Showing posts with label Julian Barnes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Julian Barnes. Show all posts

Friday, November 1, 2019

All Saints: Atwood & Auntie Wickie

Pop - Up Shadow Card from Auntie Wickie
True Stories #ii

The true story was lost
on the way down to the beach, it's something

I never had, that black tangle
of branches in a shifting light

my blurred footprints
filling with salt

water, this handful
of tiny bones, this owl's kill;

a moon, crumpled papers, a coin,
the glint of an old picnic,

the hollows made by lovers
in a sand a hundred

years ago: no clue.
**********

" . . . something
I never had, that black tangle
of branches in a shifting light . . ."

"I can fly. I wish I could believe it."


**********

Also, including this one here;
can't wait for the December!

Small Poems for the Winter Solstice #10

Of course I'm a teller
of mundane lines, such as: I'll try
never to lie to you. Such as:
the day after today the earth will
tilt on its axis towards the sun
again, the light will turn stronger,
it will be spring and you'll
be happy. Such as:
I can fly. I wish I could believe
it. Instead I'm stuck
here, in this waste of particulars,
truths, fact. Teeth, gloves & socks.
I don't trust love
because it's no shape or colour.


both poems by Margaret Atwood
from True Stories

Snowy Halloween ~ Sunny All Saints


And a closing quote for Auntie Wickie:
"Oh Lord [Oh Goddess]!
Into what an age have you caused me to be born!"

from Flaubert's Parrot by Julian Barnes

Friday, October 4, 2019

In - Between Times

Elan = momentum
"The sky was a rich, mindless, never - ending blue, like a promise of some ridiculous glory that wasn't really there. . . . The days were clear and beautiful; and, as September [and October!] rolled around, the hateful glare gave way to a certain luminosity, a dusty, golden quality. . . . all the more stirring since it was drifting towards autumn, half - ruined, careless of itself."

from The Goldfinch, 232, 234, 228
by Donna Tartt (American author, b. 1963)


"I like these out-of-season crossings. When you're young you prefer the vulgar months, the fullness of the seasons.* As you grow older you learn to like the in - between times, the months that can't make up their minds. Perhaps it's a way of admitting that things can't ever bear the same certainty again. Or perhaps it's just a way of admitting a preference for empty ferries. . . . The sky is a theatre of possibilities. I am not romanticising."

from Flaubert's Parrot, 83
by Julian Barnes (British author, b. 1946)
Early Autumn Sunset Over Lake Geneva
Lausanne, Switzerland
*Both Anne Lamott and Jimmy Fallon
make similar observations.

Thursday, April 19, 2018

Coffee With Flaubert

Postmodernism

How insightful of Flaubert to predict the 21st Century internet
in his assessment of the 19th Century trains:

"Gustave [Flaubert, 1821 – 1880] belonged to the first railway generation in France; and he hated the invention. . . . he hated the way it flattered people with the illusion of progress. What was the point of scientific advance without moral advance? The railway would merely permit more people to move about, meet and be stupid together" (108, emphasis added).

from Flaubert's Parrot by Julian Barnes

For more Coincidence & Connection
See my Fortnightly Post
~ "Trees, Trains, and Idiots" ~

For more on this blog from Flaubert's Parrot

The Sadness of Hydrangeas

Colored Panes: Flaubert & Pearce

Primrose Path

And on my book blog ~ Flaubert & Barnes

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Colored Panes: Flaubert & Pearce

Doorway and Window at the Villa Majorelle

Briefly on this blog, and at greater link on my Fortnightly site, and most recently on my book blog, I have mentioned the lovely but sadly omitted stained - glass window passage from Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary (1857). This segment is not easy to locate, in print or online, so I'll include it here for future reference, in case you would like to slot it into your reading of this classic French novel:

Omitted Scene #5
"Emma and the Colored Window Panes at Vaubyessard"
Wandering at random, she reached a small wood, where she stopped in amazement before a little low house . . . . It was a retreat for summer days, a place for meetings, where, hidden from all eyes, but viewing the horizon through a break in the trees, lovers must have come many times in the still hours to pass the melancholy moments of love against the murmuring of the water. . . .

Diamond - shaped panes had been set into one of the two windows. She looked out at the countryside through the colored glass.

Through the blue pane everything seemed sad. A motionless azure haze diffused through the air, lengthened the meadows and pushed back the hills. The tips of the trees were velveted with a pale brown dust, dotted irregularly here and there as though there had been a snowfall, and far off in a distant field, a fire of dry leaves someone was burning seemed to have flames of wine alcohol.

Seen through the yellow glass, the leaves on the trees became smaller, the grass lighter, and the whole landscape as though it had been cut out of metal. The detached clouds looked like eiderdown quilts of golden dust ready to fall apart; the atmosphere seemed on fire. It was joyous and warm in this immense topaz color mixed with azure.

She put her eye to the green pane. Everything was green, the sand, the water, the flowers, the earth itself became indistinguishable from the lawns. The shadows were all black, the leaden water seemed frozen to its banks.

But she remained longest in front of the red glass. In a reflection of purple that overspread the landscape in all directions, robbing everything of its own color, the trees and grass became almost gray, and even red itself disappeared. The enlarged stream flowed like a rose - colored river, the peat - covered flower beds seemed to be seas of coagulated blood, the immense sky blazed with innumerable fires. She became frightened.

She turned away her eyes, and through the window with transparent panes, suddenly ordinary daylight reappeared, all pale with little patches of skycolored mist. . . . all at once, the white sunlight leapt into the closed room . . . . Exhausted, she sank down on a cushion.
(pp 268 / 38)

Writing a century later, British author Philippa Pearce described an incredibly similar scene, from a child's perspective, in her mystical young adult novel Tom's Midnight Garden (1958):
Tom and Hatty looked through "the coloured panes that bordered the glass panelling of the upper half [of the doorway of the greenhouse]. Through each colour of pane, you could see a different garden outside. Through the green pane, Tom saw a garden with green flowers under a green sky; even the geraniums were green-black. Through the red pane lay a garden as he might have seen it through the redness of shut eyelids. The purple glass filled the garden with thunderous shadow and with oncoming night. The yellow glass seemed to drench it in lemonade. At each of the four corners of this bordering was a colourless square of glass, engraved with a star.

"And if you look through this one -- " said Hatty. They screwed up their eyes and looked through the engraved glass.

"You can't really see anything, through the star," said Tom, disappointed.

"Sometimes I like that the best of all," said Hatty. "You look and see nothing, and you might think there wasn't a garden at all; but, all the time, of course, there is, waiting for you."
(pp 76 - 77)
Stained Glass Suncatcher from Beata

For another old house book by Philippa Pearce
see The Children of Charlecote

For more on Tom's Midnight Garden and other YA titles,
check out the latest post on my book blog:
"Young Adult"

For further reading on Flaubert:

1."Madame Bovary or the Book About Nothing" by​ Jean Rousset in
Flaubert: A Collection of Critical Essays by Raymond Giraud

2. investigate this Nabokov connection

And this one: "One of the latticed squares in a small cobwebby casement window at the turn of the staircase was glazed with ruby, and that raw wound among the unstained rectangles and its asymmetrical position -- a knight's move from the top -- always strangely disturbed me" (from Lolita, 192).

And this one: " . . . the reflections of the many-colored panes formed paradisal lozenges on the white-washed cushionless window seats" (from "Christmas," 35 in Short Fiction on Faith).

3. Flaubert's Parrot by Julian Barnes:
"And then there are the colours. When he was researching for Madame Bovary, Flaubert spent a whole afternoon examining the countryside through pieces of coloured glass. Would he have seen what we now see? Presumably. But what about this: in 1853, at Trouville, he watched the sun go down over the sea, and declared that it resembled a large disc of redcurrant jam. Vivid enough. But was redcurrant jam the same colour in Normandy in 1853 as it is now?

. . . We look at the sun through smoked glass; we must look at the past through colored glass."
(92, 94)

For further reading on colored windowpanes:

Willa Cather: "The sunlight, flashing on the window-glass of the big red barns, drove him wild with joy. . . . the orchard was riddled and shot with gold; light was the reality, the trees were merely interferences that reflected and refracted light." (150, O Pioneers!)

Alice Munro: "She came and caught me looking through the little panes of colored glass around the front door. She put her eye to the red one. 'Yard's on fire!' she said . . . ." (48, Lives of Girls and Women)

Monday, June 24, 2013

Primrose Path


"If any of us knew what we were doing, or where we are going, then when we think we best know! We do not know today whether we are busy or idle. In times we thought ourselves indolent, we have afterward discovered that much was accomplished and much was begun in us. All our days are so unprofitable while they pass, that 'tis wonderful where or when we every got anything of this which we call wisdom, poetry, virtue. We never got it on any dated calendar day. . . . Our life looks trivial, and we shun to record it . . . So much of our time is preparation, so much is routine, and so much retrospect, that the pith of our genius contracts itself to a very few hours. . . . The years teach much which the days never know. . . . We must be very suspicious of the deceptions of the element of time. It takes a good deal of time to eat or to sleep, or to earn a hundred dollars, and a very little time to entertain a hope and an insight which becomes the light of our life."

Ralph Waldo Emerson
American Essayist, 1803 - 1882
from the essay "Experience"

Similarly:
"The imagination doesn't crop annually like a reliable fruit tree.
The writer has to gather whatever's there: sometimes too much,
sometimes too little, sometimes nothing at all (115)"


Julian Barnes
British Novelist (b. 1946)
from the novel Flaubert's Parrot

P.S.
Supermoon

Unfortunately, it was so cloudy
that we could see only
the bottom half of the moonrise.









Later that night ~ still hazy.