Rimbaud, adolescent journalist

WARNING: In a comment attached to this post, my friend Corina has pointed out that the subject of the present article is possibly a literary fraud, perpetrated by a self-declared hoaxer. So, maybe I was naive in believing immediately what I read on the Internet. If so, mea culpa!

Literary historians were aware that the French poet Arthur Rimbaud [1854-1891] had thought of working as a journalist when he was an adolescent, but nobody had ever unearthed any specimens of such activity. This changed recently with the discovery of a short article signed Jean Baudry [a nom de plume employed by Rimbaud] in an ephemeral newspaper dated November 1870.

The article—a kind of mini prose poem—evokes a dream of France's enemy: the Prussian chief Bismarck.

Insofar as it's rare to come upon an unpublished text by a celebrated 19th-century author, I seize with joy this exceptional opportunity of translating Rimbaud's article into English.

Bismarck’s dream

(Fantasy)

It is nightfall. Beneath his tent, full of silence and reverie, Bismark is meditating, a finger on the map of France. A blue wisp escapes from his pipe.

Bismark is meditating. His tiny bent index finger traces a path on the fine paper, from the Rhine to the Moselle, and from there to the Seine. His finger nail scratches the paper imperceptibly around Strasbourg. He steers clear.

At Sarrebruck, Wissembourg, Woerth and Sedan, he trembles, along with his small hooked finger. He caresses Nancy, lacerates Bitche and Phalsbourg, obliterates Metz and draws short dashes along the frontier. Then he stops.

In triumph, Bismark has stamped his index finger upon Alsace and Lorraine! Ah, beneath his yellowy skull, what miserly joy! What delicious clouds of smoke spread out from his happy pipe! Bismark is meditating. Hey! A big black dot seems to halt his nervous index finger. It is Paris.

So, the nasty little finger nail scratches. It scratches the paper with rage, from one side to the other, then it halts. The finger remains there, half hooked and frozen.

Paris! Paris! Then the fellow has dreamed so much, without closing an eyelid, that somnolence overcomes him. His forehead leans towards the paper. The smoldering rage of his pipe, fallen from his lips, drops geometrically upon that nasty black dot...

Hi, povero*! Detached from his paltry head, his nose—the nose of Sir Otto de Bismarck—fell into the burning mass. Hi, povero! Va povero! Into the incandescent furnace of the pipe. Hi, povero! His index finger was posed upon Paris! His glorious dream was ended!

The nose of the aging first diplomat had been so splendid, so spiritual and so happy! Hide it, hide that nose! Well, my dear friend, when you return to the palace to partake of the royal sauerkraut...

[a couple of missing lines]

There you go! You shouldn’t have succumbed to dreaminess!

Jean Baudry

* Italian: Hey, poor fellow! Maybe an evocation of Garibaldi.

Kitchen implements

Intending to visit Grenoble, I called in this morning at the pretty little railway station of St-Marcellin. But they haven't got their act together yet. More precisely, their ticket window was closed, and their ticket machines expected me to have twenty or so euro coins on hand to pay for a return ticket to Grenoble. Impossible. So, failing this, I got back into my automobile and drove off towards the capital of the Alps.

Why was I intent upon visiting Grenoble? In the context of my ongoing research about Gamone, Natacha had advised me, this weekend, to try to ascend the various notarial affairs concerning sales of the property. Why not? A great idea... So, I set off for Grenoble, to the departmental archives. They informed me that the early 20th-century affair concerning Gamone, handled by a notary public named Gaston Mollet at Pont-en-Royans, had been taken over by Taulier at St-Romans... whom I happened to know personally. So, the classical upwards-research process (from known documents to conjectures) is now in full swing.

Finding myself in Grenoble on a lazy Monday, I purchased a few extraordinary but all-important cooking objects, which you may or may not discover in the usual suburban kitchen:

The big nylon skimmer is designed for pizzas in a pan, or omelettes. The bulky stainless-steel thing in the lower left corner is for flattening meat such as veal scalopinas. And the stainless-steel rings with handles (manufactured in Spain) are for frying eggs neatly.

French cry, requesting that people sit down to eat : A table !

Visit of my friends from Provence

This weekend, Natacha and Alain came to see me, with a pile of gifts.


These included a Corsican pocket knife and its black leather pouch, an exquisite olive-wood container for salt, a packet of exotic vanilla-flavored tea from Mauritius, a splendid album of aerial photos of Provence and, last but not least, an Ikea lounge chair for watching TV, guaranteed to send me to sleep more rapidly than usual.







Soon after the arrival of Natacha and Alain at Gamone on Saturday morning, where it was raining, we set off for Villard-de-Lans, where they invited me for lunch in an excellent little restaurant. On the return trip, the rain had stopped, but the slopes were shrouded in clouds.

On Saturday evening, we watched a TV variety show that was broadcast live from one of the most magnificent places, not only in Provence, but in the world: Avignon.

All in all, it was a delightful but brief visit, barely a day and a night (since my friends lead professional lives in Marseille, with little spare time). I'm awaiting an Internet delivery of photos of our short weekend together taken by Natacha and Alain.

Ave Caesar

At the age of 12, at Grafton High School, I started learning Latin under the guidance of a marvelous teacher named Robert Sinclair... who was present at a delightful gathering of friends, at the home of Cathryn Prowse (née Fuller), when I returned to Sydney in August 2006. Like generations of students throughout the world, I encountered that archaic but lovely language through fragments of a literary work written by a celebrated Roman general and statesman: Gaius Julius Caesar [100-44 BC]. The English title of Caesar's book: Commentaries on the Gallic Wars. Now, this didn't mean much to me, back in Grafton, for the simple reason that I hadn't fully realized that the adjective "Gallic" designated a real place, known today as France. But Caesar's Latin was lucid, and even a Grafton schoolboy in 1952 could understand that the author was a victorious soldier who must have been some kind of a mixture of Dwight Eisenhower and Winston Churchill.

Much later, I discovered the splendid city of Arles, birthplace of Christine's maternal grandfather, Paul Marteau [1896-1976]. I even got around to taking my children there to watch to watch bull fighting in the Roman arena. And I finally realized that this charming city on the banks of the Rhône was closely associated with the ancient Roman named Caesar who came here to fight his famous Gallic Wars.

A few days ago, archaeologists announced that they had found a splendid life-size bust of Caesar in the Rhône at Arles. The marble sculpture was probably created during Caesar's lifetime, around 49-46 BC, when he was founding the Roman colony of Arles. After 56-year-old Caesar was assassinated in Rome by Brutus on the Ides of March, folk in Arles probably decided that it would be wise to dump his effigy in the Rhône... not far from the right-bank neighborhood of Trinquetaille, where Paul Marteau had grown up without ever knowing that Caesar's marble head was lying alongside in the mud. Meanwhile, a string of Catholic popes had reigned at Avignon, and hordes of folk had danced beneath [not upon] the famous bridge. Countless bulls were slaughtered, too, over the centuries, in Caesar's colonial arena. Later, I started learning Latin. Not long after, Christine and I were married, then Emmanuelle and François came into existence. To my mind, it was high time that Caesar's head resurfaced at Arles!

Crazy Dutch website

Click the logo and simply wait. You'll be thrilled to discover one of the most crazy websites I've ever seen. When I say "crazy", I mean insanely wonderful. Apparently, Hema is a chain of department stores in Holland. The first one opened in 1926 in Amsterdam. Today, there are 150 Hema stores throughout Holland. This extraordinary website has obviously been developed by a creative genius with a sense of humor and some brilliant computer people.

Israel's 60th birthday

Israel's national anthem is called Hope:

The nation's second anthem is Jerusalem of Gold by Naomi Shemer, sung here by Ofra Haza:

New Soul by the 30-year-old French-Israeli singer Yael Naïm is an excellent theme song for Israel's 60th birthday:

Cosmic catechism

We can summarize what we know about why we're here in the Cosmos. For want of a better title, I would call such a résumé a cosmic catechism... but the name is of no importance, so long as the information is scientifically valid (indeed true), succinct and comprehensible.

The processes of Creation have unfolded in three giant steps, which would appear to be profoundly different in their respective nature. I say "would appear to be" because we might be short-sighted in looking upon each of these three dimensions of Creation as an autonomous process of a specific nature. After all, the end result has consisted of bringing the Cosmos (including us humans) to its present state of development, and this achievement (if it can be thought of as such) seems to indicate that the three giant steps unfolded, not independently, but rather in some kind of cosmic syzygy.

• The primordial dimension of Creation was the so-called bootstrap happening, leading from Nothingness to Being (somethingness) and characterized by the Big Bang, that I evoked in my article of 2 May 2008 entitled Boot story [display].

• The second dimension of Creation was the miraculous but spontaneous and perfectly natural development of a mechanism for replication and procreation, culminating in the presence in the universe of Life... at least on the planet Earth, but surely in countless other places too. I evoked this dimension in my article of 25 December 2006 entitled The meaning of life [display].

• Finally, the third (ongoing) dimension of Creation is the work of the spectacular phenomenon of natural selection and evolution, discovered by Charles Darwin. I evoked this dimension in my article of 28 April 2008 entitled God is an aircraft [display].

It's quite amazing that this three-step structure of Creation is symbolized beautifully, in a poetic fashion, by the fuzzy Christian dogma of the Holy Trinity:

• God the Father can be thought of as corresponding to the mysterious primeval "transformation" of Nothingness into Somethingness.

• The Son, Jesus, is a symbol of the creation of Life: an event that was so extraordinary that it might be described as quasi-miraculous.

• The Holy Spirit represents, as it were, the third and final dimension of Creation: the constant evolution of novel forms of life.

This vague parallelism between our scientific catechism of the Cosmos and the theological notions of Christianity is, of course, superficial, and I am not suggesting for a moment that there is anything of a serious scientific nature in the Christian dogma. On the other hand, in trying to amalgamate the three dimensions of the Creation process, we run into mysteries of an almost Byzantine kind.

Half a century ago: gestation of a new republic

Exactly fifty years ago, on 13 May 1958, Algiers was agitated. Crowds had gathered to honor the memory of three French soldiers executed by the Algerian FLN party [National Liberation Front], and to express their disapproval of the formation of a government in Paris led by Pierre Pflimlin. Banners in the midst of the crowd declared that Algeria must remain French, while others cried out for the return to power of Charles de Gaulle.

The army joined in the protests, which looked at times as if they might degenerate into a riot. Inspired by a concept of the French Revolution, the general Jacques Massu set up a comité de salut public [committee of public welfare], and called upon the French president René Coty to form a government in a similar spirit of salut public.

This crisis that flared up in Algeria created a context in which Charles de Gaulle finally decided to preside over the destiny of France.

The events of 13 May 1958 are considered as the starting point of the creation of the Fifth Republic.

Doubling the line

When driving between Pont-en-Royans and St-Marcellin [some ten kilometers], you have to cross the train line between Grenoble and Valence. There are several itineraries, most of which include a level crossing over the railway line. Now, whenever I cross that line, my brain recalls a certain anecdote, automatically and systematically. This is a boring nuisance, because it's always the same anecdote, and I would like to be able to say to my brain: "Hey, why can't you recall something else, something new, instead of that same old anecdote?" To be perfectly honest, it's not a bad anecdote at all... which is probably why it always reappears in my mind. Here's the story:

François Marty, a gentle native of south-west France who spoke with a quaint regional accent, was the archbishop of Paris from 1968 up until his retirement in 1981. As a farewell gift, his parishioners at Notre Dame de Paris got together enough cash to purchase an old-fashioned 2-horsepower Citroën: the vehicle that Americans named jokingly "basic automobile".

Upon receiving this gift, the delighted cardinal exclaimed enthusiastically: "This vehicle will take me to Paradise!" Then he drove off into retirement in a Dominican convent in the village of Monteils in south-west France. In 1994, at the age of 90, François Marty attempted to drive his automobile across a level crossing in the vicinity of his village. Before he reached the other side, a train smashed into him, carrying the cardinal and his sweet chariot home to God.

A few days ago, when setting out for the return trip after shopping at the supermarket in Chatte, I was surprised to discover that a familiar level crossing was blocked.

I got out of my vehicle to see what was happening, and I discovered that workers were installing a second set of rails.

I recalled that, a few days earlier, in nearby Vinay (when I was visiting the Danisco factory), I had already viewed work being carried out upon this vast project: doubling the existing railway line between Grenoble and Valence.

Alongside the blocked level crossing, a light-hearted publicity panel announced that, in 2009, we should think about taking the train on this line between Grenoble and Valence.

We see passengers from an automobile, blocked in a traffic jam on an overhead bridge, sliding down a rope to catch the train.

It's perfectly true. I really must get around to taking the train at St-Marcellin, from time to time, to visit Grenoble or Valence. It's such a pleasant and convenient solution, and far less tiring than the automobile. Besides, in Grenoble, there's a fabulous tram system to take you everywhere. When the double line speeds up the train service, there'll be no excuse for not adopting this solution. With such interesting destinations as Grenoble and Valence (pleasant provincial atmosphere, shops, restaurants, cafés, museums, etc), it might be said that trains on this line will surely take us to Paradise!

Mother and daughter, respective obsessions

Although her snout is a fragile high-tech smelling device, Sophia is perfectly capable of using it like a shovel to move stones and gravel in order to bury a precious piece of fresh meat [in this case, a chicken's head] that needs to spend a few days in the soil to make it soft, smelly and tasty.

In her Brittany home, Sophia's daughter, Gamone, now disposes of a lovely lawn on which to pursue her favorite pastime: playing with her soft red rubber ball. People get fed up being expected to toss the ball as far as possible, enabling Gamone to exhibit her talents as a footballer. Click on the following image to see a delightful demonstration of a sophisticated electronic gadget for launching tennis balls:

Sophia is now accustomed to the daily ritual of my billy-goat Gavroche calling in for a handful of cereals, served up in a silver dog dish.


I often say to myself that I should give Gavroche away to somebody with a few female goats, because I'm sure that my poor frustrated beast would like to get into action in the sexual domain. On the other hand, Gavroche has truly become part of the furniture at Gamone, and I would be sad to see him go. I'm currently looking into the idea of either hiring him out [free, of course] for procreative services, or maybe even accepting female goats here [in a small electric-fenced yard] for casual short-time encounters with Gavroche.

To catch a thief

This can only be described as a beautiful Macintosh story, almost a fairy tale in crime detection.

A burglary was committed in the New York apartment of a woman who happens to be an Apple store employee, and the thief got away with TVs, iPods, DVDs and two laptop Macs. The lady had subscribed to the .Mac online service, which included a tool named Back to My Mac that enables you to use a second machine to get in contact with your home Mac, and to operate the latter in a remote fashion, just as if you were sitting in front of it. Realizing that the robber was using her stolen Mac, the lady used Back to My Mac to take control of the machine, whereupon she was able to use its built-in camera to take a photo of the robber, staring at the screen, and to receive an email copy of this portrait. She showed the photo to friends who had been to a party in her apartment, and they instantly recognized the robber, and supplied his name and address. The lady then wandered into the local police station and supplied the startled cops with a complete description of the crime, including an excellent portrait of the culprit. She immediately recovered nearly all her stolen stuff. As for the robber, if ever he were to find himself behind bars for a short spell, he might look into the idea of using his spare time to do a bit of reading about the advanced possibilities of the Macintosh.

Places and people named Beaufort

In France, at least a dozen towns or villages are called Beaufort. Literally, Beaufort means "beautiful fortress", and there was a time when France was studded with countless fortifications. So, it's not surprising that this name has survived, often associated with an ancient castle.

This weekend, representatives from many of these places named Beaufort were gathered together, a little like members of an international clan, in the tiny village of Beaufort in the Isère department, an hour's drive away from my homeplace. It's a superficial but amusing pretext for an international gathering, a little like the twinning concept. In a dynamic little community, like that of Beaufort in Isère, local citizens house the visitors in their homes, which makes the whole process simple and friendly. Meanwhile, the gathering is a platform for touristic promotion of the various Beaufort places.

The French name has been widely exported. There's a Beaufort Castle in Scotland, in Luxembourg and even in Lebanon. Towns named Beaufort exist in the USA (South Carolina) and in Australia (Victoria).

Yesterday afternoon, some groups of representatives organized stalls with specimens of their local products.

As for the Australian delegates, who brought along piles of photos and leaflets concerning their town, they got interviewed on regional TV. They told me that they had been inundated, since their arrival in France, by questions from French people about tourism in Australia.

Now, why would I personally be interested in places named Beaufort?

Well, in the course of my genealogical research concerning the Skeffington family, I discovered an ancestral line that descends from John of Gaunt and his children named Beaufort. [Click the image to download an article on the genealogy of Lewis Carroll.] The four children were so named after a castle in France where they were born.

In what part of France was this Beaufort Castle located? Most English-speaking authorities [Dictionary of National Biography, Encyclopaedia Britannica, Wikipedia, etc] indicate that it was in the Anjou region of western France, in the village now known as Beaufort en Vallée [see the photo of their stand, earlier on in this post]. This sounds like a reasonable suggestion, in that there were ancient links between English royalty and this region through Geoffrey Plantagenet, Count of Anjou [1113-1151], patriarch of the Angevin dynasty, between the Normans and the Plantagenets. In fact, two centuries later, the Beaufort Castle associated with John of Gaunt had nothing to do with Anjou, for it was located in a quite different part of eastern France, in the tiny village of Champagne now known as Montmorency-Beaufort, whose representatives were also present at the gathering this weekend.

It's really quite remarkable that such a geographical error should continue to exist in the context of British royalty, which is surely one of the most highly-documented domains in the history of the English-speaking world. Maybe this error persists for the simple reason that the provincial facts would appear to be written, for the moment, solely in French. [I intend to publish an article on this question in the near future.]

Before leaving the festivities at Beaufort yesterday afternoon, I took this photo of a charming old stone house on the outskirts of the village.

Uninhabited for a century, this was the birthplace of Joseph Vacher [1869-1898], often referred to as France's Jack the Ripper, a notorious serial killer who was no doubt responsible for more than two dozen heinous cases of rape and murder.

As far as I know, the visitors at the Beaufort gathering were not taken on a touristic visit to this house.

A new story every day

Nicolas Sarkozy appears to be running France in much the same way that I write this blog. One tries constantly to imagine new themes, to tell new stories. Apparently, Sarko's communications specialists have convinced him that this is a good approach for a president of France who needs to convince the people that he's perpetually active, and doing something new. When I was a child, adults used to tell us: An apple a day keeps the doctor away. For Sarko, it's a story a day. Every 24 hours, with the help of his advisors, he invents a new tale to tell.

His latest theme is the history of slavery, as far as it affected France and her overseas territories. The president has decided spontaneously that this subject must be included in school curricula, and that the abolition of slavery will be commemorated annually, henceforth, on May 23.

French people recall the publicity of a celebrated department store in Paris: "A tout instant, il se passe quelque chose aux Galeries Lafayette." (At every moment, something happens at the Galeries Lafayette.) Nicolas Sarkozy behaves in the same spirit. But it's not at all certain that this behavior has made him popular. Nor is it certain that the challenges of France can be tackled ideally in this style.

Comfortable hollow for Sophia

I've known for ages that there are spots, in front of my house, where it's an exaggeration to speak of soil, because the ground is composed of dust and gravel, and nothing can grow there. So, I decided to intervene by scraping up the stony stuff in order to replace it by good soil.

This morning, in the middle of my work, Sophia made it clearly known to me that there was no point in pursuing the job any further, because she found that the dusty rocky hollow I had created was a perfect place for a dog who wants to bask in the sun.

Much of a muchness

When I first heard this silly riddle, long ago, I thought it was funny in a subtle way:

QUESTION: What's the difference between a canary?

Listeners will ask, of course: Between a canary and what? But the question must remain exactly as is: What's the difference between a canary?

ANSWER: There's no difference whatsoever between a canary, because it has two legs of exactly the same length, the right one a little bit more than the left.

In the political domain, when two individuals seem to be advocating identical strategies, observers often say: bonnet blanc, blanc bonnet, which might be translated as "the bonnet is white, it's a white bonnet". In everyday English: "six of one and half a dozen of the other".

In colloquial French, there's a neat way of saying that two things are the same: C'est kif-kif. Apparently, kif is a Maghrib term meaning "the same", and French people have doubled the syllable in the belief that kif-kif sounds more Arabic.

Now, if you want to be long-winded about saying that two things are the same, you can add on a popular term for "donkey": C'est kif-kif bourricot. And what's the role of the donkey in this verbal construction? Well, it would appear that, in North Africa, to indicate that two things are the same, people often say that they're kif-kif... like a donkey. Like a canary, for that matter.

Victory in Europe Day

Paris had been liberated from her Nazi oppressors during the second half of August 1944. Eight months later, Adolf Hitler committed suicide in Berlin. Then, on 8 May 1945, the official act of Germany's unconditional surrender meant that Europe could at last celebrate victory. In London and the USA (where Franklin D Roosevelt had died a month earlier), these victory celebrations were massive.

Recently, when my daughter Emmanuelle purchased a flat near the Place de la République in Paris, she obtained a couple of old photo albums that belonged to the lady (deceased) who had lived there. Among these amateur snapshots, there are three interesting images of Paris on May 8, 1945, which are no doubt published here for the first time. [Clicking a blog photo displays an enlargement.]

Five huge flags are suspended from the Arc de Triomphe. [Paris historians might be able to tell us whether the habit of flags under the arch dates from that epoch.] The army truck on the Place de l'Etoile has a white five-pointed star on the door. Is the Jeep a US or a French vehicle? There's a French policeman on a bicycle, surrounded by a couple of civilian cyclists and a midget automobile. On this 8 May 1945 at the hub of France, the ambiance is calm.

On the Place de la Concorde, the atmosphere is subdued. I have the impression that the couple in the foreground were the proprietors of Emmanuelle's flat. The man is wearing some kind of decoration in his lapel, whereas the woman seems to have purchased a poster. They appear to me as Gaullist patriots, happy to realize that Paris is once again their familiar City of Light. Everything in this photo indicates calm and sunny relief.

This photo was taken from the balcony of my daughter's flat in the Rue Oberkampf. The lady is probably the same person seen in the photo on the Place de la Concorde. The building is bedecked with five flags, including those of France, the USA, Great Britain and Russia.

The overall impression gleaned from these images is that Victory Day in Europe, for Parisians, was a solemn and subdued affair.

Poisonous books

Often, on the Franco-German Arte TV channel, an entire evening is devoted to a particular theme. Last night, a pair of excellent documentaries, aired for the first time, tackled the theme of two poisonous books: Hitler's notorious Mein Kampf and an abominable fake entitled Protocols of the Elders of Zion. It was a good idea for Arte to deal with the two books, one after the other, because they can be thought of as complementary specimens of poisonous trash. In a nutshell: Hitler's opus was a terribly veridical document, in that it offered a precise account of all the horrors that were about to be enacted. But retrospectively, one has the impression that the world at large failed to take the book or its author seriously... otherwise, steps would have surely been taken to curb Hitler's demoniacal dreams. On the other hand, the ugly thing called the Protocols of the Elders of Zion is exactly the opposite of a veridical document, since this book is a mindless fable. Curiously, though, hordes of silly people would still appear to be taking it seriously.


Once upon a terrible time, Hitler's My Combat was indeed a best-seller. Up until 1945, some 12 million copies had been in circulation. Today, the heritage of this literary and societal muck is characterized by two disturbing observations. First, the book is banned in Germany, as if the authorities were afraid that Hitler's ravings might still stir up Fascist enthusiasm. Second, it would appear that this antiquated book still has a significant readership in a nation that would like to become a member of the European Union. I'm referring to Turkey.

Click the image to see what Wikipedia has to say about this extraordinary and obnoxious fake document, which develops the crazy idea that planetary Jewry has been conspiring to take control of the world. Indeed, the Protocols might be considered as the grandaddy of all the conspiracy theories of the 20th century, right down to all the rubbish that has circulated concerning the events of 9/11.



A recent article in the excellent New York Times [display] drew attention to the fact that Putin has been favoring the Russian Orthodox church as a kind of unique Christian faith, at the expense of all others, particularly Protestants. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm quite happy to see that Putin's state apparatus aims to create a nice official kind of old-fashioned religious phenomenon, starring primarily, if not uniquely, the Orthodox church. Why not? This quaint time-honored image of saintly Russia will be good for tourism and public relations, not to mention foreign affairs of a political kind, and might help us to forget about Stalin. But things get more disturbing when we learn that the new generation of Russian ecclesiastics would appear to believe in, and propagate, the anti-Semitic shit promulgated by the Protocols... once authored by a Russian faker named Matvei Golovinski [1865-1920]. The circle is ignominiously closed.