Postings from Godot
The other day I looked at the expiration dare for some tofu. 11/7/22, I read. July 11? What kind of fool does that Food Co-op take me for? This is September!
This novel by Violet Kupersmith is the fifth in the series of seven debut novels selected last year by Brooklyn’s Center for Literary Fiction.
Welcome back to September, whatever that means for you.
I strolled into a used bookstore in Versailles France. It’s true.
Recently one morning, a friend said to me, “Bonjour. Comment allez-vous?” This is a picture perfect greeting in some cases, but there are a few exceptions.
When we hear the phrase, “The Storming of the Bastille,” we fell it’s a rousing moment in French history.
Who was W. E. B. Du Bois? First, to pronounce his name. Du Bois rhymes with “Du Choice.”
It’s the season for summer book lists to begin to appear. And I thought, how about some books translated from French that are fun to read?
Bloomsday has come and gone, although James Joyce’s novel Ulysses will still be 100 years old throughout 2022!
REETINGS ! Happy two year anniversary to the blog! And thanks to you who read it avidly or from time to time or even once in a while. Much appreciated! The following post is from June 16, 2020. The 16th of June is the day in the year 1904 that Joyce set his famous...
Bloomsday is a comin’.
I once read that someone would so rather read what it is like to live in a country, say France, than to hear about the tourist highlights. Now, some of the tourist highlights are very important …
In spite of it all, we have to have a laugh.
I’d like to begin with by brainy, fun cousin’s remarks about readers of a certain age.
This is the third in our series of novels, which, when we have read the seven contestants for the debut novelist prize, we will present the people’s vote. But what if you are not reading these?
I’ve been thinking about what it must be like to be waiting for Godot. What are we waiting for again?
Last week you may (or may not) have gleaned that your dedicated blogist had moved that day from Webster, NY, to Rochester, NY, about a half an hour drive away.
Gogo: Hey, Didi, did you hear? We’re the heroes of a literary blog.
One feature of living in a foreign country is that you get a glimpse not only of the current political issues but also the larger trends floating around.
Not long ago on the radio I head a solo piano piece called, I thought,” Le Rossignol a disparu.” Ah, just like Milan Kundera’s nightingale, I thought, who has also disappeared.
It is no wonder that Samuel Beckett set his play, “Waiting for Godot,” in the French countryside with a leafless tree and a moon for company.
I recently listened to a podcast by writer and teacher Maryama Antoine, called, “Toni Morrison, on the pursuit of goodness.” Ah, that word, “goodness.”
The title of the novel The City of Good Death by Priyanka Champaneri, already contains an interesting premise to think about.
The haunting image of a musician playing farewell on her piano to her home that had been by the Russians has chased many other thoughts away.
As the world watches the financial sanctions among other penalties imposed upon Russia and Mr. Putin, the world may be tempted to think that banking problems would be the least of Mr. Putin’s worries.
Last night I listened to historian Timothy Snyder talk about the invasion of Ukraine with American author and social critic Ta-Nehisi Coates.
Today’s post features two books. First, a final reflection on the notion of the outcast, prompted by Camus’ book L’Etranger.
Translation is a funny thing. Because I speak two languages, I am intrigued by how we manage to get from one to another.
Dear Reader, We interrupt our regular programming to talk about the first book in our series of seven. For those of you who don’t know, The Center for Fiction in Brooklyn, NY, presented a contest for debut novelists last December.
Our whole writing4godot began really with a celebration of June 16, the day in 1904 on which James Joyce’s book Ulysses takes place.
Sometimes there’s a short word of interest, a short blog post, a short short story.
The women are still walking! Our tour guide extraordinaire, Chris Friendly, a teacher and historian who lies in Paris, has created walking tours unlike the usual ones found in the usual guidebooks.
Highlights of a walking tour set us firmly on Paris ground, courtesy of historian, teacher and modern-day wit, Chris Friendly.
I once held a session in a computer lab for students learning English. It was a poetry lesson, and we called up pictures of the northern lights for inspiration.
Some French friends and I were recently discussing the idea of the commonwealth of a country. France thinks differently about the common good . . .
Christmas markets, ah, one of the great pleasures of living in Europe.
Today we have a guest blogger, The New Yorker, of all “people.”
Today on my front steps I found a peanut.
And let me say, a postscript is a lovely addition to a letter, or, in this case, a blog.
The value of cheating. First, cheating is fun. It is more fun to do than to read about, I’m guessing.
“What!” you say, upon opening this post. “Where’s Godot?”
Someone asked me what I miss about France in October, and the answer was la Toussaint
Today I’d like to showcase a book called A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan.
One of Canada’s finest short story writers, Mavis Gallant, was an expat writer who lived in Paris for much of her writing life.
Driving. I have refrained from the litany of driving anxiety experiences, only because, well, even I didn’t want to dwell on them.
Art is in the air, literally and figuratively.
It has been sobering and at the same time exhilarating to contemplate the sacrifice of a person who offered her life to fight against the Nazis, pledging herself to freedom.
In his fascinating book, Arthur J. Magida presents the story of Noor Inayat Khan against the backdrop of WW II.
The first thing you notice when standing in front of the gate surrounding Fazil Manzil, Noor’s family home, is the plaque commemorating her deportation.
As I was organizing my papers to begin a part-time teaching position at a small liberal arts college, here in Rochester, I found the prettiest collages French students had made of instruments.