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youdontgofastenoughforme · 9 months

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Good Omens timeline (as of season 2), from Before the Beginning until the end of season 2:

- “Before the Beginning” — Aziraphale and Crowley meet for the first time.

- 9:13 a.m, Sunday, October 21, 4004 B.C — The creation of the universe (according to God).

- 4004 B.C, "just after the Beginning" — Eve and Adam eat an apple, and then Crowley and Aziraphale have their first on-screen interaction.

- Somewhere between 3070 and 3030 B.C (when Nefertiti was alive), Egypt — Aziraphale presumably impresses Nerfertiti with his magic skills, “You're talking to the Angel who fooled Nefertiti with a lone caraway seed and three cowrie shells.”

- 3004 B.C, Mesopotamia — Aziraphale and Crowley witness the events of Noah's Ark.

- 2500 B.C, the Land of Uz — Aziraphale and Crowley help Job and his family (A Companion to Owls minisode).

- 33 A.D, Golgotha — Aziraphale and Crowley see Jesus’ crucifixion.

- 41 A.D, Rome — Aziraphale and Crowley have oysters.

- 537 A.D., Kingdom of West Essex — Aziraphale and Crowley are knights in King Arthur’s time, and Crowley first suggests “the Arrangement”.

- Sometime in the 1500s (likely between 1503 and 1506 if wikipedia is to be believed), Leonardo Da Vinci’s Studio, Italy — ‘In which Crowley gets drunk with Leonardo Da Vinci’ and buys a sketch of the Mona Lisa for fifteen florins (cut scene from the script book).

- 1601, the Globe Theatre, London — Aziraphale and Crowley meet Shakespeare (who steals a line from Crowley that he uses in Antony and Cleopatra). Crowley also performs a miracle to make Hamlet popular.

- 1650 — The first (known) time that Aziraphale does the apology dance for Crowley.

- 1656, Lancashire, England — the last true witch in England, Agnes Nutter, is burnt by Witchfinder Major Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultry Pulsifer, who is killed in the process by Agnes’ forward-thinking.

- 1760, Monsieur Rossignol’s Night Classess — Aziraphale learns french the hard way.

- 1793, Paris — Crowley saves Aziraphale from prison during the French Revolution's Reign of Terror (and then they get crepes, as well as Aziraphale doing the apology dance for Crowley).

- 1800, the opening of Aziraphale’s bookshop in Soho — Gabriel and Sandalphon visit Aziraphale to promote him back in heaven. Crowley overhears this, and tricks Gabriel into having Aziraphale stay on earth in order to “thwart him” (cut scene from the script book).

- Sometime before 10th November, 1827, but likely after 1800 — a conman attempts to seduce Aziraphale into helping her “brother” with his debt. Some-point after, Aziraphale tells Crowley of the story over a glass of claret.

- ~A month before 10th November, 1827, Edinburgh, Scotland — Crowley and Aziraphale visit a graveyard with a statue of Gabriel and end up helping a body-snatcher, Crowley also prevents her from committing suicide which results in him being sucked into hell “And that, was the last I was to see of Crowley. For quite some time.” (The Resurrectionists minisode).

- 1859, Aziraphale’s bookshop, Soho — ‘In which Aziraphale almost sells a book’ before receiving a note delivered by a street urchin from Crowley reading ‘the usual place - C’ (cut scene from the script book).

- 1862, St. James Park, London — Crowley requests holy water from Aziraphale for assurance in case anything goes wrong.

- Sometime between 1889 and 1919 (the years Hoffman is alive) but likely around 1876 (the year the book, Modern Magic: A Practical Treatise on the Art of Conjuring is published, that Aziraphale has a signed copy of), England — Aziraphale receives magic lessons from Angelo John Lewis, pseudonym Professor Hoffman, ‘“Aha! Professor Hoffmann's modern magic. Ah, there you are. To Mr. Fell, that's me, a wonderful student” (written) Yours, the Hoff’

- 1941, London — Aziraphale gives prophecy books to some nazis for Hitler, in an attempt to arrest them, only they double-cross him as well. Crowley then comes to Aziraphale's rescue and gives him a lift home, stopping at the West End theatre on the way back . However, the nazis come back as zombies for hell to expose Aziraphale and Crowley’s arrangement, but Aziraphale’s magic thwarts them (Nazi Zombie Flesh Eaters minisode). At some point later on, Aziraphale does the apology dance for Crowley.

- 1967, Soho, London —Crowley arranges a heist (after having gone clothes shopping that morning) to steal holy water from a church with Lance Corporal Shadwell and others. Aziraphale thinks it’s too dangerous, so he gets Crowley holy water himself.

- 1970s, London — Crowley changes the design of the M25 to represent the symbol Odegra, which comes back to bite him later on (as most things do).

- ~2008, “Eleven Years Ago" — Hastur and Ligur deliver the Antichrist to Crowley, who gives it to The Chattering Order of St. Beryl. The Antichrist is then swapped with Deirdre and Arthur Young’s child, while their child, Warlock, goes with Thaddeus and Harriet Dowling. Trying to prevent Armageddon, Aziraphale and Crowley agree to help raise Warlock, the boy they assume is the Antichrist.

- ~2013, “Five Years Later - Six Years Before the End of the World” — Crowley disguises himself as Warlock's nanny, while Aziraphale disguises himself as the Dowlings' gardener.

- ~2019, “Six years later” — the chronological events of season 1 unfold, ending with Aziraphale and Crowley eating at the Ritz.

- Between 2019-2023 — Gabriel and Beelzebub routinely meet in the Resurrectionists pub, where they fall in love.

- ~2023 — the chronological events of season 2 unfold, ending with Aziraphale going up to Heaven and Crowley driving away from the bookshop to destinations unknown (his flat? out of london? out of the uk? out of the world?).

#good omens #good omens 2 #spoilers #go2 spoilers #ineffable husbands #good omens timeline #i need someone to stitch together all the scenes chronologically #asap #i just feel like it might make me feel better #(it probably wouldn’t)

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mintly · 5 months

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Please enjoy a little bit of Aziraphale being terrible at French from the cutting room floor of my next chapter.

***

For a few blissful moments, Crowley had thought he was done rescuing Aziraphale for the day. Excitement sparked in Aziraphale’s gaze as he looked up from his menu. It worried Crowley exceedingly.

"Ah, s'il vous plaît...er, les crêpes aux…frères," he said with pride.

The waiter blinked in confusion. Crowley winced. Aziraphale, untroubled, trudged on.

"Oui! Et avec—” Aziraphale gestured widely with his hands. “—beaucoup de crème!"

“Angel,” Crowley pleaded. He was at once acutely embarrassed and weirdly goopy inside. It was hard to be too upset when Aziraphale wore such a pleased grin.

“Aux frères?” the waiter repeated. Something in his expression seemed broken.

"Excusez mon ami, il est très saoul," Crowley said flatly. Aziraphale, not understanding, smiled at him. To the waiter he rattled off Aziraphale’s actual order—“aux fraises”—and his own, along with the bottle with the highest price on the wine list. In actual, proper French, which Aziraphale could very well speak if he wished.

After the waiter left, Crowley glanced back up to find Azirphale grinning at him slyly, pleased.

“It was very sweet of you to order for me.”

Crowley flustered. Angels shouldn’t go around calling demons sweet. Deflecting, he said, “I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t so embarrassing. What did Monsieur Rossignol actually teach you?”

"Où est la plume de la jardinière de ma tante?" Aziraphale said with careful enunciation.

“Mmm, I assume you’ve used that one every day since.”

“Oh, shush.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #Notably I don't speak French at all so thank you to Squiddz for the help there. but if anything is wrong it's my fault no doubt!!!#Crowley is dying inside. he is shrivelling up like a raisin. poor thing #mintly writes

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psalm22-6 · 1 year

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M. Victor Hugo has made a deal with the Pagnerre firm for 400,000 francs for the manuscript of Les Misérables. The novel will appear in serial in the Journal des débats before being sold in bookstores. All Paris is sharpening their quills to celebrate this new work by the master. I too had sharpened my quill two years ago to celebrate La Légende des siècles. My article appeared in a review which didn’t pay anything – guess which one! – it wasn’t the Artist. Fifteen days later I received from M. Victor Hugo a letter designed thusly:

“A friend sent me, monsieur, your article about La Légende des siècles. That article is a lovely and noble page. You comment sympathetically on the work that I am attempting in this century. One senses in you a heart and, charmingly, a heart with much spirit. All your generous ideas are, at the same time, excellent ideas, and it is written in the highest and most ingenious prose. It is in the best style, it is with depth and grace that you know to be correct and reasonable, etc., etc. VICTOR HUGO” Guess if I was happy! The emperor was not my cousin, as they say. I went to the café des Varietes, – not to eat, come now! – but to show off my letter! . . . A letter from the writer of Notre-Dame-de-Paris, the author of Ruy-Blas, the poet of les Contemplations. The Review in question could well persist in not paying me if necessary, I would have borrowed money to lend to it! At the café des Varietes, a group was gathered around a young idiot that I was acquainted with. Before crushing him with my superiority and my autograph, I listened, – intuitively. The young idiot was reading: “A friend sent me, monsieur, your article about La Légende des siècles. That article is a lovely and noble page. You comment sympathetically, etc., etc., etc.” The rest was the same as above. It was my letter! At that same instant, at all the tables of the café, on the terrace, and on the boulevard, amiable plunderers of letters appeared, who triumphantly drew from their pockets pieces of paper identical to mine and who, all of them, sang together, and sang in turn, as in the Rossignol: “A friend sent me, monsieur, your article about La Légende des siècles. That article is a lovely and noble page. You comment sympathetically, etc., etc., etc.” There were four identical autographs on the streets of Paris! The poet had dispatched them in en masse to that friend on the avenue Frochet of whom there was question in the last edition of the Figaro [there was a rumor that Hugo was in Paris, staying at a house on the avenue Frochet] and that person had put them in the post at the same time and they had arrived at the same hour. I never told anyone that M. Victor Hugo did me the honor of writing to me.

Source: the Figaro, 27 October 1861

#victor hugo #my translation

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herstoriies · 1 year

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@delanuit + continued from here

it takes her a few moments to catch her breath from such a startling fright, as a little bird trapped in the branches trying to find an exit before choosing a place to land. her head turns, gaze darting, watching the shadows, before slowly freezing in place hearing the voice. for all she knew she were staring at a wall.

the ghost just spoke.

to her.

of course, before the ‘english debutante’ could finish learning her way around the labyrinth backstage of the Opera Populaire, Priscilla heard all sorts of rumors of this mysterious phantom. words of cautions, jokes, intrigue, man, monster, revenant. trying to make sense of it all. but hearing a legendary story and chance encountering the legend in person were vastly different.

“ E-enough to declare that -- I intend no harm, Monsieur Le Fantôme. ” foe or friend was yet to be determined but let her at least wave the white flag of peace first.

“ If you must know -- I had heard the song of a ‘rossignol philomèle’ nightingale outside, and am merely trying to -- ah, find a quieter place to listen to it. ”

#delanuit #v: music of the night #hello erik meet pris and her affinity for birds #I mean this is a perfectly normal thing to do right?

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bright-thehawksflight · 8 months

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I was today years old when I suddenly realized that even Aziraphale's French teacher is literally named Mr Nightingale??????

"I went to Monsieur Rossignol's night classes"

Rossignol is the French name of the common nightingale

I refuse to continue to attempt to even.

#lisa says the things #good omens #good omens 2 #aziraphale #a z fell #context i took 8 years of French and lived in Paris for half a year #how did it take me so long

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hyperfixating-rn-brb · 8 months

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Aziraphale is fluent in every language on earth, but learned French the hard way, the human way. that is already amazing because why wouldn't our angel learn the language of love the human way? already adorable.

He learned by taking night classes from Monsieur Rossignol. Hmmm, I wonder what Rossignol means in English.

it means goddamm nightingale.

Aziraphale learned a language of love from Mr. Nightingale.

Neil Gaiman, why must you hurt me like this and then just not pay my therapy bills?

#aziraphale #a nightingale sang in berkeley square #goddammit neil gaiman

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yarodrags · 8 months

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Todays practice

Possibly titled (insert french translation) Mr Rossignol why don't you sing?

His outfit is my own archangel headcannon

I chose high neck and thick cuffs to make him as uncomfortable as possible to show that he doesn't belong in heaven

Also reminiscent of prisoner chains and cuffs to show how he is a prisoner of heavens doctrine now

His collar is like the one in the show except I've extended the edges so that it's shaped like a star since im assuming they wouldn't allow him to wear his tartan bowtie in heaven (reference to this fan theory) and his collar will now remind him of crowley instead

The collar is also supposed to look like a jesters hat with bells at the end to show the blatant disrespecc L metatron has for the dear angel and how he's being played

Am still not done with it I might try to frame az in the art noveau style background

Update: I finished it!!!:D completed version here

Didn't draw crowlers bc they're separated, js like in the show:F(ill draw her when im free)

#good omens #aziraphale #aziraphale fanart #michael sheen #go s2 #art wip #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable divorce #ineffable IDIOTS

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mnthpprt · 4 years

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Chapter 20: The Actress Drops Her Mask

[edited to add my cover because a couple people liked the last one]

“What a terrible composition.” Several minutes into the sonata, a man standing nearby begins to complain. “I don’t understand why the host likes him so much, that hornswoggler can’t even play well.”

I turn to the man, and raise an eyebrow upon seeing the rounded, short-nailed fingers gripping his glass close to his face. A jealous pianist, no doubt. And a very drunk one, too.

“Really? I’ve heard some people claim him to be Mozart reborn,” I say, nonchalant, and hold back a smile. If only he knew. Thankfully, no one seems to be paying attention to us.

“Then those people are imbeciles!” he declares angrily before downing what’s left in his glass. After he regains his composure, he gets uncomfortably close to me. “What is a belle mademoiselle like yourself doing all alone here?”

Shit, apparently some men will be gross regardless of the time’s customs.

“Actually, I came here with...”

Halfway through my sentence, I spot Shakespeare talking to another gentleman, not too far from us. I wave my hand in the air to catch his attention, and soon he is walking towards us.

“Guillaume!” I exclaim, and curl my arm around his. “You know I hate it when you leave me alone like that, my love.” Unfazed by my whining, he plays along without missing a beat and reaches up to stroke my cheek.

“My sweet rose, thou knowest I shall always come back to thee. For where thou art, there is the world itself, and where thou art not, desolation.” I recognize the quote from one of his plays, but I fail to remember which one.

“Oh, Guillaume, you’re making me blush!” I pull him closer, effortlessly playing the role of the smitten lover, and lean up to whisper into his ear through a fake smile. “Get me out of here.”

“Let us go out into the balcony, my dearest Anaïs,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist. “We shall find more privacy there, where thou shall need not whisper these sweet nothings that make my heart flutter.”

The second we set foot outside, hidden from view, I let go and step away from him.

“Thanks,” I say before taking a much needed sip of champagne. “That man is green with envy, it was insufferable. By the way, I hate roses,” I chuckle, remembering the nickname he gave me.

“But thy beauty is that of the most lovely flower. Besides, it is always my pleasure to aid a damsel in distress,” he smiles, and I roll my eyes. A damsel in distress? Please, I practically dragged him here.

I look inside to make sure no one is watching, and proceed to set my glass on the stone railing and lift the hem of my dress, this time to grab the box of cigarillos tied to my left leg. Shakespeare observes me in silence, and shakes his head when I offer one. I light mine and lean on the balustrade, inhaling a deep puff of smoke.

“Thou art full of surprises, Anaïs,” he finally speaks. “I knew when I laid eyes upon thee that thou art not an ordinary woman.” I perk up and look at him.

“Did le Comte not tell you? I’m from the 21st century.”

“I was aware of thou being a guest of his, but he neglected to mention thou hadst traveled through time as well,” he says, his mismatched eyes shining with curiosity. They almost look like they’re glowing, like a cat’s. He gives me a tilted smile. “Thou art quite the actress, I must say.”

I playfully take a bow, stifling a laugh.

“You’re not too bad yourself. Although I should expect nothing less, from the great Bard of Avon himself,” I say, lifting the cigarillo to my lips. I thoughtfully look out from the balcony and breathe out the smoke before turning to face him again, my eyes narrowed. “Did you write ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ as a tragedy or a comedy?”

“A tragedy,” he answers immediately, and a satisfied smile grows on my face.

“Carlos owes me 50 pounds.” He tilts his head at my celebratory statement. “I just won a bet against a friend,” I explain. “There is a lot of debate in the future about how the play is supposed to be interpreted. The general consensus is that it’s a comedy. My friend Carlos studies literature, and he thinks the misogyny portrayed is just a product of its time, but I always thought you were making a point. Same for ‘Romeo and Juliet’. Isn’t that one a comedy?”

“Of course, what else could it be?” he laughs.

“See? They got everything backwards.” I sip my champagne. “Two literal children commit suicide after knowing each other for... what, like three days? Yet people still see it as the epitome of romance. I don’t get it.”

“Most people lacketh the insight to see what thou see, it appears. Which is why I only base my plays on those whom are extraordinary, for I have lost interest in the unremarkable dealings of lesser gents.” He pauses and glances at the ballroom. “It soundeth like Mozart hath ended his performance.”

He’s right, the music has stopped. I put out my cigarillo and return the box to its place under my dress.

“I better go before he starts looking for me. I enjoyed our talk, William.” I smile and excuse myself with a nod before heading back inside.

I discard my glass on a nearby table when spot him in the crowd, receiving the praises of a small group of people. Were it not for his striking white hair, I don’t think I would have recognized him. He’s acting like a completely different person.

“I do not deserve your kind words, monsieur,” he tells one of the men, the same one with the beard that went on the stage before. I assume he is the host of the ball. He puts his arm around my back when I enter the circle. “This is my companion, Anaïs Bertran,” he introduces me with a charming smile I did not think he was capable of.

“Pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle Bertran,” he greets me, taking my hand when I hold it out. By now, I have learned the basics of social etiquette in this period. “When I heard you were a guest of my dear friend Saint Germain I could not wait to have you here,” he tells me. I guess ‘Guillaume’ filled him in on some details. “Oh, how rude of me, I forgot to introduce myself! Pardon me, mademoiselle. Marcel Rossignol, at your disposal.”

“Thank you for inviting me, monsieur Rossignol,” I say with a polite smile. “Tonight has been lovely so far”

“I am glad to hear that. It is about to get even better. I trust you like waltz?”

Before I can answer, the small band that now takes up the stage begins playing, and ‘Wolfram Theophilus Perti’ extends his hand for me to take, to the delight of the group, who observe us in fascination.

“Will you dance with me, Anaïs?”

“It would be my pleasure, Wolf.” I take his hand and he guides me to the center of the ballroom. Out of the corner of my eye, I could swear I just saw a young lady swoon, and I can’t help but quietly agree with the sentiment. With his insufferably haughty attitude kept in check, Mozart seems to be quite the charmer. Not to mention how incredibly beautiful he is.

He leads effortlessly, and I follow his impeccably coordinated steps with his hand on my waist and mine on his shoulder. The dance itself is easy, like skating without the wheels. Once he knows I can keep up, he twirls us into increasingly elaborate moves, carefully avoiding other couples that have joined us.

“I am surprised you haven’t tripped yet,” he says, suddenly reminding me who my dance partner is.

“God, you’re the worst.”

He sends me on a spin with incredible speed, which I interpret as retaliation for my remark. This is his passive aggressive way of challenging me.

“Where did you learn to dance like this?” I ask once we slow down.

“My father was always strict and obsessed with perfection. Socializing is part of being a musician, especially when the aristocracy is involved. I hate it with a passion, but I do what I have to. For the music.”

“Oh.” This is the most he’s ever talked to me, and I don’t really know how to respond. Before I can think of something to say, he ends our brief conversation by spinning me around once again.

By the time the song ends, I need to catch my breath. Mozart’s surprising agility is incredibly hard to keep up with, and I am exhausted from the effort it took to prove him wrong and avoid stepping on his feet. It was undeniably fun, however, and I enjoyed the challenge. The next song is slower, which provides a much needed break for my concentration and an excellent opportunity to keep talking. I am intrigued by this beautiful man, and his cold demeanor just makes me want to tear down his walls even more.

“I like how passionate you are about what you do,” I tell him. “I wish I was more like you in that sense.” I mean every word of it. Mozart is so devoted to his music that he has become one with it, to the point of using it as his language. During the week and a half that I have stayed at the mansion, I couldn’t help but notice how his emotions are so clearly displayed through the songs he plays. When I bring him hot chocolate, his melodies tend to become light and comforting. A few days ago, his music sheets flew out the window of his room. After I went to return them, the notes became fast and aggressive, because he was upset that the papers had become soiled from falling in the garden. What he feels is bare for all to hear, despite how emotionless he acts. One only needs to listen.

“Why?” he simply asks. It’s like he can’t understand what I am saying.

“What do you mean, why?” He just stares blankly at me as we keep dancing. At least he is no longer spinning until I get dizzy. “To have something to live for. To have a purpose,” I answer. To me, it’s obvious. “I’m just going through the motions, you know? Like waltz. I take the same steps every day, just to keep moving. I breathe, I eat, and I sleep. I water the flowers, I read... And all for what? I just feel like I keep waiting for something, but I have no idea what that is. I’ll be stuck in this pointless cycle until the day I die.”

I want to blame the champagne on an empty stomach, but to be fair, he’s the one who asked. After making me realize how tired I am of pretending, no less. Everything’s fine, I tell myself, ignoring every single thing that makes it not fine. In truth, I am merely surviving, keeping myself busy to forget how much I wish I could just... become a lump of moss, or something. That would be an easier existence. No consciousness, no problems.

“You sound like Jean.” I have no idea what that means, but I don’t bother to ask. “It’s not pointless... You make good chocolate.”

I chuckle at the compliment. This is the first positive thing Mozart has ever said to me. I look up at him as we dance, and am surprised to see him smile. It is so faint, but undoubtedly genuine this time, and the light tug at the corners of his mouth makes me feel better. I am starting to like him.

“That shall be my newfound purpose, then,” I joke, mirroring his smile. “Making you chocolate.”

The song comes to an end, and Mozart leads me away from the dance floor. He finds Rossignol and lets him know that we must leave, before thanking him for the evening. Though it is still early, I don’t complain. I think I want to get out of here too.

#ikemen vampire #ikevam #ikevamp #ikemen #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen vampire fanfiction #ikevam fanfic #ikevamp fanfiction #ikemen vampire shakespeare #ikevamp shakespeare #ikemen vampire mozart #ikevamp mozart #cover

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page-a-pages · 3 years

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Des livres suisses à offrir à Noël

Pour la page Livres de décembre du Chailléran, j’ai choisi des livres en lien avec la Suisse, soit qu’ils aient été écrits par des Suisses, soit qu’ils soient publiés par des maisons d’édition romandes. S’agissant d’un “tout-ménage”, expression que l’on utilise ici, une contrainte supplémentaire s’est ajoutée: plaire au plus grand nombre et qu’il y en ait pour tous les goûts. Un exercice passionnant que j’aurais aimé prolonger en y intégrant des romans des éditions Zoé et de la collection Notabilia chez Noir sur Blanc. Mais je n’avais droit qu’à une page...

« Pas besoin d’être bon nageur, bon navigateur, bon pêcheur. En vivant sur ses rives, il vous est devenu essentiel. Il vous constitue. » En effet, le lecteur qui plonge dans ce livre de photographie en noir-blanc retrouve des sensations enfouies au plus profond. Le travail de reportage des deux photographes lui font également découvrir des acteurs et des lieux qu’il ignore, documentés par les beaux textes de Blaise Hofmann. Une vraie réussite.

Pains maison

Embarquons dans cet ouvrage de 42 recettes croustillantes pour un tour du monde des pains suisses, mitonné par une Américaine. L’éditeur s’était déjà fait remarquer avec, entre autres, « Rando bières en Suisse », « Haute fondue » et ses jeux dont le fameux « SwissIQ ». Ici, les recettes de pain sont l’occasion de découvrir leur histoire, leur géographie, leur culture. Et quand on lit le slogan au dos de la couverture, « Avec un morceau de pain, on trouve son paradis sous un sapin », on ne peut que déposer ce beau livre sous le sien de sapin.

Be my Quarantine

Lors du confinement du printemps passé, qui n’a pas investi son balcon, mis le nez à la fenêtre pour capter chaque rayon de soleil ? Depuis le trottoir, Marco Stevic, jeune photographe, a eu l’idée d’immortaliser des amis, des connaissances.

Peut-être d’ailleurs connaissez-vous quelqu’un. Caroline Stevan, elle, a glissé par-ci par-là les réflexions que nous nous sommes faites durant cette période. Au résultat, un ouvrage positif, pas du tout plombant. Lausannois, ce livre est pour vous.

La région de Kaliningrad est une enclave russe en territoire européen, située entre la Pologne, la Lituanie et bordée par la mer Baltique. Dominique de Rivaz s’y est rendue plusieurs fois, aimantée par son passé allemand et la vie d’aujourd’hui. Y contribuent également un photographe biélorusse et un journaliste allemand. Au résultat, ce photoreportage, qui fait la part belle à l’humain, immerge le lecteur dans un voyage et la découverte d’une contrée où il ne serait probablement jamais allé, même si les frontières n’étaient ces temps fermées.

Une journée extraordinaire

Elle est extra cette journée ordinaire. Du lever au coucher, les rituels quotidiens d’enfants sont dépeints dans des images gaies, agrémentées de petits poèmes et suivies de doubles pages d’imagier en lien avec ce qui précède. Les enfants dès deux-trois ans vont aimer se perdre dans les détails, nommer, reconnaître, tenter de déchiffrer et se remémorer les poèmes. Cet album gai et plein de vie est l’œuvre de deux Vaudoises, Noémie Pétremand, alias Plume, et Jenay Loetscher, alias Pinceau.

Rouge-queue

Quand Anne Crausaz s’empare d’un thème en lien avec la nature, elle le fait avec une rigueur scientifique qui n’exclut pas la poésie. Prenons les oiseaux. « Rouge-queue », nous fait traverser une année dans la vie de quatre oiseaux : Rouge-queue va bientôt quitter l’Afrique, direction l’Europe. Il a un peu d’appréhension à l’idée du long vol qui l’attend. Mais arrivé à destination, il trouve l’amour. C’est l’été, Grand-père Rossignol est inquiet. Il faut comprendre que c’est lui qui mène la chorale des chants. Rouge-gorge observe l’automne, il s’ennuie. Et s’il faisait un peu de musique, s’il regardait les feuilles s’envoler… Dame Perdrix est en retard, l’hiver est là et elle doit changer de tenue. Ici, tout est vrai, même si, au-dessus de nos têtes, les oiseaux ne portent pas de chapeau, ni ne pensent. C’est la force de ce livre : allier les informations à la fantaisie. Un chef d’œuvre à lire dès 4-5 ans.

Vent d’hiver

Si ces deux-là ne sont pas suisses, la maison d’édition, elle, l’est. Passer à côté de ces courtes histoires farfelues et poétiques, aurait été dommage. Par exemple, on y apprend qu’autrefois Madame Hiver et Monsieur Printemps étaient mariés ; que l’hiver a inventé le rhume un jour où il s’ennuyait ; que la neige parfois se fait attendre quand d’autres n’aimeraient pas la voir venir ; que si nos extrémités sont gelées, de notre nez sort une jolie fumée. De quoi finalement l’apprécier cet hiver, d’autant plus quand Gerda Dendooven l’illustre avec humour de bleu, de rouge, de blanc. Dès 6-7 ans.

D’Anaïs Nin (1903-1977), se souvient-on de ses journaux intimes et qu’elle fut une des premières femmes à écrire des romans érotiques? A vingt ans, elle épouse un jeune banquier et une vie qui pourrait se révéler monotone. Cependant, comme l’explique cette citation que Léonie Bischoff a placée en exergue de sa bande dessinée: La vie seule ne peut satisfaire l’imagination. Nin est partagée entre l’amour qu’elle a pour son mari et son envie de découvrir le plaisir, d’abord dans les bras d’Henry Miller, puis d’autres hommes et même de femmes. Elle s’intéresse également à la psychanalyse et fréquente de nombreux écrivains. Léonie Bischoff a étudié avec beaucoup de sérieux les écrits et la vie de Nin, vie qu’elle restitue sur quelques années dans un ouvrage où alternent sensualité et questionnements. Le dessin est majoritairement réalisé au crayon de couleur et au crayon “magique”, à savoir à mine multicolore - quel brio! Le trait exprime à la fois fantaisie et passion. Passion que l’on sent très forte chez Léonie.

J’ai croisé Léonie il y a environ deux ans à Bruxelles. Je crois me souvenir que ses cheveux, ses yeux avaient les mêmes teintes que celles utilisées dans sa bd. Elle avait un regard mutin, acidulé.

Bibliogaphie:

Léman : bien plus qu’un lac Claude Dussez, Vincent Guignet, Blaise Hofmann, Glénat, 2020. Fr. 53.90

Pains maison : 42 recettes croustillantes Hedi Nieuwsma et Dorian Rollin, Helvetiq, 2020. Fr. 39.00

Be my Quarantine Marco Stevic, Caroline Stevan, Helvetiq, 2020. Fr. 35.00

Kaliningrad : la petite Russie d’Europe Dominique de Rivaz, Dmitri Leltschuk, Noir sur Blanc, 2020. Fr. 45.00

Une journée extraordinaire : poèmes illustrés et imagiers Noémie Pétremand et Jenay Loetscher, Plume et Pinceau, 2020. Fr. 24.00

Rouge-queue : quatre histoires d’oiseaux Anne Crausaz, Editions MeMo, 2020. Fr. 27.20

Vent d’hiver : petites histoires pour réchauffer les jours froids Carl Norac, Gerda Dendooven, La Joie de lire, 2020. Fr. 23.50

Anaïs Nin : sur la mer des mensonges Léonie Bischoff, Casterman, 2020. Fr. 40.20

#Glénat #Helvetiq #Noir sur Blanc #MeMo #Carl Norac #Gerda Dendooven #Anaïs Nin #Suisse #oiseau #femme #Léonie Bischoff #La Joie de lire #Casterman #hiver #Léman #album enfant #bande dessinée #beau livre #Anne Crausaz

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