#Martine Fournier

[publicacionesdeunachica]

I'm heavy on your love.

I missed that train.

[annabelvallie]

The Regime of Gluttony and Starvation.

a dystopian short story by Annabel Vallie.

I wonder if they know. Do they sip the golden bubbled concoction and think of every throat that spit cannot even comfort? If they pull seared flesh from polished forks do they imagine the gnashing, desperate teeth of children who claw desperately at what they call “dog food,”?

They call this city Eden. In school, we’re taught that we are safe from disease, agony, and sadness. Something everyone at this grotesquely over-decorated table knows nothing of. How can the pleasured know they are joyous when they have never been pained? How can the glutted know themselves satisfied if they have never been hungry? Eden was built on gluttony. We are told the outside world is sick. A type of illness that doesn't forgive but punishes. I wouldn’t call it sick—morbid maybe. I had learned that word from one of the novels we read in Lyceum education; the book ‘A Dark Hour’ was written some 500 years ago in a place called Vietnam. The author called the country hell on earth, a place where filth and evil are magnified. Our city’s teachers reference beyond the walls as desolate nothingness, birthed from a war that was far worse than Vietnam. 

Rusted oranges and browns made the outside world. Kicked-up dirt filtered the air with a thick haze; irritating eyes that would never know tears; water was too precious to be wasted on emotion. The heavy sound of moans and comfortless cries carried with no destination, as did the smell of waste, constantly assaulting the hairs in your nose. Hot air thickened my throat, making it hard to breathe. Bodies discarded like statues haunted the breathing, similar to those on paper that piled into sunken earth. Every movement was strained as if they had to fight for the ability to take a step. Through the swarm of people, there was no end.

Barbed wire snatched a handful of skin from my thigh, making me wince. Before the sultry air could oxidise the gash, flies were frenzying on the crimson. 

I had never known suffocation until the day of Matia.

“Joseph, pass the grapes please.” A short man whose jaw seemed to rest slack held out his hand, motioning to the silver bowl that harboured bulbs of green and purple. Passing it to him, I watched as he pierced the skin of a grape with pearly teeth. All I could think of was the people beyond the wall who would fight one another for a cluster of what he would consume in a short moment, not out of hunger but boredom before the main course arrived.

Praefectus Cain, the man sitting at the head of the table with a Navy Blue suit, held up his glass, motioning for silence. “Welcome, Abigail Dupont, Elijah Fournier, and Joseph Martin.” He hovered his glass in the direction of the girl on my left and the boy on my right. “We thank you for taking your position in the Imperium. We trust that after Matia today your eyes have been opened and you will continue Eden’s legacy and keep our people safe and at peace.” 

The values of Eden surround love, whether that means the effort and care of a pastry or the simple act of clearing a guest’s plate. Gratitude is more important than the act itself. The way your fork and knife lie after a meal is communication and appreciation on its own. The meal was delicious if the handles were south with their blade and prongs pointed east. Lust, the overwhelming desire of another, is praised almost as highly as a perfectly smooth-shelled macaroon. Devotion is embroidered into liquor that makes your brain twist as if it were inside a dough mixer. 

Here, to love is to feed, eat, indulge, and blur gluttony and greed into the same idea. Seared beef, vanilla sponge cake, caramel, strawberries that dribble at the corners of your mouth, thick shakes with colour dye, the peel of a mandarin, wishbones, salted butter, sherbert, pineapple that burns your tongue, appetisers, and hors d’oeuvres. The table shrank as plates piled from the kitchen, what used to be a pristine cotton table cloth now plates of every meal imaginable. It is a special day of course. As people began to feast I felt as though my body had conformed to a jelly-like substance, unable to move on its own, only able to react to the drunken movement surrounding it. 

The next day I found myself focused on every passing person on my way to work. Specifically, I stared at how their mouths curled into smiles and eyes creased with joy. Stupidity and negligence are bliss. If they knew what was outside they too would be burdened and distraught. 

A woman with blonde hair that moved like ripples around her head caught my attention. Her cheeks and lips looked to be stained with cherry juice, and she took her time letting her heels click on and drag with every step she took. At that moment I thought of how she laughed—if it was quiet and withdrawn or louder. How did she prefer her eggs—scrambled, poached, fried, or boiled? I thought about a lifetime in a minute, and during that time, I forgot about what was beyond the walls. Possibly, I could remain this way. If I mocked what everyone around me did, I might find the joy that they experienced. If I married and partied and ate would that sickening feeling I have held with me since Matia dissipate? 

The Imperium was stationed north of Eden just past a row of oak trees that signified the end of the orchid plantation. I would park in the furthest spot from the entrance, press through a swing door that moves awfully slowly to accommodate those who wobble more than walk, and make my way through the hallway that runs through the city wall. Even though I pass through five days out of seven I cannot help but stare out the wall’s windows every chance I could. The small slits in the hallway that allowed tainted auburn light to flow through and the large painting-like glass in the central office reminded everyone of what we shield from our citizens. At lunch for an hour we sit at a stretched table overlooking Eden’s farmland and feast on whatever specials the chef had plotted, yesterday was a honeyed duck. “I don’t know what is wrong with you Joseph, this is one of the best ducks I’ve had this year and you refuse to eat more than an appetiser,” Abigaile exclaimed after finishing off the meat. 

I replied softly, knowing more than one ear was listening. “My appetite isn’t as strong as it used to be. Thank you for your consideration” It was an uncommon phenomenon, a refusal of food. Not eating is the equivalent of vetoing oxygen. “I’m just going to use the bathroom, excuse me.” I stand, placing the folded unstained napkin on the cushioned chair. Taking a last glance at the quantity of people and the view of my city I continue down one of the hallways. Even though my stomach growled the idea of eating repulsed me. During the day my mouth would salivate in the hope of relief, by night when all I wanted was to binge I would finally make myself something.  Tonight I may have the oysters my father brought round this morning. He works at a lease and every time I crack salt over my plate I think of him, how his skin smelt like the unfiltered water and his hands that were callus and corse from cutting open their shells. 

Taking each step I find myself mimicking the women I see most days on my way here. Click, drag. Click, drag… and just as I do with every window, discarding the bathroom where I was headed, my eyes wander to the clear surface overlooking the apocalyptic world a mere twenty meters away from our utopia. Instead of continuing further, my body lurches to a frozen halt. Apparently, on the other side, they can’t see through the glass. To them, it looks like the stone pattern remains unbroken. I don’t believe that. Staring through the glass, I am met with another man mirroring myself. His eyes are tired but focused and unwavering from mine. His nose has a crease at the bridge as if it were broken, and his teeth are jagged with gums receding so highly that they could have been finger bones. What scared me the most was how hollow his cheeks were. As if scooped with a soup spoon. His face resembles somewhat of Edvard Munch’s ‘The Scream’. 

Instead of taking a step forward in concern or back in retreat, I simply stared. When I felt someone lock their knees next to me, my gaze remained on the window in a competition-like fashion.

Praefectus Cain’s firm voice began, “Joseph, is something upsetting you? Are you hungry?” 

Pulling my head back, feeling the muscles tense around every vertebra in a rehearsed sequence like piano keys in a glissando. I looked at him—at his round stomach, at his creased forehead, at his thin blond hair, at his tie bar with the words ‘Ab ovo usque ad mala’ engraved into the silver—before staring back at the window like a child and a cartoon film. I felt nauseated like I had just drunk vomitorium, a tiny ounce glass filled with yellow liquid that made you sick so you could go on eating. They usually have them at balls and galas. “I’m fine, thank you… Do…” My voice crackled as if a teaspoon of honey sat on my windpipe. “Do you ever think of helping them, the people out there?”

He thought, not about the answer but how to word it. “Yes, when I was your age.”

“I can’t think of how to describe it. I feel bad, sorry.

“Guilt.” The word was spoken as if he had been waiting to use it. 

The word was alien: “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what that means.”

We remain facing forward, “It means you have morals, something only a few here hold. Knowledge is the heaviest of all burdens, even if it carries no weight.  

“We have food to spare.” By then the man on the other side of the wall had walked off, his feet kicking up more loose orange powder-like dirt.

“How could you choose who receives a bounty? Every living thing is bound by fate. The people of Eden are safe from hunger because they are lucky. If we were to open our resources, what would happen? They are animals, Joseph. Unlike us, their world does not have a drop of civilisation.” Through the window, two boys ran towards a bird that had fallen to the ground. With desperate efforts, the taller one had proved victorious in the feathered corpse, and the shorter one crouched over the ground, echoing the fallen animal. “Tell me, Joseph, would they eat, or would they devour? The flesh of our loved ones would be torn from their bones and they would drink like we do red wine. These animals do not know amity, love, or kindness; we are survivors, that is what separates us.”

With a sigh, I could feel the pads of my fingers tingle with anticipation of cold sweat and unease. “Then, if being inhumane constitutes our difference, are we not the same?”

[histoireettralala]

In Memoriam

First there were the sparkle of a new century; the splendour of the Universal Expositions; the race to progress; the series of calm, serene Sundays; the swaying gait of the Apaches and of the hips of dactylos on a spree in the guinguettes of the banks of the Seine or the Marne. Trips to the mountains or to spa towns, for a sunny Sunday. The trend of sea baths; again and forever, a time of long dresses, hat pins, hat veils and sunshades to protect oneself from the sun; the first fevers of the metropolitan; the magic of tramways. A smell of rail and electricity.

There were the shapes of the Art Nouveau, the fashion of stem-like women with vegetal curves, who were starting to escape and free themselves from their corsets. Parisian ladies had large hats and tiny feet. Men were smoking their first Gauloises. There were of course, riots and strikes: electricians, civil servants, site workers, postmen, bar waiters, taxi drivers. Men wanted to build and shape their destiny. They wanted a better share of the riches of the world.

There was the Montmartre of the painters and the Bateau-Lavoir; the first aerial meetings; the Paris flooding; the comet of Halley passing by; the appearance of the first tangos; the first music halls; the inauguration of the Vél'd'Hiv and the Gaumont Palace; the theft of the Mona Lisa; the end of the Bande à Bonnot; the publication of La Guerre des Boutons; the meeting between Yvonne de Quiévrecourt and Alain-Fournier under the trees of the Cours La Reine, which so narrowly missed the Goncourt prize; the first phone cabins; the electrification of the railway; the first Michelin maps; the fashion of caps et boaters; the invention of esperanto.

It was peace. The promise of a new dawn, the carefree spirit of summer, the peace of fields spattered with cornflowers and poppies which were waiting the sickle of the harvester or the knife of the thrasher.

They were seventeen, twenty-five, or thirty. Many wore their hair short, and moustaches. Many had the rough neck and hands of the worker, a laborer's worn fingers, a turner's or mechanic's broken nails. There were grooms, land surveyors, bakers, butlers, office boys, clerk notaries, butchers, schoolteachers, peddlers, copywriters, cow keepers, porters, shepherds, priests, grinders, cooks, toolmakers, clerks, chauffeurs, footmen, tinsmiths, deliverers, boilermakers, newsboys, barbers, railway workers, waiters, postmen, intellectuals, factory workers, bourgeois, aristocrats and saddlers.

Suddenly there were civilians, career soldiers, conscripts, reservists, artillery men, navy men, infantry men, zouaves, aviators, pioneers, stretcher-bearers, liaison officers, telegraphers, non-commissioned officers, submariners, cooks, adjudtants, generals, lieutenants, chaplains, canteen-workers, cavalry men, bleus, rappelés, permissionnaires, etc… Suddenly, were the Poilus.

Their handwriting was round or sharp; it had the delicacy of the quill or the thick stroke of the ink pen. Their names were Gaston, Jean, Auguste, Marcel, Louis, Alexandre, Edmond, Martin, Antoine, Etienne, Maurice, Albert, Henri, Roger, René… Their wives or their mothers were named Félicie, Léontine, Hortense, Louise, Honorine, Clémence, Marguerite, Berthe, Germaine, Yvonne, Marthe…

All of them travellers without baggage who had to leave their families, their fiancees, their wives, their children. Leave there their office, their lathe, their kneader, their workshop or their stable. Don the poorly cut uniform, the garance trousers, the bumpy képi. Take on the too heavy barda and put on the cleated shoes.

They knew very soon that this war was senseless. From false hopes to false hopes, from last battles to last battles, they ended up unable to project the end of the war whose actors they were, and whose usefulness wasn't so obvious anymore to them.

Out of eight million mobilised between 1914 and 1918, over two million young men never saw again the belltower of their village. Their names are carved in the cold stone of the monuments of our cities and towns. And when the church goes quiet, when the school is closed, when the train station is shut down, when silence reigns over these places that became hamlets, remain these lists of words, these lists of names and surnames keeping the memory of a France whose countryside was so populated.

Over four million men survived only after they suffered grievous wounds, their body broken, amputated, marked, bitten, their flesh torn, when they weren't seriously mutilated. Others got out apparently intact: they still lived with the memory of the horror they had lived for over fifty months, the memory of blood, of the stench of rotting corpses, of the bursting of shells, of stinking mud, of vermin, the memory of the obscene smirk of Death. They had for them the systematic and reoccuring lash of nightmares for the rest of their days and with it the anguished, unanswered cry, the cry for their mothers. They lived with the words reminding them of sights whose horror they would never forget: Galipoli, Verdun, the Chemin des Dames, Arlon-Vitron, the mill of Laffaux, the Somme, Ypres, Péronne, Montmirail, Douaumont, the Fort of Vaux…

Over eight thousand people answered the call of Radio France: eight thousand letters, meaning that many families searching, into a coffer in the attic, between the yellowed pages of family photo albums, for the memory of their fathers', grandfathers', ancestors' lives.

These words written in the mud aren't eighty, or eighty-five years old; they are one day old. They have the whole strength of a life all the more intense since it was so close to the abyss, since it was looking at death every second.

We do not claim to do a historian's work by gathering in a few weeks so many powerful and intense documents: our purpose is before all humanist and literary. We simply meant to let these cries of the soul, entrusted to quill and crayon, be heard, like so many bottles thrown to the sea, which should stimulate for future generations the duty of memory, the duty of vigilance, the duty of humanity.

Jean-Pierre Guéno- Paroles de Poilus- Lettres et carnets du front 1914-1918

[afnews7]

I supereroi Marvel, il tesoro nascosto della città del fumetto di Angoulême

http://www.afnews.info segnala: Nous vous présentions récemment les nouvelles expositions qui ont lieu à la Cité internationale de la bande dessinée d’Angoulême. Une programmation réussie construite autour d’un triptyque : Lou !, le parcours « permanent provisoire » et l’exposition Marvel. S’agissant de cette dernière, Xavier Fournier et Jean-Philippe Martin, co-commissaires de cette ode aux…

[sparklymentalitypanda]

The Remarkable Stories Behind NBA Players' Jersey Numbers Will Leave You Speechless!

Have you ever wondered about the stories behind NBA players' jersey numbers? Each number holds a unique and personal significance, reflecting moments, influences, and memories from the players' lives. In this video, we discuss why players like Michael Carter-Williams, Jonathan Isaac, and others chose their jersey numbers. So, let's watch the entire video and learn about the remarkable stories behind NBA players' jersey numbers will leave you speechless.

Michael Carter-Williams When Michael Carter-Williams was playing in Chicago, his preferred numbers were taken. Inspired by his daughter Charlie, who was born in July, he chose the number 7 to honor her. Being a father profoundly changed his perspective, making every decision revolve around his child.

Jonathan Isaac In high school, Jonathan Isaac couldn’t wear number 1 because it was taken by another player. When he got drafted by the Orlando Magic, he chose number 1 without hesitation, despite the legacy of NBA legends like Penny Hardaway and Tracy McGrady who wore it before him. He decided to embrace the challenge and the history associated with the number.

Mo Bamba Mo Bamba usually favored number 11, but since it was taken by another player when he joined the team, he chose number 5. Although 11 had no special meaning, he grew to like the number 5 and might switch back in the future.

Jerel Martin Jerel Martin wanted to wear number 1, but since it was unavailable, he opted for number 2. Number 1 was special because it was the number his father wore during his basketball career.

Isaiah Briscoe Isaiah Briscoe chose number 13 because his birthday is on April 13th. Despite the superstition around the number, he embraced it as his own, turning it into a symbol of personal significance.

Nikola Vucevic Nikola Vucevic selected number 9, a nod to his father’s first basketball number and Michael Jordan’s number during the 1992 Olympics. Vucevic also wore number 5 in college for his sister’s September 5th birthday, demonstrating how his family influences his choices.

Evan Fournier Evan Fournier’s decision to wear number 10 was influenced by NBA player Mike Bibby and legendary French soccer player Zinedine Zidane. Bibby’s clutch performances and Zidane’s World Cup victory in 1998 were pivotal moments for Fournier, who shares Algerian heritage with Zidane

[lonesomemao]

POUTINE C'EST LE MONDE PERDU

La guerre du golf

N'aura plus lieu

Une femme telle que

Martine Fournier

Jouant sur un gazon breton

Beau et heureux

Prouve

Le sourire équilibré de sportive

Que suite à un long

Et invisible conflit

Fémininement libre elle vit

Posée son image retentit

Samedi 9 mars 2024

[deathbysatellite]

Now May decides to take after her mother. On the left is Giselle, and on the right is Genevieve, twin girls May had with Jules Fournier.

Also, my niece apparently remembered me telling her May was going to have 3 kids (because she remembers everything), and when I told her that she actually needs to have one more, she told me "But she already has Samir. Why does she need four?" I wasn't sure how to explain to a nearly-6-year-old that I was planning on May having a kid with a Sim from each WA destination. I just told her that I didn't plan on May having twins.

I made sure to disable household sizes larger than 8 Sims in MasterController after I started Gen 2, so I shouldn't have to worry about May having any more multiples, as we've already got a house of 7 (May, Martin, Shing, Samir, Calvinotep, Giselle, and Genevieve). After the final child is born, I can get to work on figuring out which Sim will be heir based on who will be best suited to Ambitions.

Also, this is the game's idea of a brilliant painting. Good work, Shing.

[lounesdarbois]

L'association M65 + denim + cordovan

[hobodiffusion]

★ 20 octobre 2023 > bit.ly/hobo-20octobre2023

★ Les nouveautés de nos éditrices et éditeurs sorties le 20 octobre 2023 > bit.ly/hobo-20octobre2023 Mariarosa DALLA COSTA, Femmes et subversion sociale, Entremonde Pauline CLOCHEC, Après l’identité, Hystériques & AssociéEs Carl WITTMAN & Cy LECERF MAULPOIX, Un manifeste gay, Éditions du commun Nelly ROUSSEL, Qu’est-ce que le féminisme ?, La Variation MAJÉ, Ne plus tomber (en amour), Éditions iXe COLLECTIF, Censored 09, Trouble | Censored Martin RIEUSSEC-FOURNIER, La Primaire populaire, du projet au désastre final, Adespote Mamadou DIOUF, L’Afrique dans le temps du monde, Ròt-Bò-Krik Claude DIDRY (dir.), Face au covid, l’enjeu du salariat, La Dispute Yannick OGOR, Le Paysan impossible, Éditions du bout de la ville Anne CLERVAL & Camille GARDESSE & Jean RIVIÈRE, Inégalités et rapports de pouvoir en ville, L'Oeil d'Or Guillaume FONDU, Que faire de Lénine ?, Éditions Critiques Julius DICKMANN, Pour une autocritique du marxisme, Smolny COLLECTIF, Quand l'Opéra entre en Résistance, L'Oeil d'Or Virginia WOOLF, Écrire pour les femmes, La Variation Merle COLLINS, La Couleur de l’oubli, Ròt-Bò-Krik Laurent CAVALIÉ & Marie COUMES, N'i a pro !, Éditions du bout de la ville Sophie DJIGO, Sécession, Les Étaques Baptiste THERY-GUILBERT, Lésions, Blast Colette THOMAS, Cette fois-ci la forêt était vierge, Prairial Stéphane LAGORCE, Le Grand précis de cuisine pas pareille, Homo Habilis "Pour l’Afrique et la diaspora noire, reprendre la main sur les écritures de son histoire, c’est réclamer une parité culturelle, créative, historiographique, et revendiquer un récit de l’universel enfin découplé de l’impérialisme occidental." Mamadou Diouf, L'Afrique dans le temps du monde, Ròt-Bò-Krik.

[skillstopallmedia]

The irreducible Red Ketchup is reborn as an animated series

After almost 10 years of gestation, the animated series based on the comic strip created by Réal Godbout and Pierre Fournier is ready to be broadcast. An adaptation directed by Martin Villeneuve (Imelda), who entrusted the voice of the gruff FBI agent to Benoît Brière. Posted at 6:00 a.m. For those unfamiliar with the antihero created by Réal Godbout and Pierre Fournier in the early 1980s,…

[crosscountryrally]

Puntuación del Mundial de Rally Raid W2RC luego del Dakar 2023: Pablo Quintanilla y Chaleco López son cuartos

Con la meta cruzada en el Dakar 2023, ya se han entregado las primeras puntuaciones del Mundial de Rally Raid W2RC donde Chaleco López defiende el título logrado en 2022. En la tabla tenemos a Chaleco P4 en T3, Pablo Quintanilla P4 en motos y Nacho Cornejo P8 en motos. La principal diferencia con el resultado de la carrera es que Sebastien Loeb lidera el Mundial en Autos luego de sus siete victorias de etapa.

Motos - FIM

Kevin Benavides 38 pts.

Toby Price 30 pts.

Skyler Howes 24 pts.

Pablo Quintanilla 20 pts.

Adrien van Beveren 17 pts.

Luciano Benavides 15 pts.

Daniel Sanders 14 pts.

Nacho Cornejo 12 pts.

Franco Caimi 11 pts.

Sebastian Buhler 9 pts.

Autos - FIA T1

Sebastien Loeb 87 pts.

Nasser Al-Attiyah 85 pts.

Guerlain Chicherit 49 pts.

Mattias Ekstrom 37 pts.

Martin Prokop 31 pts.

Juan Cruz Yacopini 26 pts.

Sebastián Halpern 24 pts.

Wei Han 23 pts.

Mathieu Serradori 22 pts.

Yazeed Al-Rajhi 19 pts.

Prototipos Ligeros - FIA T3

Austin Jones 83 pts.

Seth Quintero 77 pts.

Mitch Guthrie 58 pts.

Chaleco López 55 pts.

Cristina Gutiérrez 52 pts.

Joao Ferreira 28 pts.

David Zille 24 pts.

Jean Luc Ceccaldi-Pisson 23 pts.

Helder Rodrigues 22 pts.

Claude Fournier 20 pts.

SSV - FIA T4

Eryk Gozcal 86 pts.

Rokas Baciuska 79 pts.

Marek Gozcal 67 pts.

Michal Gozcal 50 pts.

Yasir Seaidan 35 pts.

Bruno Conti de Oliveira 30 pts.

Pau Navarro 28 pts.

Sebastián Guayasamín 27 pts.

Rodrigo Luppi de Oliveira 27 pts.

Molly Taylor 20 pts.

Imagen: DPPI / Red Bull Content Pool

[footballers-wags-kids]

Maria Eduarda Fournier and Ana Lidia Martins

Pic: Maria Eduarda Fournier

[clarislam]

Reading list update as of Feb. 14th, 2022: 

DNF’d  “The Dream Peddler” by Martine Fournier Watson.

Started reading “Modelland” by Tyra Banks.

[justforbooks]

Le Monde's 100 Books of the Century

Starting from a preliminary list of 200 titles created by bookshops and journalists, 17,000 French participants responded to the question, "Which books have remained in your memory?" (Quels livres sont restés dans votre mémoire?).

The list includes both classic novels and genre fiction (Tolkien, Agatha Christie, A. C. Doyle), as well as poetry, drama and nonfiction literature (Freud's essays and the diary of Anne Frank). There are also comic books on the list, one album from each of these five francophone series: Asterix, Tintin, Corto Maltese, Blake and Mortimer and Gaston. The large number of French novels of the list is due to the demographics of the surveyed group. (Likewise, comparable lists by English language sources—- such as the two lists of Modern Library 100 Best Novels published in 1998, one by the Board of the Modern Library and the other by readers who responded—- disproportionately favor British and American authors. Non-English language works were not eligible for the two Modern Library lists.)

1. The Stranger & The Outsider Albert Camus 2. In Search of Lost Time & Remembrance of Things Past Marcel Proust 3. The Trial Franz Kafka 4. The Little Prince Antoine de Saint-Exupéry 5. Man's Fate André Malraux 6. Journey to the End of the Night Louis-Ferdinand Céline 7. The Grapes of Wrath John Steinbeck 8. For Whom the Bell Tolls Ernest Hemingway 9. Le Grand Meaulnes Alain-Fournier 10. Froth on the Daydream Boris Vian 11. The Second Sex Simone de Beauvoir 12. Waiting for Godot Samuel Beckett 13. Being and Nothingness Jean-Paul Sartre 14. The Name of the Rose Umberto Eco 15. The Gulag Archipelago Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn 16. Paroles Jacques Prévert 17. Alcools Guillaume Apollinaire 18. The Blue Lotus Hergé 19. The Diary of a Young Girl Anne Frank 20. Tristes Tropiques Claude Lévi-Strauss 21. Brave New World Aldous Huxley 22. Nineteen Eighty-Four George Orwell 23. Asterix the Gaul René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo 24. The Bald Soprano Eugène Ionesco 25. Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality Sigmund Freud 26. The Abyss Zeno of Bruges Marguerite Yourcenar 27. Lolita Vladimir Nabokov 28. Ulysses James Joyce 29. The Tartar Steppe Dino Buzzati 30. The Counterfeiters André Gide 31. The Horseman on the Roof Jean Giono 32. Belle du Seigneur Albert Cohen 33. One Hundred Years of Solitude Gabriel García Márquez 34. The Sound and the Fury William Faulkner 35. Thérèse Desqueyroux François Mauriac 36. Zazie in the Metro Raymond Queneau 37. Confusion of Feelings Stefan Zweig 38. Gone with the Wind Margaret Mitchell 39. Lady Chatterley's Lover D.H. Lawrence 40. The Magic Mountain Thomas Mann 41. Bonjour Tristesse Françoise Sagan 42. Le Silence de la mer Vercors 43. Life: A User's Manual Georges Perec 44. The Hound of the Baskervilles Arthur Conan Doyle 45. Under the Sun of Satan Georges Bernanos 46. The Great Gatsby F. Scott Fitzgerald 47. The Joke Milan Kundera 48. Contempt/A Ghost at Noon Alberto Moravia 49. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Agatha Christie 50. Nadja André Breton 51. Aurélien Louis Aragon 52.The Satin Slipper Paul Claudel 53. Six Characters in Search of an Author Luigi Pirandello 54. The Resistible Rise of Arturo Ui Bertolt Brecht 55. Friday Michel Tournier 56. The War of the Worlds H.G. Wells 57. If This Is a Man Se questo è un uomo, Survival in Auschwitz Primo Levi 58. The Lord of the Rings J.R.R. Tolkien 59. The Tendrils of the Vine Colette 60. Capital of Pain Paul Éluard 61. Martin Eden Jack London 62. The Ballad of the Salty Sea Hugo Pratt 63. Writing Degree Zero Roland Barthes 64. The Lost Honour of Katharina Blum Heinrich Böll 65. The Opposing Shore Julien Gracq 66. The Order of Things Michel Foucault 67. On the Road Jack Kerouac 68. The Wonderful Adventures of Nils Selma Lagerlöf 69. A Room of One's Own Virginia Woolf 70. The Martian Chronicles Ray Bradbury 71. The Ravishing of Lol Stein Marguerite Duras 72. The Interrogation J.M.G. Le Clézio 73. Tropisms Nathalie Sarraute 74. Journal, 1887–1910 Jules Renard 75. Lord Jim Joseph Conrad 76. Écrits Jacques Lacan 77. The Theatre and Its Double Antonin Artaud 78. Manhattan Transfer John Dos Passos 79. Ficciones Jorge Luis Borges 80. Moravagine Blaise Cendrars 81. The General of the Dead Army Ismail Kadare 82. Sophie's Choice William Styron 83. Gypsy Ballads Federico García Lorca 84. The Strange Case of Peter the Lett Georges Simenon 85. Our Lady of the Flowers Jean Genet 86. The Man Without Qualities Robert Musil 87. Furor and Mystery René Char 88. The Catcher in the Rye J.D. Salinger 89. No Orchids For Miss Blandish James Hadley Chase 90. Blake and Mortimer Edgar P. Jacobs 91. The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge Rainer Maria Rilke 92. Second Thoughts Michel Butor 93. The Origins of Totalitarianism The Burden of Our Time Hannah Arendt 94. The Master and Margarita Mikhail Bulgakov 95. The Rosy Crucifixion Henry Miller 96. The Big Sleep Raymond Chandler 97. Amers Saint-John Perse 98. Gaston Gomer Goof André Franquin 99. Under the Volcano Malcolm Lowry 100. Midnight's Children Salman Rushdie

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Les noms de famille valaisans sont francoprovencaux et remontent à l’époque romane pour la plupart. Tous ont une signification bien précise, ce qu'on a parfois tendance à oublier. De nombreuses familles portent des noms de métiers ou d'activités qui étaient pratiquées au Moyen-Âge, par le premier ancêtre commun qui fut ainsi désigné dans le village, en relation avec sa principale occupation.

Dans l’Entremont, les Carron de Bagnes sont des charrons, donc des fabricants de roues de charriots ; les Tissières (Orsières) évoquent les anciens tisserands, les tisseurs de textile ; les Moulin originaires de Vollèges doivent leur nom au métier de meunier, tout comme les Monnier d'Isérables, les Meunier du Bas-Valais et les Lugon-Moulin de Finhaut, qui géraient un moulin et broyaient des graines pour fabriquer de la farine.

Les Terrettaz du Levron et de Vollèges étaient des cultivateurs qui travaillaient et labouraient la terre.

Les Rouiller de Martigny-Combe et de Troistorrents sont d’anciens rouliers, donc des conducteurs de chars qui parcouraient les voies carrossables sur leur charriot pour effectuer des transports de porte à porte.

Dans le Valais Central, Mounir est celui qui s’occupe de la meunière, de la monneresse en francoprovençal, bief ou canal de dérivation conduisant l’eau au moulin.

Les familles Fournier de Salvan et de Nendaz nous parlent d’un temps où leur lointain ancêtre enfournait du délicieux pain dans un fournil, ancien nom donné à nos vieux fours à pain. Il en va de même des Fornage du Chablais valaisan, nom qui a la même signification d’enfourneur.

Les Praz, originaires de Nendaz, possédaient sans nul doute des prés, « praz » en francoprovençal régional.

Les Charbonnet étaient à l’origine des charbonniers qui fabriquaient du charbon de bois en calcinant du bois dans les profondeurs des forêts.

Les Pellaud de Bovernier et les Pellissiers du district de Sion étaient d’anciens fabricants de peaux, des pelisses comme on disait au Moyen-Âge, qui travaillaient donc habilement le cuir.

Les Schmid de Loèche étaient d’anciens forgerons, habiles à mettre en forme et battre le fer pour réparer les outils et fabriquer des objets utilitaires. Il en va de même des nombres familles valaisannes qui se nomment Favre (Isérables, Anniviers, etc.) ou Fabri (Liddes), formes francoprovençales du latin faber, « fabricant », nom souvent donné au forgeron du village.

Les Berclaz du district de Sierre travaillaient des bercles, nom francoprovençal donné aux treilles de vignes: ils étaient donc vignerons.

Les Bovier d'Hérémence sont d’anciens bouviers, donc des gardiens de bovins, de bovidés, des bergers de vache, du latin bos, bovis, « bœuf ».

Les Folloniers de Saint-Martin et Evolènaz activaient un foulon, donc un battoir mécanique où l’on « foulait » le chanvre et les fibres textiles, notamment le lin qui servait à fabriquer les draps et certains vêtements.

Les Mayor du Val d'Hérens doivent avoir un ancêtre qui assuma la fonction de « major », officier local de l’évêque qui habitait la "Majorie" du village et qui était chargé d’épauler le vidomne (vice-dominus, donc vice-seigneur) dans la gestion d’une contrée ou d’une communauté. C'était donc un officier épiscopal attitré à un lieu. Le mot latin major a d’ailleurs donné le mot français maire et le maire de Londres s'appelle officiellement le Lord-Major.

Les Métrailler du Val d’Hérens et les Métral de la région de Martigny portent également le nom d’une charge officielle, celle de Métral, sorte de chef de la police chargé de prélever les taxes et les amendes, et de faire respecter les lois dictées par le vidomne, représentant local de l’évêque de Sion.

Les Pannatier du Val d'Hérens étaient des pannisseurs qui cultivaient des céréales pour fabriquer du pain.

Les Sauthier de Chamoson portent également le nom d’une charge épiscopale, celle du Sautier chargé par le vidomne de la surveillance et de la gestion des forêts locales, de réglementer les coupes de bois et de prononcer les interdictions temporaires de pâturage (mise à ban). C'était le garde-champêtre du Moyen-Âge.

Les Chappot, originaires de Trient, étaient d’anciens bucherons qui exploitaient les forêts et coupaient les arbres avec une tsape, en tsapotant avec une ancienne hache à lame évasée en demi-lune. Les Tavernier de Martigny tenaient un débit de boisson, une ancienne taverne.

Les Pot et les Pottier du Chablais travaillaient l’argile en tant que potier, pour fabriquer des pots et des récipients qu’ils tournaient sur un tour. Quant aux Martinet et aux Martenet (Chablais valaisan), il s’agit sans doute d’anciens forgerons qui frappaient le fer au marteau, ou d’anciens possesseur d’un martinet, installation mécanique équipée de gros marteaux pilons.

Quant aux Magnin, il s'agit du nom francoprovençal désignant le rétameur qui passait de village en village pour redresser et réparer les casseroles.

La liste est longue et on pourrait mentionner bien d'autres noms.

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