Harry Potter Lives On Forever

NB: This post is dedicated to my younger siblings, who share in my joy for this series. I love you both!

It's not hard to figure out via context clues and my obsessive ramblings, that I adore the Harry Potter books. Not everyone understand this, which I can appreciate. Still, there are many that shared my sadness when the series concluded a little over a year ago.

So, when J.K. Rowling announced the publication of a new book, The Tales of Beedle the Bard (which figured prominently in the last book of the series), I was among those rejoicing. But wait! I'm abroad! How will I ever find this lovely text in this strange and foreign land?

Fear not! A few weeks ago I read in the promotional newsletter for my favourite bookstore, La Boîte à Livres (the box of boxes) that I could expect to see Les Contes de Beedle le Barde very soon! Therefore, I went and obtained my very own copy today. I haven't started reading it yet -- I am going to try to really stretch it out.

Here is the lovely cover:



I adore the design and layout -- old-school is the way to go. J.K. Rowling did the illustrations inside as well, but I am not photographing those because everyone should go find a copy in a local bookstore to enjoy the surprise.

Of course, I am very excited about eventually getting the English version too and comparing the two editions. In reading the original series in French, I pick up on slight translational liberties.

Poem for Monday

Rather than exclaim over my shock at how cold it is for an April day, I'll substitute by offering a personal poem. When my French class last semester centered around poetry analysis, I found it extremely challenging. Because I lack a musical ear, I struggled with hearing the syllabic breakdowns and rhythms. However, I still enjoyed penning small poems in French. This poem grew out of that experience.


in translation

when I write to you in
French
it becomes a labour
of love, of course and
of academia, of deliberation

and yet too scientific
les pieds se mêlent—
I count the syllables, weigh
The hémistiche
like the scientist
who titrates carefully
o the wonders of analytical thought!

instead,I write in
my mother tongue
whose kind nature
and comfortable contours
that familiarity and welcome

reminds me of you

La Negritude

The French class I am currently taking is L’experience noir en la littérature de la Caraïb et l’Afrique, or The Black Experience in Caribbean and African literature. Normally I would have taken French Romantic Poetry, or Women Writers of Medieval France, or even Modern France and Advertising. However, none of those classes or anything similar was available this semester. I knew taking a semester off would probably result in a degeneration of my French knowledge, so I reluctantly signed up for L’experience noir.
Aside from some difficulty earlier in the poetry analysis (who knew scansion was triply difficult in French?), the class has done a wonderful job exposing me to writers that I’ve never encountered in English or in French. Currently the topic is the movement “La Negritude,” which was a French literary and social movement inspired by the American Harlem Renaissance. The writings of Damas—short, powerful, staccato poems—and of Césaire—violent and rebellious exhortations—are fascinating. Even though I personally cannot join these men in proclaiming my strength and pride in my African or Caribbean ethnicity (my WASP status is fairly concrete), it’s stirring and emotional to just read their words. The call to arms for human rights after centuries of oppression applies to many peoples throughout history and not only to one particular place or time.

mais l’œvre de l’homme vient seulement de commencer
…
et aucune race ne possède le monopole de la beauté, de l’intelligence, de la force

[but the work of man has just begun
…
and no race possesses a monopoly on beauty, on intelligence, on strength]

from Aimé Césaire’s Cahier d’un retour au pays natal