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diumenge, de juliol 29, 2012

Rouen, Normandia, França.

Rouen, capital del Sena Marítim, i una de les ciutats més importants de França, té un orígen celta. Per alguns, com jo mateix, el nom d'aquesta ciutat ens evoca que a la seva plaça principal hi va ser cremada Joana d'Arc, una de les grans injustícies de la història; tot i que ja sabem que la història és plena d'injustícies el cas de Joana d'Arc és més frepant perquè després la mateixa institució que la va condemnar la va fer santa: l'Església Catòlica.



Vistata general exterior de la catedral, vista interior i dos detalls de l'entrada

 

Vista general interior i un detall de l'Antic Hospital



Vista general i detall del Gran Rellotge. No hi ha dubte que una de les joies de Rouen és el seu Gros-Horloge. Evidentment sense menystenir la col.lecció en el Museu de Belles Arts i pels amants de la literatura francesa la casa de Flaubert.


Si he penjat aquesta fotografia o, més ben dit, si vaig fer aquesta fotograrfia no és per l'interès de l'escultura, que no en té cap, sinó pel que representa malgrat que és una representació ensucrada o beata quan Joana d'Arc va ser molt religiosa, però que la seva fe la va fer també una guerrillera de veritat.
Cal dir que tinc una especial simpatia per la figura de Joana d'Arc per dues raons que són una. Dos autors que admiro han escrit sobre Joana d'Arc. L'any 1972 vaig llegir un text que em va impressionar molt, es tracta del Capítol XXII de "A Child's History of England", de Charles Dickens, del que transcric els dos darrers paràgrafs:
From the moment of her capture, neither the French King nor one
single man in all his court raised a finger to save her. It is no
defence of them that they may have never really believed in her, or
that they may have won her victories by their skill and bravery.
The more they pretended to believe in her, the more they had caused
her to believe in herself; and she had ever been true to them, ever
brave, ever nobly devoted. But, it is no wonder, that they, who
were in all things false to themselves, false to one another, false
to their country, false to Heaven, false to Earth, should be
monsters of ingratitude and treachery to a helpless peasant girl.

In the picturesque old town of Rouen, where weeds and grass grow
high on the cathedral towers, and the venerable Norman streets are
still warm in the blessed sunlight though the monkish fires that
once gleamed horribly upon them have long grown cold, there is a
statue of Joan of Arc, in the scene of her last agony, the square
to which she has given its present name. I know some statues of
modern times - even in the World's metropolis, I think - which
commemorate less constancy, less earnestness, smaller claims upon
the world's attention, and much greater impostors.
L'altre autor és el poeta, compositor i cantant Leonard Cohen, de qui atresoro tota la seva obra discogràfica i té una cançódedicada a Joana d'Arc:
Now the flames they followed joan of arc
As she came riding through the dark;
No moon to keep her armour bright,
No man to get her through this very smoky night.
She said, "i'm tired of the war,
I want the kind of work I had before,
A wedding dress or something white
To wear upon my swollen appetite.
Well, I'm glad to hear you talk this way,
You know I've watched you riding every day
And something in me yearns to win
Such a cold and lonesome heroine.
"and who are you? " she sternly spoke
To the one beneath the smoke.
"why, I'm fire," he replied,
"and I love your solitude, I love your pride."

"then fire, make your body cold,
I'm going to give you mine to hold,"
Saying this she climbed inside
To be his one, to be his only bride.
And deep into his fiery heart
He took the dust of joan of arc,
And high above the wedding guests
He hung the ashes of her wedding dress.
It was deep into his fiery heart
He took the dust of joan of arc,
And then she clearly understood
If he was fire, oh then she must be wood.
I saw her wince, I saw her cry,
I saw the glory in her eye.
Myself I long for love and light,
But must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?

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