Eggborough Power Station

Following on from the train theme below, and the semi-regular appearance of power stations, it seems only sensible to include the following photos. Particular highlights are the high-speed sheep, the flooded fields, and the lonely house on its own.
 
The Doncaster-York line might not have quite the romance of Zola’s steam-powered trains hammering through the lush Norman countryside (I’m undecided as to how it compares for rutting and killing), but it does pass within close proximity of Eggborough Power Station. As such it gives the unoccupied traveller the opportunity to grab a few snapshots, as well as to inadvertently make themselves the target of undercover police officers. My thanks to Ray for his thoughtfulness.
 
At some point, if only to bring a bit more clarity to these power station photos, I may have to start getting technical about them. Or more realistically, seeing as I don’t really know what I’m on about (look, I only work at one, ok?), technical-ish.

A book at bedtime (2)

La Bête Humaine by Emile Zola (1890)

Jacques Lantier, brother of Etienne, is the main character in La Bête Humaine, in which Zola considers the rage within man. I find the novel’s setting strangely evocative, based as it is around the Le Havre-Paris railway line, travelling through the Normandy countryside; a route and final destination of Paris’ Gare St Lazare which are still close to my heart. I can also confirm that this setting is much more apt for literary treatment than the coach station in fin-de-siècle (fin de 20th siècle, that is) Rouen: another Norman vehicular setting, but, from my experience, populated by many more weirdos than Zola’s – even allowing for the ‘human beast’. 

Unlike many of his ancestors, Jacques avoids the old green fairy but instead finds himself consumed with murderous desires, which he attempts (unsuccessfully, natch) to suppress. There are several occaisons where Jacques comes close to succombing to his rage; he manages to rein in his homicidal urges, but finally snaps and kills his lover.

Indeed, lust, sex, and desire are never too far away in this novel (and are usually inter-twined with a dose of murder for good measure): an(other) extra-marital affair is central to the plot from the very beginning, Jacques is deeply attached to his engine (‘La Lison’; this relationship even seems to keep his rage in check) and, well, trains and tunnels and that. You know.

At the dénouement of the novel, Jacques attacks a colleague; the train they are supposedly in charge of hurtles down the tracks, throwing them to their deaths as their unknowing passengers drink themselves into a stupor. Zola being Zola, these passengers are of course patriotic soliders on their way to the border to fight in the Franco-Prussian war. Train or bullet lads: either way, you’re screwed.

Incidentally, I’m fairly certain the image above is not from the original 1890 edition of the novel.

A book at bedtime (1)

Germinal by Emile Zola (1885)

Etienne Lantier, son of Gervaise Coupeau of L’Assommoir fame, is the ‘star’ (if you will) of Germinal, my all-time favourite French novel, in which the initially shy and politically naive young man becomes an inspirational leader of a community (and stays politically naive).

Etienne leads a workers’ uprising at a northern coal mine, in search of improved working conditions. In the ensuing months-long strike, the miners and their families suffer appallingly and are driven to the very edge of survival. Ok so they don’t debate canibalism, but one family does sell (for a pittance) everything in their house, apart from the portrait of the benevolent Emperor, hung above the (cold, empty) fireplace, kindly provided free of charge by the company. In a particularly grimly captivating scene, as anger rises among the community and ferocious riots break out, the local shop-keeper (who insists on alternative forms of payment from the miners’ wives for what limited food stocks he has) has his manhood ripped from his body. It is then paraded around as if t’were a trophy.

A small number of miners (including Etienne – oh, Etienne) eventually cede and return to work, only to be trapped underground following a tunnel collapse brought about by sabotage (carried out by a Russian anarchist, a close friend of Etienne’s) intended to cripple the mining company’s position. Etienne’s own hereditary blood-lust finally takes grip, and sees him attack and kill a love-rival (a sub-plot), shortly before they are rescued. Etienne subsequently leaves, with his former colleagues returning to work for longer hours and lower pay than before the strike.

Despite this bleak resolution to the strike itself, the novel concludes as follows:

“Aux rayons enflammés de l’astre, par cette matinée de jeunesse, c’était de cette rumeur que la campagne était grosse. Des hommes poussaient, une armée noire, vengeresse, qui germait lentement dans les sillons, grandissant pour les récoltes du siècle futur, et dont la germination allait faire bientôt éclater la terre”

“Beneath blazing skies, in that youthful morning , it was with a growing murmur that the countryside swelled. Men were growing, a black and vengeful army, germinating slowly in the land’s furrows in readiness for the next century’s harvest, and whose ripening would soon burst open the earth itself”

I can in no way do justice to this novel; its portrayal of an impoverished mining community is hugely sympathetic without being romanticised; its consideration of the political and class struggle illuminates the immediate setting of the novel, but also speaks volumes about late 19th-century France; its depictions of conditions inside the mines reflect Zola’s (as always) devoted research to his novel, and are incredibly atmospheric to the point of claustrophobic.

I bought this book for 10FF (about a quid) from a second-hand bookstore in the very small town  in Normandy where I lived and worked as a teacher for a while. I suspect the fact that I almost immediately adored this book was strongly related to the fact that I was fairly well isolated from friends and family at the time, I have a generally quite bleak outlook on life, and I’m also a raging lefty.

Who or what is The Assommoir?

The Assommoir is a place where my ill-conceived and poorly-executed thoughts are unwisely given space to breath, move, and live. I’ll be talking about various things that fascinate me to the point of obsession – loads of things interest me (man’s relationship with the natural environment, industrial engineering, social and political history, the back roads of Lincolnshire) but not enough for me to be that bothered about them. As such, The Assommoir will consider my obsessions: a narrow furrow of topics, but this is a furrow which will be deeply ploughed.
 
L’Assommoir, meanwhile, is a novel by Emile Zola, published in 1877 as part of his Rougon-Macquart series. Wikipedia describes it most succinctly as “a harsh and uncompromising study of alcoholism and poverty in the working-class districts of Paris”, which will do for me. The novel traces the sorry path of Gervaise Macquart, as her husband, the petite bourgeoisie aspirations she has for her laundry, and, ultimately, her whole life are slowly corroded and destroyed by the abuse of alcohol. The title itself was a colloquial expression for a drinking parlour serving rough liquor distilled sur place; it is this liquor which provokes the calamitous downfall in Gervaise’s life. 

L’assommoir is one of those terms which doesn’t really directly translate. The verb assommer roughly translates as ‘to bludgeon’: for example, “il l’a assommé avec un seul coup” would probably be translated as “he decked him with a single punch” (or “felled him with a single blow” if we’re being unnecessarily flowery about it, which I usually am). Oddly, it now reminds me of the way Stella Artois is sometimes called wife-beater (nice). L’assommoir is a place where you would get hammered – it would be rough, dirty, and generally unpleasant.
 
I’ll confess I’m beginning to lose sight of the link between Zola’s Assommoir and my own; what can I say, it just feels right.
 
So, welcome to The Assommoir: please consume in moderation.