This week, French newspapers revealed a social fact that was as evocative as it was unusual. The Council of State has just banned the construction of a wind farm in the Illiers-Combray region. The village is home to Aunt Léonie’s house, which has become the Marcel Proust museum. Further on, landscapes marvelously described in the first volumes ofIn Search of Lost Time. Attack on intangible and literary heritage, the judges mentioned before ruling against the regional transformation project. Neither Swann’s side nor Guermantes’ side will be desecrated. Proustians breathe.
So many literary pilgrims visit the beautiful Thironne valley in memory of the great writer. A fruitful cultural industry has flourished in places so preserved that we believe we perceive them through the eyes of the author. Would he have, from beyond the grave, a century and a century after his death, taken on the fight for the environment by sacrificing the source of his memories? Yes. No. Maybe. Beyond the impact of anti-wind turbine decisions such as “not in my backyard!” » — the mayor of Illiers-Combray was opposed to the project — you still have to live in France to witness the triumph of literature over the contingencies of the day. It’s velvety. As if certain territories of words and brilliant inspiration should remain sacred. Flags of civilization mocking the industrial and ecological imperatives of a 21st centurye century unknown to Proust.
We can, with good reason, criticize the old motherland for its immoderate use of English words in order to appear chic and trendy. The fact remains that France indeed remains (until when? That…) a cultural exception on the world map. Bookstores, small theaters, museums and repertory cinemas still flourish almost everywhere. Great music, jazz, the melodies of the world continue to resonate around the corners of the streets. The basic vocabulary and syntax remain mouth-watering despite everything. Roughly speaking, the fact of having letters does not constitute an outdated heritage for an average open-minded Frenchman, rather a feather in his cap. And references to great writers can break through a banal conversation without pedantry, flowing naturally.
But there, the landscape changes with clicks and “ schedules “. A French friend assured me that he had never before seen, even in working-class circles, homes without the shadow of a library. Today, yes. Not only by dematerialization of novels and essays on tablets; more and more by erosion of interest.
Many complaints come to us from France (as well as here) about the loss of cultural references, poor education in full school attendance and the perverse effect of social media on reading habits and the power of concentration. . But it’s all about proportion. A civilization with prestigious thousand-year-old roots loses its traces less quickly than elsewhere. The taste for debates of ideas with resounding arguments remains alive. As for literature, it refuses to die in the land of Voltaire, Balzac and Proust. For now, at least.
This season, the works that are candidates for the major French literary prizes are being dissected in full media forums by columnists and specialists who have read them, like several members of their audience. Here, how many of us have devoured the two Quebec novels competing for these laurels from across the Atlantic? May our joy remains, by Kevin Lambert, and What I know about you, by Éric Chacour, (already awarded in Monaco) explore registers at the antipodes: the first, a teeming social fresco; the second, an intimate sonata of infinite passion. Both remarkable. In contrast, background culture does not constitute a value in Quebec, except in increasingly restricted circles. As in the midst of the Great Darkness (cf. The Plouffes), a high-level athlete is always considered with respect; and an intellectual, with contempt. Where both deserve general admiration.
Nowadays, by focusing on the United States (and much less on France), we lose language and time markers. Literature, both a reflection of identity and a door to the world, perceived by many as an elitist and suspicious leisure activity, does not play its role of enlightening consciences.
Sometimes, I wish for a real revolution of values to invite reading into our homes to preserve words and inspire the most beautiful escapes. It’s crazy how much we can dream sometimes. Despite the headwinds, I almost believe it.