|Jacques Rivière b. 1886 – French essayist, critic|
Read about Jacques Rivière here
One can imagine that three years in prison camps had particularly weakened [Jacques Rivière], as he would die seven years after the war, at the age of 39 years. Jacques Rivière, born in Bordeaux in 1886, was the brother-in-law of Alain Fournier, author of Grand Meaulnes, killed in 1914. (Correspondence between Jacques Rivière and Alain-Fournier released after Rivière’s death between 1926 and 1928).
Mobilized in 1914 in the 220th Infantry Regiment and made a prisoner of war on August 24 during the first battle, Rivière was imprisoned at Camp Königsbrück in Saxony. He tried to escape, which earned him a transfer to a disciplinary Camp Hulsberg in Hanover, where he recorded his memories of captivity, published in 1918 under the title: The German: Memories and Reflections of a prisoner of war.
Seriously ill, he was transferred to Switzerland in 1917 and was interned there until the end of the war. Following the end of the conflict, he relaunched the NRF (New French Review / Nouvelle Revue Française) in 1919, whose publication had stopped. He published Proust, Francois Mauriac, Paul Valery, Saint-John Perse, Jean Giraudoux, Jules Remains, and also Louis Aragon.
It is often said that Jacques Rivière neglected his own writing to benefit his friends’ careers. The 14 books of his diary written between 1914 and 1917 analyzed his long captivity, expressing the feelings of humiliation, guilt, and the slow agony experienced by a captive. He died February 14, 1925 in Paris, from typhoid fever.
[translated from a forum post here about French writers]
Read an excerpt of Jacques Riviere’s article, published in Nouvelle Revue Française in May of 1923, about post-World War I relations between France and Germany here
Even if the occupation of the Ruhr proves a failure, it can always be said in its defense that it was an honest effort to solve the monstrous problem of Franco-German relations. France is accused of seeking other objects than Reparations there, but if we look at her action from the standpoint of European peace I think she should be praised rather than blamed for cherishing such ulterior designs.
The Versailles Treaty contains two fatal weaknesses: it pretends to base Germany’s obligations to her conquerors upon a recognition of moral delinquency; and it represents all the demands that the victors make of the vanquished as reparations for injury sustained.
When the war ended, nations — and therefore individuals — had indulged for four years in a veritable debauch of intellectual, moral, and physical injustice. The world was strewn with ruins. Men everywhere were possessed of a single idea: to leave principles to take care of themselves, and to recover as speedily as possible the wealth they had stupidly destroyed. In a word, to get Reparations.
Obviously Germany must pay the bill. But instead of justifying this by her defeat, what was done? We tried to make her acknowledge not only her defeat but her guilt. We tried to enforce an impossible moral reform before taking up the tremendous question of physical restitution. We endeavored to overwhelm Germany with a remorse, a grief, a discontent with herself that was utterly absurd, that did not exist, that could not possibly exist in the hearts of the masses of the German people.
It was on a cloud bank like this that we built the Versailles Treaty.
Read excerpts from The Ideal Reader, an English translation of some of Riviere’s essays, here
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|Mari Evans b. 1923 – U.S. poet, playwright|
Read about Mari Evans here
I am a Black Woman
I am a black woman
the music of my song
some sweet arpeggio of tears
is written in a minor key
can be heard humming in the night
Can be heard
in the night
I saw my mate leap screaming to the sea
and I/with these hands/cupped the lifebreath
from my issue in the canebrake
I lost Nat’s swinging body in a rain of tears
and heard my son scream all the way from Anzio
for Peace he never knew….I
learned Da Nang and Pork Chop Hill
Now my nostrils know the gas
and these trigger tire/d fingers
seek the softness in my warrior’s beard
I am a black woman
tall as a cypress
beyond all definition still
on me and be
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