OK, so it’s been so long since I last posted that I wondered if I should even bother… but the fact is I haven’t been doing much foodie type stuff lately. Instead, life has been consumed with looking for jobs and (though you’d never guess from this blog) counting calories…

Anyway, a few things I have been up to:

- Travels. Headed to Portland a couple weeks ago on something of a food pilgrimage. Had an Allagash White and a meatloaf sandwich at Duck Fat, which is high on my list of all-time favorites. Stopped by Two Fat Cats for cookies, which I’d read were supposed to be the best, but I found kind of meh, just a bit too crisp for my taste. And I spent well over an hour inside Rabelais Books, one of the few stores in the nation dedicated solely to books on food.

Though I’d read the NY Times article and visited their blog, I wasn’t sure what to expect at Rabelais.  I envisioned a cross between a Williams Sonoma and a Borders, and I’m glad I was wrong. The store was a bit smaller than I thought it would be, lined with book shelves and filled in with book covered tables. The place maintained a good balance of older (ie used) and new books, and was full of all sorts of little treasures, like books on foraging for mushrooms or dressing game, and first editions of several cooking classics. I pawed through a first-edition “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” ($1,500!) and discovered the folks from River Cottage, who put together a fine book on fish (A particular interest, as you might have noticed).

After a lot of hemming and hawing (I am unemployed, after all) I chose a little book for some vegetarian friends and approached the counter to pay. On top was an old Fannie Farmer cook book. “God, I covet these,” I said to the woman working. A brief conversation about our grandmother’s beloved cookbooks ensued. “I have a few extras here that the owner said I could give away at my discretion,” she said, picking up a stack of old Fannie Farmer’s. “Pick one out, if you like.”

Incredulous, I looked through the pile, which included a few books from the 1920s and earlier. Some of the spines were broken, some had loose pages. None were in sell-able condition. But there was one from 1917 that was mostly intact, seemingly with all its pages and enough stains on the cover to ensure it had been well-loved. “Really?” I asked. “Take it,” the woman replied. And that is how I came to have my very own “Boston Cooking School Cook Book.”

- Notable meals. Yes, there have been a few, on both ends of the spectrum. I had a birthday recently, which gave someone a good excuse to take me out for a fancy meal. We headed to Moo, which I couldn’t have been happier about. I’m the first to admit that I’m not a steakhouse kind of girl. But my companion isn’t really a gourmet kind of guy. And for us, Moo was perfect. For starters, it doesn’t feel like a steak house. The inside is cool and hip, more South Beach than Boston and the menu, while beef focused, has a lot of other stuff to offer.

We started with steak tartare, which came with warm pita crisps and a quail egg on top.  I love raw beef, but after getting food posioning a few years ago, I’ve largely shied away from it… However, beef being Moo’s specialty, I figured I was safe. And I was right. It was soooo good, I filled up and couldn’t finish my entree. Dinner was Beef Wellington and a smorgasborg of sides: squash, mashed potatoes, truffled fries, creamed spinach and brussel sprouts. Yes, we took quite a doggie bag home. The service was impeccable, just exactly what it should have been with a waiter who helped us choose a lovely wine and brought us a plate of homemade s’mores with candles in them. This will go on the list of “Best Meals 2009.” Yes, I keep track of things like that.

If Moo was one of the best meals of the year, Estragon provided one of the worst. I cannot tell you how disappointed I am to say this because with its funky decor and great wine list, I really wanted to make it a favorite. But the bottom line is they served me bad meat. Twice. But more on that in a sec.

Chicky and I headed there earlier this week on a whim. At first glance, everything seemed great. our server suggested a wonderful bottle of wine and the menu appeared to be creative, with lots of the stranger cuts of meat that Chicky and I treasure. But any excitement evaporated when the food arrived. The veggies were ok, but the two meat dishes we ordered were awful. Awful. At first, I thought that maybe it was me, maybe I just don’t like beef cheeks or something (I know I don’t like liver or tongue). But a quick consultation to higher culinary powers confirmed that no, beef cheeks are not supposed to taste “gamey.”

“It tastes like old meat,” Chicky said. And she was exactly right. Both of our meat dishes smelled like that hamburger that’s been sitting in your fridge for two weeks. We tried to be nice, yet honest when our server asked how the food was, but he didn’t pick up on it. Instead, he stood at our table and talked very quickly at us for 25 minutes about Provincetown while not very discreetly wiping his nose on his sleeve. If the whole kitchen was as high as this guy, it’s easy to see why the food sucked.  We sent back more than half of it untouched and while the wine was good, I wish I hadn’t paid $87 for this experience.

- Cooking. Now that it’s fall, I have occasion to make some of my favorite things: soups and pies. Made an “everything but the kitchen sink” lentil soup last week that was supreme. Onions, garlic, carrots, mushrooms, celery and kale. So yummy, and with all those veggies, you know it’s good for you.

- I was late getting into the Thanksgiving cooking spirit. But I’ve got it pretty good now. Just finished making a chocolate-pecan pie and will tackle “Grown Up Green Bean Casserole” tomorrow. The pie looks really really good… and smells about the same. If I was smarter, I would have made two pies and then had one to taste today… but as it stands now, the taste-jury will be out until tomorrow. I used a Gourmet recipe for “Waiting for Wilma” pie and then adapted it to what was in my own cupboard.

My version:

1 9-inch frozen pie crust. (Sorry, but pie crust isn’t delicious enough to warrant making my own)
1/2 cup dark corn syrup
1/2 cup light corn syrup
1/2 cup sugar
2 large eggs
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, melted
1 Tablespoon pure vanilla extract
1 Tablespoon Pusser’s dark rum
1/4 teaspoon salt
3.5 oz milk chocolate, melted (in my case, a giant Cadbury Dairy Milk bar)
1 1/4 cups pecans, finely chopped

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix together corn syrup, sugar, eggs, flour, butter, vanilla, rum, cocoa and salt until combined. Stir in melted chocolate and pecans and pour into pie shell. Bake until top is puffed but slightly wobbly in center, about 50 minutes. Serve at room temperature.

As a brief introduction to myself and my situation, I have to mention that I am an unemployed 28-year-old male living with his parents.  Not in his “mother’s basement”, haters, but in a very moderately-sized room with a door and carpeting and a walk-in closet.  This room houses most of my earthly possessions which consist primarily of digital versatile discs and paperbacks.  As a jobless cine-audio- literophile (“nerd” in layperson’s terms), I spend most of my time devouring my way through a vast and endless buffet of movies, books and albums.  I’d be remiss if I failed to mention my burgeoning video game habit.  The sum of all those wretched parts is that my once Pantragruelian physique is now something much more Gargantuan, much to my dismay. 

Having said that, things are not so dire.  Not yet, at any rate.  I’ve spent an increasing number of my free hours attending to more active pursuits and, due to a nasty case of gall stones, I have cast nearly all fatty food completely asunder.  Gone are the days of eating whatever or whenever one wants.  Doctor Atkins would shudder in his grave if he knew with how much rancor I now direct toward meat, both white and red.  If not for some of the more healthy poultry that I enjoy, I would have become a full-blown pescetarian.  All of this frightening change to stave off the exponentially more frightening inevitable for, hopefully, decades to come. 

I’m learning to embrace the change.  All in all, it feels nice to exercise and eat more for sustenance than for pleasure.  Sometimes I even browse the interwebs for places in which I am encouraged to be more active. 

I was doing exactly that when I stumbled upon an exercise program for children in my general vicinity.  I couldn’t help feeling envious of the children who take advantage of such a great program.  Before I continue, let me reiterate much I believe that these opportunities are exemplary and genius.  How different would my life be if my childhood had been more centered on fitness.  Sure, I played rec soccer and baseball from first grade to middle school, but I can’t claim to have been much of an athlete.  An adequate role player, for sure, but I wasn’t much for running, an attribute that lingers on to this day.  Luckily, on and off for the past 3 years, I have felt the various benefits of personal training.  I applaud the people who promote healthfulness in our society. 

It’s just…couldn’t they come up with a better name than Fitness for Health? 

I don’t mean to demean the nobility of their mission or sully their collective reputation, but come on…Fitness for Health?  What does that even mean?  I don’t think it’s my inner sloth rearing his ugly head when I point out that, in most circles, fitness is synonymous with health.  Even if the two words are slightly differing in meaning, they are two twigs on the very same branch.  Furthermore, why else would someone want to be fit?  Every benefit, whether becoming more acceptably attractive to the mainstream or just being able to move with more fluidity and ease, falls into that general “health” category: so much so that one would be completely well within their faculties to say that fitness is health and vice versa. 

Fitness for Health.  Pssh.  Why not Fitness for Cake?  Or Fitness for Yellow?  Perhaps the underlying lesson of this unfortunately-named fitness company is that my time reading books was time well spent. 

Signing off from the dark of the matinée.

Pascale Fourier s’entretient avec Jean-Pierre Chevènement. L’ancien ministre explique que les problèmes politiques et écologiques internationaux restent, quoi qu’en disent certains, du ressort des nations.

Pascale Fourier : Quand j’ai parlé à mes amis du fait que j’allais vous rencontrer, ils m’ont dit: « Mais tu vas voir quelqu’un qui professe des idées complètement obsolètes et en particulier l’idée de nation ! Chevènement est complètement déconnecté de la réalité ! » Est-ce que vraiment on peut dire que l’idée de nation est obsolète ?

Jean-Pierre Chevènement : Je ne crois pas. D’abord parce que, dans le monde tel qu’il va, je ne vois pas que la nation ait disparu ni aux États-Unis, ni en Chine, ni en Russie, ni au Brésil, ni en Inde. Et je vois même que de très petites nations par la taille peuvent jouer un rôle très important: je pense à Singapour, à Israël, à Cuba, au Venezuela. Le monde reste fait de nations et ce n’est pas par hasard qu’il y a une Organisation des Nations Unies. C’est que les hommes se définissent aussi par une appartenance nationale et que la nation est le cadre de l’expression démocratique parce que, naturellement, le sentiment d’appartenance permet à la démocratie de fonctionner. La démocratie, c’est l’acceptation de la loi de la majorité. Ça ne va pas de soi. On accepte la loi de la majorité dans un certain cadre, loi de la majorité qu’on n’accepterait pas dans un autre cadre. Donc la nation, c’est la démocratie.

Deuxièmement, la nation, c’est la solidarité. Vous remarquerez que la Sécurité sociale est nationale. C’est un budget considérable. Sans la Sécurité sociale, quelle serait la réalité de l’État-providence ?

Enfin troisième argument, la nation est le levier de notre responsabilité par rapport au monde. Je sais bien que la mode était à l’humanitaire, mais rien ne vaut une politique étrangère vigoureuse qui s’exprime avec force sur des sujets déterminants pour l’avenir de la paix dans le monde. Je ne citerai que le problème israélo-palestinien; la question de l’Irak,qui a, je dirais, entraîné plusieurs guerres et des millions de morts; la question du Pakistan, nation récente, à certains égards artificielle puisque constituée à partir de la volonté des musulmans de l’Inde de se doter d’un État: nous devons aider ce pays à affermir sa vocation nationale et à devenir une nation comme les autres, coopérant avec ses voisins, je pense en particulier à l’Inde. C’est une dimension tout à fait essentielle: il faut que le Pakistan passe d’une géopolitique passionnelle à une géo-économie rationnelle. Je pourrais prendre un exemple en Europe…. Croyez-vous que l’unification allemande n’est pas dû quelque part au sentiment national allemand? Quand les manifestants de Dresde ou de Berlin ont commencé a crier non plus « wir sind das Volk », c’est-à-dire « nous sommes le peuple », mais « wir sind ein Volk », « nous sommes un peuple », on a assisté à un changement qualitatif de la revendication: c’était une revendication nationale. Et le chancelier Kohl a bousculé le jeu pour imposer une réunification qui correspondait d’ailleurs naturellement à l’aspiration des Allemands. Je pourrais multiplier les exemples.

Ceux qui ne sont pas dans le coup, c’est à mon avis ceux qui surfent sur la mode et qui ont oublié que le sentiment d’appartenance nationale s’est forgé au long des siècles, pour ne pas dire des millénaires, qu’il y a là quelque chose d’extrêmement fort qu’on ne peut pas faire disparaître d’un coup de gomme. Certains y ont cru dans le passé. En France dans les années 30, on était très anti-national… Les gens regardaient vers Rome, Moscou, Berlin, pas vers Paris. A Paris, on était pacifiste, puis ça a donné la défaite de 1940, l’Occupation. Et on a vu des gens comme Aragon qui «conchiait» le drapeau français qui, ensuite, ont chanté la France dans leur poésie – très bien d’ailleurs…
Donc, vous voyez, c’est quand même tout à fait significatif : il y a des gens qui ont changé d’avis, qui étaient très hostiles à l’idée-même de nation dans laquelle ils voyaient le synonyme de la grande boucherie de la guerre de 1914 1918, qui ont fini par redécouvrir la vertu démocratique et libératrice de la nation.

Pascale Fourier : Mais certains pourraient vous dire que maintenant les problèmes ont vraiment une dimension internationale, en particulier les problèmes liés aux changements climatiques, à la crise, et que donc il faut savoir dépasser le cadre national…

Jean-Pierre Chevènement : Mais les problèmes ont toujours eu une dimension internationale ! Ca ne date pas d’hier. Et la nation, comme je vous l’ai dit, est un levier à partir duquel on peut agir dans l’ordre international. Jaurès disait déjà:« Un peu d’internationalisme éloigne de la patrie, beaucoup y ramène ». Il n’y a donc rien de nouveau sous le soleil.
S’agissant de la crise, je vous fais observer que la réaction a été d’abord nationale. C’est Messieurs Sarkozy et Gordon Brown qui ont fait des propositions que Madame Merkel d’abord ne voulait pas accepter et qu’elle a fini par entériner quand on s’est aperçu que les banques allemandes étaient au bord de la faillite. Et puis, de proche en proche, on a réuni le G 14 qui est devenu le G 20, à Washington, et par conséquent, à partir d’initiatives nationales, on a entériné les choses au niveau de plusieurs cercles de solidarité, au niveau de l’Union Européenne – et ce n’est pas allé sans mal-, et puis au niveau des vingt pays qui représentent 85 % du PIB mondial – vous me direz que le PIB n’est plus à la mode…, certes… Mais je dirais qu’il vaut mieux avoir des idées claires et qui résistent que de chevaucher des coquecigrues…. Vous connaissez ce mot ?

Pascale Fourier : Non…

Jean-Pierre Chevènement : C’est dans Rabelais. Ce sont des animaux volant en haute altitude avec mille pattes, des mille-pattes volants. On appelle ça des coquecigrues. Alors il y a beaucoup de gens qui courent après les coquecigrues…

Pascale Fourier : Certains vous diraient : « Certes, ce que vous dites jusque-là est valide. Mais il faut mettre tous nos espoirs dans la construction d’une Europe dans laquelle un peuple européen pourrait se reconnaître »…

Jean-Pierre Chevènement : Mais vous savez, on n’a pas fait le peuple français d’un seul coup. On a mis au moins mille ans, peut-être même deux mille. Et je ne sais pas ce que c’est le peuple européen. Où s’arrête-t-il ? Est-ce que vous allez rejeter les Russes par exemple – je ne parle pas des Ukrainiens, des Biélorusses, etc.. Quid de la Turquie ? Qu’est-ce que l’Europe, enfin, où s’arrête-t-elle ? À l’Oural, à Vladivostok, avant ? Tout ça est une idée encore imprécise qui est liée à un cercle de solidarité entre les nations européennes parce qu’elles sont situées à l’extrémité du petit cap eurasiatique. C’est vrai, mais prenons par exemple le commerce extérieur. L’Allemagne a une politique de déflation salariale depuis 2000 qui lui donne une compétitivité très grande au détriment de ses voisins européens. Donc on ne peut pas dire qu’elle ait une stratégie véritablement coopérative l’échelle européenne. Elle a une stratégie dont je ne sais d’ailleurs pas à quel mobile profond elle obéit, parce qu’elle pèse aussi lourdement sur la croissance allemande. Certes, l’Allemagne a un fort excédent commercial, qui vient d’ailleurs d’être dépassé par l’excédent chinois. Mais cet excédent se réalise pratiquement aux deux tiers sur l’Europe. Il serait peut-être plus intelligent d’avoir une politique keynésienne à l’échelle d’un espace européen protégé. Mais qui est d’accord pour cela ? À ma connaissance, pas l’Allemagne, mais l’Allemagne est le pays le plus puissant d’Europe. Et à partir du moment où l’Allemagne ne veut pas d’un gouvernement économique de la zone euro, par exemple, comment le lui imposer ?
J’ai pris cet exemple. Je pourrais en prendre un autre. En matière nucléaire, l’Europe s’en est remis pour le choix de sa défense aux États-Unis. Si vous allez dans les pays de l’Europe centrale et orientale, vous verrez qu’ils préfèrent être protégés par Washington plutôt que par Bruxelles. On les comprend. Mais ils préfèrent même Washington à Paris ou à Londres. Et d’une certaine manière on peut comprendre aussi parce qu’il y a le souvenir de 1940. Les Britanniques considèrent que leur sécurité est fondée sur une relation spéciale avec les États-Unis, qui leur fournissent leurs missiles Trident. L’Allemagne? Son Ministre des Affaires étrangères est pour une Europe dénucléarisée. Mais ce n’est pas la position de la France. Et vous comprenez bien qu’on peut parler d’Europe sans savoir, mais la réalité, c’est que l’Europe se fait sur certains sujets à géométrie variable, qu’elle est une dimension importante, essentielle même de notre politique, mais elle ne s’y résume pas. Si on comptait sur l’Europe pour vendre des Rafales, nous n’aurions encore rien vendu. Parce que, par exemple aux Pays-Bas, les Américains sont suffisamment influents pour avoir imposé l’achat de F16 ou F18, et demain de JFS 35. Par contre, au Brésil, on a réussi à vendre trente-six Rafales.

Donc la France a une vocation non seulement européenne, mais mondiale, et il ne faut pas l’oublier. Nous sommes le plus important des pays francophones: ça représente quand même une des grandes langues des civilisations. Et elle sera bientôt plus parlée en Afrique qu’en Europe. La France est membre permanent du Conseil de sécurité des Nations unies. Ce n’est pas rien. Cela nous donne des responsabilités et des devoirs particuliers. Nous sommes un des pays membres du club très restreint des Etats dotés nucléairement, d’après les traités – il y a en 5, d’abord le TNP, et puis 3 autres s’y sont rajoutés en contravention avec le TNP.

Voilà, tout ça, ce sont des réalités nationales. On ne peut pas comprendre que l’Inde et le Pakistan aient voulu accéder à l’arme nucléaire si on ne parle pas du conflit indo-pakistanais qui dure depuis cinquante ans, un peu plus même. Et Israël? Est-ce qu’on peut comprendre qu’Israël se soit dotée d’armes nucléaires indépendamment du contexte du Proche-Orient ?

Vouloir faire l’impasse sur la réalité nationale, c’est se condamner à ne rien comprendre au monde dans lequel nous vivons. Ceux qui sont modernes ne sont pas ceux qui le croient.

> vos commentaires : courriel.lgc@laposte.net

Ami lecteur, tu viens de trouver le premier blog vraiment intéressant du web.

From the beginning, I was lured by woods. As a child on our 50-acre farm east of Oklahoma City, I followed the creek south from the house, crawled under a barbed wire fence and slipped into the woods my father rented for firewood and to graze his milk cows—80 acres of oaks, hickories, willows, cottonwoods, persimmons, meadow and swamp. To a boy of seven, an 80-acre forest is infinity. I knew the eighty’s orientation to the sun, where the land inclined, where the soil was boggy or dry, where groves of various trees grew, when and where to find ripe persimmons and why to avoid those that are not.

American persimmon tree

I knew the trails made by cows and men, but a boy of seven can follow trails of smaller animals too, and gradually I sketched ever-finer details on my mental map. I found the tracks of raccoons and possums and deer, sometimes following, sometimes intersecting the more predictable foot-wide paths of cows. On hands and knees, I followed the lower, narrower trails. Some tracks I didn’t know, but I followed them all, ever deeper into brambles and underbrush. I found where the possum crawled into his hollow hickory log. I knew the tall cottonwood in whose rotting trunk the raccoon lived. I found the limb on which he dined, saw where he dropped his waste, and learned what fruits and creatures he ate. Following trails expanded my universe of mammals and birds.

But nature herself is not a fan of trails. Decades before I read Rabelais’ observation that “nature abhors a vacuum,” I found it true. The height and width of each trail was no greater than that of the largest animal that regularly passed. A few large animals, moose for example, are equipped to keep trails wide, and deer help maintain trails by browsing brush. But of all the animals in the woods, only man carries nippers or saws to efficiently counter nature’s tendency to close trails. I am such a man.

There are rational reasons for trails. They provide access to otherwise forbidden places and to fallen firewood trees. They allow fuller access to the woods, whether by foot or on skis. And on the Missouri River bluff, where eastern red cedars are invading every square foot not otherwise occupied, trail blazing keeps remnants of native prairie alive and exposed to sun. So when fall rolls around, I take to the woods to make or maintain trails. That has been my occupation this fine November week. The result is a pair of new cross-country ski trails, the longest a quarter-mile run from bluff to river bottom.

But truthfully, all the logical reasons for trail maintenance are on some level rationalization for being in the woods. Perhaps my personal motive is not so different from that of the hunter who carries a gun instead of a saw, and whose object is deer rather than firewood or fun. Given the ingrained work ethic of our culture, we seem to need an excuse for frittering away an afternoon in the woods.

Trail maker that I am, I admit there is a problem with trails. Once constructed, whether by cows or coons or men, one may follow them without asking why. And perhaps that, in the end, is the attraction of cutting a new trail to find what lies in a tangle I have yet to explore. So do I face an inescapable conundrum—the paradox that in seeking adventure I tame the very wilderness I love? Probably not, recalling nature’s efficient way of countering our every move—and that we live amidst cedar trees, one of her most efficient tools.

––Jerry

Se recueillir pour s’accueillir, se dévoiler, se rencontrer. Cher compagnon, ce chemin de choix est un chemin de croix. Heureusement, c’est aussi et nécessairement un chemin d’humanité. Il est bon de s’en souvenir tandis que nous laissons Hercule rappeler notre condition à ses devoirs. C’est avec cette disposition d’esprit que nous lisons le quatrième travail de notre héros : “4° prise de la biche de Cérynie : cette biche magique, qui avait des cornes d’or et des pieds d’airain, fut poursuivie une année durant par Héraclès, mais en vain. Enfin, le héros réussit à blesser l’animal d’une de ses flèches et, le plaçant sur ses épaules, le rapporta vivant à Eurysthée” Le décor est planté. L’habitude de laisser l’histoire faire corps avec toi va bientôt montrer sa vigueur : c’est ainsi que l’on apprend à lire le signe entre les lignes. Rabelais dirait “briser l’os pour en sucer la substantifique moëlle”. Médite, cher ami! Mejnour, prince d’Orient, fils de Liberté te salue!

LE BILLET DE MEJNOUR, CONTEMPLATION

Mejnour ben HUR, mejnourbh@gmail.com

SOMMAIRE >>>

Siden middelalderen har Helten blitt presset tilbake fra den direkte handlingens sfære til en mer refleksiv og mental sfære der kampen i større og større grad har stått om hans eksistensmulighet og i mindre og mindre grad om hans virke ute i verden. Heltens normale aktivitet er å kjempe for noe overpersonlig; et Rike, en Idé, en Jomfru, men i vår tids grålysning har kampen fått et mer og mer gåtefullt og utydelig preg. Hvordan føre en kamp når det er uklart hvem som er venn og fiende, og hvilke prinsipper man skal kjempe for?

Da ridderen led sin historiske død, brukte Cervantes og Rabelais hans ånd til å skape modernitetens fremste kunst; romankunsten. Med Don Quijote ga Cervantes moderniteten en foreløpig diagnose og viste at veien mellom den heroiske verden og vår praktiske verden var blitt grundig stengt. Rabelais satte i gang litterære eksperimenter på leting etter en løsning, og formulerte den dristige Thelema-loven som gir den enkelte fullstendig frihet til å gjøre hva han vil, noe han illustrerte gjennom ridderkjempene Gargantua og Pantagruel og deres bedrifter. I romanens frie rom skulle fra nå av historiske og overhistoriske, djevelske og guddommelige krefter møtes til strid, og kanskje nettopp i dette rommet finner vi kreftene som har skapt vår moderne verden uttrykt i sine klareste og tidligste former.

Den metafysiske geriljakrigeren Jean Parvulesco beskriver den vestlige romankunsten som en eneste stor Arthuriansk kjærlighetssang som sikter mot en gjenopprettelse av Regnum Sanctum, et rike som er bygget av kjærlighetens prinsipper og som skal stå imot Gog og Magogs horder i den apokalyptiske endekampen som nærmer seg. Dette usynlige riket ledet av Arthur er ikke gått tapt, men veiene dit er farligere enn noen sinne, og godt bevoktet av djevelske krefter som må overvinnes gjennom kamp. Men overvinnelsen må skje på en spesiell måte, gjennom en transformasjon av ondskapens mørke gift til en livgivende medisin— en operasjon som krever en helt spesiell finstemthet, og en innvielsesvei som helten er overlatt til å finne på egen hånd.

Hvordan oppnå den nødvendige finstemtheten? I stor grad handler det om hvilke inntrykk man tillater adgang til sin oppmerksomhet, om det er snakk om mennesker, musikk, litteratur eller kunst. Jeg tror ikke veien ligger gjennom det vår kultur regner som stort, det “man” trenger i en borgerlig dannelse slik at man kan fungere intersubjektivt lim i et moderne demokrati. Nei, det nødvendige er å hengi seg til det som gir rom for det sakrale, og dette finnes i dag i utkanten av allmenndannelsen.

En stor del av dagens oppgave ser ut til å være å gjennomtenke vår historiske tid, og konsentrere og samle sammen de elementene som kan skape grobunn for en ny kultur. En slik type kontemplasjon faller kanskje utenfor det som umiddelbart er nyttig— fruktene av den tilhører fremtiden og ikke fortidens mennesker. I den grad denne typen tenkning praktiseres dristig og autentisk vil den ha en foreløpighet som bare vanskelig eller usynlig setter spor i den praktiske virkelighet, så de som følger sitt kall om å praktisere den kan ikke regne med hverken belønning eller forståelse fra omverdenen. Kanskje denne typen kontemplasjon er den viktigste prøvelsen for grålysningens helt?

Photo courtesy of Rabelais Books website. Credit: Maria Alexandra Vettese.

ED NOTE: Steve Plotnicki of OAD just wrote to inform us that this deal is only available to people already signed up to the Rabelais mailing list at the time of announcement. Another promotion available to the general public will be coming soon, however. Stay tuned.

Careful, now. This post will likely waste your time.

Opinionated About Dining — a newly launched website driven by user ratings — wants your opinions. It wants them so badly, they’re going to give you cookbooks for them. The catch? You just have to give up your morning to earn it.

The deal is this. OAD is hoping to publish a guide to dining in the United States. Given that most diners are busy — you have to earn that food somehow — they’ve added an incentive by teaming with Rabelais books of Portland, Maine, a cookbook store of the highest quality. (See here for their website, and an article I once wrote about their store.) The more restaurants you review, the more cookbooks you earn. As advertised, the offer stands at:

a) Rate 20 restaurants and get any of the books we are offering for 1/2 (half) price.
b) Rate 35 restaurants and get your choice of the Momofuku Cookbook or Stir:Mixing it Up in the Italian Tradition free of charge.
c) Rate 50 restaurants and get your choice of Ad Hoc at Home or the Fat Duck Cookbook free of charge
d) Rate 75 restaurants and get either Momofuku or Stir, plus either Ad Hoc at Home or the Fat Duck cookbook.
e) Rate 100 restaurants and choose any 3 (three) books for free
f) Rate 125 restaurants and get all 4 (four) books for free.

Now, I happen to love Rabelais books — it’s simply one of the finest cookbooks stores I’ve ever visited. And I happen to love food, and reviewing restaurants (you are on this website, after all). And so I spent a morning reviewing. I got close to a hundred. Steve Plotnicki, the founder of OAD, claims that many people have rated more than a hundred. Many have even rated more than 200. Only a few, however, have rated more than 400.

If you’re interested, you’re over 18, and you’re reading this before November 11th, here’s what you do. Go to this website to start. Enter the word “olive” with no quotation marks and no caps as the pre-approval code. And enter “Rabelais” in the How Did You Hear About Opinionated About section.

Mind you — Plotnicki is looking for help in some specific places. In the US, he’s looking for help in these cities. And yet, I think you’ll find the list of reviewed restaurants in Europe to be rather paltry in comparison to the US reviews. This is not to fault Plotnicki, or his reviewers; as the site is US based, it will inevitably have a US bias. Plus, it is a good start for a good idea. There’s simply more work to be done.

You’ll note, for instance, the lack of reviews of restaurants around Oxford. Le Manoir aux Qaut’ Saisons is listed, as is the Old Parsonage, but little else. Our beloved pub The Anchor is not listed, nor is Branca or Quod. Thankfully, there’s a suggestion page where you can add a restaurant. I’ve done this for a number of local spots. Now — it’s your turn.

Mind you, this is not meant as a late night infomerical advertising how you can Make Millions From Home. I did spend a morning, and could have spent a day. How you spend your time is not to question. But in the span of a few hours, you can earn two cookbooks worth 20 quid each. Not bad. And just think of the meals to come.

A verser au dossier « Gargantua » cette hypothèse avancée par Gwenc’hlan Le Scouëzec (« Les Druides », ed. Beltan) qui est tout à fait séduisante:

« La planète Mercure porte le vocable d’un dieu totalement hellénisé. Ce serait un tort de croire qu’elle porte une appellation latine : la réalité est grecque, c’est Hermès. Il convient donc de chercher quel personnage celtique se cache sous le nom d’Hermès. Ce Mercure est important, c’est le principal dieu des Celtes nous dit César. Maître des chemins, commerçant, artisan et inventeur des arts, grand trésorier de l’argent, il est figuré sous la forme d’une statue ou une stèle aux différents carrefours.

Nous connaissons en Gaule un dieu des rochers sacrés, des mégalithes et des stèles. Cette figure qui est restée en dehors de l’écriture, mais a très largement survécu dans le folklore et la topographie s’appelle Gargan et Gargantua. Son nom vient peut-être de Karregan, « Celui du Rocher », d’un terme qui existait déjà en celtique. Gargantua viendrait alors d’un Gargan-Teutatès ou Gargan-Tuath, d’après l’irlandais, « le peuple de celui du rocher ».

Il correspond bien à l’Hermès des Grecs, l’être des monuments de pierre aux carrefours. Il a parsemé la terre de palets, de gravois et de gravelles, de menhirs et de pierres de toute sorte. Peut-être n’est-il pas sans rapport avec l’argent, dont le nom gaulois « argentos », pourrait venir de Gargantua.

Il règne notamment sur le Mont rocheux de Gargan au dessus de la ville de Rouen, sur le Mont Gargan du Limousin, sur celui de Moutiers, sur le Mont St Michel, ancien Gargan, sur le Grand Rocher, Roc’h Hir Laz, à St Michel en Grève, enfin sur les hauteurs du Monte Gargano en Italie. Il est manifestement la divinité des montagnes. Aussi le grand temple de Mercure qui se dressait sur le Puy de Dôme est-il sans doute le sanctuaire de Gargantua.

Il boit les rivières, il pisse les lacs, il règne sur les gués et cette dernière faculté ainsi que celle de construire des ponts, le rapproche des chemins et des voies de communication.

Le peuple n’a jamais oublié son grand dieu et partout les traditions se sont conservées qui le mettent en scène, jusqu’à nos jours. Rabelais a fait sa fortune au XVIe siècle, mais il n’a fait que reprendre un nom et des hauts-faits qui existaient avant lui ».

—————————————————————————————————————————

(mencionada en La verdadera historia de las sociedades secretas, 11,176, 282s, 311, 341-343)

La abadía de Aleister Crowley en la isla de Cefalú se llamaba Thelema (342).

Probablemente se inspiró en la abadía de Thelema que aparece en el Gargantúa de Rabelais (283) y es seguro que  Crowley también conocía la abadía de Thelema de Francis Dashwood, y quizá la sociedad secreta de los Caballeros del Júbilo, de John Toland (282s), que también imitaban a Rabelais.

Sin embargo Crowley aseguraba que su filosofía de Thelema (“Haz lo que quieras y eso se convertirá en ley”) le fue inspirada por algún espíritu durante un viaje a El Cairo.

Curiosamente, la palabra aparece en la Tabla Esmeraldina (ver), un misterioso escrito que suele asociarse al Corpus Hermeticum traducido por Marsilo Ficino para Cosme de Medicis, pero que es, sin duda, anterior a la Tabla.

En las páginas 342 y 343, se intenta desentrañar la rocambolesca historia de Thelema, y se menciona también su relación con Agustín de Hipona.

(Ver también: Thelema, abadía de)

Je suis heureux. Ça s’écrit comme ça, paraît-il. Je suis heureux de l’être, et je suis heureux de l’écrire. Je suis heureux de pouvoir l’écrire. Rassure-toi, ça ne va pas durer. Divaguons. J’ai été catholique. Qu’entendais-je, quand je disais, Prions. Une orientation. Une direction. L’inconnu, déjà. Rendre justice à toutes ces âneries ? Un jour, peut-être. Cet amour de l’inconnu. Qu’on y peut jeter tout ce qui fait notre vie sans hésiter un seul instant. La folie de l’Évangile. Sympathique. Pourquoi cet adjectif ridicule, cynique ? Blessure. Jeter d’un seul coup sans hésiter toute la vie, j’y consens. C’est l’affinité qui existe entre le christianisme, Nietzsche, et moi. Mais la terre. Jeter la vie pour la terre, dans la terre, sur la terre, à la terre, etc. Toute la dialectique chrétienne se réveille en moi (je jure sur la tête de mes enfants que ça n’était pas prévu). Saloperie. Un « langage ». Ça va mieux. C’est « réducteur » ? (Ça commence à mal tourner, le langage se met à pourrir, on entend le cliquetis de l’école, poisson-chat !) Non. Wittgenstein aussi est un homme très-seul, très-seul. Même pas sûr de sa « propre » main ! Sympathique, Wittgenstein. C’est bien, cette poubelle. La chambre, c’était un peu trop solennel, allégorique, seigneurial. Une turne, encore un palais royal ! La poubelle, c’est mieux. Bien sûr, débile comme je suis, j’ai très-vite songé à la « poubellisation » de Lacan. On s’en fout. Je songe moins à qui pourrait bien lire (on y songe toujours un peu, même dans le fond de son lit ; ça pourrait bien s’appeler la prière, le secret, toutes ces conneries, cf. Derrida). Putain ! Tant pis. Le lecteur est un dieu. Sinon, tant pis. Je suis Jean-Baptiste, le lecteur est Jésus-Christ ! Plus grand que moi ! Mes sandales ! Je te baptise ! Mais comment se fait-il que le dieu ait besoin d’être baptisé ? Anachronisme, on injecte la trinité en pleine marmelade, tout va bien ! Oui, le lecteur est un dieu. Je suis l’Ancien Testament. Fiat lux ! Le lecteur. Oh, le lecteur ! Le murmure à l’ambon. Murmure ? Pour le « choeur » ? Les moines ! Je les vénérais. Les Psaumes, la répétition. Manger du français ! Chanter du latin. La pierre. L’enroulement de la voix, sa propagation, sa perte. Les Psaumes, pauvre carcasse, la pierre. La création. Le jet de l’Esprit, bouche pourrie, ver infect, la transfiguration. La pierre est heureuse. Dorée. Comme le soleil qui lèche la forêt, tu sais ? Le Psaume qui lèche la pierre, sublime ! Complètement couillon. Complètement humain. Quand Gombrowicz parle gentiment du catholicisme, il ne m’énerve pas. Je comprends. Le protestantisme, n’en parlons pas (je le garde en réserve au cas où je friserais l’extase, pour toucher terre, crever le ballon, me foutre en l’air). Saloperie. Arrête tes conneries, tu veux ? D’accord. Le christianisme est beaucoup trop sérieux. Ça fait un moment que Rabelais me fait du pied, j’y songeais tout à l’heure, à propos de l’humour. L’humour ! Un mot bien trop sérieux. Rien ne distingue mieux les hommes que l’humour, me disais-je. Rien n’est plus triste qu’un homme qui n’est pas drôle. Ça arrive. Le pire, c’est quand il aimerait. Quand il n’a pas envie, il fait rire. Mais s’il a envie de faire rire, et s’il ne fait pas rire, c’est consternant. On a envie de mourir. La littérature est une vaste plaisanterie, me disais-je. Le rire de Gombrowicz (départ, vingt lignes). Le rire de Beckett. Le rire de Bernhard. Le rire de Joyce. Le rire de Kafka. Etc. Ça distingue. Une certaine affinité. Pour rire avec Gombrowicz, il faut avoir une solide expérience de ces situations qui partent en couilles, etc. Je n’en suis plus à me demander si « Dieu » existe (peut exister, etc.). Allez. Mettons qu’il existe. S’il ne rit pas, aucun intérêt. S’il rit, je lui en veux. Pourquoi m’autoriser à rire, et l’interdire à Dieu ? Je suis plus modeste que j’en ai l’air. Si j’étais Dieu, je ne rirais pas. Ça doit faire mal, très-mal, très-, très-mal. Très-, très-très-, très-très-très-mal. Tout puissant ? Assez. De quoi devenir fou (je ne serais pas le premier). Putain ! De quoi je parle ! J’ai ça au compteur. Un moine que j’aimais s’intéressait plus au développement d’un arbre qu’à la spéculation théologique, remarque. Et alors ? Ça prouve seulement que tu avais affaire à un homme (il y en a, parmi les chrétiens). J’ai l’air de déconner, c’est entendu, mais il y a des limites ! Est-ce que j’ai une tête à pratiquer l’excommunication ? Ne nous emballons pas, je te prie. On ne va pas réintégrer tous les chrétiens dans l’humanité, en vrac, sous prétexte que tu ne voudrais pas pratiquer une excommunication à l’envers ! Au cas par cas. Quelle sorte d’homme es-tu ? (La question de Gombrowicz, pour résumer.) De quoi ris-tu ? (La question qui tue, ou du moins qui est susceptible d’aliéner ma sympathie, ad vitam aeternam). Putain, quel sérieux ! Assez. Je suis fatigué. Tant pis. J’avais besoin de bouffer du français, disais-je. On va resonger à Rabelais. Mais ça déçoit souvent les vieux cons, non ? Le chemin qui monte et le chemin qui descend, il n’y a que ça ! Essaie de prendre Rabelais à la montée ! Dieu existe ! Ah voilà, je te retrouve. Non, sans déconner ! Tu tiens vraiment à me faire replonger ? Non, non. C’était pour rire. Pas drôle. Justement. Je te retrouve ! Justement. Change de disque ! Ta gueule. Je te retrouve ! On a compris. Pas question de ça. De quoi ? De comprendre. On a compris. Je te retrouve ! Quelle chance. On va se coucher ? Oui.

Speaking of Thomas Browne, he left among his miscellaneous papers a catalog of imaginary or lost books, the Musaeum Clausum or Bibliotheca Abscondita.  Included are unknown works by Ovid and Pytheas, an account of the death of Avicenna, and (my favorite) a Sub Marine Herbal ‘describing the several Vegetables found on the Rocks, Hills, Valleys, Meadows at the bottom of the Sea.’  Better than Browne’s list, however, is the imaginary library dreamt up by Rabelais, which includes such promising titles as Folk Dances for Heretics, Close Shaven Clerks by Ockham, Advanced Asslicking for Graduate Students and the not-to-be-omitted And Cheese, Too.

At the risk of boring you (because detailed descriptions of the dreams of others can make life unbearable), I will mention a curious personal phenomenon.  For several years I’ve had recurring dreams of an imaginary bookshop set in the middle of an anonymous city, entered by walking down a flight of stairs from street level and extending two or three floors below ground.  It is, I think, an amalgam of several of my favorite real-world book stores: Powell’s in Portland, Green Apple in San Francisco, and Magus and Elliot Bay in Seattle.  If it has a name, I don’t know it, so I may as well borrow Browne’s sub-title and call it Bibliotheca Abscondita.  

I’ve decided to begin cataloging the books I discover there.  Just last week in a dream I purchased an English translation by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu of an early Italian opera libretto titled (or authored by, I’m not sure which) Casseraghi.  It was full of the most wonderful illustrations done in a style that married Watteau, Blake and early Picasso – exquisite images of harlequin figures emerging from velvety green shadows, highlighted in turquoise, red and shimmering gold leaf. 

The second book I purchased on this particular visit was a Library of America volume I’d never seen before, the collected works of a mid-twentieth century novelist with the odd surname of Augustynde.  There he was on the back cover, a latter-day Whitman with a pendulous white beard, dressed in a casual-cut white suit and hat, smoking a pipe.  The novels and stories contained in the volume (most of which dealt with WWII) were marvelously written, every sentence an intense surprise and pleasure.  I couldn’t understand how it was possible I’d never heard of Augustynde before.

At the height of the Renaissance, Rabelais cleverly inverted the monastic ideal – a life of labour and prayer – to explore the other Utopian extreme: hedonistic leisure amid inexhaustible abundance. At his fictitious Abbey of Thelème, the inhabitants comport themselves in a regal spendour that was clearly the stuff of fantasy in the early sixteenth century.

But a century later, Francis Bacon decisively transformed the Utopian tradition. He raised the possibility that, given sufficient technological power over nature, the hope of a democratic abundance might not be unrealistic. Bacon’s New Atlantis holds its place as the first scientific Utopia, a bold prediction of good things to come based on unlimited proliferation of material goods. That vision has hovered in the background of the entire industrial process as one justification for the privation, harsh discipline, wrenching dislocation, grime and soot that this great adventure has cost. The concept of plenitude went into eclipse; the foundation of our contemporary ecological crisis was laid.

It was not until the waste, drudgery and filth of industrialism were vividly imprinted on the historical landscape that the plenitude formerly sought became a timely topic once again.

William Morris, the Victorian poet, painter and political philosopher, was among the first to take up the discussion in his Utopian novel, News From Nowhere.

Morris, a bitter critic of both the ugliness and injustice of the industrial system, laid his hopes for a balanced economic order upon a reformation of taste.

In Morris’ land of Nowhere, aesthetics is the context of economic life. The sensibilities of people have been schooled to value the quality, not the quantity of goods. For Morris, this meant a handicraft standard of excellence, as exemplified by his Arts and Crafts Movement, which he took to be of benefit for the soul as well as the body.

One need not endorse Morris’ doctrinaire anti-industrial stance in order to see great practical sense in his proposal. As a matter of environmental sanity, there may be a point at which industrial societies will have to revive the handicraft standard, emphasizing the value of fine design and durability as an alternative to disposability or wasteful turnover.

In her ecological Utopia Woman on the Edge of Time, Marge Piercy proposes another approach to plenitude. In the environmentally intelligent future she envisions – a worldwide society of well-kept rural communes – there exists a globe lending library of luxuries, from which jewels, objects d’art, fashionable clothes may be borrowed and examined by the entire population. It is an idea worth pondering.

In one of the mostly highly developed ecological Utopias, Ernest Callenbach deals with problems of necessity and luxury by imagining an economy that redirects the gratifications of high consumption toward a variety of cheap, non-material pleasures. The citizens of Ecotopia own little, but it is elegantly handmade; beyond that, the prevailing style of housing and dress is dropped-out funky. The workweek has been pared back to twenty hours; leisure becomes a value in its own right, used for the arts and crafts, for play, for recreational sports, espeically in the fiercely defended wilderness, which has come to be respected as Ecotopia’s principal public asset.

An economy of modest means makes possible a simplicity that allows other needs to be gratified. The goal is not cathartic suffering, but pleasure of a superior order.

~ Theodore Roszak, The Voice of the Earth
Image: Dubai Lagoon

Gargantua and Pantagruel.

In other news, here are some illustrations by Gustave Dore, who did Rablais’ illustrations for Gargantua and Pantagruel (which has a longer and more complicated name in the english translation):

This is a large cast iron wall bracket very interesting. The winged dragon is inspired by Medieval and Gothic designs.

French, late 18th early 19th century.

Measurements:

Length: 42 cm./ 16.4 inches

Height: 24 cm./ 9.4 inches

Width: 12 cm./ 4.7 inches

Western Dragons

The dragon is a mythical creature of great antiquity and is known equally well in the East as in the West. But in China and Japan, although it is similar in form, it is less forbidding and has very different characteristics. The Eastern dragon is benevolent and full of strength and goodness. It is associated with rain and water; in the evening it devours the sun and releases it in the morning. It takes treasure into its safe keeping from those who desire it from avarice.

The Western dragon is a malevolent and destructive power, and hoards gold and treasure for its own selfish purposes.

1 Alphyn, 2 Sagittarius, 3 Cockatrice, 4 Martlet,

5 Male Griffin, 6 Griffin, 7 Dragon, 8 Phoenix, 9 Pegasus,

10 Panther, 11 Wyvern, 12 Pelican, 13 Salamander,

14 Yale, 15 Unicorn, 16 Tyger.

Winged two-legged dragons

The Wyvern

A wyvern or wivern is a winged reptilian mythical beast often found in Medieval heraldry. The name “wyvern” derived from the Saxon word Wivere, which means “serpent”. The French wyvern is known as the vouivre. Both words are etymologically related to viper.

The principal difference between the wyvern and the dragon is that the former has two legs while the latter has four. A wyvern is described as having the body of a snake with a dragon’s head, and a pair of bat’s wings. In Dungeons & Dragons, wyverns have a poisonous stinger in the tail. It can use its wings as forelegs in order to crawl forward, the resulting stance is usually very terrifying.

A second important difference is that whereas the dragon has an ambivalent reputation, the wyvern is unambiguously malicious. In the medieval bestiaries, the wyvern was used as an allegory of Satan, and was associated with pestilence and plagues. However, the wyvern is most notably show as a creature of protection, power and strength, which was important in battle. This dragon  probably entered British armory as the standard of the Roman cohort and remained in the symbolism of the post-Roman era and in the ‘burning dragon’ of Cadwallader from which the red dragon of Wales is derived.

This large scaly monster was the emblem of the rulers of Wessex and the word “wyvern” is associated with the many areas of Wessex, reflected in many county and town heraldries of the South West and west of England. It also has been used farther afield in Herefordshire and Worcestershire, as the rivers Wye and Severn run through Hereford and Worcester respectively. Therefore, the wyvern is often used as a mascot in the west and south west. For example, one of the local radio stations is called Wyvern FM, and its first logo, in 1982, featured a wyvern dragon.

The Vouivre

The Vouivre is a member of the Dragon family, and is considered to be one of the most beautiful species of winged serpents.

According to old legends and traditions, this mythical reptile lived in swamps, lakes, abandoned chateaux and monasteries of Franche-Comté (Doubs and Jura), Burgundy (Yonne, Nievre, Côte-d’Or and Saône-et-Loire), Lorraine (Meuse) and other regions of France, Belgium, Switzerland and the Aosta Valley, Italy.

Cascade de la Vouivre - Jura

It is described as a dragon, part woman, part bird and part snake. The Vouivre too wears a jewel in the middle of her forehead. This jewel is what allows to see, and she can only be killed if it is stolen, although it is removed for bathing.

It is said, in an old story of Franche -Comté that a greedy and fearless man, living in the town of Mouth, wanted the carbuncle for his own. He took the advice of an evil sorcerer who told him to slaughter a bull and steal the carbuncle from the Vouivre while she was busy drinking it’s blood. He did this, but once he had the jewel, he refused to share its riches with the sorcerer or the people of the town – and it turned into horse dung in his hands. It was said he smelled of dung for all the rest of his days, and the Vouivre, whose power was diminished without her magical stone, went into hiding.

“The Vouivre wears but one eye in the middle of her forehead, and that is a carbuncle ; when she stops to drink at a fountain, she lays it aside ; that s the time to possess yourself of the jewel, and she is blind ever after. The Vouivre flies through the air like red-hot iron, Mem. des antiq. 6, 217” [Teutonic Mythology by Jacob Grimm Vol. IV p.1492 – 1883]

“The Vouivre is a gigantic flying serpent who elevates herself above the summits with much noise while describing immense curves in the sky. She emits a burning breath of flames and sparks which illuminates her glistening scaled clothes and the folds of her disproportionately large wings. On her head, she wears a scintillating diadem and on her forehead a single eye, which, like a luminous diamond or a star, provides her with light for her nocturnal voyages. This intense glow reveals her presence far into the distance.” Lucienne Fontannaz

Variable Spellings

Cuivre, Gibre, Givre, Guibre, Nwywre, Vaisvre, Vaivre, Vaure, Vavre, Vebre, Vèvre, Vievre, Vive, Vivre, Voire,Voivre, Vosvre, Vouwra, Vuipre, Vuivre, Wivre, Wivrot, Woëvre, Woèvre.

Latin : Vipera, Vipère.

The Basilisk or Cockatrice

The basilisk, king of serpents, whose eyes were so terrible that a glance killed, is the emblem of deadly sin.

According to the “Naturalis Historia” of Pliny the Elder (40–79 C.E.; Natural history), the basilisk (from the Greek βασιλίσκος basiliskos, a little king, in Latin Regulus) is a small snake that is so venomous that it leaves a wide trail of deadly venom in its wake, and its gaze is likewise lethal.

78. “The basilisk is found in Cyrenaica and is not more than a foot in length; it is adorned with a bright white spot on its head like a diadem. It puts all snakes to flight by its hissing and does not move forward with many winding coils, like other snakes but travels along with its middle sticking up. It destroys bushes not only by its touch but also by its breath, and it burns grass and splits rocks. Its power it a threat to other creatures. It is believed that once one was killed with a spear by a man on horseback and its destructive power rose through the spear and killed both the rider and his horse. Kings have often wished to see a basilisk once dead beyond a shadow of doubt. For such a fantastic creature the venom of weasels is fatal – thus does Nature determine that nothing is without its match. Men throw basilisks into weasels’ dens, which are easily recognized by the putrefaction of the ground. The weasels kill them by their foul smell and then die themselves. Nature’s fight is over.” (Natural History-a selection, translated John Healy, 1991, Penguin Classics)

The way the basilisk comes into the world is as follows. When a cock is seven years old it will find itself one day in the greatest agony, because it is about to lay an egg. The cock seeks some place to secrete the egg in, but a toad anxiously watches the proceedings. When the cock has laid the egg, the toad comes and sits upon it until it is hatched. The resulting creature has the head of a cock and the body of a reptile. He hide in a crevice or an old cistern, so that no one can see it.

Part bird, part serpent with lion claws and bat’s wings, is the “mascot” of the City of Basel (one of the 26 cantons of Switzerland), and symbol of the city for over 500 years.

Ode to Naples

by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

Antistrophe 1a.

What though Cimmerian Anarchs dare blaspheme

Freedom and thee? thy shield is as a mirror

To make their blind slaves see, and with fierce gleam

To turn his hungry sword upon the wearer; _80

A new Actaeon’s error

Shall theirs have been–devoured by their own hounds!

Be thou like the imperial Basilisk

Killing thy foe with unapparent wounds!

Gaze on Oppression, till at that dread risk _85

Aghast she pass from the Earth’s disk:

Fear not, but gaze–for freemen mightier grow,

And slaves more feeble, gazing on their foe:–

If Hope, and Truth, and Justice may avail,

Thou shalt be great–All hail!

Honore de Balzac

“Physically, Grandet was a man five feet high, thick-set, square-built, with calves twelve inches in circumference, knotted knee-joints, and broad shoulders; his face was round, tanned, and pitted by the small-pox; his chin was straight, his lips had no curves, his teeth were white; his eyes had that calm, devouring expression which people attribute to the basilisk; his forehead, full of transverse wrinkles, was not without certain significant protuberances; his yellow-grayish hair was said to be silver and gold by certain young people who did not realize the impropriety of making a jest about Monsieur Grandet. His nose, thick at the end, bore a veined wen, which the common people said, not without reason, was full of malice. The whole countenance showed a dangerous cunning, an integrity without warmth, the egotism of a man long used to concentrate every feeling upon the enjoyments of avarice and upon the only human being who was anything whatever to him,–his daughter and sole heiress, Eugenie. Attitude, manners, bearing, everything about him, in short, testified to that belief in himself which the habit of succeeding in all enterprises never fails to give to a man.” Honore de Balzac (1799-1850) Eugenie Grandet – Chapter 1

Voltaire

“As Zadig was traversing a verdant Meadow, he perceiv’d several young Female Syrians, intent on searching for something very curious, that lay conceal’d, as they imagin’d, in the Grass. He took the Freedom to approach one of them, and ask her, in the most courteous Manner, if he might have the Honour to assist her in her Researches. Have a care, said she. What we are hunting after, Sir, is an Animal, that will not suffer itself to be touch’d by a Man. ’Tis somewhat surprizing, said Zadig. May I be so bold, pray, as to ask you what you are in Pursuit after, that shuns the Touch of any Thing but the Hands of the Fair Sex. ’Tis, Sir, said she, the Basilisk: A Basilisk, Madam, said he! And pray, if you will be so good as to inform me, with what View, are you searching after a Creature so very difficult to be met with? ’Tis, Sir, said she, for our Lord and Master Ogul, whose Castle, you see, situate on the River-side, at the Bottom of the Meadow. We are all his Vassals. Ogul, you must know, is in a very bad State of Health, and his first Physician has order’d him, as a Specific, to eat a Basilisk, boil’d in Rose water: And as that Animal is very hard to be catch’d, and will suffer nothing to approach it, but one of our Sex, our dying Sovereign Ogul has promis’d to honour her, that shall be so happy as to catch it for him, so far as to make her his Consort. The Case, being thus circumstantiated, Sir, I hope you will not interrupt me any longer, lest my Rivals here in the Field should happen to circumvent me.” Voltaire (1694–1778) Zadig Chapter 15

La Grand’ Goule

This legendary monster – a hybrid creature with eagle’s claws and bat’s wings – is associated to the memory of saint Radegund (also spelled Rhadegund, Radegonde), the founder of Sainte-Croix abbey in the 6th century.

The dragon used to devour the Nuns of the abbey when they went into the underground storerooms in search of provisions. Radegonde, the patron saint of the Poitiers, went to hunt the monster, with a relic of the real crucifix (gift from the bysantine emperor). Seeing the relic, the Grand’ Goule was completely conquered.

This episode will become a traditional celebration with processions in the neighbourhood around Sainte-Croix. From the 17th century onwards, a wooden effigy of the beast leaded the procession, followed by the inhabitants who threw tiny cookies in its threatening mouth while conjuring danger with an unusual recommendation: Bonne sainte vermine, priez pour nous ! (“Good holy vermin, pray for us”). The sculpture is today on display in the Musée Sainte-Croix.

The Graoully

The name Graoully also transcribed Graouli, Graouilly, Graouilli or Graully finds its etymology in German graülich, grässlich or gräßlich who means “monstrous”.

The legend of Saint Clement of Metz states that the Graoully, along with countless other snakes, inhabited the local amphitheatre. The snake’s breath had so poisoned the area and the inhabitants of the town were trapped in the town. Saint Clement led the Graoully to the edge of the Seille, and ordered him to disappear into a place where there were no men or beasts.

The Graoully quickly became a symbol of the town of Metz and it can be seen in numerous demonstrations. One can today see it represented in the crypt of the Cathédrale of Metz. It is also reproduced on the blazons of the Football Club of Metz and of the National school of engineers de Metz.

Rabelais

“It was a monstrous, ridiculous, hideous figure, fit to fright little children; its eyes were bigger than its belly, and its head larger than all the rest of its body; well mouth-cloven however, having a goodly pair of wide, broad jaws, lined with two rows of teeth, upper tier and under tier, which, by the magic of a small twine hid in the hollow part of the golden staff, were made to clash, clatter, and rattle dreadfully one against another; as they do at Metz with St. Clement’s dragon.” Gargantua and Pantagruel  Book IV by Francois Rabelais – 1548

The Tatzelwurm

The Tatzelwurm “worm with claws” in German, is a worm-like cryptid (i.e. its existence has not been scientifically verified).

This creature is usually described as a snake from five to seven feet long, two large clawed legs and a feline appearance in the head region. They lived in several areas of Europe, including the Austrian, Bavarian, Italian and Swiss Alps.

Similar creatures have been part of Scandinavian folklore for centuries. In some circles, it is classified as a variety of lesser dragon, also called Beisswurm, Hergstutzen, Springwurm, Bergstutzen, Daazelwurm, Praatzelwurm, or Stollenwurm.

“Lombard legend has more to tell of snakes, and those expressly small ones. The Heldenbuch describes the combat of a small fire-spitting beast on the Gartensee (L. di Garda) with Wolfdietrich and a lion, to both of whom it gives enough to do:

Nun hörent durch ein wunder, wie das tierlein ist genant:

es heisst zu welsch ein zunder, zu teutsch ein saribant,

in Sittenland nach eren ist es ein vipper genant;

and it is added, that there are but two such vipers alive at once, for the young ones soon after birth eat up their parents.” Jacob Grimm “Teutonic Mythology” Vol. 2 Chapter 21: Trees and Animals

La Vouivre (1989)

La Vouivre is a 1989 French film adaptation of the 1945 novel by Marcel Aymé which tells the tale of the descent into madness of a World War I veteran. Beautifully photographed, La Vouivre captures the dark poetry of the famous novel.

Een Rabelais-imitator zou de volgende titel hebben ontleend aan Le Hoschepot des Perpetuons:

Hochepot, ou salmigondi des folz, contenant un très pur narré, et comme la salse pareille, contre le goutteux, poyvré et maudit édict sur le faict des passeports, et de la proscription des jésuites, trad. du hollandois flamand en vulgaire françois. Imprimé à Pincenarille, ville de la Morosophie, par Geofroy à la Grand-dent, 1596, in-8. v.f.

Het satirische en facetieuze werkje wordt wel toegeschreven aan Guillaume de Reboul. Een protestantse schrijver uit Nîmes die om zijn levenswandel uit de kerk werd geknikkerd en van de weeromstuit katholiek geworden is. Maar aangezien zijn satirische pijlen ook op de paus waren gericht, greep deze naar het enige middel om hem de mond te snoeren: hij liet de bekeerling op 25 september 1611 onthoofden.

Charles Nodier schrijft in het Bulletin du bibliophile over het tamelijk onbekend gebleven werk, dat volgens hem geschreven is

dans le style de Rabelais, en faveur des jésuites et de Philippe II, roi d’Espagne, pour lesquels les Etats de Hollande manifestoient la même répugnance et qu’ils confondoient avec une égale aversion.

Blijft natuurlijk de vraag of de Reboul werkelijk de oorspronkelijke schrijver is. De titel verwijst immers naar een Nederlandstalige bron. Zie verder Roland Chartier, Un pamphlet jésuite ‘Rabelaisant’: le ‘Hochepot ou salmigondi des folz’ (1596). Etude historique et linguistique suivie d’une édition du texte. Brussel 1959.

Gargantua and Pantagruel (La vie de Gargantua et de Pantagruel) is a French satire from the 16th century written by Francois Rabelais, a medical doctor. The tome consists of five books that chronicles the life history of two honourable giants, Gargantua and his son Pantagruel. The author is a ruthless social critic, sparing nobody from uppity academics to the clergy. Bawdy and extremely vulgar and violent at times, the stories revolve around the everyday routine of the giants and their sidekicks as they mock and tease everybody who is unfortunate enough to get in their way.

It’s definitely not a novel, the chapters are loosely connected with not much of a plot. I laughed out loudly several times while reading it, I guarantee your eyes will not be left dry, should you give it a try.

I’m quite certain the English translation could not entirely convey the humour and poignancy of the French original, but allow me to give you some excerpts to give you a taste. On one occasion Pantagruel is browsing the books in a library, and the author lists the titles (on several pages) our good giant comes across:

The Testes of Theology;
On the Art of Discreetly Farting in Company, by Magister Noster Ortuinus;
Tartaretus: On how to Defecate;
Three Books On How to Chew Bacon, by the Reverend Father Provincial of Drivell;
Magister Noster Rostock-Assley: On the Serving of Mustard after Dining, Fourteen Books;
Eleven Decades on the Taking-off of Spurs, by Magister Albericus de Rosate;
Marforio, a Bachelor lying in Rome: On Skinning and Smudging Cardinals’ Mules;
Putting Things into the Mouths of Masters of Arts;
The Surgeon’s Kiss-me-arse.

Another time, young Gargantua imparts the art of arse-wiping to his father. After listing about a hundred ways and means to wipe one’s bottom, here’s his conclusion:

But to conclude: I affirm and maintain that there is no bottom-wiper like a downy young goose, provided that you hold its head between your legs. Believe me on my honour, for you can feel in your bumhole a mirifical voluptuousness, as much from the softness of its down as from the temperate heat of the young goose which is readily communicated to the arse-gut and the rest of the intestines until it reaches the region of the heart and the brain. And do not believe that the blessedness of the heroes and demi-gods in the Elysian Fields lies in their nectar, asphodel or ambrosia, as these old women would maintain: in my opinion it consists in the fact that they wipe their bums on a young goose.

Highly recommended.

Inspired by this essay in the Sunday Book Review, two notes on the Invisible Library:

1. The pamphlet “Garlic Questions Finally Answered,” belonged to the invisible library for some fifteen years before it was released to Stanley Crawford, who then updated the pamphlet, making it wholly visible as the first chapter of A Garlic Testament. Crawford explains his relationship to the original thusly:

In my most recent novel the demented narrator claimed to have been the author of a number of horticultural pamphlets. He was most proud of one entitled “Garlic Questions Finally Answered.” At the time he might have known more than I did. At the time I was unaware that relatively little had been published about garlic outside of specialized journals on the one hand and in places like the National Enquirer on the other, and I doubt I could have answered most of the “garlic questions” myself. In the fifteen years that have elapsed, the imaginary monograph became a private challenge to discover some of the puzzles of the plant, and particularly that not-so-common variety which circumstances have placed under my care.

What the author of “Garlic Questions Finally Answered” did not know, because he lived in a loveless world, was that if you grow good garlic people will love you for it.

Another pamphlet by the author of the first edition of “Garlic Questions Finally Answered” is “How to Garden without Bending Over”; however demented and loveless that original author may be, it is not inconceivable that Crawford—a six-foot-three tall farmer of garlic himself—will continue to be challenged by that man’s majestic and mysterious scholarship.

2. Francois Rabelais, one of the invisible library’s more generous patrons, furnished it with one hundred and forty four volumes (from The Codpiece of the Law to The Fart-Puller of the Apothecaries) from the library of Saint Victor’s abbey. You can browse Saint Victor’s stacks here.