Happy New Year!

And so, I've been in Llandudno since December 28th, and at this very moment I'm sitting at my hotel's lounge, occasionally looking at Great Orme and the lights along the Promenade, but mostly typing and sending greeting letters and messages to my Russian friends. I spent a wonderful weekend, strolling up and down the streets in Llandudno, but for some reason I found easier this time to jot down my impressions in Russian first. Whereas with my trip to Carmarthen in June I first wrote my memories in English and then in Russian, this time Llandudno Diaries are first appearing in my Russian LiveJournal.

So, the turn of the year is the time to look back and to see if one has kept up with their yesteryear's resolutions. Last year I said I'd be looking to find more ways to express my creativity - and indeed I learnt to make slide shows and eventually accompanied the latest of them with my own narration. I wanted to keep writing great content - and this apparently has happened, as by the end of 2007 I have had my blog written about, shortlisted at the Manchester Blog Awards, and now included in the Open Directory Project. I wanted to travel, and I'll say a few words on the subject later on, but in general this has been achieved, as well. I wanted to keep on meeting interesting and talented people and to continue to know those whom I already knew. This has happened, too, and I can particularly single out one such person who is fascinating enough to be lurking here and there on this blog, when it is appropriate. I've been following this person's work for a number of years, this year I had the chance to attend a meeting with them, and what doesn't stop amazing me is the amount of new things this person can tell every time they give an interview. I can only say that I'm looking forward to more in 2008.

One thing that I never did was visiting Moscow. Needless to say, this becomes my 2008 resolution #1. It must really be astonishing - and quite frustrating, too - that every time I say to myself "I must go to Moscow" something creeps up and I have to postpone the visit. I think the surest way to get me back to my native shores is by buying myself a ticket, as that way I'll feel obliged to just drop everything and go.

So, in 2008 I resolve to continue with both blogs, hopefully by making the content more wide-ranging, since now I can produce short slide shows and animated stories. I'm planning to travel more. I don't mention that I'm planning to write more, as this is what I've always been doing.

I'm looking forward to more inspiring meetings, trips, events. I hope that the inspiration I get from other people's work, from nature etc. will be the inspiration for you. Which is where I want to thank once again all of you who have been leaving comments and emailing me to thank me for blogging and to encourage me to keep on with my enterprise. And I would like to thank everyone who wrote about and linked to me this year, this was a joy, a surprise, and always an honour to me.

Two things I can note about 2007. First concerns the travels: it's all been about Wales. In June I went to South Wales; in December I went to North Wales. I don't know what it tells (if it's supposed to tell anything), but so it goes. The second thing concerns music. On a couple of my profiles elsewhere I noted my huge interest in music, since I love singing. 2007 has been entirely Italian in this respect. It started with me making great friends with an Italian colleague who began to send me YouTube links to such artists as Mia Martini, Mina Mazzini, Lucio Battisti. It continued with me going on my own for some time, when I discovered Patti Pravo. And it culminated in my making friends via LiveJournal with a few Russian aficionados of Italian music of the 1960-70s. I'm yet to see where it all takes me in 2008, but the start has been compelling enough to carry on in this direction.

As my circle of friends and acquaintances has grown considerably this year, I shall not repeat the last year's personalised greetings. Instead I shall wish all of you, my friends, readers and occasional visitors, a very Happy New Year! Let all of you know that you are very dear to me for all your talent, wisdom, creativity, sense of humour and the simple fact that you are!

I should not forget to list the Top Ten posts in Los Cuadernos de Julia, as seen from Google Anaylitcs profile:

Barbra Streisand in Manchester

Lonely Shepherd (James Last and Georghe Zamfir)

Sonnet no. 3 (Edna St Vincent Millay)

My Fair Cabbage

If I Could Tell You (W. H. Auden)

Histoire de Melody Nelson (Serge Gainsbourg)

O Felici Occhi Miei, Arcadelt, and the Lute-Player

Women and Beauty in Art

Love Me (Michel Polnareff)

Matthew Barney in Manchester

I should note that this is the stats for the entire year, and they don't entirely correspond to the most recent interest.

Last but not least, to carry on with the last year's tradition of uploading some Russian New Year postcards, here is something many of you will no doubt cherish. This postcard comes from my family archive, it says Happy New Year in Russian (which is "s nOvym gOdom") and - wait for this - is 100 years old!

Going Away

I have just been reading some blog posts from some friends in Manchester who wrote about their Christmas. It may be odd, but this year "je repars à zero", to quote Edith Piaf. I'm going away to Llandudno on Friday where I'm planning to spend about a week, including the New Year Day. There is a creative purpose to my trip as I'm thinking of setting a text in Llandudno. I did some research online and on Flickr, but obviously I need to go and see everything for myself.

There's also a personal reason. Seven years ago I did a similar thing when I went to St. Petersburg at the turn of November and December 2000. I went for a history conference at the St. Petersburg University which was a part of a two-week research trip. Yet I was adamant I'd be coming home on the day of my birthday, not a day before. I was turning twenty, and given the fact that I was born in the morning I'd turn twenty while still on the train. I felt this to be of some significance, like an initiation into the adult life: there're no parents around, and no-one but you in the entire world (although it may be as small as a train) know that something utterly important has just happened.

I don't know if I was right or wrong in doing this, but the adult life indeed began, and within a year of that memorable trip I was taking on some responsibilities and duties that I was sure I wanted to have. By April 2004 I wasn't so convinced, and all the years that followed were a test to exactly what I wanted to do and how I wanted to live. I left my academic studies behind after seven years (1997-2004), having come to terms with the fact that this wasn't the field where I wanted to express myself. The next two years that I spent in the radio (2005-2007) played a huge part in my life; I won't write much about it simply because that's not the topic. For personal reasons I had to change fields again, which, as I already told you, was a good thing to do under the circumstances, and it gave me a plenty of knowledge. Yet again it wasn't "my" thing.

I'm naturally quite private, so even what I'm telling now is probably candid of me, and I'm still not saying a word about anything more personal. But the main thing, believe it or not, has happened this year. Many comments and letters I have received through the English blog were important, and once again I am very grateful to all of you who commented, wrote and linked to Los Cuadernos. I must admit, due to work this year I haven't followed up every link to my blog from someone's blog, and in truth I don't mind linking at all - I just may not know about your link! So, if you're such person, please send me a line, as I don't want to appear uncourteous.

However, from September 2003 well until January 2007, that is, for over three years, I've been writing and speaking predominantly in English. I kept reading in Russian, of course, but the vacuum of conversation in my native language compelled me to start a Russian blog, which is quite similar in its topics to what I tend to write about here. Little did I know that I would acquire wonderful friends among my compatriots, some of whom live abroad these days, too. We barely talk about our country in its present moment. The conversation predominantly swirls around the topics of literature and music, but even that was enough to make me finally realise that I won't be happy until I faithfully follow my heart. And you all know where my heart lies.

I feel like an artist or a singer before they go on stage; or like a traveller who is about to embark on a journey to the unknown land. As I wrote before, it's only from the distance that one can look at their life and say confidently that they are happy with it. At this moment in time I'm on the road, so I have no idea how it twists and turns. Although I like disregarding gender connotations, I'm aware that, being a woman, I might feel these twists and turns differently from a man. Yet I can't help but take the challenge, especially when I have people around me who inspire me so much both with their achievements and misfortunes. These people (and one person, in particular) I'm talking about may very well not know how important it is to me that they share their experiences. But their examples are what drives me, and I'm so grateful that they have courage to talk candidly about themselves.

So, I'm going away to Llandudno where I'll spend a week. This time I've finally got the laptop, and I hope it works well for me to share whatever there will be share. The reason why I've chosen this place over any other is in the nature of what I'm trying to write. It's a story of fairy-tales, and it is widely thought that it was in Llandudno that Charles Dodgson narrated to Alice Liddell what would later become the basis of Alice in Wonderland. I can only say that I feel elated that at the turn of 2007/2008 I'm free to go and devote myself to nothing but the artistic process, and I believe it is a good start to how I want to carry on.

And, of course, if there is anything in Llandudno that I should see/visit at this time of the year, please leave a comment telling me what it is. I'm particularly interested in "magical" places, with a "fairy-tale" feel. I'm very grateful in advance.

Christmas Tale

It was a sudden inspiration as I was looking through some pictures, choosing which one of them to upload to the post. I ended up writing and narrating a story for a short video clip, which you can see below. I must admit it was the first time I attempted to synchronise my voice with the pictures, which wasn't exactly easy. I still didn't yet learn to produce credits, so I am passing many huge "thank-yous" to those who uploaded the pictures I used in the clip.

So, this is my small present to everyone who reads Los Cuadernos regularly, and to everyone who happens to land on this page in future. I'm thoroughly enjoying writing for you, so much so in fact that now you can also hear me speaking. I know that the protagonist of the clip is a little girl, but the main idea of course is that everyone all over the world is waiting for a miracle, especially on Christmas. I'm waiting for it, too, perhaps more than ever before. I wish you all a very merry and happy Christmas, and a plenty of miracles ahead.

Always yours, JD.

Christmas Tale. Written, narrated and made by Julie Delvaux.

My Favourite Artois Commercials

Sam over at ArtoisBlog wrote in detail about one of my favourite Stella Artois commercials - Ice Skating Priests. I can't remember if I saw it for the first time before or after watching Kieslowski's Three Colours trilogy, but once I've known the film I knew that the leading character was played by Zbigniew Zamachowski, Karol Karol from Three Colours: White. Follow through to Sam's article to learn about the music and some other facts (which I'm not going to divulge). I adore this commercial, and bearing in mind the date - 24th December - Ice Skating Priests should put us all in the mood for Christmas.



Another Stella's commercial, Le Sacrifice, entered my life for the first time at Cornerhouse, before the screening of a certain film. I'm quite sure it was in 2004. This commercial is dear to me for its many a reference to French cinema of the 1900s, to surrealism and, in particular, to Louis Bunuel. Somebody on YouTube wondered why such "unfathomable" commercial was ever produced. Well, all surrealism is unfathomable; it's all about a dream. I suppose my answer would be - this ad shows us that when you love your beverage, then no flies in the bottle or the prospect of turning into a oistrich can put you off drinking it! Absurd? But so is often surrealism.

Dejeuner du matin. La variation masculine

As you know, Jacques Prévert is one of my favourite poets. It has just occurred to me that his Déjeuner du matin could be retold by a man, and the idea has captivated me so that I decided to see if I could rewrite the poem in such way. This is what came about so far.

Déjeuner du matin (Jacques Prévert)

Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler

Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder

Il s'est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis son manteau de pluie
Parce qu'il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder

Et moi j'ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j'ai pleuré.


Déjeuner du matin. La variation masculine (Julie Delvaux)

Elle a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Elle a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Elle a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Elle a tourné
Elle a bu le café au lait
Et elle a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler

Après tout ça
Elle s'est levée
Elle est allée
Vers le miroir pour se peigner
Elle a rougi
Ses lèvres
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder

Elle a soupiré
Elle a mis
Son manteau long
Elle a pris son sac
Parce qu'elle travaillait
Et elle est partie
Avec le sac
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder

Et moi je suis rentré
Dans la cuisine
Et j'ai fumé.

As you will notice, I didn't rewrite the first stanza of Prévert's poem - I wanted to start with exactly the same mis-en-scene, and then just to make a female the object of our attention.

The Kiss. The Story of a Dream

On Monday, I received an invitation to look at the video The Kiss by the Italian painter and animator, Giuseppe Ragazzini. At the time I was also listening to one of the songs by Paolo Conte, and the melody of that song, together with the video, became the inspiration to the text below.


Julie Delvaux, The Kiss. The Story of a Dream.

I already told this...

And now I will tell this again. Because I love. Telling.

Once I dreamt of a woman. She was kissing me.

My eyes were closed, but even if they were opened I would never recognise her. She resembled all women I had. But she possessed something mysterious – not that kind of mysterious that the women I have not yet met and known could have. This mystery belonged to a woman who was not yet.

In my dream I was lying in the hall. The stone walls were covered with dark tapestries. The windows had shutters on them. The bed on which I lay stood in the middle of the hall, and the heavy Bordeaux cloths of the canopy hanged around. I lay on my back, with the arm under my head, and the light nightly breeze was blowing cold on my chest through the half-open shirt.

She came from nowhere, and in my dream I felt her breath on my face. She looked at me. I didn’t see her. My eyes were closed. I slept. She looked at me. This is how the mother looks at her child. This is how one looks at their beloved who seems dear and of whom they know everything. Her intimacy was warm, and I smiled, feeling her breath on my temples, between the eyebrows, on the tip of my nose, on my cheekbones.

Her lips moved closer to my ear. My smile became wider. Gentler. I think I stretched my hands out to her. But she eluded. She lay next to me, resting her head on her hand, and looked at me.

I slept and thought: who is she? Why did she come to me? Where was she before? Why does she look at me? She is smiling. Does she love me?

Suddenly a shadow entered my dream. The smile vanished from my lips. The shadow didn’t go away. It was she. She was looking at me. Then she ran along my face with her finger, from the temple to the chin. In silence. And I was silent, too. She was half lying on my chest, but I felt neither her heaviness, nor her lightness. I closed my eyes.

Her breath was approaching. I wanted this to last. And she was slowly moving closer to my face. I felt the movement of her breasts through the transparent cloth of her nightdress, on top of which she wore a cloak with rare ornament. Her plump lips. Her eyes that looked at me with such kindness. Her body was pressing intensely against my hip.

My eyelashes flickered. Her lips lightly touched mine. We both didn’t move. I let her tongue enter my mouth. Blood was pumping in my temples. I barely breathed. She was kissing me. I kissed many women. No woman has ever kissed me like she. I lay on my back. Her breasts were touching my chest like a light nightly breeze. My arm was still under my head. She was pressing her entire body against mine. I didn’t even hold her. Nothing but our lips bound us together.

Occasionally she was pulling back, and through the dream I felt that she did it in order to look at me. She didn’t say a word. Having pulled back and thrown a look at me, she was returning to my mouth. Her soft lips quickly touched its corners. Her tongue teasingly moved along my lips. Sometimes after that her lips simply touched my mouth. This calmed me down. The warmth spread in my body. And she simply looked at me, smiling. Like the beauties on the old paintings look at their beloved. Like, perhaps, I looked at women whom I really loved.

But sometimes her tongue, having moved around my lips, forcefully penetrated my mouth. She was searching for my tongue. I gave in to her. Having found each other, our tongues entwined, and her moves became slower. Gently was she holding my head in the palm of her hand, and I barely felt it. And her tongue was entering deep into my mouth. She would slowly pull back. Her tongue almost escaped from me. I followed it. Then once again she possessed me.

And it lasted. And lasted. The strength and passion of her kisses varied. One time she was kissing me like Shulammite kissed King Solomon, with all fire of the first innocent love. She was kissing me like a Parisian hooker, and in her kiss there was a suddenly awoken tenderness towards the man. In her kiss there was a lust. In her kiss there was a mystery. The impossible. Something yet impossible. But there was no fear in her kiss. She was kissing me, as if I belonged to her forever.

Somewhere afar the music is playing. Just simple chords. Their rhythm resembles the moves of her tongue on my palate. The chords join in a melody that she’s playing on my lips, on my tongue. I want to listen to it forever. And she smiles at me, and looks at me, and touches my mouth with hers, and we unite in a kiss, then she pulls back, then moves her lips closer to mine again, her tongue enters deeply into my mouth, and I lose my breath, lying on my back and feeling through the transparent cloth of her nightdress the barely heard beats of her heart against my chest.

I don’t know when the dream ends. In the morning I wake up in my room. My arm is under my head. Slightly amused, I move my hand across my bare chest, trying to remember when I took my shirt off. In truth, I always sleep without a shirt. I look around. She is nowhere. At all. I sit up in the bed. Every time I wonder why, after such passionate kissing in my sleep, I am barely aroused. I get up. Get dressed. The day goes by as a particular day needs to go. I am working. Or meeting friends. Or marking time.

This woman comes to me at night. She resembles the women I had. Those women that I occasionally meet these days have something of her. But she always retains that which none of them has yet got. There is no such woman. Maybe she is not in the city where I am. Maybe she doesn’t yet exist at all. And she always only kisses me. Like, perhaps, I kissed women whom I really loved. Like no woman has ever kissed me. And when I walk in the streets of my city, it seems to me occasionally that she swiftly passes me by. I turn around. She is not there. Perhaps, I should stop turning around, but then she will stop coming to me at night.

I love telling about this. At night I dream of a woman. She kisses me. I don’t know when it ends. They say that once a marble statue came to life. I tell about the woman who kisses me at night and I think: maybe the night comes when the dream doesn’t end. Or maybe the day will come when I meet this woman.

I dream that a woman kisses me. I already told this. I often tell this. Because I love.

English translation © Julie Delvaux 2007
The original Russian text

My Favourite Billy Connolly

When I first came to England five years ago, I was promptly told that many things would be forgiven to me as a foreigner as long as I didn't fail to like Billy Connolly. Watching him the first few times was tough, I must admit, for before 2002 my knowledge of the Scottish accent was virtually nonexistent. However, the man I saw on the TV screen was so charismatic and adorable, I said to myself that I must learn to understand him.

Time went by, I've seen Billy's many performances, I loved the world tours he made, read about him, laughed at his sketches, certainly found him handsome, and watched Mrs Brown. The only thing I never paid attention to, for some reason, was his birthday. Turns out, he was born on November 24th and is a Sag, like myself. Obviously, I send my belated birthday greetings to him, and my adoration for a fellow Centaur has now grown even bigger. I love the month of December even more now.

Billy Connolly for me is the Henry Miller of stand-up comedy. I've never heard so many swearing words being said on stage in my entire life, but I cannot imagine anyone doing it with such gusto and creativity, as Connolly. Having lived in Manchester for over four years now, I also know that what he brings out on stage is the living language. Because when we think of stage we link it to theatre, and when we think of theatre we link it to art, Billy's escapades at first look outrageous. It's like Tropic of Cancer or The Rosy Crucifixion is being read aloud. But as I wrote last year about Henry Miller, one of his greatest achievements was in tuning his narrative in with the time in which he was writing. It was impossible to write "lovely" texts on the eve of the devastating military conflict. As far as Connolly's shows are concerned, the bad language he uses can be heard everywhere, even in the most refined places. The brilliance of Billy is that he takes the genre which sometimes is a collection of pre-written sketches, not necessarily witty or funny, and turns it into a real people's comedy. Again, just as Miller was able to write "decent" prose - like Big Sur or The Colossus of Maroussi - so Connolly has dazzled the viewers with his thoughtful and even romantic reports from his world tours.

I'm leaving you with the great man's official website - BillyConnolly.com - and an extract from one of his shows, in which he talks about opera. This is an amazingly talented performance, but make sure you've got a few spare minutes and can afford laughing out loud.

My YouTube

So many things have I written in the course of this year about YouTube - but in April I joined it myself. Admittedly, joining YouTube is yet to realise in my uploading some videos there, which I couldn't do for some reason. However, one of the reasons for diving deep into the video galore was the opportunity to create playlists and to collect the videos of my favourite songs (and obviously not just songs).

I am just writing this very short post to let you know about my YouTube profile (follow the link), and to invite you to browse my playlists. A great deal can be told about me, one thing in particular is that this year has been very much about Italy, which you might have noticed in one of the latest posts that was literally written to the song by Paolo Conte.

As you will see from browsing the playlists, my interests spread far and wide beyond what I am able to put on my profile in Los Cuadernos. Now and again I receive comments from readers or other YouTubers, suggesting to listen to such-and-such, or asking if I've seen this or that. You undoubtedly have gathered that I'm always up for learning and exploring more, therefore please feel free to add a comment or to write me directly if you know I'm missing something important where music is concerned. :-)

One Week Before Christmas. Listening to Paolo Conte

When winter comes to my town, but the grass is as green as in summer, - if only now it is covered with the withered leaves, resembling coffee with milk by their colour, -

When in my town the clouds freeze and become like the heaps of snow, - though, most probably, they remind me of some other town where the heaps of snow are as white as clouds, -

When in my town on the news they speak about shops, turkeys, puddings, presents, postcards, santa clauses, babies in the cradles, - even if not everyone believes in the feast and celebrates it, -

When the streets are silent because nobody likes the cold and tries to leave the house as seldom as possible, - although, of course, one has to go out for newspapers and milk, -

When in my street they hanged about ten multicolour boxes and garlands on a streetlamp, and on the next one, and on the next one, - granted that all boxes are, obviously, empty, -

When from my flat’s window I see the street where people are walking and speaking about the shops, turkeys, presents, and they don’t like cold, - just like the streetlamp where the boxes hang, -

When I hold in my hand a cup with hot chocolate and simply look from my window at people, who walk from the shops with turkeys and presents, - and who don’t like the cold, just like me, -

When the hot chocolate takes me back to my childhood, when you are waiting for a holiday not because this is how it should be, but because you don’t know what a holiday is, - this is the wisest, isn’t it, -

When childhood is visiting as the memories of the snow outside the window, and of the heaps of snow that look like white clouds full of snowfall, - it was so long ago, but I still remember, -

When something pinches strangely in your chest, because there is memory, but the time has gone so far, that, it seems, it’s impossible to remember, - and you don’t want to talk or to listen to anybody, -

Then, finally, I turn a recorder on, and with a husky “tara-ti-tara-hey” begins a miracle, of which I know nothing, - but this is exactly why I believe in it…

*Russian text
*The text references the beginning of Paolo Conte's Sparring Partner.

English translation © Julie Delvaux

Les Feuilles de la Chanson

Some of you may instantly guess to which two French songs alludes the title of this post. These are Les Feuilles Mortes by Jacques Prevert and Joseph Kosma and La Chanson de Prevert by Serge Gainsbourg. The original song was performed by Yves Montand and became one of his finest songs. Gainsbourg's song was written in 1961 as a response and an hommage to Prevert's talent of a poet, by including many a reference to the original song, to tell his Gainsbourg's own story of separated lovers. The reminiscences begin in the first line, which is the same in both songs.

I put two videos from YouTube, one is a brilliant video montage of the photographs of French actors and actresses, as well as some images by a celebrated French photographer Robert Doisneau, accompanied by a recording of Montand's live performance of Les Feuilles Mortes (Autumn Leaves, in English translation). Another is Gainsbourg's live performance of La Chanson de Prevert (Prevert's Song) in April 1961 on Discorama, very dramatic and moving. I included the texts of both songs and my English translations; the full text of Les Feuilles Mortes is provided by Patrick Auzat-Magne.

Update: as it happens with YouTube videos, they sometimes are taken down, which is exactly what happened to the montage to Montand's song that was here previously. I was, however, lucky to find the first version of this song that I've heard when I eventually unearthed, by pure chance, Montand's audio cassette in a small shop in my district in Moscow. Imeem audios sometimes get truncated to 30 seconds, but it will still leave you with an excerpt of this beautiful song.

In addition, check out this version Les Feuilles Mortes (full track!) on Last.fm, along with C'est Si Bon, La Vie en Rose, and Sous le Ciel de Paris.

Oh! je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes
Des jours heureux où nous étions amis.
En ce temps-là la vie était plus belle,
Et le soleil plus brûlant qu'aujourd'hui.
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle.
Tu vois, je n'ai pas oublié...
Les feuilles mortes se ramassent à la pelle,
Les souvenirs et les regrets aussi
Et le vent du nord les emporte
Dans la nuit froide de l'oubli.
Tu vois, je n'ai pas oublié
La chanson que tu me chantais.

C'est une chanson qui nous ressemble.
Toi, tu m'aimais et je t'aimais
Et nous vivions tous deux ensemble,
Toi qui m'aimais, moi qui t'aimais.
Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s'aiment,
Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit
Et la mer efface sur le sable
Les pas des amants désunis.

Oh ! So much would I like to you remember
The happy days when we were together.
At the time life was more beautiful,
And the sun was more dazzling than now.
The dead leaves are gathering at the shovel.
You see, I didn’t forget…
The dead leaves are gathering at the shovel,
And the souvenirs, and the regrets also.
And the northern wind takes them
Into the cold night of the oblivion.
You see, I didn’t forget
The song you sang to me.

This song is like us.
You loved me, and I loved you.
We lived together,
You love me, and I loved you.
But the night separates those who love each other
So softly, without making a noise.
And the sea washes off the sand
The steps of the disunited lovers.

Oh je voudrais tant que tu te souviennes
Cette chanson était la tienne
C'était ta préférée je crois
Qu'elle est de Prévert et Kosma

Et chaque fois "Les feuilles mortes"
Te rappellent à mon souvenir
Jour après jour les amours mortes
N'en finissent pas de mourir

Avec d'autres, bien sur, je m'abadonne
Mais leur chanson est monotone
Et peu à peu je m'indiffère
A cela il n'est rien à faire

Car chaque fois les feuilles mortes
Te rappellent à mon souvenir
Jour après jour les amours mortes
N'en finissent pas de mourir

Peut on jamais savoir par où commence
Et quand finit l'indifférence
Passe l'automne, vienne l'hiver
Et que la chanson de Prévert

Cette chanson "Les feuilles mortes"
S'efface de mon souvenir
Et ce jour là mes amours mortes
En auront fini de mourir.

Oh how much would I love you to remember :
This was your song.
It was your favourite, I believe –
The one by Prevert and Kosma.

And every time “Les feuilles mortes”
Reminds me of you.
Day after day the autumn loves
Don’t stop withering.

With others, of course, I abandon myself,
But their song is monotonous.
And little by little I lose interest.
There’s nothing to do about it

For every time “Les feuilles mortes”
Reminds me of you.
Day after day the autumn loves
Don’t stop withering.

Is it ever possible to know where the indifference
Begins or when it ends?
The autumn passes, and the winter comes,
And if only the Prevert’s song would go.

This song, “Les feuilles mortes”,
Washes itself off my memory.
And on that day my autumn loves
Will have stopped withering.

Open Directory Project Listing

I have no doubt you have heard about the Open Directory Project, that is a human-edited directory of sites and weblogs, and should be considered if one is serious about blogging and posts regularly. As the submission guidelines inform you, submission is free, and it may take up to three months to have your project listed. Whether you are successful or not, the editor of the category in which you submitted your blog will inform you accordingly. But, as I've just read elsewhere, the editors, being very busy people, may not have time to send a quick e-mail to you.

I feel lazy to go through my e-mails to check exactly when I submitted Los Cuadernos to the OPD. It was certainly earlier this year, and it's definitely taken over three months. Last weekend I noticed someone visiting my blog from http://www.dmoz.org/Arts/Weblogs/, which was a sign for me that my blog has probably made an appearance there. I wasn't disappointed, as indeed Los Cuadernos de Julia is now included in the Open Directory Project, in the Arts Weblogs category. You can find the listing if you follow the URL above. And in the spirit of co-operation I've included a nice little button in the side bar, clicking on which will take you to the OPD search page.

As to why the OPD project is important and why you would consider getting your site submitted there, please read these two articles. One is authored by Karen Zack from Custom Post-Its R Us. I shouldn't hold any grudges against my category's editor, as it hasn't taken my site as long as Karen's to be listed (not that I hold grudges, anyway!). And another article by Rocky John Tayaban from BloggingMix.com is fairly recent and will tell you everything you might want to know about the OPD project and the benefits of being listed there.

I now hope to regain speed with writing for Los Cuadernos after a period of stumbling, which was caused primarily by work. As some of you know and as I mentioned a few times on this blog, I live in Manchester, but for the most part of this year I worked in Warrington. I used public transport a lot, which on occasion provided me with much inspiration and helped me forge a wonderful friendship, but otherwise began to weigh me down. I also mentioned that I worked in Internet Marketing (or Search Marketing), which seems be to one of the sexiest sectors to work in these days. I don't deny the intoxicating joy of working in search, but as I am writing for the web I am more interested in natural (organic) search rather than paid search (PPC). I'm still very happy to have worked in paid search. Before February this year my professional and even personal scope was pretty much defined by Arts and Humanities, and I'm glad it now includes Marketing and Advertising. I've become a qualified Google AdWords Professional, and all in all, this was a very good time. Yet, with a lot of time being put into travelling and, obviously, working, I could barely find the opportunity to do what I felt was more important in the end of the day - writing in general, and writing for Los Cuadernos, in particular. So, to finally cut the story short, I left my Warrington headquarters, and for the moment I'm not involved into anything yet. It doesn't mean I'm not going to be involved - it means that for the moment I am open to consider various projects. I still love travelling, so maybe I'll be doing some more travelling from one county to another - as long as it's not 9 to 5, Monday to Friday!!!

Oh, and I don't know if I mentioned this before or not, but until recently I've never had a laptop. Now I do.

Alberto Moravia - Eroticism in Literature

I was just going through some screenshots with articles about Quiet Flows the Don premiere last year. It's been a very long while, unfortunately, since I wrote anything about the latest adaptation by the late Sergei Bondarchuk. In part, it had to do with the fact that I only recently managed to start watching the film, which I am yet to finish. So far in general I feel that I like this film more than the previous adaptation. However, it is the previous adaptation's subject and the recent interpretation of it that made me remember about this short essay by Alberto Moravia. As I mentioned previously, this year is the 100th anniversary of his birthday, so it is appropriate to mark it with this text.

Alberto Moravia, Eroticism in Literature (1961)

Eroticism in modern literature has no resemblance to eroticism in pagan literature nor to eroticism in the literatures that followed it, though if there are any resemblances at all these are to the former rather than the latter. But there is the difference that in pagan literature eroticism has all the innocence, brutality and cohesion of a nature not yet divided and turned against itself by the Christian sense of sin, whereas eroticism in modern literature is bound to take the Christian experience into account. In other words, eroticism in modern literature derives not from a situatio of nature, but from a process of liberation from pre-existent prohibitions and taboos. With the pagans, freedom was an unconscious, simple fact, whereas with the moderns it has been reclaimed, rediscovered, rewon. In compensation eroticism in modern literature has, or should have, the character proper to subjects that neither shock nor draw undue attention to themselves - that are, in short, normal if we understand normal to mean the transformation of the sexual act into something scientifically known and poetically valid, and therefore insignificant from the ethical point of view.

The result of this is, or should be, that for the first time since the pagan literatures sex is becoming material for poetry without the need to recourse to the props of symbols or the disguises of metaphor. Today, for the first time for many centuries, the sexual act can be represented directly, explicitly, realistically and poetically in a literary work, whenever the work itself makes it necessary. At this point someone will ask: but is it necessary to talk about the sexual act and, if so, when? My answer is that it is not always necessary to talk about the sexual act, just as it is not always necessary to talk about social questions or adventures in Africa, but that, as the prohibitions and taboos that stood in its way no longer exist today, to pass it over in silence when it is necessary is no longer, as it once was, a moral question but an inadequacy of expression. To take an example: the contemporary writer who does not speak of the sexual act when the subject-matter of his book requires it, is behaving like the citizen who refrains from talking about politics in a democratic regime because the dictatorship that preceded it forbade him to do so. Of course, let me repeat, it is not always necessary to talk about the sexual act; but it is necessary to talk about it when - to make a play on words - it is necessary.

Our objector now asks why on earth it seems so often necessary to talk about the sexual act in modern literature. To this we answer very simply that in the modern world sex is synonymous with love, and who could deny that love is a very common subject in the literatures of all times and places?

But how in the world, someone else will say, has love been transformed into sex in modern literature; in other words how has it lost the indirect, metaphorical and idealised character that it had in the past, to end up as identified with the sexual act? There are many reasons for this identification, the principal one being, as we have already pointed out, the collapse of the prohibitions and taboos that only too frequently and artificially lay at the root of the false idealisations of eroticism.

These taboos and prohibitions were only in appearance of Christian origin; in reality Christianity confined itself to counselling chastity. Probably the taboos and prohibitions were the outcome of a slow social involution, an involution not unlike the one that can be observed in, for instance, class relationships in some Western societies.

However, the collapse of these taboos and prohibitions has been caused mainly by what is called depth psychology, or psychoanalysis and the related psychological sciences. The discoveries of psychoanalysis have had a crucial result in two ways: they have broken down the taboos, and have raised the sexual act from the ignominy into which the taboos had cast it, and have reinstated it among the few ways of expression and communion available to man.

The sexual act in modern literature is, or should be, neither diabolical temptation, as with the medieval ascetics, nor an almost gastronomical pleasure as with the eighteenth-century bourgeoisie, but as it shows itself when we manage to separate it both from moralistic horror and vulgar hedonism: an act of insertion into a cosmic and superhuman order. Seen in this way the sexual act is effectively something higher, more mysterious, and more complete than love, especially if love is interpreted as the simple physico-sentimental relationship between man and woman.

How does this relate to the 1957 and 1992 (2006) adaptations of Quiet Flows the Don? At the heart of the novel is a love story of Grigory and Aksinia. One of the arguments against the most recent film was that it showed the protagonists having what we may call an openly sexual relationship. I must point out that there are still no bed scenes similar to some we've seen in other films. At the most, we can see their bare torsos (right, although the image is quite modest), but this is obviously very different from what the viewers have been looking at since 1957 (left). Some of the Bondarchuk's critics were saying that Aksinia would never go to bed with Grigory totally naked. It may certainly be true if we remember that it was a custom even in Europe for many centuries to exercise one's marital duty in a nightgown (which used to be worn by both men and women). From this point of view, any historical film with a romantic scene in which both protagonists appear totally naked, is potentially historically incorrect.

What is interesting, however, is that the kind of romantic love we usually witness on screen and which makes up one of the subjects of Sholokhov's novel is rather often than not a forbidden love. As the narrator tells us, the love of Aksinia and Grigory was forbidden not simply because it was adulterous - it flew in the face of a traditional view of how to conduct an affair. Had they concealed it or treated it as if it didn't matter, the villagers would quickly forget about it. They, however, didn't conceal it, and in particular Aksinia, for whom this was the first time she fell in love and had her affection returned, put herself entirely into enjoying her womanhood. Hers is a tragic character, and I can absolutely not picture Aksinia keeping her cool while burning with love - that is, wearing a nightgown at all times, figuratively speaking.

I wouldn't want to comment in too much depth on the Russian take on eroticism in cinema as follows from the Quiet Flows the Don's critique, since those opinions may not be entirely representative. As with everything else elsewhere, much is built upon assumptions, in this case - an assumption that Russian culture and eroticism are alien to each other, which, of course, is nonsense. But in the case of reception of this recent adaptation of Sholokhov's novel we find assumptions not only about the life in the Cossack village, but about the novel itself. The fact is that Sholokhov's text is long and rich enough to include many story lines, some of which never made it to the screen. And certain portions of the text are undoubtedly erotic, although they may be too demure for our time. Nevertheless, they do exist, and since the question seems to be about whether or not it was appropriate for the protagonists to bare on screen, the answer is that it was not only appropriate, but even necessary - to underline the unconventional and tragic fate of their life-long affair.

Woody Allen and Me

Remember, remember the 1st of December - for it is Woody Allen's birthday. I first came across the work of my fellow Sagittarian, when already in England - I watched Celebrity. I think initially I wanted to watch it because of Kenneth Branagh whom the inimitable Allen allowed to play what otherwise would normally be his own part in the film. With Branagh being but a part of larger cast, I soon was captivated by Judy Davis's character, and especially by the scene below. When I included this video in the post on my Russian blog many months ago, I suddenly remembered about another Allen's gem - Bananas.



I mentioned The Purple Rose of Cairo in the last year's post about cinema. The sentence from Annie Hall about a relationship being like a shark that dies unless it moves possesses that powerful blend of humour and profound wisdom that is usually acquired through some rather sad experiences or gloomy observations. And the wrestling scene from Bananas is a brilliant jeer at the familial relationships - and it reminds me of another satyrical scene about family life from La Citta delle Donne (The City of Women) by Federico Fellini.

Most recently I've seen Manhattan. I watched it on the big screen, at Manchester's Cornerhouse. Being a maverick, I watched two films in one day, which I mentioned in this post about the role of sound and colour in films (which was to an extent inspired by that day at the movies) - I saw Manhattan first, and then I watched David Lynch's Eraserhead. I must sincerely admit that Eraserhead pretty much erased the impression of Allen's film - except for its opening scene, which has long entered the annals of cinema as one of the best opening scenes ever. Its magical blend of music and the monochrome shots of New York is the perfect portrait of the city "that never sleeps".



I didn't intend to list all Woody Allen's films I've seen since 2004 - I only mentioned those that I find corresponding with some of my own views, thoughts, experiences. Simply put, although I'm not Woody Allen, I can be just as clumsy, head-in-the-clouds, doubting, soul-searching, quirky person. Since I'm a woman, we should probably multiply all the above-mentioned qualities at least by two. But all that is hidden underneath, in the internal dialogue with my own self that will remain unheard and unseen, unless I put it in the subtitles (like in Annie Hall). On the surface I've got wisdom, buoyancy, even bravura, and the sense of humour for which the Sags are renowned. Life is full of duality for us, you see, but it's a Sag life, after all.

Happy birthday, Mr Allen!

La Grande Vadrouille, Mon Amour

It was in the 1980s. If I was attending school, I was in the primary classes. My granny and I would go to the local cinema every so often. One day we went to see a French film which name was translated into Russian as "The Big Walk". It was the one of the first times I've seen a foreign film. It was one of the first times I've seen a French film. It was certainly the first film with Louis de Funes that I saw. And I loved the film so much that I pleaded with my Gran to go and watch it with me once again. In the scope of one or two weeks I saw La Grande Vadrouille twice. Then I saw it a couple of times of Russian TV. And I've just scoured YouTube trying to find the extract below, which I loved imitating. The main participants are Louis de Funes and Bourvil.



A short synopsis from IMDb.com:

During World War II, two French civilians and a downed English Bomber Crew set out from Paris to cross the demarcation line between Nazi-occupied Northern France and the South. From there they will be able to to escape to England. First, they must avoid German troops - and the consequences of their own blunders

I have little more to say, except that I want to watch this film again! There are some extracts on YouTube, which you may like to find and see for yourself. La Grande Vadrouille is an undying classic, although when I saw the scenes below I suddenly realised that, being a child, with little knowledge of life, I didn't see all that was humourous about these extracts.