IN DEFENSE OF FRENCH ELOQUENCE
By Julie Barlow and Jean-Benoit Nadeau

Toronto Star
June 2003

French Foreign Affairs Minister Dominique de Villepin is making the news once more. This time, it's not for his stance on U.S. foreign policy, but for publishing an 800-page book of poetry titled, In Praise of the Thieves of Fire.

De Villepin is not an eccentric. He's just carrying on a long tradition of intellectuals-cum-writers-cum-politicians in France. His colleague at the Ministry of Education, Luc Ferry, recently published an essay, titled To All Who Love School.

Yet now that a gigantic iceberg is cooling transatlantic relations, the British press see de Villepin's poetic pretensions as proof that French politics are "trivial." One commentator says de Villepin should be spending his spare time brushing up his diplomatic skills, rather than fiddling with poetry.

These conclusions are total nonsense. De Villepin's work of poetry is simply a product of the very high value the French place on eloquence. Period.

As Canadian journalists, we studied the French for 2 1/2 years, with a fellowship of an American foundation, the Institute of Current World Affairs. Our approach was primarily anthropological, and we were struck by the incredible importance of rhetoric in French culture. In France, eloquence is not just a manner of speaking, but a social value in itself, and even a mode of social promotion.

Rhetoric is the treasured art of the French, much the way theatre is for the British, singing for the Italians and violin for the Germans. Rhetoric in France is not the mere science of persuasion and oratory: It is the art of eloquence, whether in writing or in speech.

The French learn to practise eloquence from a young age. At home, they are constantly corrected on the precision of their language. And as a result, they express themselves on a daily basis with a wider variety of words, even if the French dictionary is half as thick as the Oxford English Dictionary. French schooling simply prolongs what children are taught at home.

Not all French students turn out to be brilliant writers and orators, but they are all exposed to the same high standards. Students who pursue social sciences in university are subjected to rigorous rhetorical drills.

The built-in incentive is the French concours, a competitive examination process candidates must go through to enter the civil service, and many private sector jobs. Even the most menial government job requires candidates to write exams that test both their knowledge of a given position and their general culture. For any managerial position, even the lesser ones, finalists must go through an oral examination in front of a jury. No matter where they are, or what they do for a living, the French like the level of discussion to be as high as possible.

They seek wit and intelligence, qualities born of confrontation. They don't understand understatement, even less self-derision (the core of British humour), and they never value simplicity and humility as conversation styles.
So it would be political suicide for a French foreign minister to say, like U.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell did last week, "Uni-polar, bi-polar, multi-polar, I don't know what those terms mean." In France, you would never hear such a high-ranking politician as Defence Secretary Donald Rumsfeld defend his lack of polished language skills with a heartfelt, "I'm from Chicago."

Everything about French society seems to raise the standards for verbal expression, even if it means they sometimes talk for the sake of talking. One unfortunate result is that the French refuse to use the words, "I don't know." When we moved to France, we quickly learned to banish that expression from our vocabulary.
North Americans say "I don't know" to convey an impression of openness, ingenuity and honesty — even when they do know. But the French consider it shameful to admit to ignorance on a matter. It's considered either a mark of stupidity or, strangely, of arrogance — because it means you refuse to engage in conversation.

One of the beauties of eloquence as a social value is its accessibility. Anyone can get it, whatever his or her income level or status. French society really does allow all to shine, no matter what their origin, as long as they can display verbal savoir faire.

Naturally, intellectuals proliferate in such fertile grounds. Not all French politicians are intellectuals, but politicians are no less French than their compatriots. They're not only expected to express themselves well, both in speech and in writing, they have to love it, and relish in it.

Evidently, some are more talented than others and end up as writers, or poets — much to the dismay of some foreign commentators, but to the relish of the people they represent.