Le chanson de Roland ( 12th century, anon )

 

The Song of Roland

Anon 12^th century – from the olde French

 

 

Charles the King, our great Emperor,

For Several years now he has been in Spain,

And from land to sea he has conquered.

 

Not a Castle that stands before him remains

Walls nor city, nothing is left for him to take

But Saragossa, which is on a mountain.

 

The King of Marseilles holds onto it, whom God

Not loves, Mahommed serves and Apollo invokes,

None apparently can prevent this disaster unfolding. AOI !

 

The Emperor is happy and elated,

Cordres he has taken and the walls he has pierced,

With his catapults the towers abated.

 

Much booty have his Knights taken,

Gold and silver and precious stones.

 

In the city no pagan is left

Who has not been killed or become Christian!

 

The Emperor is in the orchard

Together with Olivier and Roland,

Sansun the Duke and Anseis the Proud,

Gefreid of Anjou, the Standard Bearer to the King,

And also Gerin and Gerers;

There where they were gathered, there were also

Many other; at least 15 000 from fair France.

 

 

  

https://lrc.la.utexas.edu/eieol/ofrol/10

NOT WOKE NOT WOKE NOT WOKE - An extract from The Deplorables ( novel in progress)

 

 

 

For all the little  So-Called Poets…!

 

Those fuckwits, halfwits, and assorted egomaniacs. Pissing the words on the page, my urine reads and tastes better. Seriously! Where did these idiots come from? Firstly, you just have to take one look at their awful mugs. Physiognomy of the intellectually derelict. Look at these fat fuckers! Asses so sunk into their lazy boys, Croc strapped, their feet. Orthopaedic in their so called thinking, thinking on their feet. Infested with fungus. Camembert..! Stilton, two week old Gorgonzola laying dormant in the backpack, missing in action. Out on the fields for days, out with Martin Hayes, Under the Moon, down at the slopes, slugging from the river, eating John Groats.

Where do these triple distilled eejits come from? What cabbage patch in the doldrums? Shitting in their minds, the back ditches mind, down in the boreens, no fucking Mauríns…! Hanging out in groups, that’s another thing. Almost in uniform, uniform of mind – chlorofoamed – glasses to somehow enhance the optics. Not pretty, in fact, utterly shitty. Shitty doesn’t even half describe it. And such sycophants. Sycophancy as schooling. Doctorates innit! All gowns and caps and balls, totally testiculed. Skewered seaward. Bucolic bollocks. All herbs and roses. Not the cunting kind, too fleshy for it. Too aromatic. Too sensual. No sex innit.

All the so- called poets of Blarney Castle and environs. Piss on the stone and clap em’ in irons. Their shenanigans. All peace and sweaty arses. Woke as fuck, their lightweight craniums with mere shit for brains. I sit and shit in em’. Wet warm mulch to parallel their own rotten thoughts. Mushroom addled; the tea sipping, quilt hugging, motherfucking morons. Called a spade a maid. Chamber pots out the window. Land right on their big glow. The fuckwits a plenty. Bright eyes and smiles… when did they ever think that writing poetry was nice? Where in the name of Jesus did they get this idea from? What a bunch of fraudulent shitwits.

Seriously! All ethics and morality… nicely nicely nicely… Sweet cunts! Where did such addle brained fuckwits ever descend from? Did they not read the Bible? The Old Testament, like! Even the New. Christ chasing the cunts out of the Cathedral, kicking sandal loads of arse out of the shisters…No, but they still come along with their cretinous smiles, so incest laden to make you burn enough incense to clear your brain. Clear it from the evidence of the shit stains. All Armitage Shanks in the cranium drains. Fuckwits a plenty in the fool of ships. Oceans and oceans of em’, ladle and ladle them over the plains. The plains of boredom falling with torrential rains.   

Not Woke my little halfwits. Not Woke, my little shit for brains. Not Woke my little tulips. Not Woke, my little meandering trains....! NOT WOKE NOT WOKE NOT WOKE OVER AND OUT 

« l’écriture des nuages !… » Song & Dance in Féerie pour une autre fois I by Louis Ferdinand Céline

                                                         Illustration de la Ballade des pendus

                                                       extraits de Testament de Francois Villon. ( 1490)

 « l’écriture des nuages !… »

Song & Dance in Féerie pour une autre fois I

 by Louis Ferdinand Céline

In the following article, I wish to examine the role that song – chanson – and dance – danse, or more to the point ballet, play in Louis Ferdinand Céline’s fourth great novel project ( 1952) Féerie pour une autre fois I  and in parallel how the two literary figures also play out, and which are at the same time intertwined with the concepts of music and dance also, and they are La chanson du Roland, the first great epic text in the French literary tradition ( 11^th century) and whose author remains anonymous, and secondly the figure of Francois Villon, the medieval poet, and whom the French stylist has for so long been associated with. Starting with the title of the novel, we shall first explore Céline’s extraordinary vision of himself and his work in the French literary tradition, and this is the testimonial factor of Céline and which he inherits from Villon and yet which he describes as his work as a chronicler of the human condition. From here, we will move onto prison life, again this is something which Céline shares with Villon, and the very particular genre of prison writing and which French literature is particularly rich in. From Villon and stasis of prison, we will move onto chanson du geste and in particular La chanson du Roland and which Céline evokes explicitly in Féerie pour une autre fois I. This is really the most singular aspect of Céline, the case I will be largely making, how Céline attempts to unite his prose, and explicitly so, with early epic French poetry. Though, what makes him truly unique, I believe, is how he also uses song and dance to create his inimitable style.

 

To begin, Louis Ferdinand Céline ( 1894-1961) was an absolutely extraordinary figure in French 20^th century literature and I can think of no such English speaking author who can compare with him in terms of sheer thematic scope and literary inventiveness, except perhaps James Joyce ( 1882- 1941) and Samuel Beckett ( 1906- 1989). This may seem like a bold claim to make, particularly when, as I write, Céline’s books cannot even be found on the shelves of the book stores in Dublin. Further proof, I would assert, of Céline’s relevance and contemporariness; he was cancelled during his own lifetime and remains, particularly in the English speaking world, a very much misunderstood figure who is hardly read any more. This is a great shame, as he has much to tell us about literature, and ourselves.  

To be continued...! 

                                         

La vrai vie est ( toujours ) ailleurs !.... Real Life is ( always) elsewhere...!

 

La vrai vie est ( toujours ) ailleurs !....

 

With apologies to Rimbaud, but it is always true – real Life, is elsewhere! Particularly, when you become so disenchanted with the times that you find yourself in… The current! Disenchantment with almost everything… the so called culture , the environment… socio-politically and just socially… Everything!...

Personally, I always begin to feel a little disenchanted when I have been stuck in the same place ( IRL) for at least six months. Apart from a short trip to France recently, I was only out of the c(o)untry for a short week last June in sunny Sardinia. At least, over Christmas, in a couple of weeks, it will be possible to put one’s feet up for a while and forget the God damn commute, and all the suffering joy that it brings…!

I should not complain, of course. After all, I am one of the lucky ones! So, imagine my happiness, yes real happiness!,  when the latest instalment of Céline books came via Amazon this morning; I opened my door only to be confronted by a brown cardboard pillow ( envelope) lying at my feet. “Could it be,” I thought…

Quickly, bring the packet inside, I opened it to discover Féerie pour une autre fois ( Folio, Gallimard), Á l’agité du bocal ( L’Herne), and finally Ballets sans musique, sans personne, sans rien ( L’imaginaire, Gallimard).

It’s like a fix, at this stage. After reading the preface to Féerie, by Henri Godard, I already know that I must get Maudits soupirs pour une autre fois next, as it is all part of the same project along with Normance, which I have partially reviewed here. I know, I need to finish this article but I’ve been working my balls off and academic style writing, right now, is simply not on the cards girls and boys!

I need a bottle of Calva, which my good brother will be brining up to me, and a few days snuggled up on the couch with the hund ( Argo) before I get back to that lark.

In the meantime, here’s another little extract from The Deplorables…!

 

 

 

 

 

 ***********************************************************************

 

 From The Deplorables 

 

 

 

There is talk of war. There has been now for some time. My generation is unusual in this respect as it will be our first time. Our first time, in a real war I mean.

It’s a funny thing, you prepare yourself all your life for the eventuality of it happening but then, when it is actually about to kick off, for real this time, you just can’t believe it all the same.

People can be such cunts, you know. CUNTS….! Absolute fucking cunts. There’s no getting away from this revelation. Of course, I knew it all the time.

In times of so -called peace, you could always see it. The sheer cuntdom of some people. Not all of them, mind.

There are always one or two good ones. One or two, mind. No more.

I’ve been following the news more than usual, of course. It’s still far away, in the middle east, but it will come here too. It’s been a while, about 100 years. So, people here have become quite complacent.

Oh, they will be reminded very quickly just how bad it can get. They take things for granted. Food, heat, and a roof over their head. Wait till their houses are destroyed and they have no food to eat… That is when they will find God again. You’ll see.

It would be comic if it were not so fucking tragic, in the end. A real comedy. Yea.

I have always been wary of people. It must be my upbringing. Total cunts, of course. Parents!...Jesus, they should have just tied a knot on it.

The Chinese, now, they are a serious people. One child is enough.

Listening to people is the most difficult thing imaginable. Their wants…their specific needs. Most people can’t even do it. Listen properly, I mean. Cunts. You see!

It’s one of the most immediately recognisable features of a cunt. They actually become physically uncomfortable trying to listen to others…

I have actual empirical proof of this fact. Can you imagine!...

Such is the scope of their egotism. CUNTS…!

How do you recognise a cunt?

Talk to him, and if he squints kick him in the bollocks.