#ask-le-petit-poete

[otterknowbynow]

You have opinions/recommendations on French poetry

Kinda? I am not at ALL well-versed in French poetry (haven't read Baudelaire, don't even know what modern poets are out n about). I can give one (1) recommendation and it's probably cliché to the francophone public, but I'll always have a soft spot for Jacques Prévert's « Pour faire le portrait d'un oiseau »

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (XIII)

Chapter 13: ‘So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.’

Hi! Here is new chapter! Andrew’s reaction to the kiss…

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 2465

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Be drunk

You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it—it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."

Charles Baudelaire, translation by Louis Simpson from Modern Poets of France: A Bilingual Anthology, originally published in Les petits poèmes en prose as “Enivrez-vous”, 1864

Andrew fell asleep out of exhaustion at one point, after tossing and turning for too long. But then, he woke up at dawn, around the time the sun was slowly turning the sky from inky to golden, and he couldn’t go back to sleep.

You had kissed him.

He let out a long exhale as he thought of the scene, pictured himself back on your sofa, with too much alcohol in his veins. Instead of your white ceiling, he could see your features all over again; from your messy hair to the burning fire in your gaze and your inviting lips. And then you were kissing him, he remembered closing his eyes without thinking. He remembered how his brain short-circuited then, how he forgot about everything in the world except for your lips on his and the warmth of your body against his own. And then your skin under his fingers, the softness of your hair, the brush of your breathing. He could have kissed you for hours, and perhaps he did, he couldn’t remember how long it lasted. Too long to be meaningless, that was for sure. Too long for him to pretend even to himself that it was unwanted.

And then he went to the bathroom in an attempt to gather his wits, but when he finally felt calmer again, once he had slowed down his heartrate, and he was walking back into the room, you were nowhere to be found. The door to your bedroom was closed, he guessed you had found refuge there.

His feet took him in front of the forbidden room, he stared at the imperfections carved in the wood of the door, the drops in the white paint. He raised his hand, fist closed, held it there for a moment, up in the air. But when he moved it closer to the door, his palm opened, seemingly on its own accord, and he didn’t knock. He merely rested his hand against the wood, thought about how soft your skin was, and remained standing there for a moment.

Should he try to come in? And for what? Talk about it? Huh… talk about what? There was nothing to talk about. You were drunk. You were drunk, and had acted without thinking and it didn’t mean a thing. You wanted Frank, and he wanted Samantha. You were colleagues, it would make everything complicated, too much so to be worth it. And anyway… anyway, there wasn’t even a reason to think about work. You didn’t want him. And he didn’t want you. You wanted to get your exes back, and you would, you had made an alliance for that. There was nothing to discuss about the kiss, about how much he liked it, about how he imagined knocking on your door now, and you opening it, and him kissing you again...

This was madness… he ought to control himself, to focus on his real goal, to fall back to reason. It was a mistake. You had made a mistake, and he ought to forget all about it.

He went to bed in silence, walking away from your door without knocking, unknowing of your struggle on the other side, of how much you hesitated to go knock on his door to kiss him again.

Instead, he went to the other bedroom, closed the door, and he fell asleep at long last, exhaustion and alcohol finally catching up with him.

And now, there he was, lying in a bed in your home. He couldn’t hear any sound coming from the rest of your flat, and he wasn’t surprised. It was too early, and it was the weekend, and you had gotten drunk last night. You would probably wake up only in a few hours, and he decided that it would be best if he weren’t in your home when you got up. So, he sat up, a migraine piercing his skull after the excess of drinking from the previous night. He groaned as he got up, dizzy, head spinning as he rearranged the messy sheets, but he then moved to the door anyway.

He walked as quietly as he could in your home, allowed himself to drink a glass of water before gathering his things and leaving. He left a note on your kitchen table for you to find in the morning.

Thanks for letting me stay the night. I had a great time with you, thanks for the wonderful whiskey!

I’ll see you on Monday at the office.

Andy.

PS: there’s no need to mention again what happened last night. We were both drunk, we weren’t thinking straight. I’m not angry, nor upset. Let’s just forget about it, and never drink so much whiskey ever again.

Once he had gathered his things, was ready to depart, he threw one last glance towards the closed door of your bedroom. He ignored the tugging at his heart that came with him looking away, and leaving you behind.

You had kissed him.

No matter how hard Andrew tried not to think about it, he couldn’t forget it. Couldn’t move passed it. Couldn’t erase the feeling of your lips on his, your fingers in his hair, the weight of your body leaning against his, the warmth of your breath fanning over his chin, the taste of your tongue as it slid over his…

He heaved a sigh, closed his eyes. Lying on his sofa, with his feet hanging over the edge, the furniture too small for his long frame, Andrew kept on replaying the scene in his head. He had spent the rest of his day trying not to think about you. He had taken a long walk with Elwood despite the rain, called his parents, called his brother, played some guitar, prepared a few things for his upcoming classes next week. He had kept himself busy, but it wasn’t working. You were always there, at the back of his mind. Now that the afternoon was slowly fading into evening, that the sun was almost gone and leaving behind its rays the light specks of starlight, Andrew was running out of excuses to avoid thinking about you. Now that he lied on his sofa, staring at his ceiling, all he could think of was that kiss. Or well, those kisses, rather. He would have been lying, had he pretended that what had happened had only lasted for one kiss. You had spent several minutes like this. Yeah, a long time. Christ...

He needed to forget this moment because it meant nothing. You were drunk. He was drunk. You were both drunk, not thinking straight, and after an awful night and torturing weeks of loneliness you both needed to feel less alone for a second. And that was it. Two friends who were attempting to cope with heartbreak, two friends who felt lonely, two friends who did something silly out of intoxication.

Nothing more.

And anyway, Andrew didn’t want you, he wanted Sam. He wanted Sam. Beautiful, funny, smart, impetuous Sam. The Sam who had been with him for eight years, who had been there through the most important changes of his life, Sam who made him wait but it was alright he could wait for her. Sam who didn’t share his interests, but that was okay, they had other things in common and he liked listening to her talk about what she loved.

He didn’t want you. Even if you were so fucking smart, it made his brain tingle in the best way to talk with you about literally anything. Even if you shared most of his interests and were curious about the things he loved that you knew nothing about. Even if you were hilarious, one of the few people able to make him genuinely laugh these days. Even if you were so damn strong, even now, even with your heart broken and your life in pieces. Even if you were beautiful, sometimes he couldn’t get passed that fact. Even if you were kind, the type of kindness that made him believe in humankind…

No, no, no, no! He wanted Sam. He wanted Sam, this was simply a mistake. He would not bring it up again, he would tell you nothing about it, he would ignore that it had happened altogether. You had shared a moment, you had shared a kiss, but it was a mere instant, a flicker, gone too fast, programmed to die out. A shooting star. One moment of solace that faded as quickly as it had appeared.

He tried to picture Sam instead, painted her face against his eyelids. But as soon as he didn’t consciously force himself to think of her, your lips were burning his again, and your hands cradled his cheeks, your skin so warm against his…

He opened his eyes, sat up in a jolt.

This was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. He was in love with Sam, he wanted her back, that was what this whole arrangement with you was about. And you wanted someone else too, you wanted Frank, you didn’t want Andrew…

Without thinking, his gaze drifted towards his coffee table and the smartphone that sat there. He touched the screen, making his lockscreen light up, a picture of Sam grinning appearing. He checked his notifications without unlocking his phone, but there was nothing. You hadn’t called, hadn’t texted. Which was normal, there was nothing to discuss. You were probably busy anyway, you had mentioned that you had some chores to do today, and after the excesses of the previous night, you would need some rest. Besides, he had already told you not to mention the kiss again, so.

Well, kisses…

He tried very hard to deny that he was disappointed as he locked his phone. He couldn’t do it. He missed you. Which was crazy, because he had seen you last night, and he would see you tomorrow at work. He was just being silly. He needed to get it together… it was just a kiss. Nothing would come out of it.

None of you wanted a new relationship, you both wanted your exes, you both wanted what you had lost. You didn’t want to find anything, you wanted to claim back what was yours.

Although… Andrew didn’t understand you. He didn’t understand why you wanted Frank so bad. You could have better than him, you could have… someone who would care about your interests, someone who would listen, someone who would love you enough not to drag you along, someone who would be interested in what you had to say. How could Frank not be interested in what you had to say, anyway? Andrew thought back of a lunch break earlier that week, spent just the two of you in your office. Your conversation had wandered from politics about the economy and inflation, Mary Oliver’s poetry, Mavis Staples, your latest attempt at keeping a plant alive, Elwood’s latest mischief, abortion laws in Ireland, your favourite pasta dish, his mother’s art, and you had settled on attending a protest together next weekend that was organised to show support for the women who had been victims of the Magdalene laundries, before going back to work.

You had so much to say, about so many important and mundane things alike, and you were so brilliantly smart about all of it. And Frank was at best… faking interest? What was wrong with that man?

The image of Sam focused on her phone while he spoke flashed before his eyes, but he pushed it aside. It wasn’t the same, he… he wasn’t as interesting as you were, and besides… besides…

Was it not the same?

He rested his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands, heaved a long, aching sigh. Why was it all so difficult anyway? He didn’t feel like himself, hadn’t for a while, to be fair. Sometimes when he was teaching, he forgot about the pain that came with broken love, sometimes when he spent time with you and made you laugh, he was reminded that the world did not end with the heresy of losing someone he loved. The aching came back still, the emptiness he saw in his bed, on his couch, on the shelf of his bathroom, in the space between wanting and having. He should have known that the time spent with Sam, spent loving her, was only a loan. It was bound to end. Everything ended. Everything died in the end. The high that came with the euphoria of being in love, like a drug, was only a high, but reality had to come back, to slither in through the cracks of a dream that would be gone with the rising of dawn.

And anyway, the world was doomed, everything was going sour, there were wars and famine and people suffering, and in this crumbling sense of humanity, what was the point in loving at all? What was the point of holding the hope that something in this flitting world could last? A fool’s hope that would eventually collapse. It was pointless. Why would he want to love again? Why would he want Sam again, why… why would he want you?

Why would I want to love her when loving Sam wasn’t enough? Why would she want to love me when Sam gave up?

He could feel himself spiralling, knew it wasn’t healthy, tried to hold back the tears. And he thought of you, of your kisses, of your hands on him, of your mouth and your taste and the feeling of being human again that came with you wanting him, even if only for a moment.

Judging by how the past six months had gone by, Andrew thought he would not avoid it, the panic and the pain and the despair, that it would last a few hours at least. But then the thoughts came in verses, rhymes formed, the semblance of a rhythm, of a pattern, with words that carried meaning.

He looked up, blinked as he blankly stared at the dark screen of his tv. A void. Nothing. He couldn’t see it. He hurried to stand up, to head for his office, to grab the first piece of paper and the first pen he could find.

This was just the embryo of an idea, nothing structured, he would have to work on it, but it was something. The first thing he wanted to write in six months. The feeling of relief that came with tracing each letter was indescribable.

It started with two simple questions. He wrote them thinking of you. Thinking of you and him. Thinking of your lips on his, as a way to accept that he wanted to feel them again.

Why would you be loving?

Why would you be loved?

[xxsycamore]

Le petit-déjeuner

► MC snacks on a sleepy Napoleon, one kiss at a time.

Napoleon Bonaparte x MC • rating: T • tags: fluff; kissing; hand kisses; contains one suggestive line • wordcount: 919 • masterlist

a/n: Inspired by a dream I had last night, because Napo dreams are a rarity and I must commemorate it...

MC has made a habit of entering Napoleon's bedroom on her tippy-toes, door handle turned in utmost soundless fashion; her presence fleeting like dewdrops on flower petals; she comes to bring the day to Napoleon and then she's gone to do her chores again. It's a silly thing to do, being this cautious around him - Napoleon is in the habit of sleeping like a log. It's not without reason that this oddity of his has adopted notoriety around the residents since day one... if he couldn't be waken up by a repetitive nudge to his shoulder, then what's the chance of him waking up by MC's mere entrance into the room?

Still, she's cautious, but not without chuckling at her own silliness. Before long, she's on the other side of the door.

"Ah! 'Leon, you're awake?"

On rare occasions, he'd be up on his feet without the wake-up call, an event that calls for a paragraph in Sebastian's diary. Sometimes she'd walk on an empty room with an already made-up bed and the sound of a running shower coming from the attached bathroom. The Napoleon of today looks as if already done the steps, yet the curtains are yet to be opened.

It's not a full darkness or even remotely too dark to see, yet MC needs a second to have her eyes fully adjusted to the scarce light. It's a sunny day outside, and the outlines of the pieces of furniture around the room are painted in mid-day gold, casting a surprisingly pleasant atmosphere. With the day hidden beyond the window panes, it seems even grander - she wants to take him outside to bask in the warmth of the day, to show him what's for breakfast, to talk about her plans for the day and ask about his.

MC would normally walk to the floor-length windows and grab into the fabric, stretching out her arms two at a time as if to embrace the day instead of doing what's more convenient to open them... she blames that on being inlove, or whatever the poets say to explain such behavior. But they must come up with an even worse condition for her, the way she puts that thought aside, basking in the warm shades of the room for a little longer.

Napoleon is dressing up for the day, not minding her presence in the slightest. He's still a little sleepy, not fully bending over to put on his shoe, but also not fully resorting to lifting his leg to shorten the distance... he makes a funny sight, but he looks at her and laughs in advance before she can mock him for it.

"Good morning."

MC appreciates the raspiness coloring his voice for a part of the second; "Good morning, Napoleon."

It's a little awkward that she's just standing there, her task practically done without her needing to attend to it at all... but Napoleon is not just a task.

He's currently tucking the shirt in his trousers, not caring too much about the quickly wrinkling ends of it - they won't show anyway, so why bother? - and her approaching steps trick him into thinking she has a problem with that. A hand coming to help.

She takes his hands by the wrists, removing them from his own frame and halting the process of his dressing up. But she doesn't do it for him, either. Instead of helping, she interferes.

"Nunuche?"

She kisses the back of his hand, a chaste touch of her lips against the skin. His left and then his right one. It's so much to note in that simple touch, all of it stuff that she's already familiar with, the feeling of his skin, the shape of his knuckles... all of it still intriguing as if it's the first time. But she's not doing it with such poetry-worthy back thoughts, she just... felt like it?

Napoleon produces a laughing noise deep in his throat, a sneer of sorts. He cooperates for the sake of her intriguing act, turning his palms around and holding them out in the air.

Her pecks get more frequent now, falling in dozens, covering random spots and missing others, without any grander goal to it than to simply... kiss his hands.

"Are you going to eat me up?"

This time she laughs, the sound disrupting the process of covering his palms in kisses. She looks up at him, still not letting go of his wrists, even if he willingly holds out his hands at her disposal.

"I'm going to eat up your hands, and then I'm going to eat you up whole!!"

Napoleon laughs but not without letting out a sigh, feeling his pants starting to slide down his hips... he didn't even have the chance to buckle his belt. What is he doing to do with this Nunuche of his...

"I prefer you'd start from up here."

A curled index finger under her chin to tip it upwards, and Napoleon shortens the distance. They haven't had their morning kiss yet! He takes responsibility and fixes the mistake.

"Are you sure you want me to start from up there?" She asks naughtily in one breath, not really giving him a chance to answer before she places another sequence of kisses, against his lips this time. He hums but keeps his comment to himself. They won't leave the room soon if he were to be honest.

"Your hunger is rather scary. Did you skip breakfast again? Bad Nunuche. Let's go grab a bite together."

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[psalm22-6]

Le Charivari (which could maybe be translated as the Shivaree, a type of mocking parade) was a satirical newspaper whose anti-monarchist owners often faced government censorship (see for example, Charles Philipon & his contribution to the Louis-Phillipe pear lore)  

Le Charivari  also published the above caricatures of V Hugo by Honoré Daumier, including flower crown Hugo and regularly published the work of Amédée de Noé/Cham, whose satire of Les Misérables I’d really like to write about. 

Anyways, it makes sense then that they would take a dim view to the censorship of LM, as outlined in the article below. 

ALSO, I am only just now realizing that this production was the same year as the Exposition Universelle of 1878. 

Le Charivari, 25 March 1878

Who among us does not remember the profound and immense sensation that Les Misérables caused under the Empire? 

Thanks to the odious involvement of censorship and an arbitrary act as monstrous as it was petty, a silence was imposed on the theaters, quieting the great voice of Victor Hugo, who dominates the smallness of his persecutors by the height of his genius.  

But the book escaped from the imperial Javerts. How does one justify in the eyes of Europe a ban that would have hit the novel of the sublime exile? They backed off. And Les Misérables appeared. 

In the rue de Seine, at the doors of the editor Pagnerre, there was a veritable riot of admiration. That admiration, in aggrandizing the poet of Les Châtiments, belittled his unrelenting enemies. They had to put things in order. 

So when Charles Hugo, having adapted a play from his father’s work, requested the necessary authorization for that play to be shown in Paris, the veto, which was for a moment ashamed of itself, hastened to remedy things and so the play of Les Misérables took the route for Belgium. 

It is an honor for the new republic to return the play to France. 

The generous and grandiose idea that therefore runs from beginning to end of the glorious master’s career is the idea of recovery, rehabilitation, and forgiveness. 

In his untiring concern, he studied all miseries, all physical and moral ugliness, all failures and he said: Have faith and courage. 

And he said to society: Do not insult the victims. Hold your hand out to all the repentant. 

This idea, which is found everywhere in the prose and verse of Victor Hugo, is found, so to speak, condensed and concentrated by special demonstration in Les Misérables. 

Above all,  what attests to the creative power proven by the illustrious writer in this vast design which is, so to speak, an encyclopedia of charity, is that all the characters that he imagines take on, in the eyes of the reader, a marvelous intensity of life. We don’t remember them as characters in a novel but as beings who we have rubbed shoulders with, who we saw ourselves and who we recognize when we encounter them. 

Valjean, Fantine, Javert, the Thénardiers, Gavroche: so many enduring faces.  Like Minerva, as recounted in the fable, these characters sprung forth alive from the brain of their father. 

Unfortunately not every one of them could find a place within the strict limits of a single play. The second half of the novel had to be sacrificed. 

What is differed is not lost. 

As it is, the play at the Porte-Saint-Martin, written by the late Chalers Hugo and by our compatriot Paul Meurice, stirred everyone, even in the entrails of the auditorium where, nevertheless, carefree bon vivants and perhaps also the old remains of political rivalries could not have asked for a better pretext for impotent protests. 

The play unfurls majestically, this epic of human suffering, this remarkable symphony of sobs, but we will draw particular attention to the episodes of the Bishop Myriel, of petit Gervais, of the storm beneath a skull, of the criminal court, of Cosette and of Picpus.

It wasn’t so much the robust shoulders of Dumaine that carried the weight of the role so much as those of Valjean. His success took on the proportions of triumph after the terrible monologue which you know. A prodigious solo of conscience. 

Mlle Jane Essler had to, partially through improvisation, replace Mlle Tallandiera who, in a heartbreaking turn, is perhaps in this very moment playing realistically Fantine’s suffering. Mlle Jane Essler makes the character too dark all around. Like in paintings, the dramatic arts require light here and there. She sort of forgot to include it. It was too much monochrome sentimentality. She nevertheless deserved the applause which on several occasions saluted the actress who has been too long off the stage. 

. . . [skipping  over some general praise for the rest of the cast]. . .

The drama of Les Misérables will be for the Porte-Sant-Martin a success that will extend beyond the Exposition. And it will bring justice to the authors at the same time who will profit from the spectators. 

It is useful intermediately for a theater to teach in order to counterbalance theater which corrupts.

[elpublico]

@narratorstragedy asked me to post my top books of 2022. i have not read 9 books much less 9 books i like so i did 3 books 3 poems and 3 articles lol :^)

the ingenious gentleman and poets federico garcía lorca ascends to hell by carlos rojas

le petit prince by antoine de saint-exupéry

ève by marie krysinska

adieu to norman bonjour to joan and jean-paul by frank o’hara

déjeuner du matin by jacques prévert

and futata sum hic is from sarah levin-richardson!

and futata sum hic is from sarah levin-richardson!

[asnowperson]

Poetry in Yoshida Akimi's Lovers' Kiss

I've been reading Yoshida Akimi's Lovers' Kiss. If you stumble upon this post, you should too. Megchan is scanlating it. The cover of the manga, as well as the title page of each chapter, has a French poem. I've never been into poetry, so I only thought "oh, nice" while reading them. However, that "il pleure dans mon cœur" one looked oddly too familiar to me. Then common sense hit me and I used google like any normal person would. And bingo, they were actual poems by French poets Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud! (They have a love story full of angsty drama, if you don't already know. Those dudes deserve their own manga in full 70s shoujo style.)

I decided to compile them here with their English translations. Yoshida is so great that she is making me, someone with zero interest in poetry, look these up.

The translations I used for Verlaine's poems are by Gertrude Hall, and Rimbaud's are by Martin Sorrell. You can check the full poems by looking up their titles, I'm only putting what's on the manga pages.

1. Il pleut doucement sur la ville by Paul Verlaine (1874). It appears on both volume covers and the title page of chapter 2.

Il pleure dans mon cœur (It weeps in my heart)

Comme il pleut sur la ville, (As it rains on the town.)

Quelle est cette langueur (What is this dull smart)

Qui pénètre mon coeur? (Possessing my heart?)

Ô bruit doux de la pluie (Soft sound of the rain)

Par terre et sur les toits! (On the ground and the roofs!)

Pour un coeur qui s'ennuie, (To a heart in pain,)

Ô le chant de la pluie! (O the song of the rain!)

2. Ma Bohème by Arthur Rimbaud (1870). It appears on the title page of chapter 1. Yoshida cut off parts of the verses.

Je m’en allais, les poings dans mes poches crevées ; (And so I went, hands thrust in torn pockets.)

Mon paletot aussi devenait idéal ; (My coat was more idea than fact.)

J’allais sous le ciel, Muse ! et j’étais ton féal ; (Beneath the sky––my Muse, my liege––I went;)

Oh ! là ! là ! que d’amours splendides j’ai rêvées ! (Oh my! what dreams of splendid loves I had!)

Mon unique culotte avait un large trou. (My one and only trousers were hugely holed.)

– Petit-Poucet rêveur, j’égrenais dans ma course (––Starry-eyed Tom Thumb, I strewed my path)

Des rimes. Mon auberge était à la Grande-Ourse. (With verse. I laid my head at Great Bear Inn.)

– Mes étoiles au ciel avaient un doux frou-frou (––My stars swished softly in the sky)

3. Colloque sentimental by Paul Verlaine (1869). It appears on the title page of chapter 3.

Dans le vieux parc solitaire et glacé (In the deserted park, silent and vast,)

Deux formes ont tout à l'heure passé. (Erewhile two shadowy glimmering figures passed.)

Leurs yeux sont morts et leurs lèvres sont molles, (Their lips were colorless, and dead their eyes;)

Et l'on entend à peine leurs paroles. (Their words were scarce more audible than sighs.)

4. Les reparties de Nina by Arthur Rimbaud (1870). It appears on the title page of chapter 4, and of chapter 6.

Je te parlerais dans ta bouche: (My lips against yours, I’d murmur,)

J'irais, pressant (I’d walk, hugging)

Ton corps, comme une enfant qu'on couche, (Your body, like a bedtime child,)

     Ivre du sang (Drunk on the blood)

Qui coule, bleu, sous ta peau blanche (That flows blue beneath your skin,)

     Aux tons rosés: (White, hints of pink,)

Et te parlant la langue franche... (Talking a frank language to you,)

     Tiens !... - que tu sais... (The one you know...)

Puis, comme une petite morte, (Then, limp as a corpse,)

Le cœur pâmé, (Fainting almost,)

Tu me dirais que je te porte, (You’d ask me to carry you,)

L’œil mi-fermé... (Your eyes just slits.)

5. Ce qu’on dit au Poète à propos de fleurs by Arthur Rimbaud (1871), pt. IV. It appears on the title page of chapter 5.

Dis, non les pampas printaniers (Don’t speak of springtime pampas)

Noirs d’épouvantables révoltes, (Dark with dreadful revolt,)

Mais les tabacs, les cotonniers! (Speak of tobaccos, cotton-fields,)

Dis les exotiques récoltes! (Exotic harvest-times!)

Looking these up were quite fun. I thought I'd leave them here.

[pompadourpink]

Hi! Are Jacques Prévert’s poems hard to read? Also, could you please recommend me some French poets’ works to read? Thanks in advance!

Hello,

Here's a post where I shared some resources (you can also check my poetry tag on the blog). As for Prévert, we first hear about him in primary school and are asked to memorize some of his works so he's rather accessible, now obviously it's not all for kids:

La couleur locale (from Spectacles):

C’est un petit paysage de Bretagne il peut tenir dans le creux de la main quand on le regarde de loin Mais si on s’avance on ne voit plus rien on se cogne sur un rocher ou sur un arbre on se fait mal c’est malheureux Il y a des choses qu’on peut toucher de près d’autres qu’il vaut mieux regarder d’assez loin mais c’est bien joli tout de même

In memoriam (from La pluie et le beau temps):

Il est interdit de faire de la musique plus de vingt-quatre heures par jour ça finira par me faire du tort Hier au soir un Hindou amnésique a mis tous mes souvenirs dans une grosse boule en or et la boule a roulé au fond d’un corridor et puis dans l’escalier elle a dégringolé renversant un monsieur devant la loge de la concierge un monsieur qui voulait dire son nom en rentrant

Hope this helps! x

[aflamethatneverdies]

(I had to Disgruntle a cat away from the keyboard to ask XD, but: Bahorel , Prouvaire, and let's go with Madi?:D

Hee thank you! Also hi Catte!! I'll make separate posts for each, since this is already quite long.

Bahorel

Headcanon:

Tried non-violent protest at Lallemand's funeral, found the state violence and the complicity of his law professors/prosecution horrifying and takes delight in riots and revolutions because of that, non-violence doesn't work. Has lost friends/relatives to state violence and/or poverty which is itself a kind of violence.

That is why his parents also respect his doing nothing except revolution. They may have had instances/reminders of state violence that hit close to home. They may have lost a son, or a niece or nephew because child mortality in those days was high and they were peasants and could not afford better treatments at a point of time in their lives even if they are rich/well off now and have abundant money to spend.  Although there's definitely a thing where even if they have money, they and also Bahore will not be able to be accepted by/belong to the rich classes and they don't want to. Bahorel takes pride in their being peasants. He never forgets his roots.

2) Has been greatly influenced by the women in his life, so I always assume that he has at least one or two older sisters who were involved in his upbringing and in helping with the farm and he was close to them and also really listens to and admires his mistress sincerely, who is very independent and who smokes, shoots a pistol and rides a horse, or someone like Delphine Gay Girardin.

Heartcanon: Comes across as extremely ridiculous/over the top, but has a deep sincerity about it. For instance he wears scarlet waistcoats with the specific intent to appall the bourgeoisie. Ever since that article which talked about how Petit Cenacle fashion was subversive confirmed my ideas, he absolutely uses fashion in a subversive manner and to make a statement, along with Prouvaire. He manages to turn everything he wears into something that looks extremely good on him and also makes him look hot.

Has also been arrested multiple times just for walking the streets wearing something scandalous, sporting an illegal tan, annoying neighbours with musical instruments he did not know how to play, naked orgies and generally for just existing as a loud Republican and Romantic who cannot tone down anything about himself and why should he? He has always been Eccentric in that way (and I use that term in the way it was known at that time, with bourgeois society frowning on originality and eccentricity), which is why Prouvaire (and his specific brand of weird) and him get along so very well.

Also really while he may not be a poet like Prouvaire, is really interested in words and maybe has written some minor things of his own, which he is not interested in publishing because censorship laws under Charles X weren't great, maybe he has helped other people publish things via contacts/newspaper links. At least I don't think he is a terrible writer. And he is very much someone who is a thoughtful reader and read a lot as a child as a form of rebellion at school given texts- although that may have been only a handful of books available to them at the time as a peasant family with many kids.

He is associated with using 'words which break everything' and also writing ballads and caricatures of professors in his law class when he could be bothered to attend them, that to me, speaks of someone skilled with words and since he has been in Paris 1820 onwards has probably written or talked about things in some capacity, maybe even was a leader of an even tinier splinter group which joined to form les amis.

He's so much associated with disruptions/challenge to norms of society/grotesque every time he appears/does something and I love that, so much.

Gutcanon: He knows English and French yet will always switch to his native dialect when dealing with authority figures/criticisms by Academie if he ever came across them (because he knows Dumas and Hugo and all the French Romantic writers), to simply thumb his nose at the idea that French should be the main language of France.

Alternatively, he serves as a point of introduction reference to other political workers from the Midi not just because of his nature of finding and talking to people and his flaneuring qualities but also because he takes an interest in their dialects and may know a little bit how to converse in different dialects and so they feel more at ease sharing their thoughts after being new to Paris. Not every worker would have had the opportunity to learn French if they didn't get a chance to finish school, some, whose biographies have survived, were self taught like Feuilly.

Junkcanon: Has very much participated in Romantic naked orgies and lived as a polycule/throuple/with multiple partners including some of his friends, which causes the police to assume that him and all his friends are all very queer, which is not wrong. Is not shy discussing these things/has a sense of humour which leads to dirty jokes.

Spleencanon: Bahorel turns into an immortal werewolf instead of being killed at the barricades and is being referenced by the survivors/revolutionaries in 1848 along with Feuilly's Vivent les peuples and then in 1871 and later.

Or Everyone lives AU where Bahorel practically adopts Gavroche as his younger brother and looks after him, and teaches him new things, and his siblings also hang out with them and the Thenardier kids are all warm and happy.

[tortue-souris]

Parchment + candles + corduroy + violin + library +leather + canvas + feather + shadow + clock + orchestra + fire + tweed + dust (but if you really are bored you can do all of them or come to my flat to wash the dishes 😈😈😈)

THANK YOU FOR ASKING ME I HAD FUN (nope) :D

parchment: what area of philosophy interests you?

Philosophy ? What is that ? Never heard of such a thing

candles: favorite quote?

Depends on my mood haha. Today I’m gonna go for this one from Anouilh’s Antigone :

“La vie n’est pas ce que tu crois. C’est une eau que les jeunes gens laissent couler sans le savoir, entre leurs doigts ouverts. Ferme tes mains, ferme tes mains, vite. Retiens la. Tu verras, cela deviendra une petite chose dure et simple qu’on grignote, assis au soleil.”

corduroy: any big past regrets?

You mean Many big past regrets? Yep.

violin: favorite composer? favorite piece of classical music?

It’s suuuuch a hard questiiooon dammmnnn my favorite piece of classical music would be between Tchaikovski famous violin’s concerto of course and Gershwin Rhapsody in Blue so pick one of these pieces and one of these composers to answer the question sowy :’)

library: preferred study environment?

It used to be my room, 100%, wouldn’t work anywhere else but that was when studying meant learning by heart, so now that I have some actual research and stuff to do and I apparently can’t get ANYTHING done when at home I’d say the 2nd floor of the INHA library... it feels so special and secret and magical !

leather: favorite book(s)? what makes them special?

Favorite and very special books are the Pierre Bottero serie “Ellana”, they left such an impression on the child I was haha, I cherish their story, their universe, their characters...!

canvas: is there any work of art that resonates with you? why?

I hate u :’)

It’s hard to chose but honestly Chardin’s paintings get me everytime. I knoooow they have “nothing special” at first sight but they’ve always made me feel something I cannot describe with words... It’s like it’s not those big paintings with epic actions and History that make you go “waow impressive” but it’s taking you by its sense of truth, idk the atmosphere, the games of textures and colors... It’s so real and surreal at the same time... Like ordinary life, but with a veil of... I don’t know nostalgia I think ? Like a memory in a way. A very small detail you would pass by without noticing but once it became a memory, or once a memory is attached to it, you notice it, and it has this special kind of glow to your eyes... Anyway Chardin was the best to turn everyday life into a work of art and that is truly inspiring and special and ahhh i love it. It’s probably why I also love Manet so much, but I’m particularly fond of his less known paintings, his still lifes, just look at the pictures below it makes me feel very emotional (yes it’s just a lemon im aware of that)

Here is Chardin La Tabagie (it’s very small) (It’s in the Louvre) (the picture is unfair to the beauty of this work)

And here are two of my favourite Manet works but the picture don’t do them justice either :’(

But it was honestly very hard to chose and you can check Odilon Redon for works that I adore without being able to tell why, some Vallotton in the same spirit... And then I could have talked for ages about Titien of course cause aaahhh... the light, the skin, the atmospheeeere... And don’t even get me started on sculptures cause that would be endless. Honestly can I answer this question twice or maybe 15th times ? xD

feather: favorite poet? favorite piece of poetry?

I don’t read enough poetry to have a favourit poet im afraid :( (omg not having a favourite piece of poetry ? I would be SO disapproved by the Baudelaires)

shadow: what makes you feel nostalgic?

PAR EXEMPLE AU HASARD REGARDER SPIRIT ToT

Top five : thinking of my childhood and the games we were playing, hearing a piece I played with my orchestra, eating something that tastes like my childhood (like LAIT CONCENTRE SUCRE), have a drink or a diner on a terrace in Paris (my heart is dying now), and... life in general haha

clock: early bird or night owl?

Early bird... but... old owl :p

orchestra: describe the songs on your most played playlist

Well it doesn’t work very well with me because I don’t listen to music that often and when I do it’s often do discover new stuff or to listen to a whole album or random playlists... So if I look at my “on loop” playlist on spotify it really doesn’t make any sense... And since I don’t have the app I cannot have access to my top 2020 titles... But I’m pretty sure that would be Pomme everywhere XD These days I listen to Arlo Parks a lot cause I’ve just discovered her and I love what she does :D

fire: which of the seven deadly sins do you find yourself leaning towards?

I think we would both agree about that : definetely gluttony xD But wrath is coming close too :(

tweed: any languages you want to learn/are learning?

Hmmmmmmm perhaps arabic ?

dust: biggest fears?

SPIDERS O.O MORE RECENTLY : LOSING THE SENSE OF TASTE THAT WOULD BE LIKE DYING TO ME O.O FAILING O.O héhé

Well THAT kept me VERY BUSY so THANK YOU and also NOPE SORRY I can’t come to wash your dishes because TONIGHT I have to watch RATATOUILLE with my SILLY VIEILLE CHOUETTE DE SOEUR :p

So now I tag oh no wait it’s not one of them :p

Bye bye vieille chouette ! SEE YOU SOON !

[meandmyechoes]

identity asks

1. if someone wanted to really understand you, what would they read, watch, and listen to?

hmmm first one and it’s kinda difficult. I don’t know how to evaluate this answer because I feel every work they study will only give a face of me, and whether that could complete the picture, I’m not sure. But I’m doing these on instincts so I’m gonna give a imperfect but straight answer.

Please watch the Clone Wars movie and the Wrong Jedi arc. WATCH BONES. THE ENTIRE SHOW. Read Ender’s Game, Le Petit Prince and Peter Pan, Artemis Fowl and the Arctic Incident. Listen to several select songs from Imagine Dragons:It’s Time, I Bet My Life, I was Me, Shots (Piano Acoustic), Whatever It Takes, Thirty Lives and I was Me.

I feel very inclined to put non-ficiton recs in here but I can’t pinpoint ones now... If someone really wanted to understand me, I’ll take them on a date ;)

2. have you ever found a writer who thinks just like you? if so, who?

I don’t recall one at the moment. Fairly, I’ve been missing in action from the world of words for a while so it’s hard to judge. Again, I feel inclined to answer in non-ficiton, preferrably a scientist, or a poet. but nothing came to mind. that’s a good thread of desolation for a poem seed. lost in a sea of friends. when everyone is a net but you are a buoy (yes it’s 2am excuse the weird metaphor)

3. list your fandoms and one character from each that you identify with.

oh boy i have so many fandoms this could spawn into its own essay. but i’ma address two things here.

1) I’ve been calling myself ‘mom-fan’ de Ahsoka for years and in that is less than a small feeling of inadequacy for myself compared to her. She’s perfect* in my eyes and I just think I’m not good enough to put myself next to her (standard). But do I see myself in her? I suppose the answer has always been she was my ideal, she was who I aspire to be, and still am learning to become.

2) I practically identify with every stoic genius trope out here. (oops all white boys). But I mean, of course Temperance Brennan is my favourite fictional character ever after Ahsoka. Again, I’m not as smart as her but every other quirk, I’m her.

P.S. 3) I've talked about this before but I identify with Hino Eiji('s recovery) so much post-, graduation, i guess

I think a disconnection I have with how other people find themselves in fictional characters is I don’t rely on physique at all. I relate to their personality and attitude, and the struggles they went through, so I never really feel the need to see ‘someone (who looks) like me’ in any media. ( + social factor thought out but not elaborated here) 

4. do you like your name? is there another name you think would fit you better?

Yes! I do like my name. Both Chinese and English. They are meaningful more than the word combination themselves, but also the weight of my parents' gift. I also like that it's a fine line between archaic and out-of-date. There's sort of an old-time elegance in there. 

Well 20 years ago Yuki was a unique name but now it's kind of not the best rep. But it's not the worse either, I think the fad with that name passed and I'd like to (re)define that name for people who know me.

I did, briefly considered adopting a new English name when I entered university. (surprise surpise I wanted to use 'Echo' both as a sw reference and i also like the sound) But 30 seconds later I decided to keep Yuki as not to erase the past I've worked hard on.

5. do you think of yourself as a human being or a human doing? do you identify yourself by the things you do?

hmmm I've never heard of this line of thought before, that's a good one. I'd say human doing? and contradictorily No to the second question?

Well through the quarantine I've been being a lot and thus taking up 72 hobbies a day. I do feel mandated to equip myself with a lot of skills and I have so many things I want to learn. I think the ideal life will be your career is also your passion, not just something you're good at. I'd like to wake up every day and be excited to get up to work, and it blurs the line between duty and hobby.

You see, I've so many flipping interests I can't really identity myself my the things I do. You'd see bit of a struggle in my tumblr bio. I was good at a bunch of things but never really excels at one. and that has been my biggest personal challenge of late.

6. are you religious/spiritual?

No, I suppose. I'm faithful.

7. do you care about your ethnicity?

Boy, this is a really tricky question to ask a Hong Konger. I feel mandated to, to understand one's roots and ancestors. That's a very Chinese tradition that I don't refuse, among many other. But I don't really wanna drag this on this platform even though this has been a private conversation so far, hmmm, how do I boil this down...

I do like Chinese traditions. I'm glad I'm born in a country rich in both archaeological finds and historical literature. It's easy to be proud of one's heritage like that. Yet contemporary Chinese history is a mess and it's only fair the next generation is allowed to examine it in candidness. 

Furthermore, the Hong Konger is never purely Chinese (say, Chinese in its own provincial difference) We have become our own group despite whatever claims, and however the future. In that, I can tell you, I'm very proud of being at this unique position, absorbing the best and adapting to the forefront from every corner of the world.

All in all, I'd say my ethnicity is an important part of my identity, but not the only part that matters, not even the most dominant part.

8. what musical artists have you most felt connected to over your lifetime?

well my lifetime isn't up so that'd be a difficult question to answer. No, I don't really have someone in mind. I'm not a musical person, song or score. 

9. are you an artist?

my my, I wouldn't say I am one but I certainly seem to have the "artist temper". I can't draw to save a life, mostly because I'm too stubborn to actually practice. But I do enjoy doing arts and crafts. 

10. do you have a creed?

That's a heavy question. How about "If everyone just lives by a little more selfish the world will be a better place".

11. describe your ideal day.

Getting loads and loads of work done according to a thorough schedule, then ending on a buffet.

If indoors, lots of drawing and painting and sewing and writing

If outdoors, museums and libraries and thrift stores, plus a little sunny day picnic at the park.

12. dog person or cat person?

bear person

13. inside or outdoors?

indoors

14. are you a musician?

no.

15. five most influential books over your lifetime.

I listed four in question 1 I'll give one more: Cosmos, Carl Sagan

16. if you’d grown up in a different environment, do you think you’d have turned out the same?

oh definitely. starting small, my parents are a huge (non-)influence on me for their liberal style. I'll never feel the need to fit in or compared to other children unless I started it. They listen to me (funnily as a child but not so much as a teenager huh). Distinguishingly, took me travel around so I became a perceptive kid. Without all that I'd just, withdraw socially a lot younger.

Kinda discussed in the ethnicity the society I'm raised in. This site makes me aware of racial issues very often so if I'm raised instead in a multi-racial society where I'm not of the dominant skin colour, I'd be more acute to such prejudice.

My school had a big part, but I'm willing to forgive and forget.

17. would you say your tumblr is a fair representation of the “real you”?

oh yes. where else can i be fully star wars, talk about animated pixels and be semi-private at the same time.the 80% of me this tumblr show is 100% authentic.

18. what’s your patronus?

what's a patronus??? (the bear bros from we bare bears)

19. which Harry Potter house would you be in? or are you a muggle?

i don't do harry potter (slytherin, better, muggle with superior technology)

20. would you rather be in Middle Earth, Narnia, Hogwarts, or somewhere else?

i don't do those either :p i'm more of a science fantasy person. i like mixed realities. Magic + Technology pew pew pew so Roarahaven and Fowl Manor! but purely fictional universe? tcw gffa duh.

21. do you love easily?

Yes, my heart says yes. 

and my lips sealed

my feet carry me away.

22. list the top five things you spend the most time doing, in order.

you mean on a daily basis or a my-whole-life basis?

thinking, reading, tumblr related stuff, eating & cooking, walking around in libraries grabbing books amazed

23. how often would you want to see your family every year?

monthly

24. have you ever felt like you had a “mind-meld” with someone?

yes. that starry night by the chills of the sea breeze. i thought i was gay.

25. could you live as a hermit?

i'll deliver a full report at the end of the current experiment. please expect a hobbit postman.

26. how would you describe your gender/sexuality?

oh my (ace probably)

27. do you feel like your outside appearance is a fair representation of the “real you”?

well, i did get excess fat percentage because i don't work out, at all, so fair, i guess.

28. on a scale from 1 to 10, how hard is it for someone to get under your skin?

not hard at all. just spell or pronounce Ahsoka wrong I'll fistfight you.

29. three songs that you connect with right now.

I was Me. 明年今日. 最佳損友.

30. pick one of your favorite quotes.

The Cosmos is all that is or ever was or ever will be.Our feeblest contemplations of the Cosmos stir us — there is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice, a faint sensation of a distant memory, as if we were falling from a great height. 

- Carl Sagan

[post written: 20/11/2020 02:55-03:43]

[pilferingapples]

A letter from Victor Hugo to Jules Simon, Paris, June 24, 1872, about Theo Gautier

à Jules Simon. Paris, 24 juin. Mon cher Jules Simon, c’est au ministre et au confrère que j’écris ; au confrère, parce qu’il s’agit d’un poëte, au ministre, parce qu’il s’agit d’une bonne action à faire au nom de l’état. Théophile Gautier est un des hommes qui honorent notre pays et notre temps ; il est au premier rang comme poëte, comme critique, comme artiste, comme écrivain. Sa renommée fait partie de la gloire française. Eh bien, à cette heure, Théophile Gautier lutte à la fois contre la maladie et contre la détresse. Accablé des tortures d’une affection chronique inexorable, il est forcé, à travers la souffrance et presque l’agonie, de travailler pour vivre. J’en ai dit assez, n’est-ce pas, pour un cœur tel que le vôtre ? Théophile Gautier a une famille nombreuse qu’il soutient et pour laquelle il épuise ses dernières forces. Je vous demande, au nom de l’honneur littéraire de notre pays, de lui venir en aide avec cette promptitude qui double le bien qu’on fait, et d’attribuer à Théophile Gautier la plus forte indemnité annuelle dont vous puissiez disposer. Ce que vous ferez pour Théophile Gautier, vous le ferez pour nous tous ; vous le ferez pour vous-même ; et tous, d’avance nous vous remercions. Cher confrère et cher ami, je compte sur votre fraternité littéraire, et je vous serre la main.

 Victor Hugo. 

translation, notes , under the cut

My dear Jules Simon,it is to the minister and the colleague that I write.  To the colleague, because it regards a poet; to the minister, because you can take a good action in the name of the state. 

Théophile Gautier is a man who honors our country and our time;  he is in the first rank as a poet, as a critic, as an artist, as a writer. His renown is part of the glory of France.  Well, at this moment, Théophile Gautier fights at the same time against illness and against distress. He suffers with the torture of an inexorable chronic affliction, he is forced, through suffering and almost agony, to work to live.  

I’ve said enough, haven’t I , for a heart like yours?  Théophile Gautier has a numerous family he supports, and for them he exhausts his last forces. I ask you, in the name of the literary honor of our country, to send aid with the promptness, to send him aid with that promptness that doubles the good, and assign to Théophile Gautier the largest annual indemnity (basically a pension-P) you can dispense.   

What you do for Théophile Gautier, you do for us all; you do it for yourself;’and we all thank you in advance. Dear colleague and dear friend, I count on your literary fraternity, and I give you my hand. - Victor Hugo

If it’s not obvious, this is Hugo petitioning the government to give Gautier, basically, a state pension for Writing Good (not an unheard-of thing at the time, after all!). Gautier really was in his last months; these were the days when everyone was saying final goodbyes (and when Gautier was writing History of Romanticism ).  And he really was supporting a large family-- his two sisters,Eugenie Fort, Ernesta Grisi, his two daughters, and even his adult son to some extent.  

But money, while a problem, wasn’t the only issue here--Hugo by himself could have seen to funds, to say nothing of the rest of Gautier’s considerable community of friends. But Hugo (and many others) wanted Gautier to be honored, dammit,  and have some sort of public recognition before he died. Hugo, by this time a full on national icon, was best placed to advocate for that. 

--The pension was approved, by the way. 

(edit in the first line thanks to @rasoir-national !)

[thesimplyluxuriouslife]

255: 34 Inspiring Daily Rituals to Ignite Your Creativity

We talk quite often about the importance of routine, and how by having a routine, we actually set ourselves free, especially our minds. And it is in that vein that Mason Curry shares his two books Daily Rituals. His second is focused entirely on Women at Work, sharing the routines and preferences of creative women who lived and created over the past four centuries.

I thoroughly enjoyed his second book, even more than the first which I also found great inspiration. It was refreshing to see so many women living their lives in a variety of different ways, but all in which they discovered worked well for them and the craft they most loved.

Not all of the ideas resonated with me, but it was wonderful to get into the minds for a moment of these women and how they approached their days. I highlighted vigorously from beginning to end, and would like to share 34 daily routines to consider to enable your creative ideas to flow freely and without withdrawal.

Some will speak to you, some will not, but each one is inspired by a woman's routine which is shared in the book: Daily Rituals: Woman at Work - 143 artists on how they paint, write, perform, direct, choreograph, design, sclpt, compose, dance, etc.

~Be sure to tune into the audio version of the podcast where much more discussion takes place on each point. 

1.Begin with a hot glass of lemon water

Designer Elsa Schiaparelli woke up at 8 am, sipped lemon-juice-and-water and a cup of tea for breakfast as she read the papers, handled private correspondence, made telephone calls and gave the menus of the day to the cook.

2. Wake up early if that is when your creativity is most fruitful

—Lillian Hellman would wake up at 6am.

—Marie Bashkirtseff would wake up at 6am

—Maggie Hambling wakes up at 5am each morning

"I get up between three or four o'clock in the morning, because that's my best writing time." —Octavia Butler

3. If spending less time with people fuels your creativity, embrace it fully

"I enjoy people best if I can be alone much of the time. I used to worry about it because my family worried about it. And I finally realized: This is the way I am. That's that." —Octavia Butler in 1998

4. If traditional "holidays" don't work for you, create your own, or dive into what you love.

Coco Chanel worked six days a week, and dreaded Sundays and holidays. As she told one confidant, "That word, 'vacation,' makes me sweat."

5. Greet the day in a habitual way that sets the tone for a great day

6. Live your ideas, don't talk about them

"People would sit around and talk about things constantly. I never really went in for that. If you talk something out, you will never do it. You can spend every evening talking with your friends and colleagues about your dreams, but they will remain just that —dreams." —choreographer Martha Graham

7. Keep a small journal next to your bed to capture ideas

"I always have notebook and pencil on the table at my bedside. I may wake up in the middle of the night with something I want to put down." —American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay

8. If you work at home, carve out a part of the day to get out of the house and just absorb inspiration or let go of the day completely 

"In the nocturnal evening, I get the hell out to some movie or damn play and I come back and sleep like a rock." —Frida Kahlo

9. Figure out the ingredients that are needed to let the ideas find you

To develop a new work of choreography, Agnes de Mille needed 'a pot of tea, walking space, privacy and an idea'.

10. Don't feel obligated to keep the same schedule when you are in the middle of creating your art or craft

Margaret Bourke-White required long periods of solitude to write, with as few interruptions as possible." In an interview with a Life photographer Nina Leen, Leen remembers after asking her if she would have lunch with her, "She told me she was writing a book and there was no hope of a lunch for several years.

11. Don't feel bad for loving your work and working on what you love beyond the traditional work hours.

"Everything seems petty and uninteresting, everything except my work . . . ". Russian-born painter and sculptor Marie Bashkirtseff

12. Do something during the day that is relaxing and keeps you present

'I relax before lunch by arranging flowers . . . When these are all beautifully arranged in bowls and vases, it's usually lunch time." —English actress Gertrude Lawrence

13. Have a studio or space of your own to create

"The most important thing is to have a studio and establish and preserve its atmosphere." —Agnes Martin

14. If you love solitude, embrace it 

"But it is, as Yeats said, a 'solitary sedentary trade.' And I did a lot of gardening and cooked my own food, and listened to music, and of course I would read. I was really very happy. I can live a solitary life for month at a time, and it does me good." —poet Katherine Anne Porter

15. Trust your intuition as to what works best for you

"It's not right if it doesn't feel right." —English painter Bridget Riley

16. Find regular time to just read what you love

Rachel Whiteread [English sculptor] would "at some point stop for lunch, and she'd often spend an hour of the day reading sitting in a comfortable chair away from her desk.

17. Establish a flexible routine to work with what you need

Morning routine: "Zittel feeds her chickens, waters plants, and performs other outdoor chores before meditating, taking a shower, making breakfast and getting dressed. In the winter, Zittel's morning schedule reverses: She meditates, showers and eats breakfast first; then, once the sun has raised the outdoor temperature, she heads out on her hike and does chores. 'It's really all about establishing a flexible routine."Andrea Zittel, an American artist, in 2017

18. Don't quit trying to live the life you wish to live

"It never occurred to me that I couldn't live the life I wanted to lead. It never occurred to me that I could be stopped . . . I had this very simple view: that the reason people who start out with ideals or aspirations don't do what they dream of doing when they're young is because they quit. I thought, well, I won't quit." —Susan Sontag

19. Try a crossword puzzle like Joan Mitchell

20. Determine what view in your studio/sanctuary/work space is most productive for inspiration

"Where do I write? In a Morris chair beside the window, where I can see a few trees and a patch of sky, more or less blue." —Kate Chopin, American writer

21. End the day with a signal to your mind to relax

"During the performance I drink water with breadcrumbs, which is most refeshing. After the ballet I have a bath as soon as possible. Then I go out to dinner, as by that time I have an unmerciful hunger. When I get home I drink tea." —Russian prima ballerina Anna Pavlova

22. Let baths be your creative muse

"Baths also played a part in her creative process - a post-breakfast bath enjoyed regularly by Virginia Woolf.

23. Let lunch be a true mid-day break

At 1:00 p.m., Hambling has lunch, takes her Tibetan terrier, Lux, for a walk, and switches on the television to satisfy her tennis addiction.

24. Write when inspiration hits - even if it is in bed in the morning so as not lose the ideas. 

25. Go outside and breathe in the fresh air

"Fresh air and cold water are my stimulants." —Harriet Martineau - the first female sociologist

26. Enjoy someone's company for tea, lunch or a walk regularly 

Emily Post would regularly welcome a guest or two for tea in the afternoon.

27. It's okay for your personal time to be less than what others feel is acceptable 

"It seems to me you have to have your personal life organized so that it takes as little of your time as possible. Otherwise you can't make your art." –Eleanor Antin

28. Don't expect the routine to come naturally, create one and stick with it as it enables you to flourish

29. Cook and walk

"The only other essential component of her day is a twice-daily walk with her dog, during which she avoids thinking about her writing project. In the evening, she makes herself a simple dinner and goes to bed at 10:00 or 11:00 p.m.." —Isabel Allende

30. Create space for your ideas to be seen 

"Open a gap for them, create a space. Be patient." — Hilary Mantel

"I think the way to become inspired is to empty your mind and let things come into your mind."  —Joan Jonas

31. Do you and don't apologize

"I live here as in Paris. I rise every day at 5 o'clock; I drink my two large glasses of hot water; I take my coffee; I write when I am alone, which is rare; I do my hair in company; I dine every day with the king, chez lui, or with him and les seigneurs. I make calls after dinner; I go to the theater; I return to my place at ten o'clock; I drink my hot water , and I go to bed." —Marie-Thérèse Rodet Geoffrin, a major salonniéres of the French Englightenment

32. Turn on music paired with your favorite drink to start the day

"I wake about nine, turn on the symphony and have juice, fruit and a pot of black coffee . . . " —Grace Hartigan, American painter

33. Leave evenings open for your social engagements

"In the evening, she would see a friend for dinner or attend another social engagement. But the real key to this perfect writing day, she said, was to know that the following day would be exactly the same." —Eudora Welty

34. Be patient until you find what works, then cherish it

"Trial and error, and then when you've found your needs, what feeds you, what is your instinctive rhythm and routine, then cherish it." —novelist Doris Lessing

~SIMILAR POSTS/EPISODES YOU MIGHT ENJOY:

~Why Not . . . Be Creative?

~The Benefit of Daily Rituals

~The Importance of a Daily Routine & How to Create One You Love, episode #164

Petit Plaisir:

~Chilled Cucumber and Yogurt Soup with Dill and Fresh Mint, a Patricia Wells recipe, click here for the recipe

~Why Not . . . Grow a(n) Herb Garden?

~Check out TSLL's IG account, see the Highlights and Part 3 of my FR Trip '18 - mid-roll to see the presentation of the dish in Provence.

~Chilled Cucumber and Yogurt Soup with Dill and Fresh Mint, enjoyed in Provence with Patricia Wells and the other cooking class students during the summer of 2018~

~the same dish served this past weekend as the second course during a dinner party at my home. Cool and crisp cucumber and yogurt soup.~

Tune in to the latest episode of The Simple Sophisticate podcast

[despertara]

Hey! I really really like your taste in prose (based on the quotes you reblog!) and I was wondering if you had any prose/poem/book recommendations?

omg hi!!! thanks!!! wild!!! i’d love to throw a list together for you!!!

disclaimer that i read whatever i want so this. is totally a mixed bag featuring commentary no one asked for lmao but here are some pieces i’ve (re)read recently and are close to my heart!!

poetry

fugue for other hands, joseph fasano | fasano is....... one of my top 5 fav poets. he captures this really complex sense of desperation and simultaneous resignation in his writing which ig is another way to say ‘regret’. really spacious but also really specific and intimate. concise and really like... surprisingly violent (in a sense) diction at times like it’s intense and resounding but also an old, dull pain that can’t hurt you more than it’s meant to. i have too many thoughts abt fasano so to cut it short: this is a beautiful, poignant, genuinely stunning collection

the vixen, w.s. merwin |and really any merwin? merwin is also one of my top 5 and he died earlier this year which i’m still processing but. definitely read him. read everything he’s ever written. i don’t cry when i read fasano but even before he left i have cried reading merwin. everything he writes has this soft golden hour cast to it. big bloom. soft focus. very real but not sharp at all, very gentle

cat town, hagiwara sakutaro|technically prose but i have the version that also has the entirety of howling at the moon and blue cat which are all poetry so whatever!!! i.... am going to say that these poems are super surreal because unlike a lot of western poetry that is about unspooling specific memories and making the accompanying feelings accessible, like literally unpacking thoughts and feelings, hagiwara’s work is like looking at someone else’s photo album without them there to explain context to you. just snapshots of a life you can’t fathom or properly relate to, but is all the more compelling for it. he really effects a sense of nostalgia you couldn’t possibly have so you sit and wonder what he must have been thinking of when he wrote this or that

self-portrait in a convex mirror, john ashbery |i originally had this above hagiwara but then i wrote like an entire stream-of-consciousness mini thought piece on hagiwara?? so i moved it underneath ajdlfsdj but only so i could reference my photo album analogy. hagiwara is looking through someone’s photo album without the illumination of their commentary, but ashbery is like reading someone’s travel journal. when i read ashbery i always feel like he’s saying ‘hey remember when’, like there’s a sense of familiarity and the imprecision that comes with telling a story we both already know. it’s like reminiscing

other fav poets: mary oliver always, raymond carver, bassho, jane hirschfield, franz wright, joanna klink, kenneth rexroth

prose

the thirteen clocks, james thurber | this is an actual children’s book but similar to le petit prince it is better written than the bulk of everything i’ve ever read ever. literally i am trying to elaborate but it’s hard like it’s just a master class in telling a story like i reference this book when i feel stuck w my own writing and it never fails me

and i darken / the conqueror’s saga, kiersten white | INSANE. if you like historical fiction (it is set in the ottoman empire and it is WILD) w devastating and endearingly violent female leads you will love this. well-written, extremely round characterization, compelling. wholeheartedly recommend the entire series

the city of brass + the city of copper, shannon chakraborty |READ THESE!!!!! BOOK 2 WAS EXACTLY LIKE BEING STABBED REPEATEDLY IN ALL VITAL ORGANS AND I SUSPECT BOOK 3 (TO DROP IN 2020) WILL GENUINELY KILL ME

uprooted, naomi novik|this has been circulating as A Ridiculously Good Book for a while now but seriously it is a ridiculously good book with some of the most masterful and concise worldbuilding i’ve ever seen. spinning silver by the same author is also Incredible

lockwood & co series, jonathan stroud |if you liked the bartimaeus trilogy........... you will love these. i read this series twice, all five books, within the last 3mos. it’s a middle-grade novel but i wouldn’t have known that if someone hadn’t told me because beyond the premise (teenage ghosthunters fix everything by ruining it first) it’s so well done? like bartimaeus wasn’t poorly written at all and lockwood is imperfect in several regards but to plan out five novels without overworking your own plot/characters is no small feat

honorable mentions

his dark materials by philip pullman is my favorite set of books, full stop.

you also can’t go wrong with diane wynne jones and if you’ve seen howls’ moving castle but haven’t read it... read it and the next two books in the series, and also the spellcoats

peter s. beagle’s the last unicorn............. will change your life

also 100 years of solitude by gabriel garcia marquez

also sprach zarathustra by friedrich nietzsche will knock your socks off if it hasn’t already like no matter how you feel abt the dude, the base quality and style of the writing?? is insane???

corny but i’m also a heart of darkness apologist. this and the crucible were the high school pieces that really stuck with me which. is telling lmfao

if you like me are indiscriminate about good writing then you have to read arakawa’s fullmetal alchemist because it sincerely puts 99.999999% of traditional novels to SHAME

please read everything by mary oliver, who is also top 5 for me. i love you mary and i miss you

[sorrytobreakyourheart]

Micmacs: weapon manufacturing criticism in a comedy

So in On Why Pre-Afghanistan Tony Stark Isn’t a Bad Person ( while not a hero ) I talked about the movie Mimacs à tire-larigot as a counterpoint to all my positive arguments to defend Tony as a weapon manufacturer, and I figured that

(A) most of you probably don’t know that movie since it’s french ( like me) ( and I’m writing this in English, which is probably not helping but eitherway )

(B) I should probably expand on why exactly liking Micmacs and agreeing to a lot of it doesn’t negate my feelings on Tony’s ethics

+ there’s a lot about that movie that stands on its own, without me throwing Tony at it. It’s, first of all, a comedy, though, so of course there isn’t a long and winded commentary of weapon manufacturing thrown in the middle by a character.

The parts that directly relates to Tony or the MCU in general will be in italics.

( I’m not, obviously, going to tell you absolutely everything about it, but mostly the part about weapon manufacturing and how it ties in with Tony’s past )

First of all, the story ( and, because I can’t control myself, the arguments in the middle ):

The Incidents

Bazil ( Danny Boon ) is a child in 1979 when his father ( a soldier ) is killed by a landmine as the man is working on removing landmines from the maroccan part of the Sahara. His mother receives his father’s things, and he learns that La Vigilante de L’Armement was the landmine’s manufacturer.

30 years later, Bazil is shot in the head by a stray bullet from a car/moto chase between two criminals, and survives, but the bullet is still inside his brain because removing it has 9/10 odds of leaving him a vegetable. That also means he spends a lot of the rest of the movie suffering from that bullet, with the risk of dying without warning at any moment. Later, he’s given the bulletcase his replacement at work found on the road: it’s from Les Arsenaux d’Aubervilliers.

Now, I would be the first to say that yes, his life was fucked up by those two weapons, but the manufacturers are not necessarily the ( only ) ones responsible for that. Assuming those two enterprises followed the rules, you can say that the first guilty party in his father’s death is the government/military that started the war/decided to use landmines, and that the criminals in the shooting could have stolen those weapons ( or gotten it from a stolen shipment ) from the military, making it the criminals’ fault.

Both are true, regardless of the manufacturers’ own guilt.

The Aftermath

On top of having lost his father and risking death by inconvenient bullet everyday of his life, Bazil lost his job ( logical, someone had to do the work while he was recuperating ) and now lives on the street, scrapping by as he goes.

After a few months, he’s taken in a by a group/family of other lost people. They live in a cavern of recycling materials ( and by recycling trash ). There’s Tambouille ( Mama Chow in English ) who’s the group’s mom. Placard ( Slammer ), who did 25 years and is possibly a former crook from what we see. Remmington, an African ethnograph who somehow ended up poor in Paris like the rest of them and uses an overwhelming amount of french language clichés. La Môme Caoutchouc ( Elastic Girl ), a contorsionist. Petit Pierre ( Tiny Pete ), an old man who doesn’t really speak but makes incredible automatons. Fracasse ( Buster ), a former human cannonball with the injuries that goes with the job. Calculette ( Calculator ), a girl whose ability to tell anything and anyone’s measurements is basically a superpower.

The Revenge

One day, as Bazil is collecting things thrown away to use again, he ends up right in between the buildings of Les Arsenaux d’Aubervilliers and of La Vigilante de l’Armement. He recognizes the logos, and tries to get to talk with the CEO of Les Arsenaux ( bullet ) for compensation, but get thrown out. Then he cross the street, and hears a speech by the CEO of La Vigilante about how making weapons is awesome ( I’m admittedly symplifying here ).

Frankly, at that point Nicolas Thibault de Fenouillet ( old-style CEO, Les Arsenaux ) and François Marconi ( modern-style CEO, La Vigilante ) don’t seem that different from Tony. They live in luxury, make weapons for their country and possibly its allies, their public persona is not necessarily likeable, but you can always chalk it up to the fact that yes, it’s a public persona ( they aren’t engineer, though, just the CEO ).

Except. Tony might have refused to see Bazil, if he had come to him for a bullet made by SI, but he wouldn’t have made the kind of joke de Fenouillet did ( “He says he has one of our bullet in his brain, sir”/”well that makes something for him to remember us by” ). On top of that, when Bazil was thrown out by security, they took their time to mock him and his head wound, to be cruel. That’s not a behavior Tony would have tolerated from his employees, supposing de Fenouillet knew about it.

Except, I made an argument in my previous post about the Ares Award and Tony’s absence, him not necessarily wanting an award for being a weapon manufacturer, and that directly relates to Marconi’s speech. Marconi, him, is there, and makes the praise of his business, and jokes about Rimbaud having been a poet only to become a weapon dealer, and himself planning to do it the other way. He does it unprompted. He shows the ego we keep hearing about in Tony, when Tony wasn’t even there for his own award ceremony, when Tony only said that the weapon industry was necessary when Christine Everhart basically asked him if she was ashamed.

Anyway, Bazil is angry. He wants revenge, which, okay.

He starts spying on both CEOs, making a plan to take them both down. And as it turns out, Marconi is ( oh, surprise! ) contacted by an African ex-dictator who wants to start up shit again because he likes being a dictator better than being an ex-dictator. Marconi spends about two seconds and a half saying he only sells to legitimate clients, before being told how much he’s going make, and then, his ethics go right through the window.

Which, you know. Tony never agreed to do. Not even when the Ten Rings kidnapped him and tortured him.

There’s a confrontation with the rest of the gang, and eventually everyone in on the plan ( which, you know, is about making les “Marchants de la Mort” pay; you know where I’m going here ).

The plan, in fact, consist of a lot of shennanigans that probably wouldn’t work in real life, but the gang is just that good, and it’s a movie. They start by incapacitating the dictator’s men, and Remington pretends to be them to offer de Fenouillet the same deal, so that both CEOs think the other one undermined him when the deal doesn’t happen. Then they get in, wreck Marconi’s cars, steal de Fenouillet’s rather disturbing collection of famous people’s body parts, steal a shipment of bombs, etc.

From there the CEOs are the one escalating. Marconi put pressure on a cleaning lady to sabotage de Fenouillet’s testing unit, which causes a massive explosion at the plant of Les Arsenaux, and there are no casualties but only by chance. De Fenouillet sends a tactical team to kidnap/murder Marconi.

It’s all interrupted when the dictator’s men get back in the story and play Russian Roulette with Marconi ( before the tactical team gets there ), Bazil gets caught because he was worrying about Elastic Girl ( who was looking for blackmail, and is currently hinidng in the fridge ), and the CEOs finally realize what’s going on ( kinda ).

Bazil almost gets killed, but the gang as a Plan B, and ends up kidnapping de Fenouillet and Marconi instead, staging a flight and arrival in the desert, putting a grenade ( not armed ) in de Fenouillet’s mouth, who’s sitting on Marconi’s shoulders, who’s standing on a landmine ( not armed either ), while they are all disguised as arab women with picture of their dead/injured children.

Before long the two are confessing to a lot of things, starting with all the people who are not legitimate clients they sold things to ( IRA, ISIS, you name it ). They are being recorded, of course, and when the gang stops acting and reveals who they are, they also download the video on ( old, old ) YouTube. Les Arsenaux and La Vigilante are about to close, de Fenouillet and Marconi are ridiculed, about to be tried, and lost all their support.

Bazil is happy with his new family.

The End.

Non-Violence

Bazil & Co’s plan never involved violence. They aren’t looking to kill either CEOs, and the employees are not treated like acceptable casualties just because they work for the two assholes. In fact, the only people who die here are not part of the plan, are killed by de Fenouillet’s men, are the dictator’s men. The most violent thing they did was release bees on workers to steal the bombs, and send a car with goons in it in a billboard

Unlike, say, Wanda and Pietro’s plan, who just didn’t give a damn about what happened to anyone ( the Avengers themselves, but also all the people who would get caught up in whatever they’d pushed Tony into doing ) as long as they got to kill Tony, to make Tony suffer, until they realized it had gone too far and (A) they were going to die too, (B) maybe seven billions people was a bit too high a casualty count even for them.

The only thing you can blame the gang for is the explosion at the factory ( if there had been casualties ), in that they instigated the rivalry, but, in the end, that’s on Marconi, much more than on the gang, because he’s the one who decided to do that ( and by pressuring an imigrant couple to do his dirty work, no less ).

Tony wouldn’t have deliberately endangered people like that. If he was like that, he’d have dropped a missile on Gulmira to get rid of the Ten Rings, without care for the civilians casualties, instead of getting there in person and targetting only the terrorists.

A Plan that wouldn’t have worked if they hadn’t deserved it

Despite the fact that Bazil wants revenge, his whole plan only works if de Fenouillet and Marconi are, in fact, assholes. Marconi didn’t have to accept the dictator’s deal, but he did. De Fenouillet didn’t have to accept the dictator’s deal, but he did. When they thought the other one had started trashing their stuff, they didn’t have to escalate. Marconi didn’t have to take his employee’s visa so that his wife would be forced to sabotage Les Arsenaux. De Fenouillet didn’t have to try and murder Marconi.

If they hadn’t sold weapons to ISIS/etc, they wouldn’t have had anything to confess at the end. They’d probably have been ridiculed, but it couldn’t have done any grave damage to their lives. In fact, the gang would have probably been labelled as the villains for having harrassed/kidnapped/threatened ( since they didn’t know the landmine and the grenade weren’t armed ) people who were doing their job within the law.

At every turn, the CEOs had a choice, and at every turn, they disappointed. Which is why the plan worked.

Tony refused to sell/make weapons for terrorists, which is what pushed Obadiah to get rid of him. Tony demands a lot of his employees, but he doesn’t force them to do anything, they can leave if they want, if they think he’s wrong.

And if Tony, somehow, had still ended up in the same situation, threatened with death to admit to having done things illegal... He wouldn’t have had anything to admit, because he didn’t do it.

Reality vs. Fiction

That’s the big difference between Tony Stark and de Fenouillet and Marconi. He’s not a bad person for being a weapon manufacturer, because he did it following the rules, but they aren’t, because they didn’t.

Being a weapon manufacturer, again, isn’t a bad thing per se, even if it isn’t a good thing either. As long as there isn’t world peace, and the absolute assurance that this peace will go undisturbed, we need soldiers, we need weapons, and therefore we need weapon manufacturers ( but I already made my argument about it in my last post ).

Now, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that most, or maybe even, all, of the real-world weapon manufacturers are not good people who always follow the rules. But in case you hadn’t noticed, Tony Stark is the ideal ( or as close as ) of what a weapon manufacturer should be ( still not good per se, still not bad per se ), because he lives in a fictional world.

If you can believe in a soldier who never obeys orders he thinks are wrong and yet never gets disciplined because of it, if you can believe in a guy who turns into a giant green rage monster, if you can believe that six people can stop an alien invasion, and then you tell me you can’t picture a honest weapon manufacturer in that same world, well.

What we don’t need are weapon manufacturers like de Fenouillet and Marconi. What we need are people who are willing to make them fall, but not by using violence first either, not when it’s not needed, not when you can do it differently.

( though, the Plan almost went South at one point, which is why, sometimes, you also need an assurance, like, say, a way not to get killed by the weapon manufacturer who has, *gasp*, weapons! )

[nixtamalisation]

L’Orthothélème.

Then I asked: ‘’Does a firm persuasion that a thing is so, make it so?’’

Then he replied, ‘’All poets believe that it does, and in ages of imagination the firm persuasion removed mountains;

but many are not capable of a firm persuasion of anything’’

William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Je crois qu’il y a quelque chose ici que je n’aime pas. Je n’ai pas aimé la façon dont cette branche a craquée. Ce bruit de bois vermoulu m’a fait penser, je ne sais pourquoi, à la décomposition d’un vieux cercueil. Le climat est humide dans ces quelques hectares de forêt qui subsistent encore, à quelques kilomètres à l’Ouest de Düren. Il a plu toute la journée. Les rares militants écologistes qui continuent à vivre ici disent que c’est une forêt « primaire ». Je ne sais pas si le terme est adapté à une si petite zone boisée. C’est vrai qu’il se dégage de cet endroit un sentiment insistant. Une vieillesse… une ancienneté pourrissante…  

              Rien de semblable à ce qui me saisit lorsque j’observe un grand chêne – j’ai plutôt l’impression d’être compressé par une humidité froide et étouffante. Je pense à un moment à Malone meurt, de Beckett. Sentant la mort venir, le graphomane qu’est Malone décide de faire vieillir abominablement Moll ; il faut que son personnage crève avant lui. Alors, elle enfle, jaunit, perd ses cheveux et vomit ses entrailles sur le plancher. Je crois que les fongus et les gastéropodes s’adonnent ici à une orgie motivée par la même angoisse ; il faut se dépêcher, se dépêcher de décomposer ; impossible de faire un pas sans écraser une limace dans un chuintement verdâtre. L’humus est si riche et si grouillant…

              Enfant, je passais mes journées à tailler des branches de châtaignier pour essayer d’en faire des arcs et des flèches. Je connais toutes les vivacités organiques qu’est amené à rencontrer le promeneur en forêt : les insectes, les stridulations, les claquements d’ailes. Ici, cependant, il y a un bruit, un arrière-fond de plus en plus insistant, que je n’avais jamais entendu auparavant. Est-ce la proximité grandissante de ce roulement sourd qui m’angoisse et fausse mon jugement ? Je n’ai plus qu’à écarter un rideau de ronces, escalader un tertre de pierres cimenteuses…

Des nuages gris moutonnent au-dessus d’une immense vallée grise, avec des teintes ocres, roses et rouges – les strates géologiques sont découpées et mélangées en un Arlequin de pierre. C’est tout un système à étages qui s’étale sur soixante kilomètres carrés. La plus grande mine à ciel ouvert d’Europe. On y extrait le lignite, un combustible fossile humide, peu carboné et polluant. J’ai beau avoir préparé ce voyage depuis quelques semaines, retenu des informations essentielles, imaginé le gigantisme de la mine et regardé des photos, je n’étais pas préparé à ça.

                Légèrement en surplomb, je contemple les immenses figures géométriques tracées dans le sol par trente années d’activité de la compagnie RWE. Étrangement, ces lignes se multiplient mais s’assemblent mal et ne sont unies par aucune harmonie. Je ne parviens pas à comprendre qu’elle est leur logique sous-jacente : elles obéissent visiblement à un Plan, mais, de là où je suis, elles inspirent au moins autant le chaos que l’ordre. À des dizaines de lignes parallèles qui évoquent des rizières, succèdent des artéfacts géométriques surprenants, des bizarreries et des cassures arbitraires.

Autour de la mine, plusieurs centrales électriques rejettent d’épais panaches. Selon les discours officiels, la proximité immédiate de ces centrales avec les mines environnantes est nécessaire. Le lignite se transporterait mal sur de longues distances. Je crois plutôt que quelque chose agit sous couvert de rationalité scientifique et en même temps qu’elle… Il y a autre chose, caché, et pourtant à la vue de tous.

Je marche une quinzaine de minutes afin de trouver un autre point de vue et je finis par comprendre : je suis face à une anamorphose, à l’instar des tracés précolombiens de Nazca. Ces inscriptions minières ésotériques sont adressées à d’autres êtres – le plus important de ce qui se trame ici n’est certainement visible que du ciel. On a édifié, par la répétition mécanique, un monument en creux, une vaste fresque en relief. Une sorte de pyramide inversée, peut-être. En décoder les chiffres et les secrets, nécessite (je ne sais pas comment, mais je le sais désormais avec certitude), d’être placé à plusieurs dizaines de kilomètres de hauteur sur la ligne droite qui relie le barycentre de cette forme complexe au centre de la Terre.

J’ai devant les yeux un module de communication extra-planétaire dont les enjeux me dépassent de beaucoup, moi, modeste Homo sapiens. Je suis submergé par le grondement sonore qui sort de ces entrailles minérales. Aucun des quatre mille ouvriers qui se succèdent jour et nuit ne sont visibles. Les rares déplacements à l’intérieur de ce paysage figé sont effectués par les grosses sauterelles métalliques que sont les excavatrices. Dans un ballet qui paraît être filmé au ralenti, chacune d’entre elle extrait 70 000 tonnes de matière terreuse, chaque jour, dans un bruit qui n’a connu aucune interruption depuis près de 30 ans. Ce son minéral m’enveloppe. À proximité immédiate de la mine, il se fait plus tranché, plus défini. Il est étonnamment apaisant ; il réclame toute mon attention ; j’y discerne de très légères modulations – je pense à un encéphalogramme, ou à une sorte de mantra techno-produit. Un éternel soupir à mi-chemin entre la secte New Age et le chuchotement d’un cyborg.

Par la force de l’imagination – ou, peut-être, par l’effet d’une emprise sur laquelle j’échoue encore à mettre un nom – je plonge dans ce dédale inhabité et souterrain. La caresse gutturale de cette très longue voyelle me fait découvrir les sous-sols. Devant mes yeux défilent des centaines de processus complexes de la physique des solides… Sous l’effet de la pression exercée par la croûte terrestre, les dépôts détritiques sont soumis au métamorphisme… Chaleur et pression se conjuguent pour transformer l’agencement de la matière : progressivement, les solides amorphes deviennent cristaux. Les lignes se répètent ; à partir de la maille initiale, la même forme cristalline est répétée à l’infini. Structure du semblable. De la répétition brute. Nature essentielle du solide comme royaume de la ligne droite.

J’ai accès aux mystères de l’houillification : dans un crissement qui me fait penser à des millions de criquets, je vois les paléo-forêts naître, vivre et mourir. Les bactéries, terreaux, racines, troncs, branches, feuilles, pollens, spores et mycéliums se décomposent en une nécromasse végétale riche en carbone ; prise au piège de la croûte terrestre ; remuée par des plissements. Craquements tectoniques de la géologie vivante. Tourbe, lignite, coke, anthracite… avec la plongée dans les profondeurs, la teneur en carbone se fait plus forte. Les solides carbonés purs sont toujours des cristaux, du graphène au diamant. Chacun possède sa clé de chiffrage, ou groupe d’espace, la plus petite unité cristallographique. Les solides, sous l’effet de la chaleur magmatique, tendent à devenir cristaux au plus profond de la croûte terrestre… Ils s’étendent par la démultiplication à l’infini d’un même code ; algorithme obtus de l’agentivité du monde ; intentionnalité organisationnelle disséminée dans la matière.

                  Ce voyage m’a éreinté. L’humidité constante, m’a fatigué. Je dormais dans des cabanes dans les arbres. Habitations à l’hygrométrie généreuse, même en plein été. Tout cela aurait été complètement accessoire, mais la mine de Hambach a déposé en moi un germe qui me secoue encore, m’empêche de dormir. Immédiatement après être rentré en France, j’ai vérifié mes intuitions en observant des images prises par satellite.

              J’ai été immédiatement saisi, et j’ai été étonné, je crois, au-delà de mes intuitions sur le terrain. Plus encore qu’in situ, le gigantisme de la mine est effrayant. Sa forme est également remarquable, en ce qu’elle se caractérise par une répétition de lignes fracturées. Tout se passe comme si une géométrie complexe, devant prendre en compte les réalités du terrain, se voyait réduite en un avatar simplifié, un rectangle régulier – rectangle qui hante le plus intensément la figure en sa partie centrale et noire. Évidemment, cette aire sombre visible sur l’image est le lignite, tourbe carboneuse et friable.

              La structure des solides exercerait-elle une influence sur la manière dont les Sapiens transforment le monde ? La répétitivité géométrique brute de la mine de Hambach ne serait-elle pas caractéristique de nombreuses autres infrastructures ? Toutes nos plus grandes réalisations sont formellement unies, de façon évidente, par la part importante qu’elles laissent à l’Orthonormé : à la multiplication de lignes et des angles droits. Les plans des villes modernes ne laissent planer aucun doute. New-York, ou encore Los Angeles, villes-symboles de la grandeur occidentale et de la puissance du capitalisme globalisé sont organisées de la même façon. Par la concaténation cancéreuse de milliers de rectangles. Avenues et rues numérotées se croisant à 90° et se démultipliant à l’infini. Maintenant que j’y pense, les barres d’immeubles des banlieues françaises sont issues du même principe, du même élan mécanique qui semble avoir écrasé toute intelligence intuitive, toute itération expérimentale, toute sinuosité généreuse. Cette découverte me déroute.

  Lorsque je suis perdu, je cherche des points d’ancrages dans les bibliothèques. Je trouverais certainement des traces bien visibles de l’influence occulte des cristaux sur l’esprit humain, si le phénomène a eu sur notre histoire la portée que je redoute. J’espère que non. J’ai les nerfs à vif, et je vais d’abord tâcher de dormir.

Si d’aucun·e·s me lisent un jour, qu’iels m’excusent du désordre qui règne dans ce carnet. Tous ces indices rayonnent en faisceaux qui m’aveuglent. Voici le résultat de cette biblio-enquête. J’ai lu, dans un opuscule futuriste : « Dégoût de la ligne courbe, de la spirale et du tourniquet. Amour de la ligne droite et du tunnel. La vitesse des trains et des automobiles qui regardent de haut les villes et les campagnes nous donnent l’habitude du raccourci optique et des synthèses visuelles.[1] »

L’influence de l’Orthothélème se fait sentir de façon plus flagrante encore, chez Le Corbusier. En parlant des rues sinueuses, l’architecte suisse dit : « je les supprime. Je commence par cela ! […] Je commence par exiger l’angle droit. ». Ou bien : « La raison […] est une droite impeccable ». Et plus loin encore : « Le despote n’est pas un homme. Le despote, c’est le Plan. Le plan juste, vrai, exact, qui apporte la solution, le problème ayant été posé, posé dans son ensemble, dans son harmonie impensable. Le Plan […] n’a tenu compte que des vérités humaines.[2] » Ce paragraphe confine au délire : le Plan « despotique » devrait « tenir compte des vérités humaines », alors même que son « harmonie » est « impensable ». Les neurones rectilignes de Le Corbusier expriment la vérité profonde du mélange de l’extra-humain et de l’humain. Dans ses phrases alambiquées, le brouillage entre ces deux catégories ineptes est évident – c’est l’OT qui parle à travers lui et les cristaux qui s’ébrouent à travers ses écrits ; le despote n’est pas un homme.

Je suis allé voir du côté du romancier Jean Echenoz, me doutant que grâce à ses fréquentes déambulations psycho-géographiques, il aurait fini par mettre en lumière le phénomène. J’ai feuilleté Un an[3] et puis… « Elle roulait, elle erra sur des routes rectilignes et plates, parfaitement perpendiculaires aux arbres. Artificielle comme un lac, la forêt consiste en rangs parallèles de conifères, chacun ressemble à ses voisins disposés de part et d’autre de la route en glacis géométrique. Et comme Victoire avance, les rangs se déplacent aussi, son regard découpe un mouvement perpétuel de perspectives, un éventail sans cesse redéployé, chaque arbre tient sa place dans une infinité de lignes qui fuient en même temps, forêt soudain mobile actionnée par le pédalage. Pourtant, pareils à leurs prochains et réduits au servage, les conifères ont avec leur indépendance abdiqué jusqu’à leur identité [...] » Je note la centralité du personnage de Victoire : elle déplace, par son regard mobile, les lignes et multiplient les points de fuite.  Est-ce que Sapiens ne serait pas un point de réplication de cette structure cristalline ? À la façon d’une ronce tristement roide qui s’étendrait par repiquage à partir d’une souche pourrie, cette influence orthogonale nous a choisi, nous, comme vecteur privilégiés.

Il me faut comprendre plus profondément la façon dont ce cristallo-réplicateur parvient à propager son emprise. Je dois savoir comment il arrive à faire jouer les humains contre eux-mêmes, et la matière organique contre elle-même. Ce cristal qui fait plier les volontés humaines afin de se répliquer, je le nommerai Orthothélème (OT), du grec orthos (droit) et de thélêma (volonté). Je le classifierai parmi les hyperobjets : il est visqueux (il modifie en profondeur les objets qu’il contamine), insaisissable (son influence s’étend à travers un grand nombre de points nodaux) et insistant (diminuer son influence relève de la gageure)[4]. Une étude statistique parue il y a quelques mois m’a fait entrapercevoir à quel point l’OT avait corrompu notre environnement : la masse anthropisée totale est désormais supérieure à l’ensemble de la biomasse. Tous les êtres vivants réunis pèsent 1120 Gigatonnes (GT), et la masse de toutes les constructions humaines est de 1154 GT. J’estime que 85 % de cette masse est orthothélèmisée.  

J’ai trouvé dans le texte d’Echenoz un autre indice. Il est écrit « les conifères ont avec leur indépendance abdiquée jusqu’à leur identité. » Visiblement, le joug orthothélémique ne se limite pas à Sapiens. Une enquête iconographique devrait me permettre d’en savoir plus sur l’assujettissement des végétaux. J’ai contemplé des images aériennes et satellites de plantations de palmiers à huile en Indonésie.

 L’OT crée dans ces forêts de Papouasie Occidentale son propre écosystème. Ce cristallo-réplicateur a besoin de plusieurs conditions environnementales. Agent transformateur intelligent, l’OT contribue activement à les maintenir. L’apport de pesticides et d’herbicides, en favorisant les monocultures, simplifie les zones sylvestres à l’extrême dans un mouvement rectiligne. Les peuples autochtones vivant sur ces terres ou les militants attachés à la diversité sylvestre sont neutralisés. Des incendies laissent le champ libre pour son installation à long terme et à grande échelle[5] – c’est la même volonté de tabula rasa qui guidait les plans démentiels de Le Corbusier. À mesure que mes recherches avancent il devient clair que pour étendre son influence l’OT écoute au loin le bruit des armes et des déflagrations, des incendies et des épidémies. C’est sur les terres brûlées et chez les peuples affamés et vaincus qu’il récupère son plus grand tribut. Les réseaux biologiques du sous-sol ont fortement souffert du joug de l’OT en Papouasie Occidentale. Racines, micro-organismes et insectes fouisseurs sont progressivement conduits vers une mort certaine. Le Plan sur lequel s’étale l’OT est d’une extrême finesse : influence minérale provenant des profondeurs, il reproduit ses schémas prosélytes sur une couche d’une extrême minceur.

L’OT distord les intérêts particuliers et collectifs afin de les faire jouer contre le vivant. Il se répand à la manière du processus chimique de cristallisation : il agence êtres et choses jusqu’à ce que se forment des figures géométriques répétitives, fracturées par la ligne droite, qui créent ensuite, à leur tour, de l’OT – processus classique de prolifération.

Le plan d’urbanisation des villes a aussi été mis en coupe réglée. J’ai laissé errer mon regard sur les cartes numériques, et lorsque les villes ont été bâties après le début du XIX° siècle, les angles droits se sont répliqués à la façon de cellules cancéreuses. C’est particulièrement frappant pour les villes américaines, pour les cités bâties par des puissances impériales sur un territoire colonisée, ou pour les zones urbaines reconstruites après une destruction massive. Les villes étasuniennes ont été édifiées dans le cadre d’une superstructure idéologique traversée par les idées de wilderness[6] -- de terre sauvage et vierge à conquérir[7]. Si le « Plan » a pu s’ériger en maître, comme le voulait Le Corbusier, c’est que les urbanistes pensaient se trouver dans une zone inhabitée, comme neutre, riche seulement de ressources quantifiables. Il me semble que l’OT s’implante d’abord par des conceptualisations négatives, relatives à l’absence ou au non-être.

Les images des plantations de palmier à huile m’ont rappelé à un concept forgé par Anna Tsing, dans Le Champignon de la fin du monde[8]. La « scalabilité » serait un caractère propre aux infrastructures capitalistes. Les dispositifs scalables sont adaptables à n’importe quelle topographie et peuvent s’étendre sur n’importe quelle surface de n’importe quelle taille. Le même système doit être réplicable pour convenir à 1000 ou 1 million d’usagers, sans avoir besoin d’en repenser le principe. La scalabilité me semble dresser une analyse juste de nos dispositifs matériels. Elle est la conséquence du besoin de l’OT de se répliquer le plus massivement possible. Dès, lors j’envisage ainsi la force luciférienne de l’OT : création d’un motif orthogonal -> assujettissement partiel des êtres et des choses -> production de nouvelles infrastructures hypnotiques. L’ère de l’OT, c’est l’apogée du pattern, que nous connaissons aujourd’hui.

En observant une gravure d’Albrecht Dürer, j’ai compris un des procédés qui a permis le triomphe idéel du découpage du monde en lignes droites. Toute notre perception du monde a été modifiée pour correspondre à un principe régulier, obéissant à des règles fixes mais prétendument adaptable à la représentation de n’importe quel objet. Je veux parler ici de la perspective linéaire[9], procédé de figuration à l’ère de la deixis triomphante. Toutes les images y obéissent à un mouvement double de désignation, à un pointage qui « se retourne en quelque sorte sur lui-même[10] ». En même temps qu’un objet qui est représenté par une déformation qui se veut l’expression scientifique de la subjective, est suggéré le prisme d’un regard humain. Un tel procédé condamne toute figuration à la présence d’un agent anthropo-abstrait. Cette picturalité, dans un mouvement frénétique et éperdu, ne fait que désigner l’objet désigné puis le regardant suggéré, ne soulignant finalement que la distance qui les sépare. Il faut observer précisément des schémas qui présentent cette méthode. L’espace y a été découpé en tranches, et ce qui se veut représentation précise, exacte, réglée du réel, ne parvient rien à saisir de l’espace sinon son absence -- il s’agit bien de points de fuite. Rien n’y est présent en soi et c’est la possibilité même d’un être-là qui fuit et s’échappe[11]. J’ai senti la présence, dans ces projections ordothélémiques, du « silence éternel des espaces infinis[12] », alors que son influence est désormais telle qu’elle se fait passer pour innée, ou naturelle[13].La capacité proliférative de l’OT est intimement liée à l’oblitération des obstacles, comme je l’écrivais un peu plus haut. Ce non-être s’est logé dans nos imaginaires et dans nos esprits. À l’instar d’un parasite capable de modifier profondément les comportements de son hôte (je pense, par exemple, à la douve du mouton), l’OT a déposé le vide en nous pour démultiplier les espaces où s’étendre.

L’emprise de l’OT est déjà immense, mais je ne crois pas qu’il soit trop tard. Sa faiblesse se trouve dans son mode de réplication. Certes, nos existences sont emplies d’habitudes, de schémas de pensées et de modes de faire qui sont corrompus par l’OT. En revanche, son influence s’étend à travers des géométries aisément reconnaissables, et diminuera nécessairement à compter du moment que nous les démantèlerons progressivement. À la planification stérile à laquelle nous enjoint l’OT, nous pouvons opposer des apprentissages instinctifs, des alliances éphémères et le sabotage des infrastructures les plus orthothélémo-réplicantes.

Pour parler par euphémisme, l’influence ordothélémique sur la Terre ne privilégie pas la diversité des institutions politiques. Elle menace les marges politiques et sociales et la capacité des sociétés à se transformer. On constate une corrélation entre la multiplication des structures productrices d’OT et la sensation d’une stagnation politico-sociale. François Furet écrivait en 1997 : « L'idée d'une autre société est devenue presque impossible à penser, et d'ailleurs personne n'avance […] même l'esquisse d'un concept neuf. Nous voici condamnés à vivre dans le monde où nous vivons[14]. ». Slavoj Zizek disait en 2008 : « Il est plus facile d’imaginer la fin du monde que la fin du capitalisme ». Je constate la diffusion d’une sensation de rigidité politique et projective. Comme si les lignes droites s’étaient multipliées partout, y compris dans notre perception des temps futurs, où elles ont fusionné en une seule, rigide et inexorable.  

Dans le silence de ce carnet, je plaide pour une conceptualisation imagée[15] de l’Ordothélème, qui donnerait visage, figures et sonorités à nos peurs. Baudelaire disait qu’en ce monde « l’action n’est pas la sœur du rêve[16] ». Mon monde est désormais fait d’un entremêlement des rêves et de cauchemars. C’est aux cauchemars que je veux aujourd’hui redonner la juste place. Sous l’influence de l’Ordothélème, les miens sont aujourd’hui peuplés de diagrammes grotesquement rectilignes et de cris passés sous silence. Sous des latitudes compressées par des forces homogénéisatrices, j’entends le cisaillement de perpendiculaires s’entrechoquant dans un fracas métallique d’abord assourdissant, puis se répandant decrescendo sous des formes invisibles et pernicieuses. Hurlement de forge puis silence du silicone – et chaque jour davantage, négation de la mort, résistance à l’empathie, pleurs ravalés. La mort et le vide se répandent comme des tumeurs métallisées et les images satellites font de nous des spectateurices au premier rang de la troposphère – la vue est dégagée mais ça ne nous concerne déjà plus. La ligne droite est devenue la parfaite incarnation d’un infrastructure rampante, incontrôlée et disciplinaire[17].

Je me suis souvenu que la charpente des habitations arboricoles où j’ai passé quelques nuits étaient faites des grilles de protection siglées RWE. Ces grilles défendaient jadis la mine contre d’éventuelles intrusion. Volées par les militants autonomistes, elles sont désormais utilisées comme un matériau de construction. Dans cet étrange village, il s’agissait du seul produit manufacturé orthonormé – Orthothélème désactivé.

Sentant encore dans mon corps la vibration feutrée et minérale qui m’a révélé l’OT, j’ai de nouveau observé la mine par ordinateur. Un détail m’avait échappé. En le voyant, je me dis aujourd’hui que je ne suis pas seul. S’adressant aux hauteurs, aux satellites et aux forces planétaires, un signe a été tracé sur le sable au Sud-Ouest de la mine. Il est l’œuvre d’êtres qui ont conscience que l’anamorphose est aujourd’hui le seul mode de communication possible. Eux aussi ont désiré envoyer un message à l’Infrastructure.

               [1] L’imagination sans fils et les mots en liberté, (16° point), Marinetti

[2] Le Corbusier, La Ville radieuse, op. cit., p. 180.

[3] Jean Echenoz, Un an, Minuit, Paris, 2014.

[4] Cette dénomination et les critères associés sont inspirés de : Timothy Morton, Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology after the End of the World, U of Minnesota Press, 2013.

[5] Voir l’enquête vidéo de Forensic Architecture : <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLvo0H2JHAM&ab_channel=ForensicArchitecture>

[6] Pierre Madelin, Faut-il en finir avec la civilisation ? primitivisme et effondrement, Écosociété, 2020.

[7] John Locke, Traité du gouvernement civil, Flammarion, 1992.

[8]

[9] La perspective linéaire imite la perception oculaire à partir d’un point de vue défini. C’est généralement à quoi le langage courant fait référence avec le mot de « perspective »

[10] Peter Szendy, À coups de points :  la ponctuation comme expérience, Paris, les Éd. de Minuit, 2013.

[11] La perspective est le royaume où l’être-là est annulé au bénéfice de l’être-ici.  Je veux dire : « un ici quelconque, qui pourrait aussi bien être cet ici-ci, que cet ici-là. » (Szendy, 2013)

[12] Blaise Pascal, Pensées, Paris, Éd. de la Seine, 2005.

[13] « […] Je souffrais de voir à tout moment confondues dans le récit de notre actualité, Nature et Histoire, et je voulais ressaisir dans l’exposition décorative de ce-qui-va-de-soi, l’abus idéologique, qui, à mon sens, s’y trouve caché » Roland Barthes, Mythologies, Paris, Éditions du Seuil, 1957.

[14] François Furet, Le passé d’une illusion :  essai sur l’idée communiste au XXe siècle, Paris, France loisirs, 1995.

[15] Donna Jeanne Haraway, Manifeste cyborg et autres essais :  sciences, fictions, féminismes, Paris, Exils, 2007.

[16] Charles Baudelaire, Les fleurs du mal, Paris, Flammarion, (1857), 2012.

[17] Peter Szendy, À coups de points :  la ponctuation comme expérience, Paris, les Éd. de Minuit, 2013.

[anneesfolleshq]

Bonjour et bienvenue! Paris welcomes you, our Smuggler, Sébastien Dufort! May we say, you’re the spitting image of Shiloh Fernandez! Please make your presence known within 24 hours, and do have a look at our checklist before setting out into the city on your own.                                                                              À bientôt!

MUN

Name/Alias: Theo

Preferred Pronouns: They/them

Age: 22

Timezone: Pacific Standard Time. As for when I’ll be online, I work four days a week, but am online pretty much all evenings, my time, and am around pretty much all day when I’m not working.

MUSE

Chosen Skeleton: The Smuggler

Muse Name: Sébastien Dufort

Muse Age: 36

FC: Shiloh Fernandez

Muse Occupation: Smuggler

Muse Affiliation & Frequent Haunts: Seb doesn’t particularly have loyalty to one side of the Seine or another. I think for him, it’s better to have variety, not only with his work but also his interest in the goings on of the city, and the people who live there. His apartment is in Montparnasse, but you can find him at the street market just as often as you could find him on his own side of the river. If pressed, maybe he’d choose Montparnasse, as he frequents L’Enfer and Le Ciel considerably regularly, but it would be a hard choice.

Direct from Le Petit Journal:

Little is known about him, but this only makes Sebastien Dufort more of an interesting character. And it does not mean that he doesn’t know about you. It does not take long, talking to him, to learn that not saying much about oneself makes it all the easier to listen, and observe.

BIOGRAPHY

Sébastien Dufort was never meant to end up here. At least, that is what he’s sure one might think, if they looked at his life as a whole. He was born on his family’s farm, in rural France, and that’s where he assumed he would stay. He was the second oldest child in his family, and it was expected by their father that Sébastien and his brothers would take on full responsibility of the farm when he was too old to do so himself. And until he was twenty six years old, most of what Sébastien did revolved around that plan for the future. But in 1914, when World War One began, it all changed for him.

Suddenly, the place he had known as home, all his life, was completely changed. The war took both of his brothers in combat, and influenza his sister and parents. With his family gone, and for the most part, their home too, he truly felt as though he had nothing left.

When the war was over, Sébastien had no desire to go back to what was left of the farm, the thought of it was all too painful. Instead, he ended up in Paris. Becoming a smuggler was, originally, more of a necessity than a choice - He had to do something, and his skills in farming didn’t particularly come in handy in the big city. He did find, though, that he was actually quite good at the profession he found himself in, if it could be called that. On top of that, it was something that allowed him his silence. And it was all for the better that way, he thought, as he became almost an entirely different person. Sébastien the farm boy slowly faded away, replaced by something else, something with a slick grin, a rumor on his lips.

He did the best he could not to think about his life before. It was simpler. If people asked questions, he’d give them a brush off, redirect the conversation to something more interesting. And the city held plenty more interesting than his own sad story, so there was never much of a shortage. Eventually, he found he enjoyed it - He’d never been around so many people, and able to have a good time. For the most part, he is doing things only for himself, and he really believes that after so long of doing everything in his life for others, he’s earned this.

POTENTIAL PLOTS/CONNECTIONS

I really like the plots / connections in his skeleton ! Specifically the connection with the poet, I have a lot of headcanons about Sebastian getting more into the art scene.

Seb is the sort of person who spends most of his time listening to other people, and even when he does talk, it’s mostly about other people - I want him to make friends with someone he can open up to, and like just have a genuine connection with, rather than him covering up parts of himself up like he usually does. In his skeleton he’s described as someone no one can figure out and this would be like a long road but I want someone to know him for real. Something going awry with his work - He’s good at it, but not perfect, and I think that could definitely shake things up for him. Adventures! Getting stuck with someone, somehow, in some sort of troublemaking / adventure type scenario, maybe, as Seb tends to prefer to work alone. In general I want to force him out of his comfort zone of being kind of a loner.