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Gascony Diary
After nearly two years of living in France I am
at last attempting to read a french novel. I am
hoping that, with a dictionary to hand, I will
be able to enjoy the storyline without
misunderstanding or glossing over too many
words. So far so good. I seem to have chosen
well. The lead character has spent the first
fifteen pages sitting in a morgue, watching over
the coffin in which his mother lies. Nothing
much has happened in spite of prose that has
made me cry once or twice. It is typically but
beautifully french (It is L'etranger by Albert
Camus). All dark looks, deep thoughts and short
and simple dialogue.
The reason I
think I have chosen well is because I am only
able to read french slowly - chewing over the
phrases, checking words, noticing the order of
the grammer and picking up colloquialisms - and
somehow the writing lends itself to this
treacle-slow approach. At least so far. After
all there's not a lot of action in a morgue.
But the tranquil
pace of the novel, not to mention my reading of
it, matches well the pace of life here in
Gascony particularly in the heat of summer. The
long roasting midsummer days in this quiet rural
farming department require a slowness from man
and animal alike simply to function well. Novels
can be read, supper prepared simply on barbecues
and eaten at any time, sleep taken at regular
intervals during the day and little by little,
as a drip feed, we feel ourselves accepting a
slower pace of everything, leaving us time to
think and just time to be. To live minute to
minute with no pressing deadlines, no must-do's,
no distractions, no next must-have to save for
or hanker after. It takes a while to adjust to
this attitude. And it's not for everyone. And
maybe it's not for ever. But it's still an
experience not to be missed, and there's no
prescription charge.
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