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terinour · 10 months

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The Broken Wing / L’aile brisée

The Broken Wing

For days she had been searching her father's office for answers. He had left three months ago, three months since anyone had heard from him. She had had a conversation with her father when he told her he was going away for a while. She asked him where he was going and why. He said it was too personal, but that normally he wouldn't be gone for long - that he just had something to deal with himself.

She found her phone on the desk littered with papers, documents and books. Her father also had reproductions of Edward Hopper paintings that were placed between the bookcases. The bookshelves had gaps in them. He had put some of the books in boxes, or in stacks, a little ways away. Those that remained were not arranged as anyone would have done. She understood his logic as she looked through his notebooks, for he often copied passages from his books. He lined them up in the order in which he had read them, and kept only the ones that were most valuable to him close by. The very last one, with the cover turned so she could see it, was the teachings of Ramana Maharshi, which Rebecca did not know. His library told the story of his reading journey, his choices, and most importantly, a direction. He had not taken his favorite books with him. On the other hand, he had apparently had an urge to tidy up, or rather to clear out. Given the state of his desk, he had left before finishing.

Of all his notebooks, one had a red cover. The first time she opened it, she immediately understood that she should never have touched it, never have found it. She had glimpsed a list, a list with women's names. Had her father kept a kind of logbook of his conquests? How else could he be named? And above all, why had he left it in plain sight? Surely he wanted it to be discovered. For days the notebook remained on the ground, where she had left it. Some of the loose papers, which had been slipped inside, were now spread on the floor, like splashes of intimacy. She turned around it like a lioness around a prey, divided between the desire to read it and the disgust that it inspired to her.

She began by searching the rest of the desk, glancing from time to time at the notebook covered with scarlet leather. One day she imagined it disappearing and the next she was looking for it with her eyes.

She tried to reconstruct her father's mental journey, working out various explanations, but she was still missing two things: the reason he had left and, of course, his destination. Soon what started as a hunch became a certainty: the answers were in the red notebook.

Rebecca closed the only window in the office. She placed the vinyl of Ravel's Bolero that had remained on the record player and lowered the arm. The first few bars, slow and haunting, filled the room. She bent down to pick up the red notebook and the pieces of paper. She found two cards from the Tarot de Marseille, two major arcana - Strength and Temperance. She looked at them for a moment and then sat down in her father's chair, took a deep breath and opened them. Immediately she recognized some of the women. But most of the names were completely foreign to her. Small notes followed the identities. Details she preferred to ignore. She also saw small symbols, crosses and other signs that remained a mystery to her. She was surprised to see that there were also men's names. She quickly passed the first part because then there was no more of it. Little by little she saw reflections and doubts emerge. Her father seemed to be fighting against himself and his inclinations. This combat seemed to her unequal. She retained a few sentences that she compiled as follows: Is it possible that I will be free one day? Is suffering and making others suffer inevitable? I know now that I am made up of shadows and lights, but it is less the presence of the shadows than the attraction that I have for them that afflicts me. I am chained of my own free will. This addiction burns my wings. Running away will not help me because I carry this curse inside me. Wherever I go and whatever I do... No matter how hard I try, it seems to me that I am not making any progress, that I am stumbling and getting stuck... A little while ago, while listening to the Indian flute, I saw a path, a way harmonizing the darkness and the light... Last night I dreamed that I was flying over Arunachala. I have the feeling that it is there that I must go. A journey that, perhaps, will allow me to know who I am... A quick search revealed the exact location of Arunachala. It was a hill. At its foot lay Tiruvannamalai, the sacred city and religious center of Tamil Nadu. There are many ashrams at the foot of Mount Arunachala. The most famous being that of Sri Ramana Maharshi. And it was precisely his teachings, transcribed in a French translation, that her father had accompanied for several months. Rebecca read that even today millions of people come to visit the grave of the man who based his teachings on this simple question: "Who am I?" She finally had what she was looking for and now knew where her father had gone. A flight from Nantes would take her to Chennai, India. Once there, she would still have almost 200 km to go to reach the Arunachala hill.

Rebecca was so different from her father. She had opened the window and was looking out at the horizon. As far back as she could remember she had always felt cut off from others and the world. By dint of observation she had come to see what others did not even suspect. For a long time she had been labelled with all sorts of labels: autistic, hyper-sensitive and so many others. But from her point of view, she was just trying to be herself. We like to imagine revolutionaries on barricades or haranguing crowds. But the real subversion is to be yourself by giving up being like everyone else.

Rebecca could see the hidden beauty of the world, feel its poetry and transcribe it. But she felt handicapped in social relationships. So this trip was a real challenge for her.

A forest stretched below the house. A childhood memory surfaced. She remembered finding a bird with one wing touching the ground, probably broken. The bird had looked at her and she had wanted to catch it. But no sooner had she moved than the bird flew away. She was sure it had a broken wing. No one believed her. How could a bird fly with a broken wing? She had come to believe that she had imagined it. But if it was true, it meant that anything was possible and that nothing was insurmountable. This thought had always accompanied her and she had kept it to herself since no one wanted to believe it.

The challenge of this distant and uncertain journey was suddenly less impressive. That's what she told herself as she drove her rental car out of Chennai. She wondered what she would say to her father when she saw him. What would he say? What would his reaction be?

It took her almost four hours to make the trip. Even the traffic jams couldn't dampen her spirits. In fact, being in a country she didn't know had made her take a huge step back. She was in no hurry. She didn't feel involved in everything that was going on around her. It had nothing to do with jet lag. She was pleasantly surprised by this detachment, this lightness that had animated her since her departure from the hotel in the early afternoon.

She arrived at the end of the day. She would begin her research the next day. Had her father flown over Arunachala Hill? Had he been to an ashram? Once she dropped her backpack off at the hotel, she went to see the famous Arunachala Hill. She passed a group returning from a satsang. It was getting dark. Her shoulder collided with a man's. She turned to apologize. She turned to apologize and saw her father

- Rebecca? What are you doing here?

- We were worried, nobody had any news... You could have warned us at least!

She burst into tears. She could not contain all the emotion she had accumulated during all these months. Her father took her in his arms:

- Everything is all right, don't worry

– Did you at least fly over Mount Arunachala?

– I won't forget it. We lost a wing in mid-air.

– But you didn't get hurt?

– We were in a micro plane, still at low altitude. We fell into a tree. We were pretty lucky, though.

– We?

– It was Parvati who was flying, a real tomboy. But she's got all her credentials, I assure you. It was the canvas that broke. It seems that it happens from time to time. If you want we can go for a ride tomorrow...

– No, no, no, no, thanks.

They walked towards the Mount Arunachala.

– At this hour the view is wonderful

– Why did you leave?

– You had all left the house, which was quite empty. That's how it is, that's life. I was left alone with my ghosts. As you know, they haunt the living at night. It's hard to be a man, it's unspeakable. You have no idea what it involves in terms of inner and invisible struggles, defeats, disappointments and frustrations. I felt that I didn't belong anymore and I wanted to disappear, to escape the demands of this body and what the western world imposes on it. So I ran away. Since then I have forgiven myself. I understood that to find oneself, one must start by losing oneself

They passed by a well.

– An African proverb says that the old elephant knows where to find water. Arunachala is a source of light and I came to drink from it

– You have read so many books

– I have understood many things intellectually, but here I feel something strong, in the company of all these people. I didn't learn anything new but I needed this contact. It has become obvious now. Before, I was running away from emptiness and I was exhausting myself trying to fill my life at all costs - to take advantage of it as they say. Now fullness seems empty to me and emptiness brings me fullness.

– Are you going to stay here?

– No, I can go home now. I realized that the light of Arunachala shines in all of us.

Note: I had translated my own text below in french. I apologize for this appoximative translation with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version).

L’aile brisée

Cela faisait des jours qu’elle fouillait le bureau de son père à la recherche d’indices. Il était parti il y a trois mois, trois mois que plus personne n’avait de nouvelles de lui. Elle avait eu une discussion avec son père lorsqu’il lui avait annoncé qu’il devait partir quelque temps. Elle lui avait demandé où il comptait se rendre, et pourquoi. Il lui avait répondu que c’était trop personnel mais que, normalement, il ne devait pas en avoir pour bien longtemps – qu’il avait juste quelque chose à régler avec lui-même.

Elle retrouva son téléphone sur le bureau jonché de papiers, de documents et de livres. Son père avait également des reproductions de toiles d’Edward Hopper qui étaient placées entre les bibliothèques. Les rayonnages de ces dernières présentaient des vides. Il avait mis certains livres en carton, ou en piles un peu à l’écart. Ceux qui restaient n’étaient pas rangés comme l’aurait fait n’importe qui. Elle comprit sa logique en parcourant ses carnets, car il recopiait souvent des passages de ses livres. Il les alignait ensuite dans l’ordre où il les avait lus et ne conservait près de lui que ceux qui avaient le plus de valeur à ses yeux. Le tout dernier, dont la couverture était tournée afin de la voir, c’était les enseignements de Ramana Maharshi, que Rebecca ne connaissait pas. Sa bibliothèque racontait donc son parcours de lecteur, ses choix et surtout, une direction. Il n’avait donc pas emmené avec lui ses livres favoris. Par contre il avait eu semble-t-il un accès de rangement, ou plutôt envie de faire le vide. Vu l’état de son bureau, il était parti avant de terminer.

De tous ses carnets il y en avait qui possédait une couverture rouge. La première fois qu’elle l’ouvrit elle comprit tout de suite qu’elle n’aurait jamais du y toucher, jamais du le trouver. Elle avait entrevu une liste, une liste avec des noms de femmes. Son père avait-il tenu une sorte de carnet de bord de ses conquêtes ? Comment le nommer autrement ? Et surtout pourquoi l’avait-il laissé en évidence ? Il souhaitait sûrement qu’on le découvrît. Pendant des jours le carnet resta au sol, là où elle l’avait laissé tombé. Certains papiers volants, qui étaient glissés à l’intérieur, étaient maintenant répandus au sol, comme des éclaboussures d’intimité. Elle tourna autour comme une lionne autour d’une proie faisandée, partagée entre le désir de le lire et le dégoût qu’il lui inspirait.

Elle commença par fouiller le reste du bureau, jetant de temps en temps un œil au calepin recouvert de cuir rouge écarlate. Un jour elle imaginait qu’il disparaisse et le lendemain elle le cherchait des yeux.

Elle essaya de reconstituer le trajet mental de son père, élaborant différentes hypothèses, mais il lui manquait toujours deux éléments : la raison qui l’avait poussé à partir et, bien entendu, sa destination. Bientôt ce qui n’était au départ qu’une intuition se transforma en certitude : les réponses se trouvaient dans le carnet rouge.

Rebecca ferma l’unique fenêtre du bureau. Elle mit en place le vinyle du Bolero de Ravel qui était resté sur le tourne-disque et abaissa le bras. Les premières mesures, lentes et envoûtantes, emplirent la pièce. Elle se pencha pour ramasser le carnet rouge et les morceaux de papier. Elle trouva deux cartes du Tarot de Marseille, deux arcanes majeures – la Force et la Tempérance. Elle les observa un instant et s’installa dans le fauteuil de son père, prit une profonde inspiration et ouvrit. Aussitôt elle reconnut certaines de ces femmes. Mais la plupart des noms lui était parfaitement étrangers. De petites notes suivaient les identités. Des détails qu’elle préféra ignorer. Elle vit aussi de petits symboles, des croix et autres signes qui restaient un mystère pour elle. Elle fut surprise de voir qu’il y avait aussi des noms d’hommes. Elle passa rapidement la première partie car ensuite il n’y eut plus de tout cela. Peu à peu elle vit émerger des réflexions, des doutes. Son père luttait semble-t-il contre lui-même et ses penchants. Ce combat lui semblait inégal. Elle retint quelques phrases qu’elle compila ainsi : est-il possible que je sois libre un jour ? Souffrir et faire souffrir, est-ce une fatalité ? Je sais maintenant que je suis constitué d’ombres et de lumières mais c’est moins la présence des ombres que l’attirance que j’ai pour elles qui m’afflige. Je suis enchaîné de mon propre gré. Cette dépendance me brûle les ailes. Fuir ne me sera d’aucune utilité car je porte cette malédiction en moi. Où que j’aille et quoi que je fasse… J’ai beau chercher, il me semble que ça n’avance pas, que je piétine et m’enlise… Il y a peu de temps, en écoutant de la flûte indienne, j’ai entrevu un chemin, une voie harmonisant l’ombre et la lumière… La nuit dernière j’ai rêvé que je survolais Arunachala. J’ai le sentiment que c’est là-bas que je dois aller. Un voyage qui, peut-être, me permettra de savoir qui je suis...

De rapides recherches lui révélèrent où se trouvait précisément Arunachala. C’était une colline. A ses pieds s’étendait Tiruvannamalai, ville sacrée et centre religieux du Tamil Nadu. Il y a une multitude d’ashram au pied du Mont Arunachala. Le plus célèbre étant celui de Sri Ramana Maharshi. Et c’était précisément ses enseignements, retranscrits dans une traduction française, qu’avait accompagné son père pendant plusieurs mois. Rebecca lu qu’encore aujourd’hui des millions de personnes viennent se recueillir sur la tombe de l’homme qui avait basé son enseignement sur cette simple question : « qui suis-je ? ». Elle avait enfin ce qu’elle recherchait et savait maintenant où son père s’était rendu. Un vol au départ de Nantes permettait de rejoindre Chennai, en Inde. Une fois arrivée là-bas il lui resterait encore presque 200 km à parcourir pour arriver à la colline Arunachala.

Rebecca était si différente de son père. Elle avait rouvert la fenêtre et contemplait l’horizon. Aussi loin qu’elle s’en souvenait elle s’était toujours sentie coupée des autres et du monde. A force d’observer elle en était venue à voir ce que les autres ne soupçonnaient même pas. On lui avait longtemps collé toutes sortes d’étiquettes : autiste, hyper-sensible et tant d’autres. Mais de son point de vue, elle essayait simplement d’être elle-même. On imagine volontiers les révolutionnaires sur des barricades ou haranguant des foules. Mais la vraie subversion c’est d’être soi-même en renonçant à être comme tout le monde.

Rebecca pouvait voir la beauté cachée du monde, sentir sa poésie et la retranscrire. Mais elle se sentait handicapée dans les relations sociales. Ce voyage était donc un vrai défi pour elle.

Une forêt s’étirait en contrebas de la maison. Un souvenir d’enfance refit surface. Elle se souvint avoir trouvé un oiseau dont une aile touchait le sol, probablement cassée. L’oiseau l’avait regardée et elle avait voulu l’attraper. Mais à peine avait-elle bougée que l’oiseau s’était envolé. Elle était pourtant persuadée qu’il avait une aile cassée. Personne ne l’avait crue. Comment un oiseau pouvait-il voler avec une aile brisée ? Elle avait fini par croire qu’elle avait tout imaginé. Pourtant si cela était vrai, cela signifiait que tout était possible et qu’il n’y avait rien d’insurmontable. Cette pensée l’avait toujours accompagnée et elle l’avait gardée pour elle puisque personne ne voulait y croire.

Le défi posé par ce voyage lointain et incertain était tout d’un coup moins impressionnant. C’est ce qu’elle se dit au volant de sa voiture de location en sortant de Chennai. Elle se demanda ce qu’elle dirait à son père quand elle le verrait. Et lui ? Quelle serait sa réaction ?

Il lui fallut presque quatre heures pour faire le trajet. Même les embouteillages étaient incapables d’entamer sa sérénité. A vrai dire, le fait de se retrouver dans un pays qu’elle ne connaissait pas lui avait fait prendre un énorme recul. Elle n’était pas pressée. Elle ne se sentait pas impliquée dans tout ce qui se passait tout autour d’elle. Cela n’avait rien à voir avec le décalage horaire. Elle était agréablement surprise par ce détachement, cette légèreté qui l’animait depuis son départ de l’hôtel, en début d’après-midi.

Elle arriva en fin de journée. Elle commencerait ses recherches le lendemain. Son père avait-il survolé la colline Arunachala ? S’était-il rendu dans un ashram ? Une fois son sac à dos déposé à l’hôtel elle alla voir le fameux Mont Arunachala. Elle croisa un groupe qui revenait d’un satsang. La nuit tombait. Son épaule heurta celle d’un homme. Elle se tourna pour s’excuser et vit son père :

– Rebecca ? Que fais-tu ici ?

– On s’inquiétait, plus personne n’avait de nouvelles… Tu aurais pu prévenir au moins !

Elle éclata en sanglots. Elle ne pouvait contenir toute l’émotion qu’elle avait accumulée durant tous ces mois. Son père la prit dans ses bras :

– Tout va bien, ne t’inquiète pas

– Tu as survolé le Mont Arunachala au moins ?

– Je ne risque pas de l’oublier. Figure-toi qu’on a perdu une aile en plein vol.

– Mais tu ne t’es pas blessé ?

– Nous étions en ULM, encore à basse altitude. Nous sommes tombés dans un arbre. On a quand même eu un sacré coup de bol.

– On ?

– C’est Parvati qui pilotait, un vrai garçon manqué. Mais elle a tous ses brevets je te rassure. C’est la toile qui a lâché. Il paraît que ça arrive de temps en temps. Si tu veux on pourra faire un tour demain…

– Non, non. Ça ira merci

Il marchèrent vers le Mont Arunachala.

– A cette heure la vue est magnifique

– Pourquoi es-tu parti ?

– Vous aviez tous quitté la maison, qui était bien vide. C’est comme ça, c’est la vie. Je suis resté seul avec mes fantômes. Comme tu le sais, c’est à la nuit tombée qu’ils hantent les vivants. C’est difficile d’être un homme, c’est indicible. Tu n’as pas idée ce que cela comporte de luttes intérieures et invisibles, de défaites, de déceptions et de frustrations. Je sentais que je n’avais plus ma place et j’ai souhaité disparaître, échapper aux exigences de ce corps et de ce que lui impose le monde occidental. Alors j’ai fui. Depuis je me suis pardonné. J’ai compris que pour se retrouver, il faut bien commencer par se perdre

Ils passèrent devant un puits.

– Un proverbe africain dit que le vieil éléphant sait où trouver de l'eau. Arunachala est une source de lumière et je suis venu m’y abreuver

– Tu as lu pourtant tellement de livres

– J’ai compris beaucoup de choses intellectuellement mais ici je ressens quelque chose de fort, en compagnie de tous ces gens. Je n’ai rien appris de plus mais j’avais besoin de ce contact. C’est devenu une évidence maintenant. Avant je fuyais le vide et je m’épuisais à vouloir coûte que coûte remplir ma vie – à en profiter comme on dit. Maintenant le plein me paraît vide et le vide m’apporte la plénitude.

– Tu vas rester ici ?

– Non, je peux rentrer maintenant. J’ai compris que la lumière d’Arunachala rayonne en chacun de nous.

Le 6 août 2021

#short stories #writing #écriture

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gummaintenance · 1 year

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scotianostra · 3 years

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August 20th 1872, saw the death of the Scottish "the laureate of the nursery", William Miller.

Miller was born in Glasgow in 1810 and spent most of his boyhood in what is now the city’s Parkhead area. His ambition to become a surgeon was ended by serious illness and he was eventually apprenticed as a wood-turner. He became a skilled craftsman, developing a particular talent for cabinet-making. Early in his life he began writing poetry and children’s rhymes, mainly in the Scots language he used in everyday life.

His song Wee Willie Winkie along with other verse by Miller, first appeared in Whistle Binkie: Stories for the Fireside, a compendium of songs, in 1841, it went on to appear in further editions of that and many, many more publications since then. However it was not received well at first, indeed the editor of Whistle-Binkie,David Robertson was not keen on the grumpy figure personifying sleep and it was received with mixed opinions by Robertson’s friends. To settle the dissent, he dispatched the manuscript to R. M. Ballantyne of Edinburgh (who had himself contributed much to the publication and was the writer of over 100 books in his lifetime) who asserted, according to the Perthshire Advertiser that:

“There is not at this moment in the whole range of Scottish songs, anything more exquisite in its kind than that little Warlock of the Nursery, “Wee Willie Winkie.”

Miller suffered from ill health throughout his life and never managed to make a career solely as a poet and continued to work as a cabinet-maker and wood-turner for most of his life, most of the time from his own house, he did however have his fans, Lord Jeffrey, founder of the prestigious Edinburgh Review, being one, another was the Countess of Selkirk, and it was during one of his bouts of illness it became known she helped the erstwhile poet out when reported in The Glasgow Herald in 1846 that…:

“We learn that the Countess of Selkirk has transmitted to Mr David Robertson of this city, by the hands of the Rev.Mr Underwood of Kirkeudbright, the sum of £2, for behoof of William Miller, the author of “Wee Willie Winkie,” &c.; her Ladyship having been impressed with a favourable opinion of the poet from having perused his Nursery Rhymes. Mr Miller is so much improved, that he is now able to pursue his occupation of a wood-turner.”

In November 1871, an ulceration of the leg forced William give up his trade. Despite the increasing frailties of his body, his mind remained as sharp as ever and he continued to write and disseminate poetry, works which appeared in publications such as The Scotsman. Learning of his condition as an invalid, The Greenock Telegraph and Clyde Shipping Gazette on the 1st March 1872 urged its readers to furnish monetary contributions ‘for this deserving old poet:

WILLIAM MILLER THE POET.

“Perhaps the most delicious nursery song that has been written by a modern minstrel for the delectation of the “bairns” in these northern regions is the song of “Wee Willie Winkie.” We are sorry to hear that the writer of it has for a long time past been an invalid, and that he is in poor circumstances. William Miller has a strong claim on the public for some help to smooth his declining years. He is now upwards of sixty, and at his advanced age, afflicted as he is with serious disease of the limbs, there is no prospect of his ever being able again to resume work. By trade he is a wood turner, and he resides in Glasgow, of which city he is a native. One who knows him says that his heart seems still young, his mind still vigorous; but he feels his position irksome and his spirit galled that he cannot now, as formerly, earn by the swear of his brow the bread of independence.”

You have to love the language of the day used in these newspapers!

The following July, Miller stayed at Blantyre for a time, hoping that the town’s airs – the settlement was 8 miles from Glasgow – would reinvigorate him. The trip proved futile and he was soon returned to his son’s house in the city, having suffered a paralysis of the lower limbs. He passed away, destitute, at the age of 62 on the 20th August, 1872.

The poet subsequently received a number of obituary notices in the newspapers lamenting the loss of this Scottish talent. The account below, in The Greenock Telegraph and Clyde Shipping Gazette on the 22nd August, 1872), reports the grim news:

DEATH OF WILLIAM MILLER, THE POET

The first thing that brought him into public notice was the publication of the nursery song “Willie Winkie.” The MS. of this song was sent to Mr. Ballantine in Edinburgh, who gave it unqualified praise, as being the very best poem of its kind that he had ever seen. This led to the publication of the poem, and it at once attracted a large amount of attention. This was followed by a number of other pieces of a similar description, all of which were received with great favour, and led to the author’s acquaintance with Lord Jeffrey and other gentlemen of literary tastes.

The best of his nursery songs which have obtained for him the well-earned title of the Laureate of the nursery were all written before he was 36 years of age; but it was not till 1863 that, at the request of several friends, he collected together and published a small volume, entitled “Nursery Songs and other Poems.” It had a wide circulation and has earned for the author a reputation that will never decay.

Miller is buried in Tollcross Cemetery in a plot that does not bear his name a sad state of affairs that led to friends and admirers raising a memorial stone by public subscription and it stands in the Glasgow Necropolis, near the Bridge of Sighs.

In 2009, Glasgow City Council unveiled a tribute to the poet at his former dwelling, 4 Ark Lane in Dennistoun, erecting a bronze plaque on the wall of the Tennent’s Brewery which now sits on the site of William Miller’s house. A blue plaque in the Trongate also serves as a quirky tribute to his most famous creation, declaring that ‘Wee Willie Winkie was spotted here in his nightgown’ in 1841.

It is clear that, even now, William Miller’s pyjama-clad figure still urges children to get into their beds and sleep as a nursery song learnt and replayed the world over

Here is the Scots version of ‘Wee Willie Winkie,’ a rhyme anglicised very soon after its publication:

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the toon,

Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-goon,

Tirling at the window, cryin’ at the lock,

Are the weans in their bed, for it’s now ten o’clock?

Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye coming ben?

The cat’s singing grey thrums to the sleeping hen,

The dog’s spelder’d on the floor, and disna gie a cheep,

But here’s a waukrife laddie that winna fa’ asleep.

Onything but sleep, you rogue, glow’ring like the mune,

Rattling in an airn jug wi’ an airn spoone,

Rumbling, tumbling round about, crawing like a cock,

Skirlin’ like a kenna-what, wauk’ning sleeping fock.

Hey, Willie Winkie – the wean’s in a creel,

Wambling aff a bodie’s knee like a very eel,

Ruggin’ at the cat’s lug, and raveling a’ her thrums-

Hey, Willie Winkie – see, there he comes!’

Wearied is the mither that has a stoorie wean,

A wee stumple stoussie, that canna rin his lane,

That has a battle aye wi’ sleep before he’ll close an ee

But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.

#Scotland #scottish #poet #cabinet makers #history #glasgow

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awhilesince · 4 years

Text

Monday, 20 December 1830

12 5/60

Fahrenheit 37° at 7 1/2 and eve-dropping morning and dirty streets – out at 7 55/60 – walked as far as the muette gate of the bois de B– (Boulogne) and back at 10 – musing all the way not very happily this getting into society plan will not answer and yet genes me I have not money enough how get a companion to suit me and how go without one we all have our troubles but I like most others have made mine myself no difficulties when it ravelled with Mrs Barlow now I must have man and maid hardly know any body and met know too many for dependence – Dressed – breakfast at 10 40/60 in 3/4 hour – paid George his wages – settled Cameron’s book – paid my aunt for letters and newspapers in my absence – wrote the above of today till 12 10/60 – then till near 2, wrote (broad black edged 1/2 sheet smallish sired note paper) 3 pages very nearly, very small and close to Miss Pickford, and 4 pages to Miss Hobart – to the former to say I knew not where to direct to her, and was almost afraid to write at all but hoped the people at Geneva would forward the letter – received one from her at Toulouse 30 October but ‘have unluckily mislaid it, and …. my memory is not at all clear about what you asked me’ – did not write in October because waited my return home and not even then (in October) sure whether a letter would find her at Geneva or not – got back on the 14th – annoyed to find a 2nd letter from her had been set after me which I had written about in vain – found the small packet costing 10/. brought by nobody knew whom – If she ever received this note to answer it as soon as she can, and tell me where to find her – In

‘mourning for my deeply regretted friend Miss Mac L– (MacLean) ….. Had my mind been less engrossed with this affliction, I should have written as I am writing now, some weeks sooner –’ found my aunt marvelously well – I left Paris 20th of July, was away 4 months – to have hasted my return, would have been quite useless; and my aunt earnestly begged me not to think of it – we first heard of the ordonnances at Bordeaux, and first heard of the events that followed them at Pau – we spent the summer among the Pyrennees, and returned by Marseilles, Toulon, Hières, the Rhone, and Burgundy – I do not pretend to give you political news – the fate of the ex-ministers will soon be determined – a great many people are greatly alarmed – I cannot include myself among the numbers – I am too uncertain of their getting this to care to write more – my aunt begs her kind regards – ever, my dear Miss Pickford, affectionately and very truly yours AL– Anne Lister’

In my letter to V– (Vere) say the barèges went by the duchess de Dino

‘It delights me to find you wanted such a thing; but frightens me to wonder whether you will really like it, or not – ….. the weather here is become severe, tho’ thawing today – Fahrenheit was 2 degrees below the freezing point yesterday when I went out to take my walk to the bois de Boulogne at half past seven in the morning! I fear this is more hardi than the other – much other is still all talk, for I have had too much of one thing or other to keep me at home, to allow of my luxuriating in literally ease at the jardin – But walk I must – to walk is to me a tiresome, an abominable, an imperious necessity – was that I could sit still, and be quiet! ‘tis sometimes all I wish, till schemes of Travelling wind up my inclinations to a higher pitch – I am askamed to say, I feel a sad blank – Have you got the picture? You know I am very anxious to have it well copied –

from freezing point to ashamed to say inclusive forms the whole of the second page at 1 40/60 sent off my letter to ‘William Duffin Esquire Micklegate York, Angleterre’ 3 pages and long ends and under the seal all, but particularly the ends, very small and close writing – written on Thurday and Friday all, but a few lines mentioning the death of poor Miss Mac L– (MacLean), on the subject of my journey – amusingly done enough – yesterday and this morning my aunt copied all but the ends and under the seal which I did myself in about half hour just before sending it off – at 3 40/60 sent off my letter to ‘Miss Hobart the honorable Lady Stuart’s, Whitehall’ and to ‘Mademoiselle Mademoiselle Pickford, Chemin des Philosophes no. 282, Plain Palais, Genève’ – and at 3 40/60 had done the journal so far of today – dawdling over 1 thing or other till 4 40/60 then Till 6 at Italian Translating it into French – dinner at 6 10/60 – read the paper –

came to my room at 8 1/2 – did a little more at Italian – asleep for 1/2 hour – coffee at 9 1/2 – then in the drawing room till 10 3/4 (i. e. 1 1/4 hour) making out rough draft of the 1st 8 days of this volume – rained almost all the way as I went this morning andsome part of the way returning – afterwards tolerably fine day – Fahrenheit 39° now at 11 at which hour came to my room – wrote out rough draft of 9, 10 and 11 March of this volume till 11 20/60

(SH:7/ML/E/13/0126) (SH:7/ML/E/13/0127)

#annelistercodebreaker #annelister #paris december 1830

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everything-is-broken-here · 4 years

Note

Uranus, aldebaran, casseiopia, gemini, cigar galaxy and supernova for the space ask!

Uranus: What’s your hobby? Isolation has made me realise that I don’t actually have any hobbies that don’t involve drinking lots of alcohol or eating with my mates hahaha

Aldebaran: What’s something you care desperately about? If we are talking about things that aren’t people/pets, then the thing I care about the most is my studies. I put so much of my effort into it and spend so much money trying to put together amazing resources for when I’m teaching. Everyone who knows me will agree that I dedicate so much time and effort towards it.

Cassiopeia: Favourite book? Ohh I’ve talked about it so much on here. It’s a trilogy by J.D. Barker called The Fourth Monkey. It’s a psychological thriller and it has so many twists and turns. I got both of my parents into the series and they were obsessed with it too.

Gemini: Favourite song? At the moment it’s a tie between Just Like Me by The Amity Affliction and Trouble Is by All Time Low. But honestly, my favourite song changes so frequently. These are just my favourites this week.

Cigar Galaxy: How’s your flirting skills? It depends on the person tbh. If I’m interested in the person then I have some mad flirting skills. I’m naturally quite a playful person, but if I’m not interested then I won’t put much effort in.

Supernova: What’s one thing you want to do before you die? Travelling is probably the biggest thing! There are so many place I would like to go!!

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ambroseffxiv · 5 years

Text

Selection: “Ah, so you’ve decided to call on me..”

Job: Conduit (Tank/DPS)

Weapons: When tanking, uses a greataxe; When DPS, has no weapons, but uses SMN/SCH animations for spells.

AI Behavior: When tanking, Ambrose rushes the closest enemy, using overpower and steel cyclone to pick up the group. He focuses mostly on keeping aggro rather than maximum DPS, and has a self-heal/personal clemency that he will use if the healer lets him dip below 30% HP. He will stand in some AOEs, even knockbacks, and use his gap closer if he’s pushed far away. When tanking bosses, he behaves the same, but will use holmgang if he drops below 30%. When DPS, Ambrose will use a summon, shown as a buff to himself in a similar shape to tank stances or aetherflow, with a primal icon. Depending on the primal, Ambrose will use abilities similar to egis, additions being Leviathan, Ramuh, etc. Depending on the summon, he will either behave like a melee DPS or caster DPS. Will not summon Phoenix, but will summon Bahamut, and become a demi-Bahamut for a brief amount of time, after which he will be stunned for 7 seconds. He will use the LB if his partner is another caster, but allows his partner the LB if they’re any other class.

Battle Lines: Tank: “Back off.” - Starting Attack 1 “Watch it, you.” - Starting Attack 2 “Didn’t anyone teach you some manners?” - Using gap closer after initial pull “Bastard-! That fucking hurt!” - Below 30%/Use self-heal 1 “Shiva help me!” - Below 30%/Use self-heal 2 “Oh, now you’ve done it.” - Below 30%/Use holmgang “I-I..Won’t fail.” - Below 30%/Use holmgang

DPS: “Stop looking at me like that!” - Starting Attack 1 “Come on; I don’t have all day.” - Starting Attack 2 “I’ll make you wish you were never born!” - Summon Bahamut “You’d best duck.” - Use Specialty Attack

Limit Break: “Brace yourselves!” - Tank LB1 “Don’t you die on me!” - Tank LB2 “You’ve forced my hand, you miserable waste of space.” - Caster LB1 “I’ll eat you alive.” - Caster LB2 Maniacal Laughter - Caster LB3

KO’d: "N-No, wait, I’m not..” - Variation 1 “Ren..? Where are you..” - Variation 2

Revived: "I.. Hate that spell.” - Variation 1 “Don’t worry about me; Keep moving.” - Variation 2

Tagged by: @an-honest-waltz

Tagging: I’m late to this, so ill just.. @eastern-eccentric and if you wanna show me yours tag me!!

woops i almost forgot: how to make your own banner!

Bonus Round: Dungeon dialogue! Under cut for spoilers for every dungeon in Shadowbringers!

Holminster Switch: Entered Dungeon: “Even the animals..? Were this not so dire, I’d take notes..” First boss: “I can practically smell the light.” Second boss: “Odd.. They don’t seem the typical eater.” Third boss: “Much bigger than I’d anticipated..

Dohn Mheg: Entered Dungeon: “I’ve decided I dislike the Fuath.” Through the Flower Path: “Beautiful.. Even as an illusion, the flowers are lovely..” First boss: “..It’s a giant frog.” Second boss: “Oh, what a lovely little creature; Were I not certain you aren’t completely real, I’d ask to keep you..” Third boss: “A lovely castle with ugly residents..”

Qitana Ravel: Entered Dungeon: “Now this, this is my style.” First boss: “What I wouldn’t give to take notes here!” Entered cave: “And an expansive network of caves.. Not my cup of tea, but fascinating..” Second boss: “While the beast before us is certainly concerning, something about these walls..” Rak’tika falls: “Ah, fresh air..” Third boss: “Sin Eaters always ruin even the loveliest views..”

Malikah’s Well: Entered Dungeon: “Eugh, dust and grime everywhere!” First boss: “Is that.. How did it..” Second boss: “I’m starting to believe that Lightwardens warp reality; Either that, or I’m suffering from an affliction.” Third boss: “These get progressively more horrifying..”

Mt. Gulg: Entered Dungeon: “I will stand with you, wherever you may go.” First boss: “If it knew better, it’d be getting out of the way..” Third boss: “This is all that stands between us and Vauthry!”

Amaurot: Entered Dungeon: “This.. This calamity..” First boss: “How many suffered then..? How many will suffer to..” Midway to second boss: “Do you think that they knew what would become of them now? Scattered to the winds?” Final zone entered: “We stand on the edge of the heavens..” Final boss: “We may never prove ourselves to a man who has had everything; but I will not go down without a fight.”

#notes on ambrose #sorry i took forever dsgsfd #anyway hi hello if anyone was curious #the offcolor parts are bc my photoshop started glitching out and i kind of gave up on fixing it

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ysabelmystic · 7 years

Note

Skulduggery pleasant for the fandom thing!

Favorite Male Character: Skulduggery!

Favorite Female Character: Valkyrie

Least Favorite Character: It’s a toss-up between Ravel, Tenebrae, and the reflection (I refuse to use her name).

Favorite Ship: ...thrashgrace. And Tanguine

Favorite Friendship: I platonically ship Valduggery. Gracious and Donegan too.

Favorite Quote: “I need you to cure me of this cursed affliction!” “I cannot cure stupidity” “...I meant being a zombie”. Sick burn, Nye. Sick burn.

Worst Character Death (if any): Worst as in most effectively upsetting: Ravel’s little backstabbing move made me just kinda put down the book and stare at the ceiling for a very long time. Worst as in what-the-heck-was-that-for: [que Resurrection SPOILER], Finbar. He didn’t get a proper death scene. I didn’t get to see him again...

This made me so happy you have no idea Moment: China casually mentioned that Gracious and Donegan were still alive. The relief and the happiness were maxing out so hard that I almost screamed.

Saddest Moment: Thinking about it, it’s probably when Val had to kill Alice because it really messed her up.

Favorite Location: Inside the Bentley.

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wereshrew-admirer · 11 months

Text

Thinking about the Afflictions..

The Five Afflictions: A group of “monstrous” beings that haunt the dark corners of Palisade. They have been named as follows:

Dust a.k.a Pride’s Mirror a.k.a. The Looking Glass

Refrain a.k.a. Yesterday’s Reprise a.k.a. The Ghastly Chorus

Ravel a.k.a. Labyrinth’s Thread a.k.a. The Hedge Maze

Cleave a.k.a. Whetstone’s Opposite a.k.a. The Sanguine Hatchet

Oversight a.k.a. Hell’s Facade a.k.a. The Empty Garden

The Five Divines that collaborated with Palisade:

Antiquity

Reflection

Logic

Decisiveness

Affection

Seems like Refrain = Antiquity, but who are the rest?

very loose guesses:

Dust a.k.a Pride’s Mirror a.k.a. The Looking Glass -> Reflection (obvious)

Refrain a.k.a. Yesterday’s Reprise a.k.a. The Ghastly Chorus -> Antiquity

Ravel a.k.a. Labyrinth’s Thread a.k.a. The Hedge Maze -> Logic (following a thread of logic, getting lost in a maze of logic, a literal neuron in the sky)

Cleave a.k.a. Whetstone’s Opposite a.k.a. The Sanguine Hatchet -> Affection (cleave is both to cling to and to tear apart, the corruption of an affectionate relationship might look like miscommunications, crimes of passion, violence)

Oversight a.k.a. Hell’s Facade a.k.a. The Empty Garden -> Decisiveness (the illusion of choice, the illusion of confidence in a choice? i could see logic for similar reasons... or affection could work too if reading the names as references to parasocial types of affection.. but leaning towards decisiveness via process of elimination if nothing else)

#palisade 13 spoilers #palisade spoilers #the five afflictions #speculation #also look yes i would absolutely lose my shit if coming right off of sangfielle they made Cleave the affliction of Affection #chine in the fucking tunnel of love projecting a vision of a world they're in love with A_W i need to have a word with you...........etc #yeah yeah yeah these are very simple readings but i am a simple animal

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wallpaperpainting · 4 years

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This Is Why Patong Is So Famous! | Patong

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scotianostra · 5 years

Photo

August 20th 1872, saw the death of the Scottish poet William Miller.

Miller was born in Glasgow in 1810 and spent most of his boyhood in what is now the city's Parkhead area. His ambition to become a surgeon was ended by serious illness and he was eventually apprenticed as a wood-turner. He became a skilled craftsman, developing a particular talent for cabinet-making. Early in his life he began writing poetry and children’s rhymes, mainly in the Scots language he used in everyday life.

“There is not at this moment in the whole range of Scottish songs, anything more exquisite in its kind than that little Warlock of the Nursery, “Wee Willie Winkie.”

In November 1871, an ulceration of the leg forced William to cease his trade. Despite the increasing frailties of his body, his mind remained as sharp as ever and he continued to write and disseminate poetry, works which appeared in publications such as The Scotsman. Learning of his condition as an invalid, The Greenock Telegraph and Clyde Shipping Gazette on the 1st March 1872 urged its readers to furnish monetary contributions ‘for this deserving old poet:

WILLIAM MILLER THE POET.

You have to love the language of the day used in these newspapers!

DEATH OF WILLIAM MILLER, THE POET

“The death is announced of William Miller, the nursery poet. He was born in Glasgow in August, 1810. He was early apprenticed to a wood turner, and by diligent application to business made himself one of the best workmen of his craft; and even in his later years there were few who could equal him in the quality of his work. It is, however, as a poet that he is known to fame. In his early youth he published several pieces in the Day and other newspapers; but from the fact that no record of these productions was observed, it is impossible to know when they issued from his pen. The first thing that brought him into public notice was the publication of the nursery song “Willie Winkie.” The MS. of this song was sent to Mr. Ballantine in Edinburgh, who gave it unqualified praise, as being the very best poem of its kind that he had ever seen. This led to the publication of the poem, and it at once attracted a large amount of attention. This was followed by a number of other pieces of a similar description, all of which were received with great favour, and led to the author’s acquaintance with Lord Jeffrey and other gentlemen of literary tastes. The best of his nursery songs which have obtained for him the well-earned title of the Laureate of the nursery were all written before he was 36 years of age; but it was not till 1863 that, at the request of several friends, he collected together and published a small volume, entitled “Nursery Songs and other Poems.” It had a wide circulation and has earned for the author a reputation that will never decay.

William Miller is buried in Tollcross Cemetery in a plot that does not bear his name a sad state of affairs that led to friends and admirers raising a memorial stone by public subscription and it stands in the Glasgow Necropolis, near the Bridge of Sighs.

It is clear that, even now, William Miller’s pyjama-clad figure still urges children to get into their beds and sleep as a nursery song learnt and replayed the world over

Here is the Scots version of ‘Wee Willie Winkie,’ a rhyme anglicised very soon after its publication:

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the toon,

Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-goon,

Tirling at the window, cryin’ at the lock,

Are the weans in their bed, for it’s now ten o’clock?

Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye coming ben?

The cat’s singing grey thrums to the sleeping hen,

The dog’s spelder’d on the floor, and disna gie a cheep,

But here’s a waukrife laddie that winna fa’ asleep.

Onything but sleep, you rogue, glow’ring like the mune,

Rattling in an airn jug wi’ an airn spoone,

Rumbling, tumbling round about, crawing like a cock,

Skirlin’ like a kenna-what, wauk’ning sleeping fock.

Hey, Willie Winkie – the wean’s in a creel,

Wambling aff a bodie’s knee like a very eel,

Ruggin’ at the cat’s lug, and raveling a’ her thrums-

Hey, Willie Winkie – see, there he comes!’

Wearied is the mither that has a stoorie wean,

A wee stumple stoussie, that canna rin his lane,

That has a battle aye wi’ sleep before he’ll close an ee

But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.

#Scotland #scottisih #poet #History

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alluringreveriesblog · 5 years

Text

THE NUMBER

2019,the number of years we thought it was important to mark our existence. 2019, the number of years we felt it was worthy enough to know how long we have survived and how much more we shall survive.2019, the number of years human race lived in sheer failure and impeccable success. 2019 isn’t the number; it is our number. The number defines us;the number rules over us.If you don’t know already,the number isn’t exactly very benevolent.

The number is all about competition and survival of the fittest. The number doesn’t hesitate to be malicious to those who don’t meet up to its expectations; but that again is what makes it so ostentatious.

However, I believe that it is all to overrated. We care too much . We devote ourselves too much to have the number blandish us. We indulge ourselves too much to own the number

Then again it is only part 1 of our inconsolable perspective; part 2 is yet to introduce itself, and it usually does by the name ‘consequence’ . Like we’ve got too less on a plate already, it does a splendid job at augmenting our worry and despair. It makes us agonize about itself constantly with its deafening tumult; it is diabolically narcissistic in that kind of way.

If you have taken a moment to think about it, you will probably wonder “Why all of this even bother me in the first place? There must be something ornate about it!”

Unequivocally, to some extent, I do have an opinion about it. It always begins with our clumsy mind. We do everything in our power to avoid pain. We are pathetic enough to choose a way that ends up nowhere rather than taking the bumpy road to Paradise. Everybody wants a rose garden, but no one wants touch the thorns while grooming it. Everybody wants to paint the world’s most beautiful vase, but no one wants to soil their hands for the mould. Avoidance of affliction is a form of affliction itself. The avoidance of bad idiosyncrasy is a bad idiosyncrasy itself. This is where it all began.

We need to make peace with the fact that pain is an inevitable part of life. It never does really end. There is no existence of a ‘happily ever after’ in anyone’s life; so, it’s better if we graciously greet it with a cup of coffee.

So, what is this imply? Stop looking for peace; for it is all imaginary. Stop seeking for a ravishing life; for ironically, surviving pain is the most ravelling thing you could ever experience. Stop searching for your staggering traits; they will show up sooner than you expect. Stop pushing yourself into things that give you anxiety, for it takes away what credence you have in yourself.

I say, let the midnight oil keep burning: you don’t have to give a damn to everything! The water needs to be under the bridge! Be inexorable,so much that even the number turns amiable to you. Be so aesthetic with opinions and thinking, that people should take time just to listen to you. Detriment yourself, but also make sure you heal yourself soon enough; that’s how you become trifle to the number!

~ Siya Mulge

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gailhinder6298-blog · 6 years

Text

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rinasitorus · 7 years

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An Interview with Jean-Efflam Bavouzet

“Life is not a straight line.” primephonic’s Rina Sitorus speaks to the gregarious French pianist Jean-Efflam Bavouzet about his not-your-everyday musical journey in a very engaging and horizon-expanding conversation.

How did your journey start? You chose piano when you already had your diploma from the Paris Conservatoire. Were you not ‘too late’ to make the decision after studying oboe, percussion even some electronic music?

I was a student of Pierre Sancan at the Paris Conservatoire. Not only did he give me precious information about the approach of the works of Ravel, Haydn, Beethoven, etc, he also taught me how to practice and to enjoy practising. He had a very rational approach of piano playing. He was also very open minded, for example regarding jazz and improvisation. Back in the 80s you could not play two chords of jazz, but Sancan was different...

I remember when we were alone in the class, he was even improvising himself. At times we even had two-piano improvisations. Not always, but sometimes. That was really a turning point for me. And 15 years later, I met this wonderful late (Hungarian) pianist Zoltán Kocsis. Having to play a thousand of concerts with him has also shaped my piano playing.

Although… I didn’t have the feeling that I had to make choices. I was definitely not thinking in terms of career. For example, I learned to play Prokofiev No. 5 because I adore it. When my colleagues were learning Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky or Prokofiev No. 3, not only because those are great works, but also because audience like to have them performed, I was learning the pieces I adored. If i had a chance to play them, fine, if I didn’t, fine (chuckles). Just as I dared to play Stockhausen’s Klavierstück for my debut in New York and Paris back in 1987, when even for that time Stockhausen was considered as very avant-garde.

Such a nonchalant approach, do you think it will still work in today’s classical music scene?

It is true that the situation has changed now for young musicians, it gets tougher and tougher every time. The environment is very competitive these days. Yet, sometimes I think young pianists are almost too focused on career or thinking in commercial terms.

Now that I’m busy with concerts and recordings, I still think to myself every morning how lucky I am. I have never planned my career too meticulously. Not at all, not at all.

You were Sir Georg Solti’s (Chicago Symphony Orchestra Music Director 1969- 1991) ‘latest discovery’. Could you share with us how it happened?

Again, it is interesting because we can speak a bit about the luck factor in life. I think everybody who is really successful in any field, has to do with pure luck. But, in order to get the pure luck, you need to work very hard and you definitely have to have the right kind of mind.

When I met Sir Georg Solti by pure luck in a shop in Switzerland and when he was coming to Paris a couple of months later and asked me to play for him, I jumped on it, I made sure I was mentally ready for it. What I mean by that, is that the luck factor has a lot to do with speaking to other people as well. If you were for example an introverted type of person, your chances of having such luck in your life are reduced.

Back to Solti, it was incredible. Five years before (in 1992), I was at the Esther Honens Competition in Calgary, which I won. The director of the competition was Andrew Webber. Andrew asked me, where do you see your career in five years from now, and I was absolutely speechless, I had absolutely no plan and no clue. Who would’ve guessed that I’d be playing for Sir George Solti five years on from that time? (chuckles).

I played for Solti several times in Paris and at his home in London. Each time it felt like a master class, an incredible exchange. Then in June 1997, Solti agreed to add me as his soloist for concerts in January 1998 that include Bartok’s Piano Concerto No.3. It was so sad that the maestro died in September. I never got to be on stage with him, but I had the great fortune of spending many musical afternoons with him. It was enriching: personally, musically and also for my career. You know, I’m very proud, his widow gave me one of his two tailcoats. I’m not wearing it so much anymore, because Emanuel Ungaro designed a wonderful costume for me, but I still cherish it with all my heart.

No meticulous planning, meeting the maestro by pure luck, has it always been so carefree for you the whole time?

Here is the funny thing, please always remember that life is not a straight line. I was struggling with functional dystonia for three years when my right hand was afflicted. If you are, for example an athlete, you have an army of physiotherapists looking after you every day, but for us musicians it is different. At least for me at that time it was. I was incredibly fortunate to meet a person who could cure me, Philippe Chamagne. It was difficult to face, also mentally. I just started my career, I just started to join competitions, then I realized I couldn't play two octaves in a row, haha what do you do?

So as Solti always told me, nothing will happen when you give up, it is the only thing which is absolutely sure. And there’s always room at the top, there’s always room for excellence. So I chose not to give up.

What motivated you at that time?

Seriously, I was ready to give up entirely. What's the point? In this case, you have to search deep inside yourself, to see what motivates you. What I was sure about, if I ever overcome this challenge, was that I would become a better pianist. So I worked very very hard to get better.

After that, I could play 4 or 5 Prokofiev concertos in two nights in 2000! I was not even tired. I would be now, of course…(chuckles).

Have you become more critical towards yourself after all these years?

Worse! In one sense it’s a good sign, but in another sense it leads to a lot of frustration. Music is an endless search. It can always be more beautiful, there’s no limit. The proof is, if a composer so satisfied with his work, he’ll stop composing. On another level, it’s the same with us musicians, we want to be closer to the intention and to reveal to the audience all this beauty that we can see, which the public not yet can see, so we have to transmit them.

Do you prefer live performance or recording?

Pierre Boulez told me that every concert is a mini miracle. Because literally anything can happen. I wouldn’t call it a communion because it makes it sounds so religious, but when so many people are intrigued, moved, or challenged by this particular organisation of sound in time, which is what music is, the power is very strong.

On the other hand, I also like very much the perfection you have in the recording environment. I love recording process, I really follow it from A to Z. I listen to all takes whenever time allows. I also like the intimacy of a recording studio. The intimacy you have with the music, with the composer. Of course there’s no contact with people, but also in a way, you play for nobody but you play for everybody. Because even more today than in any other time, most people listen to music alone with their wonderful headphones.

For example, the music of Debussy fits very well in recording scene, because Debussy himself said that his music should be shared between four eyes only. It can easily be lost or destroyed in a big concert hall, because it is as if somebody was whispering to you, you need to hear all the details.

Do you still feel the difference in the audience in different places?

A great concert is never without a great audience, and they all express themselves differently. In the Netherlands, everybody stands up. In Japan, everybody is incredibly quiet, they clap like crazy at the end. In the US, if they like something, they shout bravo and make a standing ovation. In Brazil, when they are happy, they shout your name!

Could you tell us your most memorable audience reaction on your show?

I remember one time when I was playing in the US, the 12th Debussy Etude. I was explaining a bit to the audience about the work. One of the etudes is based on tonalities coming from different distances. It is a very quiet piece, very slow, nothing virtuoso. I remember, when I played, people were clapping. It was the first and only time that people clapped before the piece was finished. Then I realized, people clapped because they finally could make the connection with my explanation.

Another memorable thing, when I was in Seattle, I was playing Prokofiev’s Concerto No. 4, it’s not a very successful piece for the audience, as most people are just lost after it's finished. But I really like it very much. It was after their football team had won the Superbowl. The orchestra kindly gave me a jersey signed by all members of the orchestra. So I played the concerto, I bowed and I came back on stage wearing the jersey, and everybody went wild. I said to myself, savour this moment, because never again you’ll have such a warm applause for your Prokofiev No. 4 Concerto (laughs).

You can’t be separated from your spectacular recordings of Debussy. Why the complete piano works of Debussy?

It is also something interesting, because it seems very normal for everybody to assume that because I’m French, I have affinity with French music. This is completely wrong. When I was learning with Cansan, I was close to Ravel, not to Debussy. I had the feeling that I missed something. The greatness of Debussy was hidden for so long from me. Only much later in life I finally got the lightning effect. And from that moment on I worked a lot on Debussy. I got emotional and I felt like I had so much to catch up on.

You are recording exclusively for Chandos. What’s coming up next in the series?

I’m in the middle of the complete Haydn sonatas, I have another six albums to record. I just finished the Beethoven sonatas. We’ll be starting a new Mozart series with Manchester Camerata. Actually I just received the second album today.

And how was it?

Hahaha, can’t you tell I am in a very good mood? It’s really very nice.

What can we expect from the Mozart and Haydn albums?

This Haydn volume 6 is special. I stopped between volume 5 and 6 for a long time because I wanted to concentrate on finishing the Beethoven sonatas. Altogether, the late Beethoven sonatas are in a completely different language than the Haydn sonatas. So when I came back to work on it, I came with a new enthusiasm. I hope you can hear the enthusiasm and the freshness.

With Mozart, what we are trying to do with the conductor Gàbor Takàcs-Nagy is to bring as much operatic character as possible. As if there is some mini operatic drama in the music. We played with a reduced orchestra. The Manchester Camerata was playing like little devils. They had to match the power of a full orchestra. They played with such intensity and I was happy to hear the result this morning.

….And in spring there’ll be the Greek concerto, with the wonderful English conductor Edward Gardner and the Bergen Philharmonic Orchestra. And there might be some other solo albums. I’ll also record Beethoven concertos with the Swedish Chamber Orchestra where I will play and conduct the orchestra.

Jean-Efflam Bavouzet in conversation with Primephonic's Rina Sitorus.

#Jean-Efflam Bavouzet Chandos complete Debussy recordings

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