On Being French

Sometimes I envy myself for being part of this wonder, the French culture. Sometimes I envy myself for being able to pay the tribute to the stereotype of the French: drink a bit of wine, sitting in a rock-chair covered with a blanket and reading the ingenious Paul Verlaine. Well, maybe it is just my own stereotype. Yet, should there be anything more to life that Le Ciel est, par-dessus le toit etc. etc.

Le ciel est, par-dessus le toit,
Si beau, si calme!
Un arbre, par-dessus le toit,
Berce sa palme.

La cloche, dans le ciel qu'on voit,
Doucement tinte,
Un oiseau sur l'arbre qu'on voit,
Chante sa plainte.

Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, la vie est là,
Simple et tranquille.
Cette paisible rumeur-là
Vient de la ville.

-Qu'as-tu fait, ô toi que voilà
Pleurant sans cesse,
Dis, qu'as-tu fait, toi que voilà,
De ta jeunesse?

By the way, found an article on this poem (http://www.textetc.com/workshop/wt-verlaine-2.html
), where they break it into pieces and analyze. I always wondered, why would anybody do such a thing to a poem. Why can’t you just enjoy it.

Good night, I say to my wife.