Jacques Prevert Archives - Los Cuadernos de Julia

Quotes: Jacques Prevert on Happiness

Even if happiness forgets you a little bit, never completely forget about it.

Jacques Prévert, a French poet and writer.

And So, Seven Years Later…

… I‘m finally in Moscow, my native city. I’ve just pondered on the power of written goals, and those of you who’ve been reading this blog since 2006 might remember that one of my New Year’s reservations that I first publicised here at the turn of 2006/2007 was to go to my place of birth. Since then the goal has never left the radar but for one reason or another it was being delayed time and again. Maybe I was sharing the goal with the wrong people, I don’t know. The fact is, this year I\ve written down that I would go to Moscow in October, and just as I began to feel that I needed to delay the trip, Fate stepped in, and voila, I’m in Moscow now.

This reminds me of a saying by Jacques Prevert:

Even if happiness forgets about you a little bit, never completely forget about happiness.

Same for goals. Accept setbacks and delays but keep pushing, and one day you will get there. If in doubt, consult me.

I’ve not been out yet really, as the flight turned to be a bit more excruciating than even I expected. I left Manchester on a late warm and sunny afternoon, only to arrive into a typically Mancunian rain over Moscow. After all, I’ve been joking for a few years that my two countries swapped weathers. Upon landing and collecting my luggage, I was greeted by several taxi drivers who offer private services to visitors. Since 1990s taxi has been a strange kind of business: although there are certified companies in Moscow, a lot of work is still carried out by ordinary drivers. The ones at the airport were trading with all the best traits of direct sales technique: broad smile, good eye contact, polite rather than excited tone of voice. Eventually I asked one of them about the terms of trade with the airport. As one would expect, airport has a share in the drivers’ profit.

What has surprised me the most until now is the fact that when I look at my photos I genuinely don’t see much difference between me at 17-20 and now. Perhaps, those who cannot phathom my age (which isn’t 55, anyway!) are right. Yet when I look at my mother, grandma, and dad I see the changes, quite drramatic. Considering that my parents are the mirror in which I look to see myself, I am reminded of Dorian Gray story. But maybe a lot of us are reminded of it when we spend so much time away from those near to us.

Wonders and Love: From Taj Mahal to Jacques Prevert

S’il n’y avait que sept merveilles du ‘monde’ sur la terre, cela ne vaudrait pas la peine d’y aller voir (J. Prevert) – If there were only seven wonders of the ‘world’ on Earth, it wouldn’t be worth going to see them.

Il n’y a pas cinq ou six merveilles dans le monde, mais une seule: l’amour (J. Prevert). – There are no five or six wonders in the world, but the one and only: Love.

A part of this post was written on 24 August 2006; another part – on 29 November 2009. They say that Prevert who is one of my favourite poets shared a discreeet but profound love with the woman in his life. This shines forth in Prevert’s poetry, and is something I absolutely share.

The photo is, of course, that of Taj Mahal, a magnificent and inspiring mausoleum erected in memory of the beloved wife of the Mughal emperor. Here is a text from the official tourism website:

Mumtaz Mahal was the third wife of the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan. It was in her memory that he built the magnificent monument of love and romance, known as the “Taj Mahal”. Mumtaz Mahal, a Muslim Persian Princess, was originally known as Arjumand Banu Begum. So enthralling was her beauty that Shah Jahan (then Prince Khurram) fell in love with her at the first sight. Their marriage was solemnized five years later and from then on, started one of the most popular love stories of the world. Although she was the third wife of Shah Jahan, but at the same time, she was also his favorite. He even bestowed her with the name Mumtaz Mahal and the highest honor of the land – the royal seal, Mehr Uzaz.

Mumtaz Mahal became an inseparable companion of her husband till her death. She even accompanied him on his military endeavors and provided him with her counsel. Infact, she was a pillar of support, love and comfort to the emperor. Mumtaz Mahal gave birth to fourteen children of Shah Jahan. It was during the birth of their 14th child only that she left for the holy abode. It is said that she obtained a promise from Shah Jahan that he will build world’s most beautiful monument in her memory. Whether this was true or not, but, Shah Jahan did build a magnificent monument as a tribute to her life. Today, it counts amongst the Seven Wonders of the World and is known as “The Taj Mahal”.

To learn more about the monument, go to Taj Mahal official website. The photo credit belongs to Prakhar.

Dejeuner du matin. La variation masculine

As you know, Jacques Prévert is one of my favourite poets. It has just occurred to me that his Déjeuner du matin could be retold by a man, and the idea has captivated me so that I decided to see if I could rewrite the poem in such way. This is what came about so far.

Déjeuner du matin (Jacques Prévert)

Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler

Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder

Il s’est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis son manteau de pluie
Parce qu’il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder

Et moi j’ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j’ai pleuré.

Déjeuner du matin. La variation masculine (Julia Shuvalova)

Elle a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Elle a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Elle a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Elle a tourné
Elle a bu le café au lait
Et elle a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler

Après tout ça
Elle s’est levée
Elle est allée
Vers le miroir pour se peigner
Elle a rougi
Ses lèvres
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder

Elle a soupiré
Elle a mis
Son manteau long
Elle a pris son sac
Parce qu’elle travaillait
Et elle est partie
Avec le sac
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder

Et moi je suis rentré
Dans la cuisine
Et j’ai fumé.

As you will notice, I didn’t rewrite the first stanza of Prévert’s poem – I wanted to start with exactly the same mis-en-scene, and then just to make a female the object of our attention.

Image credits: Henri Matisse, Lorette à la tasse de café (1917) via Clarity. After After Coffee by m.mogall.

Les Feuilles de la Chanson

Some of you may instantly guess to which two French songs alludes the title of this post. These are Les Feuilles Mortes by Jacques Prevert and Joseph Kosma and La Chanson de Prevert by Serge Gainsbourg. The original song was performed by Yves Montand and became one of his finest songs. Gainsbourg’s song was written in 1961 as a response and an hommage to Prevert’s talent of a poet, by including many a reference to the original song, to tell his Gainsbourg’s own story of separated lovers. The reminiscences begin in the first line, which is the same in both songs.

So, in addition to the translations below you can check out this version Les Feuilles Mortes (full track!) on Last.fm, along with C’est Si Bon, La Vie en Rose, and Sous le Ciel de Paris. The video is Gainsbourg’s live performance of La Chanson de Prevert (Prevert’s Song) in April 1961 on Discorama, very dramatic and moving. I included the texts of both songs and my English translations; the full text of Les Feuilles Mortes is provided by Patrick Auzat-Magne.

Oh! je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes
Des jours heureux où nous étions amis.
En ce temps-là la vie était plus belle,
Et le soleil plus brûlant qu’aujourd’hui.
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle.
Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié…
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,
Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi
Et le vent du nord les emporte
Dans la nuit froide de l’oubli.
Tu vois, je n’ai pas oublié
La chanson que tu me chantais.

C’est une chanson qui nous ressemble.
Toi, tu m’aimais et je t’aimais
Et nous vivions tous deux ensemble,
Toi qui m’aimais, moi qui t’aimais.
Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment,
Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit
Et la mer efface sur le sable
Les pas des amants désunis.

Oh ! So much would I like to you remember
The happy days when we were together.
At the time life was more beautiful,
And the sun was more dazzling than now.
The dead leaves are gathering at the shovel.
You see, I didn’t forget…
The dead leaves are gathering at the shovel,
And the souvenirs, and the regrets also.
And the northern wind takes them
Into the cold night of the oblivion.
You see, I didn’t forget
The song you sang to me.

This song is like us.
You loved me, and I loved you.
We lived together,
You love me, and I loved you.
But the night separates those who love each other
So softly, without making a noise.
And the sea washes off the sand
The steps of the disunited lovers.

Oh je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes
Cette chanson était la tienne
C’était ta préférée je crois
Qu’elle est de Prévert et Kosma

Et chaque fois “Les feuilles mortes”
Te rappellent à mon souvenir
Jour après jour les amours mortes
N’en finissent pas de mourir

Avec d’autres, bien sur, je m’abadonne
Mais leur chanson est monotone
Et peu à peu je m’indiffère
A cela il n’est rien à faire

Car chaque fois les feuilles mortes
Te rappellent à mon souvenir
Jour après jour les amours mortes
N’en finissent pas de mourir

Peut on jamais savoir par où commence
Et quand finit l’indifférence
Passe l’automne, vienne l’hiver
Et que la chanson de Prévert

Cette chanson “Les feuilles mortes”
S’efface de mon souvenir
Et ce jour là mes amours mortes
En auront fini de mourir

Oh how much would I love you to remember :
This was your song.
It was your favourite, I believe –
The one by Prevert and Kosma.

And every time “Les feuilles mortes”
Reminds me of you.
Day after day the autumn loves
Don’t stop withering.

With others, of course, I abandon myself,
But their song is monotonous.
And little by little I lose interest.
There’s nothing to do about it

For every time “Les feuilles mortes”
Reminds me of you.
Day after day the autumn loves
Don’t stop withering.

Is it ever possible to know where the indifference
Begins or when it ends?
The autumn passes, and the winter comes,
And if only the Prevert’s song would go.

This song, “Les feuilles mortes”,
Washes itself off my memory.
And on that day my autumn loves
Will have stopped withering.

Exercises in Loneliness – III

Generally, I love sleepless nights. I love the time when I can read or write, without being disturbed. There is only one exception – I prefer when I am actually enjoying either writing or reading. At the moment, I’m about to embark on a very lengthy text on the topic of martyrdom in Sikhism. And although I already know and understand how the text should be written, I find it daunting to write because – God knows! – I’d prefer to write about something else. More inspiring. More creative.

To stay up in the night has never been difficult for me. I don’t even know how I came to develop such ability. When I was a student, however, my mates at the Uni used to ask me (quite seriously!), what to do in order to stay awake. The question would normally rise during the exam session. I could never give any sound advice, and from what I know, they never actually stayed up.

Writing daunting texts is also nothing new. Back in 2000, I was in my third year and had been writing an essay on Soviet literature between 1925 and 1935. Or, I’d better say, I’d been trying to write such essay. I knew the topic very well, but, strangely, the knowledge had put me off writing the text. The final day of submission was 15 May. 14 May was my mother’s birthday, and we had guests. They left at about 9pm, and I went to the computer. Ten hours later I had written 30 pages – exactly what was required. I took it to the tutor. A week later she told me that she absolutely loved my work and couldn’t find words to express her regret that we hadn’t discuss my essay in our seminar. Well… Perhaps, I’ll rework it for an article one day. :))

The text I need to write now is exactly a half of those 30 pages. The topic – martyrdom – borders on history, philosophy and religion, and I’m looking at the whole of the 17th c. Of course, Asia is not Europe, but the 17th c. is not something totally inconceivable. I think it’s because of him. He is Pascal Quignard. Ever since I read ‘Terrace a Rome’ I wanted to find and read as many of his works, as possible. I couldn’t start reading, but I actually found the Russian translation of ‘Tous les Matins du Monde’ (All the World’s Mornings/Все утра мира) and a couple of extracts from his essay ‘Le Sexe et L’Effroi’ (Sex and Terror/ Секс и страх). And it’s because I’d rather read these works that I find it difficult to write about those Sikh martyrs.

In my life as a reader I went through a series of very intense ‘love affairs’ with different authors. Those whose works I most hungrily devoured were Gorky, Chekhov, Bulgakov, de Sade, Henry Miller, Maugham, Sueskind, Marquez, Llosa, and Vonnegut. Oh, yes, also Wilde, Prevert, and most Russian poets. I’ve got to stop here, otherwise martyrdom will be completely forgotten.

Anyway, I know what I’m going to add to my birthday/Christmas/New Year list. It’s the works of Pascal Quignard. In English, French or Russian, it doesn’t matter.

And an extract from one of his interviews. You can read the article in full here.

Wandering Shadows or the insecurity of thinking

I certainly was not planning to embark on anything so long, I wanted to write books that did not exceed the capacity of my head, if I can put it that way, that I could skim through panoptically. But something like a wave began to get bigger and bigger and to engulf me, as though it was saying to me “Don’t be so cautious with your own life.”

Les Ombres Errantes is the book that has the greatest biographical content. It is important to me that a thought is totally involved in the life you are leading. In this book, I make clear my determination to create a hermitage within the modern world where I praise insecurity of thinking, while the societies in which we live advocate the opposite. The same thing happened at the end of the Roman Empire: in order to counter the return of religious monotheism and imperial pacification, many hermitages were created. The values that are now coming back are all the ones I detest. The return of faith terrifies me and I am filled with despair to see my own friends becoming believers and doctrinarians. We are living in 1571. This St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre atmosphere had to be described. The Wars of Religion are beginning again. Woman is being deified. Death adored. Democracy more violent and inegalitarian than in Pericles’ day. Technology, the object of all worship, and the all-pervasive cult of youth is worse than primitive – it is untamed, psychotic.

Interview conducted by Catherine Argand

Procession (by Jacques Prévert)

As I said in the previous post, I couldn’t find the translation of Prévert’s poem Cortège on the web, so I decided I would have a go at translating it. I finished one of my projects, so I had the right amount of time to immerse in the process of rendering the French text into English. I’ll republish both French and Russian versions in this post, so that those who possibly know all three languages could compare the translations.

A golden oldster with a watch in grief
A labourer of England with an unskilled queen
And the workers of peace with the guardians of the sea
A hussar of cat with a paw of death
A coffee serpent with a bespectacled grinder
A tight-rope hunter with a head walker
A Meerschaum marshal with a retired pipe
A brat in tuxedo with a gentleman in undershirt
A composer of gallows with a bird of music
A spiritual collector with an advisor of cigarette butts
A sharpener of Coligny with an admiral of scissors
A nun of Bengal with a tiger of Saint Vincent de Paul
A professor of pottery with a repairer of philosophy
A controller of the Round Table with the knights of the Gas Company
A duck in Saint Helena with a Napoleon in orange sauce
An inspector of Samothrace with a Winged Victory of cemetery
A tug of many with a father of the tides
A member of prostate with an enlargement of the French Academy
A large horse in partibus with a great circus bishop
A comptroller of the Wooden Cross with a little singer of the bus
A dentist terrible with an enfant surgeonAnd the general of oysters with an opener of Jesuits.

Un vieillard en or avec une montre en deuil
Une reine de peine avec un homme d’Angleterre
Et des travailleurs de la paix avec des gardiens de la mer
Un hussard de la farce avec un dindon de la mort
Un serpent à café avec un moulin à lunettes
Un chasseur de corde avec un danseur de têtes
Un maréchal d’écume avec une pipe en retraite
Un chiard en habit noir avec un gentleman au maillot
Un compositeur de potence avec un gibier de musique
Un ramasseur de conscience avec un directeur de mégots
Un repasseur de Coligny avec un amiral de ciseaux
Une petite sœur du Bengale avec un tigre de Saint-Vincent-de-Paul
Un professeur de porcelaine avec un raccommodeur de philosophie
Un contrôleur de la Table Ronde avec des chevaliers de la Compagnie du Gaz de Paris
Un canard à Sainte-Hélène avec un Napoléon à l’orange
Un conservateur de Samothrace avec une Victoire de cimetière
Un remorqueur de famille nombreuse avec un père de haute mer
Un membre de la prostate avec une hypertrophie de l’Académie française
Un gros cheval in partibus avec un grand évêque de cirque
Un contrôleur à la croix de bois avec un petit chanteur d’autobus
Un chirurgien terrible avec un enfant dentiste
Et le général des huîtres avec un ouvreur de Jésuites.

(Courtesy of http://perso.wanadoo.es/joan-navarro/tigre/tigre5/prevert.htm).

Скорбящие часы с золотым стариком
Потная королева с английским ломовиком
И труженики мира со стражами моря
Надутый эскадрон с индюком смерти
Очковая мельница с ветряной змеей
Канатный охотник с плясуном за черепами
Пенковый маршал с трубкой в отставке
Дитя во фраке с джентльменом в пеленках
Сочинитель сволочи с последней музыкой
Собиратель лиц с духовными окурками
Уличный адмирал с точильщиком флота
Бенгальская монашка с католическим тигром
Профессор по фарфору с художником по философии
Инспектор Круглого Стола с рыцарями Газовой Компании
Утка под Ватерлоо с Наполеоном под соусом
Самофракийская крыса с церковной Никой
Крестный буксир с морским отцом
Член простаты с гипертрофией Французской академии
Приходская лошадка с цирковым священником
Контролер на похоронах с плакальщиком в автобусе
Вопящий хирург с ребенком-дантистом
И магистр улиток с поедателем Ордена кармелиток.

(Courtesy of http://anch.info/reader/french_poetry/prevert/)

A few comments on the translation. Although Prévert”s poem is seemingly absurd, its play on words is sometimes exemplary in re-discovering of some familiar idioms or collocations. I tried, for the most part, to remain faithful to the text, except for when I decided to translate ‘dindon de la farce‘ as ‘cat’s paw‘, actually reversing it, to make it ‘a paw of cat’, so that to mix it with ‘hussard de la mort‘. I also reversed the parts of the second line, because in the French text one can find some occasional (and mostly acoustic) rhymes, so I tried to do just that in the English text.

Also, in the line

Un contrôleur à la croix de bois avec un petit chanteur d’autobus

Prévert refers to Les Petits Chanteurs a la Crois de Bois, a boy choir that was founded in 1906 and exists until this day. As a matter of fact, this reference is omitted in Russian translation.

‘Bespectacled serpent‘ is, of course, a cobra; ‘gibier de potence‘ is translated as ‘a gallow bird’. ‘Un grand eveque in partibus‘ is a bishop of the see that doesn’t actually exist or is situated in the ‘unchristian’ part. In partibus is an abridgement of in partibus infidelium (Latin), i.e. in the lands of the unfaithful. Vincent de Paul is a well-known Catholic saint, who devoutedly supported and founded various charities, some of which continue to exist. His name is widely known in the West, including America, which is why I left a reference to him in the text. ‘Admiral of Coligny‘ is Gaspard de Coligny, whose brutal assassination was one of the acts of the dance macabre of St. Bartholomew’s Night of 1572.

Sur Jacques Prévert

Alors, here are several sites on one of my favourite poets (or my favourite, par excellence), Jacques Prévert. Hommage a Jacques Prévert is predominantly in French and may provide a good start for those who are just discovering the pearls of his genuine talent. The site has also got a section called ‘Prévert en musique’ (Prévert in music), which contains the recordings of several songs. Helas, it doesn’t have the recording of ‘Les feuilles mortes’ (The autumn leaves/Осенние листья), sung by the adorable Yves Montand. As a matter of fact, almost five years ago I was searching all over Moscow for a CD or an audio cassette with Yves Montand’s songs, and only managed to find one (it did have ‘Les feuilles mortes’, though). This very song inspired Serge Gainsbourg to write his ‘La Chanson de Prévert’, which I really love for its melancholy. Back to the Hommage a Jacques Prévert, I quite like ‘Charmes de Londres‘. The site has also got a forum, which is regularly visited, and which you may wish to join.

Another site, in French, is called La Poesie Que J’Aime (The Poetry That I Love), and is in fact a marvellous resource. It’s got author’s profiles, an impressive links list, a forum, but – most importantly, for us – it has got a lot of poems by Jacques Prévert, one of which I’ll post below.

Finally, this website, called Jacques Prévert: Oeuvre Complete (Jacques Prévert: The Collected Work), doesn’t actually have his poems, but is otherwise impressive, containing the bibliography of his works and his bio-bibliography. It has also got this lovely photo, which I had to post here.

Pablo Picasso and Jacques Prévert (courtesy of http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Academy/5520/)

Finally, a poem, called Cortège (Procession/Шествие), which, I’m sure, you’ll like just as much as I do. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find its English translation, so I’ll follow this post up in the near future with my own rendering of this poetic phantasmagory. At the moment, you can enjoy it in either French or/and Russian.

(Courtesy of http://perso.wanadoo.es/joan-navarro/tigre/tigre5/prevert.htm).

(Courtesy of http://anch.info/reader/french_poetry/prevert/)

J’aime mieux tes levres que mes livres

The beauty of Prevert’s saying J’aime mieux tes levres que mes livres is sadly lost in the English translation… but perhaps Man Ray’s famous Kiss rayograph renders the meaning

J’aime mieux tes levres que mes livres.
I prefer your lips to my books.

This is one of my favourite phrases by Jacques Prevert. Not only is it beautifully romantic, it also presents a nice example of what sometimes is lost in the process of translation.

The play on words is obviously lost, which you can notice, even if you don’t know French. The melody of the phrase is also distorted in English translation. ‘Lips’ and ‘books’ are two short and brisk, muted words, while ‘prefer your’ doesn’t capture the music of ‘jaime mieux’. I have no idea how this phrase was translated into English or other languages, and if a translator managed to recreate any effect of this phrase. I can only imagine it being communicated to some extent in Italian, through ‘labbra’ and ‘libri’, respectively.

Other posts in Jacques Prevert and Archives.

Update 2020: On another note, Man Ray’s famous rayograph The Kiss, produced in 1922, is vaguely related to the theme of Prevert’s saying. Being an artistic enquiry into a photographer’s private life, The Kiss may be seen as reinterpreting the quote the following way: j’aime mieux tes lèvres que mes lumières (I prefer your lips to my light). In both cases, be it a book or lighting, the authors clearly state that Love means more than Art.

Los Cuadernos de Julia: Meaning and Content

Los Cuadernos de Julia blog ows its title to the 1997 novel by Mario Vargas Llosa and is an open writer’s notebook.

I am sure a lot of readers wonder (or have done, or will do so) why I gave my blog a name in Spanish, Los Cuadernos de Julia. The truth is, i wanted to use it as my online notebook, but the URL containing the desired name was already taken, so I had to invent something… and here my avid readership came to the rescue.

Los Cuadernos de Julia is a paraphrase of the title of Mario Vargas Llosa’s 1997 novel, Los Cuadernos de Don Rigoberto. I bought the book (published in English by Faber&Faber) in the summer of 2004, in WHSmith in Blackpool, but didn’t start reading it until after September, as I had to write my MA dissertation first. When I eventually began to read it, it practically blew me away. I know some critics described the book as ‘ambitious‘ (a word I very much dislike), but to me it is simply one of the most original books of the last century. Obviously, as I know no Spanish, I have to thank the English translator for doing a fantastic job. You can read reviews and purchase a copy of The Notebooks of Don Rigoberto (affiliate link).

Why cuadernos?

‘Cuadernos’ as ‘notebooks’ are a normal part of life of many writers, which is what I am. These present cuadernos are, of course, slightly different, since I decided that I’d be posting here not only random quotations that I’ve been collecting for years, but also reflections on films, music, works of art, phrases I’ve heard or read elsewhere, musings about news stories, etc. I’ve been doing a similar thing on a website for several months, but sometimes there’s more to post than just a couple of quotes from my beloved Jacques Prevert.

My own mother, who isn’t a writer, also used to have two cuadernos – dark thick exercise-books, in which she had collected quotes and poems. When I was 12 or 13, she gave them to me, and some content influenced me quite profoundly. And providing you have read Llosa’s novel, you surely know that cuadernos played a crucial part in the story. So, it is from these two experiences, plus a couple of ‘tangible’ cuadernos I have already had in my life, that the idea for this blog’s title has originated.

My blog as ‘cuadernos’

For a while I wasn’t sure whether to start a blog or not. Two things have finally compelled me to do so. First, the main page of my web radio programme’s website has become way too small for everything I want to put on it. Half of those things will never make it to the programme, like The Quotes on the Front Page, or some news stories, or various other stuff. Yet I do want to share these things with everyone who is interested, hence I have finally succumbed to blogging.

Secondly, I have never managed or even wanted to write a diary, if the diary is to be understood as a narration of one’s private everyday life. However, the notebooks are different, especially because I’m a writer. So, while using the form of a diary, I’m essentially creating no more or less than a writer’s open notebook. Many things will still be left behind, for one reason or another, but I’m glad I’ll be able to do what few publications would allow me to do, not to mention the restrictions of the radio format.

As for the content, it will hardly be up for any strict systematisation, bearing in mind that its author is also a qualified historian who knows a couple of languages and has many side interests. The only thing that consoles me is that even Umberto Eco’s brilliant ideas are reportedly jotted down on small pieces of paper that are scattered around his flat or stuck in the professor’s case. At least, I’ve got ‘categories’ and ‘tags’…

Other posts in Blogs and Social Media, Mario Vargas Llosa and Julia Shuvalova: Poetry and Prose archives.