"Bouge pas Andre!" - Normance by Louis Ferdinand Céline

 

 

Bouge pas Andre!

 

Normance by Louis Ferdinand Céline

 

 

The following article is about a novel of fiction by the now all but cancelled French 20^th century stylist which is much less well known than Voyage au bout de la nuit ( 1932) or Mort et credit ( 1936), both published in the same decade  when Céline first exploded onto the literary scene in France and internationally. After quickly becoming a hero for the left, he quickly lost favour once he let his political opinions be known in the first of his notorious pamphlets Mea culpa , published in the same year as his second novel,  in which he let his feelings be known about what he thought of the Soviet Republic having gone on a short trip to recuperate the royalties from his translated books there. Although, it must be said also that his second novel had prepared the way for his descent from grace, as the overuse of slang, cynicism, and the author’s overall vision of existential misery being the store of man’s human existence had already paved the way. However, Céline, never one to give up, after producing the anti-Semitic pamphlets, which had a considerable success it must be said mainly due to the rampant antisemitism that existed in France leading up to the war and during the war period, then returned to novel writing during the occupation. Normance ( 1954) covers the war years, particularly the years 1943 and 44 when the allies bombed the suburbs of Paris, and which Céline witnessed first- hand. Written just a few years after the war  while the author was living in exile in Denmark during the early fifties, Normance is a tour de force despite being relatively unknown in the English speaking world, as the 375 page novel is primarily concerned with describing a three hour bombardment of Paris, in which the author uses his typical keen eye and ear, and devasting sense of humour. I personally consider this book a very timely work to be reviewed considering the amount of civilians, once again, being systematically bombed out of house and home both in Eastern Europe, particularly, and in the Middle East.

(To be continued...

CV. Le vin des chiffonniers / CV. Wine of the Rag and Bone Men by Charles Baudelaire

CV. Le vin des chiffonniers

 

Souvent, à la clarté d’un réverbère

Dont le vent bat la flamme et tourment le verre,

Au cœur d’un vieux faubourg, labyrinthe fangeux

Où l’humanité grouille en ferments orageux,

 

On voit un chiffonnier qui vient, hochent la tête,

Butant, et se cognant aux murs comme un poète,

Et, sans prendre souci des mouchards ses sujets,

Épanche tout son cœur en glorieux projets.

 

Il prête des serments, dicte des lois sublimes,

Terrasse les méchants, relève les victimes,

Et sous le firmament comme un dais suspendu

S’enivre des splendeurs de sa propre vertu.

 

Oui, ces gens harcelés de chagrins de ménage,

Moulus par le travail et tourmentes par l’âge,

Éreintés et pliant sous un tas de débris,

Vomissement confus de l’énorme Paris,

 

Reviennent, parfumé d’une odeur de futailles,

Suivis de compagnons, blanchis dans les batailles,

Dont la moustache pend comme les vieux drapeaux.

Les bannières, les fleurs et les arcs triomphaux

 

Se dressent devant eux, solennelle magie !

Et dans l’étourdissante et lumineuse orgie

Des clairons du soleil, des cris du tambour,

Ils apportent la gloire au peuple ivre d’amour !

 

C’est ainsi qu’à travers l’Humanité frivole

Le vin roule de l’or ; éblouissant Pactole ;

Par le gosier de l’homme il chante ses exploits

Et règne par ses dons ainsi que les vrai rois.

 

Pour noyer la rancœur et bercer l’indolence

De tous ces vieux maudits qui meurent en silence,

Dieu, touché de remords, avait fait le sommeil ;

L’Homme ajouta le Vin, fils sacré du Soleil !

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CV.  Wine of the Rag and Bone Men

 

 

Often, through the clarity of a reverberating Red

Where the wind blows through the flames tormenting the glass,

There in the heart of some old district, labyrinthian mire,

There where humanity swarms fermenting storms,

 

We see a rag and bone man coming, lifting his head,

Banging it, and knocking it up against the wall like all poets,

And, without paying any heed to the whistleblowers, his subjects,

He then unloads all of his glorious projects from his heart.

 

He gives sermons, dictates some sublime laws,

Floors the bad, aids victims,

And, beneath the firmament like an upended saint

Gets drunk on the splendours of his own virtue.

 

Yes, all these people harassed by the quotidian,

Worn down with work, and tormented by age,

Fucked up and crippled by the weight of their own Shit,

Vomiting confusedly on enormous Paris.

 

Returning then, perfumed by the odour of the barrels,

Followed by companions, whitened from their battles,

Their moustaches drooping like old flags.

The banners, the flowers, and the triumphant arches

 

Stand up before them, the solemn magic!

And with the din of a luminous orgy

The clarion of the sun, the cries and a drum,

Bring about the glory of a people drunk on Love!

 

It has always been this way for frivolous humans

Wine rolls in gold, its dazzling jackpot;

Through the gorge of man it sings of its exploits

And reigns in this way like the old Kings.

 

To drown out the rancour and cradle the indolence

Of all of those old poor devils who die in the silence,

And God, touched by remorse, has made his bed,

Man adds wine, the sacred child of the Sun!   

 

 

 

 

 

Shades Through a Shade - Review of Gare Saint Lazare Ireland's latest theatrical production

 

 

 

 

Shades Through a Shade

Directed by Judy Hegarty Lovett

Gare Saint Lazare Ireland

 

Shades Through a Shade ( 23- 28 September), currently running in the Samuel Beckett Theatre as part of the Dublin Theatre Festival ( 26.09 – 13.10, 2024) is, as one should come to expect from any Gare Saint Lazare Ireland production, a dream within a dream within a dream conjured up with some bleak nightmare. Featuring texts by Gorgio Agamben, St Augustine, Dante, Beckett, Hildegard Von Bingen, Melville, and the philosopher Jean-Luc Nancy as well as texts from Julian of Norwich, Shades is theatre as you would imagine it played out in the sixties in Paris or California; in other words… hallucinogenic! The visual displays, Morgan Doyle, and music, by the composer Benedict Schlepper-Connolly, all help to create an incredible theatrical vibe and mood, which this reviewer was badly in need of to cure, somewhat, my post-modernistic dystopian blues.

A terrific cast of performers ( Natasha Everitt, Lux Lovett, Simon Jermyn ( Guitar), Conor Lovett, Trey Lyford, Seán Mac Erlaine ( Various instruments) and Julia Spanu ( Vocals) all help to individually add to a theatrical extravaganza that Judy Hegarty Lovett directs with a very strong hand. Textually, extracts from Dante’s Commedia and assorted pieces by Beckett, taken from the Trilogy as well as other works, are some of the more familiar works. There is a very strong association between both authors, Beckett read him in Italian when he was a young man at Trinity and still had his old copy of the Commedia by his death bed in the hospice in Paris, so Hegarty Lovett uses extracts from the two authors as a kind of vertebrae upon which she adds all of the other voices in an almost seamless intertwining and which creates a very strong sense of journeying.

Belacqua and Bartleby are the twin protagonists who take us through the, at once, surreal medieval landscape starting on Mount Purgatory where we find Dante’s protagonist, the ever slothful Belacqua, whom Beckett was to adopt as a doppelganger as a young student in Trinity where he appears first as far back as Dream of Fair to Middling Women and More Pricks than Kicks. Melville’s scrivener is a nice shoe in for Belacqua, Gare Saint Lazare Ireland equally mounted a lavish production of Moby Dick some years ago so what you find in Shades to a certain degree is a very sophisticated and experienced theatre troupe, I almost wrote Mountebanks, juggling texts from former influences from former works and inserting other elements, such as Agamben and Jean Luc Nancy alongside the triad of Christian thinkers already referenced.

Indeed, medieval hierarchy is an explicit theme in the central section of Shades of a Shade, the text is by Agamben and refers to the fact how hierarchical structures have been around in western thinking since Aristotle, continuing through Dante ( a divine comedy in which the protagonist, Dante himself, is guided by Virgil from the very lower ranks of Hell, right through the torturous climbs of Mount Purgatory till he meets his divine love Beatrice, who also makes a cameo in Shades) right up to the so called Enlightenment in the eighteenth century. The medieval hierarchy of Dante, incorporating extracts from Inferno, Purgatorio and Paradiso give a solid structure, and when the Florentine Master’s Dublin reincarnation is not paraphrasing, the sacred texts of Von Bingen and Julian of Norwich offer an uncanny and somewhat apocalyptic tenor that is all too timely, considering the very bleak political scene internationally. Humour abundantly abounds in the piece, as a very tenuous line is maintained by all the actors throughout the performance, whether they are jumping about like circus folk in a kind of dystopian commedia del art, or painfully crawling across the stage like so many figurines from a Flemish medieval master!

Another interesting development is the interjection of other texts by Hegarty Lovett, correspondences from, say, her to technicians or other possible members of the theatrical production, surely a nod to Foucault and his all too revolutionary upending of the traditional hierarchy by aligning all documents, like people, in the very all too modern horizontal clime of stratification; the modern hell! Something about the almost collegian sense of humour in these supposed random insertions makes one baulk in one’s chair, far more interesting to get back to the fire and brimstone of the Christian believers where Hell was a proper fiery place and where all the miscreants of creation are sent. I couldn't help but think of the great French historian and antropologist Emannuel Todd and his all too timely latest meditation on the link between a sytem of belief, religious that is, and the birth rates of a civilisation; according to Todd, due to our secular beliefs birth rates in the west are dramattically decreasing, while in other parts of the world, where belief systems are still in place, they are on the rise...! All of which seems to be evoked in Shades Through a Shade. 

So, if you are a poor and tired commuter looking for a little soulful engagement on the meaning of Life, yes, with a capital L, and everything in between, you could do a lot worse than run, (Yes RUN!) into Trinity and make your way to the rather austere structure made of wood and to be then taken hand in radioactive hand, and  in glove, by the pranking divine jokers of le la Gare Saint Beatific Players of dear olde Ireland…you won’t know yer arse from yer elbow, but sure whenever would you, says you!             

CXXVIII LE LÉTHÉ / LETHE, BAUDELAIRE

                                                                            CXXVIII

LE LÉTHÉ

 

 

Viens sur mon cœur, âme cruelle et sourde,

Tigre adoré, monstre aux airs indolents ;

Je veux longtemps plonger mes doigts tremblants

Dans l’épaisseur de ta crinières lourde ;

 

Dans tes jupons, remplis de ton parfum,

Ensevelir ma tête endolorie,

Et respirer, comme une fleur flétrie,

Le doux relent de mon amour défunt.

 

Je veux dormir ! dormir plutôt que vive !

Dans un sommeil aussi doux que la mort,

J’étalerai mes baisers sans remord

Sur ton beau corps poli comme le cuivre.

 

Pour engloutir mes sanglots apaisés

Rien ne me vaut l’abîme de ta couche ;

L’oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche,

Et le Léthé coules dans tes baisers.  

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CXXVIII

LETHE

 

 

Come to my heart, deaf and cruel soul,

Adored tigress, monster with the indolent airs ;

For a long time I have wanted to plunge my trembling fingers

Into the depths of your heavy mane ;

 

In your skirts, filled with your perfume,

Bury my obliterated head,

And inhale, like a faded flower,

The gentle relent of my defunct love.

 

I want to sleep! Sleep more than live!

In a sleep that is as gentle as death,

I will spread my kisses without any regret

Over your beautiful body polished like copper.

 

To engulf my deep tears

Nothing is not worth the abyss of your layers ;

A powerful forgetfulness lingers upon your lips,

And the Lethe that  spills out in your kiss.

 

 

 

 

Le Vin du Solitaire - Baudelaire

                                                             La patience ( 1943) Balthus 

                                                                                    

XCVI. Le Vin du Solitaire

 

Le regard singulier d’une femme galante

Qui se glisse vers nous comme le rayon blanc

Que la lune onduleuse envoie au lac tremblante ;

Quand elle y veut baigner sa beauté nonchalante ;

 

Le dernier sac d’écus dans les doigts d’une joeur ;

Un baiser libertin de la maigre Adeline ;

Les sons d’une musique énervante et câline,

Semblable au cri lointaine de l’humaine douleur,

 

Tout cela ne vaut pas, ô bouteille profonde,

Les baumes pénétrants que ta panse féconde

Garde au cœur altéré du poëte pieux ;

 

Tu lui verses l’espoir, la jeunesse et la vie,

-       Et l’orgueil, ce trésor de toute gueuserie,

                                             Qui nous rend triomphants et semblables aux Dieux !

 

 

 

  

XCVI. The Solitary Wine Drinker

 

 

 

 

 

The singular look of a gallant woman

Which glides towards us like a white light

Which the undulating moon sends to the trembling lake,

Where she wishes to bathe her beauty nonchalantly;

 

The last sack of crowns in the hands of a gambler;

A libertine kiss from the skinny Adeline;

The annoying and tender sounds of a popular song,

Which seems to contain the distant cry of all human pain,

 

All of this is not worth, o profound vintage,

The penetrating balm of your fertile paunch

Reserved in the fickle heart of the pious poet;

 

You give him hope, youth and life itself,

-       And Pride, that treasure of all rabble-rousing,

And which makes us triumph and feel just like one of  the Gods.

 

 

 

Approaching 80 000 hits...

 

When I made the decision to stop sending out my writing to 'third parties' and only publish here, instead, I suppose that I was taking a little bit of a gamble, but not really, to be honest with you. You make decisions based, typically, on a number of perspectives. One was out of sheer fucking boredom with the scene, if the truth were to be known. Seriously, I mean, particularly here in the IRP.

The way that woke has been digested here, hook line and sinker, is simply astonishingly bad. But then, are you really surprised? Respectability has always been a major factor here, and you can go back as far as you want. Personally, I tend to stop at Dubliners ( 1914), so that's already over 100 years ago!... Let that sink in...

My favourite word taken from that buke would be 'paralysis', which appears in the opening paragraph of the very first story The Sisters. I mean, has anything really fundamentally changed in the Irish psyche since the publication of that buke, I don't really think so. Do you? 

Anyway, let's not get into all that...

So, what I really wanted to say here is how touched I am that the counter up in the top left hand corner is approaching 80 000 hits. That's quite a bit, enough to merit comment and I want to thank you. Whoever you are! 

Baudelaire, as ever, is still top dog with my transversion of his wonderful sonnet Sisina, and which I have transversed as Wonder Woman, is now approaching 10 000 hits... Jesus! That is truly fucking remarkable. And it says everything about Charles Baudelaire and his timeless bloody appeal. Fuck woke! and the so called 'male gaze'! The bloody horse shit we have to put up with ....! 

Next comes Charlie again with my post announcing the AF 200th anniversary celebration that we had online with all those wonderful contributors worldwide... 619 hits. Then, A une passante, again Baudelaire, my transversion which I dedicated to R.J. Dent, the poet and translator, comes in at ... Oops! Sorry, beaten by Celine - my essay on Villon with a not to Beckett 355, the Baudelaire poem hit 326...

Some contemporary writers who score high; Daniel Wade 298 ( my review of his novel Land without Wolves), the Tunisian poet Dorsaf Garbaa ( my transversions of her poem Biography) 254, and the Canadian writer Marc de Severio, again at over 200 hits for his Crita Di Volta.

The essay of Heidegger and Dasein and some of my Beckett articles also feature quite highly, again all hitting above 200. So, a wide and distinct line of interest. Many thanks to you all again!

 So, this is to just inform you that my first novel The Fetishist is finally finished ( 90 000 words) and I will be sending it out to agents next week. I have also just started on the sequel The Drinker and there is a plan to write a third and final novel in the trilogy which will be The Suicide. That's it for now, this trilogy is now currently in progress...

 Hope to see you all back here soon again! 

The Fetishist, Reading the First two Chapters from my Novel in Progress