweitzer longevity, could not accept the idea of anyone dying at thirty. In the light of this suspicious disappearance he began to have doubts about his son-in-law having existed, and finally forgot he ever had. I didn't even need to forget him, for by giving us the slip Jean-Baptiste had denied me the pleasure of making his acquaintance. Even today I find it surprising how little I know about him. Still, he loved, he wanted to live, and then met his end; which is all you need say about a man.

Jean-Baptiste’s death was the major event of my life: it condemned my mother to her chains and gave me my freedom.
That there’s no such thing as a good father is the rule. There’s little point in blaming men for it when it’s paternal ties in general, frayed and worn as they are, which are at fault. There’s nothing better than making children, but having them – now that’s a crime! Had he lived, my father would have borne down on me with all his weight, eventually crushing me. Luckily, he died young; amongst the Aeneases carrying their Anchiseses on their backs, I move from one shore to the other alone, hating these invisible paters astride their children for all their lives; I left behind me a dead young man who didn’t have the time to be my father and who, today, could be my son. Was it for the better or for the worse? I don’t know, but I happily subscribe to the verdict of an eminent psychoanalyst: I don’t have a superego on my back.
Dying isn’t everything: you’ve got to die at the right time. Later I made myself feel guilty; an orphan with any degree of awareness blames itself: offended by its sight, its parents have retreated to their apartments in the sky. For my part, I was delighted: my sad lot commanded respect, established my importance; I numbered my bereavement amongst my virtues. My father had had the good grace to die culpably; my grandmother said over and over that he was stripped of his duties; my grandfather, rightly proud of Schweitzer longevity, could not bring himself to acknowledge that a person could die at thirty; faced with this suspect death, he came to doubt that his son-in-law had ever existed and ultimately forgot him entirely. I didn’t even have to forget him: by absconding, Jean-Baptiste had denied me the pleasure of making his acquaintance. Even today I am amazed by how little I know about him. He loved, however. He wanted to live. He died with his wits about him. That's enough to constitute a whole man.

Jean-Baptiste’s death was the biggest event of my life: it enslaved my mother and liberated me.
There’s no such thing as a good father, that’s a given; don’t blame men; blame the paternal bond, that’s what’s rotten. Making babies, nothin’ better; having them, that’s the sin! Had he lived, my father would have lain down right on top of me and crushed me. As luck would have it, he died young; surrounded by Aeneases carrying their Anchiseses on their backs, I go from one shore to the other, alone and hating these invisible genitors riding on their sons’ backs for their entire lives; I left behind me a young corpse who hadn’t had the time to be my father and who could, today, be my son. Was this a good thing or a bad thing? I don’t know; but I willingly subscribe to the conclusion of an eminent psychoanalyst: I have no superego.
Dying isn’t everything: you have to die at the right time. Had it happened later, I would have felt guilty; a conscientious orphan blames himself; sickened by the sight of him, his parents retired to their apartments in heaven. Me, I was delighted: my sad situation compelled respect, established my importance; I counted my grief among my virtues. My father had been chivalrous enough to die wrong; my grandmother would always say he had run away from his responsibilities; my grandfather, justly proud of the Schweitzer family longevity, refused to accept that one could die at thirty; in light of this suspicious death, he came to doubt that his son-in-law had ever existed, and, in the end, he forgot all about him. I didn’t even have to forget him; by splitting like he did, Jean-Baptiste had refused me the pleasure of making his acquaintance. Today still I’m amazed at how little I know about him. He made love, however, he tried to live, only to see himself die; that’s really all it takes to make a man.

The death of Jean-Baptiste was the major occurrence in my life: mum got bucked down to her chains, and it gave me freedom.
As a rule, no good dad exists; no grudge should be held against men but rather for the rotten paternal relationship. To bear children – nothing is that comparable; but to possess them, what an iniquity! Had it been he lived, dad would have laid over my entire body and crushed me. Luckily, he passed away young; where Aeneases carry their Anchises over their shoulders, I move from one place to another alone loathing these invisible genitors overbearing to their sons throughout their lives; I lost a young man, at an age to be my son today, who hadn’t the opportunity to live as my dad. Was it a good thing or a bad thing? I can’t tell; but will subscribe to the view of one prominent psychoanalyst: I have no Superego.
It is not all about passing away: but rather at the appropriate moment. Later on, I had a feeling of guilt; as a mindful orphan: whose parents, shocked by the sight of him, retired to their heavenly abode. I was happy: my sorrow instilled respect and my sense of worth; I related my bereavement to my virtues. It was dad’s fault to have had the gallantry to die; grandmother always thought he fled from his obligations; grandfather, rightly proud of the Schweitzers' longevity, wouldn’t admit that one should pass away at thirty; in the face of this strange death, he came to doubt whether he had ever had this son-in-law and finally forgot about him. I never even had to forget: by taking french leave, Jean-Baptiste never gave me the pleasure to know him. I am still surprised by the little I know of him today. He wished, and though he had wanted to live, he ended up passing away; that’s enough to make a whole man.

Jean-Baptiste's death was the biggest event of my life - it returned my mother to servitude and gave me freedom.

There is no such thing as a good father, that's the rule. Let's not aim this grievance at men but at the rotten paternal bond. There is nothing better than making babies but having them, what an outrage! Had he lived, my father would have lain on me, spread-eagled and would have crushed me. Luckily, he died young. In the midst of those Aeneas' carrying their Anchises on their backs, I cross from one riverbank to the other, on my own, despising those invisible fathers riding on their sons' shoulders for their entire lives. I left behind a man who had died young, who had not had time to be my father and who today, could be my son. Was this a good thing or a bad thing? I don't know; but I willingly subscribe to the conclusion of an eminent psychoanalyst - I have no Superego.

It is not only a question of dying: one must die at the right time. Later, I had felt guilty, a self-aware orphan blames himself. Offended by his point of view, his parents retreated to their big apartments in the sky. Personally, I was delighted: my sorry plight demanded respect and made me important. I counted my bereavement as one of my virtues. My father had the courtesy to die in the wrong. My grandmother used to say that he had shirked his responsibilities whilst my grandfather, rightly proud of the Schweitzer family's longevity, could not accept that he had died when he was only thirty and in the light of this suspicious demise, came to doubt that his son-in-law had ever existed and in the end forgot him. I didn't even have to forget him - by taking French leave, Jean-Baptiste had denied me the pleasure of making his acquaintance. Even today, I am amazed at how little I know about him. He loved, yet he wanted to live and he died: that is enough to make him a man.

The death of Jean-Baptiste was the great event of my life : it put my mother back in her shackles and gave me my freedom.
There is no such thing as a good father, as a rule ; the fact that this grievance tends not to be held against these men, but against the bond of fatherhood, is rotten. Producing children, and nothing better ; actually having them, what an iniquity! Had he lived, my father would have sat on me with all his weight and would have crushed me. By chance, he died at a young age ; among the Aeneases who carry their Anchises on their backs, I go from pillar to post, alone and detesting these invisible sires riding their sons horseback all their lives ; I left behind me a dead youngster who did not have time to be my father and who could be my son today. Was this good or bad ? I do not know ; but I subscribe willingly to the verdict of an eminent psychoanalyst : I have no Super-ego.
That is not everything about dying : there is a time to die. Later on, I felt that I was to blame ; a self-conscious orphan blames itself : offended by what they have seen, its parents retreated into their heavenly quarters. As for me, I was robbed : my sad condition inspired respect, laid the ground for my importance ; I counted my sorrow amongst my virtues. My father had had the gallantry to die in error ; my grandmother kept saying that he had escaped his duties ; my grandfather, rightly proud of his Schweitzer longevity, did not see how one could disappear at the age of thirty ; in the light of this suspicious demise, he came to doubt that his son-in-law had ever existed and, in the end, he forgot him. I did not even have to forget him : by going absent without leave, Jean-Baptiste had denied me the pleasure of getting to know him. Even today, I am astonished at what little I know about him. Still, he loved, he wanted to live, he ended up dying ; that is enough to make a whole man.