I am blown away by this poem.

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo. LET us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats         5 Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question …         10 Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15 The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20 And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;         25 There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30 Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go         35 Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40 [They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”] My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— [They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”] Do I dare         45 Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all:— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50 I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room.   So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55 The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?         60   And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] It is perfume from a dress         65 That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.   And should I then presume?   And how should I begin?       .      .      .      .      . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70 And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?… I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.       .      .      .      .      . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75 Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80 But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85 And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while,         90 To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95 If one, settling a pillow by her head,   Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.   That is not it, at all.” And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while,         100 After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105 Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say:   “That is not it at all,   That is not what I meant, at all.”       .      .      .      .      .         110 No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use,         115 Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old … I grow old …         120 I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.         125 I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Pilates & Lattes

Mme de Sévigné se demandant si faire des Pilates serait plus bénéfique que de tenir des Salons? 

Premier poème* 

*qui n'a rien à voir avec Mme de Sévigné - c'est seulement trop jolie comme image 

Life is so simple
Inside the body
Outside the mind
Cafeine down your veins
Thin is never enough
Strenght built by tube mentors
Of Tivo culture
Cacophony of afternoon agonies
Life coach bring happiness
The need to fill the void
Priests of modern nightmares
Guide them to the path
The Nirvana
The Zen
The Feng Shui
But wait
This is a spirituality you can buy
You do not  need to close your eyes
You simply need to open your pocketbooks
To the Gurus that Oprah spun off
Doctor Phil
Fill me Up
My cup is empty
My muscles loose
I vegetate in the coma of the desperate housewife
I cannot stand to be with me
I am no one
I depart for Chapters
Where I flip through books
Guides on life changes and passages
Starbuck glances at me
I forget about my destiny
As I sip the Comachinno that is my life.

(Extrait d'une série poétique rédigée entre 2004 et 2006 et intitulée Poems from the Cubicle - Lorsque j'étais prisonnière du Cubicule municipal)

L'Élégance du Hérisson

La seule chose que je déteste du Hérisson n'a rien à voir avec Muriel Barbery mais bien avec Martha Stewart. J'ai lu que l'année de la publication du livre, Madame Stewart avait listé le Hérisson - the Edgehog comme étant son livre préféré. Désolant. Ou elle est plus profonde qu'on le pense ou elle veut bien paraître aux yeux du monde (comme le fait Paloma dans le livre d'ailleurs).
Cochez l'option 2.


Passons.

Lire le Hérisson, je l'ai fait avec un stylo à la main. J'ai pris un cahier de notes et retranscrit des extraits, ensuite, je me suis dit que si je venais à mourir  - oui si (le poids des mots compte) - je voudrais être enterré ou brûlé avec le livre qui m'accompagnera vers l'au-delà.

Il aura fallu Gourmandise pour arriver au génie du Hérisson. Je m'incline devant la sagesse et la philosophie de cette merveilleuse histoire dont je n'ai aucunement envie de parler en trop de détails, car je ne serai jamais à la hauteur du grandiose de ce livre.

- Une question pourquoi les soeurs se nomment Paloma et Colombe, madame Barbery? Ce sont le même prénom en deux langues? Est-ce le coté Yin et Yang - vous qui aimez l'Orient? 


L'histoire est touchante. La leçon de vie rend humble. Les personnages attachants. Et, entre les épisodes, la haute voltige de réflexions philosophiques sur la vie et sur l'art. Sur le paraître. L'art de bien paraître. La grammaire, l'école, les gens qui se pensent si comme il faut; et, le sens de la vie, de la vraie vie.  La bonté, l'humanisme, l'intégrité.

Je m'incline devant le talent de Mme Barbery.




Intermezzo 


J'ai acheté un hérisson. Un jour. Ce n'est pas un très beau souvenir. Et, je ne veux pas faire de ce blog, un antichambre thérapeutique - donc je passe sur la raison pour laquelle j'ai fait l'achat d'un hérisson. Nous avions vu le film sur la vie de Béatrix Potter - très joli film avec Renée Zelwigher d'ailleurs. Et, je me suis laissé séduire par la petite bête qui, je le croyais, allait venir panser les blessures d'une adolescence difficile. Les hérissons sont peut-être élégants mais ils sont aussi méchants. Ils mordent. Se mettent en boule. Ne sont pas très sympas en fait. Alors, pour une première fois dans ma vie d'amoureuse des animaux, j'ai retourné la bête au petshop - avec une note de crédit de près de 300$. Cela aura pris deux ans à dépenser en flafla inutile pour le chien ou le chat...enfin, disons que je ne pensais pas que le hérisson allait un jour réapparaître dans ma vie, comme une chose positive. 

The writing process

Who is afraid of the white page?
La page blanche. Si invitante et pourtant, terrifiante. Je ne sais pas combien de pages j'ai noirci au cours des  années. Déchirées. En boule. Parce que la littérature a toujours été exultoire, échappatoire, une thérapie qui devint un jour, mon gagne-pain. Je déteste l'écriture mièvre. Les adjectifs sucrés qui s'enfilent pour faire bien. J'aime l'écriture d'Anna Gavalda, de Véronique Ovaldé et de Muriel Barbery.

Comment peut-on écrire de si belles choses ...

C'est l'heure assassine. Je sens la brûlure du soleil à travers mon chapeau, je la sens qui passe dans les entrelacs de la paille.

(Extrait des Hommes en général me plaisent beaucoup - Véronique Ovaldé - Quel titre! )

J'adore cette façon d'écrire quand les verbes deviennent adjectifs. Quand les mots frappent. Quand les expressions font belles figures comme ce titre - Les hommes en général me plaisent beaucoup. On a envie de répéter cette phrase - de la refiler à la concierge de l'Élégance du Hérisson.

Mais, comment fait t-on pour écrire si beau si bien - par quel procédé y arrive t-on? Je me souviens aux Marcelllines, on nous faisait faire un plan. Intro - paragraphe - Conclusion. Je détestais devoir tout planifier. En plus à l'époque, nous étions au stylo. Pas de dactylo. D'ordi. Il fallait vraiment vouloir écrire. Et, pourtant c'est comme cela que j'ai appris. Aujourd'hui, on saute sur l'ordi se relisant à peine.

Je discutais l'autre jour de processus. De la nécessité de rédiger son brouillon pour évacuer les clichés, les redondances, les évidences. Pour savoir vraiment écrire. C'est John Irving que j'ai entendu en entrevue et qui disait qu'on ne peut devenir auteur sans avoir la patience d'éditer ses textes.

Les procédés - The process of writing - sont importants à qui veut vraiment bien écrire.
Et, toujours s'assurer d'avoir une poubelle à portée de la main!

Mighty pen

Following yesterday's Nobel Prize nomination, the Committee has awarded the Nobel Peace Prize to a man who knew the weight of his words would probably put an end to his freedom. Jailed since last Fall, Liu Xiaobo wrote Charter 08 - a document that calls for the return of democracy in China. How can words threaten a government to that extent? History is full of such stories.

Apparently, it was British playwright Edward Bulwer-Lytton who coined the expression the Pen is mightier than the sword. He was famous with another line - It was a dark and stormy night - which was apparently used by Charles Schutz. But, this information I am being fed to keep up appearances... 

For stream of consciousness reasons...

I remember in Milan Kundera's The Unbearable lightness of Being - the Zeitgeist novel of the 80s or was it the Zeitgeist novel of my 20s ? - there is that tale of a communist leader who is banned from the Party. And, whose presence in photographs, has been erased. The sole remnant of his passage in history, is a hat that has been forgotten and that floats away.

For more information and well-researched information about the Noble Peace Prize, read on...http://www.economist.com/blogs/asiaview/2010/10/nobel_peace_prize

Nobel Prize in Literature awarded today

It is noble that Nobel awards prizes in literature. I recommend the Nobel Prize website for more information and eye opening stats about, for example, how many women authors have been awarded the prestigious prize over the more than 100 years it has existed. Must have been busy with the children. I am afraid to say, most of the authors who have had the honour to be chosen, have not been part of my reading in bed experience. I feel, once again, humbled by that fact and hopeful that one day, I will be able to read a few - from cover to cover - under the covers. For more info, follow this link. http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/shortfacts.html

Boooookish

Bookish.
Is it a worm?
Is it a nerd?
Is it wrong?
Does it mean you are socially awkward?
The word aw   k   wa   rd.
Is just that.

Bookish.
Book him.
Throw the book at him. No, throw it at me!

The one that sits on top of the New York Times Book review.
The one they advertise in Harper's.
The ones that are recommended on Nicholas Hoare's web site.
The fiction. Non-Fiction.
The hard covers and the soft ones.
Throw the book at me and I will live vicariously through the pages & the character's.
But, if you throw that book at me...what will I do?

I am fully booked.
I am truly- fully booked. I have so many books to read.
I might not have time to read them all.
And, then again, there might be a day and a night where I have too much time.
I long to read on a beach and fall asleep a book resting on my face.
The wind wakes me up. The embarassing tourists having all left.
Only I will remain. The ocean staring at me from a distance.

I have had that experience once.
It was in Falmouth, twenty one years ago.
I was alone for the week. Pregnant. And, I had time.
I had brought with me Perfume de Patrick Suskind & The Journal de Guerre de Simone de Beauvoir.

Reading in bed sounds wonderful. But, reading on a deserted beach is almost nicer.

Goodnight, it is 11 h 51 and I must go to bed with the Muriel Spark I am reading, after taking a small break from Regeneration, book one, Pat Barker. Lovely.

Meandering - The Guersney brings an interesting concept to mind

The Westmount library in Montreal is a havre  - in French. A haven, I suppose in English. I have not had the luck to visit England - and Europe, for such a long time. But, I am certain, the atmosphere is quite reminiscent of this wonderful place that is both lovely in terms of architecture and so welcoming to the visitor.

The librarian recommended the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society when I brought back L'Élégance du Hérisson - my ultimate favorite book. The Guernsey is a sweet and clever epistolary story where the accumulation of letters are the building blocks that create the main character. Each signataire of the letter testifies as to who she is. We discover a woman of great courage and integrity who looses her life defending the values she truly believes in. I like that. I like to think of myself as someone who also makes choices - that might to others seems like sacrifices - but make me happy because I am true to who I am. And, mostly to what I believe in.

In the book - or was it written about the book - there is the idea of meandering. I love that word. It is not as cliché as some words can be - serendipidy, for example (a cute word that feels good to the mouth but that is almost too cute like a small town in Maine on Highway One). No; meandering is a wavy word. It is sinuous. It embarks the reader and follows a road - a path - but without a GPS. It leads you where luck and coincidence meet. Meandering. I love the concept. Radio - especially NPR - is a meandering medium. I wonder what M. Mc Luhan would think about that.

I should have cleverly thought about that when I was in college pursuing my graduate degree in Communication. Ah. Well. So. Be. It.

Talk about meandering will be a topic I probably will return too soon. Like a modus vivendi. Two good names for blogs by the way....

http://www.randomhouse.com/rhpg/guernsey//book/

Martine

Mon enfance repose dans ces livres que je possède encore dans leurs versions originales. Martine. La sage petite fille. À la mer, à la ferme, chez ses cousins et surtout à l'école. Contrairement, à plusieurs enfants, j'adorais l'école. J'y ai fait mes débuts avant l'âge de 4 ans - en pré-pré-maternelle, et j'adorais ce monde parce qu'on pouvait y apprendre tant de choses. Enfant unique, je plafonnais à la maison, côté apprentissage. Je n'ai été que très bonne en classe au niveau Bac et surtout maîtrise et pourtant, je me sentais tout à fait bien, sur les bancs d'école. Martine me ressemblait. Pourtant, elle avait la chance d'aller à la ferme. Ce qui ne m'arrivait jamais. Elle avait la chance d'être une petite maman - je me souviens de l'image de Martine avec le couffin. Oh! Quelle chance. Il y a quelques années, je lisais Martine à mes filles. Elles adoraient. Ne sachant pas déchiffrer les mots, je pouvais aussi amoindrir le racisme cru et naif témoigné envers la petite Cacao qui n'arrivait jamais à apprendre à lire. Mes Martine sont dans une boîte au sous-sol. Encore en bon état - prêt pour la génération 3 - si jamais, une de mes filles ou les deux, deviennent à leur tour, un jour, des petites mamans.

Reading in bed

The most wonderful moment of the day - or night - is when all has been done, lists have been completed and tasks are far behind. 


Snuggled in bed allowing your mind to drift to the open page of a book.  Perfection is reached when a cat lays profoundly on your stomach! 


An avid reader since a young age - an enfant unique for whom books were siblings - reading in bed was one of my favourite activities, and still is. 


Emily Haines of Metric (this is from her solo album with the Soft Skeletons) echoes this in a beautiful song.  


Who's in a bad mood?
Who's in a taxi?
Turning the clock back,
Avoiding a fight with this man
He is meeting, stands in the lobby
Counting his questions in the neon light

Sinking under the river
Sewer line touches the edge of the suburbs
Back to the beach where
A family is waiting
On rumors of summer
Lay out a blanket, bring something to feed the birds

With all the luck you've had, why are your songs so sad?
Sing from a book you're reading in bed and took to heart.
All your lives unled, reading in bed