Analysis/Commentary on “Our Lady’s Juggler” By Anatole France
Background of Author: Anatole France is a son of a Parisian bookseller. His life was one of incessant controversy. His attitude against the church and state was ironic and bitter, though he was educated at a religious school. And while his novels attacked conventional Christian institutions at the depths of his heart, as in the core of every person’s being – France had faith in the Almighty and innate goodness of man.
Analysis: Anatole France identifies with his main character Barnabas (Our lady’s Juggler) using the following defense mechanisms:
1. Repression. His subconscious compelled him to write against religious norms as a result of his repressed anger on the church and conventional Christian institutions. The story pointed it plainly that Barnabas suffered in silence.
2. Compensation – Barnabas lamented about his ignorance. To make-up, he settled for something less. He could not compose writ…
Filipino translations (of short stories in English by Filipino respected writers) written by MFA Creative Writing Students (projects) will soon be posted on http://iwrotefiction.blogspot.com. I have compiled the Filipino translations of my friends as was entrusted to me (years ago) by our professor in Translation Dr. ZAS Salazar.
The translations were written by writers and was done manually without the use of any software.
Thanks Sir ZAS.
I hope this will help.
Rose Flores - Martinez 2010
: Z e R 0 . 9 r ^ V / + Y :
You know it is the darkness of your heart that heals [Yves Bonnefoy, L'Arbre, La Lampe]
Let me be the first to say
that I know the name for everything
and if I don't I'll make them up:
dukkha, naufragio, talinhaga.
Just like the young
whose hearts give no shame,
I love the excesses of beauty,
there is never enough sunlight
in the world I will live in,
never enough room for love.
I fear none of us will last long enough
to prove what I've always suspected,
that the sky is a membrane
in an angel's skull,
trees talk to each other at night,
ice is water in a state of silence,
the embryo listens to everything we say.
I am afraid for the child skipping rope
on the corner of my street,
the girl on the train with flowers in her hair,
the man whose memory is entirely
in Spanish. I am more afraid of losing consciousness
when I go to sleep, or that in my sleep
I will grow old and forget how desire
once drove me mad with wakefulness.