The Mitfords - Letters Between Six Sisters

A book edited by Charlotte Mosley might look suspicious given the heavy past of her name, but I became aware of the existence of the Mitford sister when, as a teenager, I had read a short french biography of them. I remember having been instantly fascinated by their destiny. They were the six daughters of Baron and Baronness Redesdale, born between 1904 and 1920, and all of them lived incredible and sometimes very controversial lives.

The title of the book making its content pretty clear, I will only briefly introduce you to the lives of the six sisters, whose correspondence give a very accurate insight into upper-class English society throughout the 20th century. And the writing keeps going for decades, despite family conflicts and political events.

The six Mitford sisters:

- Nancy Mitford (1904-1973) is the eldest of the Mitford sisters. She wrote several novels, including Love in a Cold Climate and The Pursuit of Love, which were very successful at the time. She also wrote biographies of Louis XIV, Mme de Pompadour and Voltaire. In love with a French politician, she spent most of her life in Paris, where she died in 1973.

- Pamela Mitford (1907-1993) married a millionaire, Derek Jackson, and is known as "the rural Mitford", as she didn't share her sister's extravagances.

- Diana Mitford (1910-2003) first married the heir of the Guinness but left him in 1933 to marry Oswald Mosley, leader of the British Union of Fascists, thus creating a scandal at the time. She shared her fascist views with him, and with her younger sister Unity;

- Unity Mitford (1914-1948) is probably the most controversial figure of the family. Sadly she is famous for her fanaticism towards toward Hitler, whom she met and befriended. She attempted suicide by shoting herself in the head, following the beginning of the war between England and Germany, and never ceased being devoted to Hitler. She never fully recovered of the loss of her beloved one nor from her suicide attempt, and died of a meningitis in 1948

- Jessica Mitford (1917-1996) is a real heroin, whose life seems to be taken from an adventure or spy movie. Aged 19, she fled with Esmond Romilly, her second cousin and husband-to-be to Spain, where Esmond was working as a journalist, to report news about the Spanish Civil war. Back to London for a time, the couple left England for America just before the outbreak of the war. While Esmond went missing in 1941, Jessica raised alone their daughter. She married a lawyer, Robert Treuhaft, with whom she got two sons. She worked as a journalist and never gave up her faith towards communism

- the youngest, Deborah, born in 1920, married in 1941 Lord Andrew Cavendish and became the wealthy Duchess of Devonshire till her husband's death in 2004. She was probably the one daughter who accomplished exactly what her parents wished for her by elevating herself to the highest spheres of English nobility.

Petits suicides entre amis - A charming mass suicide

*** As I was writing this entry, I saw a young woman reading this very same novel in a bus in Aix-en-Provence. It just felt so good to see someone else reading one of my favorite authors! If she ever comes around here, this entry is for her! ***

He who never read a novel by Arto Paasilinna…is just very unfortunate. Not that I would make round eyes to someone who hasn’t read one of my most beloved writers. But some of them actually manage to make you smile at every sentence, and eagerly turn every page, looking forward to what’s next. That is exactly what happened to me when I first read Paasilinna. First, the author himself doesn’t come from a conventional background. He worked as a lumberjack, then was a journalist and finally “ended up” being a very successful writer in Finland, and then worldwide. However, out of his numerous novels (a sentence carefully written in such a way that it hides the fact that I don’t have in mind, just right now, how many novels he actually wrote. My memory hints at 40 ish. Wikipedia says 35 to this day), only a handful (13) has been translated into French. Although every year, the official translator gives to French audience a new gem of the Paasilinna’s collection of sarcastic, yet idealistic tales.

When you pass through the shelves of a bookshop and spot one entitled “Little suicides between friends”, it’s almost impossible, especially when you are well acquainted with the subject, not to pay attention to it and end up buying it. That is what happened when I came across this intriguing Paasilinna novel. As I had loved the first novel I read of him, it didn’t take me long to decide whether I’d give a go to such a depressing book. I was well inspired to do so, as to this day, it was one of the funniest books I’ve ever read. With his usual wit, Paasilinna describes the adventures of a bunch of suicidal people across Europe…The opening scene, an anthology, presents two of the protagonists. As they both want to hang themselves in a grange, they both notice one another’s presence and, of course, that ruins their initial plan. However, resourceful people as they are, they decide to not let this encounter change any of their deadly projects. As they noticed they weren’t all alone in their suicidal views, they decide to gather all the people interested in committing the gesture that will put their life to an end. But as they launch their successful association and are joined by dozens of people, nothing goes according to plan. People, once together, actually enjoy their time with each other, and the association has to deplore a lot of defections. How it will end, I will not tell, but you’d sure embark for a very funny journey with this group of depressed people.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

On my way to Provence, I was enjoying a quiet journey through the French fast train. Don’t get me wrong, “TGV” stands for “Train à Grande Vitesse”, however this is not reflecting the actual speed of the train, at least not in the north-east-south portion I’m currently taking.

What about my western allusion then?

Well, I was deep into my book (Alexander Mc Call Smith, Corduroy Mansion, Volume 1, review to come), when suddenly, the 20^th century Fox music echoed in the carriage. I first thought of a mobile ring, thinking to myself that at the very least it was not that bad a choice.

But as music kept going, I realized that a young man, sitting just in front of me, had simply decided that now would be a good time to watch a movie. Without headphones, that is. In a full carriage. I wasn’t too surprised by people’s lack of reaction, having already experience a similar lethargy in a Berlin subway, when all of a sudden a man emerged in a carriage, armed with a bloodied kitchen knife. Oh, but I’m actually omitting ONE reaction, that of the mid-fifties woman sitting next to me, who then exclaimed “aber das ist immer so, mit dies’Bahn, wir werden noch einmal verspätet sein”. CQFD, as we say in French. That was just the thing that matters.

Anyhow, back to Mr. Fox, since he had interrupted my (and a few other people) reading with his noisy occupation, I took a look at his screen. And I must give him credit for his movie choice, for as dim as he looked, he at least tried to watch a John Wayne movie. Not that I’m much into westerns, but nowadays, I’d rather go watch a good old Indian/Cowboys movie from the fifties rather than an action-sci-fi-special-effects-no-thinking-required American blockbuster. No offence towards those movies, it’s just not my cup of tea.

The thing about London...

I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

London, by William Blake (1794)

The Châtelet Apprentice - L'énigme des Blancs-Manteaux

This novel is the first of a series of 9 volumes, to be continued, written by French author Jean-François Parot. I was pleased to find it had been translated in English, as the series is very much worth reading for those who are interested both in historical novels and in detective ones.
The plot is set in 18th century Paris, and the main character is Nicolas Le Floch, a commissaire at the Châtelet, who is of noble ascendance. This fictionnal character evolves together with inspector Pierre Bourdeau (who is to him what Robin is to Batman, what Watson is to Holmes, and so and so), and interacts with real figures of the time, such as Sartine and Louis XV. A French ambassador and historian, author Jean-François Parot carefully uses his skills to create characters and stories without anachronisms and highlights Parisian life of the time.
The main story is always an investigation led by Commissaire Le Floch, but it's often used as a pretext to describe the character's environment and accurately portrays people from every background, from the poorer to the head of state. The langage of the time seems to be respected, as well as every gesture and custom described. Yet the book is more of a detective book than a historical essay, but it's a very well documented "thriller".
On top of that, depiction of Early Modern France is completed by detailed recipes of the time, given by the commissaire's cook.
As a result, one's attention is constantly drawn either by the developments of the investigation, the evocation of ancient culinary curiosities, or just by life in 18th century Paris.
A website, in French, has been developed by J-F Parot himself, in order to introduce his character to the readers.

What I don't like to read...

...is arrogant contemporary literature. You know, those books people are in awe about, because they are so original; indeed, there was a time when finding the "f" word three times a line, might have been considered as original. "He depicts the real world, its violence". Yet, using the same successful recipe over and over leads to a certain fading of the term "originality". The sold-out novels usually depicts characters who could be glamorous because of their social status but who are desperately self-focused, generally into drugs and evolving in an underground (if not parallel) environment. They usually use a lot of chemical substances to lift up their spirits and cheer up, because being rich is oh so difficult. Speaking normally seems to be so as well, as a normal conversation must necessarily contain at least a couple of "s***" and three "f***" to keep the high level of introspection of the characters. Gloomy words, gloomy world, gloomy work...
I've read this, and I liked doing so in order to get to know one or two novels of the kind. However, I don't quite get the fuss about it, given that it describes only the world of a few, not that of the vast majority.
What I dislike is not misery being depicted; rather that self-sufficient, disillusioned tone used to talk about issues that might touch only people who are well-off enough to afford wasting money and health in drug, sex and crimes. Words are so precious, they are fascinating when they describe this lost generation, but even more so when they are used to make me see the couple of few good parts of real world.

Getting to know Emile Zola

When you're a highschool student in France, chances are high for you to get to read at least one of those boring "cobblestones" book, ie a 500 pages classic, usually written by Victor Hugo or Emile Zola. Even though I'm a bookworm, I never, ever, liked being forced to read a book, no matter the subject. So, when at 15, I had to read Zola's La Curée, I can't stay I was pleased about it. However, as I flicked through the pages, something strange happened. Although very reluctant about knowing about the disastrous adventures of that poor stupid Renée girl, I became bewitched with the kind of writing used by Zola. I suppose I fell in love with his depictions, and the addiction I developped to his masterpieces never left me ever since. Renée Saccard, the main character of this second volume of the Rougon-Macquart series (22 volumes, one day I'll blog about them all), is a sort of Emma Bovary. She's rich and beautiful, but isn't satisfied with her marriage to an old man. She cheats on him with his son (oh, I might have uncovered the plot, but Zola's novel's construction is always the same in every book. The rise and fall of a hero or a heroin). After having risen to the highest spheres in Paris, the poor woman experiences real despair and loses everything. But to me, Zola's novels are not about the plot. As I said, once you've read one of them, you can easily guess the end of all the others. What's really interesting, and addictive, are the depictions he makes of the environment he chose for his novels. May it be popular Paris or a quiet countryside town, may it be poor or rich, Zola depicts it in a way that takes you immediately in the middle of the nineteenth century, in a factory, in a palace, in the street or in a shop. You can sense through the pages the life of the members of the Rougon-Macquart family. You can feel for them, and understand their weaknesses and strenghts, knowing they inherited it all from the founder of the dynasty.

To this day, I'm still saving two volumes out of the 22, in order to always have a Rougon-Macquart novel to look forward to read. Would you be interested to read further informations about this book, I invite you to read my old bookworm website, which I haven't updated for the last 8 years or so, under the letter "C".

What do people read?

Trinity College Library, Dublin

If you ever asked yourself what other people read, without having the opportunity to attend a book club, here is a (french) website for you. If you suscribe to the website you can even post your own impressions about the last book you've read, as well as listen to interesting broadcasts.

The world according to Boris Taillard

Taking one good picture can be chance, but having an eye for it is less common. Boris Taillard is a friend of mine who, when travelling the world, is one of these people always bringing back pictures that look like pieces of art. When complimented, he always replies the camera does it all. I couldn't agree less. More than 800 pictures he took across the globe are viewable on his page.

Alexander Mc Call Smith and The Comfort of Saturdays

It has been about two years I've been reading Alexander Mc Call Smith's novels. No, I have never opened one of his detective novels his so famous for, I don't know what he creates in Africa. However, I couldn't resist his Corduroy Mansion, 44 Scotland Street and The Sunday Philosophy Club series. I wouldn't call these numerous novels the best I've ever read, and sometimes the rythm is really slow, however it's is very representative of Edimburgh's everyday life in many ways. The characters are always keen on introspection. They think about their lives and their future, about love and friendship, nothing new there really. But this, plus the slow rythm, gives the reader the opportunity to feel the heat of the fireplace, the steam on the teacup while rain is pouring outside, the warmth of an indian summer Scottish afternoon...

I'll go a bit further and introduce the three series I like. About Corduroy Mansions, what would describe the series best than an extract itself? It's free as the first publication occurred online (and yes, I bought the paperback version).

The Sunday Philosophy Club is another series counting to this day 8 volumes. If you're ever going to start this series I'm most envious, knowing you still have 8 to go and me 0 left!

Isabel Dalhousie is a forty-something philosopher. She likes reflecting on society, life and love, especially hers. She's divorced, but she's bright and she's very rich. In fact, so rich that she doesn't need to work. But she's addicted to philosophy. And it shows up in her thoughts and actions, which are no Bridget Jones'. She's also a philanthropist and often try to help out her niece, friends and even strangers. Sometimes, she solves enigma, but the main interest is herself as the intrigue of the books.

44 Scotland Street is a bit of an auberge espagnole, meaning the action is set up in a building where people from various background live. There is Pat, a young female student, whose inner quest only just begins with volume one. There is this very show-off sporty-not-brainy Bruce Anderson, who thinks batting the eyes is enough to secure female devotion, and shy Matthew who's a lonely rich young man, always ill at ease with the opposite sex. There is Bertie, a 5 years old little genius, fluent in Italian and gifted in playing saxophone, but mostly fed up with his mother's determination to make him acting like an adult so soon. There is Cyril, a very clever dog who drinks beer and belongs to Angus Lordie, a free-spirited artist, and there is Domenica, an ageing anthropologist who doesn't admit having a crush for Angus. The mix is simply delightful. To be continued...

Das Parfum and me

Today I wanted to talk about the international bestseller of Patrick Süskind, The Perfume. I could easily try being an outsider by talking about his other writings, including The Pigeon, the Double Bass and On Love and Death, which were equally captivating and which I read with great pleasure. What to say about The Perfume then? Everything about this book has been said. One can smell the things depicted through the pages, the anti-hero is a fascinating and yet hateful character...

But what I kept in mind, after the first reading, was a total different aspect; ever since I was a child, I have been really, really scared of one thing. Ticks. I got bitten twice, and yet not infected. Then, later, as I got a cat, I met them again. I should have been scared of them as a child, not as an adult. But in between, Patrick Süskind's words had entered my mind and lodged there ever since. Talk about the power of words, I haven't walked a single day in the forest or in a green patch without thinking about the way he constantly compares his murderer hero to this dreadful insect. What's fascinating there is that he depicts evil, and he does so with the only insect that might not find any defender for its cause. And he does so with great success, since ever since I've read his lines, I never found anything I would be more afraid of. Up to this day, when I had to battle a colony of ticks gathered in grapes. Once again, I thought about Jean-Baptiste Grenouille. Except that this time it was just to laugh at it, thinking that next time I'll go have a walk in the forest I probably wouldn't bother much about a single little tick, after having had to deal with so many.

Who remembers Jean-François de Galaup, comte de Lapérouse?

I asked myself this question after having read one of his biographies by Anne Pons.

One day, about five years ago, I attended a seminar where I heard Pascal Brioist, a historian specialised in French maritime history of the 18th century. He talked about compass, sextant, and several other instruments I had only heard about.

He also talked about the great discoverers and I heard about Cook, Béring, Drake...and Lapérouse.

I had heard the name beforehand but never really looked into the story behind.

An yet his life has been so rich in fascinating events that it was worth digging a bit deeper. I promised myself I would take time to read about him; it took time, but ben I opened his biography I felt like Alice falling into the tree.

There is a very well informed wikipedia page about him, so I would feel bad repeating it all, but while reading the book, I felt I had been missing out a whole chapter of my country's history.

Lapérouse was born in 1741, a well educated noble, and participated both to the Seven Years War (French and Indian War) and to the American War of Independence. He participated to a number of battles, including that of Quiberon (1759).

But he is mostly known for having led a scientific expedition around the world, on board of La Boussole and L'Astrolabe, which vanished in 1788. To this day, we don't know the exact date of his - and his men's - death, nor what exactly happened to them. Only in 1827 did the Irish explorer Peter Dillon find the remainings of one of the two boats, L'Astrolabe, which had sunk near Vanikoro (Santa Cruz Islands) about forty years earlier. La Boussole had also sunk nearby but was only discovered a couple of years later. It then appeared that while some of the men instantly died in the sea, others managed to reach the shore, only to get massacred by natives. Other managed to survive the shipwreck and established a camp which was found during a 2005 search and some men - according to natives - escaped aboard a little ship they built. But no one ever heard about them again. This is history.

But the men who went aboard L'Astrolabe and La Boussole shouldn't only be famous for their tragic end, but for what they achieved between 1785 and 1788. By all means, the expedition was most ambitious and should the company have come home safely, the discoveries made would have enriched our country, and increase the opinion we have of Louis XVI, who appointed Lapérouse in order to try to match James Cook's genius on the sea. Instead, the king was beheaded, and the expedition long forgotten by citizens too busy making a revolution to care about science.

Crossing the globes, sailing the most dangerous seas, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from a frozen Alaska to the muggy Pacific Islands and the much loved Kamtchatka, Lapérouse and his men spent the last four years of their lives trying to bring science and glory to their country, and encountering new civilisations.

Far from being a new Cortes, Lapérouse left in his travel diaries, which we are lucky to have till his departure from Botany Bay, his impressions on several populations of natives. Each stopover was devoted to exploration and scholars aboard managed to send back to France treasures of knowledge, despite the obvious waste of what we'll never get back after the shipwreck.

This is the expedition depicted in this biography, which as such wasn't that great, for we know more about his career than about the man, but the book is very well informed on the "mystery expedition" and it decidedly is a good start for one interested into knowing more about one of our greatest discoverer.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever (Keats)

Dune

I always thought I'd not go the easy way and watch Sting playing Paul when he was way younger to discover this classic Sci-Fi book. However, this was one of the books which took me ages, if not decades, to read. I heard about it when I was only in primary school; I knew it was famous worldwide, and also that Sci-Fi was "weird".

Thanks to that prejudice, I didn't open any Sci-Fi or Fantasy books till I was about 16. Then, this strange blockbuster Lord of the Rings introduced me to this kind of literature. But that's another story.

As for Dune, I always had in mind those used books you find in dusty second-hand bookshops; either that or the movie being broadcasted again on TV.

And then, when I moved in with my beloved one, I saw that Dune book on my bookshelves everytime I was picking something to read. Given the state of the book, I could see it had been much loved. With a sigh, I decided it was time to give it a try.

So what were my impressions? I haven't been raised in a Sci Fi culture as I said, and coming from historical novels or essay background, it has been an interesting dive into a whole new kind of literature. I can't pretend I wasn't a bit sceptical by reading about giant worms and Lady Jessica. I mean, to me it was as if Galadriel had been christened Britney in LOTR. However I could only stick to what had been previously said about it; it's addictive and very nicely written. But as always when you're very much looking forward to being impressed, it somehow failed leaving me with this sweet bewilderment I look for when reading a new book.

Lazy afternoon in Paris

A Parisian afternoon, from the Centre Pompidou.

A glimpse of Paris

The way it feels when I listen to...

Pink Floyd. This legendary band was an enigma for me until:

- A road trip with a friend to have a lunch in another city. Till now I can see the surprise in my friend's eyes when I confess I don't know Pink Floyd that well.

- The shivers I get listening to High Hopes. The feeling this sound is bounding our friendship forever.

- The recognition when I hear Another Brick in the Wall. Of course I knew the band, I could be so dumb.

- The pain I felt when I have to discover Learning to Fly after my friend departed. But also the feeling of having been so lucky to meet him and have the honour of being his friend.

The way it feels when I listen to...

Queen in the middle of the night; desperately "kitsch" and yet... Funny as it seems, it brings back memories of:

- my dad, always and often, who hopelessly looked like Freddy Mercury on one of the very very few pictures I have of him. When I hear Mercury I think I listen to the songs my father liked and danced on, although there is still no excuse for the "kitsch-ness" of it as for listening to it in 2011,

- the movie Philadelphia, because Mercury was one of the first public victims of aids,

- ... a trip to Wicklow Mountains in a car with three Italian friends, amongst whom a couple in crisis and an apprentice monk.

- my mum rolling her eyes and muttering "this is SO old-fashioned, I used to listen to that when I was 17" and me so wishing I could have been 17 in 1977.

J'étais derrière toi

Era dietro ti...these words often come in my mind when i think about romance. J'étais derrière toi is a French novel written by Nicolas Fargues.

Born in 1972, the author write quite like Frédéric Beigbeder; yet the violence in the words is different since there are no drugs and a little bit more lasting grace left after you've read the last lines. It's very much accurate in the depiction of the french new lost generation, those 30 something young men for whom introspection is the way to go. In literature at least, the results of this constant thinking is awesome, as Nicolas Fargues gives a vibrant depiction of the breakdown of his main character's couple and the man's encounter with his italian student lover. A common subject is treated there, but I felt for this man, I ached when the manipulative wife beats him with words and kicks, and I dreamed I could be this girl he fell for in a little Tuscana village. I - again - fell in love with a book character and a man who didn't exist. If this is a mistake this is the sweetest one I'm making book after book and I hope it will never end. But that's another story.

Like a symphony, there are different rythms in this novel, and sometimes the authors talks - out of the blue - to the reader. There is a nice conclusion, a wee bit expected but cute nonetheless, which makes you want to start again from page 1. Which I did again several years after my first reading. I was amazed by this second one, given the fact it gave me the exact same feeling I had at the time and brought back memories from my own romantic love stories.

In two words, reading this book, ideally with a glass of chianti and a lover on the side, might be the inner meaning of Dolce Vita..