In which Our Hero sees two people restored to their original shine.
“Raise your hand if you haven’t yet felt the sort of pleasure on stage that we’ve been talking about since Le Jeu began,” said the teacher at the end of class.
Two people raised their hands. Then a third, more tentatively.
The teacher sent the first to stage—a friendly but unassuming British man.
“Who in this class do you find attractive?”
He chose two women from the front row. It’s a testament to the oddness of this school that this no longer phases me.
“Go backstage,” the teacher told them. “When you enter, you’ll walk center stage and tell us about your three weeks here—while these two beautiful women kiss you.”
While the Brit was backstage, the teacher whispered to the rest of us:
“When he enters, we’ll stand and cheer.”
When he came out, our cheering lit him up.
Then the women appeared.
If you’ve never seen a reserved British man caressed by two beautiful women, I recommend it.
Every time they kissed his cheek, he said “thank you.”
But the thank-you was a shield—a polite dismissal of feeling.
“Stop commenting,” said the teacher. “Stand still and speak directly to us.”
The more pleasure he allowed himself, the more beautiful he became.
The more he shared his pleasure, the more fun we had.
Why can’t we live like this all the time?
The Catholic Church doesn’t benefit from people being happy.
Nor does the Israeli military.
Nor the American economy.
Pick an institution; few thrive on pure joy.
We don’t want people too sad, but not too happy either.
Even parents—who want the best for their children—don’t usually mean pleasure qua pleasure.
That’s what makes clown special.
Clown is the direct transference of joy.
You practice finding joy and sharing it.
You learn to see the stupid.
See the stupid—and become stupid.
Because joy for its own sake is stupid.
Doesn’t a happy idiot chuckling in the corner grow smelly from lack of bathing, then die from lack of food?
Yes. This is joy qua joy.
But if you’re a closed-off British man who says “thank you” out of duty, not feeling—
or a muscle-bound weightlifter who loves film but hates actors for being too touchy-feely—
maybe you need some joy qua joy.
Both students left the stage with a new understanding: that pleasure shared openly is rewarded instantly.
Maybe a teacher shamed you for holding hands with your girlfriend in eighth grade.
Maybe a friend mocked you for calling them beautiful.
Maybe a parent slapped you for slurping your soup.
Whatever the reason—come to École Philippe Gaulier.
We’ll teach you to open, to feel, to share joy.
We’ll celebrate you for it.
And then you can return home—one more candle of joy.
Maybe it’s burning in an ocean of darkness.
I hadn’t noticed.
I was too busy laughing about the time a beautiful woman kissed me.
Am I funny yet?
Julian Wise 