In My Father's Footsteps, by Sebastian Matthews

This post is not about life in France; it's about a book. Literature and life communicate, so my guess is that, although unplanned, some reference to France will find its way into the comments that follow.

I've just returned to my village after a too-short month's visit with my family, my head more prone to dancing with recent literary adventures than yet another how-to-survive-the-cold-winter-months-in-an-uninsulated-house-with-no-hot-water-in-the-bath" adventure... go figure.

I've just finished reading Sebastian Matthews' gem of a book, In My Father's Footsteps. Thanks for the loan, Basil, good call. I appreciate being introduced to Matthews - Harris - Matthews poetry.

Sebastian Matthews is the son of Marie Harris and William Matthews. Here's a link for each poet; your own Google search will take you to many others:

http://3bythefire.blogspot.com/
http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/132
http://www.marieharris.com/

In My Father's Footsteps is a memoire of sorts. I qualify it like this because part way through the book, it takes a turn into literature. This is a blog and I have lessons to prep, so let's forego the irritation of having to define "literature." I've had that argument one too many times with too many elitist French folks (told you so!).

Midway or so through the narrative, Matthews' focus turns away from the father's life towards the son's, a change of direction that, for several pages, felt like an aside that would shortly end, with the narrative turning its attention back to the father. I could have been looking over Sebastian's shoulder at a party waiting for his father to show up, while trying to stay tuned in (and look tuned in) to what S. was telling me about himself. The change of (apparent) narrative focus caught me saying, "wait a minute, I'm interested in your Dad; enough about you, what about your Dad? When's he supposed to show up?"

I don't know if the provocation was intentional, but I found it an exquistie marriage of form and content, of literature and life.

The focus turns to Matthews' quest to better understand his father, his relationship with him, and Matthews' relationship with himself. Matthews' narrative evolves adeptly -- and in sometimes uncomfortable forthrightness -- towards equilibrium: the father fades more into the background as the son puts himself in the psychological limelight. The transition/change up, while remaining very personal, takes the narrative to a more universal level that spins around self-identity and choice, and ultimately acceptance.

I particularly appreciated the risotto passage at the end of the book, on pages 268-270. It reminded me of the one and only time in my life that I made risotto for my own father. During the course of that meal preparation, complete with music and a glass of wine (in my hand not his: he doesn't drink), we found a  moment of common ground. Nice feeling...and the risotto was a success, too.

The International PEN Report on Translation, Globalization and the English Language

PEN American Center is the U.S. branch of the world’s oldest international literary and human rights organization. There's a quote from Arthur Miller on the PEN web site calling the organization "the voice of cultures truthfully addressing one another rather than governments or armies in confrontation. The object is not to win something, but to illuminate something." The belief that a healthy society is based on free expression is the backbone of PEN's programs. They reach out to the world and into diverse communities within the United States to promote writing and literature at all levels.

Why am I talking about this in a blog on life in France? The reasons are several. I live in a small community where English is not spoken by most people. However it's a community whose elderly citizens and some of its younger ones are bilingual; they speak both French and Occitan and are richer for it. As for English, it's a mandatory subject in the one-room school for kids from 9 to 11 years old; I'm the (volunteer) English teacher. The villagers in general understand some English and would like to learn much more, as a second language. They don't want to replace their native language, they want to broaden their connections to the world. Why? Even in this remote area, where many people pass through during the summer and winter months, English is the language of common ground, the fall-back language: if visitors don't speak French well enough to make themselves understood, they rely on English to communicate. English has become the language Esperanto aimed to be.

I've had mixed reactions to this reality, mostly because of the infiltration of American culture into other cultures. I've been in Foucault's camp for years, ever since I read his ideas about the flattening of American culture and the implication that, as American products (including particularly music, films, literature, and pop culture) are consumed globally, cultural differences are flattened. I like color and difference. But cultures have always invaded each other, adopted and adapted. What makes now different? Accessibility, power, money...

I also believe that we should speak the language of the culture in which we live (not to the exclusion of our native language), out of respect and for the many doors it opens both literally and figuratively.  This leads to better cultural understanding and societal participation as we more effectively interact with our fellow citizens: a multicultural environment with multilingual citizens. Not speaking the language is disempowering, creating disequilibrium on many levels -- not the least of which is psychological.

The positive aspects of this melding are effectively exposed in the PEN Report on the international situation of literary translation. It presents some very convincing arguments about how the growing presence of the English language around the world can foster a sharing of ideas between cultures, enriching rather than flattening them, through literature in translation.

The international PEN report refers to literature as the "common currency among nations" and the "unhampered transmission of thought." You can find a pdf of the report on the University of Columbia's Center for Literary Translation web site: http://www.centerforliterarytranslation.org/  Scroll down to the bottom on the left hand side of the page and you'll find the correct link.

The sixty-seven page document discusses the global presence of the English language and the complex, perplexing reality of why so little literature is translated from other languages into English when the predominant language of our planet is English. The number of those who speak English as a native language coupled with the number of those who speak it as a second language topples the billion mark. And that's growing. An obvious reality is that literature published in English has the potential of reaching a very large, international audience and therefore translations into English of literature originally written in other languages have the potential of weaving together ideas from multiple cultures by making them accessible to readers worldwide.

The Report's Introduction, written by Columbia's Esther Allen and Carles Torner from the Institut Ramon Llull (Barcelona, Spain), quotes from Shakespeare's Richard II, Act 1, Scene 3, where Thomas Mowbray reacts to his being banished from his native land and hence his native language, his only language:

    A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,

    And all unlook'd for from your highness' mouth:

    A dearer merit, not so deep a maim

    As to be cast forth in the common air,

    Have I deserved at your highness' hands.

    The language I have learn'd these forty years,

    My native English, now I must forego:

    And now my tongue's use is to me no more

    Than an unstringed viol or a harp,

    Or like a cunning instrument cased up,

    Or, being open, put into his hands

    That knows no touch to tune the harmony:

    Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue,

    Doubly portcullis'd with my teeth and lips;

    And dull unfeeling barren ignorance

    Is made my gaoler to attend on me.

    I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,

    Too far in years to be a pupil now:

    What is thy sentence then but speechless death,

    Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?

Allen and Torner state that with the passing of four centuries, Mowbury's lament has been nearly reversed: today odds are that an English speaker will be understood in more places on our planet than any speaker of any other language. It has become important to master English to avoid exclusion. Research shows that lesser-spoken languages and dialects are disappearing. We cannot blame that entirely on the growing presence of the English language; as the Report accurately points out, many other widely spoken languages, such as Spanish and Chinese, have replaced lesser spoken languages. But does this trend necessarily bring with it an eventual disappearance of cultural differences as well? 

I would say that that is indeed the risk we're facing, unless the trend in publishing changes, unless publishers increase the number of English translations of works originating in other languages. If their motivation for publishing spins around the financial -- obviously a primary concern that cannot be discarded--, then why not publish more English translations of foreign works to sell to an ever-increasing global market of English speakers, thereby diffusing ideas from different cultures while making money as well? Illuminating while winning, winning by illuminating. Read the report and let me know what you think. I'm off to edit a translation. 

Philippe Claudel: author and film director

If you've never read anything by Philippe Claudel, you're missing something. You may know his Ames grises, published in English under two different titles for each of its two translations: Grey Souls and By a Slow River. And then there's Brodeck, a Novel (French title: Le rapport de Brodeck).

My favorite Claudel novel to date is La petite fille de Monsieur Linh, unfortunately currently unavailable in English. You'll need an intermediate to advanced level in French to understand and appreciate the story. Stick with it if you're intermediate only; it's a beautiful story of great humanity, well worth the effort... a love story like no other I've ever read and a poetic indictment of the ravages of war. To read more: http://incurablelogophilia.wordpress.com/2008/01/10/philippe-claudel-la-petite-fille-de-monsieur-linh/

Claudel is on my mind because I just saw his first film: Il y a longtemps que je t'aime ("I've Loved You so Long"), with Kristen Scott Thomas in a stunning, understated performance that caught me from the very first scene. It tells the story of two sisters getting to know each other after a fifteen-year separation. Juliette (Kristen Scott Thomas), the older of the two, has spent those years in prison...for murder. Her younger sister, Léa, welcomes her into the home she shares with her husband, two adopted daughters and father-in-law. As always with Claudel, the story is anchored in the unsaid, the unspoken and the unexplained. The visual aspects of communication, so present in Claudel's writing, are center stage in this film. Don't watch it when you're tired; you need to pay attention to the nuances. Chapeau, Monsieur Claudel, et merci.

No Crash for Chocolate

OHHHHH if only I had time to write what I wanted to write, when I wanted to write! When I started this blog, I thought it would be easy to keep up. Not true. I find myself so dispersed trying to make ends meet that my energy is shot to pieces. Why is it that, when we live in a foreign country and speak a foreign language far more than our native language, we find ourselves using idioms in our native language that we would never use living in the US? Some linguist out there surely has a theory or two or three.

Today I'm updating websites, taking a break from my usual tasks; that break includes writing a new blog entry. At last.

One of the most reputable newspapers in France is Le Canard enchaîné, a tongue-in-cheek, hard-nose, well researched look at the week's news. In this past week's issue, I found a great little article entitled "Pas de krach pour le chocolat!"  Here's my rendition, ultra short version:

Companies may be not selling cars or refrigerators, but sales for little moments of happiness are on the rise. It seems that even in difficult times, you can sell happiness.

Chocolate moguls are rubbing their hands together gleefully. Since the Crash-Crise, the giants of the candy world have never sold so much chocolate candy. Why? Because chocolate is an inexpensive mood booster. Some ad campaigns have used this spin to boost sales, claiming: Times are tough, give yourself have a little pleasure. The tactic is called "indulgence marketing." Apparently people swallow such TV ploys more easily when the they have less money to spend on going out to dinner or the movies. Apparently they're glued to the TV set instead, eating chocolate.

Chocolate makers in particular among candy makers are making a double killing on the market: chocolate costs less to make since 2000, thanks to the European commission. Manufacturers are allowed to replace some of the cocoa butter with vegetable fats such as shea butter, which is 7 times cheaper. They can also use palm oil, which is 10 times cheaper.

And the taste, folks? What about the taste? If the "chocolate" coats your tongue and throat so thickly with these non-chocolate substitutes, where's the pleasure?

American Kraft has been trying to take over British rival Cadbury for the sum of 12 billion euros (back in September, Cadbury hadn't yet ceded), to become king of a chocolate market that weighs in yearly at 88 billion euros and is rapidly growing. Conclusion? The future will be an obese one.

http://www.lecanardenchaine.fr/

http://www.jeparlefrancais.net/ 

http://www.yourfrenchlife.net/ 

A Cultural Difference Survey

Some months ago, I sent a rather enigmatic email to a number of my American friends. My partner sent a French version of the mail to his French friends. The query read as follows: "Would you please take a moment to make a list of 15 animals, without asking for any explanations at this point and without thinking about your responses. Just make a quick list of the first 15 animals that pop into your mind." We added that an explanation would be sent as soon as all responses had been evaluated.

Whereas Americans responses were immediate, I'm still waiting for responses from the French end of the survey. My guess is that they'll never show up, so I've decided to finally divulge what our little cultural difference survery was all about.

We wanted to see if there would be a difference between what Americans put on a list of the first 15 animals that came to mind and what French people would put on such a list.

Our curiosity was prompted by an agument -- a heated one -- that took place around a dinner table last summer. I was the only foreigner; all the others were French. We had just visited an excellent local aquarium with my partner's small children, so the conversation naturally led to fish and animals. I mentioned that when we talked about animals, we weren't necesarily talking about fish as well, that we could be talking exclusively about mammals. That's not quite how I worded things, but you get the gist.

Apparently it was a huge gaff. I was immediately attacked, no questions asked as to the why of my statement. It was a hot moment -- hot, hot, CHAUD, and not because of the summer temperatures. I had a moment's reflection, then decided not to take the French reaction seriously. After all, they were probably just teasing. On what grounds could they be expressing any real criticism? Sometimes when we say "animals," we mean "mammals." Who doesn't know that? They had consumed too many pastis, too much rosé, or the heat was getting to them. I didn't see anything to get all steamed up over, nor did I feel like explaining myself. If they wanted to be that bornés (obtuse), it was OK by me. The stars were shining, the food was good, the wine chilled. I let it drop.

Erreur! The gauntlet was again thrown down the next day. Someone who had been at dinner told me that I must be absolutely stupid to think that "animal" did not always refer to "fish" as well. The French are big fans of superlatives. Curiously they are also big users of the word peut-être (perhaps).

I couldn't believe the accusation. I replied that in the United States, we sometimes used the term "animal" to refer solely to mammals. I called one of my daughters to ask her what she thought. In short, she had the same reaction as I: "animal" refers to mammals in some settings, to the animal kingdom in others. My Frenchies were not ruffled. They concluded, and not without some very real concern, that we must be victims of a serious family deficit. And they weren't joking. They chalked it up to our Mormon background. Or to the American educational system in general, assuming that American science and textbooks must be "different" due to our puritanical origins.

What???????!

How could these people draw such conclusions? They were intelligent, thinking, educated. I was aghast and spitting mad. Firstly, they knew me and knew that I wasn't an idiot, so why weren't they open to a more reasonable explanation to this "animal" question? Secondly, why would they think that a large portion of the western world would have a completely different scientific and educational take on what "animals" were?

It was obvious to me that there was a linguistic-cultural difference at the heart of the issue. And it turns out that I was right.

I got out two dictionaries: one exclusively French, published in France, one exclusively English, published in the United States. Ah, hah! The stupid American (aka me) read to the closed-minded French that the term "animal" is used in American English to refer to the kingdom of living organisms including fish but not plants AND that it is also used to refer broadly to mammals alone. The French dictionary doesn't show any such difference.

Be that as it may...

My French tablemates insisted that any French person -- that is, all French people everywhere, including little kids -- would automatically include fish on a list of 15 animals. Not one of their colleagues followed through on the survey, though, whereas, as I've already said but want to point out again, the Americans to whom the survey was sent all responded immediately. Most of them did not include fish on their lists. Out of 20 people to whom I sent the survey (one German-French-American, all the rest American), only 3 put "fish" or the name of a fish on their list. 

I think the same would be true of French lists, despite the French dictionary's definition of "animal." The reason has absolutely nothing to do with scientific definitions, either. At least not in my opinion.

The reason is very simple. It spins around usage. We tend to separate fish-animals and mammal-animals into two separate sets in our everyday conversation. Therefore, what we're thinking of USUALLY when we say "animal" is mammal: cat, dog, bear, otter, giraffe, elephant, cow, zebra, etc. If we want to talk about fish-animals, we say "fish."

This story points to other cultural differences between Americans and French. For instance, in my experiences, the French assume at the get-go that the other person is wrong, especially if the other person is a foreigner, especially if the foreigner is an American, especially if the American is a woman. And this is the house that Jack built.

There's often no entertainment of another perspective. There's seldom any opening to the possibility that the French person may be wrong. This seems to be a European posture in general: your best defense is offense, so attack and don't yield. Like football. Great, I don't get that game either. Football may be an American sport, but try this tactic here and see how far it gets you. A French person is respected for it; a foreigner is criticized, so choose your battles well.

What happens if you persist and don't accept the French person's posture as the one and only one allowed on the field? What happens if you go even further and actually succeed in showing that you are not only correct but that the French person is wrong? You'll probably not get an apology for any insults slung your way during the conversation. In fact, you'll probably not get any acknowledegment of any sort. Instead the topic, now apparently insignificant and unworthy of continued discussion, is changed.

Here's another possible scenario: you recede or concede at the first sign of a confrontation. Americans often do this because arguing with a French person can be a decidedly uphill battle, the source of frustration and even angst. Try one of these tactics and you are often considered as weak, unintelligent, insignificant yourself and therefore not worth talking to. Lose-lose. 

I've seen this happen between French people, too. It's a power game that I find particularly annoying for two reasons: one, I don't see what "power" is at stake and two, I don't like confrontations. Sometimes, though, more often with French women than with French men, you need to play the game and hold your ground, maybe even tread on theirs. Dumb.

Yes, Americans too know that fish are part of the animal kingdom. Our educational system does not teach us otherwise. However our language allows for another spin on the word. Language and culture are inextricably intwined.

Is there a moral here? 

"Walk softly and carry a ...... big dictionary?"

France Reacts to Our President-elect, Barack Obama

To read about France's reaction to our election of Barack Obama, please go to my YourFrenchLife web site. Here's the URL: http://www.yourfrenchlife.synthasite.com/

A new story about village life will be up soon! Promise!

This Old French House

The whole village is gearing up for winter, gleaning vegetables, gathering fruits, winterizing doors and windows, and mostly bragging about not turning the heat on yet. It's a game played all over France: who can go the longest without touching that thermostat? Personally I'd rather be warm. That said, I haven't turned my heat on yet and am typing this wrapped up in two layers of wool sweaters, a down vest, thick wool socks and shearling-lined slippers purchased at a local grocery store for the low price of 9 euros (what you don't spend is also a game here). It's not that it's particularly cold here yet, not outside anyway. Inside these thick walls is a whole other climate...

I don't think that the annual heat/no heat contest is solely connected to the high price of oil, gas, and electricity, at least not in the Cevennes. I think it's deeply embedded in the culture, where suffering is equated, consciously or not, to how good a person you are -- or are not. No suffer, no good, or not good enough. That interpretation may have its roots in a strict Protestantism dating back to the 1500s.

Wikipedia link about Protestantism in the Cevennes: http://enwikipedia.org/wiki/Camisard

I've recently moved to a quirky old house built in the early 1800s, with cold air easily making its way in through a Brazilian weak spots (homage to George oblige). The windows are all single-paned glass and there are three fireplaces, all of whose chimneys were wide open to the skies and none of which was functional. But the house is roomy, bursting with charm and the rent is low because the owners don't want to be bothered with fixing things up to charge more. That's just fine by me. Mr. Bricolage, the handyman's dream store, is just 45 minutes away -- and is now one of my favorite places in France.

The house is located smack in the middle of the village, whereas my former home (which I despised) was just on the outskirts. The distance between the two places is no more than a few hundred meters at most. However, I've experienced a distinct change in how the villagers interact with me now versus then. I am now a neighbor; I was then an outsider. I don't get it, but that's how it is.

To come into my new old house, you first open a hefty double wooden door at street level, then walk up a flight of stairs, open another thick wooden door and walk onto the floor where the kitchen and sitting room are located. Cross this space and open another sturdy wooden door to another flight of stairs that lead up to a landing, two bedrooms, and two fireplaces. Open two more heavy doors, with locks and huge keys (that work), go up three steps and you're in the bathroom. This house is not for the incontinent. I think that the bath used to be an outhouse, attached to the main house at some point in the not so distant past. It's been modernized into a more or less (less) conventional bathroom, depending on what your idea of conventional is, but there's no disguising those heavy, keyed doors that once led to somewhere outside the house.

There are two more doors near the bath, one leading back down a tiny staircase that eventually takes you back to my front door, the other leading up a narrow and somewhat frightening stairwell to the terrace on the roof. From there you can see the beautiful mountains surrounding the village, but no one can see you. In this tiny village, where everyone knows and sees everything you do, a private terrace is truly a piece of heaven.

Back to the cave, which, despite its name, is on street level: I always imagine them as below street level, underneath the house. In fact, this street level cave is indeed below the house, just not underground, so I suppose all is well in my world of images. At any rate, take two steps down from the street entrance into the cave and you're in a space that smells exactly like your grandmother's or great-grandmother's coal basement. Everyone who's come by to visit has made that comment. Everyone -- this house is instant nostalgia. Hidden back in a corner (of the cave) is a deep cupboard with some very old, very large bottles containing who knows what inside. I think it's some kind of Cevenol moonshine, stashed away to age at least a century ago -- something to check out one of these chilly winter nights if ever the courage comes to us. Perhaps some things are better left untapped?

The oil tank and controls for the old but central heating system are located in the cave, next to the mysterious bottles. The system seems to work, although it gives off quite a bit of heat even when set for hot water only. There's apparently no repairing that flaw, so we decided to focus on preventing the heat from escaping into the street through the huge gaps in the wood-planking of the door, as well as all around the door. Our hope was to force the heat upwards into the house. 

And so, as of last Sunday, the door is no longer functional. The gaps are all blocked up thanks to high-pressure foam in a can from Mr. Bricolage. The stuff is not easy to manage, but it's cheap and efficient. More importantly, it's fun, like trying to smoosh melted marshmallows into cracks and crevasses. Admittedly, that may not be everyone's idea of fun, but when you live in a teeny, tiny village with a bike as your primary mode of transit, you modify your standards -- actually, they just gradually change all by themselves.