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The Spartans on the sea-wet rock
I called several video stores this afternoon, looking for a DVD of Hiroshima mon amour (1960). This is how the first conversation went:
". . . how may I help you?"
"Hi. Could you tell me whether you have, on DVD, a film called Hiroshima mon amour? Thanks."
"Sure . . . Is that by Miyazaki?"
"No, it's from the early 1960's. It's by Alain Resnais."
"How do you spell 'Hiroshima'?"
That's for remembrance.
They talked of ordinary things. Of each one's friends at home; those friends unknown to either of the other two. Of the possible duration of the war. Of how they would meet and in what good places afterwards. Of the dissimilar merits of Welshmen and Cockneys. Of the diverse virtues of Regular and Temporary Officers. Of if you'd ever read the books of Mr. Wells. Of the poetry of Rupert Brooke. Of how you really couldn't very well carry more than one book at a time in your pack. Of the losses of the Battalion since they'd come to France. Of the hateful discomfort of having no greatcoats with fighting-order, of how bad this was. Of how everybody ought rightly to have Burberry's, like officers. Of how German knee boots were more proper to trench war than puttees. Of how privileged Olivier was because he could manage to secrete a few personal belongings along with the signaller's impedimenta. Of how he was known to be a favourite with the Regimental and how he'd feel the draught if he were back with his platoon. Of whether they three would be together for the Duration, and how you hoped so very much indeed. Of captains of thousands and of hundreds, of corporals, of many things. Of the Lloyd George administration, of the Greek, Venizelos, who Olivier said was important, of whom John Ball had never previously heard. Of the neutrality of Spain. Of whether the French nation was nice or nasty. Of whether anyone would ever get leave and what it would be like if you did. Of how stripes, stars, chevrons, specialisations, jobs away from the battalion, and all distinguishing marks were better resisted for as long as possible. Of how it were best to take no particular notice, to let the stuff go over you, how it were wise to lie doggo and to wait the end.
And watched the concentration in the valley.
—David Jones, In Parenthesis (1937)
". . . how may I help you?"
"Hi. Could you tell me whether you have, on DVD, a film called Hiroshima mon amour? Thanks."
"Sure . . . Is that by Miyazaki?"
"No, it's from the early 1960's. It's by Alain Resnais."
"How do you spell 'Hiroshima'?"
That's for remembrance.
They talked of ordinary things. Of each one's friends at home; those friends unknown to either of the other two. Of the possible duration of the war. Of how they would meet and in what good places afterwards. Of the dissimilar merits of Welshmen and Cockneys. Of the diverse virtues of Regular and Temporary Officers. Of if you'd ever read the books of Mr. Wells. Of the poetry of Rupert Brooke. Of how you really couldn't very well carry more than one book at a time in your pack. Of the losses of the Battalion since they'd come to France. Of the hateful discomfort of having no greatcoats with fighting-order, of how bad this was. Of how everybody ought rightly to have Burberry's, like officers. Of how German knee boots were more proper to trench war than puttees. Of how privileged Olivier was because he could manage to secrete a few personal belongings along with the signaller's impedimenta. Of how he was known to be a favourite with the Regimental and how he'd feel the draught if he were back with his platoon. Of whether they three would be together for the Duration, and how you hoped so very much indeed. Of captains of thousands and of hundreds, of corporals, of many things. Of the Lloyd George administration, of the Greek, Venizelos, who Olivier said was important, of whom John Ball had never previously heard. Of the neutrality of Spain. Of whether the French nation was nice or nasty. Of whether anyone would ever get leave and what it would be like if you did. Of how stripes, stars, chevrons, specialisations, jobs away from the battalion, and all distinguishing marks were better resisted for as long as possible. Of how it were best to take no particular notice, to let the stuff go over you, how it were wise to lie doggo and to wait the end.
And watched the concentration in the valley.
—David Jones, In Parenthesis (1937)
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re: Hiroshima mon amour... ouch, and ouch.
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I love In Parenthesis. It's a memoir of World War I and a retelling of Welsh myth; there is really not anything else like it.
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It's entirely possible; he was an artist and illustrator as well as a writer.
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I haven't yet seen it; we were going to watch Last Year at Marienbad, but all the library copies were out and after calling fourteen video stores (in six different chains) I was unable to secure a copy on DVD, so we settled for just the same director.
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I did, after only four calls. See previous comment to
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Ugh.
*dies*
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*applies revivifying war poetry*
Yay, your icon, by the way.
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hm. That might be the missing piece I was looking for...
Thank you! I don't remember where she scared it up, but