The French cornflower

By coincidence, I was editing the last paragraphs of my previous blog entry

(http://camilledefleurville.blogspot.fr/2015/11/11-novembre-2015-today-is-still-11.html)

when I heard of the terrorists attacks in Paris on Friday night.

Here were the words I was writing in the last but one paragraph:

“Today is Remembrance Day. We do not have poppies in France, but cornflowers, blue as the sky, blue as the sea, blue, deep, deep blue. Blue as the life in summer. And Remembrance Day for me is the memory of the dead, the memory of the people who suffered and died, not only in WWI but also in WWII and the conflicts and wars that followed. We humans have made a mess of the Earth over more than a century.”

Indeed, what a mess we humans have made of the Earth during more than a century! What a mess we are making of it today still: Paris, Beirut, Iraq, Syria, the whole Middle-East, Central Asia, North Africa, Sub-Saharan Africa, South-America, Western World, Russia, Asia;  whole continents seethe and bleed with wars, known or unknown, open or undeclared, martyred towns and countries, tortured people, individuals or groups.

Do we need terrorist attacks to remember these facts? Bleak facts. Dreary facts. Hard facts. There is no feeling in what I am saying. No pity, no anger, no tears. Just facts.

The world is at war with itself and cries.

"The Cry" (Jean-Michel Folon)

If I was proven right with my last but one paragraph, I hope that I shall be proven right with the last:

“But there is always a tiny cornflower that raises its head to speak of peace and brotherhood: beyond policies and economy and finance and industry, there is culture.”

May we all, humans of good will, find the gestures, the looks, the smiles, the words, the caresses, the little kindness at our own small measure, to make the world a Common House, or better, a Common Home, where peace will be as comprehensive as possible. And I believe that love and culture can be formidable weapons.

Johann Sebastian Bach - Cello Suite n°1 in G, BWV 1007 - Pierre Fournier

(https://youtu.be/YlZr2ERw6Dg)

11 novembre 2015: today is still 11 novembre 1914

Anglo-Saxon poppies and French cornflowers

The blog I "wrote" yesterday, using the words of Wilfrid Owen, (http://camilledefleurville.blogspot.fr/2015/11/rememberance-day-11-november-1918)

was intended as a tribute to all those men who came to fight for us, on the European continent, and mostly in France. I wanted to thank them and their families, posthumously but also their descendants for whom life could never be the same afterwards.

To all of them, to all of you: thank you.

The Allies Victory

It was also a reminder of the situation that was created after the 11 November 1918. The Peace Treaties that were signed in 1919 contributed greatly to the outbreak of WWII. And in the wake of WWII, decolonisation begot more conflicts around the world. We still suffer the consequences and more fights, and now more migrants. This long line of soldiers of WWI is not far from the long lines of today’s refugees. And children still want to play in fields flowered with poppies - not only the poppies of Flanders but the poppies that mark with their blood red colour the soil of our Earth.

Children playing in the poppies of the world

But today is Remembrance Day in France. It is still a holiday. The trauma and the liberation were too great and are not completely erased. True: more and more supermarkets and big shops/stores stay open. People do not stop in the middle of their activities at eleven o'clock for one silent minute. I am almost sure young people do not know why they are on holidays and what WWI (an antiquity) was. Nevertheless, there is still a ceremony at the war memorial (le monument aux morts), with le maire, le conseil municipal and the notabilities of The Village, as in all villages, towns and cities and in Paris under the Arc de triomphe in the memory of the unknown soldier (le soldat inconnu) and for all soldiers.

The war memorial of The Village

But I have seen mentalities and sensibilities change during the past years. Fortunately.

My last great-aunt who died this summer at 98 was the last representative of the majority of the French sensibilities after WWI. She was born at Christmas 1917 and was "an accident". Her brother and sister were much older than she was. She did not know the war except by hearsay; by heavy black weeds around her, widows, mothers without sons, young girls without fiancés, a country without men, and social conditions which had changed a lot. She never married. She hated les Boches, during her whole life. She was 22 when WWII began and she suffered from this war - not by hearsay. Her father was dead, her brother was called, made prisoner, escaped, joined the Résistance, as she did, was left for dead as shot among truly dead comrades. The house was broken into and invaded by Germans looting: all jewels and precious things that had not been hidden were stolen. She had all reasons to hate these soldiers and their country. But her hate did not abate with time, and she never understood how I could have gone on my own in a church in Bonn to pray for reconciliation with a lighted candle and enjoyed visiting Beethoven's house!

French soldiers in the trenches

She knew one thing: we had recovered l'Alsace et la Lorraine in 1918 and they were still ours at the end of 1944/45. She had welcomed all les pauvres gens qui fuyaient (the people who had to flee during the Exode) and she never understood why they, coming from the Eastern part of France, did not declare that the Dordogne cooking (la cuisine du Périgord) was not the best in the world!

This was a common state of mind in France: a long-standing hatred of the Kaiser, les Prussiens, and Germany.

It needed all the strength and the willpower of Robert Schumann and other "Europeans" to create the very first European Institution for steel and coal in the first years of the 1950. But the reconciliation between France and Germany was a long labour still under construction with President Giscard d'Estaing and Chancelier Helmut Schmidt (1974-1982) and openly shown by President Mitterrand and Chancelier Helmut Kohl when they were together holding hands during a commemorative ceremony of our wars.

Helmut Schmidt (who died today) and Valéry Giscard d'Estaing

The Germano-French symbol of reconciliation
Helmut Kohl and François Mitterrand

My great-aunt foamed with rage!

My great-grand parents and my grand-parents were more divided and less representative of the French people. They had cousins and friends in Britain and in New-England, but also family in Germany, in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Russia and Poland, Mitel Europa. My great-grand father spoke German fluently and had studied at Heidelberg. Music was German or Italian. Great painters were to be found in Flanders and Italy and in Germany as well. The baroque and rococo styles flourished in Bavaria and Austria.

The logo of the Heidelberg university

Heidelberg

Their roots were not deep in France, but deep in Europe and they fought all idea of war. There was the same movement in Britain. It is well described in Kasuo Ishiguro "The Remains of the Day". I have difficulties and feel unease with this book because I understand the temptation for an aristocrat with family and friends on both sides of the barricade to try and mend things, to find a compromise. In this case the compromise can be fatal. And there could be no compromise before WWII. It was slightly different before WWI as they were still living on the values of honour and "officers and gentlemen".

Of course, in the end, they did their duty. They killed each other.

Les Gueules cassées - disfigured soldiers back from the war

 They came back wondering why.

They blamed the 1919 Treaties and foretold WWII and the subsequent conflicts.

Signature of the Versailles Treaty in the Galerie des glaces (1919)

They picked up as they could their family links and friendships. They were considered as traitors by their neighbours.

In 1939, there was no hesitation against Hitler. They found who might have flown Germany, and the German and Russian spheres, and all together joined the Résistance. Their neighbours found them neighbourly again.

After WWII, they became staunch Europeans. Not Europeans of this neo-liberal European Union.

I went to Berlin and was told before, to go and see Unter den Linden - I think the idea and the name were important as much as Rupert Brooke's poem "The Old Vicarage, Grantchester", which begins with Berlin:

Just now the lilac is in bloom,

All before my little room;
And in my flower-beds, I think,                                          

Rupert Brooke

Smile the carnation and the pink;

And down the borders, well I know,

The poppy and the pansy blow . . .

Oh! there the chestnuts, summer through,

Beside the river make for you

A tunnel of green gloom, and sleep

Deeply above; and green and deep

The stream mysterious glides beneath,

Green as a dream and deep as death.

— Oh, damn! I know it! and I know

How the May fields all golden show,

And when the day is young and sweet,

Gild gloriously the bare feet

That run to bathe . . .

                            'Du lieber Gott!'

Here am I, sweating, sick, and hot,

And there the shadowed waters fresh

Lean up to embrace the naked flesh.

Temperamentvoll German Jews

Drink beer around; — and THERE the dews

Are soft beneath a morn of gold.

Here tulips bloom as they are told;

Unkempt about those hedges blows

An English unofficial rose;

And there the unregulated sun

Slopes down to rest when day is done,

And wakes a vague unpunctual star,

A slippered Hesper; and there are

Meads towards Haslingfield and Coton

Where das Betreten's not verboten.

Unter den Linden

I was told to buy music and books, to visit museums, go to concerts, the opera, enjoy the culture ... and visit our cousins and their friends.

Today is Remembrance Day. We do not have poppies in France but cornflowers, blue as the sky, blue as the sea, blue, deep, deep blue. Blue as the life in summer. And Remembrance Day for me is the memory of the dead, the memory of the people who suffered and died, not only in WWI but also in WWII and the conflicts and wars that followed. We, humans, made a mess of the Earth, and of more than a century.

But there is always a tiny cornflower that raises its head to speak of peace and brotherhood: beyond policies and economy and finance and industry, there is culture.

Remembrance Day: 11 November 1918 - Remembrance Day: Today

November 1914-1915-1916-1917-1918

and during all the wars

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, 
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
(Thought to have been written between 8 October 1917 and March, 1918)

Civilians from 1914 until tomorrow and the day after tomorrow

There are poppies and rememberance everywhere in the world

And children who believe in peace

Farewell, Persephone...

Farewell, Persephone...

With November coming in, and pomegranates making a last show, you are leaving us to join your husband in the Infernos.

Farewell, Persephone...

With November coming in, you are going in a trail of blazing glory. The whole Earth is celebrating you with her best colours. Leaves have been invited and are dancing for you in their best gowns of yellow and gold, russet and copper, bronze and reds. The woods are all aflame, and the gardens are adorned with their most vivid flowers: dahlias, dishevelled or disciplined in round coronets, chrysanthemums vying with the waltzing leaves for bright and shining hues, and berries. Berries of all kinds, alluring orange and red, and the remaining black ones, calling for the birds to fly for them, twitter and peck the best.

Farewell, Persephone...

With November coming in, all little field and tree folk scurry around to gather nuts and acorns, the last grains, the bits of fruit left by us, your people.

Farewell, Persephone...

With November coming in, it is the time of our last harvest: grapes are almost all in and prepared for the wine that warms both hearts and bodies; apples are taken in and those that are still on the trees fall down on the soil with a thud; blackberries have been gathered and turned into jelly and jam, as have been the last gooseberries. A lonely tomato still hangs, solitary, on its branch in the garden. Pumpkins, marrows and squash brighten the browning earth. There is no Harvest Festival in thy country, Persephone, and none in mine, but we give thanks for the crops for which we have toiled while you were among us and that are now safe in barns and houses.

Farewell, Persephone...

With November coming in, the sky is still blue, and lazy white clouds parade around and stroll across it. There is dew in the mornings, sometimes hoar frost that crunches under feet, glistening spider webs and gossamer threads, liquid pearls that shimmer in the light. Later, the sun will drink them all and warm the day. Is it summer still? The evenings come in a glory of pink, mauve, purple and blue with a hint of orange and red. And the moon glimmers in a deep dark immensity.

Farewell, Persephone...

Soon, the sun will go down as a red balloon in cold skies. Soon, the earth will be frozen. Soon, the trees will be pruned and the hedges trimmed. Soon, the scent of smoke will rise up in the air and wisps will ascend in the chill to reach the bleak sky. Soon, the last apples will be rotting on the earth. Soon, the nightingale hill will be barren and the birds gone. Soon, the red robin will come to demand crumbs and food will be given to the black and blue tits. Soon, we shall crave for warmth in the home.

Farewell, Persephone...

There is nothing frightening about thee. No fairies and no witches follow thee. No horror, no pain, no fear. You are the goddess of bountiful life, and when you go back to your husband for some months, these allow the Earth to sleep. To sleep? No. The wheat grain does not sleep nor die really. It rests and gains strength for it will grow when thou wilt return to us.

Farewell, Persephone...

Spring will be here soon and thou wilt be back with it in a trail of blazing greens and whites and yellows and pinks.

Hail to thee, Persephone!

In which I have a "noir" nightmare

Balzac

Stendhal

Last night I had a nightmare.

Well, to be truthful, it was both a dream and a nightmare. Part of it was pleasant -very pleasant. Part of of it was uncomfortable and embarrassing. And when I awoke, I felt the whole thing unpleasant.

I dreamt I had come back to Paris and was back at my School. I was without the Little Family. Free, carefree again. A girl with a life of her own ahead of her, happy, full of projects and ambitions, learning to get her diplomas, "agrégation", then thesis and "doctorat". I covered a whole span of life in this dream. I saw myself getting older. I became a young woman, sure of herself, not only having ambitions but being ambitious, and ready to grasp every wisp of straw to get what she wanted.

My life was full of books, of course. And I was not looking for the straightforward diplomatic career that had been my aim before, or any career where I would be trying either to teach and help young people learn to learn or do some useful job in the administration - not very well paid but serving the State and the people. No: I was looking for fame and money and trying to get both by any means. I was imbued with Machiavelli's "The Prince", its tactics, strategies, ploys and contrivances.

Nicolo Machiavelli

I discovered very soon that I would have to gather material and read, read, and read, while working ahead about my future career. I had to be pleasant, to forge networks, to ingratiate myself near the high and mighty in my field, and to work at the same time. Being charming takes time. Anticipating the future is time-consuming. All this did not leave me much time to devote to my scholarly work. I needed primary sources read and checked and I had no time left for this. But I knew I was a past master in synthesis. Therefore I had to think.

That was quite easy: I created another network ... on the internet.

I started by coming into reading groups online. What was read was moderately interesting in itself but the readers were analysing with more or less success books that I just had to read along with them. One or two clever comments showing the way I wanted to be followed, compliments bordering on flattery, and I was well launched in multiple reading groups, well chosen for their obscure topic, and, of course, devoid of other scholars.

Then I decided to blog. I read other obscure books that I called "neglected" - unjustly neglected - in the footpath of scholars who had recently cleared the way and given me the idea of my thesis. And I wrote reviews with double meaning: one of them was very simple to be understood by all and sundry, the other went deeper and was dedicated to these said scholars who had written before me: I wanted to be recognised as their peer and at the same time did not wish to be cut from my working ants.

When this was well established, I created my own reading group online. Nonetheless, I did not do it alone. I had understood by now that I should move maked, behind a motherly figure that would reassure, scourge, banish, encourage, and do the administatrative job required. 

These three activities worked together perfectly. 

So I started courting publishing little, starting, obscure, unknown publishing houses, as well as some families of "unduly neglected" authors who had disappeared less than a century before. I had access to attics and uninteresting first drafts, papers of all kind from laundry bills to diaries. Soon I was sent books to review from the publishing houses - obscure or well-known alike -, only too gratified to be recognised, and was almost ready to write biographical elements about my "neglected" writers with the blessing of the families who could see their property rights increasing. I generously gave the name of my reading group buddies who were blogging as well by now, and they equally received their share of the booty from the publishing houses; some of them made friends with the most enterprising members of families also keen on recognition and dividends.

After three or fours years of efforts (time is blurred in dreams), I was ready to write a synthesis of all these elements and therefore ready to write my thesis. By that time, I had become the pet of some elderly ladies, a source of income for publishing houses, and a hope for the families of forgotten authors who had become the precious milestones of social history and interdisciplinary theories.

In my dream, I was crowned with laurels in La Sorbonne, "summum cum laudaed", congratulated, celebrated.

Grand amphithéâtre de la Sorbonne

I was on my way to success and to be the new Jean Paulhan at Gallimard NRF, the big and renowned Paris publishing house. There was a vacant job to which I applied. And my dream became nightmare: I was not accepted. I had forgotten there was a world between the internet and the blogosphere, and the publishing industry when it comes to old and successful houses.

What could I do? Licking my hurt pride, I came back to the internet and decided that it was one of the only means of communication for the future. And after a while, with my most clever and most devoted followers I created a magazine online. And planned a come back to the real industry.

Jean Paulhan

Rue Sébastien Bottin

I needed more material, more intellectual skills and results to display. This is why I multiplied my creativity and ingenious ideas. Reading groups were not enough.



I created readalongs, readathons, events, podcasts, and slaved and pandered and  flattered. I knew that one day I would occupy one of these grand offices of the rue Sébastien Bottin or another such or I would create something different but as well known. I would be in the limelight as I was in the limelight of the blogosphere where I was thanked by groupies who were discovering ... evident books they could have discovered by themselves with a little ingenuity and curiosity.

My dream had become so vehement, passionate and intense that I awoke with a jerk. I had a sour taste in my mouth, a feeling of being someone else. Had I escaped this swirl of "arrivisme" by accepting to tend to the needs of the Little Family and by living in the country without the temptations of great Schools and "élitisme"?

Julien Sorel et Madame de Rênal

Fabrice Del Dongo

Of course not. What I had dreamt was a "noir nightmare" but could never happen in real life. I had read too much Balzac and had come to sleep the night before while listening to a conference about the heroes of Stendhal: Julien Sorel, Lucien Leuwen, and Fabrice Del Dongo. All these restless young men were mourning the upstart generals of the Revolution and Bonaparte himself. They were searching for glory and laurels. Who would do that today for money and acknowlegement? And moreover through the internet and blogs? Who could be so Machiavellian and so naive at the same time? Not I and no one else surely. 

And yet... To end the dream with a proper ending, I sat down in bed and, opening my computer, I shouted with Rastignac at the end of "Father Goriot", defying Paris - and with even more ambition: "A nous deux, le monde!"

Eugène de Rastignac: "A nous deux, le monde!"