Mark Twain once famously remarked that "it has always been a marvel to me—that French language; it has always been a puzzle to me. How beautiful that language is! How expressive it seems to be! How full of grace it is! . . . And, oh, I am always deceived--I always think I am going to understand it."
Having recently moved to a small town just outside of Paris, I find myself straining to eavesdrop on French conversations whenever I leave home, hoping to recognize words or phrases. So far, with my limited grasp on the language, it's been a bit disappointing. In New York, I worked in the publishing industry. With my work experience, and as a writer, I am most at home discussing grammar and playing with words. Here, everything is different.
Moving from a cramped apartment in New York, we now have an entire house. It's a skinny, oddly shaped house, but it's spacious and bright, and just a few steps from the center of town.
The weekly market here, with its tables of fresh fruits and vegetables piled high, is a welcome change from struggling through the aisles of Gristedes. The smell of freshly baked breads, mingled with ripe cheeses, permeates most streets.
Still, these are the stereotypes that one hears about France. As language is a priority to me, and as I work to complete a Master’s degree in Writing, my hope is that this blog will help me to immerse myself in a new culture, through exploring poetry that was written here, on both a personal and a critical level.
Still, these are the stereotypes that one hears about France. As language is a priority to me, and as I work to complete a Master’s degree in Writing, my hope is that this blog will help me to immerse myself in a new culture, through exploring poetry that was written here, on both a personal and a critical level.
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