The Press Stories
Intermission. Text by columnist Armand Lequeux.
I don’t know what this means to you, but I have to admit that I am sometimes nervous, nervous, and horrified by the behavior of some of my fellow human beings. Don’t worry, I won’t mention Trump, Boucheses or Berlusconi. I will not empty my bag entirely, but will confine myself for the moment to pouring out my difficulty in tolerating ingratitude. It certainly belongs to others! Oh, it’s often a little thing! A little service was done; Information requested, quickly found, quickly answered; Non-priority is given with a smile to motorists pulling out of my street corner parking lot and thinking they have priority; A shopping trolley is neatly pushed aside to make room for a housewife’s hasty basket. And then? Then: Nothing! Thank you who?
Ah, if people today are rude, they can be excused in the name of the positive and narcissistic upbringing they received, but, I tell you, they are fundamentally unrecognized, and I don’t know that my good heart was nurtured from childhood. On empathy and disinterested devotion, this epidemic of ingratitude can be resisted for a long time. Imagine, my homeless person recently died. Loyal to the post, taking refuge in his favorite refuge, around the corner from the bank branch, he had already started a toothless smile, and he froze when he saw my empty hands and my sad look. With this fickle climate, I don’t care to fill my pockets with small change. The ungrateful man has left me. I’ll take the side street now.
I also think of Johnny who lost a leg in a bad fight. Some of us said we could lift Mount Everest from the prison administration so that he could get a rain-proof wheelchair. He took up water like a common sponge. He finally got the unsinkable chair found in the unfathomable reserves of a remote prison. I asked if he was satisfied. He asked me if I could serve his coffee hot!
That would be enough to turn bitter like Peck, wouldn’t it? But am I getting old like a forgotten drink at the bottom of the fridge? One morning, fortunately, I awoke with my head held high, shy of waiting for the kind thanks of those wounded by life from the pinnacle of my bourgeois comfort. I realized that the ungrateful is not the one who fails to give thanks, but the one who does not see the immense privilege of giving! If I can do a service, it is because I am in a position to offer it and this opportunity, and I owe it to my parents, my family, the environment I grew up in, and those who continue to do so today. To surround me with comfort and friendship. I only have what I received and thank you for being able to give it back.
Thank you who? Thanks homeless friend, I’ll cross your path again. Thank you, Johnny, next coffee, we will drink it together for the health of the prison administration, which gives you the opportunity to shower two or three times a week in a 9 square meter and luxury wheelchair to share with your fellow inmates. . Thank you who? We are 8 billion people on this planet. Why do we often feel alone? We can begin by congratulating each other on life before thanking each other for tolerating our imperfections, clumsiness and ingratitude.
