Over the years, the likes of Jacques Derrida, Michel Foucault, and Jacques Lacan have made me rather uncomfortable with all French intellectuals. And uncomfortable is but a polite term, for I regularly experience irritation bordering on rage when I read anything by these characters and their disciples. By and by, the very notion of a French intellectual pops up in my writings only when I wish to make fun of the whole lot. And yet, Michel de Montaigne, Blaise Pascal, Marcel Proust, and Jules Renard are among my favorite reads. What is more, I cherish them all in French, which gives me an enormous pleasure in its own right. In short, I am facing a contradiction that surfaces in my mind increasingly often. There is nothing wrong with French intellectuals as such, that is, but only with Derrida and his irritating pack. But why am I going on and on about something as obvious as all this? All I want to do at this stage is to bring my contradiction to light by way of a belated apology. Alas, this is the best any intellectual can do under the embarrassing circumstances!

Addendum (May 15, 2017)

Coming across this piece by chance, I cannot but notice that one name is missing: Joseph Joubert. He, too, is a kindred soul. As witnessed by my Residua, he pops up here and there the last decade or so. All told, the French intellectuals to my liking are quite a few. My belated apology thus goes to a small crowd, at least by my own reckoning. For I am hard to please, I gladly admit. And ever harder as I grow ever longer in the tooth. Anyhow, three cheers for French intellectuals of my choice, and especially for Joubert, the latecomer!