[Musical discussion] All of these are beyond my non-existent abilities.
Which does reminds me of an anecdote.
My year in Paris in 1972-3 coincided with a sabbatical of a Montreal friend, Jean-Eudes Vaillancourt, who was a pianist and director, and who had some high-falutin’ friends in the Paris musical world, among them the trumpetist André Bernard.
I ended up often in the presence of professional musicians. Always, when introduced, I’d get asked what instrument I played, the presumption being that I too was a musician. I’d always tell the truth, that I was a humble autodidact on the guitar, but continue on that I was an amateur, in the original sense of the world. A lover.
One memorable response: Mais, monsieur, sans les amateurs, nous autres, on jouera seul sans public. On a besoin de vous. On vous aime.
If the Neph’s ambition is Theatre Production, even a perfect Iranian candle wil not be able to help him meet Heather’s hopes ;-).
That snarky remark notwithstanding, congrats to all. You are certainly right that said nephew would never have gotten a job in his chosen field in the US (bcuz race), just as my entire career as a Africanist became possble because I went back to Canada. And was in the French playpen. This is something I say brazenly round here, usually to a yawn.
As for the NYR of Books, no need to bring me further evidence of its cliches and stereotypes, which reflect those of its “Yankee” left-liberal readers, a population which is addicted to buzzwords. One thing John has right in his anti-woke screed is that sticks-and-stones approach to “persuading” the enemy is destined to fail.
We are all racist in one way or another, even with members of another race whom we happen to love (one of Baldwin’s great insights). Those who are or have become invidious, violent racists (of which there may well be less and less in actual numbers), are not going to stop being violent or invidious because of this badge of honour being bestowed on them. Those who are marginally racist, wel, they are going to be offended and vote against their accusers.
There are, however, a few signs that Biden understands this: his decision to use positive messaging rather than negative messaging. But it is not worth pouring over the details.
I personally consider the whole thing to be so fundamentally fucked that it is barely worth the pixels. Ditto the French fiasco.
But I do have one minor correction of Zemmour’s bio, though I haven’t read and won’t Destin français. He hails from a Berber Jewish background, immigrated in the 50’s, would have spoken Yiddish, if he does at all, because of his frequentation with an Orthodox community.
I am also pro-Berber, albeit only notionally, but at least I know they exist and that the Berber Jews were only a fraction of them. Below, a pik of Nasrin and me in touristy-Berber costume, as the behest of our wonderful guide Wahid. Two years ago.
As a Berber Jew, Zemmour comes by his islamophobia “organically”, trice-removed, as it were. It is typical of the pro-Zionist cultural community which is the target readership of the NYR to deny the serious splits in the world Jewish community.
As for Latinx, I speak and read Spanish, not as much as I would like, to be sure, but I’ve never seen or heard the word in mouth of anyone who is not a an academic. Kiss of death.
Tonorrow I’m making a Sicilian Frittata of cauliflower, garlic and anchovy.
That’s about it.
Passing this to you because of the Rimbaud reference, typical French lit bafflegab.
Now I wrote on Yambo Ouologuem, the putative Rimbaud stand-in, directly at least trice when I was active. And I exploited the Rimbaud motif in a reviewYambo Ouologuem: Critical Essays, by Christopher Wise, Research in African Literatures, 31.1 (Spring 2001), 136-38.
I’ve tried to retire the Guardian from my rotation, but have never succeeded, in part because it is the “tabloid of the soft Left”, as I once had the wit to call it. There is no other tribune for the Left, unfortunately. Maybe because there is no Left left.
Still prefer it to the the NYT and WaPo, despite its manifest BS / PC drivel. Yet calling Nina Hagen “punk” is a minor misdemeanor. She called herself such: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nina_Hagen. I’m known as someone not particularly fond of (especially US) popular culture and music. But I “got” euro-punk in its time more than most, including many Americans.
See below for a pik of Ingrid doing Hagen during Fasching circa 2014. She was very special, loved singing Brecht and other oldies but goodies in Kraut. Even did a Kraut version of Girl from Ipanema, Das Girl von Innsbruck. We used to sing Dreigroschenopen together.
I share your disparagement of German pop music being too often in English. But I’ll give it to them over the French in this regard, since at least most Germans I know do know English well enough to sing along. Austrians, even more.
Recently subscribed to the Monde and …. to the South China Morning Post, my fav English language read, these days. Not to be provocative, but I am pro-China, and in many ways. Put that in your pipe ;-).
I share your discomfort with the follow-the-science litany, esp when “they” don’t follow it themselves. But note that your understanding of things is a scientific one. No one should be surprised by the emergence of Omicron (“little O”), nor by the rest of the Greek alphabet. But while it is true that we won’t know what damage they will wreak, how things will work out, we do know what’s going on. It will not end with Omega (“big O”).
What rots my socks is that we love attributing “thinking” to viruses. Unless folks are willing to alter what they think thought is, viruses don’t think. They mutate. Sometimes it “works out for them”, sometimes not. Omicron is an example, it is already scientifically safe to say, in which it’s worked out for SARS-CoV2, in terms of various functions, esp transmissionability.
(Of course, maybe thought itself is just a series of mutations, of electro-chemical reactions ….)
Despite subscribing to Monde, I am not really interested in the elections. Zenmour will have the effect of re-electing little Macron, playing into his hands by shifting the elections to the right. Which is where Emmanuel belongs anyway.
But to open a can of anecdotal worms, let me take up your proposed topic of DeGaulle. To answer your question I’ll have to go back to my first full Sunday diner with a French family, sometime in October, 1965.
I didn’t move in with Helena until December, 1965 and we maintained the social fiction that we were not lovers thoroughout. Until that time, I was hot in pursuit of a young French thing I’ll call Gisèle (forgot her real name). Now I never saw Gisèle socially after Dec, though I was that point getting close to the big O. Heavy petting, FIV, etc. — smelt like clean shit. But she, like all French women for the rest of that year abroad, didn’t buy our story that Helena and I were sibling-like. She knew. Probably all the French boys, swarming around Helena like proverbial bees, knew but didn’t care. The fact that I was having my way with her only served to incite them further, since if that twerp Georges could, maybe they could too.
In any event, one indication that I was getting close was that Gisèle had me meet her family, who lived in the burbs of Grenoble. The father was a fine old chap. He vetted the shit out of me. Taught me pétoncle — err.. pétanque. Shared cognac with me. But at that first Sunday diner, late luncheon it was actually, there was a row between him and his brother-in-law. I couldn’t believe it, arguing about a then century and a half old figure, so I asked Gisèle. I admit that most of the nuance of the luncheon debate did escape me at that point in my apprenticeship in French, but really, I had gotten the gist.
Gisèle, who in retrospect had keen insight, explained simply that they were arguing about DeGaulle and Algeria, but couldn’t quite say it. The Vercors, a mountanous plateau just west of Grenoble, had been a centre of the Resistance and families were still divided about that, but also about the conceivably treasonous choice of DeGaulle to decolonize Algeria. It took years before I heard reference again, even indirect, in bourgeois settings to Algeria.
I had been taken in hand by the local student Trotskistes, the only frogs I knew who were reliably friendly with foreigners. Several of them, who had an admitted impact on my slowly forming decision to resist the draft, had spent time in the brig for passing arms to the Algerians. But I also admired Malraux. My BA comp lit honours thesis was a comparison between Hemingway’s and Malraux’s take on the Spanish Civil War. And Malraux had gotten in bed with DeGaulle.
A mere three years later it was 1968. De Gaulle played his cards beautifully and France finished off the Trente Glorieuses intact. I would have despised the man, De Gaulle; he me. But I do have a certain respect for him. And admit that he harboured une certaine notion de la France, one which is widely shared. The way things are shaping up, it is will be shared even more.
Let me also admit, just to you, that I am tempted to espouse the French CP attitude, contra Sartre et al, that Algeria was France. And to wish for an alternative reality in which it might have stayed true.
Thanks for the follow-up on Big Ed and SHA. We’re all racing to the finish line.
The tone of the first chapter of Admiring Silence reminds me of Paul Beatty’s The Sellout, the former reflecting the racism of the English and their immediate insular subjects, the latter the particularly vicious forms of it as practiced in the US.
“Gurnah integrates bits of Swahili, Arabic, and German throughout most of his writings. He has said that he had to push back against publishers to continue this practice, while they would have preferred to “italicize or Anglicize Swahili and Arabic references and phrases in his books.” Gurnah has criticized the practices in both British and American publishing which want to “make the alien seem alien” by marking ‘foreign’ terms and phrases with italics or by putting them in a glossary. < Wiki Gurnah:
“Don’t tell them those kinds of stories. They’ll just lap them up and start up on their racist filth” < Emma, the hero’s English lover-wife. “I even suggested we get married, for the baby’s sake, but Emma laughed at my bourgeois anxieties.”
During Mwinyi’s terms Tanzania took the first steps to reverse the socialist policies of Julius Nyerere. He relaxed import restrictions and encouraged private enterprise. It was during his second term that multi-party politics were introduced under pressure for reform from foreign and domestic sources. Often referred to as Mzee Rukhsa (“Everything goes”), he pushed for liberalization of morals, beliefs, values (without breaking the law) and the economy.
‘It’s going to be a girl,’ I said. ‘And we were thinking of calling her Pocahontas.’”
‘Your Self’s grown gross, a dog that sleeps and feeds.’ Farid ud-din Attar, < The Conference of the Birds (1177)
Already by chapter three part one in Admiring Silence, the picture becomes clearer when Gurnah depicts the havoc wrought by the Africanization, the black Africanization of Tanzanian nationalism, though he passes over in silence, so far, the slavery and the … evil of Omani hegemony, reserving his satirical barbs for the English, and letting his own family, including the pious patriarchy of his Uncle, off the hook.
Part Two shows even more the disillusionment of which many other African wrters expressed after independence.
How telling it has become that we now read works of aictionn in terms of whom they blame.
He was, after all, a Wahhabi, those lovers of the unadorned word of God, zealots of the Sunna, the muwahhidun. The original Wahhabis were the fundamentalists of fundamentalists, and could proudly take their place among the fanatical crazies of any religion.
Omanis (64%) Bububu, which was a kind of heartland of Omani occupation. (56%)
So they had one of their mad conversations in the Revolutionary Council for the Redemption of the Nation, and decided that these women were racists, God’s truth. That was what these racists to shame all racists arrived at as a way of forcing those women into their beds, may God strike them with vile diseases in old age. Racism is an evil which our nation cannot tolerate, the radio announced the same evening. (66%)
Why do I say our societies when we are all so different, from Timbuctoo to Algiers to Havana to East Timor? Because in this we are all the same, that we keep silent and nod – for fear of our lives – while bloated tyrants fart and stamp on us for their petty gratification. (87%)
Adui = SW the enemy
Admiring Silence belongs in the category of the second, post-independence phase of novels of “disillusionment” (dKwei Armah, Ouologuem, even Soyinka), a tendency commented on, including by yours truly in trhe 70s and 80s),but which is casually omitted by contemporary critical theory or poco…
The tragedy of mixing blood. (Obama’s paternal grandfather was absolutely opposed to having “the Obama blood sullied by a white woman” (p. 126, Dreams from my Father)
’‘I don’t think I ever got over those early days, though. Even after all these years I can’t get over the feeling of being alien in England, of being a foreigner. Sometimes I think that what I feel for England is disappointed love.’ (93%)
lBut now I spoke in Kiswahili,”Ala, mtu wetu,’ he said. You’re one of us. ( 90%)I made up the whole pack of lies which was my life with her because I could. (97%)
In 1969 I was drafted into the US Military, enough of a national emergency to send young men off to a war in Southeast Asia. I disagreed with the policies and the ethics of that war, even though they were declared a public good.
Think of the penalties the unvaccinated will be forced to pay as being like a draft. If you don’t want to suffer them, then face the consequences.
I became a felon, a fugitive to Canada, gave up my citizenship and faced innumerable instances of legal harassment over my subsequent lifetime..
If you do not accept vaccination for the public good, then at least leave the country, like I did.
There is always a chance, here admittedly slim, of a later amnesty.
(For the record, I was amnestied by President Carter in 1977, my citizenship, which was illegally taken from me in the 70s, was formally restored in 2009.)
“Richard Olney unpacked the way the French plan a menu and synchronize not only the dishes but the wines, occasion, time of year and company, to make a meal a work of art. He also gave us a model for eating that’s close to the earth and of living simply and beautifully.”
SJ intervenes :
Gosh, can I come as Richard?? He’s pretty handsome. I guess I’ll have to take up smoking …
I reply (GL) :
If we doin’ drag I am too small to become Julia.
Richard always wore the same thing: cord espadrilles, khaki shorts and a usually checked cotton short sleeve., substituting long pants whenever restaurant protocol required. I don’t have any espadrilles anymore but when in the south of France I dressed just like him.
Yes, he smoked Gaulouses until he died at 71. He was one of rhe few who was allowed a post-prandial … cig at Chez Panisse. He called them “fags”. And I was allowed to smoke alongside him. His palette was based on nicotine, he claimed.
SJ replies :
Hah! Thanks for the sartorial details! Wish I had espadrilles, but I’ll pass on the Gauloises.
They, Gauloises, haven’t been for sale in the US for decades now. Fear of US litigation. The first years I was here I used to always bring back some packs from EU.
I love y’all! I was just joking. And I loved those pics because Richard was in slacks and I thought barefoot in his kitchen. Thanks George for the espadrilles history. I presume the photographer or perhaps Julia insisted on the slacks. 😂
Since we’re on this jag, two more with Richard (courtesy of Judith Olney)
With James’s first wife, Judith, herself the author of several cookbooks. She’s on Instagram and still teaches cookery in Miami Beach.
With his buddy Georges Garin in the stripèd tee, and Richard’s friend Mary Painter, by then Mary Garin, circa 1969. She was the dedicacee of Another Country. For more lit gossip see the second item in https://lithub.com/behind-the-dedications-james-baldwin/. Baldwin once said, “When I realized I couldn’t marry Mary Painter, I realized I could marry no one.”
Finally, the calling card of Garin’s resto on the Left Bank.I had a fabulous 4 hour luncheon there as Mary’s guest in November, 1972, from which I emerged inebriated beyond measure to confront the full façade of Notre Dame in 5pm sunset glow. Took a cab back to my hovel in the 14th and slept until the next morning.
For info: Richard’s espadrilles were the basic provençal version, the rope sole with light canvas uppers. He would go through a couple of pairs every summer. Didn’t mind going barefoot either.
For those who haven’t seen it, R’s portrait of James Baldwin.