As a scholar and an academic I rarely venture far from my desk. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I don't really engage in much physical activity. There's a nice gym here at the Université Paris CM-3 but I never find the time to use it.
Ever since I began my research on the American expatriate artist Faun Roberts I've been consumed and obsessed to such a degree that I've excluded everything else from my life.
Leaning over my laptop from early morning to the wee hours of the night I have silently presided over the softening of my midriff and the slackening of my sinew. Despite the French insistence on turning meals into rituals I have maintained my American habit of treating food like fuel.
I wish I could embody the temperament of Faun Roberts who came to Paris in 1920 and fully acclimated to Gallic culture. She spoke a mellifluous, idiomatic French, became something of an epicurean with an especially discerning palate for fine wines and cognac and consigned the month of August to convivial respite and unproductive relaxation.
I remain, much to the amusement of my local colleagues, a tiresome and predictable workaholic.
Of course, none of these colleagues will ever win a Prix Goncourt, a Pulitzer or an Akademi Internationale but then again, none of them seem to care. It's life's quality that interests them, the pursuit of meaningful friendships, delicious food and the luxury of leisure time.
To them 'stress' is not a badge of honor but rather a serious malady in need of redress. To my colleagues who fought valiantly for the 37 hour work week, 'taking the job home' is the stuff of chumps, imbeciles and les grosse crétins.
Alas, if I assume the attitude of the French I may never do justice to my research much less meet the deadlines of my publisher. Tenure is harder to get these days, especially for women and my girlfriend Tessa who started out at the same time as I did just got a Guggenheim only months after receiving a Fulbright.
Do the French actually have a word for ambition?
I wish I could embody the temperament of Faun Roberts who came to Paris in 1920 and fully acclimated to Gallic culture. She spoke a mellifluous, idiomatic French, became something of an epicurean with an especially discerning palate for fine wines and cognac and consigned the month of August to convivial respite and unproductive relaxation.
I remain, much to the amusement of my local colleagues, a tiresome and predictable workaholic.
Of course, none of these colleagues will ever win a Prix Goncourt, a Pulitzer or an Akademi Internationale but then again, none of them seem to care. It's life's quality that interests them, the pursuit of meaningful friendships, delicious food and the luxury of leisure time.
Alas, if I assume the attitude of the French I may never do justice to my research much less meet the deadlines of my publisher. Tenure is harder to get these days, especially for women and my girlfriend Tessa who started out at the same time as I did just got a Guggenheim only months after receiving a Fulbright.
Do the French actually have a word for ambition?
No comments:
Post a Comment