Children play the same game every day at the same hour over a more or less long period of time, and they do so without losing their apparent belief in
Children play the same game every day at the same hour over a more or less long period of time, and they do so without losing their apparent belief in what they are doing. They act ‘as if’. The difference here was that Emile Bouin was seventy-three years old and Marguerite seventy-one.
It seemed to mean that they regretted not having come oftener to the school. It was also a way of thanking our teacher for his forty years of faithful
It seemed to mean that they regretted not having come oftener to the school. It was also a way of thanking our teacher for his forty years of faithful service, and of paying their respects to the fatherland which was vanishing. [...] “I will not scold you, my little Frantz; you must be punished enough; that is the way it goes; every day we say to ourselves: ‘Pshaw! I have time enough. I will learn to-morrow.’ And then you see what happens. Ah! it has been the great misfortune of our Alsace always to postpone its lessons until to-morrow. Now those people are entitled to say to us: ‘What! you claim to be French, and you can neither speak nor write your language!’ In all this, my poor Frantz, you are not the guiltiest one. We all have our fair share of reproaches to address to ourselves. [...] Then, passing from one thing to another, Monsieur Hamel began to talk to us about the French language, saying that it was the most beautiful language in the world, the most clear, the most substantial; that we must always retain it among ourselves, and never forget it, because when a people falls into servitude, “so long as it clings to its language, it is as if it held the key to its prison.”
So this is hell. I'd never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the "burning marl." Old
So this is hell. I'd never have believed it. You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the "burning marl." Old wives' tales! There's no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is—other people!
Words of comfort to be scratched on a mirror Helen of Troy had a wandering glance; Sappho's restriction was only the sky; Ninon was ever the chatter ofWords of comfort to be scratched on a mirror Helen of Troy had a wandering glance; Sappho's restriction was only the sky; Ninon was ever the chatter of France; But oh, what a good girl am I!
Claro que es penoso ser mujer. Miedos, obligaciones, imperativos de silencio, llamadas a un orden que es el mismo desde hace tiempo, festival de limit
Claro que es penoso ser mujer. Miedos, obligaciones, imperativos de silencio, llamadas a un orden que es el mismo desde hace tiempo, festival de limitaciones imbéciles y estériles. Siempre como extranjeras, haciendo los peores trabajos, suministrando la materia prima y asumiendo un perfil bajo… Pero, frente a lo que significa ser un hombre, eso parece una broma. Porque, al final, no somos nosotras las que tenemos más miedo...
Qué sé yo, nombraron tantas veces este libro que me dio curiosidad....more
I haven’t heard of Franco-Swiss writer and painter Marguerite Burnat-Provins (1872-1952) until a friend read one of her books a month ago or so and thI haven’t heard of Franco-Swiss writer and painter Marguerite Burnat-Provins (1872-1952) until a friend read one of her books a month ago or so and the writing intrigued me. I didn’t find that book so honestly, didn’t have high expectations regarding Contes en vingt lignes – that’s always wise, Plath says.
At first, I had Georg Trakl flashbacks, unfortunately. Many short stories that resemble poems and other writings revolve around death, gallons of blood, women dying for love and such. I apologize for my untactful sincerity but the morbid – and supposedly romantic – link between love and death has become something memorable thanks to the yawns it inspires.
However, the second and third section of this collection were much better. I found some surreal and uncanny little gems that made this journey a bit more pleasant (“Le cœur”, for example, is a charming tale about a woman who casually goes to a merchant, rips her heart out and asks for a new one; also, “Le chat aux yeux rouges”, the story of Cujo’s feline version), especially the ones with recurring patterns of weather imagery (autumn and winter) and their connection with the characters’ emotions.
I also enjoyed the process of translation of course, which is always fascinating. I found myself picking certain words and comparing their versions in French, Spanish and English in terms of etymology and phonaesthetics. There’s a lovely short story called “Dame Neige” that includes the following passage:
En marchant entre les seigles montants, au crépuscule, elle tenait entre ses deux mains son cœur impatient qui ne savait pas attendre l'aimé et, dans le ciel vert, Vénus lui souriait, avivée par la limpidité splendide de la prochaine obscurité.
An inarticulate train of thought thus began. 'Crépuscule' is a delicious word, not only because of the image it conveys but the sound of it. 'Crepúsculo', in Spanish, has a similar effect though less musicality. On the other hand, nothing poetic comes to mind when I think of 'dusk' – I prefer not to think about 'twilight'. And so on and on. Besides, memories of past lessons started to accumulate in the vicinity of my brain. 'Les robes sont rouges.' 'Rouges.' 'Rrrrouuuges.' 'J'aime les robes rouges.' I never liked dresses, let alone red dresses. Rrred dresses. A great use of time.
The moral of this fable is that on really busy weeks, I should avoid reading books that encourage this kind of analysis. I spend too much time perusing each sentence and the hours pass surprisingly quickly…
Pas un instant le soleil ne détourna son visage de cette ivresse qui lui fut un hommage et le flot des heures roula, joyeux et rapide, sans rencontrer d'écueil.
Although, nothing more rewarding than when the hours fly because of words. In any case, tributes only to words.
There’s another tale I liked, "Le coquemar”. It includes a couple of lines that became rather familiar.
Depuis lors, chaque année, quinze jours avant la Noël, je les instruis pour qu'ils sachent mieux, dans leurs pauvres maisons, égayer les isolés et les vieux qui sont toujours assis au coin du feu. Celui-ci chante plus parfaitement que les autres. Pendant les veillées, il te distraira de l'absence de ta mère et te préservera de l'ennui.
Again, Burnat-Provins' delicate lines and their overwhelming nostalgia. And truth. As there are songs that someday will distract you from someone’s absence and save you from succumbing to ennui. Until then, how odd to be able to enjoy their presence while fearing the end.
The Ballad of the Proverbs So rough the goat will scratch, it cannot sleep. So often goes the pot to the well that it breaks. So long you heat iron, it w
The Ballad of the Proverbs So rough the goat will scratch, it cannot sleep. So often goes the pot to the well that it breaks. So long you heat iron, it will glow; so heavily you hammer it, it shatters. So good is the man as his praise; so far he will go, and he's forgotten; so bad he behaves, and he's despised. So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.
So glib you talk, you end up in contradictions. So good is your credit as the favors you got. So much you promise that you will back out. So doggedly you beg that your wish is granted; so high climbs the price when you want a thing; so much you want it that you pay the price; so familiar it gets to you, you want it no more. So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.
So, you love a dog. Then feed it! So long a song will run that people learn it. So long you keep the fruit, it will rot. So hot the struggle for a spot that it is won; so cool you keep your act that your spirit freezes; so hurriedly you act that you run into bad luck; so tight you embrace that your catch slips away. So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.
So you scoff and laugh, and the fun is gone. So you crave and spend, and lose your shirt. So candid you are, no blow can be too low. So good as a gift should a promise be. So, if you love God, you obey the Church. So, when you give much, you borrow much. So, shifting winds turn to storm. So loud you cry Christmas, it comes.
Prince, so long as a fool persists, he grows wiser; so, round the world he goes, but return he will, so humbled and beaten back into servility. So loud you cry Christmas, it is here.
Today: This was my first review of the year. I was going to edit it and add some great images but we're already in March and I can solemnly announce that that's not going to happen. I read, I loved, I wrote, let's move on.
Two months ago: I was looking for an idea to write an article and found this poet. François Villon (1431-1463?), "the first damned poet". No doubt. His short life was... eventful: from the University of Paris to prison, a death sentence and finally, banishment. When I found his poems I was amazed, as usual, at how modern they were. Le Testament was written in 1461, after spending some time in prison for a crime he never mentioned. His delightful, intimate, profound, sardonic, debauched, innocent, sacred and earthly oeuvre was my first literary addiction of the year.
from Ballade ... I know the coat by the collar I know the monk by the cowl I know the master by the servant I know the nun by the veil I know when a hustler rattles on I know fools raised on whipped cream I know the wine by the barrel I know everything but myself.
(Kinnell's translation)
Four stars for this Spanish edition. When I find a better translation, a 5-star rating, perhaps? By the way, I wrote my article. It's in Spanish; for now only reviews are in some sort of English.
How much less companionable than silence is the language of falsehood. – St Augustine, City of God, XIX, vii; Montaigne cites Pliny from J. L. Vives’ n
How much less companionable than silence is the language of falsehood. – St Augustine, City of God, XIX, vii; Montaigne cites Pliny from J. L. Vives’ note.
An unpopular essay We shall now proceed to discuss the nature of lying. Actually, this is a selfish act; it's a way to remind myself that I need to read Montaigne’s works more often because his writing is extraordinary, folks. And I wanted to say it again. Besides, I haven’t written a non-review for quite some time.
This essay on liars derives from Quintilian’s notion that a liar should have a good memory. With that idea in mind, Montaigne starts pondering the opposite case – something I can relate to. He explains that his lack of memory is often perceived as ingratitude, since if he forgets about something, it must be because it is unimportant to him.
I certainly do forget things easily but I simply do not treat with indifference any charge laid on me by my friends. Let them be satisfied with my misfortune, without turning it into precisely the kind of malice which is the enemy of my natural humour.
As I mentioned on another review, Montaigne’s prose is clear and often humorous. When he starts explaining the drawbacks and benefits of having a bad memory, examples of the latter are: I remember less any insults received - a fortunate man - and Books and places which I look at again always welcome me with a fresh new smile - I’m lucky too. The author also resorts to historical events to illustrate his points of view, which is another treat for the reader since they are not only informative, but also rather amusing at times, considering the solemnity of his century. Complex philosophical meditations interspersed with anecdotes that show a witty sense of humor. That's gold, Jerry.
The concept of memory is the bridge Montaigne provides to start discussing the main theme. After giving an explanation of the distinction between "to tell an untruth" and "to lie", he focuses on the liar per se: the kind of person either makes up the whole story or else disguises and pollutes some source of truth. According to the author:
Lying is an accursed vice. It is only our words which bind us together and make us human. [...] It seems to me that the only faults which we should vigorously attack as soon as they arise and start to develop are lying and, a little below that, stubbornness. Those faults grow up with the children. Once let the tongue acquire the habit of lying and it is astonishing how impossible it is to make it give it up.
Montaigne doesn't delve deeper into the infamous art of deception so, among other things, the essay omits to mention the vast array of methods we are in possession of. A fib, a lie, disinformation, a noble lie, defamation, half-truth, a white lie. My favorite, the barefaced lie: one knows or sense the truth and - fluctuating between calm and eagerness - contemplates the other person's liking for invention.
Some people say it all depends on the context. Some lies are inevitable, since if we all say what goes through our minds, the world would be even more chaotic. In that sense, certain false statements have a diplomatic nature (I know). However, some pieces of fiction involve other feelings; those are the kinds of lies that are usually unnecessary, like expressing love or friendship when one doesn’t mean it. Montaigne doesn’t refer to those samples of wasted time. My imagination has given me the most vivid memories that never existed. I have a tendency to long for things which never ever happened. Not trying to find a human being unable to lie might be the first attempt to break the habit.
Montaigne’s wit and wisdom are exceptional. There's one gorgeous line that I must reiterate: It is only our words which bind us together and make us human. Deconstructing that statement might offer an entire new panorama. In any case, if falsehood is your only language, silence is ambiguous; perpetual absence will suffice.
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