Que les poÃ¨tes morts laissent la place aux autres. Et nous pourrions tout de mÃªme voir que c'est notre vÃ©nÃ©ration devant ce qui a Ã©tÃ© dÃ©j? fait, si beau et si valable que ce soit, qui nous pÃ©trifie, qui nous stabilise et nous empÃªche de prendre contact avec la force qui est dessous, que l'on appelle l'Ã©nergie pensante, la force vitale, le dÃ©terminisme des Ã©changes, les menstrues de la lune ou tout ce qu'on voudra.
PISTOL-Say'st thou me so? is that a ton of moys? Come hither, boy: ask me this slave in French What is his name.Boy-Ecoutez: comment etes-vous appele?French Soldier-Monsieur le Fer.Boy- He says his name is Master Fer.PISTOL-Master Fer! I'll fer him, and firk him, and ferret him: discuss the same in French unto him.Boy-I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk.
Kilmartin wrote a highly amusing and illuminating account of his experience as a Proust revisionist, which appeared in the first issue of Ben Sonnenberg's quarterly in the autumn of 1981. The essay opened with a kind of encouragement: 'There used to be a story that discerning Frenchmen preferred to read Marcel Proust in English on the grounds that the prose of was deeply un-French and heavily influenced by English writers such as Ruskin.' I cling to this even though Kilmartin thought it to be ridiculous Parisian snobbery; I shall never be able to read Proust in French, and one's opportunities for outfacing Gallic self-regard are relatively scarce.