lundi 30 janvier 2012

L'enfant - nouvelle de Maupassant, 1882

Mère à l'enfant, détail, Gutav Klimt.

Sommaire : Un jeune homme libertin décide de se ranger, mais le jour même de son mariage est rattrapé par son passé. 

Commentaire : Pour une fois une nouvelle qui, malgré un début cruel, laisse un arrière-goût d'optimisme et de douceur -en ce qui concerne, en tout cas, la capacité d'amour des femmes. Je n'ai encore jamais lue de moralité dans les textes de Maupassant, mais ses commentaires semblent affleurer à la surface du texte avec une grande subtilité.

L'enfant - nouvelle de Maupassant, 1883

Marguerite au Sabat, par Dagnan-Bouveret

Résumé : Trois hôtes discutent d'un avortement qui a eut lieu dans leur région ; la baronne s'indigne, et le docteur décide alors de raconter l'histoire d'une femme malheureuse qui, pétrie de préjugés, chercha par tous les moyens à se débarrasser d'un foetus non désiré.

Commentaire : "C'est dur à lire, ce texte noue les tripes..." (Annick49). Je ne saurais faire de plus juste commentaire. C'est une nouvelle magnifique, mais atroce, qui défend ouvertement l'instinct contre les lois conventionnelles de l'honneur et de la société, bienséances qui vont à l'encontre de la nature avec parfois de bien tragiques conséquences.

Le loup - nouvelle par Maupassant

> Lire en ligne

Résumé : Au cours d'un dîner, on raconte l'histoire d'une chasse extraordinaire, celle d'une énorme loup blanc par deux frères passionnés de chasse, et ses conséquences sanglantes.

Commentaire : Le début de cette histoire commence comme celle de la bête du Gévaudan, mais la fin diffère. Comme toujours, Maupassant écrit merveilleusement bien, et cette histoire fini comme souvent chez lui sur une note d'ironie cruelle et désabusée, la confrontation du sublime et des gens ordinaires.

samedi 28 janvier 2012

Jacques le Fataliste et son Maître, roman / rhapsodie par Denis Diderot, 1765-1783

Jacques et son maître chevauchant, gravure d’Augustin Mougin d’après Maurice Leloir, Paris, Chamerot, 1884

Résumé : Jacques et son maître, un noble dont on ne sait pas le nom, sont en voyage. Le Maître n'aimant pas beaucoup parler mais appréciant les histoires souvent impertinentes de son valet demande à Jacques de raconter l'histoire de ses amoures. Cependant, cette histoire est interrompue par de très nombreuses digressions, de sa part, de celle des personnes qu'ils rencontrent et du Maître lui-même.

Opinion personnelle : Le style de Diderot est toujours aussi plaisant à lire, et le fait qu'il se moque ouvertement de son lecteur est aussi exaspérant que profondément amusant. J'ai été surprise par le surgissement d'une scène érotique (bien que j'aurais dû m'y attendre venant de lui), et je me suis sincèrement demandé tout ce roman ou, comme il l'appelle, cette rhapsodie de faits, si Jacques allait ou pas finir l'histoire de ses amoures. Mais le plus intéressant à mon sens est la forme de l'oeuvre, car c'est la première fois que je croise ce type de narration en tiroirs surréalistes, apparemment chaotique et pourtant organisée, et dont le narrateur, qui ne dissimule en rien sa présence, la renforce au contraire en proposant au lecteur plusieurs possibilités de scénarios et en démontant l'illusion romanesque.


Citations

VDM #6311917

Voici une VDM que j'ai trouvée sur le site éponyme : un homme, il se surnomme lui-même "voyeur", découvre avec délice qu'il habite un appartement avec vue sur voisine nue. En soit, ce n'est pas dramatique, bien que je n'aimerais vraiment pas être à la place de ladite voisine.

Par contre la plupart des commentaires de cette VDM sont absolument écœurants - il s'agit ni plus ni moins d'une succession de justifications et d'encouragements de ce comportement par d'autres hommes, qui vont jusqu'à affirmer que ladite voisine est en tord, qu'elle est carrément même coupable d'exhibitionnisme voire d'attentat à la pudeur (qui sont en fait des agressions sexuelles) et que si elle a oublié de tirer les rideaux, c'est parce qu'elle voulait qu'on la regarde. Je suppose que si on pousse ce raisonnement à l'extrême, on arrivera au classique : elle veut ce que je veux parce que je le veux. Donc, je me suis sentie obligée de réagir (c'était ça ou finir bouillie par le sang qui mijotait dans mes veines. 
Si vous arrivez à voir une belle femme nue tant mieux pour vous, mais n'essayez pas de justifier votre indiscrétion en disant que c'est de sa faute et qu'elle en avait envie. L'exhibitionnisme est l'acte volontaire de montrer son corps dans le but de choquer, et généralement dans un endroit public, ce qui n'a rien à voir avec le fait d'être surpris à la sortie de la douche ou de s'habiller devant une fenêtre au saut du lit.

Je suis une femme qui n'aime pas porter de vêtements, donc chez moi, je me lâche. Mais le plaisir d'être nue est contrebalancé par la crainte d'avoir mal tiré les rideaux ou laissé un angle de vision dégagé quelque part dans la maison, et qu'un "petit malin" en profite. Qu'un inconnu ne puisse pas s'empêcher de me regarder le temps que le sang remonte au cerveau pour analyser la situation ne me dérange pas trop mais, et ma paranoïa est confirmée par le contenu des précédents commentaires, je suis certaine qu'ensuite il en profitera pour se rincer l'oeil sans permission. 

Si les hommes se contentaient de reluquer les magazines et vidéos de charmes où les filles ont consenti (du moins je l'espère) à se laisser regarder, les femmes auraient moins à s'inquiéter pour leur sécurité - on pourrait s'habiller comme on en a vraiment envie et se lâcher sans complexe et sans craindre que les hommes, qui apparemment considèrent qu'on ne fait rien sans penser à eux, ne prennent ça comme une invitation. 

Ce n'est pas parce que le rideau est ouvert que vous êtes invité à regarder par la fenêtre, ce n'est pas parce que la porte n'est pas fermée qu'on vous demande de cambrioler l'appartement, et ce n'est pas parce qu'une fille est sexy qu'elle veut de vous. Si vous avez besoin de voir une femme nue regardez des pornos ou trouvez-vous une copine, mais ne cherchez pas d'excuses à la pratique du voyeurisme dans la vie réelle : vous n'en avez pas.



mardi 24 janvier 2012

Le test Bechdel, Wallace/Bechdel ou loi Bechdel

C'est une manière simple de tester la place des femmes dans une fiction inventée en 1985 par Liz Wallace, une amie de Bechdel, créatrice de la BD Dykes To Watch Out For.

1. Il y a au moins deux femmes.
2. Elles parlent entre elles.
3. D'autre chose que d'un homme. 

4. Ces femmes ont un nom (loi ajoutée par le Mo Movie Measure).

A birthday story for blue fishy by euclase


Once upon a time there was a girl named Blue who burned down an art museum.
It was an accident, really. 
Nobody knew that Mandy Patinkin was going to be at the very same museum that same afternoon, you see. If they had, maybe they would have been able to prevent the fire. As it was, however, Mandy’s shoe had been stolen by a five-year-old acrobat named Arthur who smelled of apples. Arthur’s father was named Carl, and he was a brain surgeon and a collector of Ziploc bags. One of Carl’s Ziploc bags contained a blueberry muffin, which Arthur’s father’s wife Sigrid had baked that same morning, which was the same morning that Arthur was meant to be at ballet school and the same morning that Mandy Patinkin was at the art museum. Unfortunately, Arthur hated ballet because the girls made fun of his tights, so he’d stolen the Ziploc bag containing the muffin that his mother had baked with plans to smash the muffin in the face of the oldest girl. Her name was Lucy, and it was Lucy’s father Roger who was really, ultimately the cause of the fire, since Roger was fond of collecting leaflets, and his favorite leaflets were the kind from art museums. 
After Arthur smashed the muffin in Lucy’s face at ballet practice, unable to endure any more of her teasing, Lucy dumped her apple juice on Arthur’s tights, which meant neither child could finish their practice, since soiled tights make it uncomfortable to do much of anything, and since Lucy lived on Arthur’s street, Lucy’s father Roger was left with the thankless task of taking both children home early. They passed the art museum on the way, and Roger, being the sort who couldn’t resist a leaflet, decided to stop. So it was Roger’s fault, as I said, even though it was, in fact, really Xander’s fault, even though it was really, actually Mandy Patinkin’s fault, even though it was—really, ultimately,actually—Blue’s fault.
Xander, by the way, was the art student who was sitting in front of the Rembrandt the same morning that Blue arrived at the art museum, the same morning that Mandy Patinkin arrived, and the same morning that Roger arrived looking for leaflets. Roger hadtold Lucy and Arthur to stay in the car, but of course they didn’t, and Arthur, thinking that dangling from mobiles would be fun, took off for the museum, and Lucy, being an angry but also very responsible girl who hated boys who looked better in tights than she did and who hated getting yelled at by her father, chased after him.
The actual burning down of the museum happened at precisely nine o’clock when, after having walked through the entire museum, Mandy Patinkin stopped to rest on a bench near a Van Gogh, which also happened to be near the same place where Xander the art student was copying a Rembrandt with his portable canvas and paints. Mandy Patinkin stopped not only to rest but also because he was missing his shoe, which had been stolen from him five minutes earlier by an acrobatic boy who smelled of apples who was, at the time, being chased by a girl with blueberries on her tights.
It also happened to be the same place where a museum assistant named Carla was passing out leaflets, ten of which were acquired by Roger, but five of which ended up on the floor ten seconds later as Arthur ran past chased by Lucy. Arthur managed to leap over Roger, being an acrobatic child as he was, but Lucy collided with him, and five leaflets scattered to the floor. Three of the five ended up against the wall. One of the remaining two ended up beneath the foot of Mrs. Matilda Bophurst, who was visiting the museum with her husband, Dingo, who had in his pocket a catalog of Ziploc Collectibles from his good friend, Carl Anderson, who was Arthur’s father. Upon recognizing Arthur running by in tights, Dingo Bophurst gave a shout, which jolted Matilda, who would not have slipped had it not been for the leaflet underneath her foot. But the leaflet was there, and Matilda did slip. She knocked Dingo’s Ziploc catalog out of her husband’s hands, and the catalog sailed through the air, caught the edge of Xander’s paint thinner jar, overturned it, and spilled the paint thinner across the floor.
Thus, catalog, jar, Xander, Matilda, Dingo, Roger, and leaflets all scattered, and so did Carla, and so did the fifth leaflet, which ended up in the lap of Mandy Patinkin, who’d taken his personalized Zippo lighter out of his pocket seconds before, having seen the edge of Dingo’s Ziploc catalog from Arthur’s father and mistaking it for a Zippo catalog, which it in fact was not. By the time Mandy Patinkin realized his mistake, however, it was too late, because he had a habit of flipping open his Zippo lighter (Mandy Patinkin did not smoke, but he still had a habit of opening his Zippo lighter).
And none of this would not have been so bad, really, if it hadn’t been for Blue, who was walking past at that very moment, in the opposite direction, eating a lot of cotton candy and looking at her recently purchased Naked Angels in Art calendar from the art museum’s secret gift shop (in the basement, open only on Wednesdays, ask for Snail). The airborn Ziploc catalog sailed through the air, along with the jar of paint thinner, and Blue, candy, and the Naked Angels calendar were immediately dowsed in flammable liquid. Blue escaped, but the cotton candy and calender were knocked from her hand, and everything—the whole entire mess—ended up in the lap of Mandy Patinkin, whose Zippo lighter was lit, and whose fifth, accidentally suddenly acquired leaflet, was already on fire.
And so it was Blue who ultimately burned down the museum, flailing and shrieking as she did to escape the flames and thereby sending all items, including the Ziploc catalog and Xander’s paints, into the bench and wall adjacent, where they immediately caught fire. The world mourned the loss of many great works of art (except for the Rembrandt, which Xander managed to rescue, and the Van Gogh, which Mandy Patinkin managed to rescue, and a Monet, which Matilda Bophurst rescued, because ladies named Matilda are awesome).
Blue ultimately escaped prosecution, however, since she’d shared her cotton candy that same morning with Snail, who ran the secret gift shop in the basement and who knew all the right people.

Neil Gaiman on Copyright, Piracy, and the Commercial Value of the Web

“When the web started, I used to get really grumpy with people because they put my poems up. They put my stories up. They put my stuff up on the web. I had this belief, which was completely erroneous, that if people put your stuff up on the web and you didn’t tell them to take it down, you would lose your copyright, which actually, is simply not true.
And I also got very grumpy because I felt like they were pirating my stuff, that it was bad. And then I started to notice that two things seemed much more significant. One of which was… places where I was being pirated, particularly Russia where people were translating my stuff into Russian and spreading around into the world, I was selling more and more books. People were discovering me through being pirated. Then they were going out and buying the real books, and when a new book would come out in Russia, it would sell more and more copies. I thought this was fascinating, and I tried a few experiments. Some of them are quite hard, you know, persuading my publisher for example to take one of my books and put it out for free. We took “American Gods,” a book that was still selling and selling very well, and for a month they put it up completely free on their website. You could read it and you could download it. What happened was sales of my books, through independent bookstores, because that’s all we were measuring it through, went up the following month three hundred percent
I started to realize that actually, you’re not losing books. You’re not losing sales by having stuff out there. When I give a big talk now on these kinds of subjects and people say, “Well, what about the sales that I’m losing through having stuff copied, through having stuff floating out there?” I started asking audiences to just raise their hands for one question. Which is, I’d say, “Okay, do you have a favorite author?” They’d say, “Yes.” and I’d say, “Good. What I want is for everybody who discovered their favorite author by being lent a book, put up your hands.” And then, “Anybody who discovered your favorite author by walking into a bookstore and buying a book raise your hands.” And it’s probably about five, ten percent of the people who actually discovered an author who’s their favorite author, who is the person who they buy everything of. They buy the hardbacks and they treasure the fact that they got this author. Very few of them bought the book. They were lent it. They were given it. They did not pay for it, and that’s how they found their favorite author. And I thought, “You know, that’s really all this is. It’s people lending books. And you can’t look on that as a loss of sale. It’s not a lost sale, nobody who would have bought your book is not buying it because they can find it for free.”
What you’re actually doing is advertising. You’re reaching more people, you’re raising awareness. Understanding that gave me a whole new idea of the shape of copyright and of what the web was doing. Because the biggest thing the web is doing is allowing people to hear things. Allowing people to read things. Allowing people to see things that they would never have otherwise seen. And I think, basically, that’s an incredibly good thing.”



vendredi 20 janvier 2012

Promise.

I've always been two things. I'm hypersensitive, for one, and most people don't even know what hypersensitivity is.
It means percieving the world around you with such intensity it hurts. It physically hurts. It's a common survival characteristic, up to 20% of animals are hypersensitive. And in society, it's both a gift and a curse.
I'm also clever or at least, I've been clever, quite clever, the surprising kind, the kind of person who are called a genius when they're a child and a disappointment when they start growing out of best grades.
And that makes me different, which is awesome because plain is boring, really, absolutely boring, I'm sure those of you who've always been drawing of writing or doing anything but listening in class and still getting good grades understand how VOID plain is and always will be to my eyes.
But I've learnt something. I've just read it, while researching the reasons for my unsatisfaction of myself on mighty Internet -smarts drain out. One's IQ actually LOWER when it's not used, and that explains so much, so much more than those-anti-depression-pills-did-really-burn-my-brains-out-didn't-they.
I won't take that. I never had. Society is not going to win this game -I will not end up like all those clever minds who got brain-bored while growing up and eventually ended up normal. I won't. I don't want to.
So this is a promise, I guess, a public promise to myself -I've never been able to break up public promises, even the silly ones (I have other issues than hypersentivity and a tat higher than average IQ).
I WON'T LET GO. Even if I have to end up in loneliness, and go back to those years that were so bloodily hurtful -I won't care about lonely, I want my life to be exceptional, and that is rarely a synonym for happiness.
I know I'll get burn. I've been burnt already, and it almost killed me. I've wished to be happy, and normal, and I'll probably wish for it again -we always do. But I won't go back. I won't, I just won't, even though I know it'll eventually kill me. But then again, life does that to people -killing them- it's the usual way to go.
I won't go back on my word. One good thing about my mental issues is that I know how to take advantage of them -I can't break this promise, that would be such an incohent thing to do -I wouldn't be able to cope. So it's living my way, or be dead anyway.
I know it'll be hard, and that most people will reject me -most people are average people, that's what people do, rejecting the unusual as dangerous -very natural, tragically normal. I tested it yesterday on a friend, telling a piece of my mind -a real piece, not a lie, not those very handfull lies I'm full of, and he got scared, a bit, of course he did.
But if I'm posting this actually here of all places on the wide Internet, it's because I know it'll reach someone whose opinion actually counts for me, and I don't even need a reply, because I absolutely trust them with this.
There, to you, person who's dear to my heart: I wish to change, and I will change, and probably not in a conventionally approved kind of way, maybe not even in a way you will like. I know you're clever and strong enough to take it, and I want you to know that whatever happens, you're a person I love and admire deeply, for their determination, their will, their intelligence and their personality, a person every human being should look up to.
I've stopped being human some years ago, I've never really been anyway. My mind wandered in forbidden places, and so did, at some extent, this thing I've never really felt as me but as mine, this pet, my experience puppet, my weird friend, my body.
I've always seen life as an experiment, and each feeling, each action, as a astonishing experience. I'm sorry if I ever hurt you by mistake - I really don't want to, you're such an amazing being, like a living work of art, an angel -you know what I mean by angel, do you? I'll always be yours if you ever need anything I can provide, but I can't be yours enterely, and I deeply regret so - you're one of the few I would have turned human for.
But I won't, not anymore. I won't be human because it's not what I was born into, I won't be anything that exists and I do have no name.
It's time for me to get my wings back.

jeudi 12 janvier 2012

SHERLOCKED - http://sheerlocks.blogspot.com/


La semaine dernière les épisodes 1 et 2 de la seconde saison de Sherlock sont sortis... Et dimanche, comme je n'avais rien à faire (ceci est un mensonge) et la tête emplie de cette merveilleuse série (cela est la vérité), j'ai décidé de lui dédier un blog... L'occasion rêvée de faire une jolie présentation ! Enfin bref, voici le lien vers SHERLOCKED (en anglais). 

Ce qui est amusant, c'est que les noms de domaines sherlocked, iamsherlocked et moult autres étaient déjà pris... Je me suis donc rabattu sur SheerLocks, parce que j'aime les jeux de mots vaseux ^^