What Happend To Fakku.net?

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Bottle Cap Wristbands Meanings

Last Words ...

We will say enough is finished, it will be better right away.

No mystery.

However ... No, I will not give up like that. There is a sequel to the story that I started there over five years now. Only later will be done elsewhere, simply.

Please, continue ...

It happens here: http://www.voircicontre.fr/cuisine

Take advantage to update your bloglines now adding three addresses below:

• http: / / www.voircicontre.fr/cuisine/ (blog kitchen)
• http://www.voircicontre.fr/photos/ (Photo Blog)
• http://www.voircicontre.fr/ (homepage)

you soon ... and return on these pages whenever you please, they will remain available until the gods l'Internet and Blogger are requested. It is true that I was not so bad ... :)

Ammonium Sullfate And Phopshate Buffer

Life in brief, 2 - by Julie (Ex. No. 16) Suicide

Zenobia Maindefer cematin died at the ripe old age of 88. 88, it is clearer still that 87 ou89. It is well recognized is his unreasonable love of order also bienmatériel moral, who had very young decopulation diverted any cravings - which we never found any trace her home, even during lespoussées hormonal adolescence. At that tender age, she already doomed àrendre impeccable family inside, wielding the brush and the Bible with uneardeur that bordered on self-flagellation. The careful observer would puremarquer with some embarrassment that she was pulling something on the order duplaisir, but the font paths frogs are impenetrable, they are like Zenobia surtoutquand remained spinsters, and proud of n'avoirpas helped growth "hell" of the population mondiale.Qu it then returns to dust ... But if he remains.

Julie

Silver Dip And Cancer

Salon du roman - By Bruno De La Vega (Ex No. 16, 1)

SUICIDE OF FAIR ROMAN

The lounge of the novel is dead, Saturday evening enregion Paris.

The newspaper and the author of ceslignes are obviously collapsed and offer their condolences to the family beyond great literature.

Circumstances surrounding cettedisparition are tragic, but we can not write anything here that nelaissait predict this. Indeed, we had met the fair romanquelques days before his fatal gesture. He had told us and Tonetti somewhat depressed, "You know, it takes the énergiepour continue to keep me like this, right in my boots, all ans.Alors that I can well tell you, I am sick and tired of this populationd'auteurs, who only think about coming home, for fun, go unweek-end leisure, booze, binge at the expense of Princess, assouvirleur need to copulation, claiming me to present their latest work, laplupart time, a book written in a hurry, kind of bad, black, humorous, or worse both. I know it's my fault that j'auraisdu be more vigilant and not allow the coming of true literature books, with two large L

We do not think this flagellation was premonitory of premature death ... but we will read it before each book of great literature, the authors dare mauvaisgenre sometimes described as dusty, even boring, unepensée we moved to our living room disappeared.

Bruno De La Vega

Frenchy Rock Of Love Movies

Life in brief (Writing Exercise No. 16)


Write the obituary of a person of your choice
In exactly fourteen lines and spaces up to 70 signs (980 signs so Maximum total)
Ton: preferably humorous (even caustic)
By using the word "copulation", "flogging" and "population" at least once


publication as and when received, as of usual. A
your keyboards!
Mar (c) tin

Average Dress Size Of Women In America

Interlude

Marilyn Rolland, space space

Where To Get Cheddar Ranch Fritos

Ramón Sender, Requiem for a Spanish Peasant & the Ford: the threshold of love and death ...

"No, not me. Someone else who suffers.

Me, I could not suffer so much.

What happened, a black cloth covering it,

And that outweighs the lights ...

Night. "

(Anna Akhmatova, Requiem , translation, Jean-Louis Backes, Gallimard, 2007)

There are books that are not recovering. Placed in our way a little drive by chance, according to a meeting, sharing, they enter our lives for ever does emerge. Their reading snatches us, enchants us, transforms us: to be read another, richer experience transmitted remotely by an unknown author ... An intrusion painful and salutary. Thus, this beautiful object, thin book, however, Published by Attila, containing two stories Ram ó n Sender: Requiem for a English peasant and The Ford is a deeply moving reading, one of those we do not emerge unscathed.

Sender, whose lives have been tragically marked by the English Civil War, is a writer in exile, but the remoteness of his native country does not abandon the fight, that it has adopted since his youth, against injustice and fascism. Literature is for him a means of preserving the memory of painful years: he lost during these sad events his wife and his brother shot by the Nationalists. Her works, beautiful and pure, are a mirror of this tragedy. Between the lines of the Requiem por un campesino English ñ ol and El vado unfolds the complexities of the human soul struggling with the war.

Requiem for a English peasant is a short novel (a little over eighty pages only) strong hot. Originally entitled M ó sen Mill á n , named after its protagonist, a priest confronted with fascism and treason, it was first published in Mexico in 1953. Long forbidden in Spain - his possession was a crime punishable by death - but it circulated clandestinely before being freely circulated after the death of Franco. The work opens with preparations for a Requiem Mass said for Paco, a young man shot by the Phalange. In the sacristy, the priest, M ó sen Mill á n, is alone with the altar boy. It awaits the arrival of the villagers who are slow to appear. However, Paco is a hero on which circulates a song in which the child repeats the words:

"And now the Paco du Moulin

he has been sentenced

and he weeps over his life,

way to the cemetery. "

This recites his verse romance throughout the story, over the memories of the priest who accompanied all the key moments of the existence of Paco, of his baptism to his last confession ... The novel chronicles place This passion - a chronicle of death foretold since the existence of the young man was already completed when the text evokes for the first time. The drama was well established before, and the reader finds himself caught in a reverse chronology, dating back to childhood Paco, reasonable and imaginative child, whose vivacity and curiosity aroused the affection of the priest. The boy flourished under the benevolent gaze of M ó sen Mill á n, which remembers every episode religiously significant of the existence of the young man

"Eyes closed, M ó sen Mill á n still remembered the day of the wedding of Paco."

These reminiscences recreate the image of a young man right and courageous, standing up against the minions of the Franco regime that surround the village and engaged in this struggle of the powerful against the villagers. The story, uncluttered but dense portrait of a rural community which emerge from the amazing people and burlesque, as Jer ó nima, midwife and healer, the priest who runs it contradicts religious rituals. The village women gather around the Carasol , the wash, instead of all the gossip and ridicule. Thus the drama is tinged comedy sometimes, as in games that oppose Jer ó nima to shoemaker, the enemy cried at his murder. But the tragedy is inevitable, a procession of shadows accompanies the lives of villagers to measure the progress of the phalanges. Men are killed, those caves, too miserable to live in a house:

"A group of young people arrived at the village, the son of good family, with sticks and pistols.

They looked like little, and some were crying hysterically. There had never seen people so shameless. Normally, these boys clean shaven and smart as women, they were called, in Carasol, small cocks, but the first thing they did was spend a tremendous beating to the shoemaker without his neutrality he used to anything either. Then they shot down six farmers, four of those who lived in caves, and they left their bodies in ditches of the road leading to the Carasol. As the dogs came to lick the blood, they posted themselves one of Duke's guards to remove them. Nobody asked anything. No one understood anything. The guards did not intervene against civilians and foreigners. "

In the story fits into the story of a watermark ravaged country, d a rural prey to the threats back to the time of serfdom. Sender never explained the situation: it suggests the keys engaging the reader in the discovery phase of destruction committed by the fascists. Beyond politics, this tragedy reveals unexpected behaviors, and betrayal has just where we least expect it. Disaster staging - or rather, revealed with finesse - reveals the complexity of the human soul, led to intolerable choice ... However, humanity remains in remorse half assumed, in this regret for a priest celebrating the memory of one he loved ...

The Ford, a short novel written in 1948 and previously unpublished in French, returns to the theme of betrayal already fundamental Requiem for a English peasant . In a stunning beauty, this tale is clear and poetic also developing around the memory of the dead. Indeed, two years before the beginning of the story, Lucy has denounced the husband of his sister Joaquina, the man she loved. The weight on mine awareness, she feels the need to confess but have not found the courage. Gold person, moreover, is ready to receive the burning secret. Lucy, then, finds an echo in the nature of his suffering, and the swollen river and the ford where she found her sister, echoing his grief and guilt. Fleeing the human world, she confides to the elements, wind, water flow turbulent, and it receives a rumor ... Nature thus reverberates in his despair.

"She turned back to the orchards and the village. Half of the morning was already passed. She could not bear to have it behind the distant hill that overlooked the cemetery. The more she thought, the more it was difficult. She rose, and taking the basket, she leaned on her left hip. Then she tried the ford and crossed on dry slabs that emerged at short intervals. On the opposite bank, she saw the village and the cemetery. And she tried to capture the murmur of waters, through the ford, he spoke, saying words that she could not decipher. "

Gradually the voice of the water it becomes clear: she hears the echo of his soul: "lamperolina - lamperolana", "informer, informer." And the river, rather than the purified, confronts his ghosts. A shirt flies, the wind blow it up and the door, the man loved spectrum and denounced. And watching the madness prevails, making his confession impossible. The truth unacceptable, can not be heard by his family, the other two women who liked the man, his mother, his wife. Remains unspeakable guilt, and the lively nature is grave. Then the snow covers the landscape, and Lucia, who died seeder and death, is lost in the whiteness inhuman pace of his scythe that reaps the vacuum ...

Thus, these two short novels, carefully assembled in this book, inscribe us in the lasting tragedy. Beings face the horrors of history, M ó sen Mill á n and Lucia betray the one they liked, the national tragedy reveals the weaknesses of the human soul, but Sender, in a subtle approach and loving, do not judge. "Cookies" are also victims who must survive in the hell of guilt and, strangely, the victors are never really shown. The disaster to all men, and this situation can not arise until disaster individual and shared.

Ramón Sender, Requiem for a English Peasant & The Ford , translations of JP and JP Ressot Cortada, frontispieces Anne Careil, Attila Editions, 2010.

Thanks to Chris Martinez for this finding: it has these two novels a beautiful chronic Doge's Tavern Loredan .

A very interesting reading of this work is to discover Sender blog audio Nikola Delescluse, Marshlands (issue of May 28, 2010) .

Snug Top Replacement Window

You told me that if course-minestrone-

On the way back we did not agree. The leaves were turning yellow to brown on the edges of sidewalks, the umbrella was no longer become useless and cumbersome, I would have preferred not to have forgotten my scarf but it slipped my hand into the pocket of his coat.
The scenes shot in the HP displeased him, history was anxious, he preferred the brunette (normal!) because he thought that the blonde look was drive. We exceeded the building decorated with mosaics. I liked the defense of Kleist, the silence and lack of Priss resigned, the character of the flute teacher, the spread of Noemi. To get an idea, go see Girls in black Civeyrac John Paul, who can not stay indifferent.
Will you, like us, try the chocolate crepes creperie early in front of the large bookstore afterwards?
Will you, too, dip your hands are frozen in tanks a bit of a dirty flea market vinyl in search of a pocket of Leonard Cohen? Will you be inhibited
by that chocolate crepe for you later refuse a slice of salted butter with a little creamed honey? (We not)

**** The previous day, next to a couple who had nothing to say and gently crush the mackerel fillets on their bread buttered wrong, we asked a second sweet chocolate and another glass of Crémant d'Alsace around 23 hours to Nebuchadnezzar.
There was talk of tights (plum, pine green, electric blue), Bob Dylan (memories of imprérissable I want you escaping a smoky Viennese coffee), a man who had heard J ' choking with through when I burst into tears on the phone articulating laboriously I did everything wrong , the direction in which we will one day, a road trip across the U.S. (the opportunity for anyone to defend his favorite side. Because of my reading girls and Woody Allen, I have a soft spot for the east), the need to succeed at the game
But I'm not quite sure to get there. I feel despite the billions of pages blacked out since I know that I write will not do anything better than these stories pourraves whose ink fades after all these years. Worse yet, I do nothing to save me this mediocrity, I have no discipline, I am working for the task, I only find excuses ( yes but then I have to write the thesis or that nobody cares about except for two three daughters, who like capes ). I have long thought that I was not meant to write, but to read the rest, read Poppies in october Sylvia Plath, and having chills full skin.
I do not know how I feel bogged down. I would love to make an impact, just like when I hear Vincent Delerm to la-la-la-la in Here the city , or Eric Rohmer when he filmed the last shot of summer Conte. For example. There are many others.
What can I write so when I read in Gwendoline silver My life? story or a weekend country by Cleo? Not to mention tickets Miss Meals ...
G. listens to all this in silence, swaying just the white rocking chair that gave me, and I feel sad for my own distress. I read in his eyes, trembling a little something that reminds me of what Leonardo said to one of his students who lamented that he had no talent Draw Antonio, draw and do not waste your time.
(I'll try to do anything other than write on the blog)
(maybe it will not work at all)
(but I want to try)
One last recipe, for which I liked peel then cut into tiny dice a bunch of carefully selected vegetables in Annie Bertin, star market, listening to the radio someone was talking about Rimbaud.


Minestrone heretic (but guaranteed without tofu)
For a large saucepan
carrots
-4 -1 -1 slice of leek
kabocha
-4 potatoes with firm flesh
-1 handful chopped spinach
-4 small tomatoes (the last!) -2 Onions

- 2 cloves garlic
-3 thick slices of pancetta-
small short pasta
-about 1.5 L chicken stock
-crust
Parmesan-pesto (homemade or hand-picked)

Peel all which requires it and cut everything into small dice.
Melt in a good olive oil onions, garlic, pancetta, carrots and leeks. When they begin to be well stewed, add tomatoes, Parmesan crust and broth. Cook for half an hour over low heat. The opportunity to turn off the radio and choose a disk. Old songs of Gainsbourg and Francoise Hardy will do.
Add kabocha and cook a bit before adding the potatoes.
Three quarters of an hour later, it was the turn of the handle of pasta and spinach just before serving, just long they melt.
In the bowl, pour the soup, then a swirl of pesto relaxed in olive oil.
Do not burn yourself.

Niñas Follando Vídeos

"I fell in my garden ..." results

There is a little less than three months, I told you of my participation as a jury in food photography contest reserved for bloggers in the International Festival Photography Culinary and partnership with the site 750 Grams . This contest ended on October 15 with some very nice entries ... some publications and a little (lot) next to the plate. To my great astonishment. There was indeed a theme to follow and it is the photographs that best illustrates this theme had the most chance of winning.

"I fell in my garden ... "

It is now time to reveal the outcome of our deliberations.
Beside me, Isabelle Rozenbaum, food photographer ( www.oreille-culinaire.fr and http://www.rozenbaum.com/ ) Chef Damien ( www.750g.com ) and Jean-Pierre Stephan, president and founder of the Festival.

When I see the following, I tell myself that I would have done better to take Paris, because I played good the Fifth! :-)

1. Emily's Blog Morello

http://www.griottes.fr/noir

A ÉNOOORME CONGRATULATIONS to Emily for her beautiful paintings. She took a risk, "she said. Not at all, on the contrary. And this proves the first place! ... Well, now ... if Emily does not know whom to invite for lunch at Alain Passard I'm his man! ;-))

2. Aline's Blog My Little Fabric

http://www.mylittlefabric.com/jai-descendu-dans-mon-jardin/

That is richly deserved . Aline has done a great job. It is not so little that it takes the lead in this contest ... I also took the opportunity to discover his lovely blog. I come running!

3. Parigot's Blog The Notebooks of a bitch Paris

http://www.carnetsparisiens.com/2010/10/12/salade-radis-quinoa-noir-courge-champignons/

My Dear bitch Paris - Will you permit me to call you by your friendly name? ;) - Is there a vote stroke and heart that propels you to the third place contest. The choice of a presentation of the season was a good idea. And simplicity of the recipe and it awakened my ward / buds did the rest. Bravo!

4. Ventura's Blog Melody Boudoir The Gourmand

http://www.leboudoirgourmand.fr/recettes-salees/jai-descendu-dans-mon-jardin/

Bravo Melody! The idea of a miniature garden fresh gourmet fitted well with the theme of the contest. A broader context and a small mise-en-scene around "the base" would most certainly have to score points. A nice fourth place!

5. Anne-Marie Demay blog CART season

http://www.panierdesaison.com/2010/09/votez-pour-ma-photo-au-concours-de-la-photo-culinaire.html

Congratulations to Anne for the 5th place! This basket was full of crisp it seems just like his blog. A very cool sight.

And now you know everything!

The winner of this first contest win a meal for two at Alain Passard, offered by www.750g.com and a KitchenAid Artisan food processor. Emily will also receive the trophy "Golden Lens Award food bloggers" during the evening of the Festival Awards Ceremony, 9 November 2010, Espace Mobalpa (Paris).

Aline and Parigot, respectively second and third prizes will be awarded per 750 grams.

You will find the winning photographs exhibited at the Salon Culinaire Blog ( http://www.salondublogculinaire.com/ ) of Soissons 20 and 21 November next.

soon,

Similar To Milena Velba

Lionel Edward Martin talks about the Old Rosebush ...

There are books you would expect, promises a journey of seeking the mind awakens the dream, takes the reader in a stream of sounds, colors and ideas. The work of Edward Lionel Martin , poet and novelist, weaves the words and the world, creating a close relationship between language and the sensible world, that of the body and nature. His latest novel, The Old the rosebush , published by the Active Vampire, is born of the unlikely encounter of three amazing characters - one old, one dog, a marquis - a subtle, poetic, but also full of emotion and humor. The language in fact, more than a vector, we entered the world and reflects the relationship we have with him.

Lionel Edward Martin has had the generosity of grant me an interview about his latest novel, I am very proud to reproduce here, from threshold to threshold. I thank all my heart for the simplicity and kindness with which he agreed to be interviewed, delivering depth and sincerity with a penetrating and original thinking on literary creation.

To get better acquainted with this beautiful novel, I refer you to beautiful chronic

- that of Ed Wood in La Taverne du Doge Loredan

- than in Fiolof Walk to
Pages that of Pierre-Vincent Guitard in e-literature-and
chronic audio Nikola on Paludes . ..

_________________________________________________________________________________

Dear Lionel Edward, your novel The Old the rosebush , published Oct. 11 editions of the Vampire Active, is that Karina Cnudde, your editor with Hugh Béesau, called a "literary unidentified object." Indeed, he enrolled at the borders of many genres in a stunning approach to literature, fiction space between and territory of a poetic language, music and rhythm, which also characterizes your work. How would you define your project when you went into his writing?

Speaking Project, it is also necessary that there be one. If project is defined as a route, ballistics, which are expected to lead from one point to another through certain circles, I reply that I am, as a writer or cartographer, or gunner , an explorer, rather, that fixed the starting point, sink into a landscape Undetermined he would, secretly, to measure its progress. I've never written by a schedule, so to say something predetermined: I go to random words - and words are sensible, you end up finding meaning of these wanderings. Valery says somewhere that if "the first verse is given, the rest of the poem, then to find, is an invention. I readily agree with this view of inspiration. The first sentence of the Old rosebush came to me I do not know how, and "novel" if we must call it so, is in development, amplification: "It started like this, not to mention the incipit Journey to the End of the Night .

Travel certainly aimlessly, punctuated by encounters: the old, at first, then the dog, then the Marquis. Clearly, these figures had not completely unknown: there is, in Old the rose bush, as elsewhere in everything I write a biographical material - I have little imagination - but whose sudden appearances, I repeat, are very poorly controlled: they needed a sudden, without my knowledge why. I have often sought - like the rest Valery, on another level - to understand the mechanisms of these occurrences: memory worked by the words in evocations they inspire, and sound systems they organize? This is a track, but without any doubt there others that I am hard pressed to cope. As well, should we understand? Weary of war, say that what counts is how it works - if it works - (and I might add that I am fascinated by how the mind, unless it is the unconscious, manages to weave on a loom so unstable, a tissue image, rhythm, meaning, a text that gives consistency, and ended up making a tapestry).

In this way, I extract a crude substance, it is to resume in order for consistency and make, say, read: it goes from the simple correction terms to moving parts in a meticulous editing. I realize that this generates, in the end, fairly "strange monsters, known as Corneille's Illusion comique , and that is not in the horizon of expectation of a" ; novel "but as well, this romantic horizon - as it is usually defined with a story, a plot, psychology, sociology, a relationship to reality - this horizon is m not interest him. If I had to define myself as a writer, I would not arrogance to claim that "I am a poet" (that is, according to Renaud Camus, the supreme arrogance of Assen to others such a claim), but I'd say write I write as many contemporary poets: random words and out of genre.

Tell us a little about your characters, three disparate things and nothing is destined to meet. But the real protagonist, the one around which your novel is organized, is language. The three characters define themselves in relation to it, and maintain relations with it intense and surprising. Old had some trouble pronouncing words, his speech is marked with phonetic and regional particularities. His relationship to language is tough but loving. The marquis, he is fascinated by the ancient texts of Catullus and Virgil (as you, I think I know). And Diurc / Duke, the talking dog, sings the Mass in Latin! Can you explain the reasons for the staging of the language, both amazing and natural ...?

I think I have ever written on the language - probably by professional deformation, since the basis of my current activities, I am a linguist, or better, but in every sense of the word etymology, philologist, and passionate Latin (but other languages too - whose Arabic - I had the chance to learn and that I control to varying degrees). Language, languages, are indeed at the heart of the Old rosebush : that language, as well, we is, we humans, as it follows from what we are - bodies of words, whose language is one of the foods, which therefore marked the flesh and inform . As such, the character of old is speaking , dare I say it pronunciation amplifies the words are flowing in some sounds that soothe, foreshadowing the "old language of angels" that will, a moment, seize it, the possess, so that all language, from which it emanates, it will be transparent. It is somewhat revisited the scene of Pentecost, when, in the Gospels, the Holy Spirit infuses the apostles the gift of tongues, Babel and restoring abolishing intercomprehension among men (although the old goes further in its penetration of languages, since it also includes one of the things and animals).

It can never be too well how the issue of language strongly imbued all religions, in that language is one of the founding myths, which includes himself in the interrogation of origin - "the beginning was the Word "is the most obvious example. However, if the language is part of the Creation , we can grasp the importance that prides itself create what is called the fiction. Without putting too fine play on words, fingo , Latin, whence derives our fiction means shaping: no need to recall that in Genesis, man (the character?) Is created from a handful of clay ... In short, I invite the reader to also the novel as a broad metaphor of the work of the creator - if indeed it is indeed a job, and nothing else ... The

Marquis, meanwhile, is an amateur linguist: as such, its relationship to language is critical, and bases its relationships with others, under the terms of the call and release - I would venture that governs its existence as it will rule his death. He devoted his life to researching the origin of language - "Why is there more we do not say anything?" Is the first sentence of that hears - ; developing on a personal theory about this. On this question of the origin of language, two competing theories, to 18 th century (I'm referring to the very last page of the novel, citing the names of some authors who have written): one who looks for a "natural", rather than opting for a divine origin. The Marquis at first adopted the first in the supporting body to the rhythm of running, this rate will take its full resonance when he himself strolling the streets of M ***. But the "encounter" with the old - who also does not occur - disabuse him ... Again, metaphor, perhaps, of what is called "inspiration": Ponge's alphabet, or the painting by Poussin? Let me smile, and well keep me from wanting to respond ...

Ironically, each of your characters is immersed in a solitude, accompanied only by words, those who are exchange in ordinary situations (with a neighbor who just make a few visits in a cafe where one is "abroad"). Nature becomes a source of speech, a dog, a pond, a tree, crows. In the second part of your novel, entitled The Origin of Languages The narrator speaks directly to the Marquis: "And I'm the ill wind, your coat is not perfect, you go up the neck, and as time is to kill it is full of gravity and penetrating damp, you let yourself be tempted by coffee: something hot you would the body be articulated around it your silence to release waves of grumbling, to revive the language - because in your ordinary, you only talk to crows, which have a taste of your death, and factor in the vast desolation of the word tune, you're doomed to soliloquy, the echo liar birds in the trees, an official at 4L yellow. "How do you think the language can be so important despite the loneliness? Indeed, your characters, the old, the Marquis, soliloquent lot ...

Not that in La Vieille the rosebush my characters are alone, those of my other novels live also in great solitude, whether Jeanlou in Jeanlou in the tree, Paul, The Man in hermetic , Or Hubert, Corps stone or more. By identifying with this constellation of lonely, there is only one step: it would probably immodest on my part that I say lonely - we had enough of the artist in his ivory tower, though it seems essential to me - but in my view (as much as my ears ...) writing and solitude are hard severable - I think even remember having written - but where? - We never writes than in solitude. Indeed, if we want "that" speaks, it is still necessary to hear, and you never hear as well as himself - I associate the loneliness of silence (no doubt I have the vocation La Trappe ...). It is solitude, the condition sine qua non listening, and maybe even any fine levied. This is an availability of the senses as much as a way of life - away fiercely, and in the shade as much as possible.

On this basis, my characters soliloquent indeed much: but what else a writer than a man, a woman monologue - or dialogue deferred because any text is the bearer as pregnant, a potential reader? Again, one must understand the old, the Marquis, the dog, as metaphors for the author and his "work", which is to talk about what did not vote, this fiction that model, as I said earlier, and remodels to give it voice.

Your novel forges strong links between language and the world, so much so that words materialize in unexpected sounds (a "Adoramus te" anthology, nativity amazing and gratifying), smells - sometimes nauseating: Diurc "stinks. His mouth stinks!

"It's Latin, the words rotten. The decay of language, you know, do not believe, Clemence, he does not eat much ( Guyer ) than vegetables, very little meat, very pyeu meat .... " The words take shape, meat chewed fruit tasted old ... The birth of language itself, a language she was carrying and born in pain. Cratylism the Marquis (forbidden elsewhere in a publication remained confidential) is almost militant, the word imitating the thing and bringing in the world. How would you describe your relationship with words? He embodied specifically in one of three characters?

My relationship with words? Expression could probably summarize it: the pleasure a bit mystical. I like to chew (As Flaubert - but not that I "mouth", I chewed). There is a real pleasure to articulation (pronounced thus "abolished trinket sound of inanity!"), As pointed out, if I remember correctly, the poet Andre Spire. As for Cratylism, it is probably one of the foundations of all poetry, but also magic and myth: the thing and the word are one, the thing is the word, the word is the thing. Even more: the words by their shape, weave them reports that are reminiscent of those not established "similarities" Middle Age (Michel Foucault speaks in precisely Words and things ). The question is obviously not to believe, yet we can believe it, but rather of power, on this basis, link relations between things unimagined, based primarily on phonics or spelling, and short-circuit the common thought, without continuing to mere wordplay: the latter, on the contrary, be regarded as triggers that could create new ideas by associations on which they rest.

The old and the Marquis entretiennent tous deux un rapport étroit, consubstantiel , au langage, mais un rapport différent : la vieille le subit, le marquis en est l'observateur. Based on what I said above, which of them would rather my incarnation? In fact, my relationship with these two spills out into the single question of language: "Madame Bovary, c'est moi!", To quote a famous cry. I would go further: any character is necessarily emanate from its creator. I do not think we can introduce split between the writer and his creation, including the author, the narrator or characters portrayed: my narrator, my characters are my creatures, in that I wore them, and they are, as such, part of myself - which is not without consequence on the theory of the novel, and appears completely at odds with current trends in academic criticism, except to read his Dominique Maingeneau Against Saint Proust or the end of literature . Getting back to the Old bush roses, what I just said is to pose the following equation: I = all the characters who roam the text. We can also discern a few winks here and there, everyone is a "development abyss": the old was born November 10 as me, we know neither his name or her name, but its initial data at the very end - LM - speak for themselves ...

However, if in this text, I would identify myself more deeply with a character, it would certainly Marquis whose wanderings woven into the language, again, the metaphor of my writing, and call figures that are dear to me: that of Christ in his climb to Calvary, those of Ulysses, Virgil and, implicitly, that of Dante (between heaven and hell). However, in addition to the reasons mentioned above, one can not exclude the old complicity, since it not only runs parallel to that of Marquis, but she "gives birth", as you rightly out, a language that transforms and purifies, as well before Peter Vincent Guitard in article he was willing to devote to the text. Again, size is metaphorical, and I leave the reader the leisure to look for meaning.

Paul Cezanne, Old Woman with a Rosary (London, National Gallery)

Old the rosebush is full of winks an eye pleasing that set between the work and the reader special links, each player can capture the text through references included or not (I said there is no need to be a scholar to appreciate you, as the work life of its own). Sometimes, you embed the text in quotes reported or not, as for example in the excerpt above. What are your landmarks, your headlights in the world of literature?

Insights, lights ... This implies the way, the sea route, where I would rather speak of influences and affinities. Recent back to back in history: there is the presence of Latin, very strong, Horace, Catullus, Virgil, Seneca - and lesser-known Latin authors, these archaic poets, the language a little rough, which there are only fragments - hence, perhaps, my writing struck, fragmentary.

I'll also mention the great French classics, including baroque, more recently, Balzac, Flaubert, the Goncourt, Proust, Gide, Boylesve, it is wrong to stop reading, Fargue Ramuz Colette - especially the recent years, even closer, Quignard, Michon, Millet, Giono in its most overlooked; Michèle Desbordes, Claude Simon, Jean-Philippe Toussaint, Christian Gailly, the extraordinary - I weigh my words! - Charles Albert Cingria Gustave Roud, in general, all authors who regard language as their preferred material, and after writing a method somewhat similar to mine. Poets, too: that Rimbaud Larbaud Guillevic, Follain, Claudel, Saint John Perse, Max Jacob, Cendrars ...

Old the rose bush is indeed riddled with literary references; it goes even Towards Muette, my previous novel, which is a true "intertextuality", as they say. You speak of winks: it is indeed what it is, in part: a little like Charlie Parker when he takes over in his improvisations on a melody, a phrase from another song creating with the auditor warned complicity. But I also want to show thereby that literature thrives on literature, music as music, painting paintings, it is not broken, but Continuity inheritance. This seems important, even critical: the rest of us writers, we have inherited from our predecessors in literature, and we have towards them, a duty of remembrance and gratitude: it was they who made us what we are.

But literature is not your only source of inspiration found in the novel not only a library but also a directory of music especially classical and baroque (I am thinking in particular of the place occupied by Palestrina) and paintings. What music and painting can they (or should they) do you encounter literature?

Since we are working with language, and especially to poetry, since I write novels ; poetic "I think the parallels between painting and literature are relevant. On this question, I'll go back willingly to my account the comments of Yves Bonnefoy, in remarks on the drawing : "Poetry, despite the scale of works, not to delight in putting up a universe of language, with objects embedded in each name, each rich in its difference, is to hear every word in silence, which is equivalent in space-specific design, non-color, empty .'s writing poetry, then, is the unspoken, as the drawing is shown for failure: the figure of absence, which in both cases is highlighted. It is this absence that we look to in the poem or poetic prose, and we impose a particular reading rate by which we try, somehow, to plug holes, while the poetic text, at least in Contemporary design is flawed, it involves filling empty staff, and makes each of us a unique player in that we grasp of his material (which also testify to the articles on this day at Old bush Rose ). For example, in the explanations that I try to make answering your questions, I tend, speaking of metaphors in my opinion innervate the text, to plug some holes, but understand that this is where my point of view, which does not necessarily authoritative, and that can clog those holes in any other way.

Music is something else: a shape made of orchestrated sounds, a meaningless form, we want to make some effort to "program" a symphony (Berlioz), or reproduce nature sounds (Messiaen). But imitating the animation of a ball or the singing of birds is the detail, the essential lies elsewhere: in the form it is implemented to act on the listener, and hold his attention, arouse emotion. It is a work of high tech, which consists over time, since music is of time, the pace , developed by a rhetoric proper to music: composition . Literature, meanwhile, is both space and time the page reading. This is where it is similar to both painting and music. I talked about the painting above; its reports to the music I seem to be the melody, counterpoint, so (there can be in the literary phrase, "harmony" in a strictly musical term): it is the definition sounds and their recurrence, creating a rhythm, phrasing where punctuation plays a role. I would add that, as the partition means being executed, some literary texts do all the meaning and fullness to be read aloud.

Can I afford a more sensitive issue? The title of your book refers to a famous altarpiece in my area, a magnificent work of Martin Schongauer. Can you explain why this first novel link between your and this picture? Also, how do you feel aggressive and disproportionate responses to a handful of Colmar for a little story bookmark at the likeness of the Virgin?

I met the altarpiece - because this is a meeting! - There are about fifteen years, during a visit to Colmar. I knew of course, but from afar. Attendance closely, in this beautiful church that puts so much value, had to show me, so that ten years later he became the title of my book. I had others in mind, but that does not satisfy me: it has become at once - perhaps, thematically, because of the angels who are depicted. Thus was born the famous word game, some people have complained to my editors and myself, and how vehemently! Should we say that the idea of offending religion has never crossed my mind? I received a Catholic education - and this is nothing I deny - very footprint by Marian devotion - the church of my parish, Notre Dame, home to the miraculous statue of the Virgin, to whom, and many sick child near death, I was spent. From this education, there are many traces in my work, each of my books has biblical references: thus, the Old rosebush depicts the Nativity, Pentecost, Easter, quotes extensively from the ritual Mass and the Gospels. I read the attacks that we suffer as errors of assessment. I wrote to those concerned: so far, I have not responded; I consider the incident closed. But I deeply regret that unfounded accusations, intimidation, we were victims, could have lead us to question the distribution of bookmark, and there have been attempts to undo a Part of the remarkable work of my editors.

Lionel Edward Martin, Old in the Rosebush, The Vampire Active Insurgencies , 2010

You can get the novel by Lionel Edward Martin's Active site Vampire or any good bookstore.

Lionel Edward Martin © L.-E. Martin

What Do I Use To Seal Paint On Metal

The quarrels have secrets-a kind of pad thai-

At the foot of the bed in my bag on the table for breakfast, secretly if the conference is boring, subways crowded, with a tea, a few grapes, squares of chocolate or a piece of cake, Just Kids Patti Smith does not leave me.
There are of course the atmosphere, room 1017 of the Chelsea Hotel, which despite its shabby bathrooms welcomes its carpeted corridors all wildlife New York art of the 70s, but obviously his relationship with Mapplethorpe who provoked in me a strange thrill. I imagine her with her long hair, scarves and sandals frayed, he with a hat, necklaces and he made clear his T-shirt, take the subway to Coney Island where the game stands tatty, the cotton candy and hot dogs at Nathan's, stuffed with sauerkraut, delight. She also likes chicken pies, sandwiches, cheese and mustard with lettuce on bread with poppy seeds or pellets, those of his mother. He loves chocolate milk, and he gently mocked her when she orders not to jam a donut with his coffee, but a French cruller "The only thing you like in there, it ' is that it's French! "I can not
how more about them, their love that nourishes their art, their nights, sometimes sadness. And how all this has resonated with me. Indescribable. This
early autumn has the taste of pears poached in vanilla, fried mushrooms with a little garlic and parsley in a soup with some butternut ravioli Romans, but also permanently severed friendships. One evening, for the first time in several months, I hear the voice of S. through the handset of the phone always too cold. In the background, there is a piano song that I do not recognize. Any attempt at explanation is futile everyone is so convinced that the other does not love her enough, and sometimes not at all, it seems impossible to envisage a peaceful relationship. The only common opinion is issued You hurt me too. He said, however If you think I never think of you and I hear light a cigarette. But he smiles when I think I recognize in his I'm a little jaded melancholy one of the replicas of Louis Garrel in The beautiful person. Only you to do that. But you know, even if you miss me, I do not want to see you.
Life is complicated.
One day while returning from work, I found in my office, near the cameras, a small bouquet of pink, powder pink, in the Scandinavian vase that you had brought back from a weekend in Paris and lonely. When I think of it, or your hand in my hair in the film, thermos of tea with a little note to the return of custody, the madeleines that you went looking for a break at work, your indulgence for my pictures blurred and overexposed, your patience when you explain to me psychoanalysis, your joyful enthusiasm to each of my outbursts (even if it involves the purchase of a cape *), each of our few arguments seems a huge waste.
To be forgiven, when I viciously taken away, I slipped under his door small drawings (as it will look in secret pastries for snacks reconciled) and then I move to one of his favorite dishes, a pad thai well noted.


Pad Thai definitely not orthodox but really good
The sauce recipe is directly inspired by that of Pim , and it changes everything. To do this, you need the tamarind. I bought it in flexible plate without nuclei. You by taking a small half and you dissolve well in 125mL of boiling water, the most practical being to wait until the mixture cools down and do it with your fingers (clean but you do not have to like me after being in outer Departments of Surgery, rub them with soap as a fierce five minutes). Then you filter the mixture and gently warm you in a small saucepan with 125mL palm sugar and fish sauce 125ml . The sauce is ready!
Then, it all depends on taste. You can make a vegetarian pad thai with tofu (I hear the voice of G. express some reservations, coughing discreetly) Chicken, shrimp (he prefers the version of chicken and shrimp).
The procedure is simple and fast. Make sure you have all your ingredients at hand. The first was chicken.
Heat oil in a pan, when it is hot (but not smoking, watch out!), Pour in the chicken chopped (I cut it into tiny pieces) and stir well. After a few minutes, add a small clove of garlic crushed and a little sauce. It's time to add noodles you've cooked the prior screening (while the sauce ingredients were mixed for example). Pour a generous shot of the sauce and mix thoroughly. Add egg and a small handful of chives chopped and serve with a smile (as well as peanuts and a dash of lemon and green pepper . Feel free to add some same sauce base).
(very good, though my way is definitely heretical and that the photo does not match the object)

* thank you to P. have borne the delays capesques!

Sonicare How To Clean Base

The crumbling of a world: Goran Petrovic, Under a sky flaking

"As for me, I know a higher power and I need to walk a long time side by side with my strange heroes, to contemplate, through laughter and tears apparent unsuspected, the infinite unfolding of life. " (Nicolas Gogol Dead Souls singing VII translation Ernest Charriere)

"Cinéroman" is the strange subtitle of the work of Goran Petrović we propose the allusive in this literary season. Roger Grenier, in 1972, had made this neologism the title of a column of provincial life of the 30s. It is unlikely that the Serbian novelist, born in 1961 and won several literary prizes in his country, wanted to pay tribute to the almost forgotten French writer, but his work is also gratifying a chronicle, that of a small town in the former Yugoslavia. Under the sky flaking , whose translation into French, due to Gojko Lukic, was published in September 2010, closely following the publication of the novel in Serbia, held in a theater, the Urania, some Some residents of Kraliévo. Time travel enclosed in a unique space, both ordinary and unusual, this novel takes us into a familiar and strange, a place of dreams that fits on the screen, but also witnessed a historical reality.

Strange

foliage (personal picture)

Urania's story begins with the comical story of the creation of the Yugoslavia Hotel, built by the shoemaker Iovanovitch Laza, a character worthy of those films of Emir Kusturica or Aleksandar Petrovic. A juicy case of mismatched boots allows him to realize his dream of building a luxury hotel, its mismanagement led to pass from hand to hand, changing their destination, eventually leading between those of the projectionist Rudi Prohaska, who , from the room ballroom, a cinema landscape in "heavy curtain of dark blue velvet" and painted the vault of constellations. This place fixed but a witness to history is an interesting microcosm, and together, when the action begins, thirty disparate audiences and representative. The darkness of the room absorbs intended, the closer, to give readers a rich field of observation and alive. On May 4, 1980, is in fact met in this place to watch a movie which we know almost nothing, a concentrate of humanity, ordered in a hierarchy unchanged. The novel, organized in short chapters, presents these characters one by one or two by two, depending on whether they came alone or not, and from the place they occupy in the room. Thus we discover, through an anonymous narrator, witness nostalgic, warm and amused, fragments of lives, destinies tragic, funny or absurd. First, the opener, Simonovitch, whose existence is closely related to that place that never leaves. Locked in a shed of eight square meters equipped with a window too high, it covers the world with a particular look: However, his aspiration freedom finds expression in poetry. Indeed, the court of the concrete hotel, which served as a time of outdoor cinema, he created a wonderful garden, paradise plant which is the sole occupant. Simonovitch, who speaks little - through a formal address at the beginning of each session, for example - a companion to a bird that has left him Prohaska, who never leaves, even if not cage. This "parrot" (which is not one) through the novel survives and those that it accompanies, disappearing when violence occurs. The bird flies away, dreams of taking Simonovitch height, this window unattainable symbolizing freedom.

It's the old opener that puts the other characters in a fixed order. The first rows, one to nine are occupied by people of little importance in society: Comrade Avramovitch a dignitary removed from office, and who has retained his political activities that a strange muscle twitching leads him to raise his right hand unexpectedly, sparking anger or amusement. Behind him, a drunken gypsies, married people, college students ... a precious sample, comic and touching by the bonds that develop and affectionate look upon them as the narrator relates. Each fate is discussed with brevity, but the art of Petrović gives depth to each. It is not a gallery of characters juxtaposed, but the vivid evocation of lives subject to the vagaries of history. Thus, J. and Z, two mischievous schoolboys, who selected victims for the couple Erakovitch are pledged to a tragic fate that the author evokes tenderness and lightness. Mobilized in the Yugoslav People's Army in the early 1990s, they were both cut down by the same bullet:

" In this confusion, nobody could say where the ball continued its course. Or how many people it has killed again. Or how many others, and from what angle, it would perhaps kill the years to come. Or maybe decades. Although one can also consider the centuries.

J. and Z. have just collapsed. They did not look dead, but they were. No, except for the bloodstains on their temples, they in no way resembles the dead boys. Instead, both bareheaded, his mouth open, looked like mischievous kids about to say

- Excuse me, sir, could you down a bit, you can not see anything ".

Lightness and gravity mingle, meet, merge into a fragmented narrative but a great consistency. These snippets of life come together to form one, that of Yugoslavia subject to vagaries of history. The site takes care to retain the imprint, through assorted graffiti: "DD hereof his royal ass," or "white-haired bastard Lost / answers to the name of Noiraud" or "Comrade Tito, you have our word" ... The disorder is organized in an exuberance that is reminiscent of Kusturica's films - the end of Brindillon, sickly person living in his raincoat XL , which flies like a kite, reminded me of the man-cannon Promise of i-mo, who can not land. And Urania home and memories of times gone by, witnessed the debut, with silent films and sentimental trifles, also laying on the film which is doomed to disappear - the memory of the Hotel Yugoslavia remain engraved on film a movie in 1932, the very history of films in room immortalized in a movie-river rose eight hours from images stolen over the years by the barkers projectionist turned filmmaker. From this place doomed to oblivion, hidden by a false ceiling, the vault remains Stellar, immutable though fragile, this "super stucature" ...

"symbolic image of the vast universe. With the Sun placed exactly in the middle, darting rays flamboyant, stylish, a sleepy moon, just a little "bite", the planets arranged in a relatively free order. All around, a scattering of constellations of both hemispheres: Andromeda, the bird of paradise, the Charioteer, the Altar, the Big Dog and Little Dog, Cassiopeia, Compass, the Hydra, the Southern Cross, the Lyre, Table and Orion, the Peacock, the ECU, the Big Dipper and Little Dipper, the Virgin, and then galaxies, nebulae and even two or three incandescent comet tails ... Above us there was this brilliantly executed stucature at the time of the "master" Laza Iovanovitch still curved like the heavens, beaded in places of moisture droplets and bristling with 'Needles mold that after so many years had finally broke through the precious old smooth coat. "

So even if the fates of these characters are fleeting, even if their lives are part of a limited duration, the sky appears gradually peeling the slow crumbling of a world in which events repeat The war of the 1990s in response to the German occupation, Comrade Avramovitch regaining its status and the loser again ... This universe disappears but his memory remains, just like the picture resurrects the past, the time for a moment on the screen fragile and elusive - evoking fleeting, elusive and nostalgic for a past that exists only in memory.

Goran Petrović Under a sky flaking , translated from Serbian by Gojko Luki ć, allusions, 2010

Editions Allusifs
The beautiful chronicle of Ed Wood in the Tavern