"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!