Page 47 - Sorrow of the Earth: Buffalo Bill, Sitting Bull and the Tragedy of Show Business

buy sweets or something to drink.

DURING THE INTERVAL, people wait impatiently for the next episode while they
talk to each other about the first one. Everybody wants to tell everybody else
about what they saw, the tiny crumb of truth they think is theirs. And in
almost identical words, they bang on unstoppably to each other about the

same scraps of the adventure. And then the bell rings. They’re being called
back to their seats. The spectacle is about to start again. Buffalo Bill is still in
his tent, taking a moment’s rest. Lord, a spectacle goes on for a long time! But
once you’re on the stage, you don’t feel the time passing. The gaze from the
crowd freezes the clock hands. Everything stops. You’re in eternity. Buffalo
Bill loves it; he loved it from the minute he took his first uncertain steps on

Broadway after fetching up there by chance. He’d had such stage fright! He’d
spoken his lines in a faltering voice, walking stiffly across the stage and
making exaggerated gestures. But he’s moved on since then. At present, he
knows exactly what to do. He enters the arena on horseback and everyone
looks at him. Everyone! That does something to you. He’s no longer an actor
like any other, he’s the most famous character on the planet. Ah! it must be
strange to be adored like that. Not many people had had that experience

before. He barely has to do a thing. All eyes are on him, Buffalo Bill. But he’s
not just the incarnation of his character, the outermost shadow of his soul. No.
He has drawn flame from the earth, deluged the world with leaflets, publicity
and magazines, where, line by line, his legend has been constructed and
polished, the apologia pro vita sua made ever more ingenious. And all this for

an exemplary product, an exemplarily American product, a magnificent
contribution to the History of Civilization.

Right now, families are threading their way past the refreshment stalls and
returning to their seats. The young men look at the girls parading in their lacy
blouses and they help them climb onto their bench. Everyone is here, on the
bleachers, in the sunshine. The gates of pleasure stand before them. And what
is Pleasure? Nobody knows. And nobody cares. We love the giddiness, we
love being frightened, identifying with the characters, screaming, shouting,
laughing and crying. Perhaps it’s without any substance, but in the end this

doesn’t matter if it thrills and intoxicates us, if it allows our feelings to brush