September 12, Speaking in Tongues

Angela writes:

Not long ago our niece Grace, who was visiting with her family, asked me a question many an adult would be advised to ask, including of themselves. She said that Madame had instructed her pupils not to translate from English when they were practicing their French. Yet, after a few days in our house, Grace wondered how this rule of language was working in my case? Was Madame right? Did I ever translate? And if so, from what language?

You will agree that such a question is not easy to answer, to say the least. I was here before a very thoughtful child, and I better chose my words wisely. I could hardly say I was not translating, since that would be close to impossible, especially when – as she had rightfully observed – all these other fragments of language keep wandering through my brain uninvited, blind and rueful. If I am to answer truthfully, I will have to observe, like an outsider, my practice.

Our morning walks – mine and Rocky’s – on the trail, are the place to start. I have called this old railroad trail that used to cross Canada from shore to shore, now reduced to a path for hunters in search of game atop their ATVs, many things since we moved here. Right now I call it the trail of confession and promise. On the way out, eastward, I discuss those things that I consider reprehensible in my recent behavior. They usually concern the manner in which I give in to my fear. This illness has weakened my resolve and brought to their creaky knees all those years of philosophical reading, writing and teaching. Does philosophy teach us how to die? Theoretically yes, maybe. Practically, very little. Between Montaigne, who thinks it does, and Derrida, who only a few years ago found out, not unlike myself, that it does not, I am torn and astray. Theory bends its proud neck under the threat of crossing from this to the other world. One is left with a few grains of dust in one’s hand, the grains of foolish knowledge.

On the way back, westwards, I turn to the Saints. To them – that is, to the ones with whom I have a relationship – I make a promise. We have discussed these weaknesses many times, and my promises are renewed anew without much remorse. They may or may not be kept; the important thing is to keep working on that construction of resolve. Which in the end may prove to be helpful.

Here I come finally to my topic. A person in my condition, most often in the company of my dog, and, while on the trail, happening upon beaver, or falling under the diligent gaze of a good number of cows, needs to speak aloud to keep that priceless gift of speech alive. What language do you think I use, when I speak alone, that is, with my dog, the beaver, the cows, and my Saints? Mostly French. Sometimes Romanian, when the matter is grave beyond redemption, and the skies really gray. But there will be only a few, well-weighed words in that language.

French because I miss speaking and hearing French, it is a fact. Yet I figure, once in the world beyond, languages must loose their specificity and become interchangeable. They must sound like Fredo Viola’s Sad Song. Everybody should understand everybody else without effort, regardless of the language they speak, and what is left of that old specificity is the affective color of that language in tatters still used. Nowadays, because I paint, and because every single painting is a submission to my first teacher of the art, my own French Madame, I take the liberty to speak French to my Saints while promising to strengthen my resolve. They certainly get the color of my language, which is the color of affection, foolish knowledge, bonheur and still time at once.

Of course I did not tell Grace this story quite in so many words. To her, for now, I said the choice of language and the manner of speech had to do with whom one spoke to, what one had just read, or who had visited her in her dreams. Although quite often nowadays, the first thing I ask Colin when we wake up in the morning is:

“Cit e ceasul?”