After jetsetting around Rome, Paris, Brittany, Capri and Sorrento in June last year, it was time to return to Sydney, and face the fact that the only reason I can afford international travel at all is because I am a corporate Techie, and not because I sell millions of books. Let's not kid ourselves, now.
I swallowed that pill and returned to my day job, back to what became a challenging six months project with Fairfax Media. As a Business Analyst/Iteration Manager (a hybrid word meaning, someone-who-doesn't-have-a-life), I embarked on the re-development and re-launch of two major sites, representing Australia's well-known news brands: The Age and The Sydney Morning Herald.
Rather than overwhelm you with descriptions of my Agile world with its sprints, its JIRA tickets, its endless meetings and the often maddening but always exciting digital media pace, I will simply say that despite the unrelenting whirlwind of my day job, I managed to actually make progress with another world, the gastronomic world of my fourth novel - set lavishly in the chateaux of Vienna and France, in the patisseries and alleys of Paris from the Left to the Right bank.
Chantilly: A Tale of Carême is my fourth book. It is a delightful, sentimental and passionate journey, into the life of France's first celebrity chef, who began as a pâtissier but worked his way up as a master of French Haute Cuisine. More than a rags-to-riches fairy tale, which it is, it delves on overcoming one's personal demons, and on Antonin Carême's existence against a backdrop of political intrigue. It brings to life fascinating figures of the period, including the eccentric Grimod de la Reynière who was the first food critic, and a well-known Jewish banker who, while wanting acceptance from a Parisian social scene that had rejected him, managed to turn Carême into a celebrity.
Talleyrand: I love this guy
The book is also about an unlikely friendship. It explores Carême's surprising relationship with another great French man, the enigmatic Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, Napoleon's foreign minister. Navigating in two different worlds, preoccupied with vastly different objectives, these two men will cross paths and each will learn from the other. Talleyrand has continued to perplex all historians who study him, and it is no surprise that research into his personality and psychology has taken most of my time. I am loving it.
And of course, it wouldn't be a book about a chef without it offering a glimpse into the culinary delights of the time, or highlighting the gastronomic inventions that swept early nineteenth century Europe. So I am having a ball, not only researching by reading Carême's own published works, but also pleasing my senses by indulging in cake whenever I can.
I made this mango and strawberry Victorian Sponge and ate it all.
Any writer who pens a book like Julien's Terror has to battle their own demons. So even while flirting with pâtisseries and dancing the waltz in Vienna, I was lured, deliciously into another world - the darker world of MALEFICA. It seemed I could not step into the light without the darkness reaching out to engulf me.
So I went. Into the cold.
Valais landscape
Winter in Cologne. The majestic peaks of the Valais.
And I went further, into the lunar dark...
Into the mystical Nuragic caves of Sardinia.
Ah yes, I am there. It's back to the 15th century.
Split between so many worlds I often feel that I might lose my mind. It's all there, at the same time, vying for space in my imagination. I look present but I am faraway, gripped by moving images, listening to the voices.
MALEFICA is my fifth novel. It is the fantastic sequel to The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice and it is part of a historical mystery trilogy that sees Antonio da Parma and the witch Elena as chief protagonists. My mind screams with excitement. There is still much research to be done but the concept has been alive in my imagination for over a year and the treatment is slowly taking shape.
You might think I stopped at two books. That the world of digital media strangled so many of my creative thoughts that I'd have no room for another story. Nope, that isn't so. I have also begun research on the third book in the trilogy. It will be called THE MASTER OF COLOGNE and will be set in France and Germany.
What has become clearer to me is that I need to be closer to Europe for my research. And so, because you only live once, I am planning to fly out of Australia and spend a sabbatical year (at least) in France where I would do nothing else but paint, write and travel to the places that have inspired my books. How does 2020 sound? In the meantime, it is another excuse to work hard and keep pumping out those JIRA tickets! Because books will simply not pay the bills. That's not what they are for.
So there it is, a glimpse into a writer's life. A psychotic universe of here and there, of doing something despite the fact it does not pay. Because you have to, right?
Batman first, and now the upcoming Suicide Squad. As consumers of books and cinema, we love our Joker. Love his deviancy, his devilish mind. A grand villain shines in a graphic novel. He makes a film.
It is a fact - and I will let you discover that on your own - that when the Joker was imagined, he was based, at least physically, on this guy here. This guy, his name is Gwynplaine and he existed long before in Victor Hugo's wonderful novel, L'Homme Qui Rit - the man who laughs.
The plot of L'Homme Qui Rit is one of survival, love and identity. Gwynplaine's character is a far-cry from the Joker he has become. Yes, they both have that eternal mouth slit, revealing a somewhat grotesque smile, but their natures are entirely opposites. Sure, they are both outcasts of society, they probably both see clearly the world's injustices, but popular culture has obscured their differences, at least for those who have not read Victor Hugo.
The Joker
Courtesy DC Wikia
It is unfortunate. Unfortunate that a character who possessed not a shred of criminal behavior is known only today through his psychopathic offspring. Because Gwynplaine was not unlike Victor Hugo's Jean Valjean in Les Miserables - Jean Valjean who time and time again redeems himself, demonstrating endless humanity and selflessness. In the same manner, Gwynplaine who initially errs in the plot of L'Homme Qui Rit, and allows himself to be flattered by fate reversals, becomes, at the end of the novel, utterly self-sacrificing, placing humankind, love and friendship above everything.
For me this is never more true as when Gwynplaine speaks up in the House of Lords. He is himself a Lord, has been from birth, until he was abducted as a child, defaced by comprachicos (child buyers), and abandoned to die. He survived. He lived for years with a hermit named Ursus and his dog, both entertaining the masses in 17th century England. The crowds, poor and rich, come in droves to see that permanent smile upon his face. To them he is a clown and were he to weep inside, they still would believe he is laughing.
Gwynplaine and Dea entertain the crowds
Found again through Queen Anne's intervention, by some miracle of fate, Gwynplaine experiences a reversal of fortune. Once again, he is Lord. He is wealthy. But Gwynplaine has enough conscience to speak his mind and he attempts to enact change. Gwynplaine, who knows and understands the sufferings of the world, having endured for years, addresses the House of Lords and explains what he has seen.
Gwynplaine addresses the Chamber of the Lords, 19th century illustration
This is Victor Hugo speaking, make no mistake. Victor Hugo, after all, is more than any author, the friend of the poors. And so for me, it was one of the gem passages in L'Homme Qui Rit.
And addressing himself haughtily to Gwynplaine: - Who are you? Where do you come from? Gwynplaine replied: - From the abyss. Who am I? I am misery. Mylords, I wish to speak with you. There was a shudder, and a silence. Gwynplaine continued. - Mylords, you are above. It is well. One must believe that God has his reasons for this. You have the power, the opulence, the joy, the sun sits immobile upon your zenith, the authority without boundaries, the enjoyment free of sharing, the immense oversight of others. So be it. But there is something that exists beneath you. And above you perhaps. Mylords, I come to bring you the news. Humankind exists. I am one who comes from the depths. Mylords, you are great and wealthy. It is perilous. You take advantage of the night. But be on your guard, there is a great power, an aurora. The dawn can not be vanquished. She will come. She comes. She has in her, the spring of the irresistible day. And who would prevent this sling from tossing the sun into the sky? The sun, it gives the right. You, you embody privilege. Be afraid. The true master of the house will strike at the door. What is the father of privilege? Fate. And who is her son? Abuse. Neither fate nor abuse are solid. They have, one and the other, an adverse tomorrow. I come to warn you. I come to denounce your happiness. It is made of the unhappiness of others. You have everything, and this everything is composed of the nothing of others. Mylords, I am the desperate lawyer, and I plead a lost cause. This cause, God will win it again. Me, I am nothing but a voice. Humankind is a mouth of which I am the cry. You will hear me.
More than ever today, Gwynplaine and his cause are relevant. But his honest message has been buried.
The Joker, like Daesh, they are both extreme examples of dissatisfied outcasts, pariahs of society who, outraged by a corrupt universe, rebel through crime and bring nothing other than suffering and outrage. They hurt innocents and leave the infrastructures they wish to topple unchanged or more manipulative and powerful than ever. They reinforce schisms and intolerance.
They are figures we understand as evil because they are evil. And in fighting evil we forget the root and causes.
Gwynplaine, like Victor Hugo, understands this root, he only speaks his truth. He threatens nothing. He says:
I come to denounce your happiness. It is made of the unhappiness of others.
You have everything, and this everything is composed of the nothing of others.
Yet like the Lords who end up laughing at him, we laugh every day and every moment that this truth is encountered and ignored.
I wanted to give homage to Gwynplaine in this post because for me it was important. The Joker has one nature, Gwynplaine has quite another.
Whenever I have felt disrespected or not listened to, despite my abilities and experience, I always think back to the wise Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and his anecdote from my favorite little book, The Little Prince.
The narrator mentions that in 1909, some Turkish astronomer had once discovered an asteroid through his telescope. When he had tried to convince an International Astronomy Convention of the asteroid's existence, no one had believed him due to his Turkish costume.
Astronomer in a Turkish costume.
The Little Prince
Thankfully, a Turkish dictator later imposed European dress onto his people. The Turkish astronomer redid his presentation in 1920, dressed in an 'elegant' European costume and this time, everyone agreed with him.
This lightly humorous tale is not devoid of truth. Persuasion truly works this way. The social mechanisms at play underpin the whole gamut of human relations from the workplace to international diplomacy.
Appearance
To begin, there is the appearance of the speaker. We tend to be more persuaded by those whose appearance match the culturally accepted image of their role.
Here, let's play a game.
When you think of a female engineer, what image comes to mind?
Think about it for a moment...
Oh, by the way, here's a female engineer. She was so brilliant that modern WiFi and Bluetooth depend heavily on her research.
Hedy Lamarr
I know of a few highly attractive female engineers but I will respect their privacy and not post photos here.
Needless to say, I can't think of a common 'look' that embodies some generally accepted 'image' of a female engineer. But apparently there is one. I suspect that an audience may not take a female engineer seriously unless she 'looks' the part. Whatever that is!
In our previous example, and from the point of view of the International Astronomy Convention - which likely might have been dominated by a European audience - the average generally accepted 'look' for a credible astronomer would have been: someone-who-doesn't-look-like-Ali-Baba. Sad but true.
Which brings me to credibility...
Credibility
Numerous factors influence credibility. An audience is constantly looking for signs that they can trust the veracity of their speaker's words and they will use whatever they can to ascertain that fact... Often the very signs they employ as proof of credibility are flimsy and scientifically unreliable.
One of the generally accepted hallmarks of credibility is how confidently a person speaks, how well they speak. That would be the difference between an introverted aloof person and an extrovert with years of Sales experience. Guess who sounds better?
Our Turkish astronomer probably had a heavy accent.
But I digress. Interestingly, studies have demonstrated that confidence and ability with speaking does not correlate with better outcomes in task performance. In other words, good talkers and therefore, persuasive talkers, are not necessarily the best doers nor the most knowledgeable. I forgot which study that was but I remember smiling knowingly at it.
It goes without saying that credibility can be fabricated just as it can be destroyed. Don't believe me?
Credibility, these days, is the equivalent of buying 1 million likes on Facebook and appearing as though everyone in the planet wants to read your book or worship your art. Credibility is telling everyone what you did on a daily basis and ensuring they know you are indispensable, as opposed to working quietly and keeping much to yourself. Credibility is highlighting someone's faults, so that you appear more competent.
Seriously, credibility is a load of bull mainly because there are so many gullible people out there and I am one of them. Some people are amazing at appearing credible. I am not one of those.
Ingroup / Outgroup
We come now to a crucial factor in persuasion: does the speaker come from the same background as their audience. Studies indicate that audiences are more likely persuaded by a speaker who shares the same background, that is, the same education level/ethnic background/family situation/sports club/religion, you name it, as their own.
Our Turkish astronomer with his very Turkish costume would have really stood out at the 1909 International Convention...
His predominantly European audience would have seen him as belonging to an 'outgroup'. He would not have been one of theirs, and therefore, whatever he had to say on the highly academic (and presumably European!) topic of astronomy would have been taken lightly or discredited.
It actually depends on the topic of discussion as to whether belonging to an 'outgroup' makes you persuasive or not. If you came from a Middle Eastern background, wore traditional clothing and talked at length to a Western Human Rights group about your experience with gender descrimination in your home country, everyone would listen to you wide-eyed and gobble up everything you said (probably because they want to...See Attitudes and Prejudices later in this post). Likewise, if you published a book on your experience (whether fabricated or not), it would sell rather well.
Having said all that, based on those studies, I can't help but smile when I reflect on my ideal audience. In order to be perceived as highly persuasive or competent, my audience would need to be of mixed background, preferably with some Asian and European blood, they would need to have had a university education and to sound Australian. Because I look highly Asian, an Asian audience would also do the trick.
In fact, whenever I have felt disrespected, it usually arose from not being listened to (or being judged/dismissed etc..) by a White person.
I am certain they were not racist, in fact they were probaby unaware of their own prejudices and their tendency to listen to and favor speakers from their own group. Am I guilty of the same tendencies? Of course.
Then there is the tendency to give authority to those in your ingroup. I often laugh (sarcastically of course) when I realise that, in Australia, the workplace hierarchy practically mirrors European colonial power relations. Little has changed.
Attitudes and Prejudices
Audiences have baggage.
Audiences develop a perception of their speaker that actually has little to do with the speaker but more to do with their own past experiences and beliefs.
For example, some audiences have been raised to pay attention to what a woman is saying, only if she is above 35 and sounds strict like a teacher. Audiences have been raised to not interrupt a man but talk all over a woman when she speaks. Audiences have been taught that a deep voice is to be listened to but a high pitch voice is a sign of a weak argument. Audiences can interpret your silences as 'not knowing', even when in reality, you might have a solid understanding but keep much to yourself. I could go on...
Audiences just naturally assume. They assume from the moment you walk in the room. In 1909 they saw our Turkish man in his Turkish costume and they already knew they would dismiss him before he even uttered a word.
Let me repeat that (because repetition helps an argument too!): audiences are people with baggage. They will judge you, invent things about you, project their own weaknesses onto you, attribute your actions to intentions you never had, attribute your actions to your ethnic background or religion, in short, audiences are people. Everyone does it.
The Art of Persuading - And Why I Don't Care
When I reached 35, about five years ago, I developed a non-caring attitude about whether or not I was perceived as persuasive. My attitude was directly related to my understanding of the nature of audiences.
I learned that if I could not persuade an audience, it was simply because it was not meant to be.
These days, I try, I am myself and I deliver my message. If this does not work, then I move on. Because people will believe whatever the hell they want.
Let me repeat that. If a person thinks like you, is really moved by your message, by who you are, by what you stand for and shares a natural understanding with you, then you do not even have to try persuading them. The two of you will click.
If you are attempting to persuade, you are already lying.
I think the so-called art of persuasion is the realm of the conman. The conman is the political machine who can tap into the baggage of their audiences and connect with them, cleverly crafting their image/argument so that no baggage stands in their way.
The year is 1960. We are in Val-de-Grâce, a French military hospital in Paris. A heavily sedated young man has just undergone electroshock therapy for a nervous breakdown. He is a thin, shy, bespectacled and rather gentle looking lad - an alluring prey for his fellow conscripts. Hazing - in the form of verbal assault, bullying, physical injury or humiliation can be found in any army, and in extreme cases, it even leads to death. The young man did not die but barely 20 days into his forced military service, he had already checked himself into hospital, suffering from hazing stress.
And now here he is.
That young man's name is Yves Saint Laurent. He is 24 years old.
Just a few years ago, at the age of 21, he had been chosen by the defunct Christian Dior to be head designer for the House of Dior. At 22, his "trapeze" dress collection was credited to have saved the House from financial downfall and his name had spread internationally.
And now here he is, enclosed in a grim hospital, living a nightmare that he will later credit as being the origin of his lifelong mental disorders and his drug addiction.
What has gone wrong?
He remembers what launched the nightmare. To have it all and to have lost it, almost overnight. This is what he faces now. This is the torment he endures. The dream has ended. Because the vultures of the fashion world are rarely at rest, and also because one cannot let such a young man as Saint Laurent dare as he pleases, especially when one wishes to protect the Maison Dior's conservative fashion traditions. Mais ou allons nous?
This is why, alarmed by the avant-garde youth, Marcel Broussac, owner of the Maison Dior, has, almost overnight, toppled the conscripted Yves Saint Laurent from his reign as head Dior designer and 'fired' him.
And now, here he is. He's learned of his dismissal.
Shock-induced seizures the doctors say (or do not say), can make you forget.
Temporary amnesia... But will he forget this?
Yves Saint Laurent in his late teens with Salvador Dali
Photo by Alecio de Andrade
Now there's a drug for you. It's a wondrous souvenir. Of the only drug one ever needs...
As he lay in hospital, other images might have haunted him. Images of his past.
Like this one:
Was he afraid then? He was 17. He had designed a cocktail dress for a fashion drawing competition in Paris and won first prize. He had even beaten the young German student, Karl Lagerfield.
Everything - from his discovery by Michel de Brunhoff, editor-in-chief of the French edition of Vogue magazine, to his subsequent tutelage by Christian Dior whom he continually impressed - it all seemed like a dream come true.
And here he was.
The dream might have ended here. Saint Laurent had suffered a terrible fashion coup. Never mind the army hazing. When one is bullied at a young age at school for having homosexual tendencies, one has seen much already. But this is war. Not the Algerian War of Independence, mind you. It is war beween the House of Dior and Saint Laurent.
As Broussac would soon find out, one did not simply 'fire' the determined Yves Saint Laurent.
Especially when a man like entrepreneur Pierre Bergé had taken Saint Laurent under his wing and, one must add - to his bed.
The lucky star which once shone on the young designer when Christian Dior had chosen him to be his successor, still burned bright. After his eventual release from hospital, Saint Laurent successfully sued the House of Dior for breach of contract. Then, in 1961, blessed with funds from millionaire J. Mack Robinson, he and his romantic partner Pierre Bergé founded the fashion house that would revolutionize women's wardrobe. Yves Saint Laurent YSL was born. The rest is history.
Behind his slight almost ethereal appearance, was a man of will, passion and genius. He brought more than fashion to women, he gave them a celebration of style and pushed the limits of gendered clothing.
Born a Leo, on 1 August 1936, Yves Saint Laurent was certainly a creative force, a lover of the limelight with a colorful personality who worshiped the visual arts and worked extremely hard, often producing four collections a year. He was also competitive and within the fashion world, wanted to be what all Leos wish to be, The Best.
He was a huge influence to the likes of Tom Ford, Jean-Paul Gaultier and most designers cite him as a huge inspiration.
This year's Cesar ceremony on 20th February will see two biopics about Yves Saint Laurent compete for various awards. There is Bertrand Bonello's Saint Laurent which has garnered 10 nominations and Jalil Lespert's Yves Saint Laurent which has 7 nominations. The two leads, Gaspart Ulliel and Pierre Niney will vie for Best Actor. Australians will have a chance to catch Yves Saint Laurent in the Alliance Francaise French Film Festival in March.
Poster for Jalil Lespert's Yves Saint Laurent
starring Pierre Niney as the designer (I hope he wins!)
****
In 1999, YSL was taken over by Gucci, who asked Tom Ford to lead the prêt-a-porter collection while Yves Saint Laurent continued with haute couture designs.
In 2008, Yves Saint Laurent died of a brain tumor. He had long retired from the public eye.
Here are some facts about his amazing life and his enduring fashion legacy.
1960 - The leather jacket
Possibly empowered by the recognition of his own sexuality and wishing to liberate women (or project onto them), Yves Saint Laurent was the first designer to dress his runway models in a biker leather jacket.
1963 - The Cuissardes
Think Brigitte Bardot in leather thigh-high boots. Or even the later film, Barbarella, where Jane Fonda is squeezed in similarly tight cuissardes.
1963 saw Yves Saint Laurent's first invitation to women to cross gender roles. He is credited with bringing thigh-high leather boots to mainstream fashion. Actually he was not the first, but his famous crocodile-skin cuissardes are those that are most-remembered. Thigh-high boots - symbolic of pirates, conquistadores, adventurers and other men of action, carried a strong masculine image. To wear a pair of cuissardes is a woman's claim to instant virility. She becomes the agent of her own sexuality.
That's what Yves Saint Laurent was prepared to give women.
1966 - The Tuxedo
Highly influenced by noir films and the likes of Marlene Dietrich, Yves Saint Laurent gave women the tuxedo which blurred the lines between male and female yet again.
1967 - The Safari jacket and trouser suit
Yves Saint Laurent himself often donned the Safari jacket so it was only right that he be able to dress women in his image.
1968 - Transparent dress
A great favorite, where dark diaphanous fabric espouses lush black feathers and the sheerness reveals a woman in all her splendor. Yves Saint Laurent was a great fan of nudity.
He once said, "Over the years I have learned that what is important in a dress is the woman who is wearing it."
Drugs and Alcohol
Along with Dali and Andy Warhol, Yves Saint Laurent had no problems passing through the whimsical club entry requirements of Studio 54. He used cocaine frequently, suffered regular bouts of sadness and fits of temper and quite deserved the nickname of enfant terrible.
Much like a spoilt child, it was said that he was adept at manipulating others into forgiving his faults - so much so that nothing was ever refused him.
One should not refuse a Leo anything so it's only right...
Posing Nude
In 1971, Yves Saint Laurent, then in his glorious mid-thirties, posed nude and became the face of the first YSL Eau de Toilette for men, Pour Homme. Photography is by Jeanloup Sieff.
Other men's perfumes followed, notably Jazz and Kouros. There was a time in my teens when I could not go out with Lebanese male friends without inhaling Jazz. My dad wore Kouros.
I'm ashamed to say I wore Dior's Farenheit.
At least it was a gender crossing...
Ethnic Influences
Yves Saint Laurent is known as the first designer to introduce ethnic women into his runway.
Most of us would remember Iman, the beautiful Somali model who became known through him.
Yves Saint Laurent loved women of any nationality and of varying features. In his choice of models, he embraced departures from the standard beauty ideals of the time, preferring the exotic and often, the androgynous.
He dressed French celebrities Jeanne Moreau, Jean Marais, Isabelle Adjani and Arletty but it is his friendship with muse Catherine Deneuve for which he is most known.
The Orientalist
Like French painter and orientalist, Horace Vernet, who returned again and again to Egypt and Syria, wrote about his travels and felt comfortable in ethnic clothing, Yves Saint Laurent had a bond with Morrocco.
He liked nothing better than lounging in an oriental garb and was an avid collector of art.
Yves Saint Laurent's love for the Oriental probably had its roots in his childhood. He was born and raised in Oran, Algeria and only arrived in Paris at the age of 17.
He had two villas in Marrakech and a property in Normandy, France.
One can see his love for art and oriental decor in these photos from Villa Oasis in Marrakech.
You will not find the designer's tomb at the reputed Père Lachaise cemetery. When Yves Saint Laurent passed away, his body was cremated and his ashes were scattered in the Majorelle Garden of Marrakech, Morocco.
French Bulldog
Oh yes, Yves Saint Laurent had a French bulldog.
Instant bonus points.
In his later years, he spent much of his time with his beloved dog, Moujik.
And finally,
He Looked amazing in glasses!!!
The dream lives on. Thank you Yves Saint Laurent for the style and for being you.
The more I
age, the more my admiration is sparked by the quiet humility of those who have
lived and who keep quiet about having lived. There is grace and modesty in true
wisdom.
I love the
greyness of age, with its nebulous thoughts, its gentle ideas that roam without
ever seizing upon a truth. I love this refusal to reveal one’s experience, this
silent resolve to let others learn and grow of themselves.
I love age.
I love its contemplation, its determination to abstain from judgment, its
compassion for others and its ability to step aside gracefully and just
observe.
I think in the next years of my life, I shall be doing a lot of observing. Self-effacement is a
joyous thing.
The more I
age, the more astounded I am with the arrogance of youth, the self-sufficiency
of those who judge and who by way of remarkable shortcuts of the mind, arrive
to simplistic conclusions about all things.
Every day,
the same song repeats and tires me.
Who am I?
What am I thinking? Did you understand my motivations? I see by the judgment
you pronounce and what you say to me that you err in your understanding and
behold, this confidence you have, how it thrives, how your eloquent voice
resounds to all who may hear and you, you really think you know me, that you
know all. How do you do it?
I make no
attempt to shift your assessment. I leave you with that understanding, the
one you made, in your haste to judge, I leave you to maintain your erroneous
belief because I know that it is the only thing you are capable of ever grasping.
I do that to my detriment, even though it wounds my honor, but I live content in the
belief that I will never have to explain myself to those who truly see me
rather than project onto me.
Never mind all that. Be safe with your judgment and be content knowing that your judgment serves you. After all, it was designed to serve you and uphold all that you
are. Your judgments are reflections of your soul, and the faster, the more
nimble your mind is at forming them, the more ingrained your attitudes, the
more unbending your spirit. You live for your judgment because through it, you
assert your ephemeral self in the hope it will live forever.
But I love,
love the ephemeral. I love the way it floats aimlessly, I love its caress and
the thin veil that exists between it and nothingness. I am not afraid of
nothingness, the abyss does not threaten my ego. I care little about having an
opinion; I can settle with just feeling your soul.
Because I
can feel your soul, did you know that?
I have eyes
where the mind does not go. Your motions
are just memories to me.
All of
this, it will mean nothing to you. How well you ground yourself to the concrete,
I wish I could know it all, like you do. How do you do it?
As for me,
vague I remain. And in this vagueness, there exists the universe, and within it,
you and I, we are consumed and disappear.
As writers - artists, often we are let loose; we become searchers; we seek, swept on an endless trail of letters, ideas, music and images.
We hunger for more, enraptured by our quest; we seem to find ourselves, again and again, within the subtle interconnections between what we have loved, what we love, and what we grow to love.
The memory of what we have loved is re-ignited with every new discovery that we make, and there is enlightenment in this reunion with our nature.
But later we find, that our nature is not our own. Because by some unexplained happenstance, we flit back, we return, time and time again, to those who have inspired us, and there, through some subconscious force, we are awakened by them. By their side, we come to create.
In this pattern, the face of our obsessions slowly surfaces, and with it, the ties that bind us to those who have made us, come to be revealed. It becomes evident that in this web, this collective consciousness, we have a place; snug, we fit. And those we look up to, are close, much closer than we could ever imagine.
Do you often experience this? As a writer? When all the stories, ideas, artwork, cinema or music that you have loved, and whose essence have shaped you, are somehow woven by the same thread. That everything you admire or that fascinates you, is related; magically. That the more you look into these, the more you see that those obsessions are tightly bound. That they have, not just one, not two, but numerous links between them, and that when all those inspirations are laid out, that you fit, in there, at the very center.
When you discover this center, you are surprised to discover that it is not yours alone. Your origin, those individuals whose art has imbued your psyche - you commune with them. They are there, by your side.
As a child, how I loved Jacques Prévert's and Paul Grimault's Le Roi et L'Oiseau. This 1980 French animation sets Hans Christian Andersen's The Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep within a dystopian kingdom, ruled by a narcissistic despot.
It is the story of two fated lovers, who must try to save their relationship from the tyranny of a king enamored of the shepherdess. The surreal intrigue is compounded by the fact that it is the king's portrait who, having emerged from his own canvas and sent the real king to the dungeons, sets off a ruthless chase for the Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep.
With the help of my favorite character, L'Oiseau - a gregarious and anti-authoritarian mockingbird who protects them at every turn - the couple flee through the canal city, a world reminiscent of a sci-fi Venice, where they are chased by a black-clad, sbirri-like secret police.
This animation, which borders between lyricism and social satire, was the joy of my childhood. It is deep, with levels that I am still discovering. Its imagery often evokes Salvador Dali landscapes, where unbearable emptiness stretches across intricate details of spires, bell towers, endless steps and mechanical contraptions, stirring with it, paranoia and anxiety. To think that Salvador Dali has been my favorite artist since my mid teens.
There is much to like about this surrealistic masterpiece of French cinema. As an aside, my favorite scene takes place in a cell where the Chimney Sweep has been imprisoned by the King's men, and is about to be devoured by a pack of lions. Seeing this, the mockingbird urges his fellow cell mate, a blind musician, born in an underground subculture and who has never seen the sun, to play a happy tune with his accordion so as to distract the lions. And so the music plays on.
But the mockingbird, a master storyteller, and fluent in several languages (including "Lion"!) has a plan. As part of the 'entertainment', and still accompanied by the happy ballad of the blind accordion player, the mockingbird begins to recount the poor Chimney Sweep's tragic love story to the hungry felines. Together with sound effects, and heightened pathos, the bird tailors the story to match the lions' interests, until the beasts' indignation towards the King reaches a climax. They force open the cage and free all the prisoners, before marching towards the tyrant.
That's the Bird. Protector and Catalyst...
But the real jewel of Le Roi et L'Oiseau, and the soul of this post, is the astounding soundtrack, by Polish composer, Wojciech Kilar. His wonderful music is in my bones. It is part of me, just as Le Roi et L'Oiseau has seeped deep into my psyche.
Wojciech Kilar returns again, later in my life, as the composer for Francis Ford Coppola's Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992) and later, he brings his dark arts to Roman Polanski's The Ninth Gate (2000).
The Ninth Gate, a film based on the novel adaption of The Club Dumas, has been a vivid inspiration for my upcoming novel, The Mascherari. I remember watching the film and feeling irrevocably drawn to it, believing that I had always known it. It's a strange feeling that one. Then again, perhaps it is Kilar's music which holds the key to my memory.
Reflecting on The Mascherari, if I were to look into the face of Venice, in the manner I have drawn it, with The Council of Ten's shadow looming over my protagonist, with its secret police- its sbirri, at every turn, I come face to face with the menace I remember in Le Roi et L'Oiseau. In my creation, I return to what I have known, and through this, I remember that Wojciech Kilar's haunting notes are never far.
Thank you Mr Kilar, for the music and for the inspiration.
Wojciech Kilar died in 29 December 2013. But his music lives on.
Do you often meet people who defy categorization? Those whose interests and talents are so varied that they baffle the mind? Most humans are so fond of classifying one another that they often find it strange, and even stupefying, when one of them seems to excel at a multitude of disciplines.
In some circles, we jokingly label these people, freaks. A more sober qualification might be, 'polymath'. If they reach world renown and professional recognition, we label them geniuses.
You may be familiar with What's My Line, in which contestants are blind folded and have to arrive at the identity of a guest after this one answers a series of questions about their abilities and achievements. In one particular episode, the contestants were confronted with a most puzzling personality to identify.
For each discipline in which the personality was asked if they had achieved, the response was affirmative. The contestants grew increasingly more confused given their inability to easily associate the guest with a unique dimension of excellence.
"Is there anything this man has not done?" cried one of them, in gentle exasperation.
The personality of course, is Salvador Dali.
Is Dali the only personality with such multi-faceted talents? I do not believe so. I think the majority of individuals are capable of tremendous range, if and only if, they do not limit themselves cognitively into believing that they have found their niche. Self-categorization, or rather, the lack of, is in fact, what I believe is a defining factor of geniuses.
[Self-promotion alert] While writing my novel, The Mascherari, I have been on a glorious trip to 15th century Venice. I want to bring attention to one of the geniuses I met there. Given the gender biases of the time, the terminology for describing these 'geniuses' revolves around men. And as the title of this post indicates, these multi-disciplinary freaks were then called, Renaissance Men.
There is something elegant and uplifting about being called a Renaissance Man, especially when one happens to be extremely handsome to boot. Leone Battista Alberti was one handsome man, as you can see from this statue of him located in Florence.
He was born Battista Alberti. Later, he changed his name to "Leone". I ought to mention his birth date, 14 February 1404. Advocates of astrology will have probably noticed that Alberti was an Aquarian.
Hold that thought.
Fans of Leonardo da Vinci will also note that Alberti was several years da Vinci's senior. In fact, he is the bona fide early Renaissance Man, and was equaled to none, except da Vinci.
I believe that geniuses have a cognitive advantage. I do not mean that exclusively in the neurological sense. Their primary advantage is that they have an inherent belief that they can do anything if they set their minds to it. As it turns out, Alberti is credited with the following empowering quote,
"A man can do all things if he but wills them."
So why is this guy so special anyway?
Alberti was known as the prototype of a 'universal man'. His breadth of knowledge is truly remarkable. He was at ease in the fields of philosophy, mathematics, science, classical learning, and the arts. He wrote pamphlets or treatises on ethics, love, religion, sociology, law, mathematics, and different branches of the natural sciences. He also wrote verses which demonstrated his aptitude for the Classics. In the arts, he was versed in painting, sculpture, and architecture.
Painting
Alberti could paint and was a good artist however none of his paintings unfortunately survive. Classical and Law education
Alberti, or should I say, Dr Alberti, was educated at the University of Bologna, where at the age of 24, he acquired a Doctorate in Canon law. Writing
It is said that writings poured out of Alberti, in both Latin and the Vernacular languages of Italy. Alberti scripted and wrote many love poems, fables, Latin comedy and dialogues. He wrote treatises on sculpture, agriculture, law and a host of technical subjects.
He once wrote a ten-book treatise on the technical nature of how a city should be structured (Brisbane, take note). He detailed how water should be properly channeled, how work sites should be constructed, the types of materials to be used and the different kinds of buildings that should be positioned in suitable and ideal locations.
Sounds boring? Wait, there's more.
In 1435, Alberti wrote what is known as the first book on perspective. His book, De Pictura (On Painting), sets out rules for drawing a three-dimensional picture on a two-dimensional surface. Basing himself on the principles of perspective that had been demonstrated by Filippo Brunelleschi, Leon Battista Alberti produced a book that would later guide dozens of Renaissance artists in the creation of more realistic, perspectival artwork. Music
Alberti composed music and was a reputed organist. Astronomy, Cartography and Geography
Alberti produced a treatise on geography that laid out the rules for surveying and mapping a land area. The instruments and methods he described pre-dated later geographical depictions of the 15th and 16th centuries which are noted for their advances in accuracy. Architecture
Despite having had no formal architectural education, Leon Battista Alberti was known as the Father of Modern Architecture. He was the principal initiator of Renaissance art theory.
Among his work, he completed the Pitti Palace, the Temple of Malatesta at Rimini and the Church of Sant’ Andrea. Before its later renovation, Alberti was commissioned to design the first Trevi Fountain in Rome.
Since I am particularly clueless in Music and Architecture, none of this excites me as much as what follows.
Cryptology and Mathematics
Remember - I mentioned that Alberti was an Aquarian, and Aquarians are traditionally known for their cutting-edge, technical minds. Given Alberti's impressive portfolio in various technical fields, it should be readily evident that, for once, astrology seems uncannily spot on in describing its subject.
But it is in the field of cryptology that Alberti truly shines as an Aquarian specimen. Here, we find the summit of his technical mastery and visionary mind. In our modern information technology age, we take for granted that technology can obfuscate our messages and encrypt our passwords, without paying so much attention to it. Consider, then, that long before the advent of computers, Alberti developed a type of cipher to which most of today’s systems of cryptography belong, and which is known as polyalphabetic substitution. It was called the Alberti cipher.
It turns out that Alberti is known today as the Father of Western Cryptology.
Brains are sexy. But men with secrets, even more so!
Secrets of the Vatican
Alberti had, since his twenties, been appointed to an ecclesiastic post and worked many years for the Vatican. One of his friends was pontifical secretary, Leonardo Dato. It has long been believed that it was Dato who spurred Alberti’s interest in cryptology. At the time, both the Vatican and the Venice Republic were dabblers in secret communication inasmuch as they also engaged in intercepting and deciphering foreign messages. Decipherers were employed both in the Vatican and in the Venice Republic - two cities which incidentally hold impressive archives (the Vatican has the largest archive in the Western world and Venice is not far behind.)
According to cryptology historian, David Kahn, Alberti was strolling in the Vatican gardens with Dato (what on earth were they doing), when this one asked him, “You’ve always been interested in these secrets of nature. What do you think of these decipherers? Have you tried your hand at it as much as you know how to?”
Alberti smiled. Alberti already knew that Dato’s duties included ciphers, yet he replied as though he ignored it, “You’re the head of the papal secretariat. Could it be that you had to use these things a few times in matters of great importance to His Holiness?”
“That’s why I brought it up,” replied Dato. “And because of the post I have, I want to be able to do it myself without having to use outside interpreters. For when they bring me letters in ciphers interpreted by spies, it’s no joking matter. So please – if you’ve thought up any new ideas having to do with this business, tell me about them.”
And this exchange is supposedly what enticed Alberti to deliver a cipher treatise around the age of 63. Think of it as an off-the-shelf cipher tool complete with a set of revolving discs which Signore Dato could play with to his heart's content.
New - Alberti Gadget
Ta da! Just like that, out of the blue. Unless...
Genius in the Making
What struck me about Alberti’s conversation with Dato, is that our Renaissance man already knew of Dato’s ciphering activities long before Dato admitted to them. To me, this awareness hints to Alberti’s inherent interest in matters of ciphering (just hanging around the Vatican would do that to you, I reckon). Alberti’s attraction to solving problems, and to mathematics in general, arose long before he ever knew Dato, back when he was a twenty year old law student. In those days, he used to find mathematics relaxing and even mentioned that it was a welcome break from studying law, which he said, taxed his memory.
Merging these ideas together, and working on the premise that one’s great work later in life often sprouts from seeds sown when one is much younger, I speculated at length on Leone Battista Alberti’s early life.
The Lost Years
Leone Battista Alberti appears briefly in my novel, The Mascherari. I wanted to pay homage to a man who, while born a wealthy banker’s son (the Alberti bank was known in the 14th century as greatly contributing to Florence’s wealth), flatly refused to work in banking, and focused instead on contributing to humanity in various fields. I also wanted to speculate on a challenging period in his life - a period where he lost his father, lost his inheritance to his uncle, and suffered illness even while studying.
What did Alberti do to survive during this time? The Mascherari is set in 1422, at a time when Alberti was only 18 years old. That may seem young, but it did not stop me from advancing some bold theories about our 'universal' err, young man...
After all, with a genius of his caliber, anything may have been possible.
Aquarians and other geeks can delve into David Kahn's The Codebreakers: The Comprehensive History of Secret Communication.
It is 1943. Colonial French soldiers have penetrated a coastal village, deep in the South of Senegal. The soldiers are looking for a young woman; a woman who, for some time, is posing a great threat to the established French colonial order.
Some say she is a witch. Some say she can heal. What is certain, is that like Joan of Arc, she has acquired a strong following of anti-colonialists and is much revered. Like Joan of Arc, she has spoken against 'an invader', the French, and is leading a form of resistance against the colonialists. The young woman has such an influence, that following the death of their King, the Djola people of Casamance have made her their Queen.
By 1944, this woman, the Priestess Queen of the Kingdom of Kabrousse, who bravely chose to surrender to the French and spare her people from reprisals, will have endured ill-treatment in numerous jails from Sénégal to Gambia, and eventually Timbuktu in Mali. In less than a year, torture and miserable conditions will have broken her body. Deliberately untreated by her jailers, abandoned to illness, the young woman will die in prison at the age of 24.
Who was this strong spirit, and why were the French so afraid of her?
Why does her memory endure in Africa today such that even 2008 Senegalese coinage exists with her face upon it and the bold inscription, "La femme qui était plus qu'un homme" - the woman who was more than a man.
Who was she?
Her name was Aline Sitoé Diatta. She was born some time around 1920, in the coastal village of Kabrousse in Casamance, a region of rich and varied flora. Her people, the Djola, who today contribute only 4% of the population of Casamance and 8% of Senegal's population, were traditionally rice cultivators.
Casamance is a sun blessed land that represents one seventh the size of Senegal. Through it, runs Senegal's second largest river. It is a green paradise of mangroves, lagoons, beaches, rice fields and sacred lush forests. Prior to the French, the Portuguese saw in it a great potential. From the 16th century, the Portuguese founded a commerce of wax, ivory, skins and sadly, slavery. In the 17th century, they created a port which will later become the region's capital, Ziguinchor. Long before the famed island of Gorée which US President Obama will eventually visit in 2013, Ziguinchor will have served as a major transit port for the slave trade.
It is in Ziguinchor, that the young orphan, Aline, arrives at age eighteen, to seek an employment. There, she is hired by colonialists to work as docker on the port. Life at home is a life of poverty, but the rudimentary conditions and the exhausting work of loading and unloading ships also take their toll on the young woman. Aline travels to Senegal's capital, Dakar, and is soon employed as a domestic by a French family.
When Aline is around 21, her life takes an interesting turn. One day, she hears a voice. The voice tells her to return to her village at once, and to free her people from the colonialists.
The voice adds that if she fails to do so, misfortune will befall her.
Aline ignores the voice. Four days later, she awakes paralyzed, possibly from a stroke, albeit, one that is rare for one so young. Aline finally requests to be brought back to Casamance. No sooner is she returned to the village of Kabrousse, that the paralysis leaves her. According to some, she will retain a limp from her ordeal.
Aline begins to take her voices seriously. Soon, she is encouraging her people to reaffirm their roots. This, she says, is the essence of resisting the influence of colonialists.
What are these Djola roots?
The Djola, or Jola, had no caste system. No griots (storytellers/historial class), no slaves, no nobility class. In terms of world cultures, theirs was a rare egalitarian society. They were highly respectful to, and integrated with nature, and were adept at herbal medicine. They were also a musical culture, their instruments playing a significant part in their many rituals. These rituals favored a strong sense of collective consciousness which aligned their political system to that of true socialism.
Djola women from Kabrousse
Rice growers, the Djola had developed a sophisticated form of rice preservation. In fact, the cultivation of rice was strongly tied to their identity, in as much as it bound them to the earth and to their religion and social organization.
But alas, the flavor of the day, at least, at the time of the French colonialists, is the forced cultivation of cash crops - namely peanuts. It is this that Aline is quick to denounce. She calls upon her people to stop growing cash crops, to return to growing rice instead.
Coming from such an egalitarian society as the Djola, one who has long resisted either Christian or Islamic conversion, Aline's indignation at the injustices perpetrated by the French rulers continues to fuel her quest. She goes further. She encourages her people to disobey French orders: they ought not to pay taxes to the French; they ought not to join the French army.
All in all, Aline urges her people to refuse the influence of the colonizers, to instead return to their own Senegalese roots. She explains that her message is a divine order.
At first her people only partly pay heed to her calling. There is, at the time, a great drought in the region of Casamance and the Djola have understandably more pressing preoccupations.
She is summoned to prove that her voices are divine. "Why not make it rain?" they ask.
At this, Aline suggests incantations along with animal sacrifices.
Following these ceremonies, by some enchantment, and much to the surprise of everyone, water, at last, descends upon the rice fields.
And Aline is proclaimed a true divine servant.
The message spreads beyond the region and her name finds repute. There is more, they say. It is told that she heals, and that by merely touching her, the sick are soon restored to health.
Delegations from all over Senegal, no matter their ethnic group or religion, make pilgrimages to meet her.
They are touched and enlivened by her simple yet bold message: the return to tradition, the return to roots.
I, too, when I read of Aline, I became instantly touched. Whether she was the Joan of Arc they say she was, it matters not. There is in the Djola culture, and its kinship with nature, something that we can all learn from. It is something that, more than ever, should matter to us and that we are in danger of losing. There is, in the return to roots, and to Djola collective consciousness, something that we could be inspired by, if only to better nurture each other and learn to empathize again. And last, there is in Aline, a courage and conviction in the face of a tremendous opponent against whom she never had a chance, that serves as inspiration to all oppressed people.
By her renown and her great influence, it is no surprise that Aline's name reached the French. Here was a woman that could rally the Senegalese against them. Ironic, that at a time when France was itself faced with its own invader, Germany, it remained not only fueled by economic self-interest and a ruthless quest to maintain a hold on its world colonies, but also blind to the plight of those it had invaded.
For the French, it was clear. Aline had to be stopped. No, such a people with a history of independence as those of Casamance could not be silenced. She had to be eliminated, officially "for inciting rebellion and for refusing to submit to the established order."
And so she was.
I was saddened by Aline's treatment by the French. She was arrested on May 8, 1943. I read that colonial prisons did not necessarily cater to women in those days. In 1943, according to the National Archives of Senegal (ANS), the prison population of Senegal was 1,766 and rising. The number of females was sparse, rising to only 29 compared to 3626 male inmates in 1967. Research (Konaté, 2003) argues that 'the female inmate's triple status as woman, convict and African, accounted for the colonial state's indifference and neglect towards that category of prisoners'. Poor Aline. Even twelve years after it became independent, Senegal had no prisons for women. It was only in 1972, that the first women's prison, The Rufisque women prison, was opened.
Aline was perhaps an anomaly in French colonial prisons, but what she will forever be remembered for, is her defiance in the face of oppression, and her resolve to save her people's culture.
This page is an homage to her and her message.
References:
Archives Nationales du Sénégal. 3F/00133. (1942-44). Prison des cercles.
Direction de l'Administration Pénitentiaire (DAP). 1968. Enquête sur la criminalité au Sénégal année 1967. Dakar, Sénégal.
Konate, D. (2003). Ultimate exclusion: Imprisoned women in Sénégal. In F. Bernault (Ed). A history of prison and confinement in Africa (pp. 155 - 164). Porstmouth NH: Heinemann.
Aline Sitoé Diatta, reine rebelle et insoumise de Casamance.
Il y a maintenant plus d’un mois, j’ai perdu
un être cher. Un être qui était à la fois pour moi, une mère, une grand-mère,
une amie et une inspiration. Que de trésors cette personne a déversé dans ma
vie.
Quand je l’ai vu pour la dernière fois, elle était menue, se faisait
petite, silencieuse, et mangeait peu. D’apparence faible, elle dormait beaucoup. De ses cheveux, presque rien ne restait. Elle ne se déplaçait plus, errant entre sa chambre et sa
table au salon, où trônait son ordinateur – ce vénéré appareil qui l'a reliait à sa famille de toutes parts du monde, ses êtres chers de qui rien qu’un
petit mot, pouvait ensoleiller sa vie.
Je savais bien qu’elle n’avait plus beaucoup de
temps avec nous. Trois mois plus tard, telle une fragile orchidée, elle est partie. Ses cendres ont rejoint celles de mon grand-père une semaine après. Les jours qui se sont écoulés depuis ont étéétrangement vides.
Hier, comme par miracle, j’ai rêvé d’elle. Elle semblait plus jeune. Elle
marchait dans une ruelle ombragée, longeant des petites boutiques garnies de souvenirs
et de brillantes pacotilles; elle dégageait le calme, la sérénité, et de son visage rayonnait l’un des plus beaux sourires que j’ai jamais vu.
Je la revoyais telle qu’elle était durant
ma plus tendre jeunesse. Sa chevelure grise prise soigneusement dans une mise-en-plis, vêtue d’un pantalon et d’une large blouse blanche, rehaussée d’un vert océan. Une légère brise fraiche caressait son visage, un visage à la fois ébahi
par ce qu’elle voyait autour d’elle, et lointain - comme si elle n’appartenait
pas à ce monde. Elle me semblait si heureuse. J’étais émerveillée par ce que je lisais sur son visage.
Je me souviens qu’au début du rêve, j’étais moi-même
en tenue de nuit et que je n’avais pas fait ma toilette du matin. C’est là que j’ai
commis une erreur. J’avais d’abord voulu courir vers elle pour la serrer dans mes bras et lui tenir compagnie,
faire avec elle ces magasins pour que nous découvrions de belles choses
ensemble. Mais une honte m'a saisie et j’ai couru dans l’autre sens, persuadée
qu’il fallait d’abord que je m’habille, que je me coiffe et que je me nettoie
avant de la voir. C’est dans ce moment de vanité, née, je crois, d’une adolescence
pendant laquelle je ressentais souvent la honte de moi-même, que j’ai fui sa présence.
Quand je suis rentrée chez moi, mon père m’attendait.
Il m’a montré une boite de biscuits me disant que je trouverai surement quelque
chose que j’aimerai la dedans. J’ai ouvert la boite pour découvrir ces délices
sucrés. C’est alors que du coin de l’œil, j’ai vu venir ma grand-mère vers moi.
C’était comme si elle avait toujours été là. Elle est apparue là ou je ne l’attendais
pas. Elle avançait cette fois en tenue de nuit. Le rêve voulait qu’à présent ce
fussent elle, et non moi, qui venait de se réveiller. Elle me regardait avec un
petit sourire coquin, comme si elle voulait me dire que elle, elle n’avait rien à
cacher, et que ce n’était pas la peine que je me cache ainsi.
Penaude, je lui ai tendu un
biscuit en lui demandant si elle en voulait. Elle n’a rien dit. Elle l’a pris en
souriant.
Elle était si gaie. Je ne pouvais lire aucun soucis dans son visage.
En y repensant maintenant, je crois que c’est bien
cela qu’elle voulait me dire, ou plutôt me faire comprendre, au sujet de la
vie.
Et soudain il a fallu que je me réveille, que
ce rêve prenne fin, qu'elle disparaisse sans qu’elle me parle, sans qu’elle ne m’adresse la parole,
sans que je puisse marcher à ses côtés, sans que je puisse parcourir les
ruelles ombragées avec elle, sans que la brise nous caresse toutes les deux, liées
dans un après-midi complice et magique.
C’était un réveil dur. Trop dur. Dur, d’avoir était
si proche et de l’avoir perdu si soudainement alors que je croyais avoir le temps… Réveil qui m’a meurtri l’âme. Trop dur, la fin de ce rêve, alors que
j’avais de nouveau de l’espoir en la revoyant; c’était comme si on me l’avait volée
une seconde fois.
Ce matin j’ai versé tant de larmes en me
souvenant de ce rêve. Je me suis retrouvée bouleversée, de nouveau enfant -
portant le fardeau d’une immense tristesse. J’ai vécu la fin de mon rêve comme
une injustice accablante. Je sais, je sais bien; c’est un rêve qui présage tant
de bonnes choses. Mais sa perte me coute.
