Brittany in Spring

Like Proust - extensively - says so better than I could ever wish to, all places are for us first of all names. It's the name that we come across somehow - through a book, a movie, a television show, a tale from a friend or relative - and then we dream about the image it evokes in our mind, the idea we create of the place, intertwined with what we heard or read about it. Most of the times, the idea is quite different from the reality, but unlike Proust, that doesn't usually lets me down, much the opposite - the differences I find and the unexpected impressions I get are always a source of delight and one of the reasons why I always love to travel. I remember how surprised I was to be stunned by the Venus the Milo's beauty, I had seen it reproduced countless times and I thought it would be just a tick on a check list, but the real thing's beauty is unreproduceable, as so many other works of art and, much more, places and landscapes, are.

So, for me Brittany was at first the setting of the adventures of Astérix, then of Corentin and where the French corsairs came from; later I loved the stories of druids and megaliths and the Arthurian legends, then there were several exciting Arsène Lupin's cases, and the bande dessinée of Bourgeon. Of course, what I found was very different, but it was anyway mingled with the evocation of those memories - besides, all this preamble is mostly to try to convey how I choose my travel destinations.

We started our trip in Nantes, the historical capital of the Duchy of Brittany, even if today is not administratively part of Brittany. It's a very nice city; not stunning but very pleasant and it seems to be very liveable. Some nice historical buildings, lots of pleasant squares and lively cafés, terraces by the Loire, lots of young people. We visited the cathedral and the castle of the Dukes of Brittany, strolled along the streets and squares of the city centre, the beautiful Passage Pommeraye, the bank of the Loire with its terraces and the modern sculpture Les Anneaux. We also had our first taste of the Breton galettes de sarrasin, accompanied with cider in bowls, a dish we loved and ate everywhere during the trip. And to top the Nantes experience we met an internet friend from there who was an excellent and informative guide.

The girl at the car rental was called Tiphaine - another evocative name: Tiphaine Raguenel, Bertrand Du Guesclin! There are real girls called Tiphaine. We drove to Rennes, the capital of the Brittany region. It's smaller than Nantes, more beautiful - our first sight of lots of old timber framed houses. Again, an imposing cathedral, lively squares and café terraces - and of course tasty galettes! - the big Place du Parlement de Bretagne, and bilingual street signs, with the Germanic Breton language that unfortunately I didn't hear anyone speak (there are not many Breton speakers left).

Le Mont Saint-Michel - another magical name! It is an impressive sight, rising from the sea on the horizon of a green and golden plain with placid sheep grazing. It was getting late in the day, so we felt we didn't have enough time to visit it at leisure - and the busloads of tourist weren't exactly encouraging either - so we just contemplated it from the shore, in all its gothic fairytale splendour. I hope I will visit it properly some day, preferably in winter, it must be quite a sight in bad weather.

On the road to Saint-Malo we passed Cancale, a beautiful seaside village, a little reminiscent of our Sesimbra, with the bluest sea and shining like a colourful jewel under the late afternoon sun.

Saint-Malo - another magical name: the corsairs, Corentin, Chateaubriand! We stayed at a small hotel inside the walled city. Very touristic, but still evocative of its adventurous past, the walls are impressive and the small islands with its fortresses are beautiful - among them the Grand Bé with the tomb of Chateaubriand (I remembered his text detailing how he chose the place). We also sau the tomb of Jacques Cartier in Saint Vincent Cathedral - lots of Quebecois flags around the city, as well as the austere Breton flag with the ermine queues.

After Saint-Malo, Dinan, another beautiful walled city with a small castle, old timber framed houses and a beautiful romanesque church. There is a statue of Du Guesclin in a big square, and the city centre still reminds one of the Hundred Years War. And we had more tasty galettes in a nice and shady café terrace.

We took the coastal road and passed through Ploumanac'h, a nice beach resort in the pink granite coast - so named on account of the colour of the granite boulders. The weather was sunny and the sea shined blue. We then went inland, along the landes, rough flattish moors of shrubs. We stopped at Morlaix for a beer and a dinner of - guess what? galettes! - and went on to Quimper.

Quimper is another small Breton city, with timber framed houses, a canal, and a beautiful cathedral. One could think by this time we had had enough of these cities, but far from it; they're all different and each one has its peculiar charm.

From Quimper, we went to Carnac - menhir country. Hundreds, thousands of menhirs. One cannot but wonder why they should have assembled there so many big erect boulders, but then one remembers it was Obélix paying for a favour to the ancient owner of the field, and it becomes clear. Anyway, it makes for an eerie and somewhat nostalgic sight.

Concarneau is a small fishing town, with a little walled part, very touristic, full of shops selling Breton staples as kouign amann and kouignettes - a very buttery pastry.

We finished our trip in Vannes, yet another beautiful town with the usual timber framed houses, cathedral, cafés, galettes, and a nice marina.

I really enjoyed the short taste of Brittany I had - I would like to linger at that coast, take long walks along the cliffs and just laze in a long-chair with an ice cream under the mild Breton sun. And we didn't even have any rain! (Brittany is famous for its rainy weather all year long). I love France and its language so much, and the people are so much nicer outside Paris -
they were always kind and willing to help with directions and such. I look forward to go back.

La Prisonnière, de Marcel Proust

I absolutely love Proust, and it has been a major pleasure to finally read him in French. I don't think I ever found such a truthful depiction of feelings and human relationships, from love to jealousy and how one cares to be judged by others and judge others. And the writing is just SO beautiful I would like it to go on forever - yes, even longer than it already is.

Peste & Choléra, de Patrick Deville

I knew nothing about Yersin's life, just the name of the plague bacteria, Yersinia pestis. So this book was a discovery - what a life! The book is very well written, and the story of Yersin's life is fascinating, and the narrative very cleverly interweaves it with his times' history. This was one of 3 books I was recently given by a good friend, that brought them from France to acquaint me with some of the contemporary French fiction - the others were La Mort du Roi Tsongor and Parles-leur de natailles, de rois et d'éléphants. They are all good, and I just love to find new authors.

A likeable boy

There are some patients that awake paternal feelings, and we find ourselves caring for them in a somewhat tender way, even if rationally we sometimes feel annoyed by their mistakes or behaviour.

I first met this patient at the ER - a type 1 diabetic in his early twenties, blind from diabetic retinopathy, pale from a hemoglobin under 7 g/dl, swollen from accumulated fluid, vomiting from a urea level above 300 mg/dl, with a sky high blood pressure. A classic case of end-stage renal disease caused by diabetic nephropathy, that for lack of timely treatment had reached an advanced stage we fortunately seldom see today. My first reaction was to feel angry: "how on Earth someone reaches this state nowadays?". Then I talked to him. He came from a lower-class family; his mother had just died a few days before, his father had left them long ago, and he lived with a younger brother. His mother was his caretaker, not a very efficient one, struggling with the depression that drove her to suicide, and his care had been haphazard, he didn't even know he had renal disease. He was combative and argumentative, he didn't want to start dialysis at first - such is the bad reputation this treatment has, even if it's so undeserved and mostly based on ignorance - but of course he yielded, and we started to treat him. He was discharged from the hospital after a few days, slimmed down to his normal weight and mostly asymptomatic.

He has been my patient since then, and a difficult patient. Being blind and living most of the time by himself - his younger brother, though affectionate and caring towards him, is away most of the time, and he stubbornly refuses his father's help, who is not that interested in him anyway - his medication is totally haphazard, not to speak of his diet, and he often comes to dialysis with a 4 or 5 kg weight gain, a glycemia above 300, and a blood pressure in its 200s/100s. No matter how many medication charts we'd send home, we always knew he took his pills or his insulin in a completely aleatory way, and of course his diet was appalling.

But then, even as we nag him, we cannot stop ourselves from liking him. He's a young man from a tough neighbourhood, and he always tries to play the ruffian - he even managed to get himself arrested once, for stealing at a convenience store, which puzzled me, with him being blind and at the time in a wheelchair - he is always combative and argumentative, and sticks small rolls of toilet paper in his ears during dialysis, which make him look like a funny young Yoda. He's terribly resilient, the only diabetic I know to survive a Fournier's gangrene. But even when I joke with him about his getting an ear piercing to look prettier I'm always worried, I'm always waiting for the day he will have a brain bleeding because of his uncontrolled blood pressure, a ravaging sepsis or a fatal hypoglycemia.

So yesterday I was really happy because, after the nth medication change (I always try to make it as simple as I can), his blood pressure was perfect. I heartily congratulated him, and he smiled a proud grin, saying: "yeah, it looks like you got it right this time!", and I somehow felt moved, felt like stroking his head and giving him a fatherly kiss - which of course I didn't. Like so many of my patients, I feel responsible for him, and every therapeutic success, how small or short-lived it may be, feels like a victory. I know this will be short-lived, I know he will die soon, from one of the many complications he is vulnerable to, and I feel angry about my helplessness to help him, as to help so many other of my patients. This kid is old enough to be my son, I would like to protect him, to care for him,but there is so little I can do.

The Bloody Chamber, by Angela Carter

I had heard very flattering critics of Angela Carter's books, but had never read anything by her. I watched Neil Jordan's movie The Company of Wolves years ago, thought it was nice but didn't move me much. I was surprised and impressed by this book. The writing is absolutely stunning, like a colourful tapestry embroidered with jewels,and the tales are exquisitely rendered, reminding me of Bruno Bettelheim's The Uses of Enchantment, a book I loved when I read it, many years ago. Angela Carter's writing is strong, beautiful and erotic, and a joy to read.

Den Goda Viljan, by Ingmar Bergman

This was the second book I read in Swedish. I watched the series by Bille August before, so I knew the story, which made it easier to read and also made me picture the characters as the actors looked like in the movie. Beautiful story, and beautiful writing; there were many words I didn't understand and had to look up, but I was happy to understand enough to be able to read it pleasantly. I think my next Swedish book will be Lanterna Magica, since I'm now acquainted with Bergman's writing.

A trip to Naples and Pompeii

I loved my recent trip to Naples and Pompeii. Arriving in Rome, at the Termini train station, when one presses the button "English" on the ticket vending machines, there pops up a message: "beware of pickpockets!", which reminds me how my wife was mugged as soon as we arrived in Rome, the first time I've been there, many ears ago. Familiar territory, then. The train to Naples takes only about an hour.

The city centre in Naples is very different from most European cities, usually gentrified and made up for tourists. Not here - the city centre is dirty, chaotic, lived in, and it feels like a refreshing place, no "boutique" hotels or "gourmet" places, but crowds of local people going about their business, cars and motorbikes driving everywhere, tourist shops amid local shops, food stalls where local people queue to eat, etc. And then there are lots of churches, among them the beautiful Duomo and San Domenico, and the small museum of the Capella Sansevero with the veiled Christ. The old Scapanapoli is a feast for the eyes, and it's always nice to eat an icecream or a babá au rum.

On the second day I walked along the corniche, from the Castelnuovo until the Donanna palace, along the beautiful bay. It looks like a different world from the sleazy city centre, with the stately buildings and the gorgeous views over the sea and the Vesuvius. The funicolare takes us to the Vomero neighbourhood, to castel Sant'Elmo, from where we can enjoy superb views over the city and the bay. The affluent neighbourhoods of Mergellina and Posillipo seemed miles away from the hectic centre, a sign of the city's diversity.

The Archeological Museum has a stunning collection, even if it's somewhat haphazardly shown. Great statues, amazing paintings and mosaics from Pompeii, not much information and a sad cafeteria with vending machines - couldn't they have set up a café?

Then a visit to Pompeii - I always wanted to go there, ever since reading about Winckelman's diggings when I was a child. The city is just amazing, one can really feel how this was a real city, extremely modern in many ways - the speed bumps, the night reflectors, the baths, the food stalls - and the decorated villas are just stunning. I could spend whole days there, exploring the streets, the villas and their beautiful frescoes, the theatres, shops, etc. The setting is beautiful, with the hills and the volcano in the background. The casts of the people killed and buried by the eruption are impressive and moving. One wonders how a big city would look like in the heyday of Roman times, from this small sample...How would have been Rome, Athens, Ephesus, Alexandria?

Back to Naples, we decided not to go to the Amalfi coast, beautiful as it must be, but rather enjoy a last day in the city. We visited the Capodimonte Museum - amazing collection of Renaissance painting, and very well displayed for a change - and then walked down from the museum to the city centre - popular narrow streets, with corny altars in every corner, lines of drying clothes, busy small shops. Toured the busy narrow streets of the centre and the Spagnioli quarter again, ate more ice creams and babas. It felt really good relaxing around this lively city, watching the scenic vistas over the bay and the Vesuvius, drinking strong espressos and eating tasting pizzas. Naples is a wonderful town, and it really made me look forward to know more of Southern Italy, and Sicily... Another time.

Pumpkinflowers - A Soldier's Story, by Matti Friedman

I knew about Matti Friedman, as about so many other people and stuff, on Facebook, through a good Israeli friend. She praised me his book The Aleppo Codex, which made me read it, and I liked it very much; I have since been reading his articles, always sensible, intelligent and articulate, so I was looking forward to reading his new book, that was published early this month. So, my expectations were high, and I was not in the least disappointed, actually it's even better than I expected. It's a very well written story, moving, engaging and thought provoking. Through its characters, ordinary - even if I dislike to use this word, because each one comes out as a unique and interesting individual - young men who find themselves right after high school in the middle of a dangerous, bloody and seemingly pointless low level war, one gets a clear and poignant picture of the violence and senselessness of war, and how meaningless and wasteful it all seems. Young boys die, huge human potential is lost, the status quo goes on; the similarities to other conflicts, other lives equally wasted is often evoked along the narrative's several allusions to the trenches of WWI and the sad and beautiful poetry of boys like Owen or Brooke. This doesn't mean these young men, the author included, were pacifists, they were all conscious of the need to protect a vulnerable country surrounded by enemies and willing to risk their lives to do it, even if they were probably not aware of what it really entailed, as young men usually aren't, with the youth's belief in its own invulnerability.

One of the things I liked most about the book is how it balances an articulate and sharp view of the historical and general context and a humane and insightful description of the individual people involved. He captures excellently the mood of the soldiers, the families, as of the country after the war, affectionately but never condescendingly. His analysis of the conflict and its consequences is lucid and realistic. Another thing I liked much was how he shows how our convictions, expectations and perspectives change with the events along the years, and how our appraisals are far from static, and what we believe to have been "always like this" actually changes a lot is as little a couple of decades - a good lesson lots of people should understand to think twice before embracing radical beliefs or making bombastic and too staunch statements.

The last part is particularly impressive, one really gets an eerie feeling of unreality and one turns the pages as in a thriller, almost as if one was there oneself, besides the narrator, driving on a simultaneously familiar and alien land, meeting these nice individuals that yet are the enemy. And again one is reminded that, in spite of all that divides us, we are all pretty much the same.

All in all, a great book, and I highly recommend it.

História do Novo Nome, de Elena Ferrante

This is the second part of the story of two Neapolitan friends by Elena Ferrante. At first, I wasn't enjoying it very much, the first chapters seemed inferior to the first book, somewhat repetitive, but then the story caught strength and it became just as good. The characters are credible and real, the author really knows how to convey the different stages and feelings involved in a deep friendship, and the depiction of the narrator's struggle to come out of her poor and hopeless background is excellent. It's also a very good fresco of the life at the times the novel is set. So, looking forward for the third volume.

O Retorno, de Dulce Maria Cardoso

A very good book, about something that has been very seldom written about, the return of half a million people from the Portuguese colonies in 1975. I remember very well the returnees, for whom I felt at the time sympathy and solidarity, also because, having just returned myself from 2 years in Cape Vert, I was a little acquainted with the kind of life they had left behind, and because they seemed to me different from the boring familiar people of the metropolis, with different experiences and freer mores. I had several good friends among them at the time; later I understood they were not exotic or special, just people who got caught in the consequences of a misguided policy and who tried to cope how they could, and that the apparent "specialness" was mostly bragging to feel like they were compensating for what they had lost. And that's why I liked this book so much, I think it expresses extremely well the situation, how they were and what they went through, not using the pretence to glamour like so many of them did, and in that way being so much more true to how it really was. It is also an excellent depiction of the atmosphere of the times - the revolutionary period, with its absurdities that seem so strange now. All in all, a very strong narrative, and I hope more people would write about this period that is being forgotten without ever having been duly analysed.

Margarita e o Mestre, de Mikhail Bulgákov

I had heard about this book for a long time, but didn't have any idea of how it was. I was very surprised - after a few pages, when someone's head is chopped off by a tram car, it's just like embarking on a rollercoaster of a surrealistic absurd. The writing is light, funny and witty, and it reminded me of other fantastic novels, like Manuscript found at Zaragoza. There is a background of social critic of the Soviet society and the absurd of burocracy, but always subtle and intelligent. A nice surpise.

Mémoires d'Outre-Tombe, volume 3, de Chateaubriand

The first chapters of this third volume of Chateaubriand's memoirs seemed less interesting than the previous volumes, but then it gained momentum and I really enjoyed it. Chateaubriand was a fascinating mixture of a conservative with some progressive ideas, guess today he would have been a social-democrat. I totally disagree with his monarchic and religious views, but his writing is superb, and he can really bring life to his depictions of diplomatic and political life in the 19th century, so similar to our own times in so many ways - some things never change? And his account of the July Revolution is extremely lively.

A Amiga Genial, de Elena Ferrante

I had heard about Elena Ferrante for a while, and it made me want to try some book of hers; I did, and it was a good bet. The writing is very good, and she has the talent to depict a friendship and an atmosphere, in this case the poor suburbs of Naples, that truly come alive through her writing. It's a coming of age novel, a novel of mores and the characters are true and credible. It makes me want to read the other novels in the series.

Afirma Pereira, de António Tabucchi

This is an excellent book by an Italian-Portuguese author. I had read before Mulher de Porto Pim, and liked it, but this one is much better. He writes really well, and the story reminded me somewhat of Saramago's O Ano da Morte de Ricardo Reis - it is set in the same time period, the 30s in Lisbon - but I think I liked this better. Simulataneously sad and hopeful, which is quite an achievement.

Contos, volume II, de Anton Tchekhov

It's always such a pleasure to read Tchekhov. In a simple language and a few sentences, that makes it seem so easy to write, he knows like no one else to sketch a situation, a few characters, the story flows so perfectly, and soon one is inside the story, and in the end it leaves a deep impression. I think he's probably the best short stories writer I know, a par with Maupassant and, in a completely different style, Raymond Carver.

Número Zero, de Umberto Eco

A nice read, but very weak considering Umberto Eco's previous books - not to mention the classic The Name of the Rose, the subject of conspiracy theories had already been superbly dealt with in Foucault's Pendulum, and much, much better. Of course it's always nice to read his erudite and entertaining prose, but one feels somewhat disappointed by this book.

The Children Act, by Ian McEwan

I have been an admirer of Ian McEwan ever since I read The Cement Garden, the first of his books that came my way. His writing is always beautifully articulate and precise, and the subjects are always interesting and intelligently dealt with. The Children Act is no exception - a beautifully written book, with an interesting plot very intelligently depicted. Sometimes his elaborate writing verges a little on the pedantic and can be a bit boring, but he always strikes me as a most sensible and intelligent voice. This book deals with religion and justice, and even if I think the development of the boy's character is a little farfetched, it still is a very good book. Not his best, but then his standards are very high.

Meursault, contre-enquête, de Kamel Daoud

I love the writing of Camus, and even if my favorite of his books is La Peste, I also like L'Étranger a lot. So, I was curious when I knew about this Meursault contre-enquête, inspired by a very secondary character in Camus' novel, the Arab Meursault kills almost unconsciously. I always find interesting versions and variations inspired by good books' stories or characters - it always comes to mind the magnificent Wide Sargasso Sea, inspired by the first Mrs. Rochester in Jane Eyre, that actually impressed me more than the original. Books about books, like in The Name of the Rose, how can an incorrigible bookworm not be teased?

Meursault contre-enquête is a good book, although very far from the Camus novel. Very well written, even if a little repetitive, it expresses the sadness and frustration of a country caught in post-colonial impasse, something common to so many post-colonial countries, that can no longer blame their problems on colonialism but still haven't just not found their way. I have read some of Kamel Daoud's texts about Algeria, and he seems to be a sensible voice in a confused and mostly clueless region.

Kejsarn av Portugallien, av Selma Lagerlöf

So this is the first book I read in Swedish. A very beautiful story of love and longing, and I'm thankful to my Swedish friend who suggested it, because the language is easy and I could understand almost every word and didn't need to use a dictionary, not even once. I'm not familiar with Selma Lagerlöf's work, apart from Nils Holgersson, and I liked it very much, so guess I will try another one soon. And, as I expected from what I've already learned of the language in movies and tv series, Swedish has a poetic and melodic cadence, that I love.

The Inconvenient Indian - A Curious Account of Native People in North America, by Thomas King

I saw this book in Canada, and ordered it from Amazon after I got back. It's a good book, about the plight of Native Americans, or the First Nations, or just Indians, whatever we choose to call them. And it's a depressing story, as I already knew, and an enduring problem. Whether it's the North American Indians, the Australian Aborigines or the South American Amerindians, one cannot be but depressed about the fate of those peoples who were vanquished and had their way of life destroyed by the Europeans. But then what happened cannot be undone, and what can it be done now about them? It's not easy, and I don't think there it's possible to keep different civilizations in the same countries, be they Australia, Canada, the USA or other. Along the centuries of Human history, civilizations rose and fell, some peoples conquered other peoples and assimilated them - the Romans are a good example. I didn't see any Indians in Canada, but I remember seeing Aborigines in the Northern Territory in Australia, and I couldn't stop wondering how much better they would be if they were an integral part of the Western society around them. I believe that basic human aspirations are the same everywhere, and that every culture has its value - wouldn't it be possible that these cultures were integrated in our own culture, keeping some of their values, taking what's positive in our civilization, bringing their knowledge, and enjoying the same rights as we do? I know it's not easy, I'm not that naive, but I honestly think it's possible.

The Aleppo Codex, by Matti Friedman

This is a very good book, about the story of one the most important books in the world, the oldest version of the Bible. I saw the book in Jerusalem, at the Shrine of the Book, on exhibition underneath the room of the Dead Sea scrolls, and now I know so much more about it. Very well written and exhaustively researched, Matti Friedman's book reads like a thriller - the story of how the codex was brought from Aleppo to Jerusalem, and the search for the missing pages - actually the most important part of the book, including the Torah. It also tells the story of the Middle Eastern Jews, their plight after the founding of the state of Israel and the hardships they faced on their emigration to Israel. I really liked this book, and am looking forward to read more of Matti Friedman's work - and I'm proud to count him among my Facebook friends.

L'Étranger, de Albert Camus

I read L'Étranger many years ago, and I liked it, but didn't remember it all that well, just the feeling I had got from it, not the details, and now I wanted to read Meursaul Contre-Enquête and so I reread it. It's a superb book, extremely well written, and that really makes us shiver. Two things are impressive about it: the personality of the main character, Meursault, his indifference and emotional detachment, a kind of existentialist anti-hero, and the fear that that difference from the norm inspires in the society, that makes him be condemned, not because of the murder, but because of his coldness on the face of his mother's death, a symbol of what apparently puts him on a different emotional / moral category from the others, ad it makes them so uncomfortable that they just prefer to condemn him, like they were eliminating a disease, a potential threat to their cosy notion of life. It's not my favorite book by Camus - that's La Peste, that now I want to reread too - but it's nevertheless an excellent and disturbing book.

Sodome et Gomorrhe, de Marcel Proust

I reread it again, now in French, and was so overwhelmed as the other times. Proust writes so perfectly, he has such an incredible grasp of people's feelings and such a mastery of words and language that one is always wondering how can someone convey these things so accurately. It's interesting how what he says about emotions, or homosexuality, can be so actual, it shows how human nature has changed so little in 100 years - but then, isn't the extraordinary insight of men like Montaigne or Marcus Aurelius a proof that it hasn't changed for many centuries? Anyway, it's always an immense pleasure to read Proust, À la recherche du temps perdu is definitely the book I would take to that desert island.

Clear Light of Day, by Anita Desai

This is a good book about family relationships, childhood and growing old, set in the fascinating period of the Partition of India and Pakistan. It's really well written, and it conveys a very impressive atmosphere, which is something I always appreciate in a novel. I discovered this book through a list made by Salman Rushdie in some newspaper, and the recommendations of a favourite author are always worthwhile.

Goodbye to a sweet cat

On Christmas Eve, as calmly and sweetly as she always lived, she died - just stopped breathing while she was cuddling on my chest, like a candle that burns out. She was named Morgana, but coulnd't be more different from her namesake, that scheming and evil sorceress. Ever since she was brought into the house, she was the most nice and easy going cat one can imagine. I remember the day when my 10 year-old son came in with a couple of kittens and a school friend (for protection, I used to do the same, to bring along a friend when I wanted to ask something from my parents, hoping they would be more lenient in front of a third party...), saying triumphantly: "They are abandoned! We must rescue them!" - because recently he had asked me for another cat and I had told him we already had Cassandra, and we shouldn't be bringing more pets into the house unless we rescued some by chance... I tried: "So why won't your friend here take them home?", to which the said friend answered promptly: "My mother wouldn't allow!", and I said: "See? If his mother doesn't allow it, why should I?", to which my son immediately said: "Because you're sooo good!" Yep. he always knew how to trick me...

On the next morning, I got a phone call from an angry teacher - apparently, the kittens were not exactly "abandoned" or "rescued". They were the last ones from a litter a stray cat had had at the school, and that teacher had encouraged the kids to adopt them, but with previous parental permission. My son wanted them, and since I hadn't given the said permission, he decided to take matters in his hands. And then there was a little girl, who had honestly asked for her parents permission, and finally got it, and there were no kittens left because they had been stolen by my little lamb... But there were still no candidates for the last kitten, the female, if I allowed it, he could keep it. So, we gave the little male back and kept the female - Morgana - after a due scolding to the little brat - "I had to do something!".

So, she became her pet, and astonishingly they got along fine - I never would have thought a cat would bond with such a hyperactive and annoying kid, but she did, she loved him, he even taught her to give a high five and she eventually became a little like him: nice, easy going, fat, even using her smelly farts as a kind of secret weapon when she was annoyed... She was always the most sociable of all our cats, only in her old age would she sometimes hiss at a younger cat when he wanted to play and she wasn't in the mood.

For a time, she used to alternate the heat with the other female cat, so we used to have always a meowing and langorous cat about the house. Then she had a pyo-uterus and had to undergo surgery, after that she got fatter and quieter. She was pretty healthy until a couple of years ago, when she started to become incontinent and developed a weakness of her hind limbs. She probably had a myelospondiloarthropathy, but she had no pains, so I just let her be. By that time the little lamb had moved out, and she became increasingly attached to me, making my own cat very jealous, but she couldn't care less - she also reminded me of my son with that attitude. And then in the last few months she got thinner and weaker, until she stopped eating, and finally died, quietly and sweetly as she had lived. I miss her, but I think she had a good life and was a always a happy cat - what more can one wish?

Learning to live, every day

I don't remember where I read it, I think it was in the correspondence between Simone de Beauvoir and Nelson Algren when, moruning the end of their love affair, she wrote something like: "Like van Gogh, who had to learn how to live without one ear, so will I have to learn to live without your love, without a part of me." It must have been better stated than this; anyway, even if it is not a particularly well chosen example - after all, van Gogh killed himself later, even if it probably wasn't because of lacking an ear - but somehow this image struck me and stuck in my mind ever since. Because at the time I felt it described exactly how I had felt after my wife's death - I had lost a part of myself, namely my future, the future I had planned / envisioned. Of course one can question why I wouldn't be able to plan another future later, nothing concrete stopped me, but I just couldn't, since then I have been living in the present; having children didn't change that, because their future was (is) theirs, not mine.

Lately, I've been thinking about this, although in another, more selfless, context. Every day I deal with old and sick people, who have to learn how to live without a part of themselves - or several, literally speaking, when they lose limbs for instance. But the part I have been thinking of is mostly their autonomy, their independence. That kind of problem happens more and more as people age - whether they get kidney disease and have to be on dialysis or they have a stroke and become physically or mentally impaired. Very often I'm confronted with people who suffer from those losses, and who ask "how shall I go on living? Is it worth it? Shouldn't I just die?". Well, eventually I think it's each person's choice. As a physician, I try to preserve life and alleviate suffering, as an - in spite of all - optimist, I try to make people value what remains, what they have left. And most of the times, apart from the most terrible and desperate cases where suffering is indeed unbearable and there's no hope of alleviating, when I agree the best is to let Nature have its due, there really is something worthwhile left. Be it family, or friends, or a hobby, or anything one enjoys. Because usually one can learn how to live without an ear, or a wife, or a limb, or one's former autonomy. It's mostly a question of adaptation, and most people are extremely resilient, much more than they would imagine, even in very dire circumstances.

Which brings me to another literary reminiscence, the poem by Susan Coolidge I always think of in my moments of optimism, as I said before, when I think that, whatever hardships one must endure, this life is the only one gets, so one may as well try to make the better of it while it lasts:

New Every Morning

Every day is a fresh beginning,
Listen my soul to the glad refrain.
And, spite of old sorrows
And older sinning,
Troubles forecasted
And possible pain,
Take heart with the day and begin again.

So, let's begin again.

The Lover, by A. B. Yehoshua

This is the third book by Yehoshua I've read - bought one each time I went to Israel - and I liked it again very much. Yehoshua's writing is always excellent, it creates a characteristic rhythm, slow and enchanting. The story deals with love and family relationships, and if it has some weakness, I think it's when it tries to "explain" the lover's character, which I think that, as a catalyst for the action and the other character's feelings, should remain more undefined. But it's a very good book, even if not as good as the other two I've read by him - Mr. Mani and A Journey to the End of the Millenium.

Les Perroquets de la Place d'Arezzo, de Eric Emmanuel-Schmitt

I noticed this book in a bookshop in Quebec, and having read Monsieur Ibrahim et les Fleurs du Coran, and liked it very much, I was interested, so later I bought it and read it. It is a good book, about love and relationships, very readable, some times very sweet and sometimes funny, even if sometimes also a little annoying due to most of its many characters being somewhat stereotyped - there is also one that is clearly based on Dominique Strauss-Kahn. Sometimes you feel there are a little too many characters, and some of the scenes are not very believable, but it's a good read and most of the time you feel entertained in a good way, and it has an optimistic tone that leaves you glad.