Loving a woman with a broken nose

Like loving a woman with a broken nose, you may well find lovelier lovelies.  But never a lovely so real.  — Nelson Algren

Like loving a woman with a broken nose, you may well find lovelier lovelies.  But never a lovely so real.  — Nelson Algren, Chicago: City on the Make (1951)

I have never managed to translate these lines from Nelson Algren’s (book-length) prose poem Chicago: City on the Make to French to my satisfaction.  The problem comes from the fact that lovely can (and usually is) an adjective, but can also be — super-rarely, I suspect — a noun.  Hmmm–not unlike belle in French, maybe?  Native speaker Phil d’Ange came up with this classical couplet:

To keep the rhyme but also to have the same number of syllables, a must in French classical poetry, I made two 12-foot verses (the top of classicism, what we call “des alexandrins”, 12 foot verses with “la césure à l’hémistiche” i.e. a natural pause right in the middle, after 6 feet) that keep the meaning and the rhyme.

“Peut-être verras-tu un jour belles plus belles
Mais jamais ne verras de belle plus réelle” .


Nelson was talking here about Chicago, but Chicago was not his only love: Simone de Beauvoir was another.  The end of their relationship is typically portrayed as her leaving him to return to Jean-Paul Sartre, but I am not entirely convinced.  Here is an excerpt from a letter that she wrote to him in 1950, when he had pulled back from her, dissatisfied with the relationship.

I am not sad. Rather stunned, very far away from myself, not really believing you are now so far, so far, you so near. I want to tell you only two things before leaving, and then I’ll not speak about it any more, I promise. First, I hope so much, I want and need so much to see you again, some day. But, remember, please, I shall never more ask to see you — not from any pride since I have none with you, as you know, but our meeting will mean something only when you wish it. So, I’ll wait. When you’ll wish it, just tell. I shall not assume that you love me anew, not even that you have to sleep with me, and we have not to stay together such a long time — just as you feel, and when you feel. But know that I’ll always long for your asking me. No, I cannot think that I shall not see you again. I have lost your love and it was (it is) painful, but shall not lose you. Anyhow, you gave me so much, Nelson, what you gave me meant so much, that you could never take it back. And then your tenderness and friendship were so precious to me that I can still feel warm and happy and harshly grateful when I look at you inside me. I do hope this tenderness and friendship will never, never desert me. As for me, it is baffling to say so and I feel ashamed, but it is the only true truth: I just love as much as I did when I landed into your disappointed arms, that means with my whole self and all my dirty heart; I cannot do less. But that will not bother you, honey, and don’t make writing letters of any kind a duty, just write when you feel like it, knowing every time it will make me very happy.

Well, all words seem silly. You seem so near, so near, let me come near to you, too. And let me, as in the past times, let me be in my own heart forever.

Your own Simone


In lieu of English (or French) notes, here’s some linguistics geekery to ruin your day (or, at a minimum, Algren’s poetry).

In this post, I introduced an intuition without actually backing it up:

The problem comes from the fact that lovely can (and usually is) an adjective, but can also be — super-rarely, I suspect — a noun.

How could one know whether or not it’s the case that it’s quite rare for lovely to be an adjective?  Data, data, data.

I went to the Sketch Engine web site, where one can find all manner of corpora (pre-analyzed sets of linguistic data), as well as a nice interface for searching them.  (No, they don’t pay me to shill for them–I pay a pretty penny for access to the site, which I use in my actual research.)  I picked a corpus (the singular of corpora) called the enTenTen13 corpus.  It contains a bit under 20 billion words of English from various and sundry sources, mostly scraped off of the web.  The analysis that’s been done on this data consisted of using a computer program to “tag” the lexical categories (parts of speech to those civilians amongst you) of all of the words in it.

With that data, and a tool that will let me specify the part of speech for which I’m looking, I can do two separate searches:

  • lovely as an adjective
  • lovely as a noun

Why two searches?  I wanted to know whether it’s rare for lovely to be a noun, so why didn’t I just search for lovely as a noun?  Because numbers by themselves aren’t really meaningful: to know if a number–in this case, the frequency of lovely occurring as a noun–is large or small (why didn’t I say big or little?  see previous posts about how there aren’t really any synonyms), I need to compare it to something else–in this case, to the frequency of some other word/lexical category.  Which word, with which lexical category?  Well, lovely as an adjective makes as much sense as anything else, so I did that.  

Here’s what I got when I searched for lovely as an adjective.  Notice that in the upper-left corner of the white-background panel, it says Query (lovely)-j: the “j” means adjective (for reasons that we need not get into, but it’s obvious enough to someone in the field that the Sketch Engine folks clearly didn’t see any need to explain it).  You may be wondering: what about lovelier or loveliest?  Gotcha covered–I actually did the search not for the “word” lovely, but for the “lemma” lovely, which means that the program is also looking for loveliest (you can see that it found an example of that, about halfway down the list)–and Lovely, Lovelier, and any other form with capital letters (and found one, 5 down from the top).  The program found 943,084 tokens of lovely (or, more precisely, of the lemma lovely); we don’t know whether 943,084 is a lot or a little (remember the Best Movie Line Ever: 5 inches is a lot of snow, and it’s a TREMENDOUS amount of rain, but it’s not very much dick), but pas de souci, Sketch Engine does the math to convert that into a frequency: 41.49 occurrences per million words (see the gray bar (or grey if you’re a Brit) at the top of the white panel.

Screen Shot 2018-04-23 at 11.25.08

With a frequency for lovely as an adjective to which I can now compare the frequency of lovely as a noun, I did another search.  This time, I looked for the lemma lovely, but as a noun.  6th from the top, you’ll see it pluralized–Kylie also kindly sent me various other lovelies including a gorgeous notebook… …and if you’re pluralized and in you’re in English, then you’re not an adjective.  The frequency of lovely as a noun?  Sketch Engine tells me that it’s 0.73 times per million words.

Screen Shot 2018-04-23 at 11.26.34

So, I get the following frequencies:

  • lovely as an adjective: 41.49 occurrences per million words
  • lovely as a noun: 0.73 occurrences per million words

41.49 is about 42 times 0.73, so indeed, lovely as a noun seems to be pretty fucking rare: my intuition has been supported by the quantitative data.


Now, I know what you’re thinking: Zipf, your computer program sucks–a LOT of the times that it thought that lovely was a noun, it was ACTUALLY an adjective:

  • Look at my thighs–lovely aren’t they!  (first line)
  • Naturally, how lovely can be a black and whitened celebration… (second line)

Point number one: it’s not that it sucks–it’s that it makes mistakes.  If there is a computer program that works with language and does not make mistakes, I have never heard of it, and a priori wouldn’t believe it if someone said that one existed.  The question is: what kinds of mistakes does it make, and what can we learn from them?

  1. It’s making a frequent mistake of thinking that the adjective is a verb.  It doesn’t have to be that way, right?  It could have been the other way around.
  2. The mistake that we saw in (1) is a general one: it is too often judging the word to belong to the category to which it belongs most frequently.  This is the typical pattern with any computer program that does things with language: when something is ambiguous, computer programs tend to be biased towards the most common “interpretation.”
  3. Therefore, when we look at the frequency of lovely as a noun, we know that it’s probably an over-estimate.  Doesn’t have to be that way, right?  We could just as well have gotten an under-estimate.  But, since we’re looking at the less-frequent category here, and the program tends to erroneously assign the more-frequent category, we know that we should adjust our estimate of the frequency of lovely as a noun downwards.

Implicit in all three of these observations: in general, we are not getting frequencies of things–we are getting estimates of frequencies, where the difference between the estimate and the truth is affected by a lot of things, including how well the sample represents the world as a whole, the errors in our measuring instruments (in this case, the program that assigned the lexical categories, etc.

…and now, having undoubtedly sucked all of the joy out of Algren’s wonderful words–they’ve stuck with me since I was a teenager, but I’ve probably ruined them for you forever–I will head down to the Office française de l’immigration et de l’intégration–OFII, as we expats call it–to get my carte de séjour, and leave you to curse me.  Feel free to post your own poems–it is, after all, National Poetry Month…

Naming of parts: the illustrated version

Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And to-day we have naming of parts.

basic_rifle_parts
Picture source: https://goo.gl/b9U0dY

It’s National Poetry Month, and that means Henry Reed’s achingly beautiful and super-funny Naming of parts.  Getting the humor might require having spent some time in the military, which I did; getting the vocabulary certainly does, as it’s full of technical terms for rifle-parts.  I originally found the version that I give here, with its nice links to some of the difficult vocabularyon the Sole Arabia Tree web site.  For this year, I’ve added some additional vocabulary notes here.  Go to the Sole Arabia Tree page for a recording of Henry Reed reading the poem.

swivel
Picture source: https://goo.gl/YpZJPA

swivel: “a device joining two parts so that one or both can pivot freely”(Merriam-Webster) . The poem mentions several kinds of swivels on the British-Army-issue rifle of World War II: the upper sling swivel, the lower sling swivel, and the piling swivel.

sling: “a device (as a rope or chain) by which something is lifted or carried” (Merriam-Webster).  See the picture of a rifle above.

easily: the adverbial form of easy.  It never appears in the poem–I add it here for the benefit of the non-native speakers whose English is good enough to be puzzled by these lines in the poem:

You can do it quite easy

If you have any strength in your thumb.

Yes, that sounds weird, and you should say You can do it quite easily if you have any strength in your thumb.  Does Reed use it here to imply something about the level of education of the drill instructor?  Is it a dialectal variant in the United Kingdom?  Was it current at the time that he wrote the poem, published in 1942?  I have no clue.  I do, however, find quite striking the parallel that Lieutenant Colonel Edward Ledford (US Army) draws between the drill instructor’s deadpan “which in your case you have not got,” sometimes interpreted as prefiguring how slaughtered these kids were going to be later, part because of shortages of equipment, and notorious my-kids-won’t-go-to-war-but-let’s-send-yours Donald Rumsfeld’s dismissal of the concerns of actual American soldiers at the beginning of Bush’s Iraq War:

The scene is in Kuwait. The setting is a less and less endearing and more and more trite town-hall meeting. Soldiers are gathered around. They will move north into Iraq the next day. The soldiers, we soon discover, apparently aren’t feeling real dulce-et-decorum-est-pro-patri-mori.

Playing the role of leader, Donald Rumsfeld places himself among them. He opens the floor to questions and comments. Specialist Thomas Wilson raises his hand. He is called upon.

Wilson: A lot of us are getting ready to move north relatively soon. Our vehicles are not armored. We’re digging pieces of rusted scrap metal and compromised ballistic glass that’s already been shot up.. picking the best out of this scrap to put on our vehicles to take into combat.

Rumsfeld [in a scientific, theoretical, detached tone]: As you know, you go to war with the Army you have. They’re not the Army you might want or wish to have at a later time. [brightening, as if realizing something] If you think about it, you can have all the armor in the world on a tank and a tank can be blown up.

A female Soldier asks a next question, but the audience cannot hear it

Rumsfeld: It is something you prefer not to have to use, obviously, in a perfect world. It’s been used as little as possible.

Lieutenant Colonel Ledford continues his critique of Rumsfeld’s dismissive (and later seen to be deadly, both for us and for Iraqi civilians) words by rewriting them in the style of Naming of parts:

As you know, you go
to war

with the Army you have.

They’re not the Army
you might want

or wish to have
at a later time.

If you think
about it,
you can have
all the armor
in the world
on a tank
and a tank
can be blown
up.

It is something
you prefer not to have to use,
obviously,
in
a perfect world.

It’s been used

as little as possible.

For the rest of Lieutenant Colonel Ledford’s thoughts on the poem, see this web page.


LESSONS OF THE WAR

To Alan Michell

Vixi duellis nuper idoneus
Et militavi non sine gloria

I. NAMING OF PARTS

To-day we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
To-day we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And to-day we have naming of parts.

This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.

This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.

They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For to-day we have naming of parts.

Guillaume Apollinaire: Exercice

Guillaume Apollinaire is another one of those folks who shows that you can be both a poet, and a very serious ass-kicker. 

2014-07-04 19.10.09
Street sign in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighborhood.

Guillaume Apollinaire is another one of those folks who shows that you can be both a poet–and a very serious ass-kicker.  Apollinaire tried to join the French army in Paris at the beginning of the First World War, but was turned down–because he wasn’t a French citizen.  (Polish, actually.)  Undaunted, he travelled south, tried again, and this time got in.  He was initially assigned to the artillery, but that wasn’t hard-core enough for him, and he asked for–and received–a transfer to the infantry.  He suffered a head wound in 1916, never really recovered from it, and in his weakened condition, died in the influenza epidemic of 1918.  Here is one of his poems, Exercice.

Exercice

Vers un village d l’arrière
S’en allaient quatre bombardiers
Ils étaient couvert de poussière
Depuis la tête jusqu’aux pieds

Ils regardaient la vaste plaine
En parlant entre eux du passé
Et ne se retournaient qu’à peine
Quand un obus avait toussé

Tous quatre de la classe seize
Parlaient d’antan non d’avenir
Ainsi se prolongeait l’ascèse
Qui les exerçait à mourir


French notes

In the last two lines, note the inversion: not L’ascèse qui les exerçait à mourir se prolongeait ainsi, but Ainsi se prolongeait l’ascèse qui les exerçait à mourir.  If you’d like to read an analysis of the various and sundry kinds of inversion that ainsi can trigger, as well as some quantitative data on ainsi-triggered inversion in Le Monde, see Lena Karssenberg and Karen Lahousse’s paper on the topic.

•    la poussière: dust.
•    la plaine: plain.
•    se retourner: (tourner la tête) turn around, do a double take; (changer de sens, de position) turn over, toss and turn; (se mettre à l’envers) turn over, overturn
•    la peine: punishment, sorrow, trouble—but, that’s not what it means here—see the next entry.
•    à peine: scarcely, hardly
•    un obus: shell (artillery).
•    tousser: to cough
•    d’antan: of yesteryear, of long ago
•    se prolonger: continue; perpetuate itself; persist; linger; go on; be continued; be extended
•    ascèse: This word is a tough one.  It’s not in any of my French-English dictionaries.  In Anne Greet’s translation (see below), it’s rendered as “ascesis.”  I found it in a monolingual (French-French) dictionary; the definition seemed to be something like asceticism.
•    exercer: to train, exercise, practice

What should we make of the past imperfect tense that is used throughout the poem?
Greet’s notes suggest that it produces a detachment between the poet and the four men: “The poet…is not part of the graphic little scene he is painting.  The verbs, in third person and imperfect tense, indicate that he is an omniscient observer.  This role produces a…fine balance in the poem between compassion and detachment.”

Towards a village in the rear
Marched four bombardiers
And they were covered with dirt
From head to foot

They stared at the vast plain
As they talked about the past
And they barely looked around
When a shell made a coughing sound

All four of class sixteen
Spoke of the past not future time
Thus the ascesis dragged on
That practiced them in dying

Translated by Anne Hyde Greet

You like Apollinaire, but like me, have trouble with the French?  I like Anne Hyde Greet’s translation of Calligrammes quite a bit.

Rest In Peace, Jacques Higelin

One of my friends once said this to me: “When I walked out of the room after finishing my bac [the French high school exit exam–your score on it determines a lot of the future course of your life], I said to myself: if I’d spent as much of the last four years studying as I did memorizing Higelin, I’d be going to a much better university.” 

One of my friends once said this to me: “When I walked out of the room after finishing my bac [the French high school exit exam–your score on it determines a lot about the future course of your life], I said to myself: if I’d spent as much of the last four years studying as I did memorizing Higelin, I’d be going to a much better university.”  Jacques Higelin died yesterday.  Go to his anglophone Wikipedia page and you’ll find a few short paragraphs–go to his francophone page, and it goes on for screen, after screen, after screen.  Here’s the most appropriate song of his that I could think of during this National Poetry Month–scroll down past the video for the lyrics.

J’suis mort qui qui dit mieux
Ben mon pauv’vieux, voilà aut’chose
J’suis mort qui, qui dit mieux
Mort le venin, coupée la rose
J’ai perdu mon âme en chemin
Qui qui la r’trouve s’la mette aux choses
J’ai perdu mon âme en chemin

Qui qui la r’trouve la jette aux chiens

J’m’avais collé avec une fumelle
Ben alors ça c’est la plus belle
J’m’avais collé avec une fumelle
L’jour où j’ai brûlé mes sabots
J’lui avais flanqué un marmot
Maint’nant qu’son père est plus d’ce monde
L’a poussé ce p’tit crève la faim
Faut qu’ma veuve lui cherche un parrain.

Elle lui en avait d’jà trouvé un
Eh j’ai pas les yeux dans ma poche

Elle lui en avait d’jà trouvé un
Dame faut prévoir, en cas d’besoin
C’est lui qui flanquera des taloches
A mon p’tiot pour qu’il s’tienne bien droit
C’est du joli, moi j’trouve ça moche
De cogner sur un plus p’tit qu’soi.

Cela dit dans c’putain d’cimetière
J’ai perdu mon humeur morose
Jamais plus personne ne vient
M’emmerder quand je me repose
A faire l’amour avec la terre
J’ai enfanté des p’tits vers blancs
Qui me nettoient, qui me digèrent
Qui font leur nid au creux d’mes dents.

Arrétez-moi si je déconne
Arrétez-moi ou passez m’voir
Sans violettes, sans pleurs ni couronnes
Venez perdre un moment d’cafard
J’vous f’rais visiter des cousins
Morts à la guerre ou morts de rien
Esprit qui vous cligne de l’oeil
Les bras tendus hors du cercueil

Aujourd’hui je vous sens bien lasse
Ne soyez plus intimidée
A mes côtés reste une place
Ne tient qu’à vous de l’occuper
Qu’est c’que tu as ? oui, le temps passe
Et le p’tit va rentrer de l’école
Dis lui q’son père a pas eu d’bol
‘L a raté l’train, c’était l’dernier

Attend un peu, ma femme, ma mie
Y’a un message pour le garçon
J’ai plus ma tête, voilà qu’j’oublie
Où j’ai niché l’accordéon
P’t’être à la cave, p’t’être au grenier
Je n’aurais repos pour qu’il apprenne
mais il est tard, sauve toi je t’aime
Riez pas du pauv’macchabé

Ceux qui ont jamais croqué d’la veuve
Les bordés d’nouilles, les tir à blanc
Qu’ont pas gagné une mort toute neuve
A la tombola des mutants
Peuvent pas savoir ce qui gigote
dans les trous du défunt cerveau
Quand sa moitié dépose une botte de rose
Sur l’chardon du terreau
Quand sa moitié dépose une botte de rose
Sur l’chardon du terreau


French notes

Je suis mort, qui qui dit mieux : This is a complicated line, combining an expression fron childish language (qui qui) with qui dit mieux, which is how an auctioneer tries to raise an amount that’s been bid.  An explanation from a friend:

“Qui dit mieux” est l’expression du commissaire priseur, mais pas “qui qui dit mieux”.   
En français commencer une phrase par “qui qui (veut des pâtes ?, chante si fort ?…etc…), est une formulation enfantine ou illettrée pour dire “Qui est-ce qui ? “.  La complexité de la construction grammaticale de ce bout de phrase non visible mentalement dans sa version orale, fait que jeunes élèves et adultes fâchés avec la belle langue le réduisent à “C’est qui qui + verbe” ou “Qui, qui + verbe”.

 

 

À Grenelle

Suddenly Bruant’s poem made sense.

For the 3rd day of National Poetry Month, here’s a slice of life from Aristide Bruant.

IMG_3629
My little bookstore.

I live in the most boring arrondissement of Paris.  The 15th typically doesn’t even show up in tourist guide-books–it’s the biggest arrondissement in the city, but it’s just a residential neighborhood, plain and simple.  (Plain and simple is an adverb, not an adjective–see the English notes below.)  The pearl of my little corner of the 15th is a small used bookstore on the boulevard Grenelle.  The floor is almost completely covered with stacks of books, to the point that if the owner ever has a heart attack in there, they will have to empty the store to get the stretcher inside–it’s adorable, and if the owner sees something that he thinks I’ll like, he puts it aside for me.

 

bruant_aristide
Aristide Bruant. He’s usually pictured wearing a wide-brimmed hat, but you can find such depictions anywhere… Source: http://www.dutempsdescerisesauxfeuillesmortes.net, https://goo.gl/rcFw9e

And yet: this being Paris, there are centuries of history everywhere around me.  An afternoon’s walk often takes me through the side streets to the west of the École militaire, the military academy that was meant to increase the size of the French officer corps by making it possible for the sons of non-aristocrats to get into it.  (Napoleon learned his craft there.)  Amongst those streets was the red-light district of this very military neighborhood, and the poet Aristide Bruant immortalized it in À Grenelle.

Much of this poem puzzled the shit out of me (see the English notes below for what that means) until the day that I walked into my little bookstore and the owner showed me something that he was saving for me.  Called Les mots et la chose, the trame (premise?) of Jean-Claude Carrière’s epistolary novel is that a retired lexicographer gets a letter in the mail from a struggling actress who pays her bills by dubbing pornographic films into French.  She’s tired of the limited vocabulary that she’s asked to use, and she requests that the lexicographer suggest some alternatives.  (Note the subjunctive: that the lexicographer suggest, not suggests.)  The rest of the book is his responses, with separate chapters for penises, breasts, la chose itself, etc.

IMG_0495Suddenly Bruant’s poem made sense.  Faire sentinelle: to stand guard, but also to have an erection.  La chapelle: chapel, but also vagina.  Other plays on words are more obvious, at least to a veteran (which I am, but Trump isn’t, having been excused from Vietnam due to a sore foot, although apparently said foot did not deter him from being an enthusiastic athlete).  Montaient à l’assaut de mes mamelons: the word le mamelon is a nipple or a small hill, and lemme tell ya, assaulting a hill is a highly technical undertaking–higher ground gives the defender a major advantage, and assaulting hills is the kind of thing that you really have to practice.  I was also impressed by the technical accuracy of this verse: …des lanciers, // Des dragons et des cuirassiers // Qui me montraient à me tenir en selle… Specifically, the fact that these soldiers who are teaching her “to stay in the saddle” (do French men all share the universally-held American man’s wish to “die in the saddle”?) are all mounted (i.e. on horseback) troops of one sort or another: lanciers and cuirassiers were cavalry troops, and dragons were “mounted infantry,” meaning that they travelled on horseback, but dismounted to fight.

There’s cool stuff in the poem for grammarians, as well–most notably, this line: J’en ai-t-y connu des lanciers…  Us anglophones struggle with both and en, and finding both of the together and with an inversion…well, good luck finding anything that complicated ever again, and if you do, please tell us about it in the comments…

738_yvette_guilbert
Yvette Guilbert in 1885. I HATE the Toulouse-Lautrec paintings of her, but looking at this photo, you can see why he did what he did with her… Source: franceculture.fr, https://goo.gl/RknwY1

Bruant’s poem was eventually recorded by Yvette Guilbert, and more recently by Patachou.  I hum it in my head whenever my train passes by the Chaussée d’Antin metro station, for reasons that will become clear when you get to the last verse.


À Grenelle

Aristide Bruant

Quand je vois des filles de dix-sept ans,
Ça me fait penser qu’y a bien longtemps
Moi aussi, je l’ai été, pucelle,
A Grenelle!Mais c’est un quartier plein de soldats,
On en rencontre à tous les pas,
Jour et nuit, ‘font sentinelles,
A Grenelle!J’en ai-t-y connu des lanciers,
Des dragons et des cuirassiers
Qui me montraient à me tenir en selle
A Grenelle!Fantassins, officiers, colons,
Montaient à l’assaut de mes mamelons!
Ils me prenaient pour une citadelle!
A Grenelle!

Moi, je les prenais tous pour amants,
Je commandais tous les régiments,
On m’appelait “Mâme la Colonelle”,
A Grenelle!

Mais ça me rapportait que de l’honneur,
Car si l’amour, ça fait le bonheur,
On fait pas fortune avec elle,
A Grenelle!

Bientôt je m’aperçus que mes beaux yeux
Sonnaient l’extinction des feux,
On se mirait plus dans ma prunelle
A Grenelle!

Mes bras, mes jambes, mes appâts,
Tout ça foutait le camp à grands pas,
J’osais plus faire la petite chapelle
A Grenelle!

Aujourd’hui que j’ai plus de position,
Les régiments me font une pension:
On me laisse manger à la gamelle,
A Grenelle!

Ça prouve que quand on est putain,
Faut s’établir Chaussée d’Antin,
Au lieu de se faire une clientèle
A Grenelle!

Scroll down for the English notes.

IMG_5803
The Chaussée d’Antin stop on line 7. Picture source: me.

English notes

plain and simpleClearly; without any complexity (Wiktionary).  Plain and simple is what linguists call a sentential or sentence-level adverb.  It describes the speaker’s attitude towards the assertion being made by the rest of the sentence: in this case, that the assertion is indisputably true.  Plain and simple is unusual in that most sentential adverbs come at the beginning of the sentence (Luckily, we didn’t miss the train); in contrast, plain and simple usually comes at the end of the sentence.  Some examples from the enTenTen13 corpus at the Sketch Engine web site, purveyor of fine linguistic corpora and the tools for searching them:

  • It doesn’t work, plain and simple.
  • Those things are just evil, plain and simple.
  • A mood disorder is an illness, plain and simple.
  • Seriously addressing the long-term fiscal problem means restraining entitlement spending growth, plain and simple.
  • That is the reason for the obesity epidemic, plain and simple.

to verb the shit out ofa delightful English adverb (well, maybe American–I don’t actually know much about British English) that intensifies the action of the verb.

  • Found : At most gay bars, probably confusing the shit out of everyone.
  • When and if it does happen it won’t freak the shit out of you…
  • The group is preparing to shock the shit out of tourists.
  • If there is one thing ATLA is overflowing with, it’s ladies absolutely walloping the shit out of everyone.
  • There’s not a critic in the world who could say anything to me, because I kick the shit out of myself way worse than anybody ever could.
  • What happened here was the jury didn’t like the victim, and so the wrong-doer got a walk, and frankly that should scare the shit out of you.
  • If you want this to be a legitimate sport, start running it like one and stop embarassing the shit out of everyone who has supported your organization since the get go.

Note that the modified verb is usually one with a negative sense–to confuse, to beat, to shock, to wallop (to hit very hard), to scare, to embarrass.  (Yes, it’s spelled wrong in the example above.)  But, it doesn’t have to be a negative verb; using it with a positive one is odd, though, and that gives a certain flavor to such uses.

  • I plan to enjoy the shit out of it.
  • I’d buy the shit out of those tickets.
  • Then go find your Peter Brand and hire the shit out of him before someone else does.
  • Choir! – but you have, right? – they are everyday people who get together on Tuesdays or Wednesdays to sing the shit out of something, usually a popular song from the last 30 years or so.
  • I want to marry the shit out of you and then I want to put a baby inside you as soon as you’ll let me.