Letters from France, 2007
Après presque vingt-quatre heures de voyager, je suis arrive, finalement. J’étais surprise que les Américaines ont protudes comme une grosse droigt. Les françaises ont peut-être raison. Mais ils pensent toujours qu’ils ont raisonable.
À Chamonix, les haute montagnes sont brilliante. Je ne jamais sens la neige françsaise, ni l’air sur haute. Les forêts sont très vaste et majestueux. Dans le centre-ville, je suis mange à un restaurant très bien. J’ai demandé un boeuf avec les pommes frîtes, et l’escargots. Il y a un église, peut-être le seulement église dans le village. Les fenêtres coloré sont illuminer le sol d’église et l’autel. Il été très beau.
J’ai marché sur Mont Blanc, l’haute montagne qui as 4,ooo metres dans le siel. J’ai devenu en peu mal d’altitude à cause de la pressure haute.
I feel, each day, a new brand of consciousness. It is altogether uncomfortable, but I couldn’t ask for anything more. A Life of constant change and some discomfort is far superior to one of numbness and monotony. Change is inevitable. Entire species die and are forgotten when they cease to change. Hence, eternal comfort means Death. I wonder, is eternal comfort worth dying for? Alas, Death is the ultimate luxury. Les disparaîtres sont immortel.
J’ai vraiment mal du pays. I tell myself that I will not miss my home. My dear friend does not deny herself her true feelings; it would be well that I don’t either.
I must say, Paris exceeds my expectations, but in the same way, it all seems strangely familiar at present. Things do not seem quite foreign to me. It is hard to envision that I am presently an ocean and an entire body of land away from the home from which I was borne. Perhaps I have only realised that there is no true Home; everywhere is Home.
Montmartre: Mountain of martyrs. Through the monotonous swell of the crush, through the clamour of many voices, the Spirit breaks through all boundaries. At Sacré Coeur, a most beautiful African woman knelt before the altar, priest and nuns in chant. She knelt, lips moving, arms thrust out, embracing the Holy Energy. I watched her. Not as I watch some pitiful man, playing his instrument on the trottoir, but as a sympathetic being, holding, feeling her Spirit. Before the Mass took Communion, they shook one another’s hand, and wished each other Peace. She saw me, in a pew behind the barrier, and as we reached to touch hands, we reached not only beyond the short Oak fence, but through the barrier of Language, colour of skin, and Religion. And we touched Spirits. Our energy mixed, and anything that had been masked by words became clear as an Alpine lake.
À Chamonix, les haute montagnes sont brilliante. Je ne jamais sens la neige françsaise, ni l’air sur haute. Les forêts sont très vaste et majestueux. Dans le centre-ville, je suis mange à un restaurant très bien. J’ai demandé un boeuf avec les pommes frîtes, et l’escargots. Il y a un église, peut-être le seulement église dans le village. Les fenêtres coloré sont illuminer le sol d’église et l’autel. Il été très beau.
J’ai marché sur Mont Blanc, l’haute montagne qui as 4,ooo metres dans le siel. J’ai devenu en peu mal d’altitude à cause de la pressure haute.
I feel, each day, a new brand of consciousness. It is altogether uncomfortable, but I couldn’t ask for anything more. A Life of constant change and some discomfort is far superior to one of numbness and monotony. Change is inevitable. Entire species die and are forgotten when they cease to change. Hence, eternal comfort means Death. I wonder, is eternal comfort worth dying for? Alas, Death is the ultimate luxury. Les disparaîtres sont immortel.
J’ai vraiment mal du pays. I tell myself that I will not miss my home. My dear friend does not deny herself her true feelings; it would be well that I don’t either.
I must say, Paris exceeds my expectations, but in the same way, it all seems strangely familiar at present. Things do not seem quite foreign to me. It is hard to envision that I am presently an ocean and an entire body of land away from the home from which I was borne. Perhaps I have only realised that there is no true Home; everywhere is Home.
Montmartre: Mountain of martyrs. Through the monotonous swell of the crush, through the clamour of many voices, the Spirit breaks through all boundaries. At Sacré Coeur, a most beautiful African woman knelt before the altar, priest and nuns in chant. She knelt, lips moving, arms thrust out, embracing the Holy Energy. I watched her. Not as I watch some pitiful man, playing his instrument on the trottoir, but as a sympathetic being, holding, feeling her Spirit. Before the Mass took Communion, they shook one another’s hand, and wished each other Peace. She saw me, in a pew behind the barrier, and as we reached to touch hands, we reached not only beyond the short Oak fence, but through the barrier of Language, colour of skin, and Religion. And we touched Spirits. Our energy mixed, and anything that had been masked by words became clear as an Alpine lake.