Frankie Fredericks à Maurice

-Que pensez-vous du choix de Stéphan Buckland d’être resté au pays pour poursuivre sa carrière ?

– C’est un excellent choix ! Quand je suis rentré pour poursuivre ma carrière, j’étais immediatement plus heureux et mieux dans ma peau. Cela s’explique par le fait que tes proches sont à tes côtés. Quand tu te réveilles chaque matin, tu es heureux et c’est une joie de te rendre à l’entraînement. Alors qu’à l’étranger, tu te sens seul et triste. Je pense que Stéphan a fait ce choix pour les mêmes raisons… On est mieux chez soi.

Pour le reste de l'entrevue, cliquez ici.

°.•· neige .* •· º

I really don’t like sludge, when snow mixes with mud and turns the streets into giant slides. I hate it when you forget to wear boots and your foot sinks into apparently shallow snow to your ankle. I really hate it when I’ve just done my hair and left my umbrella home, and then it starts snowing gently enough to frizz and freeze it all up!

But I love snow… It’s the closest thing I’ve experienced to magic as an adult.

I like the flakes when they cover my coat and hat so that I look like a small Yeti. And I really like it when the snowflakes fall rapidly and swirl so that the whole world is spotted white. It’s absolutely lovely when I wake up early on a Sunday morning and feel the snow outside, because of the eerie light through my window. I know that when I go out, there’ll be a thin crust formed on top of the night-fallen snow, so that walking on it feels like digging into a vast crême brulée: tap crust, crunch in, dive into softness. How can you not be in awe of a multi-coloured world naturally processed to black and white?

Best of all are snowball fights, with projectiles made from clean snow swept off the roadsides. Did you know that being dunked head down into thick snow is like being dunked underwater in the sea? You get the same breathless feeling and you come out with the same determination for revenge!

I'm looking forward to a white white world :)

Ode To Tomatoes

by Pablo Neruda

The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.

Now what?

Now that it's almost well and truly over, now that we almost know for
sure, I thought I'd share my experience of the U.S. elections from within the next-door neighbour.

First, an analyst here has described Canada's position towards the United States as "sleeping next to an insomniac elephant". The elephant doesn't actually trample you. It's just that it's really hard to sleep because its every itch, every hiccup, every snore shakes the bed you're sleeping on.

There isn't much debate about that one.

Another thing is that the Liberal party now in power as a minority government in Canada is considered to have more political affinities with the American Democrats, and the Conservative would be the "equivalent" of Republicans. An overwhelming number of Canadians supported Kerry during those elections.

I myself did not realise how much I had been against Bush's re-election until I nearly burst into tears this morning upon learning that Ohio is almost sure to add to Bush's vote count. And in any case, they have Congress AND the Senate now.

Americans studying in Canada were amazed at the interest with which Canadians followed the Presidential debates. Many have said that the elections in America were more important than Canadian elections to Canadians. (Canada's PM is Paul Martin btw. Nobody outside Canada knows I think). That's not quite true since the election this year here was well-fought and the minority government is a first in nearly 25 years. And Canadians are anything BUT "États-Uniens" (an expression used by Quebecers to distinguish between Américains -those living on the continent- and those living in the country États-Unis).

The campaign was hotly discussed in both Anglophone and Francophone media, Bush almost always managing to make his way to the "Dumb" post. Canadians needed Kerry in power in order to re-open the border for cattle and medicine among other things. But that's the least of it. More than anything, Canada needed to restore itself as a relevant interlocutor for the U.S.

Former PM Jean Chrétien's refusal to join the war in Iraq simply morphed Canada's status from "gentle neighbour" to "gentle hinterland" in Bush's books. A new President would have helped. The real consequences are yet to be seen. At best, I would say, more of the same.

Don't get me wrong. I have tried not to be a senseless anti-Bush ranter. I acknowledge that as a leader to his people, as a master politician, George Bush did what he should have done after September 11th: offer maximum security to his people. I have imagined standing in his shoes.

But I question the success of his endeavour. Hindsight makes things easier and any judgment based on it is handicapped by the bias. But the world today is a more polarised place, a more dangerous place for Americans than it was four years ago. Yet the Americans just told Bush not only that he has done things well, but that there's no need to change a thing.

My hope for Kerry was at the level of perceptions. Bush carries his father's history and imagines that imposing his black and white thinking on the grey world of terrorism will make them to fit into his worldview. It's not working. Yes, extremists are just that and their issues are with the whole American way of life, not Republicans or Democrats. Still, my view is that Democrats at the head of the country would have sent the message that Americans are not all extremists either. And perceptions are as effective as actions because they shape so many actions. Kerry in power meant for me that even if he was caught up in the same trap of protecting his people for the sake of being a good leader, there would still have been more hopes for dialogue across the world, whereas now, well, it's just going to be more of the same.

The latest news is… Canadian pharmaceutical companies are busy developing stronger sleeping pills, for the elephant, and for themselves.

PS: As an important aside, someone reminded me of the less than unanimous mandate given to Bush. The Americans elected him, but the United States is still a "divided nation".

Why is Bush so unloved?

Being a believer in constant analysis rather than blind following, a conversation with a colleague brought me to reassess my reasons for really disliking George Bush. His arguments were that

-The American intervention in Iraq did free its people from a tyrant.
-As a leader, he responded to the first need of his people: security.
-Many other forms of oppression are taking place in the world and no one is trying to stop those. Other states only wait for Bush to intervene and then holler at the "interference".

After some reflection,
-That intervention might have put an end to the reign of a tyrant, we're still quite likely facing another Vietnam. The end result remains to be seen. In any case, the cause invoked then was not the removal of Saddam, it was the WMD that lay hidden there. You can't walk in for a "proven" reason, discover there was no reason, and pick up some other consequence and say, "We were still right".
-I agree that as a leader, Bush took the most populist option after September 11th 2001: security. The problem is that the machine is now in place to make the American people feel ever more insecure; what's more, as a result of black and white thinking not shared by the terrorists, Americans are unfortunately now more likely targets than before to such attacks.
- The lack of action on the part of the rest of the world is indeed the reason why the United Nations is such a paralysed place today. When there are real possibilities to defend the future of our children, such as the Kyoto protocol, the United States has to think of its economic interests. When there's trouble brewing in oil-rich countries, the United States has to think about the rights of trampled people.

I don't appreciate random ranting against the United States or its leader. However, there is enough solid material for concrete argument against its actions to dispel the random rants. When is November 2nd coming?

A dictionary: a political act?

I found this in The Guardian. I've added some excerpts of the said dictionary. It's hilarious.

Take our word for it
Can a dictionary be a political act? That was certainly the intention when some of the best-known writers in the US rushed into print with some provocatively defined new words, intending to stir things up in the presidential election.

cheney v.i. to parlay one cushy job into another, esp. via personal connections. Ron clearly hoped to cheney his way from chairman of the board at Marduk Industries to the ambassador of Luxembourg, preferably using other people's campaign donations.
Scott Phillips

condoleesy adj. a person who uses righteousness and self-justifications in attempts to hide his or her error of judgment or condones such behaviour; a cheap shot by a political official in attempts to keep himself or herself or his/her candidate in office. (See cheesy.) What do you mean "the evil empire"? Stop being so condoleesy! In popular usage/slang, doing the condoleesy refers to a type of dance in which partners slyly shift positions in seeming attempt to cover each other's back.
Julia Alvarez

Le soldat Marcel

Apartés
Vendredi 8 octobre 2004
No - 15205

MARCEL CÉLESTE, INSTITUTEUR, MILITANT SYNDICAL, ANCIEN SOLDAT
Il faut écouter le soldat Marcel: extrait-

J’avais protesté contre le fait que les soldats mauriciens n’avaient pas la même ration de nourriture que les soldats anglais ni les mêmes allocations. Nous avions la moitié de l’argent et de la ration reçus par les soldats anglais. Tous les jours, ils nous donnaient du poisson salé bouilli avec des bringelles. C’était infect. Les autres mangeaient bien. Nous n’avions pas le droit d’entrer dans les réfectoires de l’armée tant que tous les Anglais n’avaient pas mangé. C’était scandaleux. Je suis devenu les porte-parole de notre groupe et nous avons lutté. J’ai envoyé une lettre à Guy Rozemont qui l’a transmis à Raoul Rivet. Dans notre compagnie, il y avait Philippe, le frère de Guy Rozemont… C’est comme ça qu’il a appris mon existence.

Entrevue réalisée par Alain GORDON-GENTIL avec MARCEL CÉLESTE.
© Copyright La Sentinelle

Ingenuity

Newspeak

“ ‘It’s a beautiful thing, the destruction of words. Of course the great wastage is in the verbs and adjectives, but there are hundreds of nouns that can be got rid of as well. (…)

Take “good”, for instance. If you have a word like “good”, what need is there for a word like “bad”? “Ungood” will do just as well – better, because it is an exact opposite, which the other is not. (…) if you want a stronger version of “good”, what sense is there in having a whole string of vague useless words like “excellent” and “splendid” and all the rest of them? “Plusgood” covers the meaning; or “doubleplusgood” if you want something stronger still.

(…) ‘You haven’t a real appreciation of Newspeak, Winston,’ he said almost sadly. ‘Even when you write it you’re still thinking in Oldspeak. (…) In your heart you’d prefer to stick to Oldspeak, with all its vagueness and its useless shades if meaning. You don’t grasp the beauty of the destruction of words. (…)

Don’t you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. (…) Every year fewer and fewer words, and the range of consciousness always a little smaller.”

George Orwell (1949), Nineteen Eighty-Four

I never thought I'd encounter a rejoinder to my earlier post so soon in my reading!

Don't miss...

The music of Swades, especially Yunhi Chala Chal. The film will come out later this year, directed by Asutosh Gowariker, with music by A.R. Rahman and lyrics by Javed Aktar, the same team as Lagaan. It apparently tells the story of a Non-Resident Indian (NRI in the jargon) who works at NASA and feels the call back home to India. Can't wait!

Bernard Werber

Je n'ai encore rien lu de Bernard Werber, si ce n'est un extrait de son livre L'encyclopédie du savoir relatif et absolu qui m'a été présenté par un des ses fans inconditionnels. Mais j'aimerais bien lire ce qu'il écrit. Jusque là, voici deux sites fascinants créés par cet homme à l'imagination kaléidoscopique: un idéosphère qui provient du livre mentionné plus haut et L'arbre des possibles.

Constantine Levin

I finished my first Russian classic, Anna Karenina. As someone remarked earlier on this blog, this novel is not mainly about Anna Karenina. I decided to read it on the advice of a Russian friend who thought it would educate me on the realities of man-woman interaction. Err... yes... ;)

Kindness always moves me, and what remains with me at the end of the story is the humaneness that permeates Levin, his own spiritual journey, his awakening to his place in the world. Such a lovable man.

And about Anna: "The candle, by the light of which she had been reading that book filled with anxieties, deceptions, grief, and evil, flared up with a brighter light, lit up for her all that had before been dark, crackled, began to flicker, and went out forever."

Tolstoy's translation of intangible thoughts and passions into words brought me back to my first reading of Vikram Seth, a contemporary match to any classic. It's delightful!

My bit on words

Last night someone said that words are only a transmitter of meaning. He meant that as long as the meaning was understood, the words were the right ones. Example: slipping an English word in a French sentence is alright if your listener gets the meaning.

I disagree. I'm tempted all the time. But that's not reason enough. It seems absurd to me to relinquish the use of a range of words within one language, simply because one word will do. Words are not just useful things. They are also beautiful in themselves, either because they sound lovely, or because they transmit nuance, which is more than just meaning. Just 'nice' can describe a number of things, but tasty, pleasant, blissful and soothing confer so much more than just nice that they should be used.

That doesn't mean we need to be pedantic; simple exact words will do. And short-circuiting through another language simply impoverishes a language and makes the brain lazy.

Your Elven name!

You can find out your Elven name by clicking on the title above! You can also find out what you're called in Hobbit :)

My Hobbit name is Bramblerose Brockhouse of Loamsdown (err... what?). But on the days when I have pointy ears, I'm called Eámanë Séregon.

The guy who created the name generator describes the algorithm used in his FAQ. Have fun!

The Motorcycle Diaries

Yesterday I saw "The Motorcycle Diaries" in an avant-première. It was lovely. First, before being any ode to Ernesto Guevara, this is a film about a beautiful friendship experienced through a trip across gorgeous South America. Each scene is a pleasure to watch.
Now about the Che... yes there are the beginnings of the populist leader, the ideal charismatic future revolutionist. But mostly, it's just as his friend Granado says, living "our lives acting consistently according to our convictions". Now that is a hard one to argue with, no matter how controversial a political figure Che Guevara might be.
I think this is worth a watch.

I am not I

by Juan Ramon Jimenez

I Am Not I.
I am this one
Walking beside me whom I do not see,
Whom at times I manage to visit,
And at other times I forget.
The one who remains silent when I talk,
The one who forgives, sweet, when I hate,
The one who takes a walk when I'm indoors,
The one who will remain standing when I die.

Juan Ramon Jiménez (24 Dec 1881- 29 May 1958)
translated by Robert Bly

To run a marathon

On Sunday, I went to support my friend Mihaela who was running a marathon. A marathon is a race of 42.195 km. That’s one kilometre, followed by another thousand metres, followed by another thousand metres 42 times and a bit.

She trained for 6 months, accumulating kilometres in her legs, following a weekly regimen that curtailed her social activities while expanding her horizons. She ran two semi-marathons before she reached the big day, the Montreal Marathon.

She had planned to finish in between 4 and 4 ½ hours. That meant she was due to arrive between 12h17 and 12h47. When at 12h35 she still hadn’t arrived, I was anxious. After all, Paula Radcliffe, the Olympic record-holder recently broke down in the middle of her race, 6 km before the end.

Most of what I have read and heard about marathons states that the biggest challenge in a marathon is the unpredictability of your own body’s reactions. The heat, the ups and down of the course as well as all sorts of psychological factors come into play.

The good news is she finished! In 4h26, which is a great time for her first marathon under a very bright sun. It was inspiring to watch people run the last 200 metres. There were old and young ones, athletic and not so athletic ones. Most of them were in a sort of trance. It seemed that they were somewhere between deep inside themselves and very far from the world around them. She said that at 37 km, she started wondering why she had at all considered doing this. Now that she’s done it, she wants to do it again.

Nobody’s begrudging her her waddling gait at work, since her muscles are still aching. One very cute thing I saw was one guy who was running the 10km race while pushing his baby in a pram. His girlfriend was standing on the edge, with a board to cheer him when he came. And when he arrived, there was a poster attached to the front of the pram. It said: “Maman, veux-tu épouser Papa?” They kissed amid tears and laughs.

Am I going to run soon? Hmmm… that’s a question for another day!

Being a father

This is one of the most moving moments I've ever read in literature.

Levin, looking at the tiny, pitiful creature, made strenuous efforts to discover in his heart some traces of fatherly feeling for it. He felt nothing towards it but disgust. But when it was undressed and he caught a glimpse of wee, wee, little hands, little feet, saffron-colored, with little toes, too, and positively with a little big toe different from the rest, and when he saw Lizaveta Petrovna closing the wide-open little hands, as though they were soft springs, and putting them into linen garments, such pity for the little creature came upon him, and such terror that she would hurt it, that he held her hand back.

Lizaveta Petrovna laughed.

"Don't be frightened, don't be frightened!"

When the baby had been put to rights and transformed into a firm doll, Lizaveta Petrovna candled it as though proud of her handiwork, and stood a little away so that Levin might see his son in all his glory.

Kitty looked sideways in the same direction, never taking her eyes off the baby. "Give him to me! give him to me!" she said, and even made as though she would sit up.

"What are you thinking of, Katerina Alexandrovna, you mustn't move like that! Wait a minute. I'll give him to you. Here we're showing papa what a fine fellow we are!"

And Lizaveta Petrovna, with one hand supporting the wobbling head, lifted up on the other arm the strange, limp, red creature, whose head was lost in its swaddling-clothes. But it had a nose, too, and slanting eyes and smacking lips.

"A splendid baby!" said Lizaveta Petrovna.

Levin sighed with mortification. This splendid baby excited in him no feeling but disgust and compassion. It was not at all the feeling he had looked forward to.

He turned away while Lizaveta Petrovna put the baby to the unaccustomed breast.

Suddenly laughter made him look round. The baby had taken the breast.

"Come, that's enough, that's enough!" said Lizaveta Petrovna, but Kitty would not let the baby go. He fell asleep in her arms.

"Look, now," said Kitty, turning the baby so that he could see it. The aged-looking little face suddenly puckered up still more and the baby sneezed.

Smiling, hardly able to restrain his tears, Levin kissed his wife and went out of the dark room. What he felt towards this little creature was utterly unlike what he had expected. There was nothing cheerful and joyous in the feeling; on the contrary, it was a new torture of apprehension. It was the consciousness of a new sphere of liability to pain. And this sense was so painful at first, the apprehension lest this helpless creature should suffer was so intense, that it prevented him from noticing the strange thrill of senseless joy and even pride that he had felt when the baby sneezed.

Anna Karenina, Part 7, Chapter 16

The Emperor's New Clothes

by Hans Christian Andersen

Many years ago, there was an Emperor, who was so excessively fond of new clothes, that he spent all his money in dress. He did not trouble himself in the least about his soldiers; nor did he care to go either to the theatre or the chase, except for the opportunities then afforded him for displaying his new clothes. He had a different suit for each hour of the day; and as of any other king or emperor, one is accustomed to say, ‘he is sitting in council,’ it was always said of him, ‘The Emperor is sitting in his wardrobe.’ Time passed merrily in the large town which was his capital; strangers arrived every day at the court. One day, two rogues, calling themselves weavers, made their appearance. They gave out that they knew how to weave stuffs of the most beautiful colors and elaborate patterns, the clothes manufactured from which should have the wonderful property of remaining invisible to everyone who was unfit for the office he held, or who was extraordinarily simple in character.

‘These must, indeed, be splendid clothes!’ thought the Emperor. ‘Had I such a suit, I might at once find out what men in my realms are unfit for their office, and also be able to distinguish the wise from the foolish! This stuff must be woven for me immediately.’ And he caused large sums of money to be given to both the weavers in order that they might begin their work directly. So the two pretended weavers set up two looms, and affected to work very busily, though in reality they did nothing at all. They asked for the most delicate silk and the purest gold thread; put both into their own knapsacks; and then continued their pretended work at the empty looms until late at night. ‘I should like to know how the weavers are getting on with my cloth,’ said the Emperor to himself, after some little time had elapsed; he was, however, rather embarrassed, when he remembered that a simpleton, or one unfit for his office, would be unable to see the manufacture. To be sure, he thought he had nothing to risk in his own person; but yet, he would prefer sending somebody else, to bring him intelligence about the weavers, and their work, before he troubled himself in the affair. All the people throughout the city had heard of the wonderful property the cloth was to possess; and all were anxious to learn how wise, or how ignorant, their neighbors might prove to be. ‘I will send my faithful old minister to the weavers,’ said the Emperor at last, after some deliberation, ‘he will be best able to see how the cloth looks; for he is a man of sense, and no one can be more suitable for his office than be is.’

So the faithful old minister went into the hall, where the knaves were working with all their might, at their empty looms. ‘What can be the meaning of this?’ thought the old man, opening his eyes very wide. ‘I cannot discover the least bit of thread on the looms.’ However, he did not express his thoughts aloud. The impostors requested him very courteously to be so good as to come nearer their looms; and then asked him whether the design pleased him, and whether the colors were not very beautiful; at the same time pointing to the empty frames. The poor old minister looked and looked, he could not discover anything on the looms, for a very good reason, viz: there was nothing there. ‘What!’ thought he again. ‘Is it possible that I am a simpleton? I have never thought so myself; and no one must know it now if I am so. Can it be, that I am unfit for my office? No, that must not be said either. I will never confess that I could not see the stuff.’ ‘Well, Sir Minister!’ said one of the knaves, still pretending to work. ‘You do not say whether the stuff pleases you.’ ‘Oh, it is excellent!’ replied the old minister, looking at the loom through his spectacles. ‘This pattern, and the colors, yes, I will tell the Emperor without delay, how very beautiful I think them.’ ‘We shall be much obliged to you,’ said the impostors, and then they named the different colors and described the pattern of the pretended stuff. The old minister listened attentively to their words, in order that he might repeat them to the Emperor; and then the knaves asked for more silk and gold, saying that it was necessary to complete what they had begun. However, they put all that was given them into their knapsacks; and continued to work with as much apparent diligence as before at their empty looms.


The Emperor now sent another officer of his court to see how the men were getting on, and to ascertain whether the cloth would soon be ready. It was just the same with this gentleman as with the minister; he surveyed the looms on all sides, but could see nothing at all but the empty frames. ‘Does not the stuff appear as beautiful to you, as it did to my lord the minister?’ asked the impostors of the Emperor’s second ambassador; at the same time making the same gestures as before, and talking of the design and colors which were not there. ‘I certainly am not stupid!’ thought the messenger. ‘It must be, that I am not fit for my good, profitable office! That is very odd; however, no one shall know anything about it.’ And accordingly he praised the stuff he could not see, and declared that he was delighted with both colors and patterns. ‘Indeed, please your Imperial Majesty,’ said he to his sovereign when he returned, ‘the cloth which the weavers are preparing is extraordinarily magnificent.’ The whole city was talking of the splendid cloth which the Emperor had ordered to be woven at his own expense.

And now the Emperor himself wished to see the costly manufacture, while it was still in the loom. Accompanied by a select number of officers of the court, among whom were the two honest men who had already admired the cloth, he went to the crafty impostors, who, as soon as they were aware of the Emperor’s approach, went on working more diligently than ever; although they still did not pass a single thread through the looms. ‘Is not the work absolutely magnificent?’ said the two officers of the crown, already mentioned. ‘If your Majesty will only be pleased to look at it! What a splendid design! What glorious colors!’ and at the same time they pointed to the empty frames; for they imagined that everyone else could see this exquisite piece of workmanship. ‘How is this?’ said the Emperor to himself. ‘I can see nothing! This is indeed a terrible affair! Am I a simpleton, or am I unfit to be an Emperor? That would be the worst thing that could happen—Oh! the cloth is charming,’ said he, aloud. ‘It has my complete approbation.’ And he smiled most graciously, and looked closely at the empty looms; for on no account would he say that he could not see what two of the officers of his court had praised so much. All his retinue now strained their eyes, hoping to discover something on the looms, but they could see no more than the others; nevertheless, they all exclaimed, ‘Oh, how beautiful!’ and advised his majesty to have some new clothes made from this splendid material, for the approaching procession. ‘Magnificent! Charming! Excellent!’ resounded on all sides; and everyone was uncommonly gay.

The Emperor shared in the general satisfaction; and presented the impostors with the riband of an order of knighthood, to be worn in their button-holes, and the title of ‘Gentlemen Weavers.’ The rogues sat up the whole of the night before the day on which the procession was to take place, and had sixteen lights burning, so that everyone might see how anxious they were to finish the Emperor’s new suit. They pretended to roll the cloth off the looms; cut the air with their scissors; and sewed with needles without any thread in them. ‘See!’ cried they, at last. ‘The Emperor’s new clothes are ready!’ And now the Emperor, with all the grandees of his court, came to the weavers; and the rogues raised their arms, as if in the act of holding something up, saying, ‘Here are your Majesty’s trousers! Here is the scarf! Here is the mantle! The whole suit is as light as a cobweb; one might fancy one has nothing at all on, when dressed in it; that, however, is the great virtue of this delicate cloth.’ ‘Yes indeed!’ said all the courtiers, although not one of them could see anything of this exquisite manufacture. ‘If your Imperial Majesty will be graciously pleased to take off your clothes, we will fit on the new suit, in front of the looking glass.’

The Emperor was accordingly undressed, and the rogues pretended to array him in his new suit; the Emperor turning round, from side to side, before the looking glass. ‘How splendid his Majesty looks in his new clothes, and how well they fit!’ everyone cried out. ‘What a design! What colors! These are indeed royal robes!’ ‘The canopy which is to be borne over your Majesty, in the procession, is waiting,’ announced the chief master of the ceremonies. ‘I am quite ready,’ answered the Emperor. ‘Do my new clothes fit well?’ asked he, turning himself round again before the looking glass, in order that he might appear to be examining his handsome suit. The lords of the bedchamber, who were to carry his Majesty’s train felt about on the ground, as if they were lifting up the ends of the mantle; and pretended to be carrying something; for they would by no means betray anything like simplicity, or unfitness for their office. So now the Emperor walked under his high canopy in the midst of the procession, through the streets of his capital; and all the people standing by, and those at the windows, cried out, ‘Oh! How beautiful are our Emperor’s new clothes! What a magnificent train there is to the mantle; and how gracefully the scarf hangs!’ in short, no one would allow that he could not see these much-admired clothes; because, in doing so, he would have declared himself either a simpleton or unfit for his office. Certainly, none of the Emperor’s various suits, had ever made so great an impression, as these invisible ones. ‘But the Emperor has nothing at all on!’ said a little child. ‘Listen to the voice of innocence!’ exclaimed his father; and what the child had said was whispered from one to another. ‘But he has nothing at all on!’ at last cried out all the people. The Emperor was vexed, for he knew that the people were right; but he thought the procession must go on now! And the lords of the bedchamber took greater pains than ever, to appear holding up a train, although, in reality, there was no train to hold.

Newly-married life

Levin had been married three months. He was happy, but not at all in the way he had expected to be. At every step he found disenchantment in his former dreams, and new, unexpected enchantment. He was happy; but on entering upon family life he saw at every step that it was utterly different from what he had imagined. At every step he experienced what a man would experience who, after admiring the smooth, happy course of a little boat on a lake, should get himself into that little boat. He saw that it was not all sitting still, and floating smoothly; that one had to think too, not for an instant forgetting where one was floating; and that there was water under one, and that one must row; and that his unaccustomed hands would be sore; and that it was only easy to look at; but that doing it, though very delightful was very difficult.

As a bachelor, when he had watched other people's married life, had seen the petty cares, the squabbles, the jealousy, he had only smiled contemptuously in his heart. In his future married life there could be, he was convinced, nothing of that sort; even the external forms, indeed, he fancied, must be utterly unlike the life of others in everything. And all of a sudden, instead of his life with his wife being made on an individual pattern, it was, on the contrary, entirely made up of the pettiest details, which he had so despised before, but which now, by no will of his own, had gained an extraordinary and indisputable importance. And Levin saw that the organization of all these details was by no means so easy as he had fancied before. Although Levin believed himself to have the most exact conceptions of domestic life, unconsciously, like all men, he pictured domestic life only as enjoyment of love, with nothing to hinder and no petty cares to distract. He ought, as he conceived the position, to do his work, and to find repose from it in the happiness of love. She ought to be beloved, and nothing more. But, like all men, he forgot that she too would want work. And he was surprised that she, his poetic, exquisite Kitty, could not merely in the first weeks, but even in the first days of their married life, think, remember, and busy herself about tablecloths, and furniture, about mattresses for visitors, about a tray, about the cook, and the dinner, and so on. While they were still engaged, he had been struck by the definiteness with which she had declined the tour abroad and decided to go into the country, as though she knew of something she wanted, and could still think of something outside her love. This had jarred upon him then, and now her trivial cares and anxieties jarred upon him several times. But he saw that this was essential for her. And, loving her as he did, though he did not understand the reason for them, and jeered at these domestic pursuits, he could not help admiring them. He jeered at the way in which she arranged the furniture they had brought from Moscow; rearranged their rooms; hung up curtains; prepared rooms for visitors, and for Dolly; saw after an abode for her new maid; ordered dinner of the old cook; came into collision with Agathya Mikhailovna, taking from her the charge of the stores. He saw how the old cook smiled, admiring her, and listening to her inexperienced, impossible orders; how mournfully and tenderly Agathya Mikhailovna shook her head over the young mistress's new arrangements in the pantry. He saw that Kitty was extraordinarily sweet when, laughing and crying, she came to tell him that her maid, Masha, was used to looking upon her as her young lady, and so no one obeyed her. It seemed to him sweet, but strange, and he thought it would have been better without this.

He did not know how great a sense of change she was experiencing; she, who at home had sometimes wanted some pickled cabbage, or sweets, without the possibility of getting either, now could order what she liked, buy pounds of sweets, spend as much money as she liked, and order any cakes she pleased.

She was dreaming with delight now of Dolly's coming to them with her children, especially because she would order for the children their favorite cakes, and Dolly would appreciate all her new housekeeping. She did not know herself why and wherefore, but the arranging of her house had an irresistible attraction for her. Instinctively feeling the approach of spring, and knowing that there would be days of rough weather too, she built her nest as best she could, and was in haste at the same time to build and to learn how to do it.

This care for domestic details in Kitty, so opposed to Levin's ideal of exalted happiness, was at first one of the disenchantments; and this sweet care of her household, the aim of which he did not understand, but could not help loving, was one of the new enchantments.

Another disenchantment and enchantment consisted of their quarrels. Levin could never have conceived that between him and his wife any relations could arise other than tender, respectful and loving, and all at once, in the very early days, they quarreled, so that she said he did not care for her, that he cared for no one but himself, burst into tears, and waved her hands.

This first quarrel arose from Levin's having gone out to a new grange and having been away half an hour too long, because he had tried to get home by a short cut and had lost his way. He drove home thinking of nothing but her, of her love, of his own happiness, and, the nearer he drew to home, the warmer was his tenderness for her. He ran into the room with the same feeling, with an even stronger feeling, than he had had when he reached the Shcherbatskys' house to propose. And suddenly he was met by a lowering expression he had never seen in her. He would have kissed her, she pushed him away.
`What is it?'
`You've been enjoying yourself...' she began, trying to be calm and spiteful.

But as soon as she opened her mouth, she burst into a stream of reproach, of senseless jealousy, of all that had been torturing her during that half-hour which she had spent sitting motionless at the window. It was only then, for the first time, that he clearly understood what he had not understood when he led her out of the church after the wedding. He felt now that he was not simply close to her, but that he did not know where he ended and she began. He felt this from the agonizing sensation of division that he experienced at that instant. He was offended for the first instant, but the very same second he felt that he could not be offended by her, that she was himself. He felt for the first moment as a man feels when, having suddenly received a violent blow from behind, he turns round, angry and eager to avenge himself, to look for his antagonist, and finds that it is he himself who has accidentally struck himself, that there is no one to be angry with, and that he must put up with and try to soothe the pain.

Never afterward did he feel it with such intensity, but this first time he could not for a long while get over it. His natural feeling urged him to defend himself, to prove to her she was wrong; but to prove her wrong would mean irritating her still more and making the rupture greater that was the cause of all his suffering. One habitual feeling impelled him to get rid of the blame and to pass it on her; another feeling, even stronger, impelled him as quickly as possible to smooth over the rupture without letting it grow greater. To remain under such undeserved reproach was wretched, but to make her suffer by justifying himself was worse still. Like a man half-awake in an agony of pain, he wanted to tear out, to fling away the seat of pain, and, coming to his senses, he felt that the seat of pain was himself. He could do nothing but try to help the seat of pain bear it, and this he tried to do.

They made peace. She, recognizing that she was wrong, though she did not say so, became tenderer to him, and they experienced new, redoubled happiness in their love. But that did not prevent such quarrels from happening again, and exceedingly often too, on the most unexpected and trivial grounds. These quarrels frequently arose from the fact that they did not yet know what was of importance to each, and that all this early period they were both often in a bad temper. When one was in a good temper, and the other in a bad temper, the peace was not broken; but when both happened to be in an ill-humor, quarrels sprang up from such incomprehensibly trifling causes that they could never remember afterward what they had quarreled about. It is true that when they were both in a good temper their enjoyment of life was redoubled. But still this first period of their married life was a difficult time for them.

During all this early period they had a peculiarly vivid sense of tension, as it were, a tugging in opposite directions of the chain by which they were bound. Altogether their honeymoon - that is to say, the month after their wedding - from which, through tradition, Levin had expected so much, was not merely not a time of sweetness, but remained in the memories of both as the bitterest and most humiliating period in their lives. They both alike tried in later life to blot out from their memories all the monstrous, shameful incidents of that morbid period, when both were rarely in a normal frame of mind, when both were rarely quite themselves.

It was only in the third month of their married life, after their return from Moscow, where they had been staying for a month, that their life began to go more smoothly.

Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina, Part V, Chapter 14

हिंदी?

Wow, apparently, you can even blog in हिंदी now. I'll have to see how it shows on other screens.

Boooh! :(

So Stephane Buckland came out 6th. The podium is all-American. The first and second guys actually ran their personal bests today!!!! I mean, there is a limit to how tough things get huh?!

And Jonathan Chimier did not make it to the best 8 to continue in the second part of the Long Jump finals... It's his first Games, so there's a lot to look forward to.

And so ends the Olympic dream in Athens for Mauritius... Well, at least we managed to dream...

·Storm·

·I yearn for a storm·
·How unfair of the Sky to display its might·
fill the air with passion·
·wash the city in giant lashes of rain·
daze the trees and churn the ponds·
·and suddenly, deprive the world of that treat·

There is no more soothing sight·
·than waves slanting hard from above·
determined to bore holes into the asphalt·
·testing their might against all resistance·
and filling the space between the air particles·
·with their clammy heaviness·

Then, anger and sadness and revolt·
·are cleansed to pure white·
thunder shouts my rebellion ·
·and lightning strikes where I can't·
When calm returns and business resumes·
·peace soothes its way through the clouds·
and spreads like music in my heart·

TWO Olympic finals :)

Stephane Buckland made it through to the 200m Men's finals today. He came third in his heat, in front of Asafa Powell, the Jamaican. To be very realistic, the podium looks all American. So we're just proud he got there. But who knows...

And Jonathan Chimier will be competing in the Long Jump finals. Both finals are tomorrow :) This is an Olympics we'll remember.

Will he?

We'll find out shortly before 16h00 (EDT) whether Stephane Buckland makes it to the 200m Men's finals. Aaaaaah!

An Olympic final...yes!

And so Mauritius makes its own tiny step in Olympic history: Jonathan Chimier made it to the finals in Men's Long Jump today, the first time Mauritius has an athlete in an Olympic final. I'm the first to be surprised. We'd been focusing a lot more on our track athletes. Chimier has the second best jump in his qualification, jumping 8m28 right behind the gold medal favourite Dwight Phillips(8m31). His final is on 26 August.

Tomorrow Stephane Buckland will race in the 200m semi-finals, trying to if not beat then join three podium contenders in the finals. Really keeping my fingers crossed.

An Olympic final... finally?

This will be Mauritius' Games of hope to reach an Olympic final for the first time ever. Stephan Buckland, born and bred in Mauritius is world number 1 as at 9 August 2004 in his discipline, the 200m, according to the International Association of Athletics Federations ratings. He is the 5th fastest man on his distance in 2004. So of course, all eyes are on him. He missed the final by two places at the Sydney Olympics, but he still had to reach his best then. Buckland used to train in Senegal, but for the past year has been training in Mauritius.

And in 400m, Eric Milazar, who is Mauritian but comes from the even tinier island of rodrigues (Mauritian district north-east of the island) is ranked 4th worldwide. His times have not been as good this year, but his determination is here.

So, are we hoping to be there? You bet the island (and the bits of it scattered across the world) is.

We have seven other participants who'll be trying to improve their personal bests during these Olympics.

Italians within Europe?

Check this out. I'm afraid it could probably apply to Mauritians too...

doubt...

"I’ll be honest about it. It is not atheists who get stuck in my craw, but agnostics. Doubt is useful for a while. We must all pass through the garden of Gethsemane. If Christ played with doubt, so must we. If Christ spent an anguished night in prayer, if He burst out from the Cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” then surely we are also permitted to doubt. But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation."

Yann Martel, Life of Pi

Gaspésie pictures

These are some my pictures from the roadtrip. I had to scan them and haven't changed anything to their colour, so here goes. More pictures to come later on the same link, once my last roll is finished.

Percé!

In two and a half days, we travelled round the Gaspé peninsula, the eastern most part of Québec. An intense roadtrip full of colours and different panoramas. A first stop at Cap-des-Rosiers was mellow. At five in the morning, my first look at the Atlantic was pale purples, blues and the red and white of the highest lighthouse in Canada. We even saw a whale far off! And the air smelled alive for the first time in a long time.
 
Then it was Cap Gaspé, followed by a series of tiny villages with names like Cap-aux-os, Petit Cap-aux-os. Similarly, Gaspé has several sub-villages: Grande-Grave (Gaspé), Petit Gaspé (Gaspé), Gaspé centre-ville (Gaspé). Cute white houses line the ocean and Tim Hortons is the Canadian leitmotiv throughout.  On through St-George de Malbaie, Barachois and Coin-du-Banc, and we were at Percé, named after the Rocher Percé, the big rock that stands in the sea, hollowed by winds and waves. I've dreamt of seeing it since before I came to Québec and it was beautiful to me. I was in awe of how it stood there at the mercy of the elements, an orange-yellow rock of 400 millions years which only has 10 to 15,000 years to live before it disappears due to erosion. 
  
We went on along the Baie des Chaleurs, a delightful drive along the Atlantic and stopped at a red-sand beach in Pabos. No soil, no mud, just red sand. Pretty weird until you get used to the sun and just laze there. I had a slow walk to the end of the beach, which reminded me of home. The sound of waves curling on the shore has to be the sweetest one I know. The retreating waves had the same chime: here they drag smoothened rocks back into the water, in Mauritius it's coral. But the sound is the same.
 
After we left the coast, we followed the Caspapedia river into the Monts Chic-Choc: greens and blacks - mountains, river, forests, some men fly-fishing. We even spotted a caribou; it stood still, then skipped across the road into the woods. We fed the mosquitoes there for a while, the guys bravely fought to make a nice fire and cook potatoes under the embers. Hmmm... it tasted good, but we were relieved we also had bagels and cheese and fruits. We camped there and were up at 5h00 to drive back to Montreal, this time along the south shore of the St-Lawrence river. It was a different scenery, but pretty. Once more, small houses hugging the river, and all sorts of sign saying "Hotel-sur-mer", "Gite-sur-mer", while municipal signs kept saying "Fleuve St-Laurent" at regular intervals on the river shore!
 
Driving back into Montreal was a little sad for all of us. It was like a collective dream we were reluctant to leave. I'd say the real beauty of this place lies outside its cities. And Gaspésie was certainly everything I'd imagined and more. Just to give you an idea: the end of the peninsula was a thirteen-hour drive from Montreal. 
 
I'm grateful for the chance of having seen the sea again. There are few other things that remind you so well of how big things can be and how small we really are. Pictures to come. I want to go to PEI and Nova Scotia now :)

 

Asibonanga

Quand j'étais petite, je connaissais Johnny Clegg parce que tout le monde le connaissait.

J'ai eu l'occasion d'assister à un concert de lui à l'ouverture du Festival de Jazz de Montréal. Rythmes chauds, en compagnie du super groupe a capella Gumboots, danses éclectiques et couleurs fortes ont chauffé l'ambiance. Ce concert commémorait aussi les 10 ans de la fin de l'apartheid* en Afrique du Sud. J'ai trouvé ça émouvant et bouleversant.

C'est intéressant aussi d'observer la manière différente qu'ont les gens de réagir à 'l'apartheid' selon l'endroit d'où ils viennent. Les Français connaissent souvent: l'Afrique c'est un peu leur arrière-cour. Quelques Québécois connaissent, surtout en Science Politique, mais d'autres non. Certains Russes, même politisés, ne savent pas du tout ce que c'est même s'ils ont entendu parler de Mandela.

Ça me rappelle encore une fois à quel point notre vision des choses peut être influencée par notre port de départ... Mon monde commence dans l'Océan indien, et ne pas connaître l'apartheid, qui a pris fin en 1994 en Afrique du Sud, est inconcevable à mes yeux. Et pourtant, il doit y avoir des conflits tout aussi importants qui se déroulent au Paraguay, et je n'en ai aucune idée.

Il me semble tout de même que la fin de l'apartheid a une portée assez universelle et surtout contemporaine pour qu'on en connaisse les faits principaux...
* infos en anglais
Infos en français

Naya ghar...

...or new home.

I moved last week to a new small place on the Plateau, and have been observing people and the place at every moment I get. What can I say? It IS the chic bohemian (not high-collar Westmount) area of this city. The park is two blocks away, so people stroll about with light bags strung across their shoulders, on their way to a read by the pond. Young families trail their kids in colourful strollers and stop at Monsieur Pinchot (pain chaud) to eat Bilboquet ice cream. They give you a free taste of a new flavour each time you go there… Marché Mont-Royal has the cutest African violets, one of which is now in my living room.

The block of flats I’m in: so far I’ve seen a batty woman who wanted to show her ‘expensive’ earrings, two young missionaries, one cute gay guy, one cute non-gay guy, a young French girl, a scary tattooed man who held the door, a not so hypocondriac who warned me about the water and an old couple who live just below me. One guy practises jazzy trumpet on Sunday afternoons in the block of flats across the street.

There’s a regular mix of English and French-speaking people on the streets, with smiles at the ready. Then again, this is summer, a season totally unrepresentative of what this city is during the other nine months of the year. Summer is a hard season to give birth to. For now, it’s great fun.

Jeux de mots

J’ai maudit les personnalités jumelles
Je suis tombée, liée de toutes parts
Vie, air, je ne savais qu’offrir à mon cœur.
Il balançait d’un amour à l’autre
De délit en délit, on aurait dit un félin.
Il n’était pas à l’envers, sot d’esprit non plus.
Et, sans ces poids, son rythme eut été libre.
Mais le carcan serrait encore trop fort.

J’ai étudié le cas, pris cornes et taureau,
Travaillé mon score, pion après pion,
Écouté enfin ce cœur.
Un sage y terre les vérités du monde.

-Valeisha Sobhee-

Ce poème, pas spectaculaire, est moins intéressant que le commentaire qui suit ;)

Zzzzzzzzut!

J'ai vu le match.
Je n'arrive juste pas à croire que la France ait pu mettre ces deux buts en trois minutes de temps additionnel. Aaaaaaaaaargh! Mais il faut reconnaître à Zidane ce qui appartient à Zidane.

Come on England!

Wisdom

Wow, I feel wiser already: wiser than yesterday, less wise than tomorrow... :)

Like wine...

...it just gets better :)

"S'adapter" est un mot triste

En mars 2003, j'ai assisté à une conférence de Federico Mayor. Ses paroles demeurent parmi les plus galvanisantes que j'aie entendues en direct. J'écrivais ses mots aussi vite que possible. En voici des extraits:

« ‘S’adapter’, c’est un mot très triste. Si c’est une institution, elle est en déclin. Si c’est une personne, c’est une personne sans imagination qui réagit chaque jour parce qu’incapable de diriger, de maîtriser les événements.
D’où l’importance de l’anticipation (…). Nous pouvons restaurer ce qui est en pierre (NDLR : référence aux monuments culturels détruits), mais nous ne pouvons pas restaurer ce monument merveilleux qu’est chaque être humain. Six milliards cinq millions d’êtres humains, c’est notre richesse. Six milliards cinq millions de façons de créer, de penser, d’imaginer, d’inventer (…). Nos empreintes, six milliards cinq millions de dessins différents. Le plus important des droits, c’est le droit à la vie, parce que sans vie, on ne peut rien faire de tout cela. »

« Être libre c’est aussi ne pas oublier les liens noués librement. »

« Le général qui gagne une petite guerre, on le décore parce qu’on a vu. Le général qui évite une grande guerre, personne ne va le décorer. Parce qu’une guerre qui n’a pas lieu, c’est invisible. »

« Si l’on pense à vingt ans auparavant, à l’Afrique du Sud par exemple. Pendant 27 ans, pensez bien, 27 ans, un homme, Mandela était en prison, et au lieu de fomenter la haine, la vengeance, il était en train de penser à des solutions inattendues (avec l’aide de De Klerk, il ne faut pas oublier De Klerk). L’Union soviétique par exemple qui, basée sur l’égalité avait oublié la liberté, et la fraternité d’ailleurs, il y a eu un homme, quoi qu’on puisse dire, quoi qu’on puisse écrire, Mikhaïl Gorbatchev qui a inventé des chemins. »

« L’anticipation, avec la créativité sont des capacité distinctes de l’être humain. (…) Nous devons être des vigiles de l’avenir, trouver avec les tendances d’aujourd’hui les scénarios d’avenir. Agir maintenant. »

« Le meilleur diagnostic, c’est celui qui permet d’agir. Il n’y a qu’un diagnostic parfait, c’est l’autopsie, mais c’est trop tard. On peut à ce moment dire ‘ah, je sais pourquoi il est mort’, mais c’est trop tard. »

« Nous ne pouvons pas prendre un tas de pages et le mettre devant nos enfants et dire, ‘voilà, c’est ça ton avenir. On l’a déjà écrit. Tu n’as pas le choix.’ Nous devons pouvoir leur donner l’espace, et dire ‘voilà l’espace pour que vous l’écriviez à votre guise. Maintenant c’est votre tour.’ »

The most beautiful girl

I actually watched Miss Universe on Wednesday night. Really, from beginning to end! I even had a stake in it. A friend called and we got together, five girls and three guys, and each put down $10 with our predictions for the winner. You can be sure we were rooting for our candidates like crazy by the top 5.

But I lost. Who could have forecast that Miss Plain Australia Jane was going to get it? My theory is that India and Latin America being captive audiences, they were trying to get'em down under in too. She was not beautiful. And to raise plummeting ratings in the US, they forced Miss USA to number 2. Eeew!

What about women's dignity and rights? Well, it seems that whomever fought for those fought so well that today women are free to parade in bikinis on stage for a charitable cause... and a one-year stay in a Trump Towers apartment in New York. Go women's lib.

PS: To smn's question about the difference between Miss U and Miss W, my conclusion was that Miss W is prettier than all of us, and Miss U even beats the Martianettes. Does that make sense?

La pub, et Otar

Deviner l'origine de la pub du haut devient de plus en plus amusant. C'est très drôle d'atterrir sur un blog et soudain de voir des pubs d'"aide au devoir" alors qu'on a parlé de devoir citoyen plus tôt. Mais il faut dire que je m'amuse de peu de chose :)

Hier j'ai vu un film franco-belge en Russe, Géorgien et Français: Depuis qu'Otar est parti de la jeune réalisatrice Julie Bertuccelli. L'histoire de trois femmes de trois différentes générations qui vivent en Géorgie tandis que le fils Otar vit à Paris. Un regard sur un pays de l'Europe de l'Est qui fait face à ses propres démons.

Mais la beauté du film c'est certainement le regard de Bertuccelli sur les relations humaines, tous les petits gestes qui font notre quotidien, par lesquels on se passe des messages. Et l'amour, pour moi toujours impressionnant, d'une mère pour l'enfant loin d'elle. Il n'est pas parfait ce film. Mais il est émouvant parce qu'il traverse sans désespoir jusqu'au fond de chacun des personnages, en montrant les moments gris et les moments roses qui font de la vie ce qu'elle est.

La citoyenneté, club de luxe?

Citizenship: a membership with privileges or a status with rights and duties?
La citoyenneté: un club à privilèges ou un statut avec des droits et des devoirs?

Récemment, une controverse sur des Canadiens revenus d'Afghanistan et accusés d'être des terroristes a fait rage ici. Les personnes concernées, des immigrants à nationalité canadienne, ont déclaré ouvertement avoir travaillé pour un organisme terroriste en Afghanistan et être revenues au Canada simplement pour le traitement médical. La personne blessée était un enfant de 14 ans qui avait combattu aux côtés de son père pour les Talibans.

La question qu'elle soulève, c'est de savoir si être citoyen d'un pays veut dire profiter de tous ses privilèges sans être aucunement redevable au projet d'une nation, ou si la citoyenneté devrait être aussi une affaire de loyauté et de devoir.

Je pense que la citoyenneté a quelque chose de sacré qui fait qu'on ne peut la demander par simple but opportuniste. Il faut un minimum de foi dans les valeurs qui font de cet État ce qu'il est.

Mais cette idée comporte en elle la menace de la pensée uniforme. Nous avons tous droit à nos valeurs et à nos croyances. Où s'arrête la simple différence et où commence l'inacceptable? Est-il envisageable d'enlever la citoyenneté à quelqu'un par mesure de rétribution? Si on pense que la citoyenneté a quelque chose de plus profond qu'un statut civil, n'est-ce pas là enlever à la citoyenneté sa dimension 'sacrée' et ne conserver que l'instrumental?

Cats again

Aux urnes, citoyens!

Here's an interesting analysis of the federal electoral campaign "raging" in Canada at the moment. Canadians, of course, have their own way of raging. The Canadian nice way, NOT the American evil way ;). General elections are scheduled for June 28th.
In brief, Liberals are bad, Conservatives are worse, the Bloc is obsolete and the NDP is harmless (except for Layton's mustache).

Canadian politics is entertaining.

Of cats and goldfish

Cerafin having taken his cat back, I am now catless.* This means uninterrupted nights, a nice-smelling apartment, chair legs and sofas that are safe from scratching, and no pooh to clean.

But I miss him and his cuddliness. And no matter what the rightful owner might say, I am sure he was happier with me. It does not mean though that he's unhappy now. It depends on his memory span. If he can no longer remember my place, then he's happy. Someone told me that dogs have a two-year memory span. That means my dog will have forgotten me by the time I go back to Mauritius.

But the goldfish beats all records. They have a memory span of 30 seconds. That's why they don't mind a bowl, because after 30 seconds, when they touch the bowl's glass wall, they think: "Hmmm, interesting new territory, let's explore!" A new take on "Live life for the present moment"!

*Incidentally, "catless" is also a term used to describe a meat patty in Mauritius. Very tasty, nothing to do with cats.

La pub du dessus

J'ai remarqué que Blogger a un mécanisme pour repérer des mots-clés sur nos blogs, et ensuite ajuster la pub qui paraît en haut en conséquence. Pour un ami qui avait récemment parlé de régime végétarien, ses pubs annoncent maintenant de "l'Huile d’argane naturelle extra-vierge, 1ère pression à froid saine & délicieuse au goût noiseté", ce qui ne tardera sûrement pas sur le mien, puisque j'utilise ces mots à l'instant. Et comme il parle de chat aussi, de temps à autre apparaît une pub sur la nourriture pour chats.

Sinon le mien reçoit plutôt des invitations à acheter le CD de Tigre et Dragon, puisque j'en ai parlé plus tôt. Et un autre ami qui vient d'aller à Paris a un site dont la pub incite à y aller aussi! Il semble cependant que le mécanisme ne sache que faire d'un autre site, où l'on parle créole mauricien et où on ne parle que de manger, de travail, d'humeurs et de collines aux noms bizarres! Aucune pub affichée en haut!

Le cerveau des hommes à son service...Y a-t-il une plus grande victoire pour le capitalisme?

An experience at work

My boss reached the end of her contract this week. Before she left, she did this amazing thing. She distributed little packs of sweets to each of the 23 employees, with a personalised quote. Mine said:

"Le meilleur moyen de prédire le futur, c'est de l'inventer."
-Alan Kay-

There is one guy at work who can only be described as the most Machiavellian being on Earth, and she (and I) suffered quite a lot from this "man". She took it all in her stride. When it was time to share out the sweets, her quote to him was one by Albert Einstein:

"Il existe deux choses infinies: l'univers et la bêtise humaine. Mais l'univers...je n'ai pas de certitude absolue."

I don't think he kissed her goodbye at the end of the day :)

Montreal under the sun

It's Spring again! Montreal, the hub of trendy shopping in Quebec has been in Spring since the end of February. It didn't matter that we were still wrapped up to our fingertips, facing minus 15 degrees: Gap, Jacob and Mexx were convincing us that it was already 20 degrees, since their windows were dressed in candy colours and feather-light tops. Aldo and Browns had their rows of open-toed shoes ready to tempt us into splashing out our hard-earned cash.

The St-Lawrence river has thawed, changing from a pale steel sheet to glittering blue wavelets. People are smiling again. The grass in the parks hardly had time to moult from its winter skin; it's already wearing a new one: sun-thirsty people out to tan.

The terraces are opening, sundae bars recruiting students for summer jobs, trendy silk scarves still hugging young girls' necks against the slight chill, and the festivals are just beginning.

Montreal is alive again!

Terre des hommes

« Dans la chambre de Mendoza où je te veillais, tu t’endormais enfin d’un sommeil essoufflé. Et je pensais : ‘Si on lui parlait de son courage, Guillaumet hausserait les épaules. Mais on le trahirait aussi en célébrant sa modestie. Il se situe bien au-delà de cette qualité médiocre. S’il hausse les épaules, c’est par sagesse. Il sait qu’une fois pris dans l’événement, les hommes ne s’en effraient plus. Seul l’inconnu épouvante les hommes. Mais, pour quiconque l’affronte, il n’est déjà plus l’inconnu. Surtout si on l’observe avec cette gravité lucide. Le courage de Guillaumet, avant tout, est un effet de sa droiture.’

Sa véritable qualité n’est point là. Sa grandeur, c’est de se sentir responsable. Responsable de lui, du courrier et des camarades qui espèrent. Il tient dans ses mains leur peine ou leur joie. Responsable de ce qui se bâtit de neuf là-bas, chez les vivants, à quoi il doit participer. Responsable un peu du destin des hommes, dans la mesure de son travail.

Il fait partie des êtres larges qui acceptent de couvrir de larges horizons de leur feuillage. Être homme, c’est précisément être responsable. C’est connaître la honte en face d’une misère qui ne semblait pas dépendre de soi. C’est être fier d’une victoire que les camarades ont remportée. C’est sentir, en posant sa pierre, que l’on contribue à bâtir le monde.

On veut confondre de tels hommes avec les toréadors ou les joueurs. On vante leur mépris de la mort. Mais je me moque bien du mépris de la mort. S’il ne tire pas ses racines d’une responsabilité acceptée, il n’est que signe de pauvreté ou d’excès de jeunesse. J’ai connu un suicidé jeune. Je ne sais plus quel chagrin d’amour l’avait poussé à se tirer soigneusement une balle dans le cœur. Je ne sais à quelle tentation littéraire il avait cédé en habillant ses mains de gants blancs, mais je me souviens d’avoir ressenti en face de cette triste parade une impression non de noblesse mais de misère. Ainsi, derrière ce visage aimable, sous ce crâne d’homme, il n’y avait rien eu, rien. Sinon l’image de quelque sotte petite fille semblable à d’autres.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Terre des hommes

Vaco Baissac

Vous pouvez lire cet entretien avec Vaco Baissac, un peintre mauricien. Ses paroles disent ces choses abstraites que l'on ressent quand on veut appartenir à quelque part...

Le chat

Le chat

Ses yeux brillent
Des amandines vertes
Aux pupilles en épis noirs

Silence, il fait une pause
Observe… s’avance… BONDIT!
Une chaussette, c’est sa souris.

Une passe de foot, galopade,
Récupération au bout de la pièce
Chat et chaussette s’affalent

Une petite boule de poils
Des ronrons de bonheur
Sur le dos, pattes en l’air

D’Artagnan* est content.

*D'Artagnan c'est le chat québécois au nom français que je garde et qui appartient à un Russe.

Hero

I watched a film called Hero on Saturday. It's not The Hero with Dustin Hoffman. It's a Chinese film by director Zhang Yi Mou. The story is interesting: it's not the usual linear plot and not even just flashback. That reminded me of films like 'Sliding Doors' and 'Run Lola Run'.

The film itself has nothing to do with those. It's a typical Chinese martial arts drama, starring Jet Li, and Zhang Ziyi, the beautiful actress in "Crouching Tiger...". Once more, what is really striking is the photography, by Christopher Doyle. You could almost pause through the entire film and each picture would a be an awe-inspiring photograph. And that is really the reason why it's worth watching. The play with colours distinctly reminded me of when we were children and wanted everything to be blue one day and red the next. It's a real stroll through the whole colour spectrum.

I found Ang Lee's "Crouching Tiger and Hidden Dragon" more moving and more subtle by far, but both films equal each other in colour and pictures. It'll come out on widescreen soon, so go see it.

Les crabes!

À voir tout de suite: La Révolution des Crabes.

Neruda's odes

Pablo Neruda's Elementary Odes are to me more sensual and vivid than his beautiful love poems... His awareness of the presence of light in every form and the response of all his senses to the smallest things turn his odes into a celebration of life in its simplest sense.

Ode to Salt

by Pablo Neruda

This salt
in the saltcellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won't
believe me,
but
it sings,
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
sings
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those solitudes
when I heard
the voice of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
pampa
resounds:
a broken
voice,
a mournful
song.

In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.

And then on every table
in the world,
salt,
we see your piquant
powder
sprinkling
vital light
upon
our food. Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
discoverer
on
the high seas,
earliest
sailor
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
miniature
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste infinitude.

Mauritians: a "pomme d'amour" for all sauces?

We Mauritians learn Creole, English and French from our first classes. Our palates and tongues get used to the rolling Rs and the dry Rs. With the French, we share the songs we know since we were kids: 'Les Cités d'or', 'Juliette Je t'aime', 'Boumbo, petite automobile'. We often speak French more easily than English. Like the French, we are open, bon-vivants. We give enormous importance to food and warm welcomes at home, like them.

But our administration is British. So we understand constituencies better than we do 'les régions'. That our President is not elected seems relatively normal to us. And that we form part of the 'New Commonwealth' sits quite well too. Our (somewhat archaic) notions of excellence often relate to English universities. And British families are also VERY warm in their welcome.

And when we meet Indians, we know what a caraille is ('karahi' is a Hindi word). Curry is regular fare for us and bryani as much so! Sarees, churidars, prayers to statues, Divali and rasgullas dripping in syrup, we all know those, more or less closely.

But put us in Chinatown, and we know the taste of ha kaos and 'mine frite' like no one else! And nothing surprises our taste buds. Salangis? Know that. Crystallised olives? Been there. Gateau gingeli? Done that! As with the Lion Dance and the fireworks...

With Quebecers, we share the history of having been both French and English colonies. The result is that many of the words we speak in Creole, they speak in their daily French: 'asterla', 'tanto', and many more. Like us, they sometimes use English words which have been Frenchised: 'checker mon email'. And the endless to-and-froing between English and French worlds is something we're familiar with, much to everybody else's puzzlement.

With Anglo-Canadians though...I'm not sure. We probably share the dry British humour, which Francophones rarely find funny.

We would probably find quite a few things in common with other countries like Fidji, South Africa and Australia too. And if, by some quirk of history and hormones, you end up being born somewhere else, like Russia or Kenya, well, you get additional flavour thrown into your life! When you meet people from those countries abroad, there's a odd sense of unfamiliar familiarity...

Does that make us tomatoes that fit into all sauces? I'm not quite sure. Sega music, rougaille poisson salé-bouillon brèdes-chatini pomme de terres, 'débrouillardise' and Creole are ours, and ours only. We know how Indian, Chinese, Creole or French we are. And we know how Mauritian we are. I think that we blend more easily than some if we want to, but that's often at the expense of losing part of that multifarious identity. We let go of some parts of that and evolve into a different new us. That's part choice, and part circumstances.

I'd suggest that what makes us really fit in or not comes down to values, to what things are more important for one person or the other. The things above are based on a series of generalisations which, as all generalisations, have their limitations and their truths. Basically, underneath all those various colours, we're human, and it is our humanness that allows us to be happy somewhere or elsewhere. The choice always crops up, especially if you've been home-hopping.

I believe it is the meeting of hearts with other people which determines in the end where home is.

La Journée de la Terre
En cette journée de célébration de la petite planète bleu et vert que nous appelons 'maison', je vous invite à visiter le site de Yann Arthus-Bertrand, l'auteur de photos aériennes époustouflantes de la Terre. Chacune de ses photos est aussi accompagnée d'informations intéressantes sur le lieu photographié.

The Wooden Camera
If you're in Montreal, don't miss this film: The Wooden Camera. It plays once at 9h15 pm on Thursday 22 April at Cinema Beaubien, in English with French subtitles.

It's a refreshing film about two children in the townships of Cape Town, South Africa: colourful, sometimes hard and also very hopeful. It's definitely worth seeing.

"Les paysages de l'âme sont plus merveilleux que les paysages du ciel étoilé; ils n'ont pas seulement des voies lactées faites de millions d'étoiles, mais leurs abîmes d'ombre même sont de la vie, renferment une vie infinie, que sa surabondance rend obscure et étouffe.
Et ces abîmes où la vie se dévore elle-même, un moment peut les illuminer, les libérer, les changer en voies lactées."
-Hugo von Hofmannsthal-

Rien de personnel dans ce poème... Wendy Cope has such witty humour and I think she's good.

Bloody Men by Wendy Cope

Bloody men are like bloody buses --
You wait for about a year
And as soon as one approaches your stop
Two or three others appear.

You look at them flashing their indicators,
Offering you a ride.
You're trying to read the destinations,
You haven't much time to decide.

If you make a mistake, there is no turning back.
Jump off, and you'll stand there and gaze
While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by
And the minutes, the hours, the days.

This is a review of a Mauritian restaurant that appeared in the Montreal Mirror in October 2003. Once I've tried the restaurant, you'll have my personal review. BTW, along with all the good things, they're calling our cuisine "strange". I wonder why... :)

Mauritian mélange
La Ravane serves sumptuous eats from the African isle
by MARK SLUTSKY

The newest restaurant in Montreal to offer the strange and varied cuisine of the island of Mauritius, La Ravane opened on the Main some months ago without much fanfare. The smallness of the crowd eating there on a recent weeknight testified to the place's unfairly overlooked status among the swarm of restos along St-Laurent. Though it's in a fairly good location, just below Duluth, the narrow front window makes it easy to miss, and the resto's décor is somewhat misleading, even if you were to peek in.

Shiny hardwood floors, fancy chairs and lots of glass give the impression that La Ravane is a would-be trendy eatery perhaps specializing in Italian dishes, which couldn't be more untrue. The restaurant offers hot, homey Mauritian fare, and the island has one of the most diverse cuisines in the world.

Off the east coast of Africa, and not so far by boat from India, Mauritius was settled variously by the Portuguese, Dutch, French and English; the cooking is an intriguing combo of African, Indian, Chinese and European influences. This gives La Ravane one of the strangest menus I've ever seen - you'll find meatballs, curries, sweet-and-sour fish, Creole steaks and kulfi ice cream all sharing space on its pages.

On a recent visit, my companions and I enjoyed dinner at La Ravane (though they do offer a completely separate lunch menu featuring inexpensive sandwiches and noodle dishes). We passed on a very good special, including an appetizer, soup, vegetable curry, dessert and coffee for $9.95, in order to order freely among the dishes.

From the appetizers (or Gojacs) we went for the chin kon yuen meatballs ($3) and the yellow pea fritters ($3), as well as the tropical salad ($4.75). The meatballs were small and spicy, and they came with a sweet vinegar dipping sauce not unlike what you might get with a plate of spring rolls. Dry on the outside and tender within, our only complaint was that we could have used a couple more. The little dark-brown, doughnut-shaped fritters tasted a whole lot like Indian pakoras, and indeed came with a dish of raita for dipping.

Most impressive, though, was the tropical salad. A large, round plate full of sliced fruit and vegetables, the salad's made up of pineapple, mango, radish, mandarin orange and cucumber, drizzled in a light mint vinaigrette. It was fresh and delightfully bright in taste, and somehow made (as one of my buddies commented) the cucumbers and the radish taste like they belonged to the fruit family.

We split three main courses between us, ordering the sweet-and-sour fish ($16.95), sausages rougaille ($12.95), and the Creole-style grilled chicken ($18). Liberally smothered in julienned carrots and cucumbers, as well as a thick plum sauce, the fish was lightly breaded and tender. It was an unusual taste sensation - when they say sweet-and-sour here, they mean it, as both flavours were strong and equally present in the mix. The Creole chicken was covered in a thick, peppery, tomato-based sauce and accompanied by rice and a super-savoury roasted tomato. Spicy and rich, the sauce made the thing, even if the chicken was a little dry.

The rougaille was really the capper though. Made with puréed tomatoes, garlic, coriander and a host of other spices, the rougaille sauce blended in with the little chunks of sausage magnificently. Definitely something to order on another visit, though next time I'd ask for the hotter version (we had chosen "medium" spiciness).

Our only real complaint about La Ravane was the time it took our food to arrive; our waitress had warned us that the Creole chicken might take as long as half an hour to arrive, but it was more like 45 minutes to an hour before we saw our food. There seemed to be only one cook on duty, which is something they really ought to change; otherwise, it's worth checking out this unusual spot.

La Ravane
ADDRESS: 3991 St-Laurent (just south of Duluth)
PHONE: 514 842-5995
HOURS: Tue-Sat 11:30AM–2:30PM,
6PM–10:30PM; Sun 6PM–10:30PM
BEST FEATURES: The international variety of spicy foods, especially the rougailles
ALCOHOL: Yes
VEGETARIAN FRIENDLY: Yes
CREDIT CARDS: Yes
WHEELCHAIR ACCESS: Yes
NO-SMOKING SECTION: Yes
PRICE: $7–$12 per person for lunch, $10–25 per person for dinner, before tax and tip
RATING: **1/2 out of ****

It's always quite interesting going back on something you've written years ago, just like it is going back to the town, village or country where you spent your childhood.

The poem posted just before was written 9 years ago. It sometimes takes something like this to remind you of what you really wanted when you didn't know what was possible and what was not, when you really thought everything was yours for the taking, if you work hard enough.

I'm not so far from what I dreamt of nine years ago.

Je rêve de liberté par Valeisha, septembre 1995
Je rêve de liberté…
C’est une chose floue au fond de moi
Mais j’y pense sans arrêt.

Je voudrais être capable d’être
De dire mes pensées,
De vivre comme je l’entends.

Je rêve d’autres mondes,
Où j’existerais sans craintes,
Et d’horizons sans couchers de soleil.

J’ai soif d’un temps infini,
Sans heures, sans minutes et sans secondes,
Où chaque souffle devient une vie.

Je rêve d’une enfance fraîche,
Celle où je retrouverais l’innocence
Celle où je m’épanouirais différemment.

Je construis toute une vie en moi,
Pourtant je crains ne jamais la goûter
Noyée dans mes angoisses sans fond.

Je rêve d’un espace sans limites,
Là où les esprits ne rencontrent aucun mur,
Où les mots se remplissent d’un autre sens.

J’imagine un autre moi au naturel
Une cascade sans lac à atteindre
Une feuille valsant au caprice de son propre rythme.

Je rêve souvent d’un sentier sablonneux,
Que je prends au gré de ma volonté,
Sans besoin de courir dans un espoir quelconque.

Je rêve d’être l’unique sculpteur de ma vie
D’être le seul peintre de mon parcours
D’être l’ultime auteur de mon histoire.

Vikram Seth is my favourite writer. I was lucky enough to meet him, and speak with him in September 2000. He is the author of the moving A Suitable Boy and of several poetry collections. You can read a short biography by clicking here. His upcoming novel is Two Lives, "— a memoir built around his great uncle Shanti who married a German Jewish girl, Henny, he befriended while staying with her family in Berlin in the thirties". It should be published in 2005. I can't wait.

Across the miles by Vikram Seth

Across these miles I wish you well.
May nothing haunt your heart but sleep.
May you not sense what I don't tell.
May you not dream, or doubt, or weep.
May what my pen this peaceless day
Writes on this page not reach your view
Till its deferred print lets you say
It speaks to someone else than you.

You can listen to the lovely music by A.R. Rahman from the film Dil Se (From the Heart).

Bollywood's long song-and-dance to now

Indian cinema is going through somewhat of several revolutions. One of those is that scenes that used to be seen in porn theatres are now becoming part of mainstream. But that's not exactly an achievement...

One form of progress is films like Dil Vil Pyar Vyar and Dil Chahta Hai: plots that are less linear, but deeper in character development while still catering to the 'commercial' crowd.

A lot of people stereotype Hindi cinema as people running around trees. I mean, of course! Come on, what would Hindi films be without them? There's room for that. But there's more to the industry or to the art. Here's my take on it.

The 50s and 60s saw some of the best cinema: black and white studies of the common man (at that time Awaara or 420), the naïveness of love through graceful, subtle looks and sobre sarees and dhotis or suits. Raj Kapoor being one of those I watched, his films had messages about human nature, corruption, temptation, some of the less cheery Indian realities. And there was the one and only Satyajit Ray.

The 70s witnessed Raj Kapoor at films again, but directing other actors, and going for choli-less chokris in white sarees, the precursors to today's vixens! Colour everywhere, and candy-flavoured stories. The full-blown tree-scampering, the puffed-up hair and some very quirky music. Some of R.D. Burman's best music, and rarer but successful incursions into deep stories. The 70s also gave us Sholay, a must-see of Indian cinema, along with scores of films featuring the lanky, handsome Amitabh Bachchan. Films where the hero was from the working class, fighting for his people against the oppressor: full-swing Socialism. The fights were absurd, the heroines mere decoration and the hero's mother tearsome. The Feminists hated it, the Leftists loved it. Adorno would have at least liked it more than what followed.

The 80s, decade of disco, crimped hair and just plain dismay, except for the music. Saree-clad heroines finding more creative ways of running around trees, minus the social issues. The hair was bad, the clothes were bad, the make-up quite quite horrible, the hero's mother blind and tearsome, the mother-in-law wicked. The music sometimes came above the lot, and some of the best songs we hum today come from then. But the least said, the better.

The 90s offered a mixed lot. The first half probably still reeked quite strongly of the nasty 80s things, but more of the American 80s (which is no great relief). And the middle and end of the decade gave us Chandni, Lamhe, films which, if not political, were at least less caricatural. The hero's mother could now smile, she could even be cool.

Leaping to today, the past four years have moved the industry incredibly fast. The quality of film-making is going up, in part due to swelling budgets, and in part due to talent and competition. But gone are the days of out and out socialist recriminations. If the manual or blue-collar worker used to go and watch his hero fight his cause and come out of it still facing his real world, now he goes to watch the hero fight another class' cause, then comes out facing his real world: he sees Devdas in opera-like proportions, and Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham where people own private helicopters. The mothers rival with their heroine-daughters in looks and style and even dance!

Of course India's (upper) middle class has grown, so much so apparently that the whole Yash Chopra school of film-making now condemns heros to have at least five Ferraris and heroines to only wear designer creations. The gawkiness has gone out of most films, but so has the sense. I love a corny Hindi film as much as the next person. But there will be no intelligent meaning to be extracted. Just put your brains on "luxury pause" for three hours. There are the Mira Nairs, Mani Ratnams, Asutosh Gowarikers and Deepa Mehtas of this world, and these are whiffs of fresh air. Add to that the endless rhythms of Indian music which have a way of weaving their charm. Yes, it makes total sense to me that actors and actresses should suddenly break into a song in the middle of nowhere. Especially if it was shot in Mauritius.

I'm looking forward to what Bollywood will come up with next: Yuva, Lakshya, Bride and Prejudice (the latter being a British-Indian production, perhaps the start to BRollywood, rain and all?) One thing's clear: my passion for Hindi films is as much a part of me as the dimple on my right cheek and my love for roti and curry!

Sun-dried tomato pasta sauce
Sun-dried tomatoes are, of course, one of God's greatest inventions. I discovered them in Cambridge, where I also first encountered pesto! Both ingredients have a tanginess that reminds me of half-ripe mangoes marinated in salt and dried in Mauritian sun. I suspect the best ones are the tomatoes dried under the Tuscan sun, but until I get there, the ones found marinated in olive oil in supermarkets do very well.

After I had a gorgeous, very simple pasta sauce last week at Cafe Mezzogiorno on Rue Notre-Dame, Old Montreal, I had one obsession: make that sauce in my kitchen. So, okay, I made it in someone else's kitchen, but it came out right! So here's how it was made:

2 fresh tomatoes, diced
10 sun-dried tomatoes, chopped
1 small can of concentrated tomato paste with Italian herbs
5 garlic cloves, chopped (I went overboard with the garlic so you can put 3. I remove the little germ inside to reduce the smell.)
1 teaspoon basil
1/2 teaspoon rosemary
Sea salt
Freshly ground pepper

Stir-fry the garlic in 2 tablespoons of olive oil over low heat. Don't let it burn.
Add the diced tomatoes to the garlic, stirring until it starts melting.
Add the tomato paste, basil and rosemary and mix well.
Stir in the pieces of sun-dried tomatoes, and add salt and pepper to taste.
Simmer for another 15 minutes or so, and you have it!

We ate it with spaghetti. A touch of Parmesan will add just enough Italianness :)

As you can see, I don't usually write recipes, so some of those terms might lack precision, but the taste is yummy. The best thing would be for you to add your personal touch to it and make it all yours!

Cut!

In "Kill Bill Vol. 1", when Tarantino yelled 'CUT' on the sets, he really meant CUT!

APPRIVOISER
-Non, dit le petit prince. Je cherche des amis. Qu'est-ce que signifie "apprivoiser"?
-C'est une chose trop oubliée, dit le renard. Ca signifie "Créer des liens..."
-Créer des liens?
-Bien sûr, dit le renard. Tu n'es encore pour moi qu'un petit garçon tout semblable à cent mille petits garçons. Et je n'ai pas besoin de toi. Et tu n'a pas besoin de moi non plus. Je ne suis pour toi qu'un renard semblable à cent mille renards. Mais, si tu m'apprivoises, nous aurons besoin l'un de l'autre. Tu seras pour moi unique au monde. Je serai pour toi unique au monde...

-Je commence à comprendre, dit le petit prince. Il y a une fleur... je crois qu'elle m'a apprivoisé...

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Le Petit Prince, Chapitre XX!

CYRANO
Ah ! non ! c'est un peu court, jeune homme !
On pouvait dire... Oh! Dieu!... bien des choses en somme.
En variant le ton,-par exemple, tenez:
Agressif: " Moi, Monsieur, si j'avais un tel nez,
Il faudrait sur-le-champ que je me l'amputasse ! "
Amical: " Mais il doit tremper dans votre tasse !
Pour boire, faites-vous fabriquer un hanap! "
Descriptif: " C'est un roc ! . .. c'est un pic ! . . . c'est un cap !
Que dis-je, c'est un cap ?. .. C'est une péninsule ! "
Curieux: " De quoi sert cette oblongue capsule ?
D'écritoire, Monsieur, ou de boîte à ciseaux ? "
Gracieux: " Aimez-vous à ce point les oiseaux
Que paternellement vous vous préoccupâtes
De tendre ce perchoir à leurs petites pattes ? "
Truculent: " Ça, Monsieur, lorsque vous pétunez,
La vapeur du tabac vous sort-elle du nez
Sans qu'un voisin ne crie au feu de cheminée ? "
Prévenant: " Gardez-vous, votre tête entraînée
Par ce poids, de tomber en avant sur le sol ! "
Tendre: " Faites-lui faire un petit parasol
De peur que sa couleur au soleil ne se fane ! "
Pédant: " L'animal seul, Monsieur, qu'Aristophane
Appelle Hippocampelephantocamelos
Dût avoir sous le front tant de chair sur tant d'os ! "
Cavalier: " Quoi, l'ami, ce croc est à la mode ?
Pour pendre son chapeau, c'est vraiment très commode! " ,
Emphatique: " Aucun vent ne peut, nez magistral,
T'enrhumer tout entier, excepté le mistral ! "
Dramatique: " C'est la Mer Rouge quand il saigne ! "
Admiratif: " Pour un parfumeur, quelle enseigne ! "
Lyrique: " Est-ce une conque, êtes-vous un triton ? "
Naïf: " Ce monument, quand le visite-t-on ? "
Respectueux: " Souffrez, Monsieur, qu'on vous salue,
C'est là ce qui s'appelle avoir pignon sur rue! "
Campagnard: " He, ardé ! C'est-y un nez ? Nanain !
C'est queuqu'navet géant ou ben queuqu'melon nain ! "
Militaire: " Pointez contre cavalerie ! "
Pratique: " Voulez-vous le mettre en loterie ?
Assurément, Monsieur, ce sera le gros lot! "
Enfin, parodiant Pyrame en un sanglot:
" Le voilà donc ce nez qui des traits de son maître
A détruit l'harmonie! Il en rougit, le traître! "
- Voilà ce qu'à peu près, mon cher, vous m'auriez dit
Si vous aviez un peu de lettres et d'esprit:
Mais d'esprit, ô le plus lamentable des êtres,
Vous n'en eûtes jamais un atome, et de lettres
Vous n'avez que les trois qui forment le mot: sot!
Eussiez-vous eu, d'ailleurs, l'invention qu'il faut
Pour pouvoir là, devant ces nobles galeries,
Me servir toutes ces folles plaisanteries,
Que vous n'en eussiez pas articulé le quart
De la moitié du commencement d'une, car
Je me les sers moi-même, avec assez de verve
Mais je ne permets pas qu'un autre me les serve.

Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac, Acte I, scène IV

Garou, Quebec's heartthrob deep voice, the male Celine Dion, has just released his album called 'Reviens'. In Quebec offices, most staplers, yes, that thing you staple paper with, are taped with a sticker and it's written on it: "Il s'appelle Reviens". It's one of those universal workplace codes (for Quebecers), to make sure your treasured stapler does not get 'stolen' (although, if everyone does it to theirs, how do they recognise which one is lying on their neighbour's table?).

So I think Garou should have called his album "L'agrafeuse", a far more intriguing title.