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Seeking Tranquillity in France

Seeking Tranquillity in France

著者: John B Howard
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Stories and reflections from an American and Irish citizen living in France

leavingamerica.substack.comJohn Brooks Howard
社会科学
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  • My favourite bilingual (and trilingual) dictionaries. Really!
    2025/07/25
    I’ve always enjoyed learning languages. As children my siblings and I were expected to learn French, at least up to a point. It was fun, and memorable—my sister and I recently spoke of those times and about the children’s books we read in French and how much we enjoyed them. Later, I found French classes in school a boring and repetitive chore, but eventually in high school the grammar drills ended and we started reading real literature. That got me re-engaged and restored my fascination with languages. We also had to respond to essay questions in French on examinations and homework assignments. So having a bilingual dictionary became indispensable.At university I discovered that the library held an extraordinary range of language dictionaries, monolingual as well as bilingual, that were essential for some of the challenging reading assignments we received. I bought myself several “serious” dictionaries before graduation (Latin↔English; German↔English, and French↔English, Latin↔English) as well as a couple pocket dictionaries for on the go. But I always found them challenging to use. Some words have several meanings, depending on context, and the meaning can change when used figuratively or in an idiomatic expression. I would scan the various numbered meanings to find the one that fit—this worked well when reading or trying to understand a recorded text, but when writing, things felt more hit-or-miss. I’m sure some things I wrote at the time must have been hilarious to my teachers.Dictionaries can also be useful in understanding which prepositions to use with which verbs—something that easily trips up beginning language learners. But they might not be so helpful with the actual spoken or written use of language, where changes of tense, number, mood or voice mutate the form of the verb. So, tools such as the Bescherelle Conjugaison volumes for French (or Le Figaro’s online Le Conjugeur) are an indispensable adjunct to even the best dictionaries. In some languages, certain verbs are associated with changes of case with nouns, pronouns and adjectives (e.g., “eines guten Mannes,” German for “of a good man,” here showing declensions in genitive case); some dictionaries can also be useful in this context, but this is a place where understanding the grammar of a language kicks in.Moving to Germany in the late 1970s was a test of my linguistic adaptability, even after two years of college German and four weeks of intensive study at the Goethe Institut. Although I had become capable in day-to-day language (other than the sometimes opaque Bavarian Mundart, or dialect, that I heard when working in Munich), writing always left me feeling insecure. I’d post letters that took two hours to write still worrying that I might sound like some kind of nincompoop. No surprise that I’d find myself in the wonderful Munich bookstores standing in the reference section, eyeing the language materials.Particularly striking was the series of dictionaries published by Duden, called “Deutsche Sprache in 12 Bänden” (German Language in 12 Volumes). It was a virtual linguistic rainbow, with colourfully bound volumes dedicated to Rechtschreibung (spelling/orthography), conventional word meanings, words borrowed from other languages, grammar and etymology, and much more. My book budget was almost non-existent—my academic stipend was insufficient, and my income from work at the Munich’s Großmarkthalle and Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten left little room for discretionary spending.Two volumes, though, were irresistible. The first was the Stilwörterbuch—a dictionary of style, i.e., a guide to the usage of German vocabulary. I don’t think I’ve ever written more than a couple paragraphs in German without consulting this volume, which gives extensive examples of the appropriate use of German vocabulary. If you wonder whether the word you know is the best possible choice, check it here. If you know a couple words that, to you, are perfect synonyms, the Stilwörterbuch will clarify the precise meaning they convey and how to use them. Not sure of which preposition follows, or of more complex idiomatic usages, this is the place to go. By the time that volume had become too brittle and loose to retain, the pages were well thumbed and sheer sentimentality made it hard for me to bid it farewell.The other book I purchased with my hard-earned D-mark was the Bildwörterbuch (picture dictionary). Before buying it I found myself returning to the bookstore several times to make use of it. Working in the kitchen of the Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten there were things I could not identity—sometimes I didn’t even know the nomenclature in English! But the Bildwörterbuch identified everything visually. Page after page showed automobile parts, dentist offices, kitchens, factory assembly lines, gardens, power plants, Renaissance buildings, and Greek temples, with each component carefully identified with the best German...
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  • God, human folly and laughter
    2025/04/25
    “There are three things which are real: God, human folly and laughter. The first two are beyond our comprehension, so we must do what we can with the third.”—John F. KennedyI don’t recall precisely when I read these lines for the first time, but since that day, long ago, the words have never left me. From time to time I’ve wondered about the context in which Jack Kennedy spoke them, and was surprised to learn recently of their origin. They were written, not spoken, and were inscribed on a silver mug presented as a birthday present to a friend, Dave Powers, Special Assistant to President during the Kennedy administration, on his birthday in 1962.As a Massachusetts boy raised in the Catholic tradition, with an Irish mother, I was keenly aware of Kennedy and the challenges he faced in winning the presidency. Family members provided us children with campaign buttons; one of them read “If I Were 21, I’d Vote for Kennedy.” I don’t recall actually wearing them, particular not to school in our overwhelmingly Protestant town on the South Shore of Massachusetts. At school our young classmates echoed the prejudiced words they no doubt had heard at home about “the Pope running the country.” They even asserted that a tunnel would be built between Washington D.C. and the Vatican to facilitate the Pope’s takeover of the U.S. At a time when named telephone exchanges still existed, a frequently voiced joke was that the White House phone number would be changed to “Et cum Spirit - 220.”In retrospect, Kennedy’s election and the reality of his incomplete term in office did not eradicate such prejudices. I was at home, sick, the day of Kennedy’s assassination, but when my siblings returned home they reported that the reaction to the announcement at school of the President’s death included cheers from some of their classmates. Still, the issue of Catholicism as a barrier to national elected office does appear to have been eliminated in the aftermath of Kennedy’s demise, the remnant of these days being the moral/political question of abortion.Kennedy was from a wealthy family, and it was common knowledge in Massachusetts that not all that wealth had been earned simply through hard and honest work. However Jack Kennedy and his family claimed the high ground culturally, and his time in office came to be characterised as “Camelot”—a time of glamour, of progressive thinking and bold new endeavours, and a celebration of the arts.I think of the words Kennedy had inscribed on the gift to his friend frequently.When I think of human folly now, the connection with politics is paramount. What folly to deny what Mother Nature tells us, in ever more desperate tones, that we are destroying out planetary home? What folly to promote hatred over love, anger over reason, greed over human equality and need?I also question myself: is it folly to allow oneself to become attached, as observer or contributor, to the daily onslaught of assertions, ripostes, and indignation? Is it folly, to succumb, fret or respond as one can? Or is there perverse succour in such engagement?I worry actively about the state of our world and the state of the country where I was born. Yes, it might be foolish to suppose it makes a difference, but I share my views from time to time on the issues that concern me most—above all the tragedy of healthcare in the United States and the culture that has incubated and cultivated it. It need not be that way, if only we could, as a society, contemplate our human condition and value empathy over wealth, and place the common good above selfishness.I worry, too, about education in the United States, at all levels. Adult reading levels are of deep concern, of course; the disappearance of civics in school curricula and a lack of understanding of the functions of government has visible consequences. But should we not worry equally about the decline of the humanities? Many areas of the humanities have fallen victim to fiscal belt-tightening, and indeed to the notion that they do not contribute tangibly to workforce development. I say that is true folly.Engagement with the humanities—including the arts—teaches us to pause, reflect, contemplate and evaluate, fostering critical faculties that provide moral clarity, enable critical thinking, and the capacity to contemplate the best that human creativity has given us. They bind us to our human past, to its glories and to the depths it too often sinks. They give us the ability to focus, to sustain attention, to appreciate. Does not the ability to reflect and perceive beauty and meaning have some relationship to the capacity for empathy, for caring, and to want some sense of community and shared common values? To enable us to interpret and better understand political speech and screed? To enable us to recognise our common humanity and to behave accordingly as individuals and as a society?Laughter. I grew up with laughter. My father was a ...
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    8 分
  • Le jour où mon ombre m'a parlé
    2025/04/17

    Vivre dans un climat tempéré tend à éliminer les excuses pour quitter l’appartement et faire de l’exercice en raison du temps médiocre. Depuis que j’ai déménagé à Nice, j’essaie de profiter du climat agréable pour faire plus de marche aérobique—mes « marches rapides, » comme je les appelle parfois en sortant de chez moi. Le meilleur itinéraire que j’ai trouvé pour cela est de monter la Colline du Château depuis le port de Nice, puis de redescendre du côté opposé, pour arriver au pied de la Tour Bellanda, une ancienne tour défensive devenue aujourd’hui un site touristique prisé, offrant depuis son sommet des vues splendides sur la ville, le Port et la Baie des Anges.

    J’ai fait cette promenade de nombreuses fois, en m’arrêtant souvent dans le parc au sommet de la colline pour boire un peu d’eau ou même un café avant de redescendre. Du printemps à l’automne, mon itinéraire de retour me conduit généralement de la Tour Bellanda à travers la Vieille Ville, en empruntant la rue Droite, puis en traversant la Promenade du Paillon (un parc aménagé sur la rivière couverte du Paillon), en direction de notre appartement, situé dans le quartier de Carabacel.

    Cet itinéraire permet d’éviter le Cours Saleya, un quartier souvent encombré, aménagé autour de l'ancien Marché aux Fleurs de Nice, dont les nombreux étals de fleurs, nourriture, boutiques, cafés et restaurants attirent une foule immense de touristes pendant une grande partie de l’année. Un matin ensoleillé de fin de printemps, cependant, j’ai remarqué qu’il y avait relativement peu de monde—il devait être encore assez tôt—et j’ai traversé le marché, le trottoir devant moi dégagé et le soleil dans mon dos.

    C’est alors que mon ombre m’a parlé.

    J’ai baissé les yeux et j’ai remarqué, distraitement, le mouvement d’une ombre—quelqu’un qui marchait avec une démarche que je ne reconnaissais pas. En l’observant, j’ai lentement réalisé que c’était moi, c’était ma propre ombre—et pourtant elle semblait étrangère, à part, distincte, inconnue. Je ne l’ai pas reconnue même après avoir réalisé qu’il s’agissait de mon propre reflet ombragé. C’était la silhouette sombre d’un homme âgé, dont la démarche trahissait une douleur ou une blessure, ou peut-être simplement le prix naturel du vieillissement. Je me suis arrêté et j’ai réfléchi un instant, comme si j’essayais d’accepter que mes observations étaient réelles, puis j’ai repris ma route, incapable de détacher mon regard de l’ombre qui me précédait. La malaise de ses mouvements persistait, même lorsque j’essayais d’en modifier.

    Il y a des façons de l’expliquer, je suppose : des blessures à la hanche après un accident de vélo, l’usure corporelle ordinaire qui survient après plus de sept décennies de vie. Mais le manque initial de reconnaissance, suivi de la prise de conscience qui m’est venue lorsque mon ombre m’a parlé, était déconcertant. Ce sentiment persiste depuis.

    Je ne sais pas ce qui est le plus inquiétant : la conscience de moi-même qui m’est venue dans un murmure, ce matin ensoleillé, ou le fait que c’était une ombre qui détenait plus de savoir que moi.

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