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Cri de la France, L. Si Jouve publie hors de la L. Quand la L. Jouve participe activement au travail d'une collection phare de la L. Il va effectivement y publier trois volumes. Danton : Discours. L'Homme du 18 juin. A une Soie — Prose et Vers. Jouve publie dans la revue Fontaine une " Tapisserie des Pommiers " qu'il ne reprendra pas dans ses recueils.

En janvier , La L. Dans sa correspondance avec Jean Paulhan lettres du 7 septembre , Jouve accuse Gaston Gallimard de "trahison intellectuelle". Jouve rompt avec Paulhan lettre du 5 octobre Il est difficile d'analyser les causes de cette brouille. Librairie Universelle de France. Ces versions sont "revues" et portent de nouveaux titres. La collection ne comprendra que deux cahiers. Citons quelques exemples significatifs.

Jouve a probablement cru que la L. En , la L. Site Pierre Jean Jouve. A Dieu, aux armes! Wilhelm Furtwaengler Un panorama. Jusqu'en - La guerre en Europe La guerre en France Musique et annonce de Apocalypse L'Exode. The stage machinery was modernised, and the theatre's capacity increased. Not since the Savoy Theatre in London was restored to its splendour in has a theatre so associated with musicals been so magnificently reclaimed. IF IT had turned out to be a huge disaster, critics would have never stopped cracking awful jokes. Not long ago pundits were predicting the death of the Broadway musical.

In —a low point—only two new Broadway musicals were staged. But while Broadway musicals are not quite dead, they are not yet in the best of health either. Indeed some observers lay the blame for the sudden glut of musicals on the unproven notion that only shows opening near the Tony awards win the principal prizes.

So far, the daily receipts at the box office for many recent shows have not been enough for them to cover their weekly operating costs, let alone to return a profit. IT WOULD probably help to have gone to Harvard—not merely so as to be regarded as a member of America's intellectual elite, but in order to get the most out of this book.

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Kim Townsend faces an uphill struggle in trying to attract readers who do not share such a background: happily, he assaults the hillside manfully. And manliness is what President Theodore Roosevelt's alma mater is all about—stern virility, rugged toughness, athletic vigour. It is easy to mock such sentiments; they are, after all, absurd. Yet Mr Townsend resists what he calls the unearned and unwarranted pleasure of feeling superior to those who have gone before. Instead, in prose that is quietly elegant, frequently witty and surprisingly readable, he recreates the anxious, fomenting atmosphere of Victorian Harvard and re-awakens, spluttering and protesting, the huge characters who peopled it.

The biggest is William James, a man as appealing as he must have been exasperating; whose judgment was corrupted by kindness; who by his own estimation tried hard to be good and succeeded merely in becoming great. Gertrude Stein admired him. But as for his all-important manhood, it sometimes let him down. Admired by a student as the only one of his instructors who respected the laws of tailoring, William James came from a wealthy home ruled by a dominant father.

He dithered for some years before finding his niche at Harvard lecturing in philosophy.

La Vierge du grand retour by Raphaël Confiant

In woman, James's father had said, lay the salvation of man, his only escape from his fetid, lustful self. Dutifully, William James married, admitting that he chose his wife more for her moral than for her intellectual qualities, and running away whenever family events—like births or holidays—threatened his equilibrium.

His wife had to be cheerful, silent and agreeable, even when he admitted to kissing the housemaid: after all, it was well known that women positively craved suffering. In these attitudes, he was a true son of Harvard. Harvard men refused to countenance the notion of co-education, declaring that if frail women were admitted, they would collapse with nervous strain and be unable to perform their proper reproductive function. Besides, the men enjoyed all their boisterous sports, and clubs with silly names, like the Hasty Pudding, the Dickey and the Porcellian.

Women might have laughed at them. ANY man seeking a submissive wife might consider a graduate from the Japanese college where Mr McVeigh worked as a teacher. Such a paragon never wears jeans, or drinks alcohol, or smokes. Her aim in life should be to provide comfort for her work-weary husband and their sons slogging away at school.

In a period of high economic growth and labour shortage she should be prepared to return to work but gracefully accept the sack in a recession. Mr McVeigh tries not to be appalled. His book is meant for serious study—look at the serious price. Yet, as a westerner exposed to social conditioning as strong in its way as Japan's, he cannot help being a bit worried about these girls.

The problem, he says, is that schooling is unreformed and traditionalist business leaders like it that way. Until this changes, he argues, Japan will go on producing amazingly cheerful, incredibly polite women. IT MAY not be the longest eight minutes of silence in recent American movies but it is probably the only one in the kitchen of an Italian restaurant where all that happens is that the leading character makes an omelette, sorry, a frittata. The film tells of two brothers trying to make a go of a restaurant in post-war New Jersey for diners who really like good food.

Commercially, the place is a bust. But the brothers console themselves by claiming a moral and culinary success.

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Something interesting is obviously going on here. Had a film on the pleasures of the Italian table been scripted and proposed rather than simply set in post-war America, its producers would surely have been grilled for subversion or recommended for psychotherapy. What do these writers know about gourmet food?

Philistine, certainly. But on the Italian point, the old gorillas would have been right. Cuisine in those days meant French food. If you wanted to impress someone, you went to places with names like Veau d'Or or Chambord. Head-waiters were French, there was no straw around the wine bottles and the checks on the table came at the end of the meal. But that was then and in the world of haute cuisine things have changed. For swank eating nowadays you are likelier to sit down at places called Galileo or Valentino and order, say, lamb-shank and truffled mashed potatoes or rollatine of duck with dry ricotta.

To France's cost there has been a culinary revolution in favour of Italy. Year after year, you read stories of the financial and gustatory troubles of top French restaurants: closures, bankruptcies, takeovers; a weariness among diners with over-engineered dishes and over-mixed flavours.


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Good as they still are, French chefs are trained to dazzle, and they find it hard to be straightforward. Despite attempts to promote cuisine initiale —an untranslatable phrase popular with French food-writers suggesting back-to-basics cookery—simple dishes are just not the thing in France's top restaurants. By contrast, Italian food would seem to offer what smart diners nowadays crave: good materials, homely recipes, clear tastes. For there are two complications to this happy picture of grandmotherly kitchens and culinary rootedness.

Chefs in towns only kilometres apart will tell you proudly of the local differences. The second, more serious, complication, is that Italian restaurant-food, at least at the top end of the range, seems at the crest of success in danger of losing the very secret of its appeal—simplicity and flavour—by following French chefs into excessive sophistication. To test that melancholy theory, the writer of this article went to Bologna for two days of eating earlier this spring.

The choice of Bologna, the capital of Emilia-Romagna, was not random. In the food shops of the Via Caprarie by the main square are cured hams and wheels of cheese from nearby Parma as well as appetising trays of pastas with all sorts of fillings.


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  • This is food for hearty eaters or for those who have to gain weight fast. But that was almost 20 years ago.

    The food has changed. A weekend's stuffing in Bologna left the dial on the bathroom scales unmoved. The food, it has to be said, was delicious, the wines outstanding, the reception friendly and informative. Dinner the first night was at the Locanda Solarola, a farmhouse restaurant in Castelguelfo, east of Bologna. In the restaurant parlour there was period decor, a period billiard table and period muzak. But the food, disappointingly, was nouvelle : delicate tastes, surprising combinations, tiny portions. The hostess, Antonella Scardovi, explained that there was demand once again for cucina rustica —simple cookery—and that the Locanda Solarola would be including some more traditional dishes again soon.

    In the meantime she generously called up her friend and presumably rival Daniele Minarelli at the Dandy, another farmhouse restaurant in Minerbio just to the north of the city, to book a table for the following night. There, she was sure, you could eat as before. So you can, up to a point.