The Child

The Turks have been here. All is bleak, in ruin.

Chios, isle of wines, is now a darkened reef.

      Chios, cradled by green branches,

Chios, where curling waves mirror soft hills,

forests, palaces, and, on certain nights,

      dancing choirs of young girls,

All is desert. But no, near a blackened wall

sits a Greek child, a blue-eyed boy,

      alone and bending his head in shame.

For safety, for support, he has but a

single wrecked hawthorn bush, forgotten like him in

      this forgotten, wasted corner.

Oh poor child, barefoot on these sharp-edged rocks!

Oh to stop the crying of your blue eyes,

      blue like the sky and like the sea,

so that in their shine the light of laughter

and joy might evaporate this storm of tears;

      young boy, to lift up your blond head,

what would you wish for, oh beautiful boy,

what will it take to smile, to gather up

      in curls resting on your pale shoulder

this mop of hair never touched or shorn, which

seems to weep about your beautiful face

      like the leaves of the willow?

What will make your cloudy cares disappear?

Perhaps to have this lily from the fields

      of Iran, bright blue like your eyes?

Or some fruit from the magic Tuba-tree,

that tree so great that galloping horses

      run a century in its shadow?

Would you smile for a handsome forest bird

that sings more sweetly than flutes or oboes

      and more brilliantly than cymbals?

What would you like? Flowers, fruits, marvelous birds?

- Friend, replies the Greek child with the clear blue eyes,

      I want some bullets and a gun.

~~ 

L’enfant

Les Turcs ont passé là. Tout est ruine et deuil.

Chio, l’île des vins, n’est plus qu’un sombre écueil,

      Chio, qu’ombrageaient les charmilles,

Chio, qui dans les flots reflétait ses grands bois,

Ses coteaux, ses palais, et le soir quelquefois

      Un chœur dansant de jeunes filles.

Tout est désert. Mais non ; seul près des murs noircis,

Un enfant aux yeux bleus, un enfant grec, assis,

      Courbait sa tête humiliée ;

Il avait pour asile, il avait pour appui

Une blanche aubépine, une fleur, comme lui

      Dans le grand ravage oubliée.

Ah ! pauvre enfant, pieds nus sur les rocs anguleux !

Hélas ! pour essuyer les pleurs de tes yeux bleus

      Comme le ciel et comme l’onde,

Pour que dans leur azur, de larmes orageux,

Passe le vif éclair de la joie et des jeux,

      Pour relever ta tête blonde,

Que veux-tu ? Bel enfant, que te faut-il donner

Pour rattacher gaîment et gaîment ramener

      En boucles sur ta blanche épaule

Ces cheveux, qui du fer n’ont pas subi l’affront,

Et qui pleurent épars autour de ton beau front,

      Comme les feuilles sur le saule ?

Qui pourrait dissiper tes chagrins nébuleux ?

Est-ce d’avoir ce lys, bleu comme tes yeux bleus,

      Qui d’Iran borde le puits sombre ?

Ou le fruit du tuba, de cet arbre si grand,

Qu’un cheval au galop met, toujours en courant,

      Cent ans à sortir de son ombre ?

Veux-tu, pour me sourire, un bel oiseau des bois,

Qui chante avec un chant plus doux que le hautbois,

      Plus éclatant que les cymbales ?

Que veux-tu ? fleur, beau fruit, ou l’oiseau merveilleux ?

– Ami, dit l’enfant grec, dit l’enfant aux yeux bleus,

      Je veux de la poudre et des balles.

Notes: The poem above is by Victor Hugo  translated in English by Gilles-Claude Thériault. The detail is from the oil painting "The Greek boy" (1829/30 – Benaki Museum) by Alexandre Marie Colin who was inspired, for this painting, by Hugo's poem.  

"I ground matter 

...to find the continuous line. And when I realized I could not find it, 

I stopped... "

Note: Both the quotation and the artwork are by Constantine Brâncuși. The latter is titled "Sculpture for the Blind (Beginning of the World), 1916"

A pioneer 

...of serialised fiction, most of Dickens's major novels were first written in monthly or weekly instalments in journals such as Master Humphrey's Clock and Household Words, later reprinted in book form. These instalments made the stories affordable and accessible, and the series of regular cliffhangers made each new episode widely anticipated. When The Old Curiosity Shop was being serialised, American fans waited at the docks in New York harbor, shouting out to the crew of an incoming British ship: "Is little Nell dead?" Dickens's talent was to incorporate this episodic writing style but still end up with a coherent novel at the end.   

The Old Curiosity Shop was printed in book form in 1841. Queen Victoria read the novel in 1841 and found it "very interesting and cleverly written".

Note: the photograph above is in fact a daguerreotype portrait of the author and was taken by Antoine Claudet  in about 1852.

Wishes 

for time and love and care 

through their wrapping  to be

surely the basic ingredients

of a truly 

Merry Christmas!  

·

Holiday

Weather

Too sunny to turn the blue lights on,
not cloudy enough for the colourful balls to shine.

“The greatest thing 

in the world 

is to know how to belong to oneself.”

Michel de Montaigne

Notes: In the photograph, you can see Alberto Giacometti's “Grande femme III" (1960) (left) and Richard Serra's “Bisected Corner: Square” (2013) (right). They both are on display at Fondation Beyeler in Riehen/Basel, as part of the new display of the museum’s collection, on view through January 5, 2020.

“ Unwell? ”

"...I was fine, as good as one might feel in such circumstances. No, my friend, I merely pretended to faint. I'm a good actor*. Actually, a thought had come into my mind: if a terrorist, I said to myself, were to blow up this church with all of us inside, at least one-tenth of all the hypocrisy in the world would disappear with us. So I had myself escorted out."

Andrea Camilleri

Note: The extract is drawn from "The Terra-Cotta Dog", the author's second book in a long series of novels  featuring the character of Inspector Montalbano, In it, the word "actor" was originally "actress" which I altered for this post. //  The picture was drawn in random from the Internet.