[August Challenge] Prie Dieux
elle`attend
a feel for its protocols – both written and unwritten – and a sense
of the way that the people interact with one another. Some like newer
participants to observe and comment before submitting something of
their own, others are less rigid in their etiquette. I've always felt
that it was better to submit a sample of my own work before presuming
to comment on others'.
So.
I enjoy using formats such as this to practice different modes of
expression. This is an exercise in style for me, an attempt to capture
the flavor of a pair of my favorite nineteenth-century authors. It
also contains one error – well, one INTENTIONAL error – that may hold
the attention of confirmed Francophiles (and students of
Impressionism) til the end of the piece. I think it was Dickens who
once said ‘Any trick that works.'
St. Jude, for all of you poor, benighted pagans in the audience, is
the patron Saint of lost causes.
For those who would like to view the piece in its original formatting,
please go to:
http://www1.asstr.org/files/Authors/elle_attend/Prie%20Dieux.rtf
Merci, Mmes. Marian et Amandine Aurore…les deux Georges.
elle`attend
_____________
Prie Dieux
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…"
She liked to catch Father Gallifrey as early in the day as possible,
before too many of his other parishioners had taken the opportunity to
burden him with their petty transgressions. It gave her a decidedly
un-Christian little frisson to think of her own sins as being the
freshest, and lying most near the handsome young priest's heart. As if
she believed that they would be the ones that he would touch most
often during his day, and for which he would most frequently – and
passionately – seek intercession with God. Though, truth be told,
Cécie Fantègnant did not really believe that her sins required so very
much in the way of forgiving.
"How long has it been since your last confession?"
Cécie squirmed, straining to make out the face belonging to the
shadowy presence on the opposite side of the screen. As well try and
discern the face of God, she thought impatiently. Her attention was
drawn instead to the intermittent sparkling of the small golden
crucifix as it moved against the starless night of the curate's
vestments.
"Twenty-one…no, wait…twenty-two hours, Father."
There was an audible sigh from the other side of the ornately carved
rosewood grating.
"Mlle. Fantègnant, I really think that it is unnecessary for you to
make your confession so frequentl…"
"But Father, I don't want my sins piling up! They become such a
burden, and I'm afraid that if I neglect them, soon just the sheer
number of them will serve to discourage me from making my Confession
at all!"
Another sigh drifted through the wooden veil, this one more of
resignation than exasperation.
"Oh, very well. Go on, my child."
"Father, I have had impure thoughts…"
Twenty minutes later Cécie Fantègnant stepped lightly from the
confessional box, fresh and sweet as a spring violet, with just the
faintest hint of roses in her apple-round cheeks. Another minute
passed, and a lanky young cleric emerged from the other side of the
confessional, pale and wild-eyed, just in time to see the lady's trim
bustle disappearing through the massive doors of St. Jude's. The
priest crossed himself with a slightly unsteady hand, and made his way
shakily toward the vestry. Perhaps the new sacramental wine had not
yet been blessed and put away by the Monseigneur.
_____________
"And what does Pere Plus Saint que Vous tell you about your sins these
days, ma fille douce?"
Cécie Fantègnant shared a bed-sitting room midway down the hill
between St. Pierre de Montmartre and Place Pigalle with another girl,
Lisette Marchemain. It was small, and had no convenience for cooking,
but this did not matter very much to the two young women, as they took
nearly all of their meals out. They had a small spirit stove to brew
their tea, and a smaller wooden ice chest on their tiny veranda in
which they kept their cream, and the odd pastry in cooler months. They
did have a private bath, however, very much a luxury among young women
in their line of work, and one of which they were inordinately proud.
Most of the other girls that they knew who inhabited the seamy
Parisien demimonde between Place Blanche and Boulevard Clichy were
obliged to share their bath with an entire floor. Many of these same
girls thought that Cécie and Lisette gave themselves airs on this
account, and so treated the two young women with the natural disdain
that the professional often harbors for the gifted amateur in any
field of endeavor.
"He thinks that I should give them up, of course." Cécie sighed
melodramatically, taking a sip of her tea.
"And what do you say to that?"
"What can I say? I tell him that it would inconvenience my landlady
enormously were I to do so."
"To say nothing of Etienne," Lisette observed, setting both women to
giggling nervously.
The two were lounging about in their chemises, fanning themselves and
waiting for the oppressive late-afternoon heat of August to abate
enough so that they could begin their toilette for the evening.
Although these were the dog days of summer, and most of the important
people had fled the city for villas in Villefranche sur Mer or Cap
d'Antibes, there were still one or two parties of some note for a girl
to attend, if she had the right sort of connections. And Cécie's
roommate had just the kind of connections required to attend what
promised to be ‘the' fete of the late summer in Paris. In fact,
Lisette's aunt was hosting several of the artists of last spring's
Salon Refusés that very evening, and the crème de la crème of Left
Bank society (such as it was) would be on display in Mme.Charteron's
sumptuous parlors.
Lisette's aunt took a kind of perverse pleasure in parading this
less-than-acceptable element of Parisien society in her rooms from
time to time, simply for the shock value that it had on the more staid
members of her normal social circle. In this respect she resembled
closely her niece Lisette. Unlike that impetuous young woman, however,
she had the foresight to remove the finer pieces of furniture from her
salon beforehand. She had seen these artists at work in a social
milieu before, and had no desire to be put to the trouble and expense
of having her Louis Quinze chairs and settees reupholstered.
Lisette suddenly puffed out her cheeks and stretched out on her back
upon the small bedsitting room's divan, striking a sultry pose as she
opened her chemise and pushed forth her all-but-non-existent tummy.
"Look, I am ‘Olympia,'" she intoned gravely.
The young women screamed with laughter at Lisette's deft burlesque of
M. Manet's portrait of an anonymous courtesan. This shocking painting
had all of Paris abuzz that summer, and seemed to confirm the worst
suspicions of the surprisingly easily-shocked Parisien haute monde. To
wit, that all French men and women fornicated whenever and wherever
the opportunity presented itself, and, further, that the lower classes
are particularly susceptible in such matters, and – further still –
that all artists think of little else, and that all artists' models
are by and large available to anyone who asks in a reasonable fashion,
or has the price of a meal. Cécie and Lisette were not disinclined to
agree with such an assessment, so long as the definition of
‘reasonable' was sufficiently broad, and included a good dinner at Le
Coq d'Or or the Fleur de Lys.
"La, they like to paint those sorts of women," Cécie gasped, "but
they prefer to go to bed with ones whose petite bourse de plaisir they
can find without resorting to a Baedeker…"
They both dissolved again into shrieks of hysterical laughter.
"But seriously," Cécie went on, dashing tears of mirth from her eyes.
"What will your aunt say to your bringing me along to the party this
evening? For that matter, what will she say about your attending?"
Cécie choked back a fresh fit of giggling.
"Oh, bother Aunt Berthè! I had a lovely frock run up especially for
the occasion, and I intend to dance until dawn in it! And who knows?
Perhaps," she added, with a gay twinkle in her eye, "we may have an
opportunity to make a few sous that we shan't have to share with that
bastard Etienne, n'est pas?"
With that, the girls threw themselves into their preparations for the
grand evening, chattering away like excited young magpies. For in
truth, girls so young and heedless have very little patience with such
complex concepts as actions, and their consequences.
_____________
"Look, Cécie! Isn't that Marie Dudevant with M. Hugo? You don't
suppose that she is trying to impress him with the extent of her
knowledge on the social implications of the Commune, do you?"
Cécie glanced briefly in the direction Lisette was indicating with her
Chinese silk fan, and dismissed the girl in question with a sniff.
"More likely the extent of her knowledge of social infections. A
subject upon which she is vastly qualified to discourse, or so I have
heard."
"You are wicked!" Lisette jabbed Cécie with an elbow as she scanned
the room, then gestured with her fan again, this time in the direction
of a small knot of people surrounding her Aunt Berthè at the far end
of the long, candlelit salon.
"But isn't that your precious Father Gallifray?"
It was, indeed. Cécie's lovely porcelain-doll's features softened as
her eyes came to rest upon the tall, spare frame of the
uncomfortable-looking cleric. He towered head and shoulders above the
others, and his hands fluttered like frightened birds, as if seeking
vainly for some occupation or other that would not draw attention to
themselves, or to their owner.
"If he is not careful, he will fly away," Lisette smirked. "And my
aunt is not fond of guests who flit about among her chandeliers, even
if they are curates!"
Cécie smiled, watching the young priest. Lisette frowned sternly at
her friend.
"Cécie, you really must give up this foolish flirtation! What possible
good can come of it? After all, my darling, the man is a priest!"
"But he knows everything about me, Lisette. Everything. And still he
pities me, and forgives me." She gave a heartfelt sigh. "What purer or
more blissful understanding than that could possibly exist between a
man and woman?"
Lisette at once sensed the danger in that sigh.
"I think that you may be confusing the messenger with its author,
cherie. Besides, I am not convinced that God has forgiven you your
sins. Or Pere plus saint, for that matter. Perhaps he has simply
grown so weary of hearing your endless recitations of them, that he
grants you a dispensation in order to get some peace from your
chattering."
"No, no, it is not like that at all, Lisette! I'm certain that I have
touched his heart with my poor, simple girl's search for God, and
forgiveness for the sinful life I've led."
The normally loquacious Lisette was so taken aback by this utterance,
and by her friend's almost comically pious expression, that for a
moment she could think of no sensible reply to make to it at all.
"Hmmph!" she managed at last. "And I wonder what he has been touching,
while he listens to your confessions?"
"Lisette, hush! Here he comes!"
Cécie kept her gaze fixed resolutely on the golden crucifix moving
lightly upon Father Gallifrey's breast as he neared them, in order to
keep from staring at his hands. Each time she saw the young priest's
hands, with their long, pale, almost effeminate fingers, she felt the
most unusual stirrings in herself, and was filled with longings such
as she had not felt since she and Hyacinthe Thierry had made intimate
acquaintance of one another for the very first time by the mill pond
back in Nohant. She had scarcely been thirteen at the time. Cécie
struggled to hide her feelings, and cursed the blush she felt stealing
up across her bosom to her neck, and thence to her cheeks.
"Good evening Mlle Marchemain, Mlle Fantègnant," he began
self-consciously, making a stiff little bow.
"Good evening, Father," the girls chorused, each making him their
prettiest courtesy. Cécie lingered in hers a heartbeat longer than did
Lisette, and felt Father Gallifrey's eyes linger in turn upon her. Her
cheeks flamed.
"I must confess, I really am at a loss as to why Mme. Charteron
invited me to this…this…affair," he began, stammering as he
gesticulated wildly with an arm, a movement that seemed to include
both the shocking – to him – pictures that had been set up on
temporary display along the walls of the salon, and the rather more
shocking collection of décolleté flesh being displayed by not a few of
the female guests. "I fear that works such as these are most injurious
to the moral health and vigor of the general populace, and lead
inevitably to the arousal of the senses by their crude and indecent
realism. I admit I am quite incapable of hitting upon the proper note
with which to respond to all of this...this…this…" his pale hand
fluttered irresolutely before he allowed it to drop to his side once
again, defeated.
"La, Father," Lisette chided the young prelate, tapping him playfully
on the shoulder with her fan. "Simply keep in the forefront of your
mind Jonah in the belly of that great fish of his, and you shall not
go far wrong here this evening. Or at least," she passed a sly,
conspiratorial look to her friend, "only as far wrong as Cécie shall
allow you to go! And now, if you will excuse me, I see that M.
Fantin-Latour has my aunt nearly in the throes of an apoplectic fit
with his extemporizing. I must repair to her with the smelling salts,
before he starts in on her about his latest painting. Father, Cécie…"
With another graceful courtesy Lisette departed, leaving the
oddly-matched young couple suddenly and unexpectedly to their own
devices. They were each silent for a time, the one carefully crafting
her next move, while the other was unable to think of anything but his
utter discomfiture, and the effect that the surroundings – and Cécie's
perfume – were having upon his ability to concentrate at all.
Cécie Fantègnant was a young woman who, in fact, possessed those two
qualities that inevitably seemed to attract gentlemen whose intentions
were often less than honorable; she was very beautiful, and she was
not really very hard to please. Unfortunately, another class of
gentleman – one to which Father Gallifrey belonged by inclination if
not by birth – only saw at first blush the obvious charms of the
former, stumbling upon the latter after it was far too late to do
anything about it.
"Mlle. Fantègnant, I hope that you will not think me terribly forward
if I –"
"Father Gallifrey, please forgive my frankness but –"
They both burst into startled laughter, then paused to let the other
continue.
"Mademoiselle Fantègnant…"
"Cécie, Father. Do please call me by my Christian name. After all,"
she lowered her eyes coquettishly, "we are not in the Confessional
here."
"Indeed we are not," Father Gallifrey hastened to concur somewhat
stiffly. "If we were, what I wish to say to you would be quite
impossible. And yet what I want to say – no, what I must say – can
scarcely be disassociated from your confessions. My dear Mlle.
Fantègnant, I must entreat you again to give some further
consideration to the life that you have chosen to lead, and its
inevitable consequences for not only your…"
Cécie began to lose the thread of this conversation almost immediately
as the young priest droned on about sin, and redemption, and young
ladies who lived in bedsits in Montmarte eating petit fours at all
hours of the day and rouging their cheeks. Here she had been expecting
a passionate declaration of his true feelings for her, and instead she
was being subjected to a lengthy disquisition on some proverb or other
of Solomon's, one that seemed to credit women in general, and poor
Cécie in particular, with being ‘the desolation of righteousness.' She
simply had to find some way to help the poor man express his true
feelings! She was casting about feverishly for some method to assist
him when the small chamber ensemble struck up a waltz.
"Father, dance with me!"
The startled prelate took a step backwards, as if he had been struck a
physical blow. But Cécie was not to be deterred. Taking his hand, she
led him determinedly onto the polished floor as the other couples
parted before them like the Red Sea before Moses. And in fact before
very long, the assistant priest at St. Jude's was whirling the young
demimondaine about the floor in a quite skillful and accomplished
rendition of the waltz. Cécie took a moment to thank God for the
social graces that He had seen fit in His wisdom to confer upon her
new paramour.
And so they danced, and were nearly indistinguishable from any other
young couple in the first throes of romantic infatuation. Heads turned
throughout the long gallery, and a kind of hush – not really a
silence, but a sort of lowering of the volume of conversation – became
evident as the two waltzed gracefully across the parquetry. Cécie had
never felt such a transport of emotions in all of her young life, and
at each flustered attempt by Father Gallifrey – who she thought of
already as her ‘dear Juste' – to pull her away from the dance floor,
or to admonish her about her forwardness, she simply sighed, and clung
all the more tightly to his broadclothed form, and his delicate,
lovely hand.
Cécie in fact remembered very little else about that evening, or the
subsequent morning at all. Only the scent of her new lover's cologne,
and the texture of his garments beneath her fingertips, and the
hypnotic sparkle of his crucifix flashing and dancing just at the
level of her besotted eyes.
And his beautiful, beautiful hands…
_____________
"It CANNOT be true! It CANNOT!!"
"I assure you that it is, however, cherie…"
Cécie strode agitatedly back and forth across the length of the tiny
room, hands pulling at her lovely blonde curls as she uttered the most
piteous of moans, interspersed occasionally with a string of oaths
that would have made the most seasoned of Marseille dockhands blanch.
"Merde! He would NOT leave without speaking to me! Without SEEING me,
Lisette! I know that he would not!"
Lisette sighed, and cast a knowing eye upon her distraught friend.
"Nevertheless, Father Gallifrey is gone, and gone for good, my
darling. So you may as well accept the fact and…"
"NO! Never!! Cécie balled her hands into tiny, defiant fists, whirling
to confront Lisette. "I know that something dreadful has befallen him!
That maudit Etienne has done him some harm! I knew he would, he is so
jealous of me!"
"And of the income which you provide him, cherie, let us not forget
that," Lisette pointed out, somewhat tactlessly. "But still, the good
Father was seen to be leaving on the coach to Dole this morning, and
by all accounts, he was in perfect health…save for a somewhat furtive
look he had about the eyes, some observers say."
Cécie wailed again, and resumed her distraught pacing, redoubling her
efforts to snatch herself bald into the bargain.
"I shall take poison and join him! Then you will all be sorry that you
have treated us so dreadfully, and told such lies about our love!"
Cécie did indeed briefly toy with the idea of quaffing a potion of
matchstick heads crushed in milk (which she had learnt about in a
romance she'd read involving a broken love affair and failed suicide
attempt of the Empress Eugenie's), thus putting an end to her torment
once for all. But Lisette was able to deflect her from this drastic
course of action with surprising ease, and she was restored in an
astonishingly short space of time to her normal state – that is to
say, one of extraordinary volatility and complete self-absorption.
In fact, it was a measure of the self-centeredness of Cécie's
affections that she preferred her own explanation – that her pimp had
set upon her priest-lover and murdered him in a fit of jealous rage –
to that of her friend Lisette, that Father Gallifrey had simply fled
in disgrace (if not outright terror) to some parish in the
hinterlands. So comfortable did Cécie eventually become with this
explanation of her own that by that same evening she had agreed to
accept an invitation to dine at the Fleur de Lys with a gentleman of
Etienne's acquaintance, thus putting an end to what was surely one of
the more abbreviated periods of mourning in recent recollection. After
all, whether doomed to perpetual grief or no, a girl still must eat.
And what of poor Father Gallifrey? Well it is perhaps for the best
that his true fate be left to the reader to divine. Suffice it to say
that the Monday next following the scandal of the dancing priest at
Mme. Charteron's found Cécie, redolent of rosewater and repentance,
once again kneeling upon the padded prie dieux in the delicious,
comforting coolness of the confessional box at St. Jude. Her
half-hearted orisons were interrupted by the squeal of door hinges in
the adjacent stall, and she crossed herself in a desultory manner as
this new presence made itself felt behind the confessional screen. All
at once the distinct – and disturbingly masculine – odors of tobacco
and leather wafted through the grating, interrupting her pious
reveries. She felt her heart begin to beat a bit more quickly in her
breast.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned…"
_____________
All rights reserved MEB © 2003
Svira Kurcu
I have quite deliberately not picked any nits in your story, or even
quoted it here. My reason: I am unfamiliar with the writing style you
say you're trying to emulate. My knowledge of French literature
consists of Dumas Pere, Balzac, Stendhal, and Petit Nicolas. So if you
were looking for detailed stylistic analysis, I regret that I can't
offer one. But we can discuss other things.
Your story reminded me - probably wrongly - of "Louise de la Valliere"
and "Vicomte de Bragelonne", where Dumas savagely satirizes the 17th
century condeption of love and exposes its superficiality. Perhaps love
among the young has always been and will always be that way -
inconstant, flighty, melodramatic, and skin-deep. Youth are simply too
young to truly know themselves, and deep, enduring love requires
self-knowledge. My only objection to your story is that Cecie does not
end up learning from her experience and growing as a person. I would
have had her realize that she had driven a good man out of his home and
effect some changes in her life. But that's just me.
You have indirectly pointed out to me how I should have approached my
craft at this early stage - with humility, looking to share with others
instead of immediately focusing on becoming publishable. Your attitude
is to be commended.
All the same, I would recommend you read the FAQ, which will at least
tell you how to format your headers so others don't take you for a boor.
I read it the moment I'd introduced myself and was instantly accepted.
Posting a critique of other's works seems to be considered common
courtesy around here, and I did a couple before posting a story of my
own. I'll be posting a revision of my "Resignation" shortly, which is
only about 500 words and a very easy read, so I invite you to start with
that.
Your writing style is one heck of a lot prettier than mine, but that's
not something either of us can probably change. Still, I look forward
to a long spell of mutual instruction.
the Whistler
Clark Kent
notoriously known to Interpol, Mothers Against Drunk Drivers, the
D.A.R. and Eleanor Smeal not exactly as "Superman", but really not
known for anything at all as folks around AFO well know, it is merely
J.P. David, who writes in reply as follows . . .
elle_...@fuqme.com (elle`attend) wrote in message news:<c3754006.03081...@posting.google.com>...
>
> Prie Dieux
>
> "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned?"
>
< . . .>
> "And what does Pere Plus Saint que Vous tell you about your sins these
> days, ma fille douce?"
Am much enjoying this. The word *douce* if I recall from one of my
favorite films of all time, *Irma la Douce* is "sweet"?
| Cécie Fantègnant shared a bed-sitting room midway down the hill
| between St. Pierre de Montmartre and Place Pigalle with another
girl,
| Lisette Marchemain.
Marchemain. An allusion perhaps to E. Waugh's *Brideshead
Revisited*--? I highly recommend it, in any case, both the book and
the BBC DVD.
>
> Cécie Fantègnant shared a bed-sitting room midway down the hill
> between St. Pierre de Montmartre and Place Pigalle with another girl,
> Lisette Marchemain. It was small, and had no convenience for cooking,
> but this did not matter very much to the two young women, as they took
> nearly all of their meals out. They had a small spirit stove to brew
> their tea, and a smaller wooden ice chest on their tiny veranda in
> which they kept their cream, and the odd pastry in cooler months. They
> did have a private bath, however, very much a luxury among young women
> in their line of work, and one of which they were inordinately proud.
> Most of the other girls that they knew who inhabited the seamy
> Parisien demimonde between Place Blanche and Boulevard Clichy were
"Parisienne"? Or alternately, "Parisian".
> obliged to share their bath with an entire floor. Many of these same
> girls thought that Cécie and Lisette gave themselves airs on this
> account, and so treated the two young women with the natural disdain
> that the professional often harbors for the gifted amateur in any
> field of endeavor.
I am being pleasingly reminded of another dear favorite among authors,
who you must know is none other nor any less than the exquisite
Madamoiselle Colette. Your attention to detail in description by way
of setting the scene is just the sort of thing I look for in the way
of an excellence in craftsmanship that can make the reading not only a
pleasure but profitable for another writer as well.
< . . . >
| And Cécie's
| roommate had just the kind of connections required to attend what
| promised to be 'the' fete of the late summer in Paris.
Now that's the way it's done; not overstated with italics but with the
subtle touch of tres petite single quotes.
| In fact,
| Lisette's aunt was hosting several of the artists of last spring's
| Salon Refusés . . .
Was that Pizarro's little clique of Impressionists? Perhaps it
wouldn't hurt to enlighten in a word or two, especially for those of
us whose knowledge of such matters is sketchy at best.
>
> "He thinks that I should give them up, of course." Cécie sighed
> melodramatically, taking a sip of her tea.
>
> "And what do you say to that?"
>
> "What can I say? I tell him that it would inconvenience my landlady
> enormously were I to do so."
>
> "To say nothing of Etienne," Lisette observed, setting both women to
> giggling nervously.
>
> The two were lounging about in their chemises, fanning themselves and
> waiting for the oppressive late-afternoon heat of August to abate
> enough so that they could begin their toilette for the evening.
> Although these were the dog days of summer, and most of the important
> people had fled the city for villas in Villefranche sur Mer or Cap
> d'Antibes, there were still one or two parties of some note for a girl
> to attend, if she had the right sort of connections. And Cécie's
> roommate had just the kind of connections required to attend what
> promised to be ?the' fete of the late summer in Paris. In fact,
> Lisette's aunt was hosting several of the artists of last spring's
> Salon Refusés that very evening, and the crème de la crème of Left
> Bank society (such as it was) would be on display in Mme.Charteron's
> sumptuous parlors.
I am also pleasingly reminded of Edith Wharton (*Ethan Frome*, *Age of
Innocence*) who so elegantly suffered an exquisite pain to ornately
paint a scene for her reader, quite unlike so many spoiled rotten
contemporary writers who upon following in the footsteps of Austen and
George Sand, simply find themselves far too fancy to bother.
>
> Lisette's aunt took a kind of perverse pleasure in parading this
> less-than-acceptable element of Parisien society in her rooms from
> time to time, simply for the shock value that it had on the more staid
> members of her normal social circle. In this respect she resembled
> closely her niece Lisette. Unlike that impetuous young woman, however,
> she had the foresight to remove the finer pieces of furniture from her
> salon beforehand. She had seen these artists at work in a social
> milieu before, and had no desire to be put to the trouble and expense
> of having her Louis Quinze chairs and settees reupholstered.
>
> Lisette suddenly puffed out her cheeks and stretched out on her back
> upon the small bedsitting room's divan, striking a sultry pose as she
> opened her chemise and pushed forth her all-but-non-existent tummy.
>
> "Look, I am ?Olympia,'" she intoned gravely.
Ha. That's so cute and Colette-ish, yet original alwell.
< . . . >
>
> "La, they like to paint those sorts of women," Cécie gasped, "but
> they prefer to go to bed with ones whose petite bourse de plaisir they
> can find without resorting to a Baedeker?"
Perhaps an authorial intrusion of narrative at this point, in just a
few words would serve to bring a less adroit Francophile up for the
joke?
>
> They both dissolved again into shrieks of hysterical laughter.
>
> "But seriously," Cécie went on, dashing tears of mirth from her eyes.
> "What will your aunt say to your bringing me along to the party this
> evening? For that matter, what will she say about your attending?"
> Cécie choked back a fresh fit of giggling.
>
> "Oh, bother Aunt Berthè! I had a lovely frock run up especially for
> the occasion, and I intend to dance until dawn in it! And who knows?
> Perhaps," she added, with a gay twinkle in her eye, "we may have an
> opportunity to make a few sous that we shan't have to share with that
> bastard Etienne, n'est pas?"
Just for my information: what is the difference between that and
*n'est ce pas*?
> With that, the girls threw themselves into their preparations for the
> grand evening, chattering away like excited young magpies.
Suggest you avoid being savaged by the cliché police by thinking of
another simile.
< . . . >
> It was, indeed. Cécie's lovely porcelain-doll's features softened as
> her eyes came to rest upon the tall, spare frame of the
> uncomfortable-looking cleric. He towered head and shoulders above the
> others, and his hands fluttered like frightened birds, as if seeking
> vainly for some occupation or other that would not draw attention to
> themselves, or to their owner.
Perhaps you might think of more fully extending that nice little
simile of hands = birds into a metaphor that goes hand in hand with
birds rather than to occupations. I will not reveal the image that
occurred to me, but I see how well you do it, as follows . . .
>
> "If he is not careful, he will fly away," Lisette smirked. "And my
> aunt is not fond of guests who flit about among her chandeliers, even
> if they are curates!"
> Cécie smiled, watching the young priest. Lisette frowned sternly at
> her friend.
> "Cécie, you really must give up this foolish flirtation! What possible
> good can come of it? After all, my darling, the man is a priest!"
>
< . . . >
> "I think that you may be confusing the messenger with its author,
> cherie.
And you, ma cher are you not confusing--by mere oversight--the message
with the messenger? Read back over it, and you'll see.
> Besides, I am not convinced that God has forgiven you your
> sins. Or Pere plus saint, for that matter. Perhaps he has simply
> grown so weary of hearing your endless recitations of them, that he
> grants you a dispensation in order to get some peace from your
> chattering."
Elegant. A perfumed salve to the Romantic sensibility such a
delicately composed counterpoint of Baroque passages.
>
> "No, no, it is not like that at all, Lisette! I'm certain that I have
> touched his heart with my poor, simple girl's search for God, and
> forgiveness for the sinful life I've led."
>
> The normally loquacious Lisette was so taken aback by this utterance,
> and by her friend's almost comically pious expression, that for a
> moment she could think of no sensible reply to make to it at all.
>
> "Hmmph!" she managed at last. "And I wonder what he has been touching,
> while he listens to your confessions?"
This in order to be hilariously ribald would seem to require from
Cécie again, a sharp counterpoint in expression of displeasure, not
the shock or distaste of a prude which she obviously is not, but of
something else only you as the author of her heart might well define
so as to make it perhaps sufficiently vociferous as to prompt what now
comes . . .
>
> "Lisette, hush! Here he comes!"
>
< . . . >
> "La, Father," Lisette chided the young prelate, tapping him playfully
> on the shoulder with her fan. "Simply keep in the forefront of your
> mind Jonah in the belly of that great fish of his, and you shall not
> go far wrong here this evening.
The meaning of this allegory eludes me. Perhaps it would be
illuminating to
have "the young prelate" interpret for your reader?
> Or at least," she passed a sly,
> conspiratorial look to her friend, "only as far wrong as Cécie shall
> allow you to go!
There may be a way to allow something of that effect not quite so
manifestly risqué, but all the more subtlely so.
< . . . >
> "Mlle. Fantègnant, I hope that you will not think me terribly forward
> if I ?"
> "Father Gallifrey, please forgive my frankness but ?"
>
> They both burst into startled laughter, then paused to let the other
> continue.
I like that kind of stagecraft.
>
> "Mademoiselle Fantègnant?"
>
> "Cécie, Father. Do please call me by my Christian name. After all,"
> she lowered her eyes coquettishly, "we are not in the Confessional
> here."
>
> "Indeed we are not," Father Gallifrey hastened to concur somewhat
> stiffly. "If we were, what I wish to say to you would be quite
> impossible. And yet what I want to say ? no, what I must say ? can
> scarcely be disassociated from your confessions. My dear Mlle.
> Fantègnant, I must entreat you again to give some further
> consideration to the life that you have chosen to lead, and its
> inevitable consequences for not only your?"
Looks like that naughty Ms Word has by way of conversion to txt done
away
with your ellipsis. You can stop that by clicking [Format]
<Auto-Format>
{Options} then select the "Auto-Correct" tab. Scroll down the list of
special character replacements till you come to the ellipsis. Select
that
and click the "delete" button. You can do the same with any or all
such
replacements.
>
> Cécie began to lose the thread of this conversation almost immediately
> as the young priest droned on about sin, and redemption, and young
> ladies who lived in bedsits in Montmarte eating petit fours at all
> hours of the day and rouging their cheeks. Here she had been expecting
> a passionate declaration of his true feelings for her, and instead she
> was being subjected to a lengthy disquisition on some proverb or other
> of Solomon's, one that seemed to credit women in general, and poor
> Cécie in particular, with being ?the desolation of righteousness.' She
> simply had to find some way to help the poor man express his true
> feelings! She was casting about feverishly for some method to assist
> him when the small chamber ensemble struck up a waltz.
>
> "Father, dance with me!"
>
> The startled prelate took a step backwards, as if he had been struck a
> physical blow. But Cécie was not to be deterred. Taking his hand, she
> led him determinedly onto the polished floor as the other couples
> parted before them like the Red Sea before Moses.
Heh ;-)
> And in fact before
> very long, the assistant priest at St. Jude's was whirling the young
> demimondaine about the floor in a quite skillful and accomplished
> rendition of the waltz. Cécie took a moment to thank God for the
> social graces that He had seen fit in His wisdom to confer upon her
> new paramour.
>
> And so they danced, and were nearly indistinguishable from any other
> young couple in the first throes of romantic infatuation. Heads turned
> throughout the long gallery, and a kind of hush ? not really a
> silence, but a sort of lowering of the volume of conversation ? became
> evident as the two waltzed gracefully across the parquetry. Cécie had
> never felt such a transport of emotions in all of her young life, and
> at each flustered attempt by Father Gallifrey ? who she thought of
> already as her ?dear Juste' ?
Not getting the meaning of that endearment. To my sorely limited
acquaintance, the only Frenchman I would recognize by such reference
was that infamous sun-haired cohort of Robespierre, surnamed, "St.
Juste".
> to pull her away from the dance floor,
> or to admonish her about her forwardness, she simply sighed, and clung
> all the more tightly to his broadclothed form . . .
Probably of gabardine.
> and his delicate,
> lovely hand.
>
< . . . >
> "I shall take poison and join him! Then you will all be sorry that you
> have treated us so dreadfully, and told such lies about our love!"
She abuses her friend here and her friend should show it, n'est pas?
You are come here to the end of the scene where in perfectly
legitimate fashion you return from dialogue to narrative. But it may
be that you could find a way to more perfectly execute the transition
by any number of devices, e.g. to have some reason for Lisette to exit
the room, or any number of other things that would leave Cécie alone
under the spot for the narrative illuminations of her character which
follow . . .
>
> Cécie did indeed briefly toy with the idea of quaffing a potion of
> matchstick heads crushed in milk (which she had learnt about in a
> romance she'd read involving a broken love affair and failed suicide
> attempt of the Empress Eugenie's), thus putting an end to her torment
> once for all. But Lisette was able to deflect her from this drastic
> course of action with surprising ease, and she was restored in an
> astonishingly short space of time to her normal state ? that is to
> say, one of extraordinary volatility and complete self-absorption.
>
> In fact, it was a measure of the self-centeredness of Cécie's
> affections that she preferred her own explanation ? that her pimp . . .
Here, you might consider the French word for "pimp" which--although it
presently escapes memory--is easily gained from a video of the
aforementioned Billy Wilder/I.A.L. Diamond classic with Jack Lemmon
and Shirley MacLaine in which also the cute little word of French
slang for "prostitute" may be gleaned.
> set upon her priest-lover and murdered him in a fit of jealous rage ?
> to that of her friend Lisette, that Father Gallifrey had simply fled
> in disgrace (if not outright terror) to some parish in the
> hinterlands. So comfortable did Cécie eventually become with this
> explanation of her own that by that same evening she had agreed to
> accept an invitation to dine at the Fleur de Lys with a gentleman of
> Etienne's acquaintance, thus putting an end to what was surely one of
> the more abbreviated periods of mourning in recent recollection. After
> all, whether doomed to perpetual grief or no, a girl still must eat.
>
> And what of poor Father Gallifrey? Well it is perhaps for the best
> that his true fate be left to the reader to divine.
As to that, there is a certain, highly esoteric item of literature
extant on the subject of what truly was being done with far more
profligate and libertine priests than your poor Fr. Gallifrey. I note
that you write of a time when the great mentor of Baudelaire, V. Hugo
was extent in the world which places your story squarely into the
pre-revolutionary times of the mid to late 18th Century. Aldous Huxley
in his *Devils of Loudun* writes the sad but true account of Fr.
Urbanus Grandier who was burned at the stake for sake of his many
amours enjoyed as one of the unwritten fiefs within power and thrust
of his, well . . . bishopric? Granted it all happened a hundred years
before the time in which your story is set, but seeing the pleasure
you take in the elegant English of an Edwardian era, you might find
that book suited to your palate as none but the finest vintage sip of
the Côtes de Beaune.
> Suffice it to say
> that the Monday next following the scandal of the dancing priest at
> Mme. Charteron's found Cécie, redolent of rosewater and repentance,
> once again kneeling upon the padded prie dieux in the delicious,
> comforting coolness of the confessional box at St. Jude. Her
> half-hearted orisons were interrupted by the squeal of door hinges in
> the adjacent stall, and she crossed herself in a desultory manner as
> this new presence made itself felt behind the confessional screen. All
> at once the distinct ? and disturbingly masculine ? odors of tobacco
> and leather wafted through the grating, interrupting her pious
> reveries. She felt her heart begin to beat a bit more quickly in her
> breast.
>
> "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned?"
> _____________
>
> All rights reserved MEB © 2003
Love it!
Now I want to reply to something Mademoiselle said in the beginning .
. .
| I'm always a little nervous when approaching a new site, trying to
get
| a feel for its protocols - both written and unwritten - and a sense
| of the way that the people interact with one another. Some like
newer
| participants to observe and comment before submitting something of
| their own, others are less rigid in their etiquette. I've always
felt
| that it was better to submit a sample of my own work before
presuming
| to comment on others'.
Others will disagree but I agree, as I would go even further to
suggest that any such 'etiquette' is actually anything but--and more a
control trip that certain uptight types would try to impose upon
others. What is etiquette really but the courtesy to receive others as
they are or to graciously leave them be as they are, in peace. Tastes
vary widely so one must have the prerogative to reserve time given to
reading for such things as have an appeal, according to preference. In
fact, I should suggest that it is a grave sin against etiquette for a
person to trespass beyond the pale of what his tastes define,
preference-wise, as this will almost invariably make of him an unfair
critic of such genres and styles that are not preferred--and besides,
reading in a forum such as this should be for enjoyment, not slavery.
Because your style and content is the sort of thing which has an
appeal to my sensibilities I select it in option over many another
thing that has no such appeal, as to my preferences, personally. If
there are those who would impose upon my liberty as to this, then they
need only know that they are, in my view, on a pushy, authoritarian
trip that hasn't the least thing to do with *etiquette*.
It should also be noted that the so-called "Challenge" element
recently introduced to this forum is by no means set out in any FAQ
written or unwritten as to the least expectation of involuntary
participation by members in such fun and games, as there are those
here who like me do not see literature as having the least thing to do
with competition, nor for that matter and *per force* with writing
according to a conformist scheme of assigned themes, a practice which
I find positively anti-creative. My view, which is incidentally, the
right one and the only one which is moral, sensible and sociable is to
let those participate in the "Challenges" who will, and those who
won't not do so with no ill-will flowing to any for their own choice
of prerogatives. Many may highly dislike my view as to the challenges,
but if there are any who would take it upon themselves to get all
petty and pissed about it, then it points up all the more the reason
for my distaste and disgust with the control freak disposition which I
find it necessarily my duty as a liberty loving man with a deep
respect for the right of people to have and state in no uncertain
terms their opinions, to do so in no uncertain terms. I regard the
"Challenge" as a waste of time and talent but if others are getting
off on it, let them, lemming over the cliff-wise. ;-)
--
John http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
http://www.virtualtourist.com/m/520b8/
"Seeking to know is only too often learning to doubt." -- Antoinette
du Ligier de la Garde Deshoulieres (1638-1694), French poet
Harper
<< I'm always a little nervous when approaching a new site, trying to get a
feel for its protocols – both written and unwritten – and a sense of the
way that the people interact with one another. Some like newer participants to
observe and comment before submitting something of their own, others are less
rigid in their etiquette. I've always felt that it was better to submit a
sample of my own work before presuming to comment on others'. >>
I'm sure someone will be along shortly (if not already) with the FAQ, but as
far as I'm concerned, you're doing fine. By what name shall I call you, btw?
Elle? Have you posted a little bio?
<< So.
I enjoy using formats such as this to practice different modes of expression.
This is an exercise in style for me, an attempt to capture the flavor of a pair
of my favorite nineteenth-century authors. It
also contains one error – well, one INTENTIONAL error – that may hold the
attention of confirmed Francophiles (and students of Impressionism) til the end
of the piece. I think it was Dickens who
once said ‘Any trick that works.' >>
Hm. It's sure to fly right over my head. At any rate, I'll be getting to your
story soon. It looks good.
Harper
--
Joel Crum
> I'm always a little nervous when approaching a new site, trying to get
> a feel for its protocols - both written and unwritten - and a sense
> of the way that the people interact with one another.
Svira Kurcu seems to have given you a good write up on that. I'll just
welcome you to the show.
> Some like newer
> participants to observe and comment before submitting something of
> their own, others are less rigid in their etiquette. I've always felt
> that it was better to submit a sample of my own work before presuming
> to comment on others'.
You'd be shocked at the time we spend talking about this. However it seems
that most people won't mind you submitting a story first thing if you
follow it up with some comments.
> This is an exercise in style for me, an attempt to capture
> the flavor of a pair of my favorite nineteenth-century authors. It
> also contains one error - well, one INTENTIONAL error - that may hold
> the attention of confirmed Francophiles (and students of
> Impressionism) til the end of the piece. I think it was Dickens who
> once said 'Any trick that works.'
It had the feel of a period piece. However, my tastes are more modern so
I'm afraid I can't comment much beyond that.
> As if
> she believed that they would be the ones that he would touch most
> often during his day, and for which he would most frequently - and
> passionately - seek intercession with God. Though, truth be told,
> Cécie Fantègnant did not really believe that her sins required so very
> much in the way of forgiving.
I suppose you are working for an effect by waiting to give the reader
Cecie's name until the end of the paragraph, however that and another touch
I mention below left me somewhat confused as to who the woman doing the
confessing in this seen was until my second read through.
> "Father, I have had impure thoughts…"
And this would be the second thing. There would be more then just impure
thoughts if Cecie is a prostitute.
> confessional, pale and wild-eyed, just in time to see the lady's trim
> bustle disappearing through the massive doors of St. Jude's.
Aren't bustles designed not to be trim?
> The
> priest crossed himself with a slightly unsteady hand, and made his way
> shakily toward the vestry. Perhaps the new sacramental wine had not
> yet been blessed and put away by the Monseigneur.
Good line.
> Cécie Fantègnant shared a bed-sitting room midway down the hill
> between St. Pierre de Montmartre and Place Pigalle with another girl,
> Lisette Marchemain. It was small, and had no convenience for cooking,
> but this did not matter very much to the two young women, as they took
> nearly all of their meals out. They had a small spirit stove to brew
> their tea, and a smaller wooden ice chest on their tiny veranda in
> which they kept their cream, and the odd pastry in cooler months.
Great period language. Here and through-out.
> They
> did have a private bath, however, very much a luxury among young women
> in their line of work, and one of which they were inordinately proud.
> Most of the other girls that they knew who inhabited the seamy
> Parisien demimonde between Place Blanche and Boulevard Clichy were
> obliged to share their bath with an entire floor.
Probably more my failing as a reader then yours as an author (I'm out of my
genre), but I didn't understand what "their line of work" was until you
named Cecie's pimp.
> Unlike that impetuous young woman, however,
> she had the foresight to remove the finer pieces of furniture from her
> salon beforehand. She had seen these artists at work in a social
> milieu before, and had no desire to be put to the trouble and expense
> of having her Louis Quinze chairs and settees reupholstered.
Another good line.
> For in
> truth, girls so young and heedless have very little patience with such
> complex concepts as actions, and their consequences.
The foreshadowing there seems somewhat heavy handed.
> "But he knows everything about me, Lisette. Everything. And still he
> pities me, and forgives me." She gave a heartfelt sigh. "What purer or
> more blissful understanding than that could possibly exist between a
> man and woman?"
Good line.
> Cécie Fantègnant was a young woman who, in fact, possessed those two
> qualities that inevitably seemed to attract gentlemen whose intentions
> were often less than honorable; she was very beautiful, and she was
> not really very hard to please. Unfortunately, another class of
> gentleman - one to which Father Gallifrey belonged by inclination if
> not by birth - only saw at first blush the obvious charms of the
> former, stumbling upon the latter after it was far too late to do
> anything about it.
This is my favorite bit of the story.
> to that of her friend Lisette, that Father Gallifrey had simply fled
> in disgrace (if not outright terror) to some parish in the
> hinterlands.
Can a priest do that on a day's notice?
> And what of poor Father Gallifrey? Well it is perhaps for the best
> that his true fate be left to the reader to divine. Suffice it to say
> that the Monday next following the scandal of the dancing priest at
> Mme. Charteron's found Cécie, redolent of rosewater and repentance,
> once again kneeling upon the padded prie dieux in the delicious,
> comforting coolness of the confessional box at St. Jude. Her
> half-hearted orisons were interrupted by the squeal of door hinges in
> the adjacent stall, and she crossed herself in a desultory manner as
> this new presence made itself felt behind the confessional screen. All
> at once the distinct - and disturbingly masculine - odors of tobacco
> and leather wafted through the grating, interrupting her pious
> reveries. She felt her heart begin to beat a bit more quickly in her
> breast.
I'm somewhat confused by this last paragraph. Starting it with "And what
of poor Father Gallifrey?" as well as "Suffice it to say" makes me think it
will talk about him. I think adding a couple of lines that hint at what
the priest did, then inserting a paragraph break before talking about
Cecie's new(?)priest/crush would be clearer.
--
- Joel C.
"I hate Clocks, I hate they way they tick
They make me nervous, they make me itch.
Man there's a lott'a things I ain't done yet."
- Southern Culture on the Skids.
Clark Kent
| elle_...@fuqme.com (elle`attend) wrote:
|
| << I'm always a little nervous when approaching a new site, trying
to get a
| feel for its protocols – both written and unwritten – and a sense
of the
| way that the people interact with one another. Some like newer
participants to
| observe and comment before submitting something of their own, others
are less
| rigid in their etiquette. I've always felt that it was better to
submit a
| sample of my own work before presuming to comment on others'. >>
|
Oh, for the godsakes, Harper. The FAQ, the FAQ the faqqing terrible
FAQ. What moves you to be waving that stupid thing around? Let go,
hang loose, live free, dearie. You act like a person who never got
free by reading *The Effect of Gamma Rays on the Man-in-the-Moon
Marigold.* Where is the golden can opener to pry open your head,
Girl? What can make you free?
Oh, Citizens! Fear the Faq and tremble, or rather faq the FAQ if you
dare and are free, and like good ol' Arnold, let us be moved by Paddy
Chayevsky to say, "I'm mad as hell at the FAQ and I'm not going to
take it anymore!"
Can you say, "I will not be ruled!"
Can you say that, you silly, trembling frogs on the slippery log of
life?
Here's what I have to say to the FAQ and to the idol worshipping slave
consciousness that falls down in fear to tremble as jelly before it:
Hasta la Vista, Baby!
And blowing the smoke from the muzzle of my virtual .45, I say with
dear old Clint, to the FAQ . . .
"Hey you, ya silly faqqing, FAQ. Yeah, I mean YOU.
Make my day."
--
"They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary
safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." --Ben Franklin
Harper
<< Oh, for the godsakes, Harper. The FAQ, the FAQ the faqqing terrible
FAQ. What moves you to be waving that stupid thing around? Let go,
hang loose, live free, dearie. >>
I'm not exactly a FAQ-thumper (I don't even have the URL memorized, you'll
notice), but I'm not opposed to passing along its guidelines, either. It helps
keep the group focused, helps new folks get the hang. Elle was uncertain about
what to do first, so I thought a peep at the FAQ might help.
<< You act like a person who never got
free by reading *The Effect of Gamma Rays on the Man-in-the-Moon
Marigold.* >>
I bought the play. It's in my handbag. I've been carrying it around for weeks.
I always think I'm going to have time to read it. It looks wonderful.
<< Where is the golden can opener to pry open your head, Girl? What can make
you free? >>
I don't know. I do not know.
Harper
--
Huw Lyan Thomas
> Prie Dieux
Like others, I don't really feel qualified to comment on this. It's
interesting as an exercise, but I'm simply the wrong kind of reader
for what you've set out to create. A serious critique from me would
encourage you towards more immediate characterisation and conflict,
exhortations that have no relevance to the style you've chosen.
So I'll just limit myself to observing that I enjoyed the premise, I
think you're a skilled wordsmith (though personally, I am not equipped
to judge your storytelling from this) and I think it could have been a
cracking read if done in a contemporary style with tight, limited POV
and clear conflict :-)
One thing: I'm not convinced that your priest was a prelate. I could
easily be wrong, though.
Huw
Clark Kent
| elle_...@fuqme.com (elle`attend) wrote in
| news:c3754006.03081...@posting.google.com:
|
| > I'm always a little nervous when approaching a new site, trying to
get
| > a feel for its protocols - both written and unwritten - and a
sense
| > of the way that the people interact with one another.
|
| Svira Kurcu seems to have given you a good write up on that.
Translation: . . . has absurdly taken the nonexistent authority upon
his Newbie shoulders to read you the Tyranny of the FAQ Riot Act.
What's with all these silly FAQ tyrants running hither and yon with
shiny little tin FAQ badges pinned to their hollow chests--I swear to
God! What on earth is with this Post 80's generation of Control
Junkies? Dear Jesus, hear me pray! Send down the platinum schtupping
corkscrew wherewith to take the fermat process pressure off their
heads!
> I'll just welcome you to the show.
| > "Father, I have had impure thoughts."
|
| And this would be the second thing. There would be more then just
impure
| thoughts if Cecie is a prostitute.
Oh, holy sweet Virgin Mother of the Universe. Dude? Find the ranch.
You cannot so much as detect how comically ironic that is? What is
the matter with your head? Where is it? In what can or box or locked
steel safe do you have your mind stashed? Who was the movie critic I
heard speaking of this problem with every uncool, conformist
generation whelped so tragically late as to come of age since
Madonna--that all irony is totally lost on these poor schlubbs?
Let all Newbies be fully forewarned: there are many here offering
reviews who have never so much as heard of the Saturday Review, never
raised a copy of the New Yorker from the rack, let alone taken a good
studied look at the New York Times Book Review. This is the faqqing
Ted Mack's Amateur Hour of Writing around this place, never forget it,
and the sooner you get hip to that FAQ, the better.
< ENTER: Musical saw score and main theme from *I Was a Teenage
FAQenstein*>
And now the control of your monitor is returned once again to the FAQ.
You are safe, at last.
--
JP David http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
http://www.virtualtourist.com/m/520b8/
"Absolutely. Liberty and responsibility are . . . two sides of the
same coin. Civil commitment and the insanity defense are like Siamese
twins. They cannot be separated. Both are grave moral wrongs. But,
for modern western society, both are irresistibly convenient. I am
equally opposed to psychiatric coercions and to psychiatric excuses."
Thomas Szasz
Joel Crum
news:569f306b.03081...@posting.google.com:
I'll keep all of that in mind. ;-)
--
- Joel C.
"If your going to mess with the stuff of Greek tragedy you'd better be
prepared for the consequences" - Tadpole
nativelaw
"Clark Kent" <JP...@VirtualTourist.com> wrote in message
news:569f306b.03081...@posting.google.com...
> "Joel Crum" <crumjdathotmail.com> wrote in message
news:Xns93D6A25761691...@129.250.170.100...
> | elle_...@fuqme.com (elle`attend) wrote in
> | >
> Let all Newbies be fully forewarned: there are many here offering
> reviews who have never so much as heard of the Saturday Review, never
> raised a copy of the New Yorker from the rack, let alone taken a good
> studied look at the New York Times Book Review. This is the faqqing
> Ted Mack's Amateur Hour of Writing around this place, never forget it,
> and the sooner you get hip to that FAQ, the better.
Damn straight.
And don't let the fact that John himself hangs out here for years and
wouldn't let himself get pried from this place with a crowbar make you think
it'll could possibly have any value or learn you nothin', neither.
<g>
Seymour Grass
"elle`attend" <elle_...@fuqme.com> wrote in message
news:c3754006.03081...@posting.google.com...
| I'm always a little nervous when approaching a new site, trying to get
| of the way that the people interact with one another. Some like newer
| participants to observe and comment before submitting something of
| their own, others are less rigid in their etiquette. I've always felt
| that it was better to submit a sample of my own work before presuming
| to comment on others'.
Others will disagree but I agree, as I would go even further to suggest that
any such 'etiquette' is actually anything but--and more a control trip that
certain uptight types would try to impose upon others. What is etiquette
really but the courtesy to receive others as they are or to graciously leave
them be as they are, in peace. Tastes vary widely so one must have the
prerogative to reserve time given to reading for such things as have an
appeal, according to preference. In fact, I should suggest that it is a
grave sin against etiquette for a person to trespass beyond the pale of what
his tastes define, preference-wise, as this will almost invariably make of
him an unfair critic of such genres and styles that are not preferred--and
|
| So.
|
| I enjoy using formats such as this to practice different modes of
| expression. This is an exercise in style for me, an attempt to capture
| the flavor of a pair of my favorite nineteenth-century authors. It
| also contains one error - well, one INTENTIONAL error - that may hold
| the attention of confirmed Francophiles (and students of
| Impressionism) til the end of the piece. I think it was Dickens who
| once said 'Any trick that works.'
|
| St. Jude, for all of you poor, benighted pagans in the audience, is
| the patron Saint of lost causes.
|
| For those who would like to view the piece in its original formatting,
| please go to:
|
| http://www1.asstr.org/files/Authors/elle_attend/Prie%20Dieux.rtf
|
| Merci, Mmes. Marian et Amandine Aurore.les deux Georges.
|
| elle`attend
| _____________
|
| Prie Dieux
|
| "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
|
<. . .>
| _____________
|
| "And what does Pere Plus Saint que Vous tell you about your sins these
| days, ma fille douce?"
Am much enjoying this. The word *douce* if I recall from one of my favorite
films of all time, *Irma la Douce* is "sweet"?
|
| Cécie Fantègnant shared a bed-sitting room midway down the hill
| between St. Pierre de Montmartre and Place Pigalle with another girl,
| Lisette Marchemain.
Marchemain! Hah. Just returned the BBC DVD of E. Waugh's *Brideshead
Revisited*-- I highly recommend it, by the way.
| It was small, and had no convenience for cooking,
| but this did not matter very much to the two young women, as they took
| nearly all of their meals out. They had a small spirit stove to brew
| their tea, and a smaller wooden ice chest on their tiny veranda in
| which they kept their cream, and the odd pastry in cooler months. They
| did have a private bath, however, very much a luxury among young women
| in their line of work, and one of which they were inordinately proud.
| Most of the other girls that they knew who inhabited the seamy
| Parisien . . .
Isn't that supposed to be "Parisienne" or alternately, "Parisian"?
| demimonde between Place Blanche and Boulevard Clichy were
| obliged to share their bath with an entire floor. Many of these same
| girls thought that Cécie and Lisette gave themselves airs on this
| account, and so treated the two young women with the natural disdain
| that the professional often harbors for the gifted amateur in any
| field of endeavor.
I am being pleasingly reminded of another dear favorite among authors, who
you must know is none other nor any less than the exquisite Madamoiselle
Colette. Your attention to detail in description by way of setting the scene
is just the sort of thing I look for in the way of an excellence in
craftsmanship that can serve to mentor another writer, and make the
experience not only a pleasure but profitable as well.
<. . .>
| And Cécie's
| roommate had just the kind of connections required to attend what
| promised to be 'the' fete of the late summer in Paris.
So that's the way it's done. I will always remember to do it like that, not
overstated with italics but with the subtle touch of tres petite single
quotes.
| In fact,
| Lisette's aunt was hosting several of the artists of last spring's
| Salon Refusés . . .
Was that Pizarro's little clique of Impressionists? Perhaps it wouldn't hurt
to say in a word or two, especially for those of us whose knowledge of such
matters is sketchy at best.
| that very evening, and the crème de la crème of Left
| Bank society (such as it was) would be on display in Mme.Charteron's
| sumptuous parlors.
I am also pleasingly reminded of Edith Wharton (*Ethan Frome*, *Age of
Innocence*) who so elegantly suffered an exquisite pain to ornately paint a
scene for her reader, quite unlike so many spoiled rotten contemporary
writers who upon following in the footsteps of Austen and George Sand,
simply find themselves far too fancy to bother.
|
| Lisette's aunt took a kind of perverse pleasure in parading this
| less-than-acceptable element of Parisien society in her rooms from
| time to time, simply for the shock value that it had on the more staid
| members of her normal social circle. In this respect she resembled
| closely her niece Lisette. Unlike that impetuous young woman, however,
| she had the foresight to remove the finer pieces of furniture from her
| salon beforehand. She had seen these artists at work in a social
| milieu before, and had no desire to be put to the trouble and expense
| of having her Louis Quinze chairs and settees reupholstered.
|
| Lisette suddenly puffed out her cheeks and stretched out on her back
| upon the small bedsitting room's divan, striking a sultry pose as she
| opened her chemise and pushed forth her all-but-non-existent tummy.
|
| "Look, I am 'Olympia,'" she intoned gravely.
Ha. That's really cute, sort of Colette-ish, but original alwell.
|
| The young women screamed with laughter at Lisette's deft burlesque of
| M. Manet's portrait of an anonymous courtesan. This shocking painting
| had all of Paris abuzz that summer, and seemed to confirm the worst
| suspicions of the surprisingly easily-shocked Parisien haute monde . . .
I keep wondering whether it isn't permissible to write "parisian" in lower
case? Hm. Now that I see it bouncing back from the spell-checker, I suppose
I need wonder no more.
| To
| wit, that all French men and women fornicated whenever and wherever
| the opportunity presented itself, and, further, that the lower classes
| are particularly susceptible in such matters, and - further still -
| that all artists think of little else, and that all artists' models
| are by and large available to anyone who asks in a reasonable fashion,
| or has the price of a meal. Cécie and Lisette were not disinclined to
| agree with such an assessment, so long as the definition of
| 'reasonable' was sufficiently broad, and included a good dinner at Le
| Coq d'Or or the Fleur de Lys.
|
| "La, they like to paint those sorts of women," Cécie gasped, "but
| they prefer to go to bed with ones whose petite bourse de plaisir they
| can find without resorting to a Baedeker."
Perhaps an authorial intrusion of narrative at this point, in just a few
words, would serve to bring a less adroit Francophile up for the joke?
|
| They both dissolved again into shrieks of hysterical laughter.
|
| "But seriously," Cécie went on, dashing tears of mirth from her eyes.
| "What will your aunt say to your bringing me along to the party this
| evening? For that matter, what will she say about your attending?"
| Cécie choked back a fresh fit of giggling.
|
| "Oh, bother Aunt Berthè! I had a lovely frock run up especially for
| the occasion, and I intend to dance until dawn in it! And who knows?
| Perhaps," she added, with a gay twinkle in her eye, "we may have an
| opportunity to make a few sous that we shan't have to share with that
| bastard Etienne, n'est pas?"
Just for my information: what is the difference between that and *n'est ce
pas*?
| With that, the girls threw themselves into their preparations for the
| grand evening, chattering away like excited young magpies.
Suggest you avoid being savaged by the cliché police by thinking of another
simile.
| For in
| truth, girls so young and heedless have very little patience with such
| complex concepts as actions, and their consequences.
|
| _____________
|
| "Look, Cécie! Isn't that Marie Dudevant with M. Hugo? You don't
| suppose that she is trying to impress him with the extent of her
| knowledge on the social implications of the Commune, do you?"
|
| Cécie glanced briefly in the direction Lisette was indicating with her
| Chinese silk fan, and dismissed the girl in question with a sniff.
| "More likely the extent of her knowledge of social infections. A
| subject upon which she is vastly qualified to discourse, or so I have
| heard."
|
| "You are wicked!" Lisette jabbed Cécie with an elbow as she scanned
| the room, then gestured with her fan again, this time in the direction
| of a small knot of people surrounding her Aunt Berthè at the far end
| of the long, candlelit salon.
|
| "But isn't that your precious Father Gallifray?"
|
| It was, indeed. Cécie's lovely porcelain-doll's features softened as
| her eyes came to rest upon the tall, spare frame of the
| uncomfortable-looking cleric. He towered head and shoulders above the
| others, and his hands fluttered like frightened birds, as if seeking
| vainly for some occupation or other that would not draw attention to
| themselves, or to their owner.
Perhaps you might think of more fully extending that nice little simile of
hands = birds into a metaphor that goes hand in hand with birds rather than
to "occupations". I will not reveal the image that occurred to me, but I
see how well you do it, as follows . . .
|
| "If he is not careful, he will fly away," Lisette smirked. "And my
| aunt is not fond of guests who flit about among her chandeliers, even
| if they are curates!"
| Cécie smiled, watching the young priest. Lisette frowned sternly at
| her friend.
| "Cécie, you really must give up this foolish flirtation! What possible
| good can come of it? After all, my darling, the man is a priest!"
|
| "But he knows everything about me, Lisette. Everything. And still he
| pities me, and forgives me." She gave a heartfelt sigh. "What purer or
| more blissful understanding than that could possibly exist between a
| man and woman?"
|
| Lisette at once sensed the danger in that sigh.
|
| "I think that you may be confusing the messenger with its author,
| cherie.
And you, ma cher are you not confusing--by mere oversight--the message with
the messenger? Read back over it, and you'll see.
| Besides, I am not convinced that God has forgiven you your
| sins. Or Pere plus saint, for that matter. Perhaps he has simply
| grown so weary of hearing your endless recitations of them, that he
| grants you a dispensation in order to get some peace from your
| chattering."
|
| "No, no, it is not like that at all, Lisette! I'm certain that I have
| touched his heart with my poor, simple girl's search for God, and
| forgiveness for the sinful life I've led."
|
| The normally loquacious Lisette was so taken aback by this utterance,
| and by her friend's almost comically pious expression, that for a
| moment she could think of no sensible reply to make to it at all.
|
| "Hmmph!" she managed at last. "And I wonder what he has been touching,
| while he listens to your confessions?"
This in order to be hilarious would seem to require from Cécie an expression
of displeasure not the shock or distaste of a prude which she obviously is
not but of something else only you as the author of her heart might well
define so as to make it perhaps sufficiently vociferous as to prompt what
now comes . . .
|
| "Lisette, hush! Here he comes!"
|
| Cécie kept her gaze fixed resolutely on the golden crucifix moving
| lightly upon Father Gallifrey's breast as he neared them, in order to
| keep from staring at his hands. Each time she saw the young priest's
| hands, with their long, pale, almost effeminate fingers, she felt the
| most unusual stirrings in herself, and was filled with longings such
| as she had not felt since she and Hyacinthe Thierry had made intimate
| acquaintance of one another for the very first time by the mill pond
| back in Nohant. She had scarcely been thirteen at the time. Cécie
| struggled to hide her feelings, and cursed the blush she felt stealing
| up across her bosom to her neck, and thence to her cheeks.
|
| "Good evening Mlle Marchemain, Mlle Fantègnant," he began
| self-consciously, making a stiff little bow.
|
| "Good evening, Father," the girls chorused, each making him their
| prettiest courtesy. Cécie lingered in hers a heartbeat longer than did
| Lisette, and felt Father Gallifrey's eyes linger in turn upon her. Her
| cheeks flamed.
|
| "I must confess, I really am at a loss as to why Mme. Charteron
| invited me to this.this.affair," he began, stammering as he
| gesticulated wildly with an arm, a movement that seemed to include
| both the shocking - to him - pictures that had been set up on
| temporary display along the walls of the salon, and the rather more
| shocking collection of décolleté flesh being displayed by not a few of
| the female guests. "I fear that works such as these are most injurious
| to the moral health and vigor of the general populace, and lead
| inevitably to the arousal of the senses by their crude and indecent
| realism. I admit I am quite incapable of hitting upon the proper note
| with which to respond to all of this...this.this." his pale hand
| fluttered irresolutely before he allowed it to drop to his side once
| again, defeated.
|
| "La, Father," Lisette chided the young prelate, tapping him playfully
| on the shoulder with her fan. "Simply keep in the forefront of your
| mind Jonah in the belly of that great fish of his, and you shall not
| go far wrong here this evening.
The meaning of this allegory eludes me. Perhaps it would be pleasing to
have "the young prelate" interpret for your reader?
| Or at least," she passed a sly,
| conspiratorial look to her friend, "only as far wrong as Cécie shall
| allow you to go!
There may be a way to allow something of that effect with a subtlety not
quite so manifestly risqué.
|And now, if you will excuse me, I see that M.
| Fantin-Latour has my aunt nearly in the throes of an apoplectic fit
| with his extemporizing. I must repair to her with the smelling salts,
| before he starts in on her about his latest painting. Father, Cécie."
|
| With another graceful courtesy Lisette departed, leaving the
| oddly-matched young couple suddenly and unexpectedly to their own
| devices. They were each silent for a time, the one carefully crafting
| her next move, while the other was unable to think of anything but his
| utter discomfiture, and the effect that the surroundings - and Cécie's
| perfume - were having upon his ability to concentrate at all.
|
| Cécie Fantègnant was a young woman who, in fact, possessed those two
| qualities that inevitably seemed to attract gentlemen whose intentions
| were often less than honorable; she was very beautiful, and she was
| not really very hard to please. Unfortunately, another class of
| gentleman - one to which Father Gallifrey belonged by inclination if
| not by birth - only saw at first blush the obvious charms of the
| former, stumbling upon the latter after it was far too late to do
| anything about it.
|
| "Mlle. Fantègnant, I hope that you will not think me terribly forward
| if I -"
| "Father Gallifrey, please forgive my frankness but -"
|
| They both burst into startled laughter, then paused to let the other
| continue.
I like that kind of stagecraft.
|
| "Mademoiselle Fantègnant."
|
| "Cécie, Father. Do please call me by my Christian name. After all,"
| she lowered her eyes coquettishly, "we are not in the Confessional
| here."
|
| "Indeed we are not," Father Gallifrey hastened to concur somewhat
| stiffly. "If we were, what I wish to say to you would be quite
| impossible. And yet what I want to say - no, what I must say - can
| scarcely be disassociated from your confessions. My dear Mlle.
| Fantègnant, I must entreat you again to give some further
| consideration to the life that you have chosen to lead, and its
| inevitable consequences for not only your."
Looks like that naughty Ms Word has by way of conversion to txt done away
with your ellipsis. You can stop that by clicking [Format] <Auto-Format>
{Options} then select the "Auto-Correct" tab. Scroll down the list of
special character replacements till you come to the ellipsis. Select that
and click the "delete" button. You can do the same with any or all such
replacements.
|
| Cécie began to lose the thread of this conversation almost immediately
| as the young priest droned on about sin, and redemption, and young
| ladies who lived in bedsits in Montmarte eating petit fours at all
| hours of the day and rouging their cheeks. Here she had been expecting
| a passionate declaration of his true feelings for her, and instead she
| was being subjected to a lengthy disquisition on some proverb or other
| of Solomon's, one that seemed to credit women in general, and poor
| Cécie in particular, with being 'the desolation of righteousness.' She
| simply had to find some way to help the poor man express his true
| feelings! She was casting about feverishly for some method to assist
| him when the small chamber ensemble struck up a waltz.
|
| "Father, dance with me!"
|
| The startled prelate took a step backwards, as if he had been struck a
| physical blow. But Cécie was not to be deterred. Taking his hand, she
| led him determinedly onto the polished floor as the other couples
| parted before them like the Red Sea before Moses.
Heh ;-)
And in fact before
| very long, the assistant priest at St. Jude's was whirling the young
| demimondaine about the floor in a quite skillful and accomplished
Consider transposing "a quite" to "quite a".
| rendition of the waltz. Cécie took a moment to thank God for the
| social graces that He had seen fit in His wisdom to confer upon her
| new paramour.
|
| And so they danced, and were nearly indistinguishable from any other
| young couple in the first throes of romantic infatuation. Heads turned
| throughout the long gallery, and a kind of hush - not really a
| silence, but a sort of lowering of the volume of conversation - became
| evident as the two waltzed gracefully across the parquetry. Cécie had
| never felt such a transport of emotions in all of her young life, and
| at each flustered attempt by Father Gallifrey - who she thought of
| already as her 'dear Juste' -
Not getting the meaning of that endearment. To my sorely limited
acquaintance, the only Frenchman I would recognize by such reference was
that infamous sun-haired cohort of Robespierre, surnamed, "St. Juste".
| to pull her away from the dance floor,
| or to admonish her about her forwardness, she simply sighed, and clung
| all the more tightly to his broadclothed form . . .
Probably of gabardine.
| and his delicate,
| lovely hand.
|
| Cécie in fact remembered very little else about that evening, or the
| subsequent morning at all. Only the scent of her new lover's cologne,
| and the texture of his garments beneath her fingertips, and the
| hypnotic sparkle of his crucifix flashing and dancing just at the
| level of her besotted eyes.
|
| And his beautiful, beautiful hands.
| _____________
|
| "It CANNOT be true! It CANNOT!!"
|
| "I assure you that it is, however, cherie."
|
| Cécie strode agitatedly back and forth across the length of the tiny
| room, hands pulling at her lovely blonde curls as she uttered the most
| piteous of moans, interspersed occasionally with a string of oaths
| that would have made the most seasoned of Marseille dockhands blanch.
|
| "Merde! He would NOT leave without speaking to me! Without SEEING me,
| Lisette! I know that he would not!"
|
| Lisette sighed, and cast a knowing eye upon her distraught friend.
| "Nevertheless, Father Gallifrey is gone, and gone for good, my
| darling. So you may as well accept the fact and."
|
| "NO! Never!! Cécie balled her hands into tiny, defiant fists, whirling
| to confront Lisette. "I know that something dreadful has befallen him!
| That maudit Etienne has done him some harm! I knew he would, he is so
| jealous of me!"
|
| "And of the income which you provide him, cherie, let us not forget
| that," Lisette pointed out, somewhat tactlessly. "But still, the good
| Father was seen to be leaving on the coach to Dole this morning, and
| by all accounts, he was in perfect health.save for a somewhat furtive
| look he had about the eyes, some observers say."
|
| Cécie wailed again, and resumed her distraught pacing, redoubling her
| efforts to snatch herself bald into the bargain.
|
| "I shall take poison and join him! Then you will all be sorry that you
| have treated us so dreadfully, and told such lies about our love!"
She abuses her friend here and her friend should show it, n'est pas? You
are come here to the end of the scene where in perfectly legitimate fashion
you return from dialogue to narrative. But it may be that you could find a
way to more perfectly execute the transition by any number of devices, e.g.
to.have some reason for Lisette to exit the room, or any number of other
things that would leave Cécie alone under the spot for the narrative
illuminations of her character which follow . . .
|
| Cécie did indeed briefly toy with the idea of quaffing a potion of
| matchstick heads crushed in milk (which she had learnt about in a
| romance she'd read involving a broken love affair and failed suicide
| attempt of the Empress Eugenie's), thus putting an end to her torment
| once for all. But Lisette was able to deflect her from this drastic
| course of action with surprising ease, and she was restored in an
| astonishingly short space of time to her normal state - that is to
| say, one of extraordinary volatility and complete self-absorption.
|
| In fact, it was a measure of the self-centeredness of Cécie's
| affections that she preferred her own explanation - that her pimp . . .
Here, you might consider the French word for "pimp" which--although it
presently escapes memory--is easily gained from a video of the
aforementioned Billy Wilder/I.A.L. Diamond classic with Jack Lemmon and
Shirley MacLaine in which also the cute little word of French slang for
"prostitute" may be gleaned.
| had
| set upon her priest-lover and murdered him in a fit of jealous rage -
| to that of her friend Lisette, that Father Gallifrey had simply fled
| in disgrace (if not outright terror) to some parish in the
| hinterlands. So comfortable did Cécie eventually become with this
| explanation of her own that by that same evening she had agreed to
| accept an invitation to dine at the Fleur de Lys with a gentleman of
| Etienne's acquaintance, thus putting an end to what was surely one of
| the more abbreviated periods of mourning in recent recollection. After
| all, whether doomed to perpetual grief or no, a girl still must eat.
|
| And what of poor Father Gallifrey? Well it is perhaps for the best
| that his true fate be left to the reader to divine.
As to that, there is a certain, highly esoteric item of literature extant on
the subject of what truly was being done with far more profligate and
libertine priests than your poor Fr. Gallifrey. I note that you write of a
time when the great mentor of Baudelaire, V. Hugo was extent in the world
which places your story squarely into the pre-revolutionary times of the mid
to late 18th Century. Aldous Huxley in his *Devils of Loudun* writes the
sad but true account of Fr. Urbanus Grandier who was burned at the stake for
sake of his many amours enjoyed as one of the unwritten fiefs within power
and thrust of his, well . . . bishopric? Granted it all happened a hundred
years before the time in which your story is set, but seeing the pleasure
you take in the elegant English of an Edwardian era, you might find that
book suited to your palate as none but the finest vintage sip of the Côtes
de Beaune.
| Suffice it to say
| that the Monday next following the scandal of the dancing priest at
| Mme. Charteron's found Cécie, redolent of rosewater and repentance,
| once again kneeling upon the padded prie dieux in the delicious,
| comforting coolness of the confessional box at St. Jude. Her
| half-hearted orisons were interrupted by the squeal of door hinges in
| the adjacent stall, and she crossed herself in a desultory manner as
| this new presence made itself felt behind the confessional screen. All
| at once the distinct - and disturbingly masculine - odors of tobacco
| and leather wafted through the grating, interrupting her pious
| reveries. She felt her heart begin to beat a bit more quickly in her
| breast.
|
| "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
| _____________
|
| All rights reserved MEB © 2003
Love it!
nativelaw
"elle`attend" <elle_...@fuqme.com> wrote in message
news:c3754006.03081...@posting.google.com...
>> Prie Dieux
Hi, elle`attend,
This was a delight to read. I'm lost as far as the authenticity of the
piece to
the period, but except for one or two spots where it sounded modern (think
i noted it), you had me convinced. I would
say that the premise here is not entirely believable (I find it way too hard
to believe
the priest would go to the party) yet you paint it so well
that you convince me to suspend disbelief, which is no small achievement.
Just the right
light banter and coyness to it, mood, flavor, language and a thoroughly
enjoyable piece, not to mention challenge entry.
I am nowhere near well read enough to have a clue whom you were emulating,
nor what the error was here deliberate or otherwise, but I did like it lots.
And I do have
a book recommendation for you that I think you'd like, based upon this. If
you haven't
already (and unless you are interested in native cultures probably you
haven't) read "The Heartsong of Charging Elk" by
James Welch. It's the story of an Indian (loosely based upon a real
character, historical fiction)
and much of his time is spent as part of the Buffalo Bill traveling
roadshow,
in the backstreets of 19th century france, where he frequents and falls in
love
with a French prostitute , among many other parts to the
book. It's a sweet and tender book; I've read the book a few times and it
has a sweetness to it I
can't put my finger on and I think you might enjoy. Actually I highly
recommend
it to anyone here. The writing is different from what I've been taught to
like,
it's almost childlike in its simplicity, which may give it the sweetness I
note.
<snip>
> "Mlle. Fantègnant, I really think that it is unnecessary for you to
> make your confession so frequentl."
frequently
>
> "But Father, I don't want my sins piling up! They become such a
> burden, and I'm afraid that if I neglect them, soon just the sheer
> number of them will serve to discourage me from making my Confession
> at all!"
>
> Another sigh drifted through the wooden veil, this one more of
> resignation than exasperation.
<snip>
> The two were lounging about in their chemises, fanning themselves and
> waiting for the oppressive late-afternoon heat of August to abate
> enough so that they could begin their toilette for the evening.
> Although these were the dog days of summer, and most of the important
would "dog days of summer" be an expression used here in this time
period and place? It may well have come from then, i don't know
<snip>
> Lisette's aunt took a kind of perverse pleasure in parading this
> less-than-acceptable element of Parisien society in her rooms from
> time to time, simply for the shock value that it had on the more staid
> members of her normal social circle. In this respect she resembled
> closely her niece Lisette. Unlike that impetuous young woman, however,
> she had the foresight to remove the finer pieces of furniture from her
> salon beforehand. She had seen these artists at work in a social
> milieu before, and had no desire to be put to the trouble and expense
> of having her Louis Quinze chairs and settees reupholstered.
This I don't quite get? Why would she need them reupholstered? She's
afraid they will spill
drinks and food all over the furniture? The reason for her fear, what
she knows about "these artists at work" doesn't jump out,
and explanation briefly, or if you want longer, an anecdote, in here could
help.
Once she'd had her favorite Louis XIV divan ruined by Mme. Beaujolais etc.
<g>.
<snip> "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
Love the circularity. Don't buy it, but want to, and that's what counts
most <g>.
Thanks for posting.
Andrea
Seymour Grass
"Joel Crum" <yeah> wrote in message
news:Xns93D6C5D2C1D9F...@129.250.170.81...
| >
|
| I'll keep all of that in mind. ;-)
There's the spirit! :-)
Now when Alaric and Bob jump down my neck for reverting to my old
curmudgeonly ways, I can safely say, "What's the big problem, if Joel can
keep smiling having been the target of one of my tirades--I mean what has
any sidewalk superintendant who had no safe falling on his head to say about
it? Did I disclude myself from the said category of "amateurs"?
Heck no--what, just because I was once a so-called "journalist" taking a few
free-lance checks from a newspaper? It's very true that I'm quite
inordinately proud of how I managed back in the 80's to do that, to
magically transform, for a short time, typewriter ribbon ink on paper to
Cabernet Sauvignon, not to mention Mennen Speed Stick, butter, eggs and
beef. It was quite a Christ-like, Wedding at Cana type trick: I mean what
a sense of power, to just wave my magic fingers over an old Royal manual
keyboard, wiggle them for an hour or two, and then with a quick visit to the
Editor/Publisher--voila! Right out of the thin air, Cabernet, cigarettes,
comestibles and even gasoline.
Despite 'all' that, I remain an amateur so far as the real test of an author
goes to the writing of a full length novel and selling that to a major
publisher. Back in the 80's I was able to do it on a small scale, strictly
out of dire necessity of putting that Cabernet on the table--lest we die of
thirst. Now, I'm spoiled, living high on the hog off a recent inheritance,
just bought 5 acres and a little ol' farm house way out in the country, and
a bunch of stock on the NASDAQ. So, one thing only is going to kick me into
gear and that is to write a novel from beginning to end with no looking
back. To do, again, like I say, as Isabel Allende's husband told her,
whispering in her rich and sassy, gold spangled, albeit highly talented ear,
"Just tell the fucking story!"
Sorry if I hurt anybody's feelings. Just one of those days when I'm on the
rag and the moon is in some cockeyed phase. Hope you know how that goes.
:-(
"They held even this, thus: namely, True Nature is that which does not
mislead another. And Wisdom is that which does not mislead itself. And
Conscientiousness is that which when it recognizes virtue, performs it." --
Zoroaster
Svira Kurcu
Clark Kent wrote:
> | Svira Kurcu seems to have given you a good write up on that.
>
> Translation: . . . has absurdly taken the nonexistent authority upon
> his Newbie shoulders to read you the Tyranny of the FAQ Riot Act.
> What's with all these silly FAQ tyrants running hither and yon with
> shiny little tin FAQ badges pinned to their hollow chests--I swear to
> God! What on earth is with this Post 80's generation of Control
> Junkies? Dear Jesus, hear me pray! Send down the platinum schtupping
> corkscrew wherewith to take the fermat process pressure off their
> heads!
Wow. My first flame. I'm not a virgin any more.
No offense was intended by me, of course...and I don't believe people
have a right to avoid being offended anyway. The only thing I'd
apologize for is if I misexpressed myself, because saying what I mean
does lie within my control.
But I really would eliminate the three spaced periods from the start of
that paragraph: "Translation: Has absurdly..." I wouldn't capitalize
"newbie" either. Then I would say: "chests? I swear" - the hyphens
don't add anything. In general that paragraph capitalizes words that
don't need to be capitalized. But overall, it has the perfect quality
of a rant, which is what it's supposed to be if I don't miss my guess.
Nice writing.
the Whistler
Seymour Grass
"nativelaw" <l...@REMOVEnativelaw.net> wrote in message
news:e1C_a.17874$eq1....@news02.roc.ny...
| Damn straight.
|
| And don't let the fact that John himself hangs out here for years and
| wouldn't let himself get pried from this place with a crowbar make you
think
| it'll could possibly have any value or learn you nothin', neither.
|
| <g>
Yup. ;-)
"There is an endless supply of white men, but there has always been a
limited number of human beings." Thomas Berger's Old Lodgeskins
Svira Kurcu
Seymour Grass wrote:
> Heck no--what, just because I was once a so-called "journalist" taking a few
> free-lance checks from a newspaper? It's very true that I'm quite
> inordinately proud of how I managed back in the 80's to do that, to
> magically transform, for a short time, typewriter ribbon ink on paper to
> Cabernet Sauvignon, not to mention Mennen Speed Stick, butter, eggs and
> beef. It was quite a Christ-like, Wedding at Cana type trick: I mean what
> a sense of power, to just wave my magic fingers over an old Royal manual
> keyboard, wiggle them for an hour or two, and then with a quick visit to the
> Editor/Publisher--voila! Right out of the thin air, Cabernet, cigarettes,
> comestibles and even gasoline.
<laugh> Yes, the miracle of transubstantiating words into money.
Writers who make a living at it are the real miracle workers, or so I
see it.
the Whistler
Svira Kurcu
prickly pears like me mean well. Relax and I'll buy you a beer.
the Whistler
Seymour Grass
"Svira Kurcu" <viathna...@sympatico.ca> wrote in message
news:vFF_a.8672$Z03.6...@news20.bellglobal.com...
| Wow. My first flame. I'm not a virgin any more.
|
| No offense was intended by me, of course...and I don't believe people
| have a right to avoid being offended anyway. The only thing I'd
| apologize for is if I misexpressed myself, because saying what I mean
| does lie within my control.
Well, that's a reasonable, sporting response. And I llike that.
|
| But I really would eliminate the three spaced periods from the start of
| that paragraph: "Translation: Has absurdly..." I wouldn't capitalize
| "newbie" either. Then I would say: "chests? I swear" - the hyphens
| don't add anything. In general that paragraph capitalizes words that
| don't need to be capitalized. But overall, it has the perfect quality
| of a rant, which is what it's supposed to be if I don't miss my guess.
| Nice writing.
<g?>
|
| the Whistler
I like that, too.
Buenas Noches.
Seymour Grass
|
|
| Seymour Grass wrote:
|
| > Heck no--what, just because I was once a so-called "journalist" taking a
few
| > free-lance checks from a newspaper? It's very true that I'm quite
| > inordinately proud of how I managed back in the 80's to do that, to
| > magically transform, for a short time, typewriter ribbon ink on paper to
| > Cabernet Sauvignon, not to mention Mennen Speed Stick, butter, eggs and
| > beef. It was quite a Christ-like, Wedding at Cana type trick: I mean
what
| > a sense of power, to just wave my magic fingers over an old Royal manual
| > keyboard, wiggle them for an hour or two, and then with a quick visit to
the
| > Editor/Publisher--voila! Right out of the thin air, Cabernet,
cigarettes,
| > comestibles and even gasoline.
|
| <laugh> Yes, the miracle of transubstantiating words into money.
You got it.
| Writers who make a living at it are the real miracle workers, or so I
| see it.
And wouldn't it be sweet to be doing it. I hope you won't be overly
incensed by my review of your flash piece. I should have said more about it
as to the positive or promising elements it contains and I hope you'll
forgive me that. I guess when I do see such promise I get a little ticked
off to see it being neglected in projects that really don't afford it the
chance to be better exercised as by a more ambitious work. I don't cotton
to the view that writers need "practice" with lesser efforts since it is the
discipline of the greater effort which will not be learned until it is
attempted.
A pleasure, again. ;-)
--
JP
Svira Kurcu
Seymour Grass wrote:
> Well, that's a reasonable, sporting response. And I llike that.
I'm flattered, because I've always been poor at sports. I didn't even
learn to kick a soccer ball properly until I was 18.
>
> |
> | But I really would eliminate the three spaced periods from the start of
> | that paragraph: "Translation: Has absurdly..." I wouldn't capitalize
> | "newbie" either. Then I would say: "chests? I swear" - the hyphens
> | don't add anything. In general that paragraph capitalizes words that
> | don't need to be capitalized. But overall, it has the perfect quality
> | of a rant, which is what it's supposed to be if I don't miss my guess.
> | Nice writing.
>
> <g?>
<g!!!> But let's not forget what we're here for.
>
> |
> | the Whistler
>
> I like that, too.
"Svira Kurcu" is a foreign-language semi-obscenity that roughly means
"whistling to his weenie."
Incidentally, are you *the* Seymour Grass? If so, I'm pleased to meet
you - and even if not, I'm pleased to meet you.
>
> Buenas Noches.
I'm on Eastern Daylight Time, so it's actually morning.
the Whistler
Alaric McDermott
I think this is just wonderful. Gush, gush. Skilful characterisation.
The priest is Derek Nimmo. You won´t know him, but he is. Google his
image up. You create characters and location, and the sense of period
is spot on.
elle_...@fuqme.com (elle`attend) wrote in message news:<c3754006.03081...@posting.google.com>...
R. Westermeyer
I respect that. However, I think most take part in the challenge to
get more disciplined. Writers are notorious procrastinators, though I
may just be speaking for myself.
I take part in them with great excitement, not so much with "winning"
in mind (though, who could deny that having someone say that your
story was the most enjoyable read, fit their hopes when the criteria
were set, isn't kinda cool?) but more about being involved in an
assignment with expectations, if that makes any sense.
Every time I've written a challenge story, it's gotten me back into a
writing groove, or kept me writing.
I sort of need them. Really. This group is different from other
writing groups, in that there are very few who come in just to hurt
others.
Yeah, there's some back slapping, but mostly it's writers who trust
that they can put up their work, critique honestly and are relatively
certain that their stuff will be read and critiqued by people who are
not just hostile cunts.
If this group had the likes of that Zen asshole around regularly, I
think many would be reluctant to post their work. It's a cool place,
and I'm really glad you are back and taking part. Really. With or
without challenge entries.
--Bob
*****
Don't look under that rock
You won't like what you will find.
--Nick Cave
Harper
<< Prie Dieux >>
Hello! That was lovely! Brilliant! I loved it! Of 19th Century literature, I've
read the Brontes, Jane Austen, Thackeray, Wilkie Collins, and George Elliot. I
have to say, while you put me in mind of all of them (forgive me if mention of
Austen is a bit of a slur!), you remind me of Elliot in _Middlemarch_ the most.
I suspect that is not who you meant to emmulate, however. My guess is Collette,
whose writing I know only by reputation.
Anyhow, your diction is nearly flawless. I love the Victorians (Edwardians?)
whose prose were at once sprightly and richly detailed, and yours is definitely
both. Charming story, Elle. Many times in the course of reading I stopped to
look closely at your word choices to see what it was you were doing that so
perfectly turned your phrases; often, it was a small thing, even a throwaway
just for rhythm, but clearly making the difference between good style and
great.
A few fine moments:
<< Lisette suddenly puffed out her cheeks and stretched out on her back upon
the small bedsitting room's divan, striking a sultry pose as she opened her
chemise and pushed forth her all-but-non-existent tummy.
"Look, I am ‘Olympia,'" she intoned gravely. >>
That's just adorable, they way she exposes her tummy and then her subsequent
line "Look..."--I can see her pout! I admire how gracefully and adroitly and
charmingly you depict people in sublte movement, Elle. Terrific.
<< "I fear that works such as these are most injurious to the moral health and
vigor of the general populace, and lead inevitably to the arousal of the senses
by their crude and indecent realism. I admit I am quite incapable of hitting
upon the proper note
with which to respond to all of this...this…this…" >>
That must have been thrilling to write. Prim and breathless--I'm reminded why
in my early twenties I loved this stuff so much. What fun.
<< Cécie did indeed briefly toy with the idea of quaffing a potion of
matchstick heads crushed in milk (which she had learnt about in a romance she'd
read involving a broken love affair and failed suicide
attempt of the Empress Eugenie's), >>
The way you reveal Cecie's character is superb. Nowhere is it forced or facile.
There are countless wonderful sections here, Elle; I've mentioned only a few.
As for the challenge: it's interesting that as I read these entries, I become
less and less interested in my own requirements, and perhaps you yourself care
less about it at this point--if so, good for you! you've written a fabulous
story. Anyhow, I think you may not have realized that I wanted the POV
character, in this case, Cecie, to be the religious one. I may have to doc you
for that; ere long we shall see :-) but I believe you have pulled off every
other requirement seamlessly. The challenge aside, what can I say to you but
Huzzah! I enjoyed reading your story very, very much! The full-circle ending
wrapped it up brilliantly. You were inspired indeed--now tell us, by whom?
Best (and welcome to AFO),
Harper
--
Seymour Grass
"R. Westermeyer" <wst...@cts.com> wrote in message
news:gjgnjv0kej7jcm7fv...@4ax.com...
If a person had designs on a career in television writing where there's a
production team calling the shots and plots, I can see the value it would
have for that writer. It's not my bag, would seem like wage slavery to me,
but others might flourish very well within such guidelines, and so I am
certainly wrong to judge.
| If this group had the likes of that Zen asshole around regularly, I
| think many would be reluctant to post their work. It's a cool place,
| and I'm really glad you are back and taking part. Really. With or
| without challenge entries.
Live and Let Live. Damn straight.
Ain't life grand?
Oh hey! I rented *Requiem for a Dream* and will be watching it tonight.
Cain't wait.
Too cool to hear that *The Third Man* is one of your fave raves, too. Man,
what a lot of time you and I blew being at each other's throats, when all
the while we had so many of the same passions and interests. Can you
believe it? ROFLMAO.
Seymour Grass
"Harper" <cinem...@aol.commoner> wrote in message
|
| << Lisette suddenly puffed out her cheeks and stretched out on her back
upon
| the small bedsitting room's divan, striking a sultry pose as she opened
her
| chemise and pushed forth her all-but-non-existent tummy.
|
| "Look, I am 'Olympia,'" she intoned gravely. >>
|
| That's just adorable, they way she exposes her tummy and then her
subsequent
| line "Look..."--I can see her pout! I admire how gracefully and adroitly
and
| charmingly you depict people in sublte movement, Elle. Terrific.
We are in so much agreement about that, Harper, dahling. Would you like to
know what really did it for me in this passage? You would? Okay, it was
the exquisite, "she intoned gravely." How that touch does penetrate to the
soul of wit. It's the same glittering eyed mischief that informs her line,
"Forgive me, Father for I have sinned."
That she should be in command of such finesse for these subtle touches is
truly a mark of genius? I hope not lest it should be forever lost to such
an average intelligence and ability as mine. I should prefer to learn that
what we see in this level of deftness is the joyous, laughing, beaming
product of a purely amorous affair of some years duration with the
literature of the period, fictional, biographical and historical. I like to
think that great writers are made not born, but born to be self-made by a
devotion to the art, then made over by the art and by a dedication of such
magnitude that all the hard work of it, the reading, study and research,
even the very discipline itself becomes a soft pleasure, forming taste for
more and that taste forming a thirst for more taste until all that the
artist imbibes from all the fine things she avails to herself, become part
of her.
If there is any literary justice in the market, we shall be proud to say we
knew her when. ;-)
--
JP David http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
http://www.virtualtourist.com/m/520b8/
"God is the sole being who has no need to exist in order to reign. That
which is created by the Mind is more living than Matter." --Charles
Baudelaire _Intimate Journals_
Allegory60
R. Westermeyer
<JP...@VirtualTourist.com> wrote:
>
>"R. Westermeyer" <wst...@cts.com> wrote in message
>news:gjgnjv0kej7jcm7fv...@4ax.com...
>| On Wed, 13 Aug 2003 14:24:36 -0500, "Seymour Grass"
>| <JP...@VirtualTourist.com> wrote:
>|
>
>Live and Let Live. Damn straight.
>
>Ain't life grand?
It's a wonderful world, if can find it.
>
>Oh hey! I rented *Requiem for a Dream* and will be watching it tonight.
>Cain't wait.
VERY interested in your impression of this film. I can't stop thinking
about it, and replaying the last ten minutes of pure visceral anguish.
>Too cool to hear that *The Third Man* is one of your fave raves, too. Man,
>what a lot of time you and I blew being at each other's throats, when all
>the while we had so many of the same passions and interests. Can you
>believe it? ROFLMAO.
I always thought we had a lot in common. Especially during vomit
hurling battles. :)
--Bob
Harper
<< We are in so much agreement about that, Harper, dahling. Would you like to
know what really did it for me in this passage? You would? Okay, it was the
exquisite, "she intoned gravely." How that touch does penetrate to the
soul of wit. >>
You are right, John, and thanks for diagnosing it for me. It is brilliant to
say, "Look, I am Olympia," as opposed to, "Lysette, look at me. I resemble
Olympia," or what have you -- the genius of it being the declarative "I am" --
but what nudges it into sublimity is the tag, "she intoned gravely." I'm
certainly tucking that deft trick away in me mental index.
<< It's the same glittering eyed mischief that informs her line,"Forgive me,
Father for I have sinned." >>
You're quite right!
<< That she should be in command of such finesse for these subtle touches is
truly a mark of genius? I hope not lest it should be forever lost to such
an average intelligence and ability as mine. >>
John, honestly, when I was critiquing Elle, I thought to say, "your style
reminds me of another poster," and I was thinking specifically of you. There's
a story of yours, posted some five or six months ago, that's every bit as
brilliant as this (forget the title, I will try and Google it), and, not that
you _care,_ but it might be even more broadly appealing precisely because it's
not a curio, not an homage. Your style is (often) clearly influenced by the
Victorians (elliptical, breathless, richly detailed; the deferred verb, the
pile-up of parenthetical asides), but imo, when you're at your best, your style
trancends loving imitation and becomes something very wonderful on its own
terms.
<< I should prefer to learn that what we see in this level of deftness is the
joyous, laughing, beaming
product of a purely amorous affair of some years duration with the literature
of the period, fictional, biographical and historical. I like to think that
great writers are made not born, but born to be self-made by a devotion to the
art, then made over by the art and by a dedication of such magnitude that all
the hard work of it, the reading, study and research,
even the very discipline itself becomes a soft pleasure, forming taste for more
and that taste forming a thirst for more taste until all that the
artist imbibes from all the fine things she avails to herself, become part of
her. >>
Yes, but. What can we make of the constitution of a person who possesses such a
bent? One would have to be susceptible to infection, nu? It would never become
a "soft pleasure," otherwise. It would ever be arduous.
<< If there is any literary justice in the market, we shall be proud to say we
knew her when. ;-) >>
She shows tremendous talent. I'm not sure what the market might be, niche that
it is, but of course we haven't seen all she can do. You--are you submitting?
I'll find the title of that story I loved. I seem to recall Andrea and Brian
and a few others waxed praiseful of it, too.
Harps
--
JP David http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
http://www.virtualtourist >><BR><BR>
--
Quadpus
This is truly impressive. You have a very commanding grip on all the little
details that make the time and place of this piece so evocative and
believable. If, at times, it felt a little too delicate and mannerly for my
tastes, I would chalk that up to faithfulness to the milieu you are working
in, not a flaw in the story itself. The style and setting is really not my
bag, but I can certainly appreciate it for what it is, and I tip my hat to
your achievement.
The narrator -- particularly at the very end -- seemed to step outside the
story just a little too much, which, again, may be entirely intentional and
consistent with the work of the authors who inspired this work (I wouldn't
know), but it was distracting, for me. In general, I think a stronger ending
might have been pulled off.
Svira Kurcu
Seymour Grass wrote:
> "Svira Kurcu" <viathna...@sympatico.ca> wrote in message
> news:S4G_a.8681$Z03.6...@news20.bellglobal.com...
> |
> You got it.
>
> | Writers who make a living at it are the real miracle workers, or so I
> | see it.
>
> And wouldn't it be sweet to be doing it. I hope you won't be overly
> incensed by my review of your flash piece. I should have said more about it
> as to the positive or promising elements it contains and I hope you'll
> forgive me that. I guess when I do see such promise I get a little ticked
> off to see it being neglected in projects that really don't afford it the
> chance to be better exercised as by a more ambitious work. I don't cotton
> to the view that writers need "practice" with lesser efforts since it is the
> discipline of the greater effort which will not be learned until it is
> attempted.
True, but I don't want to forget what the purpose of writing is. For
me, it's not getting published or even read, but the act of writing
itself. I'm new to this, and have to work at my current level of
ability. A more ambitious project right now would frustrate me and take
away the enjoyment.
Also, in the past, I've had trouble finishing stories, so finishing
anything still gives me a psychological boost. And finally, I want to
learn the craft a manageable bit at a time instead of trying to gulp
whole solar systems down at once.
>
> A pleasure, again. ;-)
For me as well. I look forward to hearing from you again. I just hope
my server goes back up so I can post this.
>
> --
> JP
>
>
the Whistler
Allegory60
>me, it's not getting published or even read, but the act of writing
>itself.
Ahhh. The refreshing air of an idealist in our midst. Bravo!
elle`attend
Thank you all so much. I really was very apprehensive about how this
would be received, and everyone's response has been so generous; much
more than I had dared hope. Thank you all again. In the interest of
brevity (and to keep from making a dozen new posts to this thread),
I've responded individually to each of your comments in this one, in
the order in which they were posted.
Sviru Kurcu (love the name! Slovenian, Croatian, Serbian?),
>My only objection to your story is that Cecie does not end up
learning from her experience and growing as a person.
Oh, but I hope that she hasn't! Her touching – if somewhat dim-witted
– persistence in her odd blend of religious and carnal appetites is to
me so very affirming, and demonstrates the resilience of youth and its
ability to continue to believe, no matter how foolish or Quixotic
those beliefs. I love her willinginess to hurt – and be hurt – and
still persist with a certain primitive innocence.
As to the FAQ's, I must embarrassingly admit to my ignorance in things
cyber once again. I have been unable to locate them. Perhaps someone
would take pity on me, and show me where I might find them?
Clark Kent (elle tries to look beneath his shirt, wondering…)
Yes, douce is sweet, like our heroine. Well, sweet, and sour. And yes,
Parisian, thank you.
I actually envisioned a young Jeremy Irons as Father Juste(just a
name)Gallifrey as I was writing. Cécie owes a good deal of her
provenance to Claudette, very perceptive of you.
>Was that Pizarro's little clique of Impressionists? Perhaps it
wouldn't hurt to enlighten in a word or two
This was around the time of the first Salon Refusés, and the
impressionists whose rallying point and ‘Father figure' was Eduoard
Manet, and his breakthrough paintings ‘Olympia' and, to a lesser
extent, ‘Le dejeuner sur l'herbe.' The Refuses was started by the
Emperor Napoleon III, in response to the accusation by the
impressionists that the Academie Royale de Peinture et Sculpture was
specifically excluding them. Manet's paintings infuriated the
establishment. I couldn't hit upon a way to explain this more
thoroughly and still come in under the alloted word limit. I hope that
it isn't to distracting to the story.
>>"La, they like to paint those sorts of women," Cécie gasped, "but
they prefer to go to bed with ones whose petite bourse de plaisir they
can find without resorting to a Baedeker?"
>Perhaps an authorial intrusion of narrative at this point, in just a
few words would serve to bring a less adroit Francophile up for the
joke?
Yes, this was too precious by half, I'm afraid. But I was caught up in
the music by this point, so to speak. The ‘petite bourse de plaisir'
in question is her ‘little purse of pleasure,' and the rest is a
reference to artists' predilection for more ‘substantial' women as
subjects for their paintings, if not objects of their lust (You'll
have to fill in the blanks from there.)
The difference between ‘n'est pas' and ‘n'est ce pas' is entirely one
of diction and class, the former being a sort of colloquialism of the
more formal ‘is that (this) not so?' Indicative of class, and
upbringing more than anything else, as Professor Higgins would point
out.
>>‘...like excited young magpies.'
>Suggest you avoid being savaged by the cliché police by thinking of
another simile.
Clichés were made to be spoken…
>I will not reveal the image that occurred to me . . .
Why not? Perhaps my reputation as a plagiarist has preceeded me?
(wink)
>>"I think that you may be confusing the messenger with its author,
cherie.
>And you, ma cher are you not confusing--by mere oversight--the
message with the messenger? Read back over it, and you'll see.
I can see where one might think so, since the eye tends to find what
the mind expects to see. But no, this reference is to Father Gallifrey
(the messenger) and God (the author of the message he delivers), and
Cecie's almost worshipful confusion of the two. A little twist on the
old aphorism.
The reference to Jonah is a somewhat sarcastic observation by Lisette
on Father Gallifrey's being thrust into the belly of Mammon in order
to have his faith and obedience tested. Cecie has tests of another
sort in mind for the priest, though.
>It may be that you could find a way to more perfectly execute the
transition by any number of devices, e.g. to have some reason for
Lisette to exit the room, or any number of other things that would
leave Cécie alone under the spot for the narrative illuminations of
her character which follow . . .
The tyranny of word(count)s again. I will rework the ending (Quadpus
and Joel also pointed out the somewhat disjointed and jarring nature
of it) when I can stomach looking at the thing again. This is what
good editors are REALLY for, so that we don't have to read our own
bilge over and over and over again until we want to vomit.
Thank you so much for your detailed, and very thoughtful critique.
This is just the sort of thing that I was hoping to avail myself of
when I posted here.
Joel Crum,
>I suppose you are working for an effect by waiting to give the reader
Cecie's name until the end of the paragraph, however that and another
touch I mention below left me somewhat confused as to who the woman
doing the confessing in this seen was until my second read through.
This was one of those things that I went back and forth about right
til the final ‘send,' changing the ‘She' for ‘Cecié' and back again
almost each time I read it. ‘She' was simply what was there when I
read it for the final time. You've convinced me that it should be
‘Cecie.' Thank you.
>> "Father, I have had impure thoughts…"
>And this would be the second thing. There would be more then just
impure thoughts if Cecie is a prostitute.
Yes, but my confessions as an adolescent almost always started with
this (unfortunately, they usually ended there as well.) I meant to
convey by the rather remarkable length of time between her first
utterance and the time she emerges from the confessional that there
was quite a laundry list of very detailed sins involved, and by Father
Gallifrey's reaction that they were of a most explicit nature.Cherchez
la femme.
>Aren't bustles designed not to be trim?
My impression (admittedly more an educated guess than anything) is
that, while not completely out of style yet in the late nineteenth
century, they were becoming less and less obtrusive, thus my
oxymoronic ‘trim' bustle. (And a stab at getting a cheap smile…)
>> For in truth, girls so young and heedless have very little patience
with such complex concepts as actions, and their consequences.
>The foreshadowing there seems somewhat heavy handed.
I agree. I would probably excise this line entirely, particularly as
it doesn't really add anything about the girls' character that isn't
revealed elsewhere, I hope.
>> to that of her friend Lisette, that Father Gallifrey had simply
fled
in disgrace (if not outright terror) to some parish in the
hinterlands.
>Can a priest do that on a day's notice?
I imagine he can have it DONE to him on that sort of notice! Though I
purposely left the time frame vague here; it may have been a day, or
several days. Again, to give the reader some leeway to imagine just
what the true nature of their relationship was. A cheat, I know, but I
enjoy piqueing the reader's curiousity, and imagination, if I can.
>I'm somewhat confused by this last paragraph. Starting it with "And
what of poor Father Gallifrey?" as well as "Suffice it to say" makes
me think it will talk about him. I think adding a couple of lines
that hint at what the priest did, then inserting a paragraph break
before talking about Cecie's new(?)priest/crush would be clearer.
D'accord. That nasty word limit again (it's so nice to have a built-in
excuse for your laziness, don't you agree?)
Thank you for your comments, and your help, and for reading.
Huw,
>One thing: I'm not convinced that your priest was a prelate. I could
easily be wrong, though.
You are not, though. One of the pitfall of compulsively searching for
a new synonym for a word that you're using repetitively. Sometimes
simpler is better. ‘He' or ‘Father Gallifrey' is the best choice in
this case, I think.
>So I'll just limit myself to observing that I enjoyed the premise
This is one of the nicest compliments you could pay me as a writer,
and I thank you for it.
Andrea,
>This was a delight to read. I'm lost as far as the authenticity of
the piece to the period, but except for one or two spots where it
sounded modern (think i noted it), you had me convinced. I would say
that the premise here is not entirely believable (I find it way too
hard to believe the priest would go to the party) yet you paint it so
well
that you convince me to suspend disbelief, which is no small
achievement.
Thank you. I'm a firm believer that when it comes to fiction, how a
story hangs together as a ‘read' is more important most times than how
it hangs together as a strictly ‘believable' premise.
>> "Mlle. Fantègnant, I really think that it is unnecessary for you to
make your confession so frequentl."
>frequently
I am such a hopeless klutz when it comes to the internet, and computer
formats in general. The sentence was supposed to end in an ellipse,
thus ‘frequentl…' An attempt on my part to interrupt the speaker in
an unusual place. Silly.
>would "dog days of summer" be an expression used here in this time
period and place? It may well have come from then, i don't know
I agree that it doesn't ‘listen' right in context with the rest of the
language, though the expression has been in vogue since the Greeks and
Romans. They used it to refer to the hot late summer, when the star
Sirius (from the Greek ‘seirios,' or ‘scorching') in the constellation
Canis Major, was the most prominent star in the heavens. The ‘Dog
Star,' as it was popularly known, gave rise to the term ‘dog days' in
referring to this season. Whether the French referred to them as ‘les
jours de chien' I have no idea!
>This I don't quite get? Why would she need them reupholstered?
She's
afraid they will spill drinks and food all over the furniture?
…or worse. This was a very uninhibited bunch. Again, my sometimes
irritating penchant for leaving something to the reader's imagination.
I know what I imagine happened to her furniture, but I'd have to go
back to ASSD to make it more specific than that!
Thank you too for the book steer. It sounds a fascinating read, just
the sort of oddball juxtaposition thing that intrigues me. I'll hunt
it down.
Thank you again.
Alaric,
Thank you. And for forgiving me my trespass, as well. All contretemps
should end so fruitfully, for me at least.
Seymour,
>If there is any literary justice in the market, we shall be proud to
say we knew her when. ;-)
(I couldn't help snipping this! If you all persist, you will turn my
head… a not insignificant achievement, considering the size it's
getting to be!)
>I like to think that great writers are made not born, but born to be
self-made by a devotion to the art, then made over by the art and by a
dedication of such magnitude that all the hard work of it, the
reading, study and research, even the very discipline itself becomes a
soft pleasure, forming taste for more and that taste forming a thirst
for more taste until all that the artist imbibes from all the fine
things she avails to herself, become part of her.
This, besides being a very lovely expression of this sentiment, is one
that I agree with wholeheartedly. Though I do NOT consider myself a
great – or even very competent –writer at most times, I DO work very
hard at it, and am not the sort of person who tends to share the
credit for all this sweat and pain with some vague ‘muse.' Let her go
write her OWN damned stories!
Thank you again for the lovely compliment, Seymour.
Harper,
Your inspired insights in re the influences I was most under while
writing this were absolutely dead on. Sidonie Gabrielle Colette mostly
for attitude – particularly Cécie's, whose character was modeled very
roughly on her outrageously precocious and prefiguring teenager
Claudette – and my two Georges for style and structure (the other
George being Ms.Sand.)
Regarding Cécie, I actually meant her to be the religious focus. One
of the reasons that I love challenges like this is the way that the
length limitation makes me focus, and be precise and controlled in my
writing (which tends to wander, as is perhaps evident in even this
post). One of the reasons I hate them, however, is the way that the
length limitation keeps me from being as clear as I would like. I was
trying to portray her as the equivalent of a spiritual ‘natural
animal,' a person whose religious beliefs are an essential, if
somewhat amorphous, element of her character. She is vague and
confused about them, but nevertheless completely exuberant and
impulsively innocent in her immersion in them, as she is in every
other aspect of her life. By contrast, Father Gallifrey is far less a
religious presence, to me; his religion being so constrictive and
stifling in its form and having so little of real substance or value
that it has very little to offer either himself, or his parishioners
in times of trial. Thus his headlong flight from the threatening
reality that Cecie and her ‘hedonistic monotheism' – to say nothing of
her smoldering sexuality – represent.
Whew. Sorry.
Quadpus,
Thanks for your kind comments. Yes, the ending needs reworking, and I
expect I shall do just that, when I'm able to stomach reading the
thing again. It was the part I was least happy with. I think that this
is an innate problem of the format itself, where you come barreling
into your denouement only to discover that you have eleven words left
in which to wind it all up. A good reason to write your beginning and
ending first when you are working under a length restraint. My problem
is, I never really know what the ending will be until I have followed
the characters to it. I need more discipline, I know.
Again, I wish to thank everyone for giving me such a warm welcome
here. As I mentioned to Alaric earlier, it's always nice to have one
of your preconceived prejudices about someone or something pricked.
I'm looking forward to participating much much more with you all.
elle`attend
Svira Kurcu
elle`attend wrote:
> Sviru Kurcu (love the name! Slovenian, Croatian, Serbian?),
It's actually Svira. Serbian. Pen name. See past messages for its
meaning.
>
>
>>My only objection to your story is that Cecie does not end up
> learning from her experience and growing as a person.
>
> Oh, but I hope that she hasn't! Her touching – if somewhat dim-witted
> – persistence in her odd blend of religious and carnal appetites is to
> me so very affirming, and demonstrates the resilience of youth and its
> ability to continue to believe, no matter how foolish or Quixotic
> those beliefs. I love her willinginess to hurt – and be hurt – and
> still persist with a certain primitive innocence.
Beg pardon, but I didn't get that out of the story. I got what I
described in my last message - pure amour propre in its shallowest form.
the Whistler
Alaric
> introduced to this forum is by no means set out in any FAQ written or
> unwritten as to the least expectation of involuntary participation by
> members in such fun and games, as there are those here who like me do not
> see literature as having the least thing to do with competition, nor for
> that matter and *per force* with writing according to a conformist scheme
of
> assigned themes, a practice which I find positively anti-creative. My
view,
> which is incidentally, the right one and the only one which is moral,
> sensible and sociable is to let those participate in the "Challenges" who
> will, and those who won't not do so with no ill-will flowing to any for
> their own choice of prerogatives. Many may highly dislike my view as to
the
> challenges, but if there are any who would take it upon themselves to get
> all petty and pissed about it, then it points up all the more the reason
for
> my distaste and disgust with the control freak disposition which I find it
> necessarily my duty as a liberty loving man with a deep respect for the
> right of people to have and state in no uncertain terms their opinions, to
> do so in no uncertain terms. I regard the "Challenge" as a waste of time
> and talent but if others are getting off on it, let them, lemming over the
> cliff-wise. ;-)
Respect the view, John. Just a coupla things. The challenge has got some
folk out of block. Also, it's produced double figures in published stories.
Alaric
How odd that you take a snipe at every highly praised story when it isn't
yours.
--
"Whether you think you can or you think you can't, you're right."
HENRY FORD
"Allegory60" <alleg...@aol.com> wrote in message
news:20030815115648...@mb-m01.aol.com...
Allegory60
>
I suppose that could be interpreted as a "snipe," but it wasn't intended that
way. I love 19th century writers, but I wouldn't want to write like one. I
just saw that admission as curious. You sure need to snipe at my remarks, don't
you, bub?
Alaric
You stop it. I'll stop it.