2006 Fleetwood Niagra

From poetry instead of the heart beat message

Hello!

You dared to dream but I'm back at last for a ticket worthy of the name. You Seaver in these pages I prefer authors who I am excited and make me feel very small ... and though I read like a turtle, I even brought one in as my luggage!
You surely know. But if. If I tell you The Hours, Nicole Kidman viewing decked out with a nose impossible (if indeed Virginia Woolf looked like this I pity her twice: for his unhappiness and his nose), but behind this film there is one book and its author, Michael Cunningham. That here.



There are writers whom I turn around time (I'm slow but determined) before I venture into their work. That was the case for it, with this nuance I read the Hours and I did not like. I feel that some people are outraged but Virginia Woolf was not my cup of tea and three portraits of women left me ice. Believe me, I regret it but at the same time I like Proust, but never caught on Henry James is like that, my brain is forging connections with one or that one, at will. Not that it's snobby, it just tastes good to him. The Hours therefore left me on my hunger and I decided that Michael and I were not yet ready for regular attendance. But now, I succumbed to his latest novel, The Book of Days . A funny thing indeed.





this point of my post, please introduce some drums, bagpipes and Irish voice singing "Paddy's Lament " in Gangs of New York . Because we are going back in time in one direction, then another, wandering Manhattan in the 1850s to a future which I hope will not resemble the vision of Michael Cunningham ... Three stories, three times, a specific place - Manhattan - and a metaphorical place: America, the pilgrims, outcasts, those that greeted the American dream in a mocking spin before dinner at Pierpont Morgan, Malcolm Forbes and George Bush. The hours were so infused Woolf, days The book exudes poetry of Walt Whitman. And I think it wins! Not only because Walt has a nose proportionate to the rest of his face ... (I'm bad ... I will do penance, stand, I shall reread walk to the lighthouse ... someday.). Mainly because it exchanges a writer who could not stand life against a poet who celebrated in all its forms ... and finally, because the book we Cunningham useful reminder that Walt Whitman was the poet of the poor before being rescued by private school students for whom the height of the rebellion was to stand on a table, tearing textbooks or read some poems in the night Timber!



Ah yes, thanks to the Book of Days - which bears the English name of a collection of prose Whitman, Specimen Days - I reread Leaves of Grass . Yes, I admit, the first time I had read, I was fifteen and I came out of Dead Poets Society ... I take this opportunity to move to drag a message to Vincent Delerm: he forgot to mention the impact of this film about high school girls swooning in his song about the girls of 1973. For there was Big Blue AND The Dead Poets , and my girlfriends were going to class again loop before writing poems in red ink to say how life was ugly and beautiful at the same time celebrate the beauty of the revolt, the absolute and suicide, all that. (Even those with a nose of a reasonable size.)
So I read Whitman but I missed out on.



Once I read it carefully and a bilingual version please, in order to recite the stanzas in English like this:

"My call Is the call of battle, I nourrish active rebellion, He going with me
must go well arm'd, He going with me
Often spare diet, poverty, angry enemies, desertions. "

The active rebellion, poverty, angry enemies ... as you say it is far from the kind of film students and their teacher misty eyes. But the good news is that Whitman is also great! Michael Cunningham has not chosen any poet. This bearded protester, cantor of a transcendent moral life, a spirituality freed of religion, a powerful vision of the world came together life and death, living and ghosts, animals, humans and plants in a symphony transgenerational. .. remains today one of the most accurate voice when it comes to talking about America. His most famous book, Leaves of Grass , completed and edited his entire life, carries thousands of voices: that of the famished pilgrims landing on the New York Harbor, the exhausted workers in factories in the first Industrial Revolution ... happy or tormented voice, voice young or old, innocent or condemned, all lancinent the reader in a single stroke to claim a better life: that famous "pursuit of happiness " that Americans inscribed at the heart of their Constitution, and which was constantly undermined by the wars of independence or secession, slavery, inequality of opportunity that did nothing but widen and widen, glorifying the American dream back the initiative and individual achievement.




For pariah, America has always said he was in their power to change fate, that their determination and courage were their social ladder and at the same time, they wandered over the surface of the earth or did not fare by combining three jobs, was their fault.

Celebration of winners, contempt for the losers who have failed to transform the tenacity of gold. Those to whom the world end without murmuring: "You do not want to hard enough. You did not get up early. It was the fate we deserve." And amid these fragments of broken dreams that tread the city worse off than the triumphant looks down, walking Walt Whitman, feeling the pulse in his footsteps a country integer:

" Through me many long dumb generations,
Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves, Voices
sick and desperate thieves and dwarfs,
And [...] rights of those that trample on the other foot,
Some poorly trained, insignificant, stupid, the despised, Fog
in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung. "



The Book of Days opens on this first picture, that of Whitman's time. Times are hard and machinery carnivorous who devour the workers' arms and sometimes entire men, without shame. Simon has just died as well. In the factory. He leaves on the floor helpless father, mother slipped into madness, an impoverished young brother, a beautiful fiancee, Catherine, now deprived of the status of a widow and pregnant by him. Suffice to say a future pariah. Lucas takes the place of his elder brother at the plant. It's a weird boy, ugly and sickly, who lives in the company of Leaves of Grass and recites verses when he opens his mouth

" Lucas had no soul at all. He was a foreigner, a citizen of nowhere hand, came from County Kerry but failed to New York where he grew up as a potato riddled with mildew; where he sang nor cried like other Irishmen was not living as a foreigner but not an empty soul filled here and there with painful outbursts of affection, to map the stars and the reflection of flames on the glasses Mr. Mulchady; for Catherine and her mother and a horse on wheels. "

Lucas wants to support his family alone to help Catherine he loves. Every day he works on the machine that killed Simon. He knows she is watching, she is hungry another body. The machines are predatory, it is in their nature. In the world of Lucas, the poor are everywhere and they are ghosts in the making, that poverty has been cut off from life:


"Gradually, he realized that the days at the plant were so long, made a gesture so often repeated that in the end they became a world inside the world, and that those who lived in this world, all men from the factory, would spend most of their lives, making short visits to the other world, where they ate, slept and were preparing to leave. The men at the plant had renounced their citizenship; they had migrated to the factory as Lucas's parents had emigrated to New York after leaving County Kerry. Their past lives were the dreams they did every night, they awoke every morning at the factory. "



a hospital for the needy at a fire scene in a sewing workshop is all America in rags who seizes the reader by the throat. At the heart of a crowd watching helplessly burn brightly poor workers, Lucas feels the presence of ghosts, which tightens the grip each time around Catherine and him

"The air tasted. Lucas turned it into his mouth and he recognized him.
the dead had penetrated the atmosphere. He understood as surely as he had felt the presence of Simon in the pillow. With each breath, he would enter the dead in him. He felt the bitter taste, so it was that they were - earthy and warm - on the tongue. "

A woman burning speaks to him without words, speaking on behalf of all those beings who have surrendered after a battle of the most unequal:

"She said (without saying the words ): This what we are now. We were exhausted and operated, we live in reduced, we ate sweets in secret, but today we are radiant and glorious. We are no longer insignificant. We're part of something larger and more wonderful than imagine the living. "

Thus it appears the death as the doorway to freedom forfeited. And even as ironic as it may seem, to life, as if the rogue could not hope to regain full control of their lives ... and in death.

Second time: we are in contemporary America, the one after September 11 2001, that the Patriot Act and paranoia omnipotent. Cat, a black woman of about forty years, working in standard font. She receives calls from all stamped oozing rage, those who want to set fire to the apartment of their neighbor, eradicate homosexuals or librarians. Most are content to issue threats, but now a teenager who blew himself called, hugging a businessman, not far from Ground Zero. The panic that keeps New Yorkers since Sept. 11 is reactive flows back into the blood vessels, accelerates blood

"The danger which had poisoned air a few years earlier resurfaced and people breathed in the smell. Today, they were reminded - we reminded us - a truth that the world had known for centuries: we could easily, at any time, commit a fatal error. We walked all safe on the streets because nobody had decided to kill us that day. It was impossible to know, as we deal, if we walk away from the blast or if we rush into it. "

And the tension up a notch when a second teenager called Cat. It trying to make him talk. He replied by strange sentences:

Nobody really dies. We perpetuate the grass. We perpetuate the trees. [...] Each atom is mine is yours as well.

Cat is grown, it recognizes the poetry of Whitman.



A second attack took place, this time beating a black man and poor. As the noose tightens around Cat, a third boy seems to have chosen as confidant and as a target, is emerging profile of these young suicide bombers: the lost boys raised by a crazy, brainwashed and fed to the poetry of Whitman. Kids injured and without heart, inaccessible and disempowering. Wild creatures out of control, who grew up without the knowledge of society, on the low side, and who now choose to embrace the victim they take with them into death. Again, this attempted possession of live by the "ghosts", these creatures that cross each day without looking at them as they exist, so to speak. Again this desperate search for life, that this escape is through death as a corridor through which the brotherhood would again become possible, this song brought the pariahs by the poet.

The third story takes us into the Manhattan of the future: a totalitarian world where the sinister and outcasts come either from another planet (as Catareen, a 'dian' green-skinned one reduced to menial tasks), experiments carried out either on the machine by idealists. The first time Lucas had suspected the machine that killed his brother Simon to be animated. In the future, Simon is a robot whose circuits are mixed with human tissue. His appearance is that of a man but did not affect. To replace feelings, its creator has injected a "circuit Poetry. "In the poetry of Walt Whitman, of course. Simon is supposed to have no heart, but he focused on Catherine the dian and both try to escape certain death. On their way they will meet a teenager named Luke and an inventor who has injected the poetry inside his robots and now runs a community bizarre about to leave the land.

Three times, three genres (ghost story, thriller, science fiction) Three stories linked by powerful echoes and by the poetry of Whitman.



In each, a character in whom the poem takes place heart or soul, and who sees the world as a symphony in which death and life are intimately linked, as are all beings that breathe and suffer with those who went to the other side. You did I want to dive into the book days? Reading or rereading Walt Whitman? I hope. I predict that you will be captivated and troubled, you believe in ghosts. Anyway poets ghosts that haunt the great writers of today.

And if we left a few verses of Walt Whitman, like, for the road?


" The words of true poems give you more as poems,
They give you enough to train yourself poems, religions, policy, war, peace, your driving history, testing, everyday life and everything else [... ]

They prepare for death, yet they are not the end but rather the beginning, they
n'amènent person, man or woman, at the end of his journey, or to consider themselves happy and satisfied, one
they bring, they took him into space to show the birth of stars, to teach him one of the meanings,
They took him for he soars with absolute faith, so that traverses the endless circles and would never be off. "



Good evening to you all and see you soon!

Milena Velba Bus Lesbian

Small wind

Dear visitors, You


the faithful of the faithful who ask you for weeks and weeks" good, but what it becomes in the end? She's gone, she put the key under the door? She packed her bags and walks around the world? It has taken a vow of silence? That's it, now she is an author, so it has a watermelon ego and no longer wants to talk to us? "I had to come tell you what it is. Vanity aside, I'm pretty quiet and I think that this is not tomorrow the day that I will make a scandal because it makes me walk a hundred yards (just think, a hundred meters!) As some stars who haunt the pen festivals ... As we go, as I have no plans to write a novel about a future infanticide, a member of al Qaeda pedophile or a politician practicing jogging election, I'll make a cushy career in the Stone Michon, away from paparazzi and yachts, and in ten years I still pegs quite reasonable size. Phew.
side around the world, but I'd like my daughter did her first back to school August 28 and as I must go and fetch all day in his class among his playmates begging to be released, it undermines some my projects.

Well, I'm not here to tell you about my life in large widths, or even try to make delicious as chronic Thom has set the bar too high ... but say that life in recent months, I shoved, shaken to my foundation and my little words rattle could not follow. That they are timorous, my words. Accustomed to speak in a calm and silent, since that they are tame, that they pray a little (they are happy to pray because they know that without their help I am not much!). Earthquakes leave them speechless, petrified the storms and they take weeks to regain the floor. This does not, you know, that shake and stir the words is a good way to wake up and make them more fertile in the second time. So today I'm hopeful about my future literary career ;-)



course I was sorry to leave you to read all your little messages of love and discover that very nice of newcomers had come knocking the door in my absence, until a long table that they used a small strong coffee and a few pages of a good novel! So thank you and pardon Gael and all others, your insistence pushed me out of my den. I do not promise to write frequently tickets, you know me and I would not get into the promises of politicians. On one hand I am overwhelmed and secondly, I always prefer to dig my subjects how long it takes before you post one, even if it hurts productivity. (Er. .. did I hear "lazy!" ??...) And I do not read as quickly and although Clarabel , Lily, Thom Yueyin (by the way ... HAPPY BLOGANNIVERSAIRE!) Flo , Livrovore and all those with whom I do not hesitate to go stretch my PAL for the ten years. To be frank, I might have to call the turtle if that name had not already been taken ... by a singer "who do not know what he wants" and my little sister!

To summarize, I am not party and I do not put the key under the door. I just finished a book exciting but before you talk like I want, I'm getting back into the work of a great American poet ... So, dare I ask you again a little patience? Ouch, I feel that I waste! My next post had better be fairly successful, otherwise you'll end up sulking me and I can definitely give you wrong. (There I take a face appitoyé by my fate and life, but fortunately you can not see it)

I hope your respective income went well. Mine was strange, interspersed with literary salons in Collioure and Besancon deserving alone writing a novel ... funny, and cool games. ( Patrick, Jean-Philippe , Murielle and Jennifer, I miss you already!)

I leave you, a bearded poet and libertarian to me and it does not look comfortable ...




Come on, hay drunken promises: I'll be back as soon as possible. And in the meantime, drink a little Irish coffee to my health.

Gaëlle

PS: That all those and all those I have not mentioned the names excuse me, the list of all livrophages I like to visit was so long that I had to hide behind " etc "but I have not forgotten you!

Costco Spinning Bicycle

The spirit of the hills

Hello,

In general, I prefer to speak to you of novels, but today I decided to make an exception. Because I just did a fabulous walk in Paris through time, following a guide both exciting and committed scholar Eric Hazan. His book, The Invention of Paris will delight not only fans of this city but also lovers of literature and history. It is 481 pages of buzzing life I reluctantly closed, and I could not not make you share my enthusiasm. So I know that most of you prefer to read novels, but I invite you to make a little way with Eric Hazan, if you agree. You have good shoes?



Like all cities built inside an enclosure, Paris was built in concentric circles from the wall of Philippe Auguste (in 1200) to the fortifications erected in 1843, that were destroyed after the war of 14-18. His final frontier - hardly the most aesthetic! - Is embodied by the beltway. Meanwhile the appearance of the town had changed many times, the wall of Charles V at the wall of the farmers general (1780), including at the As suburbs and adjoining villages, to face a composite of the city today.





Over time, neighborhoods are dead between the right and the left bank of the Seine, others are born, others have experienced declines and apotheosis, and c is this ride through the centuries we invite Eric Hazan, making himself the defender of old Paris: Paris threatened, almost disappeared, where every neighborhood had a strong identity born of its history and its people. Not

qu'Hazan is an opponent of modernity, not at all. But would not you want to walk the old Balzac areas, if possible? Or get lost in the Paris of Victor Hugo, Baudelaire and André Breton? The great writers, thinkers of our illustrious history tumultuous loafers were primarily romantic Paris. Breathe the wind in this city in perpetual metamorphosis, haunt your turn haunts de Nerval, the ones where the villains in Les Miserables robbing the good people and cut their throats, those where the narrator Research would pick her first feelings love, and finally those that Zola browsed a notebook in hand in search of material for his novels: the Paris Stock Exchange, one of fortifications, the "zone" where street vendors and taverns flourished, The Paris chic Faubourg Saint-Honore and rue du Faubourg-Saint-Germain, Paris Courtille the poor or the old Les Halles district, this "belly of Paris" overflowing with food piled near which trimmed the ragged in the old downtown. And take pleasure in rereading, the appointment of a page, a few lines of Mysteries of Paris of Nadja or Splendours and Miseries of Courtesans on the night of the city:

"These narrow streets, dark and muddy, which carried industries outside of their careless, take the night a mysterious face and full of contrasts. Coming from the bright spots in the Rue Saint-Honore, the Rue Neuve des Petits-Champs and the Rue de Richelieu, where the crowd is unrelenting, where glitter the masterpieces of Industry, Fashion and art, every man to whom Paris at night is unknown would be seized with a terror sad falling into the maze of small streets that encircle the light reflected to the sky ... In passing during the day, we can not imagine that all these streets are at night and are crossed by strange creatures that are no world of half-naked forms furnishing and white walls, the shadow is animated. He slipped between the wall and the toilet from walking and talking. Some doors ajar start laughing out loud ... the tunes come out of the blocks ... this whole things is staggering. "

For survey the historic Paris is relearning the dark night, that we no longer know because lighting increasingly violent have relegated more and more away from our cities, scaring the stars in the streets safe. In the Middle Ages, only three lanterns lit up the Paris night: a candle in the heart of the terrifying cemetery of the Innocents (which haunts François Villon), a lantern in the tower of Nesle and the Conciergerie. Can you imagine that? A black city, three small flames nothing to protect themselves from moving shadows, often malicious, was talking about Balzac? In the nineteenth century, the outskirts of Luxembourg still dirt roads surrounded by trees where the unwary are lost before you make bad meetings, and behind the walls of the Montparnasse cemetery, are murdered every night.


But first, what do you know Paris? Do you know that at the heart of the Marais, Francis gave the first fights of lions in the park of his hotel Saint-Pol? In the Trail, already vested in the textile trade in the eighteenth century, was the highest Court of Miracles of Paris, so dangerous that when it tried to build a street which crossed from side to side, in 1630, masons were killed before able to lead the project? That famous gibbet of Montfaucon, where Francois Villon was hanged after his mother was on the current location of the Buttes-Chaumont? That all the innovations of the nineteenth century, as the first terraces of cafes and gas lighting, were tested on the boulevards of Paris?





Eric Hazan hate façadisation, this modern invention which, he says, "is to keep (more or less) the facade of a building and empty like a chicken to install office floors. façadisé A building is the original building What a stuffed animal in its living form. " But it was especially after Baron Haussmann ... the minister of Louis Napoleon redrew the face of the capital not only for modernization, but to eradicate rebel heart, the Paris barricades he hated with all his heart. He hugged this part of the Boulevard du Temple was called the "Boulevard of Crime", and where the populace had to distract Looking at the fairground attractions and enjoy the mime Debureau from the bottom of the "paradise". This neighborhood was destroyed but there is no thank you in imagination through literature and film by Marcel Carne, Children of Paradise .

Haussmann was best shave with jubilation on the streets of anger, those of Saint-Merri, Area de la Bastille and Place de la Republic. He wiped the Earth Transnonain little street where we fought in 1832 during the riots that are the backdrop of Les Miserables. The narrow street where soldiers Transnonain party of the Order broke into buildings and killed whole families, on the orders of General Bugeaud, because a shot had been fired from a window and that these gentlemen, when it came to punishment, had few qualms ...



Urbanization always doing political will, the streets of Paris were extended to allow the regiments to scroll more conveniently ... This is called a "strategic beautification" and the first victims were the streets of the rebellion. As the Latin Quarter, never the last when it came to challenge those in power, he left a warning in memory of the most eloquent :

"Who, among those who now traverse the Place Saint-Michel, the figures of the fountain, surrounded by beer cans and Coca Cola, they still have something to say? Who would be able to historically decipher this allegory for tourists, to recognize that the archangel with a sword pointed at the back of Satan looked to represent the triumph of good over evil people from June 48? But in the era of insurgencies, the threshold of the rebellious district, this statue was a way devoid of ambiguity. Everyone knew that St. Michael the Second Empire symbolized crushing the demon of revolution and the Rue Saint-Jacques and the Latin Quarter could recognize their image in the infernal beast thrown to the ground. " (Dolf Oehler : 1848, The spleen against forgetting )




To those who would say that aesthetics is the price, I will respond with Eric Hazan, Haussmann buildings without denying their elegance, beauty is also nestled in this jumble of old buildings, houses in the coexistence of popular and venerable hotels individuals in these "passages of Paris' now forgotten where we strolled in good company and remade the world. Haussmann could not go after every project and I'm happy, because he had to break the street from the Louvre which would have destroyed in its wake both monuments of Paris I love the most ... Victor Hugo but I let you speak better than me:

"The vandalism was his idea to him. He wants to do everything through Paris a great, great street. A street in a league! What beautiful devastation along the way ! Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois will spend the admirable tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie will spend perhaps. But who cares! A street in a league! a straight line ... drawn from the Louvre to the barrier from the Throne! "

But, concludes Hazan, "Haussmann, who was Protestant, refused the project, fearing that the destruction of Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois was interpreted as a revenge of St. Bartholomew, whose signal was given, it is said, by the bells of this church. "

It always blows of symbols that we fight, we buried some parts of the past to ensure that the future of Earth ... Symbol symbol cons, cons flag flag. Thus, the revolution of 1848 was a clash of symbols: the tricolor flag, icon of the Revolution but also of the empire, the repression of barricades of 1830, against the red flag waved as the rebellious workers descended from the suburbs of St. Antoine and St. Marceau, Ménilmontant, Montmartre and Popincourt district, the Butte-aux-Cailles where the blood of the Commune is now cured but which remains a greenhouse still echo the heart the walker who can hear.




Eric Hazan passionately loves the hills of the city, these popular suburbs where so often blew the wind salutary revolt of a people who were confiscating all its revolutions. He devotes part of his book, called "red Paris", where Gavroche from 1830-1832 went to die among the students and workers in the Rue de la Chanvrerie to June 1848, where barricades were drowned in blood by those who had made themselves the champions of the Republic.



In June 48, were shot in Luxembourg prisoners who had surrendered and had to close the garden for two weeks to allow time for the rain to wash the pools of blood. The Second Republic did not survive long in these episodes where she claims was savagely massacred all this "junk popular" at whose side she had fought on the barricades of 1830. And Victor Hugo would save his or her breath or pen, Perhaps to atone for (as suggested by the author) his complicity with the forces of repression during the days of June, to defend those that Miserables crushed every convulsion of society:

"There is in Paris, in the suburbs of Paris that the wind of revolt raised once so easily, there are streets, houses, sewers, where families, whole families live pell-mell, men, women, girls, children, n 'whose beds, having no blankets, I almost said that clothes stinking piles of rags in fermentation, Ramm in the mud at the corners, species Manure cities, where human beings live every burrow to escape the cold of winter ... "


hills and suburbs of Paris were populated by immigrants from successive layers escape poverty and persecution, such that these Poles were among the leaders of the Commune, finding a heroic death and poignant. Later, their descendants swelled the ranks of the Army of Shadows while "uptown", the Grands Boulevards, Champs-Elysees - where they had preferred a pact with the Prussians against the Communards of Paris drew the contours of the Collaboration. Although Obviously there were also resistant in the neighborhood of the Star and all is not settled, but the geography of the commitment is no less interesting. And it is certain that these immigrants - some already saw as outbreaks to limit or eliminate - never hesitate to shed their blood for some sense of dignity, freedom and human brotherhood. Now that it is fashionable to recover the great figures of popular rebellion, I think look a little on that story does not hurt. Because history belongs to everyone and it would be a pity to abandon the ideologues ...



" Paris on foot " concludes the tour of Eric Hazan, although in reality it never ends and calls other convolutions in the footsteps of all those illustrious walkers. Beginning with Balzac, including Théophile Gautier wrote:

"As he loved and knew that in this modern Paris that time lovers of local color and picturesque appreciated so little beauty! He traveled in all directions, from night and day ... He knew all about his beloved city, it was for him a huge monster, a hybrid, great, a polyp with a hundred thousand arm he listened and watched live, and which formed in his eyes as an immense individuality. Everyone could meet him, especially in the morning, when he ran to cover printing and copying tests look .[...] Nobody had ever tried to take a big unknown this vulgar man who was carried away by his dream like a whirlwind. "

Or Victor Hugo, Baudelaire which, other compulsive wanderer, was surprised he could reconcile the demands of his hard work and his taste for walking, when he himself felt chained to his stroll like a drunk from his bottle. Baudelaire, threadbare and tormented figure who sought in his long marches through the city this unexpected also hoped for André Breton, pacing years later the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle. Baudelaire, who was preparing his poems while walking and defines perfectly the attraction of all those curious minds, psychics, artists, for the beating heart of the City:

"For the perfect flâneur, for the keen observer, c is an immense pleasure to elect domicile in the number, the swaying, the movement in the fugitive and the infinite. Being away from home, yet feel at home everywhere; see the world, be the center of the world and stay hidden from the world, these are some of the lesser pleasures of these independent-minded, passionate, impartial, that language can only clumsily define ... The lover of universal life enters into the crowd like an immense reservoir of electricity. We can also compare him to a mirror as vast as this crowd in a kaleidoscope gifted with consciousness, which at every movement, represents life and the multiple moving through all life events. "

It is time we part, closing the book, to leave all these figures become confused in the fog: Eugene de Rastignac, the Duchess of Guermantes Montparnasse and the rogue General Lamarque, Tocqueville, and Louise Michel Delescluze, Huysmans and Robert Desnos, whose shadow still haunts wandering surely, the hour of darkness, the former Saint-Merri he loved.

soon!

Show Me A Hemrroid Surgery

A candle, a bride, a few considerations in bulk ...

Hello!

As my blog has just celebrated its first year, I wanted to blow out the first candle in good company. And what better company than Nikki Gemmell ? I love this Australian author since I read after Crossing, Wild Wedding and sumptuous Love Song , beautiful, hot, melancholy love song that I advise all of you.



So I read, as one sips a drink tasty, bittersweet, flavored with honey and wormwood, her latest novel The bride stripped bare .




A novel she wrote while she was in the motherhood up to his neck, exhausted, neurons grilled by hormones and short nights, longing desperately for a little solitude benefactress in a world of babies crying or laughing. The same world from which Mary had written Darrieussecq The Baby a little book that I love as it is right, and I read ... when I was immersed in the same universe and that I too was wondering if one day I could sleep and if one day I would find a semblance of intellectual and social life. With other topics of conversation that "should we let him cry between 5am and 7am? or "is it normal that my baby will never be exhausted at the same time as me?"
Nikki Gemmell, therefore, had desperately wanted to write and retrieve "A little control over his life," a little freedom in this great turmoil and weakening. The mother she threatened to devour everything as her love was great, as she went in search of the woman she felt dissolve in it. His favorite book was then a strange collection Elizabethan WoEman "s Worth , published anonymously and perhaps written by a man" very close to his mother "or a young wife without the knowledge of her husband. Naturally, Nikki preferred the second proposal and it took the game to write this anonymously wife answered equally anonymous, from four centuries of distance turn to share his love and sexual dissatisfaction, his desires, dislikes, all this intimate lives of women that runs beneath the surface and that men do not.
She wanted to publish it anonymously, first to emancipate his writing of the visceral fear of hurting his little world. Then because she liked the idea of a husband one day falling on the book, browsing and asking anxiously: "Is my wife who wrote this?"
But we do not always get what you want: Journalists dug up the scoop and traquèrent writer, forcing her to perform publicly the authorship of his novel ... It does could compete on this stage, whatever may be the collateral damage, because its purpose was honesty in the relationship. With such a subject, he had to take what she had written to anonymously ...

She wanted to discuss honesty as a principle subversive bastion as compelling to conquer. Because women lie to their people. All the time, and in all latitudes. They lie about their desires, their pleasure, what they dislike. They do not just lie, but they lie about many things ... to protect their lovers, not to make them vulnerable to keep them, because they prefer their pleasure above their own, and a very old education has always been taught to them. They lie omission, with the best intentions, without even realizing it. And impenetrable world shuddered just beneath the surface of the "woman" they give to see. Virginia Woolf said that anonymity was a refuge for women writers. Secrecy is also a refuge, since time immemorial, which protects, at the risk of choking like fire under ashes, the privacy of women. What man really knows his girlfriend? You tell me, is equally true the other way: what do we know of men that we love, from which we sleep with whom we make love and children? Nikki Gemmell would like to read one day the male version of his novel, and he was sure it would be just as exciting!

Honesty is a risk, a danger whose ravages can practice long after, coming from the sea, like a wave. Journalists have forced the writer to confront this honesty she had concealed, and she can not yet assess the impact on his life. But she is finally happy that this dam, disposing of, has released a voice of women into his private life. His experience is about to conquer a new world. Follow it, do you want?

Here is "the bride", which is never named, who is all women and no. She is a woman who has her thirties, a "good wife", water that sleeps and all that shimmer like the quiet. Her husband is a good husband, she found him in a shelter against the tumult of the world. An expectant father for her children. A companion, an accomplice. Their life is gentle, yet she is not bitter, and yet:

"Your trust in you as the wife slowly shrinking. Do not you ever tell him. That sometimes you feel that all men who have crossed your life, lovers, colleagues, bosses, with their vociferous and their requirements, they would have worn. "

But now his secret wakes me through the disappointment: she suspects Cole, her husband having an affair. The weariness, the feeling of betrayal, will release in it the secret forces which might have sleep all his life. That his desires do not want to be nice, be polite, fade:

"You do not want this retreat within marriage, this small bubble of intimacy that proved so comfortable. "

All parts of it that remained buried now claim a place in his life at risk to undo the balance patiently built. And while this woman goes bravely in the conquest of itself and the legitimacy of his desire, seed the idea of responding to the anonymous Elizabethan wife who wrote the outrageous little book that never leaves her more:

"You must dedicate yourself to your own book, you must implement: it requires a backbone to your life.
And then it hits you, with the same beauty and obedience even a necklace tangled since you are trying long to resolve, a simple loop from its ranks of smooth pearl through another node and discards magic.
You will meet your mysterious author of the seventeenth century.
You will write a book in secret, just like her. "


But if the book is a covert subversion, if its purpose is to say aloud that this woman has ever dared to say about love and desire, the novel by Nikki Gemmell famous anyway ... because the secret personal quest of the hero to succeed, must remain secret. The pleasure is in hiding, even if we feel that once found it might be able to change the color of this marriage. Maybe. But not sure. For it is difficult change a bad habit that has strengthened over time. And maybe her husband does not want the new woman to him revealed. Maybe he preferred the old, the familiar, even to complain of its boundaries or to look elsewhere for what piqued her desire.
If honesty is a risk, to become the woman that is so is. Can be seeded in any way fragile china feelings of another. You can get lost in his own maze and no longer know how to find cohesion in these contradictory impulses and these ambivalences of desire. For desire is an elusive animal is always hungry, he is the genius of the lamp that it was not convene because he no longer wants to belong to this:

"You'd be perfectly happy never to have sex with your husband, except for a child of married friends have already told you that. Cole represents something larger than sex: it is embedded in your project to life.
But where does the desire? fugitive This feeling eventually he fainted? Or, now that he has fallen will remain there to watch you, all emaciated and dissatisfied, until you're old, waiting to trip your life? "

What does desire, ultimately? Can harmonize with the rest of existence or is it that disorder, chaos of life when he is an alchemist and manufactures a child?
Certainly you will find in the grief and emotions of the bride hearing about your own feelings, your questions. Certainly his style delicate, soft and sharp, who writes with the heart dances of desire will keep you captive (er) s. It is a novel that speaks to readers of these men and their wives, which is not the battle of the sexes, but meet more sincere with each other. Is it possible? The secret can be revealed and the bride "laid bare"? It is certainly a fair bet.



Finally, I thank all those who make me want to feed this blog and celebrate more birthdays ... I think back to the time when I was 2 much loved readers (yes, Doune and the Turtle, it's nice to you I speak!) and where I was desperate to cross one day a hiker lost in these pages. Thank you to you who do not forget me when I'm away and I read when I return. And now, part of the birthday cake?

soon!

Read the reviews on Cune The Bride bare , that of Eireann Yvon on Marriage and wild Love song and that of Thom on Love Song !