La séduction du désastre

Une vague de chaleur inhabituelle frappe en plein hiver la ville de Bruxelles alors qu'un astéroïde se rapproche de la Terre. Les habitants, épouvantés, descendent dans la rue dont l'asphalte fond, scrutent la météorite qui grandit à vue d'oeil. C'est alors qu'un étrange vieillard, le professeur Philippulus, vêtu d'un drap blanc et muni d'une longue barbe, harangue la foule en frappant sur un gong et s'écrie : "C'est le châtiment, faites pénitence, la fin des Temps est venue."

Nous sourions à la vue de ce personnage de pacotille d'autant que la scène se passe dans une bande dessinée, L'Etoile mystérieuse, d'Hergé (Casterman, 1947). Il semble pourtant que Philippulus, caricature du maréchal Pétain qui appelait à la repentance, ait pris le pouvoir aujourd'hui, qu'il siège peu ou prou dans tous les médias, les gouvernements, les instances officielles. Ce qu'il diffuse en continu, c'est l'effroi : du progrès, de la science, de la démographie, du climat, de la technique, de la nourriture, que sais-je ?

Dans cinq ans, dans dix ans, la Terre sera devenue inhabitable, les températures auront monté, séismes, inondations, sécheresses se multiplieront, les guerres opposeront les peuples, toutes les centrales nucléaires auront explosé. L'homme a péché par orgueil, il a détruit son habitat, ravagé la planète, il doit expier. "La fête industrielle est finie", avertissait déjà en 1979 le philosophe allemand Hans Jonas qui plaidait pour un usage éclairé de la peur et une nouvelle responsabilité envers la nature. Le pathos dominant dans notre vieille Europe est celui de la fin des temps. L'Apocalypse est inéluctable. La peur est comme une enzyme, elle s'empare de tous les sujets, s'en nourrit, les abandonne pour de nouveaux qui seront bientôt délaissés.

Voyez Fukushima : le drame n'a fait que confirmer une inquiétude qui la précédait et cherchait un aliment pour se justifier. Dans six mois, un nouveau thème, pandémie, grippe aviaire, craintes alimentaires, fonte de la banquise, ondes maléfiques, antennes paraboliques, nous mobilisera. Double étonnement à cet égard : le catastrophisme règne surtout dans les pays occidentaux, comme s'il était la résidence secondaire des peuples privilégiés, le soupir de gros chats ronronnant dans le confort.

Chez nous, l'aversion au risque a pris une telle ampleur que nous vivons l'entrelacement de nos drames privés et de l'épopée mondiale comme une menace permanente. Le drame qui frappe les lointains a ceci de singulier qu'il transforme la platitude en aventure à haut risque : cela pourrait nous arriver. Etrange paradoxe : en dépit de la crise, nous vivons mieux en Europe que partout ailleurs, au point que les migrants du monde entier veulent y prendre pied ; jamais pourtant nous n'avons autant vilipendé nos sociétés.

Les discours alarmistes, qu'ils portent sur l'atome, le climat, l'avenir de la planète, souffrent d'une contradiction. Si la situation est aussi grave qu'ils le prétendent, à quoi bon s'insurger. Pourquoi ne pas se prélasser en attendant le déluge ? Quant aux solutions suggérées, elles semblent inférieures à la gravité du mal. On sait ce que proposent la plupart des courants de cette mouvance : abandonner la voiture, les voyages en avion, consommer local, délaisser la viande, recycler ses déchets, planter des arbres, modérer ses désirs, s'appauvrir volontairement.

Tout ça pour ça ! Enormité du diagnostic, dérision des remèdes. En gentils boy-scouts, on nous prodigue des conseils d'économie ménagère dignes de nos grands-mères. Puisque nous sommes dépossédés de tout pouvoir face à la planète, nous allons monnayer cette impuissance en petits gestes propitiatoires, monter les escaliers à pied, devenir végétariens, faire du vélo, qui nous donneront l'illusion d'agir pour la Terre.

Quant aux Chinois, aux Indiens, aux Brésiliens, ils doivent retourner à leur misère, illico, pas question qu'ils se développent sous peine de nous faire sombrer. L'humour involontaire du discours apocalyptique, c'est de mettre tout au neutre ; en voulant nous persuader du chaos planétaire, il intègre notre disparition éventuelle à la tiédeur quotidienne. Il voudrait nous réveiller, il nous engourdit. Les énergies sales, la pollution, les multinationales qui conspirent à nous empoisonner enfièvrent notre calme existence d'un frisson inédit. L'ennemi est parmi nous et en nous, il guette nos moindres défaillances, d'autant plus insidieux qu'il est invisible.

Si les rites anciens avaient pour fonction d'évacuer la violence d'une communauté sur une victime expiatoire, les rites contemporains ont pour fonction de dramatiser le statu quo et de nous faire vivre dans l'exaltante proximité du cataclysme.

Pour échapper à l'incertitude de l'histoire, on décrète donc la certitude du désastre : cela permet de se reposer, peinards, dans les douceurs de l'abomination. Qu'importe la date de l'effondrement, il nous frappera quoi qu'il arrive. Le discours de la crainte ne dit pas peut-être, il dit : l'horreur est sûre. Imperméable au doute, il sait de toute éternité et se contente d'enregistrer les étapes de la dégradation. Le prophète est un réducteur de hasard, il offre la même réponse à toutes les interrogations. Le soupçon nous vient alors que les Cassandre innombrables qui vaticinent sous nos climats veulent moins nous mettre en garde que nous fustiger.

Quand l'intellectuel européen endosse le costume de la Pythie et d'une Pythie bardée de science et de statistiques, il cumule les fonctions du rebelle qui s'insurge et du voyant qui s'élève. Dans le judaïsme classique, le prophète cherchait à revivifier la cause de Dieu contre les rois et les puissants. Dans le christianisme, les mouvements millénaristes portaient en eux une espérance de justice contre l'Eglise et ses prélats qui vivaient dans le luxe, trahissaient le message des Evangiles. Dans une société laïque, le prophète n'a d'autre viatique que son indignation. Il arrive alors qu'enivré par sa propre parole, il s'arroge une légitimité indue et appelle de ses voeux la destruction qu'il prétend récuser. Tel est le renversement : l'Apocalypse devient pour ses partisans notre seule chance de salut.

Comme ces réactionnaires qui, dans les années 1960-1970, souhaitaient aux jeunesses européennes une bonne guerre pour les calmer, nos atrabilaires espèrent que nous allons toucher le fond pour nous éveiller enfin. Vous méritez une bonne leçon, vous n'avez pas assez souffert, vous devez en baver ! C'est un véritable voeu de mort qu'ils adressent alors aux populations. Ce ne sont pas de grandes âmes qui nous mettent en garde, mais de tout petits esprits qui nous souhaitent beaucoup de malheurs si nous avons l'outrecuidance de ne pas les écouter. La catastrophe n'est pas leur hantise, mais leur jouissance la plus profonde. Fukushima fut pour eux comme l'affaire Dreyfus pour l'extrême droite française, non un épouvantable drame mais une divine surprise. Enfin, ils tenaient leur tragédie ! La distance est courte entre la lucidité et l'aigreur, la prédiction et l'anathème.

En inoculant le poison de la terreur dans les esprits, ce prosélytisme sombre provoque la pétrification. Le tremblement qu'il provoque retombe comme un mauvais soufflé. C'est à l'inquiétude que revient la dernière réplique ou plutôt à la volonté de conjurer l'aléa par tous les moyens. Nous expliquer que nous marchons au bord du précipice et que nous allons y tomber ressemble à la philosophie de Gribouille : comme si l'on refusait de venir au monde au motif que l'on va mourir un jour. On voulait nous alarmer, on nous désarme. C'est peut-être l'objectif de ce bruyant tambour de la panique qu'on joue à nos oreilles depuis si longtemps : nous infantiliser, nous rendre plus dociles.

Au lieu d'encourager la résistance - les sociétés humaines survivent aux pires calamités et développent une intelligence des périls -, il propage découragement et désespoir. Le catastrophisme ? Le meilleur instrument de résignation politique et philosophique. Nulle question de nier la gravité des problèmes qui se posent à nous. S'il est au moins une leçon à tirer du Japon, c'est de ne jamais construire de centrales nucléaires dans une zone sismique. Mais l'affolement, la paranoïa ont toujours été les outils favoris des dictatures avides de déposséder les citoyens de tout moyen d'action. Une démocratie ne peut en user durablement sans se saborder.

L'Apocalypse chrétienne se voulait une révélation, le passage dans un autre ordre du temps, une espérance eschatologique tendue vers l'avènement du royaume de Dieu. Celle d'aujourd'hui est sans dévoilement, elle énonce juste la sentence finale. Elle ne propose rien, elle tétanise : apocalypse sèche. Nulle promesse de rachat, le seul idéal est celui des survivants, l'agrégation de centaines de millions d'hommes qui se repentent de leurs erreurs et veulent échapper au chaos, comme dans La Route, le beau roman de Cormac McCarthy.

Comment s'étonner, quand tant d'esprits brillants délirent, que fleurissent les prévisions les plus aberrantes, telle celle du calendrier maya, prévoyant la fin de la planète en 2012. Toute la surface de la Terre devrait disparaître sauf un petit village de l'Aude, en France, Bugarach, pris d'assaut par tous les illuminés du globe au grand dam de ses habitants, effrayés par cette publicité. L'Armageddon est imminent. On se rêve en Job ou en Jérémie, on finit en Paco Rabanne !


Pascal Bruckner, LE MONDE | 30.04.2011

The Doom of London

VI.--HOW THE SMOKE HELD DOWN THE FOG.

It was on a Friday that the fog came down upon us. The weather was very fine up to the middle of November that autumn. The fog did not seem to have anything unusual about it. I have seen many worse fogs than that appeared to be. As day followed day, however, the atmosphere became denser and darker, caused, I suppose, by the increasing volume of coal- smoke poured out upon it. The peculiarity about those seven days was the intense stillness of the air. We were, although we did not know it, under an air-proof canopy, and were slowly but surely exhausting the life-giving oxygen around us, and replacing it by poisonous carbonic acid gas. Scientific men have since showed that a simple mathematical calculation might have told us exactly when the last atom of oxygen would have been consumed; but it is easy to be wise after the event. The body of the greatest mathematician in England was found in the Strand. He came that morning from Cambridge. During the fog there was always a marked increase in the death rate, and on this occasion the increase was no greater than usual until the sixth day. The newspapers on the morning of the seventh were full of startling statistics, but at the time of going to press the full significance of the alarming figures was not realized. The editorials of the morning papers on the seventh day contained no warning of the calamity that was so speedily to follow their appearance. I lived then at Ealing, a Western suburb of London, and came every morning to Cannon Street by a certain train. I had up to the sixth day experienced no inconvenience from the fog, and this was largely due, I am convinced, to the unnoticed operations of the American machine.

On the fifth and sixth days Sir John did not come to the City, but he was in his office on the seventh. The door between his room and mine was closed. Shortly after ten o'clock I heard a cry in his room, followed by a heavy fall. I opened the door, and saw Sir John lying face downwards on the floor. Hastening towards him, I felt for the first time the deadly effect of the deoxygenized atmosphere, and before I reached him I fell first on one knee and then headlong. I realized that my senses were leaving me, and instinctively crawled back to my own room, where the oppression was at once lifted, and I stood again upon my feet, gasping. I closed the door of Sir John's room, thinking it filled with poisonous fumes, as, indeed, it was. I called loudly for help, but there was no answer. On opening the door to the main office I met again what I thought was the noxious vapor. Speedily as I closed the door, I was impressed by the intense silence of the usually busy office, and saw that some of the clerks were motionless on the floor, and others sat with their heads on their desks as if asleep. Even at this awful moment I did not realize that what I saw was common to all London, and not, as I imagined, a local disaster, caused by the breaking of some carboys in our cellar. (It was filled with chemicals of every kind, of whose properties I was ignorant, dealing as I did with the accountant, and not the scientific side of our business.) I opened the only window in my room, and again shouted for help. The street was silent and dark in the ominously still fog, and what now froze me with horror was meeting the same deadly, stifling atmosphere that was in the rooms. In falling I brought down the window, and shut out the poisonous air. Again I revived, and slowly the true state of things began to dawn upon me.

I was in an oasis of oxygen. I at once surmised that the machine on my shelf was responsible for the existence of this oasis in a vast desert of deadly gas. I took down the American's machine, fearful in moving it that I might stop its working. Taking the mouthpiece between my lips I again entered Sir John's room, this time without feeling any ill effects. My poor master was long beyond human help. There was evidently no one alive in the building except myself. Out in the street all was silent and dark. The gas was extinguished, but here and there in shops the incandescent lights were still weirdly burning, depending, as they did, on accumulators, and not on direct engine power. I turned automatically towards Cannon Street Station, knowing my way to it even if blindfolded, stumbling over bodies prone on the pavement, and in crossing the street I ran against a motionless 'bus, spectral in the fog, with dead horses lying in front, and their reins dangling from the nerveless hand of a dead driver. The ghostlike passengers, equally silent, sat bolt upright, or hung over the edge boards in attitudes horribly grotesque.

VII.--THE TRAIN WITH ITS TRAIL OF THE DEAD.

If a man's reasoning faculties were alert at such a time (I confess mine were dormant), he would have known there could be no trains at Cannon Street Station, for if there was not enough oxygen in the air to keep a man alive, or a gas-jet alight, there would certainly not be enough to enable an engine fire to burn, even if the engineer retained sufficient energy to attend to his task. At times instinct is better than reason, and it proved so in this case. The railway from Ealing in those days came under the City in a deep tunnel. It would appear that in this underground passage the carbonic acid gas would first find a resting-place on account of its weight; but such was not the fact. I imagine that a current through the tunnel brought from the outlying districts a supply of comparatively pure air that, for some minutes after the general disaster, maintained human life. Be this as it may, the long platforms of Cannon Street Underground Station presented a fearful spectacle. A train stood at the down platform. The electric lights burned fitfully. This platform was crowded with men, who fought each other like demons, apparently for no reason, because the train was already packed as full as it could hold. Hundreds were dead under foot, and every now and then a blast of foul air came along the tunnel, whereupon hundreds more would relax their grips, and succumb. Over their bodies the survivors fought, with continually thinning ranks. It seemed to me that most of those in the standing train were dead. Sometimes a desperate body of fighters climbed over those lying in heaps and, throwing open a carriage door, hauled out passengers already in, and took their places, gasping. Those in the train offered no resistance, and lay motionless where they were flung, or rolled helplessly under the wheels of the train. I made my way along the wall as well as I could to the engine, wondering why the train did not go. The engineer lay on the floor of his cab, and the fires were out.

Custom is a curious thing. The struggling mob, fighting wildly for places in the carriages, were so accustomed to trains arriving and departing that it apparently occurred to none of them that the engineer was human and subject to the same atmospheric conditions as themselves. I placed the mouthpiece between his purple lips, and, holding my own breath like a submerged man, succeeded in reviving him. He said that if I gave him the machine he would take out the train as far as the steam already in the boiler would carry it. I refused to do this, but stepped on the engine with him, saying it would keep life in both of us until we got out into better air. In a surly manner he agreed to this and started the train, but he did not play fair. Each time he refused to give up the machine until I was in a fainting condition with holding in my breath, and, finally, he felled me to the floor of the cab. I imagine that the machine rolled off the train as I fell and that he jumped after it. The remarkable thing is that neither of us needed the machine, for I remember that just after we started I noticed through the open iron door that the engine fire suddenly became aglow again, although at the time I was in too great a state of bewilderment and horror to understand what it meant. A western gale had sprung up--an hour too late. Even before we left Cannon Street those who still survived were comparatively safe, for one hundred and sixty-seven persons were rescued from that fearful heap of dead on the platforms, although many died within a day or two after, and others never recovered their reason. When I regained my senses after the blow dealt by the engineer, I found myself alone, and the train speeding across the Thames near Kew. I tried to stop the engine, but did not succeed. However, in experimenting, I managed to turn on the air brake, which in some degree checked the train, and lessened the impact when the crash came at Richmond terminus. I sprang off on the platform before the engine reached the terminal buffers, and saw passing me like a nightmare the ghastly trainload of the dead. Most of the doors were swinging open, and every compartment was jammed full, although, as I afterwards learned, at each curve of the permanent way, or extra lurch of the train, bodies had fallen out all along the line. The smash at Richmond made no difference to the passengers. Besides myself, only two persons were taken alive from the train, and one of these, his clothes torn from his back in the struggle was sent to an asylum, where he was never able to tell who he was; neither, as far as I know, did anyone ever claim him.


Robert Barr
The Face and the Mask

The Hands

_The story of the creation, in all its majesty, was written in six
hundred words. Will the destruction be told as briefly?_


He was a gigantic figure, sitting there atop the mountain. He could have
leaned over and dammed the river below with a finger. He sat on top of
the mountain, and his beard in the wind was a white flag.

Across the plains, as he watched, there were fires glowing, and the
mountain under him trembled from explosions a thousand miles away. He
bent his head, and a muffled cry reverberated down the hillside and
through the valley.

A smaller figure appeared beside him, looking sad.

"Try again, father," the smaller one said.

The old one shook his head. "It would be the same."

"Give them another chance."

"They would do it again."

"Just once more."

The old one shook his head again, and for a while they sat, and they
watched the destruction. The fires burned higher, and the explosions
shook their mountain more roughly.

At last, at the end, the old one reached down and scooped up some clay
from the bank of the river. He held it in a huge, gentle hand, and the
younger one smiled.

"You are good to give them another chance, father."

"Not them," said the old one.

"What do you mean?" the son asked, wonderingly.

"Something else," the majestic figure answered, starting to knead the
clay. "What shall it be?"

R. Sternbach