Depuis mes années universitaires je me demandais comment le mot "baiser" a-t-il acquis l'autre signification. Bien sûr n'importe qui peut deviner que baiser aurait dû commencé sa carrière en tant qu'euphémisme qui a subi un processus de transmogrification extrème.
Camille Laurens le mets au clair dans son rubrique Le grain des mots, qui est parue dans l'édition de l'Humanité du 15 novembre 2001.Non, non, n’y comptez pas : je ne vous dirai pas d’entrée de jeu ce que j’entends par là - s’il s’agit du substantif ou du verbe. Mais après rapide sondage autour de moi ("le mot baiser, qu’est-ce que ça t’évoque, là, tout de suite, sans réfléchir ?"), il semblerait qu’en ce début de siècle on le comprenne plus souvent dans le sens de Virginie Despentes - Baise-moi - que dans celui des troubadours - "d’un baiser ma douce et noble dame s’est emparée de mon cour". Enfin bref, inutile de biaiser davantage : j’adore ce mot dans les deux sens, dont on n’a aucun mal à saisir presque charnellement la proximité, la complicité ; il est une carte de Tendre à lui tout seul, des "premiers soins" aux "dernières bornes de l’amitié", de la Rivière d’Inclination à la Mer Dangereuse dans laquelle elle se jette avec la même logique qu’un nom dérivant vers un verbe. Selon le Grand Robert, "baiser, employé absolument, n’est plus d’usage décent comme il l’était à l’époque classique". Il est alors remplacé par embrasser. On peut cependant imaginer que l’autre sens a toujours affleuré ; ainsi chez Molière, quand Diafoirus fils s’enquiert des règles du savoir-vivre : "Baiserai-je, mon père, on ne baiserai-je point ?", le parterre devait se tordre. Louise Labé, quant à elle, en chante l’érotisme incendiaire, qui brûle à la rime : "Baise m’encor, rebaise moi et baise/ Donne m’en un de tes plus savoureux/ Donne m’en un de tes plus amoureux :/ Je t’en rendrai quatre plus chauds que braise." Là où la bise n’est qu’un petit courant d’air froid, le baiser, donc, est de feu, même s’il s’accorde aussi avec " aise " et " apaise ". La Belle Cordière en fait le geste souverain de l’amour, celui qui permet véritablement à chacun de baisser la garde et d’entrer dans l’Autre, physiquement bien sûr, mais aussi mentalement : "Ainsi mêlant nos baisers tant heureux/ Jouissons nous l’un de l’autre à notre aise/ Lors double vie à chacun en suivra/ Chacun en soi et son ami vivra."
Il bacio - "rose trémière au jardin des caresses", selon Verlaine. Certes il y a le baiser de Judas (sans doute est-ce de là que vient l’idée de trahison : "je me suis fait baiser"). Mais le plus souvent, ce mot qu’on prononce en avançant les lèvres suggère l’abc de l’amour, le b a ba de la passion. On peut le voler, le donner, l’échanger : c’est toute une économie amoureuse. À la fois frêle et solide sur sa base, baume éphémère et fusion éternelle, le baiser est taillé dans le marbre de Rodin et dans le feu du Phénix. "Sonore et gracieux Baiser, divin Baiser !/ Volupté nonpareille, ivresse inénarrable!" : le poète ne cesse d’en chanter les louanges car l’homme, dit-il, "s’y grise d’un bonheur qu’il ne sait épuiser". Mille baisers, donc, c’est la grâce que je vous souhaite.
At work today I stumbled upon an article by staffmember Andrew Taylor in Pulse St Petersburg (there used to be a Pulse Moscow as well - I remember way back in 2003 -, but it was discontinued in early 2004) that talks about the risible inclusion of Russified English words into the language of Pushkin and Tolstoy. It's amusing.
Every year hundreds of foreigners from all corners of the world come to St. Petersburg to study the language of Dostoevsky and Pushkin. More, in fact, study Russian in the northern capital than in Moscow. But for Brits, Americans and students from other Anglophonic countries, the language they hear and see in St. Petersburg increasingly resembles their native tongue.
Piratskie kompakt-diski are sold at a sharp diskont on virtually every corner. Bukmekery and other gambling eksperty help you place bets. Khippi, rokery, rastamany, kul’tovye fil’m-meikery, along with other friki and nonkomformisty, are all part of Petersburg’s kountr-kul’tura (you can add gangstery, prostituty, bandity, khuligany and other riff-raff to the list). Lovers of ekstrim-sport engage in snoubording, vindserfing and bandzhi-dzhamping. Kustomery and komsumery frequent supermarkety, gipermarkety and mul’tipleksy… Oh, the list is prakticheski endless.
Many native-English speakers, along with those who speak English as a second or third language, are pleasantly surprised by this Anglicization of the language they’ve arrived to study: The more English cognates, the fewer "real" Russian words they have to memorize. But there are some folks, such as myself, who came to Petersburg to study good Russian, not "Russlish," the barbarized language that assaults them in this city of Peter
For a little insight into the Russlish phenomenon, I offer extracts from a tipichnyi day.
Russlish: a tipichnyi day
8:00 a.m.
My day starts at the fitness-tsentr. I enter the sports-zal, where rich, sweaty housewives engage in dzogging on treadmills, and buff fellows busy themselves with bodibilding. By the way, I recently read the following statement: "Bodibilding – ne eksklyusivno dlia streit men" ("Bodybuilding is not exclusively for straight men"). Thus, in order to avoid any awkward misunderstandings, I try not to be over-friendly with the muscle-bound toughs.
Note: Although streit is relatively new to the Russian tongue, it’s antonym, gei, has been firmly entrenched in the national lexicon for many years. Draw your own conclusions
9:15 a.m.
At home, I sip coffee while listening to talk radio, where top-menedzheridebatiruyt ("debate") the effekty of off-shor kholdingi on the lokal’naya ekonomika. Interestingly, today’s top-menedzher in most any big-biznes is often referred to simply as boss.
Sometime around 11:00 a.m.
At work. A piarshik (i.e. someone involved in pablik releshens) sends me a press reliz via faks regarding the opening of a klab-khaus for baikery. The organizatory of the new klab (purposefully voweled with an “a” instead of the usual “u,” thereby further mutating orthography but phonetically bringing it closer to English) planiruyut ("plan") shou-programmy, khedlainery, frendli-atmosfera, rok-muzika from European and American khit-parady, along with open-eiry (i.e. "open-air" kontserty). Furthermore, the klab boasts a large number of memberz and several supporterz. My goodness, who pens this junk?
A bit later I overhear one dizeiner say to another: "Sokhrani vse khi-rez faily v folderakh na desk-tope" ("Save all high-resolution files in folders on the desktop"). The language of dizainery, kompyuterschiki, programmisty and other khi-tekh workers is so littered with Anglicisms that I often have no idea what they’re saying.
1:40 p.m.
Hunger strikes. I head to a restaurant advertising itself as a respektabel’nyi istebleshment. I order the biznes lanch (on weekends, this place offers branch, pronounced “brawnch”). For dessert, the waitress rekomenduet ("receommends") chiz-keik. I decline.
3:30
At the ofis, sitting at my kompyuter. A colleague asks me to translate a short article. The following sentence leaps off the page: "Inflyatsia, stagnatsia i dazhe defol’t – potentsial’nye rezul’taty disbalansa mezhdu eksportami i importami" (“Inflation, stagnation and even default are the potential results of the misbalance between exports and imports”). The rest of the article continues in this vein, and I finish the job in rekordnyi time. In short, it’s quick and easy to translate Russlish into English.
That evening
It’s been a hard day, one that I will kiss off in a feshenebel’nyi klub-bar. This place, like most alternativnye or anderground (not, heaven forbid, meinstrim) kluby in St. Petersburg, has a chillout (pronounced “cheel-ah-oot” by locals) room. That’s where I plant myself. I flip through the kokteil menu, which features skryu-draivery, zhin-toniki and even long-eiland eis ti. I order a domestic beer. The fellow next to me introduces himself. He’s in marketing. He diskutiruet (“discusses”) how to pozitsionirovat’ ("position") brendy so that the publika will receive the korrektnyi messedzh. This konversatsia causes me severe diskomfort. I finish my beer and take the first shans to exit.
It’s a bit dishonest, of course, to bemoan the Anglicization of Russian. All world languages, including English (especially English!), are amalgams that reflect the ebbs and tides of cultural exchange. Indeed, over the centuries, Russian itself gracefully has absorbed elements of the Greek, Latin, Tatar, German and French tongues. Many intelligent voices argue that Russian will do the same with English.
The difference today, however, is the sheer amount of English (along with Latin and French via English) words that have invaded the Russian lexicon in a relatively short time. It often seems that, when offered a choice, Russians will choose Anglicisms when a perfectly good Russian analog is available. This is unfortunate. Why not skidka instead of diskont? Podpol’nyi over anderground? Neudobstvodiskomfort? Hell, even delevoi obed over biznes lanch!
For the legions of foreign students studying in St. Petersburg – especially those from Anglophonic countries – this recent barbarization of Russian perhaps eases their task. But it is my hope that the language I chose to learn remains great, mighty, truthful, and free. Russlish, alas, will never be any of these.
Being bilingual from childhood, I had always been tempted to mix my two mother languages. Now if the resulting patois were to be used as a kind of insider's code, an idiolect that grants one access into a select circle of similarly fork-tongued individuals, then the accompanying humour alone would allow one to indulge in the use of such a mélange. However, when more than 80 million people do the same thing, it's no longer as funny.
My Russian is not exactly anything to write home about, but I still dream of speaking it fluently one day. If I even reach a hard-earned level of competence, I believe I too would feel as strongly about linguistic purity as the writer of this piece.
Guardian has an insightful op-ed piece today, Lad culture corrupts men as much as it debases women by Alok Jha, which explains the particularly twisted way young men view women and how this has led to a significant increase in date rapes.The Home Office won't be able to tackle date rape until it understands the pernicious influence of the magazines men read
It's a typically British way of doing things. Too shy, lacking in confidence or plain incapable of working up the courage to talk to someone you fancy, you fall back on the standard social back-up plan: get drunk. Then perhaps a snog, and you pass out, waking up the next morning with a headache and questions of, er, should we maybe, er, go out sometime? You can always blame the booze if things get too embarrassing.But alcohol-fuelled nights don't always end with clumsy kisses and promises to call. Two-for-one deals on extra-strength cocktails and clumsy machismo can end in a messy confusion of intentions where lack of communication isn't just an endearing sideshow, but morphs into tacit permission for men to have sex with women, no matter how drunk.
"If you don't get a yes, you don't have sex" - the new Home Office campaign warning young men about the consequences of date rape is a no-holds-barred assault on such behaviour. Young men might see the advertising as yet another finger pointed at them by a society that already characterises them as hooligans responsible for the drunken skirmishes outside pubs every closing time. Now their list of shameful behaviours has grown: all young men are potentially guilty of rape until proven innocent the (hungover) morning after. Even murderers aren't treated like that.
So what positive impact can the Home Office hope to achieve? The problem is that the adverts, for all their finger-pointing, do not go far enough. Start with the images. To a bunch of advertising executives, the image of a woman's crotch wearing skimpy underwear with a coy no-entry symbol must have seemed inspired in its simplicity. To a bunch of drunk and horny men, it's just a woman in pants, as likely to excite as to force them to thoughtfully consider their actions. And there is something more systematic to consider: many men have been brainwashed by lad culture and its promises of easy sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. Shaking them out of this will take more than a mildly titillating government advert.
Take any young man fresh from school, and I'll show you someone racked with confusion about how to behave around women: someone old enough to have wildly insistent sexual urges, but too young to have developed the emotional sense to know how best to deal with them; old enough to have heard of feminism, but too inexperienced to know whether this means that holding doors open and basic chivalry are no longer required.
No wonder men in their late teens and early 20s lap up magazines such as Loaded, Maxim and FHM, the publications that heralded lad culture and continue to fuel it alongside their more recent counterparts, Nuts and Zoo. They exist ostensibly to give young men a voice, reflect their passions and, crucially, tell them how to attract women.
But what lad culture has actually done over the past decade is to distance young men from real life by forcing them into an alluring straitjacket. It tells young men they can get all the girls they want - down some of this drink, spray on some of that deodorant, and watch the girls fall at your feet.
These magazines explain in detail how to work out what women think. Fingers, elbows, shoes and anything else pointy pointing at you? She likes you. She plays with her hair? Even better. She comes home with you? Result. She says no? She's playing hard to get. She says no again? She doesn't want to come across too easy. She says no a third time? What are you, a man or not ... take control of the situation, she'll love that.
Add to this prescription peer pressure, rampaging hormones and a bottle or three of alcohol, and the promises of lad culture can easily overwhelm the semi-formed nougat that is the brain of the early-20s male.
These magazines claim to give young men the confidence they need: an insight into the skills they require to navigate a path through their romantic lives and an understanding of the qualities that women find attractive. Instead, impressionable young men have been sold a distorted image of who women are and what masculinity is about - an image that does nothing but frustrate, degrade and humiliate them.
For all the faults in its execution, the Home Office campaign does mark an interesting departure. While it is principally about protecting women, the principles behind it could help young men find a way out of a culture that requires an unchecked reliance on alcohol and machismo to have a good time. Someone needs to shout as loud as the proponents of lad culture: drink, go out, have a laugh, but, through it all, don't feel you have to bow down to the rules and ideals set down by magazines that want nothing from you but your money and dignity. Never before has there been any consistent public message that the have-it-all and take-it-all ideas behind lad culture need to be tempered with common sense and decency.
If the campaign encourages young men to acknowledge some of the more shocking consequences of lad culture - to recognise that they are being sold down the river by the magazines they aspire to - and if it makes a few young men stop to think when they're alone with a woman who's passed out drunk in front of them, then it will have been worth it.
Which reminds me, I think I better go back to doing my thesis.
I've just edited a piece written by Vika in the aftermath of our cozy evening at Café du Théâtre right next to Helikon Opera on Bolshaya Nikitskaya last Thursday. The concept and the execution of the article were brilliant, its tone infectious - much like the director of the cafe itself. Vika said she will try to restore her original voice - I don't know why she feels the need to do so.
Anyway, here was my corrected version just in case it's the only time it ever sees print.The inside seems even smaller than it looked from the outside just before you convinced yourself to come in. With your love for cavernous pre-Revolutionary interiors there's every danger this oh-so-cozy intimacy might bore you. Yet a quaint feeling of instantly belonging here envelops you the moment the smell of freshly baked bread arrayed next to the door hits you – even before you remove your coat. And then the enchantment begins.
"Oh Champs d'Elysée," squeaks the accordion and your soul echoes this famous melody from your memories of childhood. It can't be déjà vu? You've never been to Paris yet oddly your mind draws that picture-perfect snug-as-a-bug French café along Champs d'Elysée and yourself sitting comfortably in a wicker chair sipping café au lait. A waiter then pops out with a menu, interrupting your flight of fancy by rooting you in down-to-earth expectations of nourishment. The café's range is limited, you think to yourself. Then again, what else would a theatergoer ask for before going off to that play or dropping in after a show? Certainly not a heavy meal, what with all the endless fuss over dieting. Thus the light fare on offer may just be enough to put you in a festive mood or refresh your inner male late in the evening. If you're really hungry and have come for a full dinner, you'll find some things to choose from like meat or fish dishes plus some unbelievably good soup. They're not only a treat for the stomach but also a feast for the eyes. The plate looks fantastic and all of a sudden you start to feel exquisitely French, only it's not paté du fois gras or coq au vin that has mesmerized you but a huge chunk of salmon instead. You dare not ruin the illusion – your friends startle you before your hands even grasp a fork and knife. The prices are somewhat moderate and are worth the size of the dishes. For all these paeans the café's raison d'être lies not even in the cuisine.
Surely there is not a single foreigner in Moscow who has not been to or at least heard of Café Margarita in Patriarch Ponds. It has a certain renown among expatriates that matches the notoriety of Hungry Duck or Boar House. Café du Theatre belongs to the same genre as Margarita. The proprietors may not have wished to give explicit homage, but their live musical performances inescapably remind one of Margarita. The difference, however, which could allow Theatre to carve out its own niche, is that the guitarists and the pianist can and do sing to the accompaniment of the accordionist. Songs in Russian, Georgian, French, and Italian were sung during the evening as were French and Russian chansons, western songs popular in the USSR in the 1970-80s, Russian folk songs and anything else the diners requested. Good food, live music, and a chorus of multi-accented voices rose to the occasion. For those too shy to sing, tambourines, salt shakers and various percussion sets were provided to all the tables, allowing everyone to join in the performance in a very familial setting. The café interior, accented by crayon etchings of Parisian street scenes, is more European than Margarita's, which looks more like a Soviet-era book-crammed flat for the intelligentsia. All the same Café du Theatre is really a place by and for Bohemians – in the way Russians understand it at least – with Helikon Opera and Conservatory regulars stopping by to enjoy the dimly lit, vanilla-colored space served by extremely polite waiters and incredibly engaging host, Igor the Art Director.
As for service, the waiters are still a bit forgetful, seemingly carried away by the music and atmosphere. In some sense they reinforce the café's Bohemian concept of living in a cocoon in absent-minded wonder. While a reminder or two sometimes becomes necessary, it's certainly preferable and less annoying than Moscow's infamous hovering wait staff, probably because of the sincerity, innocence and docility accompanying the apologies. It makes you feel as if you are dining at a friend's home instead of being waited on in a downtown restaurant. How can you possibly get annoyed with your friend's family? This coziness makes you lose all sense of hurry: the tea lights continue to burn, the music plays on, the merry voices keep to the refrain, and your friends sit still by your side. All is well.
Truffaut titled one of his films Shoot the Piano Player. At Theatre, we would advise against it. That would mean going after the life of the party. Igor the Art Director is not only a good pianist with a good voice. This Jack Black look-alike can also pass for Vrubel's Demon and Carlson from a Russian cartoon. With dark long hair, magnetic eyes, youthful gait and an almost maniacal energy he appears and disappears in different parts of the café very unexpectedly. He might be Mozart's Figaro to some, the Tasmanian devil to others. He is all that and more. One moment he is ordering some treats for the musicians or welcoming a new guest, the next he is dancing, playing the piano and singing heartily to vigorous applause. With infectious aplomb and enthusiasm, he does everything to give his guests an unforgettable time while evidently having a good one himself.
If this has made you in the least bit curious, do go and check Café du Theatre out. With its 10 or so tables don't be surprised if you have to wait to be seated. Concerts are performed regularly but not nightly so calling in to ask the staff advance is advised: 290 01 47. Igor the Art Director will also helpful: 941 64 06.
The address is Bolshaya Nikitskaya, 19.
Post Scriptum: In the end Vika decided to run it as is with the editor of one of the magazines here. It's really her work, despite her demurrals. She was saying how my rewrite had put in too many French words. I guess that's the idea - but no more than what non-French speaking Anglophones normally use anyway.
C'est formidable, la manière avec laquelle les Français peuvent transformer un article dit culturel en l'autre complètement politique avec un accent social: il n'y a que lire l'edito suivant par Jean-François Guelain entitulé C’était le bon temps! au Courrier de Russie sur l'année Chostakovitch et les sentiments indulgents vers Staline.
L’année 2006 coïncide avec le centenaire de la naissance du compositeur russe Dimitri Chostakovitch. C’est donc tout naturellement que 2006 a été décrétée « année Chostakovitch » en Russie.
Patriote, il composa sa septième symphonie en l’honneur de sa ville natale résistant à un blocus de 1000 jours par les troupes de la Wehrmacht. Pourtant, c’est pour une œuvre moins connue et sans contenu patriotique affiché, le Quintet avec piano, qu’il avait obtenu en 1940 le prix Staline. En 1948, la censure du ministre de la Culture, Jdanov s’abat sur lui comme sur son contemporain Prokofiev et tous deux sont accusés de « formalisme », une bien vilaine chose, dont on s’étonne pourtant qu’elle ait irrité quelqu’un comme Jdanov. Cinq ans plus tard Prokofiev meurt un 5 mars, le même jour que Iossif Vissarionovitch Djougachvili, le séminariste géorgien devenu le sanglant Staline. Pendant la période brejnévienne, pour évoquer l’époque postérieure à la mort de Staline, on disait souvent « après la mort de Prokofiev ». Aujourd’hui la société civile se divise surtout autour du décès du dictateur. Notez que Staline est mort en 1953, soit il y a exactement 53 ans et que les instituts de sondages ont profité de l’occasion pour interroger la population sur l’image qu’elle gardait du dictateur auquel on attribue au moins 11 millions de victimes. Pourtant, selon les études d’opinion réalisées ces derniers jours, l’image de Staline, après avoir été perçue négativement en Russie dans les années 90, est aujourd’hui considérée comme globalement positive. Plus inquiétant : même si les adorateurs du dictateur à moustache en croc se recrutent principalement parmi les générations les plus âgées, ils sont de plus en plus nombreux chez les jeunes. Parmi la population des 18-35 ans, 39% pensent qu’il a joué un rôle positif, alors que seulement 30% des répondants pensent le contraire. En général, il est porté au crédit de Staline d’avoir fait de l’Union soviétique une superpuissance « crainte et respectée ». Cela signifierait donc que la Russie d’aujourd’hui ne l’est pas et que la population vit dans cette nostalgie. Cela veut également dire que, à deux ans des prochaines échéances électorales, tout programme démagogique promettant le rétablissement de la puissance impériale a toutes les chances de trouver un écho favorable auprès d’une majorité d’électeurs. Dans ce contexte, les projets délirants de Boris Berezovski sont particulièrement dérisoires.
