(Clearly my concept of cool differs from the norm. My concept of cool also includes argyle sweater vests and Frida Kahlo earrings. And phrases like "peachy keen".)
Anyway: the course is called "Aspets de la Renaissance a nos jours: L'ecriture de soi." (blogger won't let me put in accents) We read Montaigne's "Essais" and Rousseau's "Confessions." And now for my own confession: I read both "Essais" and "Confessions" before. In English. Essais, multiple times. I took an almost identically-named course at Columbia called "Making of the Modern Self," probably one of my favorite courses thus far in all of my educational career (and one of the easiest graded! Thanks a bunch, Prof. Ross Hamilton!) But, this is the Sorbonne. And you know what? Reading books in French is difficult enough. Did I mention Montaigne writes in the equivalent of Shakespearean English in French? "Ainsi, lecteur, je suis moy-mesmes la matiere de mon livre" ? And it's not like I won't RE-read them in French. And we didn't spend more than a few classes on Rousseau and Montaigne, while this course is SUPER specialized. Hooray!
I trouver-ed a list of famous people who went to the Sorbonne:
Thomas Aquinas
Honore de Balzac
Roland Barthes
Simone de Beauvoir
John Calvin
Marie Curie
Pierre Curie
Gilles Deleuze
Desiderius Erasmus
Jean-Luc Godard
Victor Hugo
Claude Levi-Strauss
Normal Mailer
Emmanuel Joseph Sieyes
Susan Sontag
Andreas Vesalius
+tons of Popes
...and those are only the people I recognized. Whoa, dude. I am so failing out of this institution.
Kidding! I hope. My "travaux dirigee" prof seemed nice enough. AND he actually gave out a bibliography, which no professor does. I'm three weeks into my New Wave Cinema class at Paris VII-Denis Diderot and still no syllabus. Strangely enough, I understand my uber-pretentious lit class at La Sorbonne better--much much better-- than Marc Vernet, my film prof. I just do not understand colloquial French for the life of me. If only everyone spoke like Montaigne?
In other news: no longer going to Amsterdam this weekend. But I AM going to Barcelona! Barcelona, ahoy! Should be fun. Come on, it's freaking Barcelona! Hasn't anyone seen "L'Auberge Espagnole"? Shouldn't Daft Punk music be playing whilst drunkenly exploring the Gaudi-lined streets? Shouldn't American expatriates be playing Bob Marley songs on acoustic guitars along the road at night? Shouldn't Audrey Tatou come along to try to whisk me back to Paris? (Honestly I don't know why the main character and Audrey Tatou didn't see each other more often in his year abroad; Barcelona's but an 11-hour train ride!) Taking the night train there, staying 2 nights in a hostel, and taking the night train back Monday morning, JUST in time for my 9:15 French Writing course.
To conclude, a picture of my friends and I at the Catacombs, making scary faces. Methinks I pull off the nearly-dead look quite well. Although that could just be the deathly pale skin...
3 comments:
I am so jealous! I love Montaigne and Rousseau, we've talked about this! Please talk to me about this class upon your return!
Listen to the French televison news to get up to mark with hearing spoken French and don't forget academic speak is a French dialect. Learn the jargon and hear it being repeated. Read Deleuze on cinema and Charyn.
Susan Sontag? Get out, she's the jam!
Also, I wonder if the Curies met at the Sorbonne. I'm envisioning them reaching for the same test beaker in Chemistry 101, their hands touching. Awkward pause. Giggle. Or maybe they stayed late one night after lab and had to share the same Periodic Table.
Pierre: "You know, uranium has always been my favorite element. It might be 92 on the chart, but it's number one in my heart."
Marie: "Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Uranium is MY favorite element. The only one that even comes close is--"
Pierre: "Thorium."
Long pause. Fervent make-out session. Chemistry in action later that night. The rest is history. Cancer-punctuated history.
Okay, I'm done.
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