Dans Le Monde:: Alors que ce dernier [Macron] affirmait qu’il « n’y a pas une culture française, il y a une culture en France », le Béarnais [Bayrou], a tancé : « Pour moi il y a une culture française. Nous portons en nous un patrimoine immémorial qui vient de loin et se projette dans l’avenir. La culture française est un fleuve, qui a des affluents. » Une manière plus alambiquée de dire : « Mon jeune ami vous avez tout faux. »
Cette question essentielle quoique frivole (oui, la frivolité est essentielle), m'a rappelé une interview que j'avais entendue sur NPR, une radio publique américaine, il y a une quinzaine d'années, La réponse était (je ne sais plus quel Américain francophile la donnait), et cette réponse m'avait frappée, tant que je la restitue sans madeleine: la culture française, c'est avant tout de savoir transformer des actes et moments inévitables de la vie (se nourrir, se vêtir, converser...) en art, "l'art de vivre".
Bien naturellement, cet art est avant tout l'art de la table:
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vous trouverez de nombreux exemples de cet art de vivre à la française dans Proust: Les douze dîners de Marcel Proust. Cliquez sur le lien pour commander
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Is there a French culture or, as suggested by Macron, a candidate for the next presidential election, culture in France? I got an answer, years ago in America, during an interview on NPR (National Public Radio), an answer given by a francophile, whose name I have forgotten: "France has created an art of transforming everyday life (to eat, dress, converse...) into an art: "THE ART OF LIVING". Surely this art is closely linked to table art:
Meanwhile we had taken our places at the table. By the side of my plate I found a carnation, the stalk of which was wrapped in silver paper. It embarrassed me less than the envelope that had been handed to me in the hall, which, however, I had completely forgotten. This custom, strange as it was to me, became more intelligible when I saw all the male guests take up the similar carnations that were lying by their plates and slip them into the buttonholes of their coats. I did as they had done, with the air of spontaneity that a free-thinker assumes in church, who is not familiar with the order of service but rises when everyone else rises and kneels a moment after everyone else is on his knees. Another usage, equally strange to me but less ephemeral, disquieted me more. On the other side of my plate was a smaller plate, on which was heaped a blackish substance which I did not then know to be caviare. I was ignorant of what was to be done with it but firmly determined not to let it enter my mouth. Within a Budding Grove