Se souvenir de la Grande Guerre

Le 11 novembre, c'était le Jour du Souvenir. Nous sommes aujourd'hui le "dimanche du Souvenir", comme on l'appelle ici. je voulais trouver une manière de le souligner et de commémorer la Grande Guerre sur Vraie Fiction, puis je me suis rapplé qu'il y avait une section complète sur le sujet au York Castle Museum. J'ai trouvé parmi mes photos de mon séjour à York ce tableau. Je crois qu'il illustre bien l'atmosphère de l'époque.

Time for poppies

It is Remembrance Sunday today, a fittingly grey and gloomy Sunday. I have not much to say about it, except that I will try this year to keep my poppy on, although I always struggle. I said yesterday that November here is the month of fireworks, but it is not quite true: it truly is the month of the poppy. They are everywhere: in shops, in the street where they are sold by army cadets or veterans and of course on the everybody's coat or shirt. For a while at least, because I am not the only one struggling to keep the poppy on, apparently. Back in 2008, I blogged about In Flanders Fields, the poem by John McCrae which inspired the tradition of paper poppies. Today, I have decided to share a short documentary video made by The Royal British Legion telling the story of the tradition. Since I cannot keep a poppy on due to a hand full of thumbs, I can at least do this much to commemorate and remember.

The poppy and the needle

This is a trivial post about a non trivial subject. For something more thoughtful, you might want to read this post from 2008. Today is/was Remembrance Day. It is actually Remembrance Sunday, as it is Sunday. And like most years, while I had a poppy, I did not wear it. I know I should, but at some point something happens and I lose it or it drops or out of frustration I stop wearing it. It is very simple really: it is all the needle's fault. Every year, I buy a poppy, sometimes more as I lose the first one, then I struggle to put it on. I am rubbish with that darn needle: it does not hold the paper poppy very well, or at all, then it does not stay on me anyway. So the needle ends up prickling my skin and letting the red flower go. They should invent something else to hold it, some pegs or something of the sort. So my respect towards the sacrifices of a dead generation is thwarted by a stupid needle and my own clumsiness.

Requiem aeternam

It is my brother who gave me the idea on Facebook, as he listened to Mozart's Requiem on Remembrance Day. I thought it would be just proper to listen to it, or at least the beginning of it, on Remembrance Sunday. It has the proper decorum and beauty.

I almost forgot Remembrance Day

It was Remembrance Day yesterday, I thought about it during the day at some moment, but it was in the back of my mind and I didn't blog about it. I blogged about oysters, a most profane subject. Last week I bought a poppy, lost it, bought another one, lost it. I will need to buy another one. I find it difficult to remember Remembrance Day, as I never grew up observing it. Maybe it is because I never been in a war and what I know of war is through the TV screen. But now that I have a number of friends in the army, I try to at least remember it. And until tomorrow, I will buy poppies again.

Petites traditions dominicales

Comme c'est notre habitude le dimanche, ma femme et moi sommes allés dans notre café préféré. Nous avions pensé essayer un nouveau café indépendant qui a ouvert ses portes récemment, mais comme nous étions sortis tard, il était déjà sur le point de fermer. Ce sera pour une prochaine fois. Selon ce que j'ai pu voir de l'endroit, il me fait penser un peu à l'autre café indépendant qui est sur le coin de rue: décor minimaliste (mais plus coloré), endroit plus éclairé, sélection de breuvages moins connus.

La visite au café est l'une de ces rituels qui se sont installés dans notre vie de couple subrepticement, histoire de rendre dimanche moins monotone. C'est une manière charmante de ne rien faire et d'oublier un peu le lundi qui vient. Nous avons une autre petite tradition, typiquement anglaise celle-là, que nous avons décidé de suivre: le Sunday roast. Avec les patates et les carottes, on mange habituellement un roast végétalien qui ne me fait pas regretter une minute la viande. Il ne manquerait qu'un peu de vin ou une bière pour rendre le repas parfait, mais tant que j'aurai ma job à Windsor qui me force à me lever à des heures impossibles (ce qui ne durera pas), je préfère ne pas boire d'alcool un dimanche. Même avec modération, ça me rend le sommeil difficile.

De la guerre et des loisirs

C'est le Jour du Souvenir aujourd'hui. J'ai presque tendance à l'oublier. La température est de circonstances, grise à souhait. Je dis des clichés. J'ai souligné le jour l'année dernière avec un billet sur l'esthétique de la guerre. Je me demandais s'il y avait un plaisir esthétique à la guerre, citant Apollinaire. Récemment, un ami que j'ai dans l'armée a écrit sur facebook qu'il s'ennuyait à attendre son départ pour l'Afghanistan et en avait un peu assez de jouer sur son Wii. Il semblerait qu'à défaut d'être jolie, la guerre peut à tout le moins être une forme de loisir. Loisir dangereux, mais loisir quand même.

Paper Poppy

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

In Flanders Fields, by John McCrae

It is Remembrance Sunday today. I have never been very aware of it. That is, until I started dating my wife. Now, on her initiative, I buy a paper poppy which is sold everywhere in England. Before that, all I knew about the poppy flower and John McCrae's poem was the dreadful History by the Minute episode that was so ridiculously solemn and laughably patriotic, to the point of being obscene (like most of the episodes of this propaganda program). Now I have friends in the army, so I am more sensitive/sensible to the work and sacrifice of the people in the army. I now like the simplicity of the poppy, like a drop of blood on a grey November day, beautiful in its mourning sadness.