Marat\Sade Page #6

Where's the ink?

Where's my pen?

Here's your pen, Jean-Paul...

...and here's the ink,

where it always is.

That was only a cloud

over the sun...

...or perhaps smoke.

They are burning the corpses.

Poor old Marat,

they hunt you down...

The bloodhounds are

sniffing all over the town...

Just yesterday your printing

press was smashed...

Now they're asking

your home address...

Poor old Marat...

They hunt you down...

The bloodhounds are sniffing

all over the town...

Poor old Marat,

in you we trust...

You work till your eyes

turn as red as rust...

But while you write,

they're on your track...

The boots mount the staircase,

the door's flung back...

Poor old Marat...

In you we trust...

You work till your eyes

turn as red as rust...

Poor old Marat,

we trust in you...

We want our rights...

And we don't care how...

We want our Revolution...

Now...

Now that these painful matters

have been clarified...

...let's turn and look upon

the sunny side.

Recall this couple

and their love so pure...

...she with her neatly-groomed coiffure...

...and her face intriguingly

pale and clear...

...and her eyes ashine

with the trace of a tear...

Her lips...

...sensual and ripe...

...seeming to silently

cry for protection...

...and his embraces

proving his affection.

See how he moves

with natural grace...

...and how his heart sprints on

at passion's pace.

Let's gaze at the sweet blending

of the strong and fair sex...

...before their heads

fall off their necks.

One day it will come to pass...

Man will live in harmony

with himself...

And with his fellow-man...

One day it will come...

...a society which will pool its energy to defend and

protect each person for the possession of each person...

...and in which each individual

although united with all others...

...only obeys himself

and stays free...

A society in which...

...every man is trusted with the right

of governing...

...himself himself...

One day it will come...

...a constitution in which

the natural inequalities of man...

...are subject to a higher order,

so that all...

...however varied their mental

and physical powers may be...

...by agreement legally

get their fair share...

Don't think you can beat them

without using force.

Don't be deceived...

...when our Revolution

has been finally stamped out...

...and they tell you

things are better now.

Even if there's no poverty to be seen,

because the poverty's been hidden...

...even if you got more wages and could afford

to buy more of these new and useless goods...

...and even if it seemed to you

that you never had so much...

...that is only the slogan of those

who have that much more than you.

Don't be taken in...

...when they pat you paternally on the shoulder and

say that there's no inequality worth speaking of...

...and no more reason for fighting.

If you believe them, they will be completely

in charge in their shining homes and granite banks...

...from which they rob the people of the world

under the pretence of bringing them freedom.

Watch out...

...for as soon as it pleases them, they will send

you out to protect their wealth in wars...

Freedom!

...whose weapons rapidly developed by servile

scientists will become more and more deadly...

...until they can with a flick of a finger

tear a million of you to pieces.

Freedom!

Freedom!

Lying there,

scratched and swollen...

...your brow burning,

in your world, your bath.

You still believe

that justice is possible?

You still believe all men are equal?

Do you still believe that all occupations

are equally satisfying, equally valuable?

And that no man wants to be

greater than the others?

How does the old song go?

One always bakes

the most delicate cakes.

Two is the really superb masseur.

Three sets your hair

with exceptional flair.

Four's brandy goes to the Emperor.

Five knows each trick

of advanced rhetoric.

Six bred a beautiful

brand-new rose.

Seven can cook

every dish in the book.

And eight cuts you

flawlessly elegant clothes.

You still believe that

these eight would be happy...

...if each of them could climb

so high, but no higher...

...before banging their

heads on equality?

If each could be only a small link

in a long and heavy chain?

You still believe that it's possible

to unite mankind...

...when already you see how the few idealists

who did join together in the name of harmony...

...are now out of tune...

...and would like to kill

each other over trifles?

But they aren't trifles.

They are matters of principle...

...and it's usual in a revolution for the half-hearted

and the fellow-travellers to be dropped.

We can't begin to build until we've

burnt the old buildings down...

...no matter how dreadful that may sound to those

who lounge contentedly toying with their scruples.

Listen.

Can you hear through the walls

how they plot and whisper?

Do you see how

they lurk everwhere?

Just waiting for

the chance to strike.

What has gone wrong with

the men who are ruling?

I'd like to know who

they think they are fooling.

They told us that torture

was over and gone...

...but everyone knows

the same torture goes on.

- The king's gone away.

- The priests emigrating.

- The nobles are buried...

- ...so why are we waiting?

Corday's second visit.

Now Charlotte Corday

stands outside Marat's door.

The second time she's tried.

I have come to deliver this letter in which

I ask again to be received by Marat.

I am unhappy and therefore

have a right to his aid.

- I have a right to his aid!

- Who is at the door, Simone?

A girl from Caen with a letter...

...a petitioner.

I won't let anyone in.

They only bring us trouble.

All these people with their

convulsions and complaints.

As if you had

nothing better to do...

...than be their lawyer...

and doctor... and confessor.

That's how it is, Marat.

That's how she sees

your revolution.

They have toothache,

so their teeth should be pulled.

Their soup's burnt.

They shout for better soup.

A woman finds her husband too short,

she wants a taller one.

A man finds his wife too skinny,

he wants a plumper one.

One man's shoes pinch,

but his neighbour's shoes fit comfortably.

A poet runs out of poetry

and desperately gropes for new images.

For hours an angler casts his line.

Why aren't the fish biting?

And so they join the revolution...

...thinking the revolution

will give them everything.

A fish, a poem,

a new pair of shoes...

...a new wife, a new husband,

and the best soup in the world.

So they storm all the citadels...

...and there they are,

and everything is just the same...

...no fish biting, verses botched,

shoes pinching...

...a worn and stinking

partner in bed...

...and the soup burnt.

And all that heroism which

drove us down to the sewers.

We can talk about it

to our grandchildren...

...if we have any grandchildren.

Marat, Marat, it's all in vain.

You studied the body

and probed the brain.

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