"I want to start with my tongue Natale guess your thoughts"
Serge Gainsbourg
my native language, it's been years that the case with me.
You're speaking? English? Arabic? Before such an examination, I am speechless.
My native language is universal, for all newborns. Cooing, gurgling and bellowing. Then before the dazed natives - we later called "parents" - we say we will have to learn the local language if you want be understood.
It therefore begins by force of circumstance, to speak their dialect.
Then the circle grows: the parents become family, the community becomes family and the community becomes home.
In Lebanon, the national dialect, one that vibrates the Cedar and season Hummus within us, which is to our patriotic belly dancing to a tune of techno frenzied, is Arabic. Proud
like cocks, one is from Arabic. "What, you can not write in Arabic? "I hear myself say, the finger mustache and severe. With the air of an outraged Carmelite before the complete works of the Marquis de Sade.
Frankly, cushy, not what you the fart. The Arabs invaded thee, then you speak Arabic. If that were the Chinese, you piss me off in Chinese. And height of shame for the biped arrogant and racist as you are, you belch in Sri Lanka if Sri Lanka had imperial ambitions of extending to the home of your grandparents.
So you caused Arabic, adding a little to please the Turkish Ottomans. Then France has come to put his flag on your beach. Then you began to speak French. To do it well. Singer and your new masters.
But speaking French has served its time. And the Gauls returned home to build a bright future, full tax and RTT.
And fashion has changed.
Today it is more fashionable to speak English. The language of the Enlightenment no longer part of the recipe facing spotlights. Jacques Prevert replaced by Jack Bauer. Darwin, Chapter Arts, the strongest reason is often the stupidest.
We must put ourselves in tune with the new empire. French? Arabic? Today must be the iPhone.
I learned English for the sake of a fine. The beautiful part is, English remained. It has not always what we want.
But hey, do not spit in the soup. Able to read the words of Bukowski as he had typed on his old typewriter rotten, see Woody Allen without subtitles and laughter in the text with the Monty Python and Blackadder is a priceless gift.
"Ok, but your first language, what is it? "People like
categorize, label, it reassures them: first language, second language, third language if we have rich parents. Me, my bar code, it's been that I deleted. And considers all languages as languages materials.
If I could, I would have liked to speak them all. I would have liked to make love in Italian. Singing in English revolution. Yelled the speeders in Japanese. And understanding the secrets of the world with words Apaches.
But hey, I'm not so lucky. I'll just my personal trinity: English, Arabic and French.
I laugh in English, I shouted in Arabic, and I write in French.
And if I write it in French because of France. My France. Not the hexagon
tricolor Mitterrand and Sarkozy. Neither one of DSK, BHL or NTM. No. But the idea "France." That of the Declaration of Human Rights and the Citizen. That of Voltaire, Jaures and De Gaulle. Brassens, Baudelaire and Bertrand Blier. That which rolls on the tongue Michel Audiard.
The Commune, Louise Michel and the cherry season.
The Cyrano and Molière.
Molière, he's one. It is customary to say that the French language is that of Molière. Even the for-me for me formidable Charles Aznavour-sang. That will tell you.
But you who speak French, are you really the language of Molière?
Because the language of Molière denounces the ridiculous Gemstone that still haunt our cultural fairs. The Tartuffe, religious or political, that pollute our airwaves. The Bourgeois Gentleman, balloons imbeciles, unfortunately numerous progeny, who singing with heart and through the ages: "Marquise, love, your beautiful eyes make me die."
Are you really the language of Molière?
Finally, I write in French because it is in French you can read in the Edmond Rostand Cyrano these few words:
"- If you let your soul a bit of a musketeer, Fortune
and glory ... - And what should he do? Seek a protector, to a boss, and as dark ivy which circumvents a trunk and it is a guardian by licking the bark? No thank you. "
In many fine words indeed.
You're speaking? English? Arabic? Before such an examination, I am speechless.
My native language is universal, for all newborns. Cooing, gurgling and bellowing. Then before the dazed natives - we later called "parents" - we say we will have to learn the local language if you want be understood.
It therefore begins by force of circumstance, to speak their dialect.
Then the circle grows: the parents become family, the community becomes family and the community becomes home.
In Lebanon, the national dialect, one that vibrates the Cedar and season Hummus within us, which is to our patriotic belly dancing to a tune of techno frenzied, is Arabic. Proud
like cocks, one is from Arabic. "What, you can not write in Arabic? "I hear myself say, the finger mustache and severe. With the air of an outraged Carmelite before the complete works of the Marquis de Sade.
Frankly, cushy, not what you the fart. The Arabs invaded thee, then you speak Arabic. If that were the Chinese, you piss me off in Chinese. And height of shame for the biped arrogant and racist as you are, you belch in Sri Lanka if Sri Lanka had imperial ambitions of extending to the home of your grandparents.
So you caused Arabic, adding a little to please the Turkish Ottomans. Then France has come to put his flag on your beach. Then you began to speak French. To do it well. Singer and your new masters.
But speaking French has served its time. And the Gauls returned home to build a bright future, full tax and RTT.
And fashion has changed.
Today it is more fashionable to speak English. The language of the Enlightenment no longer part of the recipe facing spotlights. Jacques Prevert replaced by Jack Bauer. Darwin, Chapter Arts, the strongest reason is often the stupidest.
We must put ourselves in tune with the new empire. French? Arabic? Today must be the iPhone.
I learned English for the sake of a fine. The beautiful part is, English remained. It has not always what we want.
But hey, do not spit in the soup. Able to read the words of Bukowski as he had typed on his old typewriter rotten, see Woody Allen without subtitles and laughter in the text with the Monty Python and Blackadder is a priceless gift.
"Ok, but your first language, what is it? "People like
categorize, label, it reassures them: first language, second language, third language if we have rich parents. Me, my bar code, it's been that I deleted. And considers all languages as languages materials.
If I could, I would have liked to speak them all. I would have liked to make love in Italian. Singing in English revolution. Yelled the speeders in Japanese. And understanding the secrets of the world with words Apaches.
But hey, I'm not so lucky. I'll just my personal trinity: English, Arabic and French.
I laugh in English, I shouted in Arabic, and I write in French.
And if I write it in French because of France. My France. Not the hexagon
tricolor Mitterrand and Sarkozy. Neither one of DSK, BHL or NTM. No. But the idea "France." That of the Declaration of Human Rights and the Citizen. That of Voltaire, Jaures and De Gaulle. Brassens, Baudelaire and Bertrand Blier. That which rolls on the tongue Michel Audiard.
The Commune, Louise Michel and the cherry season.
The Cyrano and Molière.
Molière, he's one. It is customary to say that the French language is that of Molière. Even the for-me for me formidable Charles Aznavour-sang. That will tell you.
But you who speak French, are you really the language of Molière?
Because the language of Molière denounces the ridiculous Gemstone that still haunt our cultural fairs. The Tartuffe, religious or political, that pollute our airwaves. The Bourgeois Gentleman, balloons imbeciles, unfortunately numerous progeny, who singing with heart and through the ages: "Marquise, love, your beautiful eyes make me die."
Are you really the language of Molière?
Finally, I write in French because it is in French you can read in the Edmond Rostand Cyrano these few words:
"- If you let your soul a bit of a musketeer, Fortune
and glory ... - And what should he do? Seek a protector, to a boss, and as dark ivy which circumvents a trunk and it is a guardian by licking the bark? No thank you. "
In many fine words indeed.
Published in "Health Beauty" - January 2011
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