French Literature

Any attempt at writing this post in french would far defeat me, and I would only end up embarrassing myself with my patent efforts in trying to achieve some sort of delicate fluidity with my words. No doubt they would fall flat in a faculty of shattered visions. 

La France. Au Paris. Le français. Et toi? Ça suffit! J'en ai eu marre! Et voilà! The clumsiness I abhor in taking a stab at the language; I have disgraced an entire nation. 

I shall march on in my mother tongue.

The extent of my french lessons in primary school consisted of reading "L'Histoire De Pierre Lapin" aloud in class over and over, until our childish mimics of the french accent were engraved in our brains forever. We only spoke how we thought it should sound, so it came out sounding distorted and strange, like it was echoing off the walls. None of us had ever been exposed to the french-speaking world you see, so we simply made our own interpretations of the language. Some of us stuttered and choked on every other word, whilst others pretended they knew it all and recalled every word with perfect diction. And the perfect thing about it all was that none of us were wrong, because it always sounds different depending on who speaks it, and that's what I think literature is.  

"Je crée des situations qui n’existent pas. Je cherche la vérité de la fiction. Je serais incapable d’être reporter ou de photographier quelqu’un sans son consentement. Une image de mode, c’est l’évocation d’une femme à partir de son vêtement et d’une somme de détails comme sa gestuelle, la courbe de sa nuque, les plis de sa robe… C’est l’instant d’un film que je ne ferai pas."

— Sarah Moon

Centuries ago, there were words and phrases draghted from a potion long forgotten. But although these words and phrases were extracted with care, for all they tried they could not find one singular word that translated their meanings. A mystery concocted, they were idioms. Lost in translation; ascended from the language of love ...

In addition to my reputation as a french literature lover, I can add that I recently read "Lolita" which may not be french per se (and incidentally that is latin by the way for "in itself") , but it certainly retains many of the languages'phrases whilst seeping a taste of it through its pages. It is a book that has been gathering dust high up on my 'mental bookshelf' for a while now, but when I eventually found time to divulge its contents, the odd french phrase simply rolled off my tongue and I fell in love with it. Words escape me on how to fully justify this novel, so all I shall I say is that I found the way Vladimir Nabokov writes and the literary devices he uses is nothing but overwhelmingly fascinating. As for the rest, read it, and make up your own mind.  

Furthermore, I am currently studying "L'etranger" as part of my french learning in school. It makes me feel most intellectual in finding myself eloquently digesting french novels, particularly whilst amidst crowds of people or perched on buses or trains; in this way I feel rather peculiar as people curiously look upon the scene, a small girl intently analysing the pages of a novel in a foreign language, making them wonder .. about me .. I suppose. Thinking if I understand or if they understand.  

I blurred this out at random and it isn't supposed to represent anything, only to show you part of what I am currently reading and what better way of ending a post on french literature with, well, some french literature?

These words are beautifully crafted by Albert Camus.