Sunday, June 25, 2017

Wistfulness

Sifted memories,
Smithereens scattered
In the tangle of time,
Bathing in a droplet
of nostalgia
Of a lost paradise,
Absent, but retraceable
In the glow of innocence.
A vastness of pinks and blues
Washed up
on the tacit
Shore of consciousness
In the high tide
Of reason and feeling.


Friday, May 19, 2017

This Is Not a Poem

Liquefied silk,
Molten in ribbons,
Adorning the beating,
Wrapping the inconsolable,
A spark in the dark,
A comet missing its mark,
Fractals of light,
Beaming sight,
A fragrant petal
Under the world's plight,
The slumbering unspoken
Alive, but just a token
Of a spectrum unawakened.

Sunday, December 11, 2016

On Game of Thrones/A Clash of Kings


While HBO and aggressive DVD releases make it increasingly difficult to refrain from the temptation of watching the motion picture, I am sitting sternly on the trenches of paper and ink as I welcome the story of the Iron Throne into my reading history. I couldn't help but completely favor the Starks from the beginning. Their honor, pledge to truth and valor reminisce of values treasured since the olden days. I must say that the brutal turn of events of the first volume kept my interest for the second one barely alive, but I was captivated nonetheless. The prose is dense, with a myriad of intricacies covering several houses of the Westeros. The tale speaks of games of power, webs of treason and innumerable murders that color the story to say, at least. 

With Eddard Stark, you suffer an untimely death only to later learn how to avenge such injustice by catching the Imp and having justice follow its course. Slippery as he is, Tyrion finds a way out of the clutches of the Starks justice. His cunning ways captured my sympathy in the first book, but on a personal level I believe I'm allowed some feeling of ambivalence towards his character. His physical limitations impose themselves early on, which he obviously attempts to overcome by ruse, polished language and the occasional retort to his high-born origins. He is definitely a round character that hasn't ceased to amaze me even by the second book. His unpredictability makes him unique but also draws a line of fickle future allegiances. He seems to be capable of turning even against his own family if it would suit him. The rest of the Lannister House paints an even bleaker picture with concealed stories of incest, betrayal and royal meddling. Queen's Cersei's evil ways are a perfect match to Joffrey's foul temper as he hangs on to his betrothed of the Stark House. Young love soon turns into nightmarish captivity for the girl whose notion of knightly love is prematurely shattered before childhood leaves her. Her sister, on the other hand, took to more non-romantic interests which eventually helped her escape her captivity in King's Landing. She is one of my favorite characters whose grit and desire to overcome her condition is more than admirable. Arya Stark has an Amazonian quality about herself that she cultivates despite the prejudices set against women at that time. She makes it through a terrible journey with criminals and other low-borns only to end up a captive of the Lannisters again. However, they would not be graced by her presence for very long as she finds her way out of that cage as well. 

Image source: Game of Thrones
In his father's absence, Robb takes over command of Winterfell. Tension is diffused once he faces the Lannister force in combat and manages a well-coveted victory. He faces a terrible internal turmoil as he tries to balance out the remnant of his boyhood and the challenges of mature leadership. He slowly casts aside his mother's influence as a result of this process. At that point, Lady Catelyn perceives her son's attitude as a rejection piling up on top of her husband's death. Her stoicism in face of such challenges is quite commendable. 

Since all roads somehow lead to the Iron Throne or begin with the infamous seat, Daenaerys Targaryen is no exception to that fate. The now contender to the same throne, she gets accustomed to the taste of exile since an early age; later on, a forced marriage propels her into a precipitated coming of age that changes her destiny dramatically. The death of her "moon and stars" is yet the beginning of her new identity as mother of dragons that she brings to life through fire. It's a prophetic moment that strengthens her belief that a return to her rightful place is imminent. The manner in which such ideal will be accomplished is yet to be revealed in this stage. 

Outside of the royal spotlight lies the Night's Watch. A curiously garrison-style settlement that no only guards the realm against potential invaders, but it also separates the land of the folk from the land of forgotten creatures, magic and long-forgotten magic. Our valiant Jon Snow gets a taste of initially unwelcome adventure that he eventually accepts to turn it into a story of outcomes yet to bloom. His symbiotic relationship with Ghost sets him apart from any brother of the Watch. It is this very layer of protection that shields him from numerous encounters with death and unsavory friendships.



Saturday, November 8, 2014

Sur "L’élégance du hérisson"

L’élégance du’hérisson suit l’histoire de Renée Michel, une concierge d’un riche bâtiment parisien qui essaye de cacher son penchant pour les preoccupations intellectuelles. Ses efforts d’afficher un air ordinaire de concierge sont brisés par l’astuce d’une jeune locataire du bâtiment où elle travaille. C’est la jeune Paloma Josse dont l'intuition perçoit la réalité d’une intéligence fulgurance et d’une finesse d’esprit digne de quelconque intélectuel habitant ce bâtiment.

Le roman se lance dans une narration d' évènéments racontés par le filtre de Paloma et Renée aussi. Barbery entremêle les pensées de Renée racontées au présent avec les entrées de journal de Paloma. On touche sur des problèmes de philosophie, psychologie et même linguistique que le quotidien facilite. Au délice du lecteur, Renée et la jeune Paloma se lancent séparément dans une fine analyse de ses clients dont la stupidité, malice ou malevolence font la source d’une satire délicieuse. En fait, la critique sociale et morale de Renée et de la jeune constitute une sorte de baromètre du temps. Renée constate avec une sorte d’amertume resignée les contraintes et limitations sociales que la classe sociale dicte sans pitié en dépit de la passée du temps. Equipée d'une telle conscience, elle ne peut pas concevoir une vraie histoire d'amour avec le mystérieux et riche japonais qui venait de s'installer au 7 rue Grenelle. Ironiquement, ses pensees touchent son destin d'une manière cruelle lorsqu'elle perd sa vie dans un banal accident.

Photo retrieved @ http://www.renaud-bray.com/
Née au milieu d’une famille d'intéllectuels la petite fille est très précoce à dénoncer les fissures de la fausse prétention. Tout premièrement, chez sa maman et plus tard chez sa soeur année qui déborde d’une l'arrogance provenant d'une telle posséssion intéllectuelle que l'appartenance à une élite culturelle lui permet. Malgré d'une telle apparence désarmante, la petite soeur possède l'astuce de déchiffrer sa superficialité qui fait naître une sincère antiphatie entre les deux. Deçue par sa famille qui selon elle, ne vit véritablement, la petite fille considère le suicide. Le lecteur avisé sense, quand même, que cette intention n'est pas vraiment réele. Afin de tester la validité de sa décision, elle se propose de trouver des sources de la beauté du monde concentrée dans une routine quotidienne sous le titre de “la pensée profonde“. Dans ce but, Paloma se lance dans une fascinante épopée de la réflexion, de l'introspection et de l'observation. Cette habitude lui offre de nombreuses opportunités de connaître et de se connaître ce qui influe considérablement sur sa constatation qu'il vaut la peine de vivre. La nobilité de sa pensee reste dans la sincérité de sa quête qui questionne tout pour repondre à tout.

Muriel Barbery achève un chef-d'oeuvre dont la profondeur de la condition humaine dépasse l'éclairage entre l’appearance et l’essence. Avec une finesse d'aristocrate, elle tisse une dimenssion humaine qui touche sur la plus intime pensée du personage qu'elle peint. En guise de conclusion, voila un petit extrait qui a notre avis concentre l'esprit du roman qui émane de la profondeur tout en guardant l’air dégagé:


“Oui, l’univers conspire à la vacuité, les âmes perdues pleurent la beauté, l’insignifiance nous encercle. Alors, buvons une tasse de thé. Le silence se fait, on entend le vent qui souffle au-dehors, les feuilles d’automne bruissent et s’envolent, le chat dort dans une chaude lumière. Et, dans cette gorgée, se sublime le temps.“

Monday, August 25, 2014

Petits mots

Ça arrive quelques fois que je pense à mon grand-père et à sa mort déjà devenue lointaine. Il y a quelques années dès que l’évenément s’est passé. Au début, il était lointain en espace. Maintenant cet état s’est prolongé dans le temps aussi, en bâtant un mur additionnel dans la cité de l’oubli. Au dépit d’une telle conspiration, l’évenément est encore frais dans ma mémoire émotionnelle. J’ai encore le sentiment d’une absurdité incontrôlable. C’était comme si quelqu’un faisait dérouler devant mes yeux un film que j’étais obligée de mêler à la réalité. C’était dur, la mort. Je n’étais pas prête à en faire la connaissance. Personne ne l’est, je suppose. 


Toute de suite, j’ai vu cette merveille que l’on appelle la vie glisser vers le non-être. Un morceau de mon âme avait été arraché pour éternité. Il était amer, le goût de cette réalité. Le plus frappant c’est que ne fût pas un épisode isolé dans mon repertoire emotionel. Dès ce moment-là, presque entremêlées, la mort et la souffrance ont descendu du conceptuel dans le concret. La mort est devenue quelque chose si réel qu’elle semble vivante, si l’oxymorone le permet. Je me suis donné du temps à l’internaliser, à faire une sorte d’armistice. Dans ce procésus, j’ai eu la sensation de perdre le sense de moi, mais le temps et le mot m’ont servi de rempart. Essentiellement changée, je suis prête à continuer.

Friday, December 27, 2013

Untitled (IV)

Whenever I notice a man wearing a suit while holding what seems to be a professional camera, I immediately imagine, as in a kind of Pavlovian reflex, a wedding. Perhaps it’s the weekend and there’s nobody walking on the sidewalk except for this man. Every walker arrests my eye. I watch them mechanically, from the corner of my eye as if acknowledging their presence only half-way. This semi-conscious watching overlaps the busy rattling of my thoughts. I’m unsure if I enjoy the aggressive air conditioning spreading an obviously unnatural breeze inside the bus. The bus reaches my destination and I get ready to get off. As I get up from my chair, an arrow of cold pierces through every limb of my body making me reluctant to that movement. As I walk out of the bus, I feel pushed inside an asphyxiating heat whirl. The hothouse outside slowly penetrates my temporarily frozen body and the sensation becomes more bearable as I get used to the heat. My mind was still frozen, bearing the disturbing memory of the previous cold space.
It was the wrong bus. I stationed myself in the vicinity of the station with my legs crossed and gazed in the direction from which my bus was supposed to come. In those moments of tiresome expectation, you almost believe that if you stare hard enough that will suffice to make that bus appear. Instead, a tense tediousness installs itself and time suddenly dilates itself allowing any waiting mind to scrutinize the horizon line with a critical. I thought the bus was just around the corner. Instead, a beefy body emerges from the much gazed at street corner. The boy was wearing his large pants and California-style hat. His outfit sufficed to make that statement he certainly had in mind.
“Here, you can sit down, if you want to” he said.
As tempting as that sounded, I had to decline.
“No, thanks, it’s making my skirt crease.”
“You don’t happen to have an iron, do you?” he asked me.
“Excuse me?”
In the meantime, my bus had arrived. My interaction with his New York attitude was joyously drawing to an end.
“My bus is here. I have to go.”, I said.
“Nice talking to you. Good luck with your creases!” he added as a coronation of our short-lived conversation.

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Untitled (III)


           Where exactly was she taking conversation I did not know, but Madeleine used sinuous ways to make that spark in her thoughts pop out. I waited patiently for the sound of that pop. I knew it had to be something. The pure theory of our conversation as well as the raw reality that clung to it captivated me. I’d easily get the hang of it. Maybe that’s why we got along so well.

“Now you see those two oranges sitting on the table. Let’s pretend there’s this molecule somewhere in the outer space. And we don’t know about it yet.”
“Ok. That’s a pretty strong possibility”, I added.
“And also, that maybe by the time we get to acknowledge it, it will have moved here, here and there. But we’ll only know it existed here, at the point where we found out it existed.”
“And all the other points in which it existed are a collection of missed molecules. Or
maybe just missed opportunities. “
“Exactly. We’re blinded by our physical and mental limitations”, said Madeleine.
“That’s what Plato used to say when he tried to explain that we’re citizens of the cave. Light, dark, knowledge - all illusions, prisoners on the walls of the inescapable cave.” I  said as I reminisced some of the stuff that caught my attention during my high school philosophy class.
“Yes, I get your drift. But think about this as well. Macroscopic and microscopic level. You know the pattern in which planets align to?” Madeleine liked to branch off the conversation to unsuspected but nonetheless captivating areas.
“Yes.”
“And then this pattern is reflected at the microscopic level.” At this point, I wondering where she was taking it.
“What about humans? Where do we fall? Who holds the pattern?”
“We should as well. Humans have reason and emotionality. What you described before was mineral. No reason there.”
“That’s what I wanted to touch”, said Madeleine. “Is there one? And what is the pattern  that connects humans exactly?”

I hesitated for a moment, resting my chin on the back of my hand . Then, I said:

“Reason. It has to be reason. That’s it. Reason is the glue or, in another world, reason is the orbit on which we gravitate around each other. Or love..”

        I caught a subtle twitch on Madeleine’s face. She looked at me, then sideways as if searching for an answer in the space that surrounded her. This sight appalled me as the thought that answers float around us freely wearing fine disguises that only the sharpest of minds could unveil at the cost of a fleeting moment’s whim. 

    As she looked back at me, her composure changed and the light on her face blatantly shouted “Evrika!”.
“Um, I was trying to think”, she said.  Yes, I found it.”
“What exactly?”
“Anthroposcopic. That’s the human level.”

Eyebrows rose independently of my will, but she was right.

“It’s yours. You coined the term. You know, your theory about macro reflected into micro reminds me of something else. I think it all bleeds into Leibniz’s theory on the harmony of spheres. He said that there’s a sort of music between spheres that connects everything. I think there is. Nature speaks of it in small bits every day.”