The curious effect of French Literature.

Summer '12.

“Winter is on my head, but eternal spring is in my heart.” ~ Victor Hugo

Last night a combination of the winter blues and a Conservative government (appropriately also blue) put me in quite a bleak mood, and I don't think that needs too much explanation. I'm yearning for spring and summer now, the warmth, the freshness, the smells, colours, the mist on the fields at dawn, the long days, warm nights, and the bright, blue skies. I want to read in the garden with the fountain splashing my feet, drink fizzy water and feel warm to my core. A few days ago, me and my friend went for a walk looking for snowdrops (which I found) and I swear I felt the wind to my bones. I want fields full of wild flowers.

And the Conservative government? Pick a policy, any policy. The inherent hatred and mistrust in capitalism, where making money for someone else is a measure of your worth, where virtue is measured by the £, where this age of austerity means the poor suffer even more and the rich are given break after break, and they don't look carefully. Superficial. Eat the rich. All that and cold bones would put anyone in a bad mood.

I intended to wallow in it for a while, lie in a dimly lit bath, drink energy drinks, and listen to music that recognised the mess, and most importantly, the people. As it turns out, one of the tracks I selected turned out to be one of the most inspiring things I've listened to in a long time (Patti Smith's Ghost Dance). So, I got out of the bath and started looking at pictures I'd taken from previous summers, and I was reminded of the above quote from Victor Hugo.

French literature understands. Some of it, anyway; I can hardly claim to be familiar with the whole of the French Canon - too much remains untouched. But from what I have read: eighteenth and nineteenth century French writers know, and what's more, they made things happen. Rousseau's Social Contract is incredibly complex, and needs a second read, but it gleamed nonetheless. It's still relevant today, this is required reading. And Émile Zola: Zola knows. Hugo, too, and Choderloc de Laclos, who wrote about the self-serving aristocracy: these writers captured their own age, and ours as well. They transcend time, which is the curious effect of French Literature, at least on me: whilst they tell you that they know your pain, and they know the mess we're all in, reading them has reinforced that things don't change as much as they ought to. Of course things have changed and from reading French literature, it's clear things could be a great deal worse, but still the forces remain,and our lives are governed by the self-serving rich who, despite what they say, do not know what it is to be anything other than what they are. I credit most people with enough imagination to understand other people's pain, but not this government. French literature gets me through it.

Taken this afternoon. Still a little snow, but not much.

How can something be so uplifting and yet so grounding? I suppose because it gives voice, and to have people understand gives comfort, but serves too as a reminder. Still, they made things happen.

So, then. What now? Get on with things and look forward to vernal equinox (20th March), and in the meantime enjoy hunting for the signs of spring. Today was beautiful, quite mild with clear, blue skies. I can feel the seasons changing, and it's fun to make plans. As for tonight: either L'Assommoir by Zola or Ninety Three by Victor Hugo. Or both. I'm in the mood to curl up with the budgies and read the night away.