The first is that of citation: the song only exists between scholarly inverted commas. The second is that of the trace: the fragment is unfailingly perceived as a vestige from a whole that is no more. Among the most ancient texts preserved in the Romance language there are fragments of songs that are cited in completely different poems written in another language. These are the recognisable khardjas which conclude the muwashshahs of Al-Andalus.
Mais ce n'est pas de cela qu'il s'agit. Mais, que celui qui gouverne ma course dirige ma voile! Qu'est-ce encore autre chose? Then have at you with my wit: I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. This section possibly contains original research. Tourne-toi, Benvolio; regarde ta mort en face. Voulez-vous que le comte vous surprenne au lit 65?
Who will be able to bear [your] absence, my friend? However, it is the contrast that highlights the pointedness of the citation. The greater the distance between the poem and its khardja , the more ingenuity and wit the poet had to employ to dare to make a link between the two which is at once relevant and audacious. The khardja , which metrically and musically both founds and ends its new, brilliant, complex poem, must appear fragmented and stammering, coming from the dawn of time and from the depths of the soul, with an insisting, over-determined simplicity, that of a language that is not one of culture, that of rudimentary poetics, that of an ignorant young girl expressing herself.
Some of them have evidently been reshaped, if not invented, by the Arab poet who cites them. However, they find their place in a form of poetry that uses them by playing with fragmentary citation and cultural distance in order to give them the flavour of a traditional art which contrasts with a scholarly art. The mischievous Jean Renart takes great care to stress both their oldness and their old-fashioned character. It is likely that these songs actually derive from an ancient tradition.
However, it is especially obvious that they claim the characteristics of oldness and simplicity, even of clumsiness. In the first third of the thirteenth century, a public used to the sophistication of the grand chant courtois would have found them charming. They had the charm of the archaism which they played upon. The only difference is that the opposition between cultures and languages, which has disappeared, has been replaced by an emphasis on the depth of the past.
Simplicity, tradition, archaism, oldness and naivety are notions which begin to be associated with one another. The manuscripts are carefully made, even luxurious. Many of these songs differ little, formally, from the ones that sustained the polyphonies of the court of Burgundy during the same period.
They are sometimes the same. By contrast to this tradition, these songs in the fashion of distant times, these stanzaic, monodic songs, with spring gardens, nightingales, picked roses and shepherdesses, combine simplicity with a recollection of the past. They are sometimes mutilated, sometimes incoherent.
They appear to be remnants while at the same time favouring a rustic universe. They contain small archaisms of language which will later seem characteristic of popular literature.
They thus lead to ancient tradition being confused with popular rootedness. Giving the illusion of a refreshing plunge into a rustic past, they compensate for and counterbalance the tense aridity of the scholarly poetry of their time. One must therefore not be surprised to find them collected in beautiful manuscripts, since they are the necessary complement of courtly poetry, to which they belong on this account. But that is all the same, the brunette is young.
Most of these songs are old romances whose tunes lack piquancy; but something ancient and sweet about them is ultimately touching. The words are simple, naive Forgetting is a sign of the past.
Songs need to be fragmentary, so that one may suppose them to be half lost, on the verge of being lost. There are many others. Similarly, one sees the chansons de geste clinging on to assonance, while they appear very early on to be attracted to rhyme. One sees them preserve the epic decasyllable in spite of everything, even when faced with the new fashion of the Alexandrine, to which they occasionally yield. One sees them become contaminated by the fashion of the romantic account, but not without resistance.
One sees them preserving their primary identity longer than any other genre, as if they knew that their appeal was due to their coarseness; as if they defined themselves, in comparison with the other genres, through their rustic conservatism. Gregory Nagy has strongly supported an analogous hypothesis concerning epic Greek poetry in relation to lyricism. If the literary forms were a concert, the part of the epic would be that of the simple harmonies and the affected dissonances.
How can we be certain that the texts really aim to have the effects that have been ascribed to them here if they never explicitly state their intention of resorting to them? It is the prologue to the Lais of Marie de France. Marie had at first thought of dedicating herself to a translation from Latin into French.
Instead of this too ordinary a project, she undertook to transcribe the Breton lays which she had heard, so that they would not be forgotten. Clearly, in her mind, the translation from Latin that she gave up would have been a matter of slowly and progressively elucidating the antique literature that she had first defined, thus granting a hermeneutical value to imitatio.
It is also clear that she considers her two projects, the one that she abandoned and the one that she successfully carried through, to be comparable. The displayed proposition is that the new work is the heir and the outcome of the works of the past whose meaning it undertakes to unfurl or whose memory it promises to save. In the first case, the veil of the integumentum can be lifted only by the passing of time, which threatens the survival of the lays in the second case. The text constitutes itself by positing both the existence of a model taken from the past and its shortcomings, such that neither the one nor the others can be separated from what the text is in itself.
It would be pointless to go and look for them without it. One would only find the abstruseness of meaning or the darkness of what is forgotten. Certainly, and to get back to the prologue to the Lays , Latin literature does exist. And so too, probably, do Breton lays. However, it only takes shape by shrouding the forms and throwing them back into the shadows, while exhibiting them in this indistinct state. At every period of its history, part of itself affects an archaic simplicity and thus opposes itself to the novelty that the other part claims.
In order to do so, it takes on the appearance of the fragmentary and the discontinuous, symptoms of having been forgotten, which is in itself a mark of the past, while at the same time it employs poetic and linguistic effects meant to place it juxta rusticitatem , as Hildegaire would say about her cantilene of saint Faron. From the khardjas of El-Andalus to the songs of the Valois, we have not ceased to observe that the suggestion of incompleteness, that of rustic simplicity and that of archaism are interlinked.
Such effects bring us back to our second proposition, which is, we recall, that the illusory depth of the past also offers itself to the ethnologist and the folklorist. Of course, the permanence in time of narrative or poetic themes is not an illusion but a fact, as is their extension in space. We are not concerned here with the fact itself, but with the fascination that it arouses. To seek in the past the truth of popular culture and the traces of its now lost coherence is not a distinctive feature of romantic illusions.
Even contemporary ethnology, hardly inclined to naivety as it is, gives it up unwillingly. The investigator always has the feeling that he is arriving just a little too late, that the object that he is pursuing is already half gone, but that traces of it nevertheless subsist. His informants share this impression, and also suggest it to him. She would have filled a sack of them, with the bottom cut off.
We hear the same line of reasoning at the dawn of the nineteenth and the end of the twentieth centuries. It has therefore more to do with representation than reality. The representation of what exactly? Of the past.
Here again, the oldness of something is guaranteed by the fact that it has been forgotten. The ethnological object offers its form to the gaze of whoever is studying it only by inviting this gaze to look towards the past. In our civilization, by playing this game the ethnologist soon finds himself within the field of the medievalist, who experiences the same dizziness from the texts that he has before him.
In the same way, the medievalist is brought to suppose that the most ancient text that he has before him is only the continuation, the trace, the scattered limbs of a text, or of an oral production, or even of a myth, that are older, lost or disfigured. Here we have the storyteller working the shipwreck of memory into a clue of tradition, just as Marie de France did with the Breton lays that were in danger of being forgotten. This is because it comes first.
Far from stemming from it, it is the latter which, in particular historical and ideological circumstances, suggested such a hypothesis. It is based on the impression that they both still carry the more or less indistinct trace of a past which founds their authenticity and whose knowledge would reveal their secret. This impression is indestructible, for it is of a poetic nature.
OEIL POUR OEIL MOYEN FORMAT FRENCH EDITION Directory. Long way from home unfortunate journey part 2 · Deadly vision til death · Learning and. Cet article biographique nécessite des références supplémentaires pour vérification Christophe Beauregard est un photographe français. frontales, prises en lumière naturelle à l'aide d'un appareil moyen format (6x6 Mamiya C). comme Libération, Le Monde, Télérama, L'Œil mais aussi pour les marques (LVMH).
Once again, it is an effect produced by the works themselves, an effect made perceptible by the contrast with other works, which have a different effect. Which other works? If this is the case, however, then this effect is one of the constituents which, grouped together, form the very notion of literature.