Claude Monet, La femme à la cape rouge, 1869-70 or 1871.
Merry Christmas!
Monthly Archives: December 2008
Noel, noel
Last minute Christmas shopping list for the Francophiles in your life:
For the one who longs for the South (of France, of course)
Provençal Cooking: Savoring the Simple Life in France, by Mary Ann Caws
A very sweet memoir of cabanon life in the Vaucluse, of Caws's friendship with the poet René Char, of cave picnics and dinner parties, bramble-fighting and market-going, of animal-loving children and doormice. And it comes with recipes. *
For the one who longs for Pigalle
Naughty Paris, by Heather Stimmler-Hall
Your go-to guide for all things naughty and pseudo-naughty in Paris. Filled with beautiful photographs, the book works equally well for novices and experts on the City of Light. Who knew, for instance, that there was a parfumier where you could buy a bottle of "Putain des Palaces" (Palace Hotel Whore) or "Secretions Magnifiques" (what it sounds like)? Saucy, very saucy!
For the historian
The Discovery of France, by Graham Robb
"Restons francais, soyons gaullois," sang Jacques Dutronc. By the time you've finished Robb's book, you'll wonder what it means, exactly, to "remain French." Robb takes the reader on an ethnographic bike ride through the heartland of the Hexagon, pointing out the shepherds on stilts along the way, convincing you, by the time you put it down, that La Belle France, myths and cliches aside, is a "vast encyclodepia of micro-civilizations." Not for nothing did it win the 2008 Ondaatje Prize.
For the book snob
The Lemoine Affair, by Marcel Proust (Translated by Charlotte Mandell)
Long before there was Bernie Madoff, there was Henri Lemoine, who claimed he could manufacture diamonds from coal, and made a lot of investors very angry (and a bit less wealthy). Proust picked up on the scandal and turned it into the occasion to pastiche the writing styles of Balzac, Flaubert, Sainte-Beuve, and the Goncourt Brothersm among others. Originally published as Pastiches et Melanges, this is the first time the book has appeared in English. Mandell's translation of Proust's mimickry is spot-on.
For kids of all ages
Jeanette Winterson's "The Lion, the Unicorn, and Me." For now it's on her website, but look for it in stores next year.
Now go out to your local bookstore and finish your Christmas shopping. Go on, git! and merry Christmas!
*Disclosure, if one were needed: Mary Ann is a friend, mentor, and member of my dissertation committee. But I swear I'd recommend the book even if she weren't.
Les Miserables: the sequel
For my eleventh or twelfth birthday, my parents gave me a cassette tape recording of the musical Les Miserables. This had three major consequences.
One, the fires of my love affair with musical theatre were stoked, sending me on a direct path to the conservatory at Syracuse University, where (predictably) I was miserable, and, thanks to the intervention of my best friend, packed up and left for Barnard. Thank goodness.
Two, I began to model my understanding of heterosexual relationships on the doomed love of Eponine for Marius, and got down to business cultivating doomed loves for boys at school. Decidedly, Les Mis knocked the good sense out of me. What can I say? Eponine had better songs. I sincerely hope I'm over this now– but it wasn't easy.
Three, I checked out Hugo's novel in English from the local library, and when I finished reading it, set about writing a sequel in which Gavroche didn't really die, nor did Eponine, and instead these thwarted Thenardier children started an orphanage there in the slums of St Michel, where they lived not off the crumbs of high society but on the inheritance left them by Jean Valjean. Marius ditched Cosette for Eponine and they all lived happily ever after.
Lucky for all of us, that manuscript languished on a floppy disk somewhere that has probably, by this point, been thrown away. But I am happy to find that a grown man has been similarly inspired: recently, the Hugo family tried to sue another author, François Ceresa, who "dared" to write his own sequel to Les Mis called Cosette, ou, le temps des illusions. They lost. Ceresa's lawyer won by appealing to Hugo himself, who, in a speech given on June 21st, 1878, said: "The blood heir is the heir by blood. The writer, as writer, has only one heir: that of the spirit. The human spirit is in the public domain. That is the absolute truth."
The best part is that in his sequel, Ceresa also decided to resuscitate one of the main (doomed) characters: Javert. Come to think of it, maybe I should go looking for that floppy disk after all…
vendredi, poésie: “Voilà la poésie ce matin et pour la prose il y a les journaux”
Since we've been talking about Zone, it occurred to me to provide you with the poem by Guillaume Apollinaire of the same name. It seems impossible that Enard would not have had Apollinaire in mind when he titled his novel thus, and it would probably be interesting to read the two texts together, just to see what happens. The sprawl of Christianity, the importance of geography, the pintucks of history that juxtapose modernity and antiquity, the present day and Byzantium, the circulation of faith and goods and people… the resonance seems productive. English translation here.
Zone (extrait d'Alcools, 1913)
A la fin tu es las de ce monde ancien
Bergère ô tour Eiffel le troupeau des ponts bêle ce matin
Tu en as assez de vivre dans l'antiquité grecque et romaine
Ici même les automobiles ont l'air d'être anciennes
La religion seule est restée toute neuve la religion
Est restée simple comme les hangars de Port-Aviation
Seul en Europe tu n'es pas antique ô Christianisme
L'Européen le plus moderne c'est vous Pape Pie X
Et toi que les fenêtres observent la honte te retient
D'entrer dan une église et de t'y confesser ce matin
Tu lis les prospectus les catalogues les affiches qui chantent tout haut
Voilà la poésie ce matin et pour la prose il y a les journaux
Il y a les livraisons à 25 centimes pleines d'aventure policières
Portraits des grands hommes et mille titres divers
J'ai vu ce matin une jolie rue dont j'ai oublié le nom
Neuve et propre du soleil elle était le clairon
Les directeurs les ouvriers et les belles sténo-dactylographes
Du lundi matin au samedi soir quatre fois par jour y passent
Le matin par trois fois la sirène y gémit
Une cloche rageuse y aboie vers midi
Les inscriptions des enseignes et des murailles
Les plaques les avis à la façon des perroquets criaillent
J'aime la grâce de cette rue industrielle
Située à Paris entre la rue Aumont-Thieville et l'avenue des Ternes
Voilà la jeune rue et tu n'es encore qu'un petit enfant
Ta mère ne t'habille que de bleu et de blanc
Tu es très pieux et avec le plus ancien de tes camarades René Dalize
Vous n'aimez rien tant que les pompes de l'Église
Il est neuf heures le gaz est baissé tout bleu vous sortez du dortoir en cachette
Vous priez toute la nuit dans la chapelle du collège
Tandis qu'éternelle et adorable profondeur améthyste
Tourne à jamais la flamboyante gloire du Christ
C'est le beau lys que tous nous cultivons
C'est la torche aux cheveux roux que n'éteint pas le vent
C'est le fils pâle et vermeil de la douloureuse mère
C'est l'arbre toujours touffu de toutes les prières
C'est la double potence de l'honneur et de l'éternité
C'est l'étoile à six branches
C'est Dieu qui meurt le vendredi et ressuscite le dimanche
C'est le Christ qui monte au ciel mieux que les aviateurs
Il détient le record du monde pour la hauteur
Pupille Christ de l'œil
Vingtième pupille des siècles il sait y faire
Et changé en oiseau ce siècle comme Jésus monte dans l'air
Les diables dans les abîmes lèvent la tête pour le regarder
lls disent qu'il imite Simon Mage en Judée
Ils crient qu'il sait voler qu'on l'appelle voleur
Les anges voltigent autour du joli voltigeur
Icare Énoch Élie Apollonius de Thyane
Flottent autour du premier aéroplane
Ils s'écartent parfois pour laisser passer ceux que transporte la Sainte-Eucharistie
Ces prêtres qui montent éternellement élevant l'hostie
L'avion se pose enfin sans refermer les ailes
Le ciel s'emplit alors de millions d'hirondelles
À tire-d'aile viennent les corbeaux les faucons les hiboux
D'Afrique arrivent les ibis les flamants les marabouts
L'oiseau Roc célébré par les conteurs et les poètes
Plane tenant dans les serres le crâne d'Adam la première tête
L'aigle fond de l'horizon en poussant un grand cri
Et d'Amérique vient le petit colibri
De Chine sont venus les pihis longs et souples
Qui n'ont qu'une seule aile et qui volent par couples
Puis voici la colombe esprit immaculé
Qu'escortent l’oiseau-lyre et le paon ocellé
Le phénix ce bûcher qui soi-même s'engendre
Un instant voile tout de son ardente cendre
Les sirènes laissant les périlleux détroits
Arrivent en chantant bellement toutes trois
Et tous aigles phénix et pihis de la Chine
Fraternisent avec la volante machine
Maintenant tu marches dans Paris tout seul parmi la foule
Des troupeaux d'autobus mugissants près de toi roulent
L'angoisse de l'amour te serre le gosier
Comme si tu ne devais jamais plus être aimé
Si tu vivais dans l'ancien temps tu entrerais dans un monastère
Vous avez honte quand vous vous surprenez à dire une prière
Tu te moques de toi et comme le feu de l'Enfer ton rire pétille
Les étincelles de ton rire dorent le fond de ta vie
C'est un tableau pendu dans un sombre musée
Et quelquefois tu vas le regarder de près
Aujourd'hui tu marches dans Paris les femmes sont ensanglantées
C'était et je voudrais ne pas m'en souvenir c'était au déclin de la be
Entourée de flammes ferventes Notre-Dame m'a regardé à Chartres
Le sang de votre Sacré-Coeur m'a inondé à Montmartre
Je suis malade d'ouïr les paroles bienheureuses
L'amour dont je souffre est une maladie honteuse
Et l'image qui te possède te fait survivre dans l'insomnie et dans l'angoisse
C'est toujours près de toi cette image qui passe
Maintenant tu es au bord de la Méditerranée
Sous les citronniers qui sont en fleur toute l'année
Avec tes amis tu te promènes en barque
L'un est Nissard il y a un Mentonasque et deux Turbiesques
Nous regardons avec effroi les poulpes des profondeurs
Et parmi les algues nagent les poissons images du Sauveur
Tu es dans le jardin d'une auberge aux environs de Prague
Tu te sens tout heureux une rose est sur la table
Et tu observes au lieu d'écrire ton conte en prose
La cétoine qui dort dans le creux de la rose
Épouvanté tu te vois dessiné dans les agates de Saint-Vit
Tu étais triste à mourir le jour où t'y vis
Tu ressembles au Lazare affolé par le jour
Les aiguilles de l'horloge du quartier juif vont à rebours
Et tu recules aussi dans ta vie lentement
En montant au Hradchin et le soir en écoutant
Dans les tavernes chanter des chansons tchèques
Te voici à Marseille au milieu des pastèques
Te voici à Coblence à l'hôtel du Géant
Te voici à Rome assis sous un néflier du Japon
Te voici à Amsterdam avec une jeune fille que tu trouves belle et qui est laide
Elle doit se marier avec un étudiant de Leyde
On y loue des chambres en latin Cubicula locanda
Je m'en souviens j'y ai passé trois jours et autant à Gouda
Tu es à Paris chez le juge d'instruction
Comme un criminel on te met en état d'arrestation
Tu es fait de douloureux et de joyeux voyages
Avant de t'apercevoir du mensonge et de l'âge
Tu as souffert de l'amour à vingt et à trente ans
J'ai vécu comme un fou et j'ai perdu mon temps
Tu n'oses plus regarder tes mains et à tous moments je voudrais sangloter
Sur toi sur celle que j'aime sur tout ce qui t'a épouvanté
Tu regardes les yeux pleins de larmes ces pauvres immigrants
Ils croient en Dieu ils prient les femmes allaitent des enfants
Ils emplissent de leur odeur le hall de la gare Saint-Lazare
Ils ont foi dans leur étoile comme les rois-mages
Ils espèrent gagner de l'argent dans l'Argentine
Et revenir dans leur pays après avoir fait fortune
Une famille transporte un édredon rouge comme vous transportez votre coeur
Cet édredon et nos rêves sont aussi irréels
Quelques-uns de ces immigrants restent ici et se logent
Rue des Rosiers ou rue des Écouffes dans des bouges
Je les ai vus souvent le soir ils prennent l'air dans la rue
Et se déplacent rarement comme les pièces aux échecs
Il y a surtout des Juifs leurs femmes portent perruque
Elles restent assises exsangues au fond des boutiques
Tu es debout devant le zinc d’un bar crapuleux
Tu prends un café à deux sous parmi les malheureux
Tu es la nuit dans un grand restaurant
Ces femmes ne sont pas méchantes elles ont des soucis cependant
Toutes même la plus laide a fait souffrir son amant
Elle est la fille d'un sergent de ville de Jersey
Ses mains que je n'avais pas vues sont dures et gercées
J'ai une pitié immense pour les coutures de son ventre
J'humilie maintenant à une pauvre fille au rire horrible me bouche
Tu es seul le matin va venir
Les laitiers font tinter leurs bidons dans les rues
La nuit s'éloigne ainsi qu'une belle Métive
C'est Ferdine la fausse ou Léa l'attentive
Et tu bois cet alcool brûlant comme ta vie
Ta vie que tu bois comme une eau-de-vie
Tu marches vers Auteuil tu veux aller chez toi à pied
Dormir parmi tes fétiches d'Océanie et de Guinée
lls sont des Christs d'une autre forme et d'une autre croyance
Ce sont les Christs inférieurs des obscures espérances
Adieu Adieu
Soleil cou coupé
found in translation
If you're a fan of the translation blog Three Percent, as I am, you might be interested to read the profile Publishers's Weekly ran on him back in October. After an extended career at Dalkey Archive Press (beloved by me; beloved by you?) Post started up Open Letters Press, a publishing house entirely dedicated to international literature in translation, with a mandate to “increase access to world literature for English readers.” And Three Percent, the official blog of the organization, got its name because only 3% of books published in the US are works in translation. What a shame! And what an embarrassment. But if Post has his way, he'll eventually have to change the title of the blog.
If you're feeling a little out of the translation loop (and who doesn't?), here is their longlist of Best Translations of 2008. And unlike some "best of" lists, it's not only comprised of books you've already heard of ten thousand times. Although yes, 2666 is on there. And here's their list, so far, of books they're releasing in 2009. The Elsa Morante sounds particularly intriguing.
Some cool news recently– Scott Esposito over at Conversational Reading heard from Sophie Lewis who heard from Christophe Claro that Mathias Enard's Zone (the novel that is entirely comprised of one long sentence) was the "novel of the decade" in France. (Pay attention, kids: This is how literary buzz is built) So Open Letter went "really?" and found the rights were still available and acquired it. Look for a translation in summer 2010 by the most-in-demand translator from French of the moment, Charlotte Mandell.
around the internet on a tuesday
I'll be brief, because I have to catch a plane to New York.
More on Japanese cell phone novels from the New Yorker (a) where do I even start? and b) is my blatant loathing of Japan getting funny yet, or is it just weird?).
Here is an article about a book in which really bad and gross things are done to a priest.
Here is an article about a nun.
And now a very special podcast: An American Bookworm in Paris debuts on KCRW!
I don't know if you've been paying attention, but the publishing industry has been laying people off in massive waves. A huge one happened just yesterday at Macmillan, and Random House is planning a bunch more effective in January. Bad times, people. Really bad times. Please go out and buy a book. (And maybe make it from Powells.)
Mark Tavani, a senior editor at Random House, traces the crisis back to multimedia corporations buying up smaller houses and imprints in the 90s, and to the changes wrought in reading habits by the Internet. But somehow, he doesn't view what's happening as necessarily a bad thing.
Anyway, maybe we contract. Maybe fewer books get published. Maybe some
publishing folks have to look elsewhere for a paycheck. I don’t say
those things lightly, because I love those books, and I’m one of those
publishing folks, and I have a lot of friends in the industry. But on
the bright side, maybe fewer books will mean better books. Maybe, over
time, books will regain an elite status that I sense they once had.
Maybe, in the end, books won’t qualify precisely as mass entertainment,
but entertainment for a sizable if select audience.
publishing folks have to look elsewhere for a paycheck. I don’t say
those things lightly, because I love those books, and I’m one of those
publishing folks, and I have a lot of friends in the industry. But on
the bright side, maybe fewer books will mean better books. Maybe, over
time, books will regain an elite status that I sense they once had.
Maybe, in the end, books won’t qualify precisely as mass entertainment,
but entertainment for a sizable if select audience.
That's one way to look at it. Here's another: Tina Fey and Sarah Silverman, give back 90% of your advances right now, and maybe a bunch more people can keep their jobs and some other writers can sell their books. What do you say?
Meanwhile Forbes has chimed in with their usual idiocy, suggesting that maybe publishers are failing "because they dumb everything down." Yeah, right. My friend who works for FSG just got laid off because FSG publishes books for dumb people. That makes complete sense. But Laurence Osbourne does make some good points that counter Tavani's argument regarding the internet: "I don't read the Drudge Report instead of Cormac McCarthy.
Do you?" and concludes:
Of course, there's always the contrary argument. Namely that publishers make their bucks precisely on things like The Da Vinci Code and The Gargoyle and that they support everyone else. We'll leave to one side the sad fact that The Da Vinci Code author Dan Brown didn't come up with a profitable sequel to his first round of execrable twaddle, and we'll ignore The Gargoyle's failure to make anyone rich (and, really, 12th century German nuns? ) It may be true.
Personally,
I don't mind this system as long as I don't have to pretend that just
because something is crap doesn't mean it's crap. But what if the giant
advances, the agent schmoozing and the general hysteria ends up killing
my advances altogether? I will not be so pleased.
That there illustration is an object by Claude Cahun which Steven Harris brilliantly reads together with Bataille's L'Histoire d'un oeil (the book with the bad stuff and the priest mentioned above) in Surrealist Art and Thought in the 1930s.
Prix Goncourt 2038
Capucine's stories are witty, inventive, philosophical, and testify to an active social consciousness. And she's only four.
Once upon a time… from Capucha on Vimeo.
There is much to commend here: the use of language, and the element of surprise– she even uses the passé simple at one point. Certainly one of the more sophisticated wielders of the French language. You heard it here first– this is certainly one writer to watch. ( I can't wait to have French children who will tell stories about popotames.)
Capucine's mom has a blog, here in English and here in French. Lots more videos here. And she's even learning English!
vendredi, poésie
Awhile back I was trying to get a poem up every Friday. Now that's something I'd like to get back to. So– here's one that I've been thinking about a lot lately, that I find very moving not only for its meaning, but for the way it means it. Also, pedantically, for the way it is punctuated. I find the punctuation absurdly moving. But then, I am a sucker for an accurately placed comma.
My apologies to non-Francophones– if anyone can find an English translation (or want to contribute your own) I'd be much obliged.
René Char, "Commune présence"
Tu es pressé d'écrire,
Comme si tu étais en retard sur la vie.
S'il en est ainsi fais cortège à tes sources.
Hâte-toi.
Hâte-toi de transmettre
Ta part de merveilleux de rébellion de bienfaisance.
Effectivement tu es en retard sur la vie,
La vie inexprimable,
La seule en fin de compte à laquelle tu acceptes de t'unir,
Celle qui t'est refusée chaque jour par les êtres et par les choses,
Dont tu obtiens péniblement de-ci de-là quelques fragments décharnés
Au bout de combats sans merci.
Hors d'elle, tout n'est qu'agonie soumise, fin grossière.
Si tu rencontres la mort durant ton labeur,
Reçois-là comme la nuque en sueur trouve bon le mouchoir aride,
En t'inclinant.
Si tu veux rire,
Offre ta soumission,
Jamais tes armes.
Tu as été créé pour des moments peu communs.
Modifie-toi, disparais sans regret
Au gré de la rigueur suave.
Quartier suivant quartier la liquidation du monde se poursuit
Sans interruption,
Sans égarement.
Essaime la poussière.
Nul ne décèlera votre union.
Two views on Paris
Oh, some of this stuff is just not worth paying attention to. But since Laurie Pike pointed out that our fair city has been getting unfairly knocked about by American newspapers this week, and since I'm procrastinating even my procrastination, I may as well chime in.
The LA Times complains that Parisians are rude because they refuse to speak English; the NY Times complains that French has been replaced with English. Gentlemen, I have news for you: you are both wrong.
Leon Logothetis: why would you so blatantly advertise your ignorance? Some French waiters were rude and some guy named Pierre was nice and your conclusion is that Paris sucks? Seriously?
And Roger Cohen, with all due respect, might it be possible that Paris has become more anaesthetized with your success? I mean, you're a big time writer for the New York Times. I think your gritty days are behind you. If you would like to discover parts of Paris that smell bad and are filled with alcoholics puffing on their Gitanes, I'd be happy to show you around.
No doubt the city, not to mention public health, has made some improvements over the last few decades, and I can see how you might perceive a vast contrast between a crumbling Communist burg and the French capital. But your objection to Frenchmen eating sandwiches is perplexing. And it's pretty much mainly students who eat those sandwiches anyway.
Margie Rynn has more to say on this, here.
The truth of a city lies in its contrasts, of course, and no one is always right, or wrong, about a city like Paris. Some waiters refuse to speak English, insulting tourists like our friend Leon. Some waiters insist on speaking English, insulting those tourists who are trying with varying degrees of success to speak French. Some parts of Paris are glossy and gussied up; some parts contain such squalor you'd be hard-pressed to find the glory. You'll no longer find the kind of shanty-towns intramuros that existed about a century ago, but you will find homeless people living in tents, which is an improvement over cardboard boxes. So I'm going to reiterate my call for responsible journalism about Paris, though I know it will fall soundlessly into the well of half-rate journalism about Paris– for that well is full of coins, and money talks louder than nuance.
around the internet on a tuesday
Happy Tuesday!
Penguin launches Penguin 2.0, reports Publisher's Weekly. What does this entail? A blog and an iPhone app. Sounds…. like a last ditch effort to mate this web thing with this book thing. But hey, why not. It's all text, isn't it? A book, an iPhone, what's the diff?
While we're on the subject, J-M Le Clézio gave his Nobel lecture last night about how great the internet is, but also how great books are. Is anyone else as bored as I am with this topic yet? The internet is good. Books are good. Everyone should have access to both. And?
McSweeney's is continuing their massive blow-out sale– everything on their website is half off. That's a good start towards making painfully hip books and sportswear universally accessible. What happens in La Brea tar pits stays in La Brea tar pits, ok? (I have no idea what that means)
I meant to mention this last week but didn't have time; better late than never. It would seem that Paris's Seine-side booksellers are experiencing a crisis of their own: the tourists who visit the bouquinistes only want to buy postcards and vintage posters, and the customers who used to buy their books are now shopping online. Because why buy a book whilst strolling by the Seine when you can stay in your apartment and order it online?
I'm gearing up to write an essay on Susan Sontag for the Quarterly Conversation; that will come out in February, I guess. So while you're waiting for that literary event, content yourselves with the likes of Philip Lopate and Deborah Eisenberg (who totally stole my title. And mine makes so much more sense, if you know anything about Beauvoir).
Finally, the New York Times has published a scintillating peek at the sordid world of book clubs.