Must we resign ourselves interminably to be only the heralds and the submissive exegetes of the infinitely reproductible? Look at the fashion which regurgitates, redraws always the same stories, synthesizes the same thoughts, declaims the same verses like the peacock’s finery. No question! Go and find a brand outside any “Monarchy” where the level of imagination gives to the world something subtle and sublime at the same time.
Here is the poetry of the beautiful, a moment by which all memory admits to be silent, to leave place to the spouting. And if you become royal this one will carry you away in the ardor of a young businessman to sing in your heart the poetry of the chic. The “Monarchy”, finally, is only the tyranny of the beautiful? It is enough to make the French and their king Louis XIV, the champion of luxury in France, pale in comparison.