A giant has fallen
he had class until the end:

In 2006, he refused to meet the leader of the Union for a Popular Movement (UMP), Nicolas Sarkozy, then a probable contender for the 2007 presidential election, because the UMP had voted for the February 23, 2005 law asking teachers and textbooks to “acknowledge and recognize in particular the positive role of the French presence abroad, especially in North Africa”, a law considered by many as a eulogy to colonialism and French actions during the Algerian War. President Jacques Chirac finally had the controversial law repealed[1].

and the vision of visions;
“the work of man is only just beginning and it remains to conquer all the violence entrenched in the recess of our passion and no race possesses the monopoly of beauty, of intelligence, of force, and there’s a place for all at the rendezvous of victory.”

Here is all i could find in English on the internet;

   At the end of daybreak. . .

   Beat it, I said to him, you cop, you lousy pig, beat it, 

I detest the flunkies of order and the cockchafers of hope. 

Beat it, evil grigri, you bedbug of a petty monk. Then I turned 

toward paradises lost for him and his kin, calmer than the face 

of a woman telling lies, and there, rocked by the flux of a 

never exhausted thought I nourished the wind, I unlaced the 

monsters and heard rise, from the other side of disaster, a 

river of turtledoves and savanna clover which I carry forever 

in my depths height-deep as the twentieth floor of the most 

arrogant houses and as a guard against the putrefying force 

of crepuscular surroundings, surveyed night and day by a cursed 

venereal sun.

   At the end of daybreak burgeoning with frail coves, the hungry 

Antilles, the Antilles pitted with smallpox, the Antilles dyn-

amited by alcohol, stranded in the mud of this bay, in the dust 

of this town sinisterly stranded.

   At the end of daybreak, the extreme, deceptive desolate eschar 

on the wound of the waters; the martyrs who do not bear witness; 

the flowers of blood that fade and scatter in the empty wind 

like the screeches of babbling parrots; an aged life mendacious-

ly smiling, its lips opened by vacated agonies; an aged poverty 

rotting under the sun, silently; an aged silence bursting with 

tepid pustules,

   the awful futility of our raison d'être.

   At the end of daybreak, on this very fragile earth thickness 

exceeded in a humiliating way by its grandiose future--the vol-

canoes will explode, the naked water will bear away the ripe 

sun stains and nothing will be left but a tepid bubbling pecked 

at by sea birds--the beach of dreams and the insane awakening.

   At the end of daybreak, this town sprawled-flat, toppled from 

its common sense, inert, winded under its geometric weight of 

an eternally renewed cross, indocile to its fate, mute, vexed 

no matter what, incapable of growing with the juice of this 

earth, self-conscious, clipped, reduced, in breach of fauna 

and flora. 
Excerpted from “Notebook of a Return to the Native Land” by Aime Césaire, translated by Clayton Eshleman and Annette Smith, forthcoming from Wes
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