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.

THE BRICK

A young and successful executive was traveling down a neighborhood street, going a bit too fast in his new Jaguar. He was watching for kids darting out from between parked cars and slowed down when he thought he saw something. As his car passed, no children appeared. Instead, a brick smashed into the Jag's side door! He slammed on the brakes and backed the Jag back to the spot where the brick had been thrown.

The angry driver then jumped out of the car, grabbed the nearest kid and pushed him up against a parked car shouting, "What was that all about and who are you? Just what the heck are you doing? That's a new car and that brick you threw is going to cost a lot of money. Why did you do it?"

The young boy was apologetic. "Please, mister...please, I'm sorry but I didn't know what else to do," He pleaded. "I threw the brick because no one else would stop..." With tears dripping down his face and off his chin, the youth pointed to a spot just around a parked car. "It's my brother," he said. "He rolled off the curb and fell out of his wheelchair and I can't lift him up."

Now sobbing, the boy asked the stunned executive, "Would you please help me get him back into his wheelchair? He's hurt and he's too heavy for me."

Moved beyond words, the driver tried to swallow the rapidly swelling lump in his throat. He hurriedly lifted the handicapped boy back into the wheelchair, then took out a linen handkerchief and dabbed at the fresh scrapes and cuts. A quick look told him everything was going to be okay.

"Thank you and may God bless you," the grateful child told the stranger.

Too shook up for words, the man simply watched the boy push his wheelchair-bound brother down the sidewalk toward their home. It was a long, slow walk back to the Jaguar. The damage was very noticeable, but the driver never bothered to repair the dented side door. He kept the dent there to remind him of this message

"Don't go through life so fast that someone has to throw a brick at you to get your attention!"

God whispers in our souls and speaks to our hearts. Sometimes when we don't have time to listen, He has to throw a brick at us. It's our choice to listen or not.

Thought for the Day:
If God had a refrigerator, your picture would be on it.
If He had a wallet, your photo would be in it.
He sends you flowers every spring.
He sends you a sunrise every morning.
Face it, friend - He is crazy about you!
God didn't promise days without pain, laughter without sorrow, sun without rain, but He did promise strength for the day, comfort for the tears, and light for the way.

Read this line very slowly and let it sink in...
If God brings you to it, He will bring you through it.

Well, in Creole, we say 'asterla'. And it actually comes from the old French 'à c't'heure là', which is used everyday in Québec. This suddenly hit me in the middle of a work meeting with a guy who had a very strong Quebecer accent.
And the Hindi word 'suljhana' is curiously close to its meaning in French: 'soulager'. Hmm...

A haiku by me!

Les nuages blancs de lumière
Sur le fleuve, la glace fond en rivière

From cbc.ca: Plum political insults in Canada
Political insults have a fine old tradition, perhaps reaching their height with Benjamin Disraeli's many zingers directed at rival William Gladstone in 19th-century Britain. Asked to differentiate between the words "misfortune" and "calamity," Disraeli quickly shot back: "If Gladstone fell into the Thames, that would be a misfortune. If someone pulled him out, that would be a calamity."
...
University of Prince Edward Island political scientist Peter McKenna on the Conservative party's chances in Atlantic Canada under Stephen Harper: "Somewhere between slim and none, and slim just left town."
...
Stephen Harper, refusing a dare to debate NDP Leader Jack Layton over Harper's comment that a minority government that included the NDP would damage Canada as much as one including the separatist Bloc Québécois: "I am here to debate the prime minister. That's what the leader of the Opposition does. He doesn't debate the also-rans."

VOLONTÉ n.f. (lat. voluntas).
1. Faculté de se déterminer à certains actes et de les accomplir.
2. Énergie, fermeté avec laquelle on exerce cette faculté.

Le Petit Larousse illustré, 1997

Well, this will be about those things I can share, and want to. This beautiful ode by Pablo Neruda, for example.


Ode To a Lemon
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium

Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.

Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.

So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.