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ther and wise father。 It was an image that took shape within her after the death of her parents。 The less her life resembled that sweetest of dreams； the more sensitive she was to its magic； and more than once she shed tears when the ungrateful daughter in a sentimental film embraced the neglected father as the windows of the happy family's house shone out into the dying day。
She had met the old man in New York。 He was rich and liked paintings。 He lived alone with his wife； also aging； in a house in the country。 Facing the house； but still on his land； stood an old stable。 He had had it remodeled into a studio for Sabina and would follow the movements of her brush for days on end。
Now all three of them were having supper together。 The old woman called Sabina my daughter； but all indications would lead one to believe the opposite； namely； that Sabina was the mother and that her two children doted on her； worshipped her； would do anything she asked。
Had she then； herself on the threshold of old age； found the parents who had been snatched from her as a girl？ Had she at last found the children she had never had herself？
She was well aware it was an illusion。 Her days with the aging couple were merely a brief interval。 The old man was seriously ill； and when his wife was left on her own； she would go and live with their son in Canada。 Sabina's path of betrayals would then continue elsewhere； and from the depths of her being； a silly mawkish song about two shining windows and the happy family living behind them would occasionally make its way into the unbearable lightness of being。
Though touched by the song； Sabina did not take her feeling seriously。 She knew only too well that the song was a beautiful lie。 As soon as kitsch is recognized for the lie it is； it moves into the context of non…kitsch； thus losing its authoritarian power and becoming as touching as any other human weakness。 For none among us is superman enough to escape kitsch completely。 No matter how we scorn it； kitsch is an integral part of the human condition。
13
Kitsch has its source in the categorical agreement with being。
But what is the basis of being？ God？ Mankind？ Struggle？ Love？ Man？ Woman？
Since opinions vary； there are various kitsches： Catholic； Protestant； Jewish； Communist； Fascist； democratic； feminist； European； American； national； international。
Since the days of the French Revolution； one half of Europe has been referred to as the left； the other half as the right。 Yet to define one or the other by means of the theoretical principles it professes is all but impossible。 And no wonder： political movements rest not so much on rational attitudes as on the fantasies； images； words； and archetypes that come together to make up this or that political kitsch。
The fantasy of the Grand March that Franz was so intoxicated by is the political kitsch joining leftists of all times and tendencies。 The Grand March is the splendid march on the road to brotherhood； equality； justice； happiness； it goes on and on； obstacles notwithstanding； for obstacles there must be if the march is to be the Grand March。
The dictatorship of the proletariat or democracy？ Rejection of the consumer society or demands for increased productivity？ The guillotine or an end to the death penalty？ It is all beside the point。 What makes a leftist a leftist is not this or that theory but his ability to integrate any theory into the kitsch called the Grand March。
14
Franz was obviously not a devotee of kitsch。 The fantasy of the Grand March played more or less the same role in his life as the mawkish song about the two brightly lit windows in Sabina's。 What political party did Franz vote for？ I am afraid he did not vote at all； he preferred to spend Election Day hiking in the mountains。 Which does not； of course； imply that he was no longer touched by the Grand March。 It is always nice to dream that we are part of a jubilant throng marching through the centuries； and Franz never quite forgot the dream。
One day； some friends phoned him from Paris。 They were planning a march on Cambodia and invited him to join them。
Cambodia had recently been through American bombardment； a civil war； a paroxysm of carnage by local Communists that reduced the small nation by a fifth； and finally occupation by neighboring Vietnam； which by then was a mere vassal of Russia。 Cambodia was racked by famine； and people were dying for want of medical care。 An international medical committee had repeatedly requested permission to enter the country； but the Vietnamese had turned them down。 The idea was for a group of important Western intellectuals to march to the Cambodian border and by means of this great spectacle performed before the eyes of the world to force the occupied country to allow the doctors in。
The friend who spoke to Franz was one he had marched with through the streets of Paris。 At first Franz was thrilled by the invitation； but then his eye fell on his student…mistress sitting across the room in an armchair。 She was looking up at him； her eyes magnified by the big round lenses in her glasses。 Franz had the feeling those eyes were begging him not to go。 And so he apologetically declined。
No sooner had he hung up than he regretted his decision。 True； he had taken care of his earthly mistress； but he had neglected his unearthly love。 Wasn't Cambodia the same as Sabina's country？ A country occupied by its neighbor's Communist army！ A country that had felt the brunt of Russia's fist！ All at once； Franz felt that his half…forgotten friend had contacted him at Sabina's secret bidding。
Heavenly bodies know all and see all。 If he went on the march； Sabina would gaze down on him enraptured； she would understand that he had remained faithful to her。
Would you be terribly upset if I went on the march？ he asked the girl with the glasses； who counted every day away from him a loss； yet could not deny him a thing。
Several days later he was in a large jet taking off from Paris with twenty doctors and about fifty intellectuals （professors； writers； diplomats； singers； actors； and mayors） as well as four hundred reporters and photographers。
15
The plane landed in Bangkok。 Four hundred and seventy doctors； intellectuals； and reporters made their way to the large ballroom of an international hotel； where more doctors； actors； singers； and professors of linguistics had gathered with several hundred journalists bearing notebooks； tape recorders； and cameras； still and video。 On the podium； a group of twenty or so Americans sitting at a long table were presiding over the proceedings。
The French intellectuals with whom Franz had entered the ballroom felt slighted and humiliated。 The march on Cambodia had been their idea； and here the Americans； supremely unabashed as usual； had not only taken over； but had taken over in English without a thought that a Dane or a Frenchman might not understand them。 And because the Danes had long since forgotten that they once formed a nation of their own； the French were the only Europeans capable of protest。 So high were their principles that they refused to protest in English； and made their case to the Americans on the podium in their mother tongue。 The Americans； not und