Eight Bookshops...

The Writers' Museum, Edinburgh

...because I tried hard to remember ten spots I loved but it didn't work. Why is it anyway that we feel the need to top-10ing?

8. Chapters (Parnell St., Dublin)

Most favourite shop in Ireland as it holds books on everything (with an emphasis on Ireland, naturally). And staff is very friendly.

7. Blackwell's Bookshop (51 Broad St., Oxford)

On top of being located in the prettiest place, Blackwell has in one building an extensive range of Tolkien's Harper Collins publications, all the Greek and Latin classics in the original language, any classics you could dream of, as well as overpriced cookies and tea. Needless to say, a lot of nerds around, too.

6. Green Apple Books (506 Clement St., San Francisco)

I had a day off in San Francisco during a "working" trip, and as I had brought an almost empty bag that was to be filled with books I needed to find a supplier. As this was my first time alone in an english-speaking country, I thought I had landed in heaven when I opened the door and saw shelves full of books written in English which didn't seem to be overpriced. That's how I ended up at Green Apple, and bought the original six volumes of "Tales of the City" by Armistead Maupin.

5. Saint Georges (Wörtherstr. 27, Berlin)

In posh Prenzlauer Berg, this is a nice bookshop with a lot of secondhand items. English of course.

4. East of Eden (Schreinerstr. 10, Berlin)

The best independant secondhand English bookshop in Berlin. They also have plenty of little treasures in other languages. Several rooms, books from ceiling to floor, and event little gigs from time to time.

3. Diogene (29 rue Saint Jean, Lyon)

In Lyon's historical city centre, I regularly do a pilgrimage there, wallet in hand.

2. Ex-Libro (22, rue des Frères, Strasbourg)

Ten years on, the owners still remember me. Very friendly book lovers and always my favourite authors on display. In days of yore, my favourite spot to hang out.

1. Page 12 (doesn't exist anymore)

I grew up in that shop: it made me discover Zola, Balzac, Jardin, Beauvoir, Kundera. Sadly replaced by a hairdresser. Times change.

This California dew is just a little heavier than usual tonight...

Really? From where I stand, the sun is shining all over the place.

Twice Shy - Seamus Heaney

Her scarf a la Bardot,

In suede flats for the walk,

She came with me one evening

For air and friendly talk.

We crossed the quiet river,

Took the embankment walk.

Traffic holding its breath, 

Sky a tense diaphragm:

Dusk hung like a blackcloth

That shook where a swan swam,

Tremulous as a hawk

Hanging deadly, calm.

A vacuum of need

Collapsed each hunting heart

But tremulously we held

As hawk and prey apart,

Preserved classic decorum, 

Deployed our talk with art.

Our Juvenilia

Had taught us both to wait,

Not to publish feeling

And regret it all too late -

Mushroom loves already

Had puffed and burst in hate.

So, chary and excited,

As a thrush linked on a hawk,

We thrilled to the March twilight

With nervous childish talk:

Still waters running deep

Along the embankment walk.

Seamus Heaney (1939 - 2013)

Shooting "Libération": when information is threatened

Yesterday morning, a young photographer, aged 23, has been shot in Paris. Associations such as "Reporters without frontiers" report everyday on journalists being injured or killed for their work worldwide. Only this time this photographer was in a lift, in the entrance hall of French national newspaper "Libération". He wasn't working yet. He was charging his camera, unaware of what was going to happen. A man arrived, didn't speak a word, and opened fire on the first person he could see. Within seconds, the photographer collapsed, seriously injured. Within seconds, this man's life has been changed forever. We don't know the reason for it. But how could there be one? There is no reason for fatality. There is none, yet, it's extremely shocking to think that in our so-called civilization this kind of random and unfair event might cost a young man his life. Beyond the act itself, which looks like an isolated action committed by an unbalanced person who obviously holds a grudge against the press, this attack is also threatening all means of information. In what kind of society do we live, where newspaper's headquarters have to be protected? Do we have to install security checks at the entrance of every building out there because we are unable to shield ourselves from the act of one amongst millions? There are so many sad questions raised by this isolated yet devastating attack. They can't be answered because what happened isn't rational. What is, though, is the desire to convey information, to inform, to instruct through the circulation of knowledge. And "Libération" means freedom. Freedom of information. Neither its journalists nor any other out there will stop informing because violence won't silence them, as long as some of them are (still) standing. They were, are and always will be the eyes of our world.

If you have time please check Committee to Protect Journalists and Reporters Without Borders .

On Tolerance

I was having a discussion the other day on what could be tolerated in matter of beliefs and what couldn't be. In that particular case, in a conversation held by a group of atheists, the object was faith. To what extent can an atheist tolerate a believer? Not in the sense of getting rid of it alltogether in a violent manner but rather what does an atheist do of a believer's opinion? I like to think that I'm tolerant, yet I was made feel like I was rather bland for not being strongly opinionated against believers, as an atheist. Some of my friends do believe in God, and the reason why they remain being my friends despite our divergent beliefs is because I see it as a sign of open-mindedness that I don't judge the way they apprehend the world. 

The question raised – to what extent can one tolerate a divergent opinion in the case of faith? - got me thinking about the notion of tolerance itself. I found a very interesting paragraph on the French wikipedia page on what tolerance isn't. Tolerance isn't indifference, for the latter implies that one isn't concerned, one way or another, with the subject of its (dis)interest. Tolerance isn't submission, for that would imply coercion and not a deliberate choice of accepting a divergent opinion. Tolerance isn't indulgence, because that implies a tendancy to forgive what one can't understand, while tolerance can also be a sign of condescendence. Tolerance isn't permissiveness. Contrary to indulgence, permissiveness implies a propension to forgive anything unconditionnally. Finally, tolerance isn't respect. Respect implies that one understands and shares the values of a person and judge them favorably. Tolerance, on the other hand, is the fact that one tries to accept something or someone in spite of the negative judgement one has on it/him/her.

In Early Modern times, tolerance mostly meant that a group of believers, the tenants of the catholic faith, should accept that another group, the protestants, worshiped God in another way. Thomas More emphasised tolerance in his Utopia, while not applying it in his own politics as Lord Chancellor. In Letters concerning Tolerance, John Locke, contrary to Hobbes, argues in favour of a state within which multiple religions would be tolerated, as a means to pacify society. However, this society couldn't tolerate atheists, because "those who deny the existence of a God shouldn't be tolerated, because promises, contracts, oaths, and good faith, which are the main links to civil society, couldn't force an atheist to keep his word". 

In Buddhism practices, tolerance is employed against external and negative elements. It is a means of self-protection and well-being against adversity. Tunisian philosopher Albert Memmi describes it as "a conquest on oneself". In The Open Society and Its Enemies, Karl Popper evokes The Paradox of Tolerance: "Illimited tolerance shall lead to the disappearance of tolerance. If we extend illimited tolerance even to those who are intolerant, if we aren't ready to defend a tolerant society against the impact of the intolerant, then the tolerant will be destroyed, and with him tolerance. (…) we should revendicate the right to eradicate the intolerants, even by force if needed (…). Thus we should revendicate, in the name of tolerance, the right not to tolerate the intolerant. (…) If one shows absolute tolerance, even towards intolerants, and if tolerant society isn't protected against their attacks, tolerants will be destroyed and, with them, tolerance." Following the same line of thought, in A Theory of Justice, John Rawls argues that one should tolerate intolerants, for it would be intolerant not to do so, but he also states that no society has the moral obligation to tolerate people or things that aim at its destruction.

All that got me thinking: where do I stand as far as tolerance is concerned? Am I a tolerant person, or do I show too much indulgence towards things that shouldn't be tolerated anymore? Faith doesn't bother me to the point that I have to actively make an effort to tolerate it in others. On the contrary, I respect it, even though I neither understand nor share it. Then if there is a notion of respect, does that also imply that of indulgence, and are those two notions really unrelated to that of tolerance? For now I will rely on Voltaire, who stated in 1767, in his Treaty on Tolerance: "Of all the surperstitions, isn't the most dangerous that which leads someone to hate its neighbour for his opinions?"

The naked truth

I used to think that I was relatively open-minded and at ease-ish with my own body. But that was before I moved to Germany, where some people have a whole different approach regarding what can be seen and shown, and what should be saved for a more restricted (and, of course, privileged) audience.

The first blow came one summer afternoon when, like any good Berliner, I decided to beat the heat by going swimming in a lake. A digression here: if you reached that stage it means you're already well integrated within your host community; indeed most of us expats in our right mind would first think about various objections. Namely, how many bacterias are developing here while I'm swimming, I hate noisy children, there is a lot of muck here and, last but not least – why would I go in there it's bloody cold anyway and I don't like wearing a bikini. For the latest of these protestations, German practical minds found an easy solution. No bikini, no fashion faux-pas. Naturally I had heard about naked people here and there, but unless you witnessed it you don't quite measure the impact it can have on how you perceive the surrounding sceneries. Not that it was my first encounter with naturists. I remember acutely well that dozen of swiss-german pensioners sunbathing au naturel along the Rhine river on a narrow path that I, as a very innocent teenager, had to cross as I was following a guide who was giving us an "Art-in-Basel" tour. We all would have liked to have the possibility to look away, only that path was really narrow. Anyway, we made sure not to walk on anything of value. Back to my Berlin lake, I thought I had seen it all, but no, here I was again. This time however, I could only marvel, not at what I was seeing (bizarrely, it seems only elderly and out-of-shape people are stripping it all), but at how organised it all was. A beach for the children, a beach for party-goers, and one for naturists. A well-designed segregation that seemed to suit everyone. As a blushing ingenue stationed in the children area, then how comes my eyes witnessed what they did? Well, because some people do have their favourite spots, and you won't deter a pensioner (yes, again!) to bath where he wants and how he wants, even if that means that he will be the only naked person swimming amongst a plethora of toddlers.

All in all, that was an expected – though unwanted – experience, so the second blow hit even harder as it came out of the blue. Here I was, an enthusiastic swimmer, ready to enjoy a dip in some nice thermal bath, with a stunning view on the German capital. On my way to the pool, I felt quite unsettled by a number of elderly people (a redundant theme here) eyeing me in the changing room. I found them quite rude and not very subtle, but here I was, in my swimming suit, eagerly walking towards the water. By the pool though, the look of others became heavier, and I had the awkward feeling that something was wrong. With me. Had I forgotten to take off my socks? A quick look down reassured me on that point. Only now another uncomfortable thought crossed my mind – had I forgotten to take off something else, something that…other people…*eyes raised, widened in shock*…are clearly not wearing? Yes, again, I had been tricked by my foolishness not to double-check what was written on the therms' website. I quickly thought that I would be more looked at with my swimsuit on than without, so I tried to act like I was very used to what was happening and just stripped it all off before quickly jumping into the water (no objections that it was too cold, which it was, in fact). After all, those strong feelings of self-consciousness and shame didn't kill me, I realised. I decided to not think further about it, and began to swim, saying to myself that I had made a fuss over nothing, it wasn't so bad after all. But what really made me leave the pool was when I instinctively turned at some point to see a man my age swimming behind me under water. With goggles. Now therms are usually quite expensive, so one better has to make the most of one's time there. I swore I would never get caught again in that kind of unwanted situation. It happened once again, I tried to fit in, opened that sauna door, only to see three men old spread-out on the benches like octopusses, closed the door, and walked away, thinking that it was the worst 17€ I had paid in my entire life. Naturism wasn't for me.

All that happened a long time ago – so when yesterday's outing at the gym happened, I was quite unprepared. I thought that after all those years spent here, I was getting quite used to the local way of life. Once again, here I was, in the changing room of my women-only (see sauna traumatism above) fitness club. It isn't unusual for me to open that door and have to face a pair of boobs, or any below-the-belt item, heads or tails, that I don't feel particularly keen on seeing in that context. Yes, it is all very pretty (most of the time), but frankly, after breakfast, or after work, in fact after anything else I have been doing, I'm just not keen. Anyway, I made my way to the locker, not paying much attention to that naked woman over there. Deep in my thoughts, I was getting ready, when she came towards me, as I was only wearing my skirt. She smiled and seemed to be particularly interested in my last item of clothes: "heyyy, I love your skirt, it's really nice! where did you buy it?". So, while my hands didn't quite know where to go – they had started covering my breast but then I realised the other one was naked anyway – and my eyes didn't quite know where to look, I mumbled some kind of answer, and I thought to myself that, after all, it must all be part of the exception culturelle.

On the way to school - Sur le chemin de l'école

"Every child must be helped to develop his or her potential, whether in the furthest corner of the outback, the remotest mountains, or in our cities. The more challenging the environment, the more motivated the children are. Let's not deprive ourselves of these reservoirs of talents. If we give them a chance we will all be enriched."

Pascal Plisson (director)

Now thanks to my learned mother who made me aware of it, I can finally be ahead of times and talk about a cultural event that isn't over yet: On the way to school (Sur le chemin de l'école), a documentary directed by Pascal Plisson, out in France, Italy, Belgium and Switzerland since September, and in Germany on December, 5th.

It is a movie I very much look forward to see, from French director Pascal Plisson. It might touch me because I'm a teacher, because I love children, because I want to make a difference in their lives when given the opportunity. But I think this movie should touch everyone out there, because it tells a story of hope, of determination, of courage. It tells the story of five children across the world, each carrying a dream, each hoping to fulfill it through gaining knowledge.

Samuel (13), lives in Kuruthamaankadu, in India. He's disabled, and the only of three children who can read. When he grows up he wants to become a doctor in order to help disabled children. He is the only one at home able to read, and although school in India became compulsory in 2010; many families still can't afford it. Yet, with the help of his two brothers pushing his wheelchair, he crosses the forest in order to attend school.

Samuel and his brothers ©Wild Bunch 2013

Zahira (12) lives in the Atlas Mountains, in Morocco. Each Monday, she walks 22 km (4 hours) from her village to Asni's Education for all boarding school. She crosses mountains, sometimes in extreme conditions. On the last bit of the trip, she and some friends reach a highway on which they have to find a driver prepared to take them aboard, in order to reach school. She too wants to become a doctor to help the poor.

Carlito (11) lives in the plains of Patagonia, in Argentina. Every day of the week, he rides the family's horse with his six-year-old sister Micaela, in order to reach school 18km away. He lives in a happy family, and enjoy a simple life. He is committed to learn no matter the hardships of the road so that he can become a vet. 

Carlito and his little sister Micaela ©Wild Bunch 2013

Jackson (11), lives in Kenya. He belongs to the Sumburu tribe. School is 15km away from his home. In order to reach it, he has to face many dangers: armed gangs, aggressive elephants. Along with his six-year-old sister Salome, just like Carlito in Argentina, Jackson takes the same road towards knowledge every day. His good results secured him some grants, but each year he buys his own school material and uniform. He has never seen an airplane but dreams about becoming a pilot. He is determined that one day, he will see the world. 

Jackson and his sister Salome ©Wild Bunch 2013

For each child, attending school is an every day challenge. For most of us, most of people reading this now, school was a given. Has it ever been difficult for us to attend it? Yet knowledge is a gift, a tool which helped us to become who we are, helped us to find and define our place in the world; even, for some, to make it a better place. And these children are determined to go through whatever it takes, in order to have access to education, and later help their families and their people.

Towards the perfect embrace - Munch's quest for the perfect representation of love

"I will paint living people who breathe and feel and love and suffer"

Edvard Munch 

Kiss by the window, 1892 © The National Museum of Art, Architecture and Design, Oslo

To celebrate the 150th anniversary of the birth of Edvard Munch this year, The National Art Gallery and the Munch Museum in Oslo present a retrospective of his most famous works. Most people would refer to Edvard Munch as the creator of The Scream and The Madonna. While these paintings certainly are masterpieces, there is an extreme sadness about them. When I visited the Edvard Munch Museum and the National Gallery in Oslo I was more intrigued by Munch's obsession to represent love in his paintings, rather than death, although both were often alike. During his Berlin years he produced some of his most beautiful representations of love, far from the darkness of The Scream. A series of these paintings was exposed for the first time in Berlin, in 1893, in Unter den Linden, under the name "Frieze of Life - a poem about Life, Love and Death", which made Munch a highly controversial figure, while also establishing him as a master of his art.

The Kiss, 1897 © Munch Museum, Oslo

I loved this Kiss mostly because when I came near it in the Munch Museum, a couple of French tourists was staring at it. And I believe they weren't together yet by what they were talking about. The young man was trying to explain to the woman how he saw the embrace, and they seemed to disagree about the woman's position in it. They still had that awkwardness that preceeds love, avoiding each other's eyes, keeping some distance even as they were recreating the embrace with their bodies. It was just very beautiful to witness with this painting in the background. I could have just sneered and found them ridiculous but they were playing a beautiful game and I hope their trip to the museum was worth it. I reckon Munch would have loved these lovers too.

Love and Pain: The Vampire, 1893-4, © The National Art Gallery, Oslo

I found The Vampire interesting because in most of his paintings representing an embrace, Munch depicted women in a submissive way. They are kissed more than they kiss, they are held rather than holding their partners. Yet, in this one, the woman is dominating the scene, and that seemed only possible by giving her the power of a vampire. (In other words, it is very tempting to try to find out what kind of relationship the painter had with his partners.)

The Dance of Life, 1899 © The National Art Gallery, Oslo

The Dance of Life made me think of a scene from Thomas Hardy's novel Tess of the D'Ubervilles. I read on an art blog that the sun's reflection in the water was a phallic representation which gave the painting its sexual connotation. I'm aware of that, and of Eros and Thanatos etc, but maybe sometimes a painting ought to be appreciated without over-analysing it. It might well be true but somehow I think the sexually charged atmosphere is due to the dancing couples representing the various stages of life. And to me the interlacing of fingers in this one for example is a highly erotic representation, more so than the sun, and so are the embraces in the background, but maybe this is a simple-minded reading of the painting. Then I remember that "That which, perhaps, hears more nonsense than anything in the world, is a picture in a museum." (Edmond de Goncourt), and I just feel like not explaining beauty anymore.

Preliminary study for The Kiss

"Nature is not only all that is visible to the eye...it also includes the inner pictures of the soul"

Edvard Munch

Ten Famous Norwegians

1. Edvard Grieg (1843 - 1907) created beautiful music to match both Norwegian sceneries which inspired him and the stories he used. Peer Gynt (originally a play by Henrik Ibsen) is his most famous suite (Morning Mood, The Death of Ase, In the Hall of the Mountain King...). A native of Bergen, Grieg debuted as a concert pianist and knew both Liszt and Tchaikovski. He composed more than 250 works during his lifetime and was appointed Music Director of the Bergen Philharmonic Orchestra.

Edvard Grieg (1843 - 1907)

2. Christian Krohg (1852 - 1925) was a writer, journalist and painter born in Christiana (now Oslo). He founded the art journal Impressionisten in 1886, the year of the publication of Albertine, his novel about a seamstress forced into prostitution in Oslo. Following the confiscation of the book, public prostitution was abolished in Norway. He married artist Oda Krohg and together they moved to Berlin in the 1890. There they socialised with fellow artists August Strindberg, Frida Uhl, Edvard Munch, Stanislaw Przybyszewski, Holger Drachmann, Axel Maurer...in a tavern Strinberg had nicknamed The Black Piglet (Zum schwarzen Ferkel). Located of Unter den Linden and Wilhelmstr., the tavern was destroyed during WWII. The Krohgs moved to Paris afterwards, before coming back to Norway. 

Christian Krohg (1852 - 1925)

3. Henrik Ibsen (1828 - 1906) Born in a wealthy family of Skien, he faced adversity in his youth when his father encountered financial difficulties. Unable to finish his studies, he worked as a pharmacist's apprentice. He then moved to Oslo where he published his first works, which didn't bring him the success he was hoping for. He then work in Bergen at Det norske Theater (now Den Nationale Scene), one of the oldest theatre in Norway. He left Norway for Italy in 1864, and spent 27 years abroad. In 1865, his play Brand was critically acclaimed, as would afterwards The Doll's House, An Enemy of the People and Peer Gynt. His son Sigurd Ibsen became Prime Minister of Norway.

Henrik Ibsen (1828 - 1906)

4. Tarjei Vesaas (1897 - 1970) is the author of The Ice Palace, the story of two girls in rural Norway who share a secret that will lead to tragedy. Vesaas also wrote The Birds, a novel from the point of view of a mentally ill character. Both have been translated into English. He married poet and writer Halldis Moren Vesaas.

Tarjei Vesaas (1897 - 1970)

5. Fernanda Nissen (1862 - 1920) was a journalist, teacher, literary critic and feminist. She participated to political debates from the 1880 onwards, and signed in 1885 a manifesto to form an association for women in Norway. A member of the Norwegian Labor Party, she was one of the first women elected at the Christiana Workers Society. She worked towards the improvement of living conditions of poor people and participated to a number of social reforms, primarily those concerning access to education and improvement of the status of women. She was the sister-in-law of painter Erik Werenskiold. 

Fernanda Nissen (1862 - 1920)

6. Edvard Munch (1863 - 1944) is probably the most famous Norwegian thanks to his painting The Scream. While the latter is definitely the height of his works, hundreds of other paintings of his are showing the man's genius and ability to pass from one painting style to another throughout his career. But no need for a short introduction, I will come back to his work later...

Edvard Munch - Autoportrait, 1866, National Gallery, Oslo

7. Erik Werenskloid (1855 - 1938) was a painter and illustrator mostly known for his drawings of norwegian landscaped and portraits. He illustrated the icelandic saga Heimskringla, written by Snorri Sturluson, and painted portraits of Edvard Grieg, Henrik Ibsen, Gunnar Heiberg, Bjornstjerne Bjornson and Knut Hamsun amongst others.

8. Sigrid Undset (1882 - 1947) was awarded the Nobel Prize of Litterature in 1928 "principally for her powerful descriptions of Northern life during the Middle Ages". She was the third woman to be awarded this prize, after Selma Lagerlöf (1909) and Grazia Deledda (1926), and the third Norwegian after Bjornstjerne Bjornson (1903) and Knut Hamsun (1920). Her most famous novel is the trilogy Kristin Lavransdatter, a series of historical novels set in the Middle Ages, in which she describes the life of the main character in 14th century Norway.

Sigrid Undset in 1920 ©Alvilde Trop

9. Amalie Skram (1846 - 1905) was an author and feminist, member of the Modern Breakthrough, a movement of naturalism that took place in Scandinavian literatury circles in the late 19th century. After her family's bankrupcy she was forced into an unhappy marriage and spent several years in psychiatric institutions, before remarrying in 1884 with Danish writer Erik Skram. Her life experiences led her to write about the condition of married women and female sexuality.

Amalie Skram (1846 - 1905)

10. Max Manus (1914 - 1996) was a Norwegian resistance fighter during WWII. Born in Bergen, he volunteered fought in the Soviet-Finnish Winter War in 1939-1940. He came back to Norway on April 9th, 1940, the day Operation Weserübung (the invasion of Norway by Germany) begun. He joined the resistance forces, and was arrested by the Gestapo in 1941. He escaped and trained in England, Scotland and Canada. He specialised in sabotage and tried to assassinate Himmler and Goebbels when they visited Oslo. After the war, he became an entrepreneur and in a bid for reconciliation hired people who had collaborated with Nazis in his company. He married one of his fellow resistance fighters, Tikken Lindebraekke, and died in Spain in 1996. A biopic was released in 2008.

Max Manus (1914 - 1996)

Ten facts about Vikings

1. On the battlefield, a Viking's attack of choice was to cut someone's legs - hence immobilising the ennemy. I'm glad I've never encountered an angry Viking - yet.

2. There is only one remaining complete Viking helmet in the world - it's in the Historical Museum of Oslo. However, contrary to the legend, they didn't wear horned helmets.

3. Important persons were buried with their ship, along with horses, dogs, jewellery and fine linen. The Oseberg ship was found in 1903, and it took 21 years to dry out the wood. It served as a burial ship for two women, whose remains were also found. One was in her seventies, and died of cancer, while the younger was in her fifties.

The Oseberg ship

4. The ship and all the objects found in it are part of the Saving Oseberg project: at the time of their discovery, all the findings were put in alum salts, which slowly deteriorated them.

5. Vikings liked to play music with that (which could equally serve in a religious ritual):

6. In 1960, Norwegian archaeologists Anne Stine and Helge Ingstad found a Viking settlement in L'Anse aux Meadows (Canada), now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The Norse settlement dates from the 11th century. According to recent research, L'Anse aux Meadows could be part of Vinland.

7. J.R.R. Tolkien was inspired by Norse tales such as the Poetic Edda, the Prose Edda, and the Hervarar saga. He also based his Cirth alphabet on the runic alphabets used by Vikings from the 2nd century AD.

8. Brodir of Man was a Danish Viking, settled in the Isle of Man and in Ireland, and said to have killed the last High King of Ireland Brian Boru (whose life is supposed to hit the screen in an €80m blockbuster, according to the Independent last May).

9. Before being cast as the main character of an intellectually charged and eponymous blockbuster, the Norse God Thor also gave his name to the weekday Thursday. In Romance languages, it's Jupiter's Day. One way or another, the fourth day of the week is related to a God of Thunder.

10. The Orion constellation used to be known in Scandinavian folklore as "Frigg's distaff", Frigg being a Goddess, queen of Asgard, and Odin's wife.

So what does the world eat? About Hungry Planet

Do you know what the world eats? or how? The answer lies in an exhibition held at the Nobel Prize Center in Oslo. Hungry Planet (27.09.2013 - 23.02.2014) is the joint work of photographer Peter Menzel and writer Faith D'Aluisio. Together, they travelled the world and asked families from various backgrounds to show them what they ate within a week. As a result, we see each family assembled in their kitchen, dining room, or tent, surrounded by their weekly supplies. The latter widely vary, depending on where in the world the family lives. Unsurprisingly, there are those who live on 1$ a week and those who need as much as 700$ to fill their stomach. However, more money doesn't necessarily mean having access to a better diet. I found that some of the European families pictured could do with a bit more vegetables and fruits instead of tons of carbs and sweets. The reportage also highlights the global importance of sharing meal as part of a social ritual, a way of interacting within a family or a community. By doing so, it shows a variety of cultural and culinary habits. Families from Ecuador, Turkey, Bhutan, France, Norway...all are brought together by a common trait: no matter their social, ethnic, religious origin, people all need food to survive - and acquiring food as well as sharing it convey a form of social interaction. By showing what the world eats, this exhibition raises a number of questions: why do we eat what we eat? Why does it differ from one country, one culture, one family to another? Also, in the age of massive consumption, how are we provided with what we eat and how do we decide what we put in our plates - when given the choice?
This photojournalism reportage has been published (and awarded) under the name of Hungry Planet: What The World Eats (Material World Books, Ten Speed Press, 2005).

Outside the venue, "what the world eats" becomes "how the world gets its food" with a couple of square meters of grass showed the land needed to produce various products such as a hamburger (5m²), a litre of milk (1m²) or a piece of butter (20m²).

A Memory of Lapland - Norwegian encounter

A couple of years ago I backpacked in Lapland with a friend. It was in February, not exactly at the warmest time of the year. We were happily feeling the cold cutting our cheeks and freezing our eyelashes, and often lost our voice to the cold. We walked on the frozen sea in Luleå  saw a beautiful low sun permanently on our way up north, were stalked by a loner in an empty 200 inhabitants town by -30°C, whom we escaped by seeking refuge in an empty youth hostel, used the latter's sauna for most of the night, made some French classes in a secondary school up to the polar circle, dogsledged, ate reindeer's heart and tongue (we were two vegetarians, enough said), and wore necklaces ingenuously made of dried reindeer defecations.We saw the mining town of Kiruna, which made me think of Moria, although I must admit I didn't see any long-bearded dwarves there. We visited an ice hotel, which was interesting as in "why would you pay a fortune to spend a night freezing there - or your honeymoon even - when you can just walk by and visit the chambers before returning to the cosy world of heaters?" We also took a train along a fjord, and encountered several difficulties due to accidents involving drunken reindeers. And though we missed out on the northern lights we did see some beautiful evening skies. All in all, it was a pretty complete and adventurous travel.

Midday somewhere in Lapland

But the most gripping moment I remember was when we were walking out of a village, in the quiet cold, as the trees cast long shades on an iced road, and we arrived past a two-storey building just before the forest. On the threshold, a very old man was calling out to us. None of us had the slightest clue about Swedish language, so we weren't quite sure about what he was saying, however we were both very curious. As a history lover, I must admit that I love elderly people: they are full of memories, they lived through so many events, witnessed so many things. In addition to that, many of them are very polite and offer nice tea and cakes when visited. I wasn't going to be disappointed with this one. As he gestured towards a window, we understood that he wanted us to come in. And as the cautious travellers we were, we decided to take him up on his offer and followed him inside. He made us sit at his kitchen table, from where we had a beautiful view on a collection of kitchen knives. But he looked too old to make any dangerous use of them - at least against us.
He placed two tea cups in front of us, and then he started to talk very quickly, in Swedish, with pauses and emphasis every now and then. Sometimes, his eyes would suddenly fill with tears and terror, and at other moments he would vociferate like a devil. We still had no idea what he was talking about. Then, we realised that he was repeating the same couple of sentences. Focusing hard, we understood that he was talking about World War Two. In fact, he never spoke Swedish to us, but Norwegian. He was a Norwegian soldier who had been made prisoner by the German army during one of the battles of Narvik and sent to a labor camp. Since then, he had never returned home and had been allocated this flat in a Swedish town. He went on and on about that particular event, and on the fourth or fifth similar account of his, we were still nodding and trying to show interest. We then realised it wasn't necessary as he never seemed to notice our questions. In fact, he wasn't looking at us. We got up, took our leave, and left the flat. Once out of the building, we could still see him through the window kitchen. He hadn't moved, only now he was facing a wall. And telling his story, over, and over. Alzheimer's disease had locked him into his own memories, and the only thing he seemed to remember was that tragic part of his life.

Walking on the frozen sea - Luleå

Bach and the well-tempered decision

Last week I attended a very nice concert at the Philharmoniker. It was the first time I was able to enter this mythical place, and I wasn't disappointed. The lunch concerts are free events where young musicians meet their audience in the Philharmonie Foyer. There must have been two hundred, maybe three hundred people sitting on the floor, the stairs, and around the stage in the middle of the hall. In fact the setting is in no way as formal as a typical concert, where when you're not a musician or not used to that world, you might feel a little ill at ease with the whole thing. I know a lot of people put off by the amount of snobs attending those events (including me. That is, for the put off part), whereas enjoying classical music doesn't have to imply wearing a black-tie or an expensive evening dress. Especially at lunch time.
Back to the topic, this concert was very special to me, because the three musicians played the Goldberg Variations - arranged for strings - and any piece of Bach as a special resonance to me: a dear friend used to tell me that once you played Bach, you could play anything at the piano. It turned out he was right - he could play anything. At the time, I would leave him to it and turn my hands on Debussy instead, before stopping playing altogether. Twelve years later, I went to that concert. I thought about my friend a lot, and I just bought myself a piano.

A Taste of Chile - "Puro Pueblo" at the Willy Brandt Haus

Another day, another exhibition. My cultural radar is set on a poetic lifestyle these days and I let my mind wander a bit too often and too long. Much to the detriment of other grown-up and boring serious and proper activities...However I couldn't miss mentioning "Puro Pueblo", an exhibition held at the Willy Brandt Haus from the 22nd of August to the 18th of September (I should know better than writing on an event on its last day...), presenting pictures of Chile from 1971 to 1973 - yes, this very interesting time slot during Allende's presidency up until Pinochet's dictatorship.

© John Hall, Chile in den Jahren 1971-73

Say Chile I'll answer Neruda, rather than politics. Say Chile and I'll also think about those archives I read some years ago, about German Christian missions at the time of Pinochet (a fascinating insight into religious history by the way. Note for nerds: you could check them here). That is already something, yet in my opinion it is only a poor fraction from this country's history. All that to say that there are so many ways to understand a country, its people and its politics, and beautiful words and pictures also help.
As I'd rather make room for a poet rather than a dictator, and since Wikipedia makes it useless to write about Chile's history this is my favorite poem by Neruda:

Poema 20

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: “La noche esta estrellada,

y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos”.

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.

La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.

Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.

Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.

Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.

La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.

Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.

Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.

Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.

La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.

Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.

Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.

De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.

Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.

Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,

mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,

y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)

Gates of the Night (1946)

Marcel Carné's Gates of the Night ( Les Portes de la Nuit) is one of the first movies featuring Yves Montand. This poetic drama launched Montand's career and featured the beautiful "Autumn Leaves" song ("Les Feuilles mortes" by Prévert). It is now considered a classic, although at the time the movie didn't achieve great critical or commercial success. Montand plays along Nathalie Nattier, Serge Regianni ("Jo" in "Casque d'Or"), Pierre Brasseur and Jean Vilar. The script was written by poet Jacques Prévert. A young resistant coming back to post-war Paris, Diego (Montand) meets Malou (Nattier), a lonely girl unhappily married to a rich man (Brasseur), and together they wander around Paris' streets. They immediately fall for each other - but encounter several times a tramp called Destiny (played by Jean Vilar, creator of the Avignon theatre festival), who urges them to stay away from each other. They don't take his advice into account and a succession of events follows...

Malou & Diego, Les Portes de la Nuit, 1946.

My favourite lines:

Diego: Ce serait bien, si tous les jours étaient comme aujourd'hui, et toutes les nuits comme celle-ci.
Malou: Vous n'avez pas peur de la monotonie?
Diego: Mais le bonheur n'est pas monotone, puisque c'est le bonheur!
Malou: Vous croyez donc au bonheur?
Diego: Oui, quand je vous regarde!

in English that is:

Diego: It would be nice, if every day was like today, and every night like tonight.
Malou: Aren't you afraid of monotony?
Diego: But happiness isn't monotonous, since it's happiness!
Malou: So you do believe in happiness?
Diego: I do, when I look at you!

Looking at the world - World Press Photo Exhibition at Ostbahnhof

Today was the first real autumn day in Berlin. A light drizzle was falling this morning, and I thought this would be the best time to go and see the Word Press Photo Exhibition at Ostbahnhof.
My friend the worldwide famous and critically acclaimed Berliniquais has already written an extensive and witty account in French of this beautiful mobile exhibition. As he is an excellent writer, I was rather put off by the idea of writing my own testimonial but then I remembered that each perception is different, no matter how much one can recognize oneself it someone else's words.
Back to my point, I went to Ostbahnhof today - on a grey Sunday morning. For those who don't live in that city, Berlin on a Sunday morning probably looks pretty much like a city under curfew. I usually go out at that specific moment in the week because it is the only time I can drive without having to worry about a dense traffic. However, a couple of fall-outs with the car led me to use public transports, which is by far much nicer - and safer for me. Apart from a couple of prams pushed by dishevelled and/or sleep-deprived mothers here and there, everyone is still asleep. I'm talking 8am. By then the S-Bahn looks quite similar to what it was on the night before - some tourists looking at a map, a handful of party goers heading home or to the next party, a beggar mumbling some words, passing through the carriage while most people try their best to ignore him. All that in a surprisingly eery silence.
I love going to exhibitions, I love pictures, I read the news. So there should have been no surprises in what I saw. But sometimes something - or someone - touches you at exactly the right moment in your life. And despite having read loads about Syria, loads about poverty, and loads about the big bad world, somehow the images presented there really moved me.
I might be an adult, I will never get used to the sight of a dead body, and more so to that of people provoking a death and rejoicing at it. I can only imagine the feelings the photographers who captured those moments went through. I would have liked to write a post on a single picture, but I'm not the best critic, and so many of them where mindblowing that it would be unfair to pick out just the one. Also, sometimes I find something so striking that even as a word-lover I find the use of words superficial. So I thought about talking about the photo-journalists who risk their lives every day in order to bring you informations. I decided not to post the pictures I'm talking about and, instead, to insert links towards these photographer's websites, because if anything, their works deserve to be looked at. I'm so grateful to those talented persons who can keep their cool while doing such a dangerous job - that of showing the world's most shameful sights to a handful of powerful privileged who could make a difference.
Emin Ozmen witnessed torture, and realised a reportage on it called "Interrogations" on the proceedings of the militia in Syria. Through his photographer's eye, I wondered how a group of men could willingly use violence against a defenceless being, regardless of age, political belief, or sex. Is it despaire that triggers violence? I got the same impression while looking at the work of Dominique Nahr, whose investigation "Sudan Borders War" shows the uncompromising situation in that country forgotten by the news. Felipe Dana sets his eyes on the "Crack War" in Rio de Janeiro, and follows a couple of drug addicts through their routine, while Paolo Patrizi shows the daily life of African prostitutes in Italia.
Amongst these pictures of misery, a photographer brightened the panels: Altaf Qadri, whose reportage "School for the less fortunate" shows how a man who was never able to afford education for himself, now devotes two hours of his time every day to school poor children, aiming at inserting them in the regular school system, in order to secure them a better future.
Speaking of the young ones, while I was looking at images of torture in Syria - wondering how this inhumanity could still happen in this day and age, I realised someone was standing next to me. When I looked, an 8 years old boy was staring at a picture of a dead body- his eyes wide with disbelief. Not fear, just incomprehension. I looked around and was even more sorry at the lack of parental supervision than at what this boy saw. Because I know he had probably seen much worse at home - through a TV or computer screen. I left that exhibition very much aware of a number of wrong doings everywhere in the world. Yet as long as there are people out there to inform on that, with pictures or with words, there is still some hope that, even in the darkest times, reason will prevail.

Les glaïeuls sont mes fleurs préférées...

...depuis que j'ai appris il y a bien des années Le Dormeur du Val de Rimbaud:

"...Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant 

Comme sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme:

Nature, berce-le chaudement: il a froid..."

La photo vient de là et le photographe est © Andrew Schmidt

La mort du français - 1

I love words. All of them, especially when they're put in the right order...

C'est pourquoi je ne trouve rien de plus horripilant que de lire des insanités orthographiques, syntaxiques... Il fut un temps où écrire était un don dont seuls quelques élus bénéficiaient. User de sa plume signifiait être libre; libre d'inventer, de créer, de s'exprimer, s'expliquer, se défendre, se justifier...A l'heure du tout virtuel, la facilité semble être de mise partout, et surtout dans l'expression.

J'ai donc décidé de faire profiter les lecteurs francophones qui passeront par là d'un florilège de courriers dont ils voudront bien eux-mêmes relever les grossièretés. Ny voyez pas de mesquinerie (personne n'est cité, ni reconnaissable), mais plutôt le regard amusé d'une amoureuse des mots.

Le gagnant du jour est l'auteur fort jovial du mail suivant:

Bonjour,
je vois que le weekend vous a bien profite, avant de partir dans des contentieux sans fin pour tout le monde je vous rappels juste que nous subissons fortement le décalage initial du planning ( pose prévu fin février si je ne m'abuse...), que votre courrier est très mal venu, voire déplacé et en aucun productif.
Je vais de ce pas saisir mon conseil.

"The Road Not Taken", by Robert Frost

To new beginnings...

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth; 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear,

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day! 

Yet knowing how way leads on to way

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference. 

Robert Frost.