Still Cool, Brah?

I have noticed that I frequently zone out during class, and tune back in ten or fifteen minutes later to find that our discussion on computational theories of cognition has turned into an argument about whether babies are really people or not.  I have also noticed that I pay better attention when I take notes in pictures instead of words.  This could be an interesting semester.

And Yet, Still Majoring in French

Sorry for the late post.  Due to me not understanding how to use my cell phone, the weekly "DON'T FORGET YOU HAVE A BLOG!" alarm failed to fire. 

The French take an indescribable, meticulous fascination in distilling every nuance from the slightest of emotions.  I base this conclusion on four years of reading France's answer to The Catcher in the Rye mixed with Where the Red Fern Grows à la Slaughterhouse Five.

First, it is a law that characters must die in every single work of fiction penned by a French hand.  Not only that, but they must die painfully, and their deaths must cause untold agony for those who once knew them.  (Readers included.)  Death by drowning, by poison, by gunshot, or simply by wasting away of misery--these are the only acceptable ends for fictional residents of the Hexagon.

Second, the characters who don’t die (or who remain woefully alive until the end of the story) are required to be unhappy.  Their wives or husbands should be unfaithful.  Their shops should do badly.  Their children or lovers should die.  Extra points if they kill their own cat by throwing it against a wall.

Finally, since nothing resembling success ever occurs, these characters have plenty of time to reflect on what a cruel beast is Fate.  One may spend an entire morning wandering hag-like through the boulevards of Paris and wondering when the greenish, bloated, rotting visage of one's drowned husband (whom one has killed) will fade from one's memory and allow one to sleep.  There's nothing better than a long walk for fixating on nauseating imagery and the feelings it provokes.  Ô la belle vie française!

I'm guessing that if you have read only one French book, it was The Little Prince.  The Little Prince was slightly different from the trope in that (SPOILER ALERT) the certainty of the death of the Little Prince is under debate.  But this book contains another important element of French literature, which is that it does not make sense.

Miffed Letter to the French Language

Dear French Language,

Why don't you have a good translation for the English "safe," besides "out of danger"?  Do Francophones say that they practice out-of-danger sex?  

(Well, maybe they don't say anything at all.  Seems like French people always have their mouths occupied with wine, cheese, or red roses.)

Why is cela m'est egal the only translation you have for "I don't care"?  It's impossible to spit out, "THIS IS EQUAL TO ME," with the same vehemence supplied by the original English.

Why do you have so many words about places, like endroit, lieu, place, and espace, but refuse to differentiate between house and home?  Although, nice job inventing chez moi.  That's a keeper.

Why do you use sentir, se sentir, and ressentir almost interchangeably, but not notify French learners of how they're different?  When I write essays, I want to say, "she feels powerless," not "she smells powerless."  Please.  My French teachers have been laughing at me ("honh honh honh") for years over this one.

Come on, French.  Don't you think the Language of Love should lend itself to clearer description?  

(Especially where safe sex is concerned?)

Sincerely,

Merp

(Fresh Powerless Scent.)