Wednesday, March 24, 2021

Jean de La Fontaine

 

Jean de La Fontaine


 

 

The French poet and man of letters Jean de La Fontaine (1621-1695) was one of the great French classical authors. He preferred to work in relatively minor and unexploited genres, such as the fable and the verse tale.

While he did not hesitate to borrow freely from other writers, both ancient and modern, Jean de La Fontaine nevertheless created a style and a poetic universe at once personal and universal, peculiarly his own and thus inimitable, but also accessible to all. He is perhaps the greatest lyric poet of the 17th century in France. Though he is best known for the Fables, they are but a small part of his writings. He also wrote a number of licentious tales in verse, many occasional pieces, and a long romance; he tried his hand at elegy and fantasy, at epigram and comedy. Almost everything he wrote is shot through with personal reflections and graceful ironies.

La Fontaine was baptized (and probably born) on July 8, 1621, the first child of Charles de La Fontaine and Françoise Pidoux. Little is known about his youth in Château-Thierry (Aisne); he went to Paris in 1635, was associated briefly with the Oratorians, and then studied law. In 1647, he married Marie Héricart, whose family was related to Jean Racine's. He purchased a post (or sinecure) as master of waters and forests in 1652; his son Charles was born a year later. In 1654 appeared his first publication, an imitation of Terence's Eunuch. An amusing portrait of him was composed about this time by Tallemant des Réaux: "A man of belles lettres and who writes verse. … His wife says that he's such a dreamer he sometimes goes for three weeks without remembering that he's married."

Early Works

In 1658 La Fontaine offered his poem Adonisto Nicolas Fouquet, Louis XIV's superintendent of finances. Fouquet, known for his support of the arts and of artists, soon became La Fontaine's admirer and protector. La Fontaine wrote numerous poems for his patron; among the more interesting are the fragments of Le Songe de Vaux, a dream in verse written to celebrate the many marvels of Fouquet's estate, Vaux-le-Vicomte. During the years of the "poetic pension" at Vaux, La Fontaine met Charles Perrault, Racine, and many other writers and artists. The arrest of Fouquet in September 1661 put an end to the Vaux dream, but La Fontaine remained loyal to his friend. In 1663 the poet—who may have been in trouble because of his obvious sympathy for Fouquet—accompanied his uncle to Limoges; the voyage is recounted in six interesting letters to his wife.

La Fontaine became a gentilhomme servant to the Duchesse d'Orléans in 1664. The post was rather badly paid, but it made few claims on the poet's time. In 1665 he published the collection Contes et Nouvelles en vers; these tales were followed by a second collection a year later. Both volumes were enthusiastically received despite (or perhaps because of) their licentious tone and matter.

His "Fables"

In 1668 La Fontaine published six books of Fables, in verse. Dedicated to the Dauphin, these poems were extraordinarily successful, and La Fontaine's fame was secure at last. The fables cover a vast range of human experience; formally they are remarkably varied and free. In an age of linguistic constraint and purification, he uses all manner of archaic words, colloquialisms, outmoded constructions; in an age of overwhelming concern with the great serious genres (epic and tragedy, for instance), he deliberately chooses to exploit the considerable resources of a minor genre. And if the fables seem at first to be children's literature, a careful examination reveals their sophisticated satire of conventional wisdom and morality.

In 1669 La Fontaine published Les Amours de Psyché et de Cupidon, a long romance in verse and prose, ostensibly a simple version of the Psyche story in The Golden Ass of Apuleius. But La Fontaine's work, despite its bantering tone and its contemporary allusions, is an intensely personal meditation on love and beauty and art—things which, as the work suggests, escape definition and so must be felt if they are to be known at all.

A third collection of Contes appeared in 1671, along with eight new fables. In the same year La Fontaine had to give up his post as master of waters and forests, and the death of the Duchesse d'Orléans in 1672 left him without employment. In 1673, however, he found a new protectress, Madame de La Sablière, at whose salons the poet met many scholars, philosophers, artists, and free-thinkers. In the years 1673-1682 he published a variety of works: a long religious poem for Port-Royal, an epitaph for his friend Molière, some new contes (the most licentious of all, they were promptly banned by the police), five new books of fables, and various other pieces. In 1682 he wrote a long poem in praise of the powers of quinine. As he said, "Diversity is my motto."

Later Years

After many maneuvers La Fontaine was finally elected to the French Academy in 1684. He continued to write and to publish: a volume of miscellaneous writings (1685); the important poem Epistle to Huet (1687), in which he avoided taking sides in the "quarrel of the ancients and the moderns"; the "lyric tragedy" Astrée, which was produced in 1691 but closed after six performances.

Madame de La Sablière died in 1693, and La Fontaine's thoughts turned to the Church. He renounced the Contes and promised to devote the rest of his days to the composition of pious works. The last collection of fables appeared in 1694, and in that year the aging and weary poet wrote to his dearest friend, François de Maucroix, "I would die of boredom if I couldn't keep on writing." Remaining lucid and active almost to the end, La Fontaine died on April 13, 1695.

With affection,

Ruben

Saturday, March 13, 2021

Short Stories 2

 

Short Stories


 

The sadness

Rosario Barros Peña

eacher has given me a note for my mother. I have read it. He says he needs to talk to her because I'm wrong. I have put it on the table, under the bowl full of milk that I left him in the morning. I have microwaved the frozen tortilla I bought at the supermarket and I have eaten half of it. The other half I put on a plate on the table, next to the bowl of milk. My mother remains the same, with red eyes that stare without seeing and her hair, which no longer shines, spilled on the pillow. She smells like sweat in the room, but when I opened the blind, she yelled at me. She says that if the sun is not seen it is as if the days do not run, but that is not true. I know that days go by because the washing machine is full of dirty clothes and the dishwasher does not fit anything else, but above all, I know this because of the sadness that is on the furniture. Sadness is a white powder that fills everything. At first, it is fun. You can write about her, "fool who reads it", but, the next day, her words are not seen because there is more sadness about them. The teacher says I am bad because in class, I get distracted and I cannot help but think that one day that white powder will completely cover my mother and it will do it with me. And when my father returns, sadness will have erased the "I love you" that I write to him every night on the dining room table.

End

 

Crime

Antonio Di Benedetto

I was a stubborn smoker. One night I fell asleep with a cigarette in my mouth. I woke up afraid to wake up. It seems I knew: I had been born a bat wing. With repugnance, in the darkness, I searched my biggest knife. I cut it off. Fallen, in the light of day, she was a dark woman and I said that I loved her. They took me to prison.

End

 

Return

 Antonio Di Benedetto

I explain to Horacio: -Today I received the invitation for Manuel's act that took place on Monday. Horacio comments: -Cute subject for a fantastic story. He does not tell me how, it is my responsibility. I decide to go back to Monday, but the event has been suspended. I have to go back to Thursday, the day I spoke with Horacio. But when I return it is no longer Thursday, but Friday. Meanwhile on Thursday it happened that ... I reflect that it has already happened to me in another way. I had to look back for a woman. And she had to look for me. We went back, but each one by his own inspiration and without previously agreeing. We never coincide in our setbacks and trying to find the exact day for both of us, we waste our lives. Each time we got further back on the calendar. I deduce that, from one experience and another, I could draw a conclusion, although obviously bitter: You cannot go back to what you wanted.

End

Morning train

Thomas Bernhard

 

 Sitting on the morning train, we looked out the window precisely as we passed the ravine into which, fifteen years ago, the group of schoolboys with whom we were hiking to the waterfall fell, and we think that we were saved, but the others, however, are dead forever. The teacher who led our group to the waterfall hanged herself immediately after the sentence of the Salzburg High Court, which was eight years in prison. When the train passes by that place, we hear, with the screams of the group, our own screams.

End

The tram

Andrea Bocconi

 

 

At last. The stranger always came up at that stop. Wide smile, wide hips… an excellent mother to my children, she thought. She greets; she answered and resumed reading it: cultured, modern. He was in a bad mood: he was very conservative. Why was he responding to her greeting? She did not even know him. He doubts. She came down. He felt divorced: "And the children, who are they going to stay with?"

End

Bad memory

André Breton

I was told a very stupid, dark, and moving story a while ago. A man shows up one day at a hotel and asks for a room. They give him the number 35. When coming down, minutes later, he leaves the key in the administration and says: - Excuse me; I am a man with very little memory. If he allows me, every time he returns I will tell him my name: Mr. Delouit, and then you will repeat my room number. -Very well sir. After a while, the man returns, opens the office door: "Mr. Delouit." –It is number 35. -Thanks. A minute later, an extraordinarily agitated man, his suit covered in mud, bloodied and almost without human appearance enters the hotel administration and says to the employee: "Mr. Delouit." -How? Mr. Delouit? Another with that story. Mr. Delouit has just come up. –Sorry, it is I… I just fell through the window. Will you please tell me my room number?

End

Mistake

Karel Capek

We embark on the Mediterranean. It is so beautifully blue that one does not know which is the sky and which is the sea, so everywhere on the coast and on the ships there are signs indicating where is up and where is down; otherwise one may be confused. In order not to go any further, the other day, the captain told us that a ship made a mistake, and instead of continuing on the sea, it headed for heaven; and since the sky is infinite, he has not returned yet, and no one knows where he is.

End

 

 With affection,

Ruben