On Love

Reg de Saint-Loup

French à la française

For nearly two weeks I have now been living in France, even if I've the sense that it's been much longer. I feel as if I've been around a while, I couldn't say for how long exactly, but long enough to know some folks and not get lost. A few days ago somebody even recognized me; we'd been to the same book signing earlier in the week. Part of my feeling comfortable in Strasbourg is due to my having visited twice previously, and another part to my having been able to learn so much about French culture last year while living in Pavia. French and Belgian friends of mine, among which certain contributors to this blog, were magnanimous enough to give me a crash course in what it takes to be francophone. I learned where a word's stress unfailingly goes, how and when to inject allez into dialogue (loudly and always), and how to say "Qu'est-ce qu'on se fait chier dans ce trou!"

Now that I am spending my days here I have had the chance to get more thoroughly into the French language and into the heads of the French. What has struck me above all is their careering progress toward minimalism. This minimalism can be detected visually, given the relatively static lips of French speakers; aurally, with the diaphanous articulation of words; and linguistically, both formally, where an " î " indicates a lost "s," and informally, where one might find on Facebook something like the following (apologies to the person from whose page I mined this): "alr jsuis tiv-mo pr faire qqch." This "sentence," 24 letters, is what I will force myself to label neutrally a "minimization" of the following sentence, 37 letters: "alors je suis tiv-mo pour faire quelque chose," All right, I'm tiv-mo to do something. This is a 33% reduction, which would likely be greater were I able to decipher and reconstruct "tiv-mo."

This kind of linguistic hatchet-work has gained ground above all in spoken French, as well as the technological media which tend to mirror speech patterns (i.e., Facebook, text messaging), but also to a considerable extent in non-formal written French. My primary source is 20 Minutes, a free newspaper distributed in ten metropolitan areas, with a daily readership of 2,733,000. Below is a list I have compiled in the last 10 days:

écolo (écologique) — ecological

agglo (agglomération) — agglomeration

manif (manifestation) — manifestation

ado (adolescent) — adolescent

labo (laboratoire) — laboratory

collabo (collaboration) —collaboration

docu (documentaire) — documentary

coloc (colocataire) — roommate

What this list indicates is not an isolated practice of abbreviation among "ados", but a linguistic practice applied broadly across the language. The most surprising aspect to me is that these gnomish word forms are becoming (have become?) the new norm. You will not likely find "manif" in Le Monde, the leading French newspaper, but it becomes the standard model in 20 Minutes, which is free, but which treats serious issues and does so with otherwise-orthodox grammatical standards.

Another sector in which French minimization is making grand steps is with embracing negation. This concept is a form of the double negative in which two negating words bookend a verb. Thus, I don't want a car in French becomes I don't want no car, Je ne veux pas une voiture. This kind of double negative, which makes for poor English according to the grammatical standards of today, is instead de rigueur in French.

Yet this rule is losing purchase. The indicators are to be found, as usual, in spoken French. The ne … pas construction remains obligatory in written language, but colloquially the "ne" often falls away, even from the mouths of the educated. So we get Je veux pas une voiture, "I want no car," or C'est pas grave, "It's not that bad." This last has become an idiomatic expression with its single negator, such that it might even sound odd to say it with embracing negation.

So where will French go from here? Predicting the future course of a language is an inexact science, but given the commonness of single negation in spoken French, I suspect that within a century or two, it will also become the standard in written expression. We, the anglophones, can look to our own language as evidence: in the epoch of Middle English, we had embracing negation, too, using none other than "ne." It was not until the grammatical housekeeping of the 18th century that double negatives became a no-no. Place your bets, then, on the extinction of ne … pas. Old grammarians die, and new ones grow up with single negation. C'est pas grave, hein ?

Westley Aubergine

For reference: Blooming English: Observations on the roots, cultivation and hybrids of the English language, by Kate Burridge.

Di adii, partenze, uomini, e altre cose sgradevoli

Non mi ha mai messa in difficoltà il partire, l’andare via. Per quanto mi riguarda, credo di sapermi ambientare più o meno dappertutto. Ho vissuto la mia minorità nella pacata Svizzera, poi mi sono trasferita nella Pianura Padana e sono sopravvissuta persino alla burocrazia (oltre che alla moltitudine di bagni turchi che ancora infestano il centro storico, peggio delle zanzare). La prospettiva di partire per la Polonia, dunque, non mi preoccupa.

Certo, c’è il problema della lingua. Of course, poteo ohne Probleme communiquer in diverse parti d’Europa, nel passato e nel presente, ma le lingue slave… le lingua slave, no, ecco, non le ho mai studiate. Com’è ovvio mi sto preparando al meglio per imparare questo polacco: per esempio, ho comprato il corso Assimil di grammatica, senza mai toglierlo dall’involucro. Per esempio, ho deciso di migliorare il mio parlato affittando casa con un siciliano. Per esempio, ho deciso che nel tempo libero leggerò Proust, in lingua originale. E vabbè, tanto “con l’inglese si va dappertutto”. 

Dicevo, quindi, nessun problema: ho trovato l’appartamento e il coinquilino (siciliano, ribadisco), i documenti sono pronti, la valigia no (ma chi è che prepara la valigia più di tre ore prima della partenza?); ho già spulciato il programma del teatro principale di Varsavia e localizzato i cinema underground-fricchettoni.

Resta un’ultima cosa da fare: i saluti. Ci sono da salutare i nonni, i vicini di casa, gli amici più stretti e gli amici meno stronzi, i conoscenti-di-cui-non-ti-frega ma che però se non li saluti si offendono, gli zii, la madrina, e così via. Non sarebbe problematico, se non fosse che ho circa 20 aperitivi/pranzi/cene programmati per i prossimi 10 giorni (ecco perché farò la valigia tre ore prima di partire). 

C’è di buono che salutare queste persone non è così difficile. In fondo gli amici già non li vedevo spessissimo, e poi, su, le nuove tecnologie e quelle cose lì, e insomma ci si sente lo stesso. E poi gli amici sono gli amici, te ne vai e loro restano, torni e loro sono ancora là, e tu non sei mai andato via per davvero. Lo stesso vale per i conoscenti-di-cui-non-ti-frega (magari decidessero di non esserci più quando torni). I nonni… Non so gli altri, ma io saluto ogni volta come se fosse l’ultima i due che mi sono rimasti (perché gli altri due no, non li avevo salutati abbastanza).

E poi, certo, c’è sempre da salutare quellapersonalì. Io quellapersonalì l’ho dovuta salutare in semi-definitiva, perché abbiamo saggiamente deciso che è meglio così. Abbiamo deciso che è brutto il “cosa hai fatto oggi ?” inquisitorio, il “perché non mi chiami mai?” piagnucoloso, il “mi manchi” depresso, il “non vivo più” adolescenziale, il “quando ci rivediamo?” senza speranze. Le storie a distanza, specialmente tra una Adèle H. e un Casanova, non funzionano. E se funzionano sputtanano tutto, e lasciano tutto un po’ più rabbioso, un po’ più strappato, un po’ più sporco di prima. 

Non che salutarsi così sia saggio, beninteso. Francamente lo trovo pure un po’ pirla. No, mi correggo, lo trovo assolutamente minchione questo stare lontani quando si poteva stare insieme. E trovo stronzo pure l’appuntamento all’11.08.11, ma quel  tipo di stronzo che dà pure un po’ il latte alle ginocchia, come quei libri lì di Sparks, della Steel o di Emily Brontë.

Quello che mi dà più fastidio, però, è il modo. Non hai voluto venire con me (e lo capisco, a -20° si sta proprio male, e poi mangiano solo patate, e dove sta ‘o mare?), ma non hai nemmeno voluto che io venissi con te. D’accordo, le mie esperienze, avevamo deciso così, tanto poi ci ritroviamo, eccetera. Però poi non puoi ritelefonarmi ancora e ancora, non posso dirti Addio tutte le volte. E soprattutto non puoi chiamarmi perché ti manco già e sono passati solo due giorni, perché io sarei potuta venire con te e tu non hai voluto.

Quando glielo spiego al telefono, questo è il momento critico, è l’istante delle parole sbagliate, è l’attimo di cui solo un vero uomo saprebbe approfittare nel migliore dei modi per dire la peggiore delle cose: “È andata così.”

Innanzitutto, vaffanculo. In secondo luogo, le cose non “vanno”. Le cose non “succedono”, quasi mai. “Succede” che qualcuno venga investito, “succede” che due facce si incrocino per strada, “succede” che il pc si fulmini, ma poco altro. Per il resto le cose si fanno, si fanno accadere o si lascia che accadano. Tu hai lasciato che accadesse. 

Non sono mica qui a piagnucolare per quello che fai a me, lasciandomi sola: sono qui incazzata nera per quello che hai fatto a noi impedendoci di restare. Allora ti saluto ancora una volta per telefono, che forse questa è l’ultima.

Rimango qui con la tua maglietta di Apocalypse Now e la tua foto di quando avevi ancora i capelli.

Penso che la cosa migliore da fare sia non pensare. Non pensare di pensarti. Pensare di non pensarti. 

Allora mentre mi reco all’ennesimo aperitivocenapranzo, stilo una lista in 10 punti del perché avere un cane sia meglio di avere un uomo. Me ne compiaccio. Poi però decido di non renderlo pubblico, perché mi farebbe sembrare una di quelle zitellone che sono acide perché vorrebbero ma non possono. Allora mi viene in mente che se censurassi i punti due e tre (quello sulla bava e quello sulla lingua) potrebbe essere un testo socialmente accettabile, e io potrei non avere la reputazione rovinata.

Poi mi rendo conto che è una ciclopica cazzata, e allora cerco di pensare a 10 motivi per cui un trombamico polacco potrebbe essere meglio di una relazione – rinuncio –; cerco 5 motivi per preferire Varsavia a Pavia –  non funziona – ; studio approfonditamente la tua persona per trovarti almeno 7 colossali difetti – invano –.

È inutile: come nel peggiore dei clichés so che dormirò con la tua maglietta, continuerò a cucinare la pasta come la cucinavi tu, e a ogni aperitivocenapranzo – maledizione! – mi porterò dietro la tua faccia.

Suzanne Eyre

Where am I from?

 It is a sad fact for those of us as identity confused as myself that in this modern globalised day and age people still find the need to ask you: “Where are you from?” An ice-breaker, a simple brief question that the interlocutor will answer very easily – and from this brief answer the one who asked the question will be able to form a rapid sketch of the other's virtues and vices.

“So, where are you from?”, instead of with a shudder I have learned to accept this question with an automatic and deeply insincere smile. I mean, first of all the person is expecting me to mention a town or region in the country where this conversation is taking place, not a foreign land. Secondly, if I am to take the simple route and answer the question literally by stating my place of residence according to my identity card and my two passports (but not according to my English bank account or invoice for translations done for Italian clients), my parents could have picked a better place to give birth to me than humble little historically-limited Belgium. To give it more glamour however I do specify that I am from the capital. And this is usually how the exchange goes:

“I'm from Brussels.”

“Brussels?”

“The capital of Belgium...”

“Oh yes, Brussels. It's really boring isn't it? Sort of an administrative town, right?”

Because sadly that is all that people who have never been to Brussels know, at which point unless the interlocutor seems very interested I will not launch myself into a defense of my much appreciated hometown, first of all because having to make excuses would suggest that there is something to forgive and secondly, because a French person would laugh off the idea that that place with the funny accent could hold any serious attraction, an Italian person would pity anyone from a rainy country (or more precisely, anyone not from Italy, where the sun is warm, the food is tasty and the people are relaxed) and an English person might give us a colourful illustration of the effects of anti-EU propaganda.

The next inevitable comment once one has learnt that I am from Brussels, if I have not voluntarily touched upon the added detail of the two passports (either because I am too tired or the interlocutor is hitting on me and unattractive), is “You speak really good English for someone who is from Belgium.” At which point I am forced to confess that I am in fact English, and, if prodded the right way by the conversation or feeling that not completing this statement would be dishonest on my behalf, that I am also Italian. Confusion. This is preposterous. Indeed, people usually next ask me: “But why?!” Why? Because Brussels is the seat of the European Union. Because the European Union in order to function needs interpreters. Because my Italian mum who studied languages in Trieste and my English dad who studied languages at Oxford started their careers as interpreters in Brussels. Because they had a baby there and that baby was me. It's really not that upsetting! But because one from childhood onwards becomes aware of the frowns these facts can create, I find myself summing it up in an apologetic sentence: “I live in Brussels BUT my father is English and my mother is Italian.” -“Sorry guys!” my embarrassed smile seems to add as I look down at my drink. Then the person who has just had to deal with this information divides into two categories: the fascinated and the annoyed. The fascinated think I am an entertaining anthropological feat, ask more questions and smile. They usually are either into linguistics or into travelling. The annoyed think I am an unnecessary show off and that I could really have done what a normal person from Brussels does and just speak French and have a basic knowledge of Dutch. That is presuming they know those are the languages spoken in Belgium, even for that I am annoying: couldn't I have been born in a country where the language is given away by its name? (I do actually have a basic knowledge of Dutch as well as my English, French and Italian. No, don't worry: I do not speak German, the third official, if less spoken, language of Belgium.)

And one wishes the question: “Where are you from?” would resolve itself there: from Brussels BUT half English and half Italian. Sadly that is not the case, because a normally constituted person cannot tolerate the idea that one can be from several places at once. One must at least be “more from one place”. And so it is that since I have been able to speak I remember being asked: “Do you feel more English, more Italian or more Belgian?”.

Now, as a child this was quite stressful to hear not only because I held no answer, but also because choosing England over Italy or Italy over England would have meant offending one of the parents (Belgium having been ruled off the list by the diplomatic child I was turning out to be). And indeed, the grown ups asking me did usually have a spiteful glint in their eyes when they added the “or more Belgian”. When I was small the answer was “I don't know”, now I am older it is either “I am all of them” or “I am none of them” depending on my mood. Perhaps it is easier to let others answer for me, but even they contradict themselves. Some even add extra confusion: in England, Italy and Belgium I have been asked if I was French, so that now that I am twenty I have discovered that deep down I have a tortured relationship with the absent mother that is la France.

I have said that people contradict themselves when trying to tie me to a country. More on this subject. Friends will give me, and deprive me, of my nationality/ies depending on their ends. Usually it is an expression of endearment when one decides that I am from the same country as them. “I think of you as just English.”, “Only an Italian could have jumped off those rocks like that!”, “When I talk to you like this, to me, you are French.” Similarly, it is a sign of their superiority in some area of experience when I am not worthy of sharing their nationality. “No, I've never watched that: that's a thing foreigners are into.”, “But you don't have an Italian family!”, “Ah non! That must be Belgian, because I have never heard it in French.” The same person can in the course of the same day give to me and remove from me my citizenship without my being allowed to fight back: “Did you hear that Roman accent?” “That's not a Roman accent.” “I am Italian, I know what a Roman accent is.” “I go to Rome once a year and had a Roman boyfriend for a year and a half, if there is one accent I can recognise in a million it is the Roman one.” “Yes, but what would you know if you are not really Italian? Hm?” From the moment you “are not” any defense is worthless. (Unless presented by a lawyer of the nationality in question.) This inconsistency thus leads us to the answer: “I am none of them.”

“I am none of them” is a double-edged conclusion. On the negative side it can be associated to the thoughts: “I am from nowhere.”, “I never will belong” and, inevitably, “I will always be lonely.” Sad times. On the positive side it absolves you from all the flaws tied to a nationality. First of all anything to do with nationalism or jingoism I can laugh at in scorn. Guess what? I know neither the words to the British national anthem, nor the Italian one, nor the Belgian one (but then who does?) ...I do know the opening lines to La Marseillaise though – oh France, when will you cease to torment me?! From a purely English point of view I can tell you exactly where the Italian university system is going wrong and rant about corruption and Berlusconi and how these things would never happen in a civilised country. From a purely Italian point of view I can tell you how the English have a thing or two to learn about cookery, how holding in your emotions is deeply unhealthy and how people should relax now and then and enjoy life instead of working so hard. From a Belgian point of view I can tell you that the English are horribly right-wing and that the Italians have a lot to learn when it comes to social welfare. But there comes a time when people have had enough of hearing you criticising the hand that fed you and so I shall now tell you why I am “all of them” (ergo: a triply nationalistic monster.)

I have at this stage lived in Belgium, England and Italy. Upon returning from my year in Pavia all was Italy and the other two were rainy and cold and crap. Yes, one does go through phases. Right now the next step for me to answer the question “Where am I from?” is to have a go at living in France at some point so that I will have explored all the possibilities, for you see, it is possible to feel one completely belongs somewhere without being born there. And this is why: does it not make me a bit Italian, apart from the fact I have the passport and the vote, that my first babbled words were in Italian (for what else was I to begin speaking in than the language of my mother?), that I shudder when I see people cutting their spaghetti up with a knife, that as a child I watched on Rai Uno Solletico and L'albero azzurro and half of my Disney videocassettes dubbed in Italian, that I sing along to De Andrè songs in the car and that many an ancient aunt has patted me on the head calling me “creatura!” ? Does it not make me a bit English that in my last year of school I was Helena in an abridged version of a Midsummer Night's Dream, that as a child I watched Playdays and the Chuckle Brothers on the BBC, that when it's raining outside I smile to myself at the thought of “a nice cup of tea and a book”, and that I am studying at Oxford? Does it not make me a bit Belgian, even though I do not have the nationality, that (okay last children's tv show) I watched Ici Blabla, that I can sing to you “Eén, twee, drie, vier, hoedje van papier” and that I understand the sentence “Mais ça fieu, c'est parce que t'habites à Molenbeek!”? Does it not – aah, you treacherous land – make me a bit French that for my épreuve écrite de français of the bac I wrote a commentaire composé on an extract from Proust's Sodome et Gomorrhe, that I am “passé maître” in the art of complaining and throwing superior frowns, and that I use an annoying quantity of French locutions when writing in English? It is because of this mixed baggage of pop culture, knowledge of literature and culinary opinions; this converging of different educations (at home, at school and at university), vocabularies and accents, hand gestures and face expressions and even, call me vain, dress styles, all belonging to different countries or cities, that I am what I am: a mix of a bit of all of them.

Yes, I can honestly say that I feel Italian when, accompanied by a hand gesture, I reply to my mum: “E che ci vado a fa' ?” AND that I feel one hundred per cent Brussels kid when I sit at night on the 71 rocketing through deserted streets lit in yellow on my way home AND that I feel absolutely English when I burst out laughing at one of Wodehouse's dialogues AND, God damn it, that I feel French when I mumble “C'est pas pour dire, mais c'est un peu de la merde...”. I simply do, every single time.

Well, until one of my friends says that I am not.

Reg de Saint-Loup