France

Too many entries for you? Blame France. (I would just like to add that, while it may be the English thing to do—to “blame France”—and, these days, quite possibly the American thing to do as well, I never came across anyone in Australia who decided France was the scapegoat par excellence.) Since I’ve tried to include territories in this project (and I’ve started to find territories that I’ve missed… these will be rectified, most likely next year) suddenly I find that a lot of the territories or departments or collectivities of France don’t have their own established days to celebrate their own culture, but instead celebrate Quatorze Juillet along with France. Or, as we in other parts of the world think of it, Bastille Day. (Yes, the storming of the Bastille was symbolic rather than truly revolutionary—there were barely more than half a dozen prisoners.)

We know about France, right? There was a revolution (“Let them eat cake”—oh, and she never said it) and there was a short Napoleonic guy who declared himself emperor, before languishing in St Helena. There was a commune in Paris, right? And a hunchback in the belltower? (Okay, that one was fictional.) And, of course, there is wine, cheese. There are baguettes and pastries. I’m guessing if modern visitors heard anyone say “Let them eat cake,” they’d say “yes please!” And, in Hollywood land, we have the outrageous French accent. (I don’t know how to spell that so it reflects the outrageous French accent. Sorry.)

So I’m not going to skip through French history. There’s so, so much of it. Can I just say, though, don’t forget Corsica. The beautiful island that, at the moment, belongs to France. (It was previously Italian and Spanish—and for a brief moment, it belonged to itself. There’s a separatist movement that occasionally makes international headlines—and their culture is different enough from France that it’s hard to realize you’re in France when you’re there.) In the mean time, it’s a pristine piece of France. Also, a number of 19th century novelists used Corsica to inject a little exoticism into their narratives. The best example? The vengeful Count of Monte Cristo is a Corsican. Oh my god, if you haven't read it, DO. I was given a copy for my 18th birthday, and read it for 10 hours a day for two days. I couldn't put it down. Corsica is the home of the vendetta.

We have Cartier-Bresson’s images of Paris—as well as Eugene Atget’s. And there are the images of the Eiffel Tower (which, in The Shock of the New, Robert Hughes cites as an important beacon of modernism—they didn’t ask an architect to design it, but an engineer. Brave New World).

And, there is the Paris of Before Sunset.

There are the artists—both the French and the outsiders who came to France at different times to take part in the Bohemian arts communities that, at different times, have been part of the country.

And, of course, there are the poets. Rimbaud. Baudelaire. Mallarmé. Lately? How about Yves Bonnefoy? Yves who?, you ask. Bonnefoy. He’s a very important 20th century poet, and so I’ve decided he is the one for the project. The poem below is from a long sequence. I found it online here.

The House where I was Born

I

I woke up, it was the house where I was born,
Sea foam splashed against the rock,
Not a single bird, only the wind to open and close the wave,
Everywhere on the horizon the smell of ashes,
As if the hills were hiding a fire
That somewhere else was burning up a universe.
I went onto the veranda, the table was set,
The water knocked against the legs of the table, the sideboard.
And yet she had to come in, the faceless one,
The one I knew was shaking the door
In the hall, near the darkened staircase, but in vain,
So high had the water already risen in the room.
I took the handle, it was hard to turn,
I could almost hear the noises of the other shore,
The laughter of the children playing in the tall grass,
The games of the others, always the others, in their joy.

—Yves Bonnefoy
translated from the French by John T. Naughton