Le Grand Meaulnes

Pity the followers of that sorry blog. I hope they dont even bother to check what's on it nowadays, because it sure is the most inane and vacant blog of the blogosphere !
Anyway, Josephine has gone awol, last saw her aboard the Titanic, going up and down momentous waves, as usual, and wondering if she would sink or swim. Sink more likely.
But tbc.
Today it's dark, it rains, November is well started and winter on the way, time to curl by the fire,in good company or with a good book, or with both. I would like to talk about comfort reading and about a book close to my heart, a book that is for me the essence of the comfort-read : 'Le Grand Meaulnes' by Alain-Fournier. I have read it four or five times already, and probably will again. Each time its haunting quality works its magic and infiltrates my heart in a subtle way, as very few books have managed.
For most people it will be a book just like any other. One has to read it probably at the right time and in the right mood. Timing. As with everything really. La danse des astres et la rencontre des etres, des livres, des pets. It's all about meeting in the right place, at the right time. Such a delicate, fragile balance of things, whirling madly as they are, and suddenly, a space , a moment in time, une rencontre, a meeting of souls, of minds, of bodies and something is born. Somewhere in a distant galaxy, from that spark on earth, comets crash into each other and become a planet, a new world is born to the universe, a new harmony joins the music of the spheres, and a new rhythm beats dans la ronde des etoiles.
Meaulnes is a young man of 17, 18 years old, and his mother brings him to stay in a little school deep in the quiet countryside of Sologne, at the beginning of the previous century. He becomes friend with the narrator, another young boy, immediately full of admiration for Meaulnes. But Meaulnes is a restless soul, and soon, he escapes, il fait l'ecole buissonniere, and wanders off in the countryside where he get lost. Night falls, miles away from anywhere, he suddenly stumbles upon a castle full of lights where 'une fete' a lieu. Children are at the center of the rejouissances and Meaulnes is quickly involved. He has a wonderful time and falls asleep, wakes up the morning after to resume his participation in the festivities. There is a boating party and suddenly, there, he meets the woman of his dream. Young, beautiful, shy, and she notices him also of course. Together in a boat, they hardly dare speak to each other. The day goes by and their sweet encounter draws to a close. Not much has happened , but enough to change the course of a destiny.
Later on, Meaulnes gets a lift from some local people and manages to get back to the school. Only, he falls asleep in the carriage and will never remember the way to the castle. That was before the satnav. before maps. When the world could still be full of mystery.
From then on, Meaulnes will not cease to look for the 'Domaine Enchante' and try to find again the elusive, unknown young woman he met there.
The story is all about looking for a lost paradise, the longing that we have for an ideal place where nothing goes wrong, where a permanent 'fete' takes place and where children and animals run free and happy.
Later in the story, Meaulnes meets his mysterious love again, but then, the imperfect narrative becomes a little odd at times, and is not the masterpiece one could expect.
Alain-Fournier was 24 years old when he wrote this story. As Meaulnes in the book, he had met briefly a young woman with whom he fell deeply in love but lost track of. He spend 8 years to find her again but when he did, she was married with children. A year later, he was killed. Aged 28. It was 1914.

Novembre

Novembre, dimanche matin, pluie et solitude.
Le lapin mort dans le jardin, a bundle of love dead to the world.
Premier novembre , le jour des morts et des revenants. Le grand hiver sur le seuil et la maison, froide. Dimanche matin, peine et solitude.
Le cafe pas bu, les journaux, pas lus. Le ciel, ferme, muet.
Hier encore, le feu, le lumiere, la joie et la ronde gaie de la vie.
Ce matin plus rien. Hiver acte un, ouverture. deuil et solitude.
le cafe pas bu, les journaux, pas lus.
Le coeur blesse.
Le monde muet.