Capture d’écran 2014-05-26 à 18.30.43

Eric Zemmour et Nicolas Domenach s’affrontent sur les résultats des européennes sur I-Télé.


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A propos de l’auteur Dissidence Française

(5 commentaires)

  1. J’ai bien peur que Monsieur Zemmour ait raison. C’est triste. Mais j’ai peur qu’il ait raison. Et j’aimerai bien avoir tord.

    L’autre, je ne connais pas son nom, et franchement je m’en tamponne le coussinet: Il me fait beaucoup rire: un vrai petit robot: Il a entendu « fn », du coup, paf, cela ne loupe pas, il nous ressort le couplet classique: racisme, populisme, bref le zing-bam-boom habituel. Ha la la, Pavlov quand tu nous tiens! Faudra dire à machin là de changer son logiciel… Ou de le patcher. Enfin, faut vraiement qu’il pense à faire quelque chose car il se ridiculise. Enfin, machin là , il fait ce qu’il veut. Moi je dis cela comme cela pour lui. Après il fait ce qu’il veut! Mais son reflexe de Pavlov en fait un vrai guignol.

  2. On s’en fout de Valls à gaz, c’est un has been comme ses frères et soeurs franmacs qui gouvernent la France, alors qu’il martèle son refrain de perroquet appris dans sa loge et au CRIF, toujours le même, encore 2 ans et il disparaitra. Si la quasi majorité des européens n’a même pas pris la peine de se déplacer pour aller voter, c’est bien un refus de participation aux magouilles européistes. Les citoyens ont bien compris leur petit jeu de balancier et que ni les uns ni les autres ne vont endiguer le chomage, les délocalisations, les taxes, bref la mondialisation franmac. Que du blabla, des mensonges, des promesses mensongères, des débats sans fin, des querelles intestines, le jeu des chaises musicales, les alliances ennemies…..

  3. Domenach,ferme là,Zemmour t’a mis échec et mat,oublie ton idéologie internationaliste c’est mort et enterré,et je veux témoigner ici de tout mon respect pour les dissidents authentiques et radicaux,la France a une mission divine et sacré,Jean Phaure le dit bien dans son livre la France mystique,et puis il n’y a qu’à lire Bernanos,à lui seul il décrit la vrai nature,l’âme de la France.

  4. EXCLUSIF – François Hollande est redevenu «Monsieur 3%». Les Français ne sont plus que 3% à le préférer comme candidat du PS à la prochaine présidentielle de 2017, selon l’étude OpinionWay réalisée pour Le Figaro Magazine.

    Voici dans le détail ce que ce nouveau rebondissement m’inspire:

    Arthur Rimbaud : The drunken boat

    As I was floating down unconcerned Rivers
    I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers:
    Gaudy Redskins had taken them for targets
    Nailing them naked to coloured stakes.

    I cared nothing for all my crews,
    Carrying Flemish wheat or English cottons.
    When, along with my haulers those uproars were done with
    The Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.

    Into the ferocious tide-rips
    Last winter, more absorbed than the minds of children,
    I ran! And the unmoored Peninsulas
    Never endured more triumphant clamourings

    The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings.
    Lighter than a cork, I danced on the waves
    Which men call eternal rollers of victims,
    For ten nights, without once missing the foolish eye of the harbor lights!

    Sweeter than the flesh of sour apples to children,
    The green water penetrated my pinewood hull
    And washed me clean of the bluish wine-stains and the splashes of vomit,
    Carrying away both rudder and anchor.

    And from that time on I bathed in the Poem
    Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,
    Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam,
    A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;

    Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, deliriums
    And slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,
    Stronger than alcohol, vaster than music
    Ferment the bitter rednesses of love!

    I have come to know the skies splitting with lightnings, and the waterspouts
    And the breakers and currents; I know the evening,
    And Dawn rising up like a flock of doves,
    And sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw!

    I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors.
    Lighting up long violet coagulations,
    Like the performers in very-antique dramas
    Waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds!

    I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows
    The kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,
    The circulation of undreamed-of saps,
    And the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus!

    I have followed, for whole months on end, the swells
    Battering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows,
    Never dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys
    Could force back the muzzles of snorting Oceans!

    I have struck, do you realize, incredible Floridas
    Where mingle with flowers the eyes of panthers
    In human skins! Rainbows stretched like bridles
    Under the seas’ horizon, to glaucous herds!

    I have seen the enormous swamps seething, traps
    Where a whole leviathan rots in the reeds!
    Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calm
    And distances cataracting down into abysses!

    Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals!
    Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs
    Where the giant snakes devoured by vermin
    Fall from the twisted trees with black odours!

    I should have liked to show to children those dolphins
    Of the blue wave, those golden, those singing fishes.
    – Foam of flowers rocked my driftings
    And at times ineffable winds would lend me wings.

    Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones,
    The sea whose sobs sweetened my rollings
    Lifted its shadow-flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward me
    And I hung there like a kneeling woman…

    Almost an island, tossing on my beaches the brawls
    And droppings of pale-eyed, clamouring birds,
    And I was scudding along when across my frayed cordage
    Drowned men sank backwards into sleep!

    But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves,
    Hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether,
    I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water,
    neither Monitor nor Hanse ships would have fished up;

    Free, smoking, risen from violet fogs,
    I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky
    Which bears a sweetmeat good poets find delicious,
    Lichens of sunlight [mixed] with azure snot,

    Who ran, speckled with lunula of electricity,
    A crazy plank, with black sea-horses for escort,
    When Julys were crushing with cudgel blows
    Skies of ultramarine into burning funnels;

    I who trembled, to feel at fifty leagues’ distance
    The groans of Behemoth’s rutting, and of the dense Maelstroms
    Eternal spinner of blue immobilities
    I long for Europe with it’s aged old parapets!

    I have seen archipelagos of stars! and islands
    Whose delirious skies are open to sailor:
    – Do you sleep, are you exiled in those bottomless nights,
    Million golden birds, O Life Force of the future? –

    But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking.
    Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:
    Sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.
    O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!

    If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the
    Black cold pool where into the scented twilight
    A child squatting full of sadness, launches
    A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.

    I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves,
    Sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons,
    Nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants,
    Nor pull past the horrible eyes of the hulks.

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