for several new comedies.
Molière’s final play,
Th
e Imaginary Invalid,
was inspired by his experiences with the medical profession. Here Argan, a healthy hypochondriac, submits to all kind of outrageous treatments from the doctors treating his nonexistent illnesses. One line in particular rings true for me: “Nearly all men die of their remedies, and not of their illnesses.” Molière, despite his illness, was the original “hardest-working man in show business,” writing, directing, and acting in his own plays while also managing his theater company. He simply refused to allow his poor health to alter his life or slow him down, and learning that, I’m glad I’ve come to Maine, despite my reservations. It’s been good to get away, hopefully to provide some enjoyment to some people, and to receive a good deal more in return, both from the people I’ve met at the bread conference and from the actors on the stage.
Molière played the title role in
Th
e Imaginary Invalid
and during just its fourth performance began to cough up blood. Surely some in the audience must have thought it was part of the act. A trouper in the truest sense of the word, he finished the show and died a few hours later, on February 17, 1673.
He was fifty-one years old.
I think about Molière, about his struggles, about the beauty of France, about life. And I leave Maine more determined than ever to learn French.
Ministry of Silly Talks
VINCENT: You know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?
JULES: They don’t call it a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?
VINCENT: Nah, man, they got the metric system, they wouldn’t know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is.
JULES: What do they call it?
VINCENT: They call it a Royale with Cheese. . . .
JULES: What do they call a Big Mac?
VINCENT: A Big Mac’s a Big Mac, but they call it “
Le
Big Mac.”
—
Pulp Fiction,
1994
The French actually have a national body just for this type of Big Mac problem, the Académie française, whose job it is to keep the language pure, and that includes coming up with French terms for words that wash up on the beaches like so many foreign invaders. Exactly what, you might ask, is the Académie française, and who gave them the right to decide what is and what isn’t French? Even the name is confusing, for the word
française
(or its masculine equivalent
français
), while simply translated as “French,” can refer to the French language, the French people, or a pan sauce of butter and lemon.
There are only two occasions when the academy makes news: the first is when they fulfill their primary duty and complete a new dictionary, which means they haven’t needed a press conference since Hitler invaded Poland; the second is when they issue their list of “disapproved” words—the latest, just released, runs some sixty-five pages—on which occasions they are generally derided and sneered at. But the members of the academy seem not to care; they are out of public view 364 days of the year.
But, my, do they make up for it on the 365th day, usually a day in December, when France harkens back to its glory days of empire, recalling the majesty of the Sun King and the power of Napoleon, the day the forty Immortels of the academy march past admiring crowds on their way into the Institut de France for their annual meeting. Emerging incongruously from taxis while attired in green velvet robes and Napoleonic bicornes, swords at their sides, they look as if they’re itching for a rematch with Admiral Nelson (which may explain why Jacques Cousteau was once a member).
The phrase “venerable institution” almost seems inadequate for a group that has been meeting nearly without interruption since 1635. That was around the time, remember, that modern French was first gaining ground, the various
langues d’oïl
of the north merging into something that was now being called French. It was also around the time of a new, fashionable social institution: the
Molière’s final play,
Th
e Imaginary Invalid,
was inspired by his experiences with the medical profession. Here Argan, a healthy hypochondriac, submits to all kind of outrageous treatments from the doctors treating his nonexistent illnesses. One line in particular rings true for me: “Nearly all men die of their remedies, and not of their illnesses.” Molière, despite his illness, was the original “hardest-working man in show business,” writing, directing, and acting in his own plays while also managing his theater company. He simply refused to allow his poor health to alter his life or slow him down, and learning that, I’m glad I’ve come to Maine, despite my reservations. It’s been good to get away, hopefully to provide some enjoyment to some people, and to receive a good deal more in return, both from the people I’ve met at the bread conference and from the actors on the stage.
Molière played the title role in
Th
e Imaginary Invalid
and during just its fourth performance began to cough up blood. Surely some in the audience must have thought it was part of the act. A trouper in the truest sense of the word, he finished the show and died a few hours later, on February 17, 1673.
He was fifty-one years old.
I think about Molière, about his struggles, about the beauty of France, about life. And I leave Maine more determined than ever to learn French.
Ministry of Silly Talks
VINCENT: You know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in Paris?
JULES: They don’t call it a Quarter Pounder with Cheese?
VINCENT: Nah, man, they got the metric system, they wouldn’t know what the fuck a Quarter Pounder is.
JULES: What do they call it?
VINCENT: They call it a Royale with Cheese. . . .
JULES: What do they call a Big Mac?
VINCENT: A Big Mac’s a Big Mac, but they call it “
Le
Big Mac.”
—
Pulp Fiction,
1994
The French actually have a national body just for this type of Big Mac problem, the Académie française, whose job it is to keep the language pure, and that includes coming up with French terms for words that wash up on the beaches like so many foreign invaders. Exactly what, you might ask, is the Académie française, and who gave them the right to decide what is and what isn’t French? Even the name is confusing, for the word
française
(or its masculine equivalent
français
), while simply translated as “French,” can refer to the French language, the French people, or a pan sauce of butter and lemon.
There are only two occasions when the academy makes news: the first is when they fulfill their primary duty and complete a new dictionary, which means they haven’t needed a press conference since Hitler invaded Poland; the second is when they issue their list of “disapproved” words—the latest, just released, runs some sixty-five pages—on which occasions they are generally derided and sneered at. But the members of the academy seem not to care; they are out of public view 364 days of the year.
But, my, do they make up for it on the 365th day, usually a day in December, when France harkens back to its glory days of empire, recalling the majesty of the Sun King and the power of Napoleon, the day the forty Immortels of the academy march past admiring crowds on their way into the Institut de France for their annual meeting. Emerging incongruously from taxis while attired in green velvet robes and Napoleonic bicornes, swords at their sides, they look as if they’re itching for a rematch with Admiral Nelson (which may explain why Jacques Cousteau was once a member).
The phrase “venerable institution” almost seems inadequate for a group that has been meeting nearly without interruption since 1635. That was around the time, remember, that modern French was first gaining ground, the various
langues d’oïl
of the north merging into something that was now being called French. It was also around the time of a new, fashionable social institution: the
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