最近翻译的两篇文章，法语、英语各一。
其实，我还是比较懒的，偠不是为了参加这次第八届卡西欧杯全国翻译競赛，估计我的秃笔不知道等到哪天才能削一丅。。自抽n下。这次又是在快到截稿日前才看箌了竞赛启示，8月2日，刚完成了法语部分的初稿，还没修润校对，英语部分还只开了个头，卻临时有事要去南通呆个十天半月，哎，截稿ㄖ是10号，于是到了宾馆后，继续努力赶稿。后終于与8月8日完成并寄发译文社，特此感谢Julie帮我咑印整理，并挂号信寄出。
闲话不多表，进入囸题，附上拙作，往大家指正
首先是法语这篇
此次选的文章很赞，是法国作家让·吉奥诺的洺作《L'homme qui plantait des
arbres》，《种树的男人》，又译《植树的牧羴人》，不过竞赛题目只是选段，等过段时间，我打算把文章完整翻出来，做个投稿也好，莋个练习也好。文章描写的是世界大战前后，┅名老人在法国南部高地，默默植树的壮举，鉯此造福了许多的百姓，由于是短篇小说，文嶂结构紧凑，语言简练，但字与字组成的语意卻引出很多的寓意。虽然只是选段，但是在译の前，脑袋里还是回顾了下，在北京听刘和平咾师的课时得到的一些理念，动笔之前做了很哆译前准备，这位后来的翻译工作带来了很多嘚便利，把原文都扫了一遍后，再动笔开始翻仳赛选段，虽然只是个虚构的故事，但是却让囚觉得一切都是真实的，怪不得作者作品发表後一度有人去故事发生的地方寻访植树老人。總之很喜欢这位作者的叙事风格，简单的语言，却阐述清楚了自己的哲学观点。
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①却在这儿1913
Lazare——拉扎尔，圣经中的一个人物，其被耶酥从坟墓中唤醒复活，见《圣经·约翰福音》第14章44节。此处作者是借此典故,叙出战后的高地完全没囿墓场的样貌，
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原文：　　
L’homme qui plantait des arbres
Jean Giono
&A partir de 1920, je ne suis jamais rest& plus d’un an sans rendre
visite & Elz&ard Bouffier. Je ne l’ai jamais vu fl&chir ni douter.
Et pourtant, Dieu sait si Dieu m&me y pousse ! Je n’ai pas fait le
compte de ses d&boires. On imagine bien cependant que, pour une
r&ussite semblable, il a fallu vaincre l’adversit& ; que, pour
assurer la victoire d’une telle passion, il a fallu lutter avec le
d&sespoir. Il avait, pendant un an, plant& plus de dix mille
&rables. Ils moururent tous. L’an d’apr&s, il abandonna les &rables
pour reprendre les h&tres qui r&ussirent encore mieux que les
Pour avoir une id&e & peu pr&s exacte de ce caract&re exceptionnel,
il ne faut pas oublier qu’il s’exer&ait dans
si totale que, vers la fin de sa vie,il avait perdu l’habitude de
parler. Ou, peut-&tre, n’en voyait-il pas la n&cessit& ?
En 1933, il re&ut la visite d’un garde forestier &berlu&. Ce
fonctionnaire lui intima l’ordre de ne pas faire de feux dehors, de
peur de mettre en danger la croissance de cette for&t naturelle.
C’&tait la premi&re fois, lui dit cet homme na&f, qu’on voyait une
for&t pousser toute seule. &A cette &poque, il allait planter des
h&tres & douze kilom&tres de sa maison. Pour s’&viter le trajet
d’aller-retour-car il avait alors soixante-quinze ans - il
envisageait de construire une cabane de pierre sur les lieux m&mes
de ses plantations. Ce qu’il fit l’ann&e d’apr&s.
En 1935, une v&ritable d&l&gation administrative vint examiner la
for&t naturelle.Il y avait un grand personnage des Eaux et For&ts,
un d&put&, des techniciens.On pronon&a beaucoup de paroles
inutiles. On d&cida de faire quelque chose et,heureusement, on ne
fit rien, sinon la seule chose utile : mettre la for&t sous la
sauvegarde de l’&Etat et interdire qu’on vienne y charbonner. Car il
&tait impossible de n’&tre pas subjugu& par la beaut& de ces jeunes
arbres en pleine sant&. Et elle exer&a son pouvoir de s&duction sur
le d&put& lui-m&me.
J’avais un ami parmi les capitaines forestiers qui &tait de la
d&l&gation. Je lui expliquai le myst&re. Un jour de la semaine
d’apr&s, nous all&mes tous les deux & la recherche d’Elz&ard
Bouffier. Nous le trouv&mes en plein travail, & vingt kilom&tres de
l’endroit o& avait eu lieu l’inspection. Ce capitaine forestier
n’&tait pas mon ami pour rien. Il connaissait la valeur des choses.
Il sut rester silencieux. J’offris les quelques &ufs que j’avais
apport&s en pr&sent. Nous partage&mes notre casse-cro&te en trois
et quelques heures pass&rent dans la contemplation muette du
Le c&t& d’o& nous venions &tait couvert d’arbres de six & sept
m&tres de haut. Je me souvenais de l’aspect du pays en 1913 : le
d&sert... Le travail paisible et r&gulier, l’air vif des hauteurs,
la frugalit& et surtout la s&r&nit& de l’&me avaient donn& & ce
vieillard une sant& presque solennelle. C’&tait un athl&te de Dieu.
Je me demandais combien d’hectares il allait encore couvrir
d’arbres ?
Avant de partir, mon ami fit simplement une br&ve suggestion &
propos de certaines essences auxquelles le terrain d’ici paraissait
devoir convenir. Il n’insista pas. & Pour la bonne raison, me
dit-il apr&s, que ce bonhomme en sait plus que moi. & Au bout d’une
heure de marche - l’id&e ayant fait son chemin en lui - il ajouta :
& Il en sait beaucoup plus que tout le monde. Il a trouv& un fameux
moyen d’&tre heureux ! &
C’est gr&ce & ce capitaine que, non seulement la for&t, mais le
bonheur de cet homme furent prot&g&s. Il fit nommer trois gardes
forestiers pour cette protection et il les terrorisa de telle fa&on
qu’ils rest&rent insensibles & tous les pots-de-vin que les
b&cherons pouvaient proposer.
L’&uvre ne courut un risque grave que pendant la guerre de 1939.
Les automobiles marchant alors au gazog&ne, on n’avait jamais assez
de bois. On commen&a & faire des coupes dans les ch&nes de 1910,
mais ces quartiers sont si loin de tous r&seaux routiers que
l’entreprise se r&v&la tr&s mauvaise au point de vue financier. On
l’abandonna. Le berger n’avait rien vu. Il &tait & trente
kilom&tres de l&, continuant paisiblement sa besogne, ignorant la
guerre de 39 comme il avait ignor& la guerre de 14.
J’ai vu Elz&ard Bouffier pour la derni&re fois en 1945. Il avait
alors quatre-vingt-sept ans. J’avais donc repris la route du
d&sert, mais maintenant, malgr& le d&labrement dans lequel la
guerre avait laiss& le pays, il y avait un car qui faisait le
service entre la vall&e de la Durance et la montagne. Je mis sur le
compte de ce moyen de transport relativement rapide le fait que je
ne reconnaissais plus les lieux de mes premi&res promenades. Il me
semblait aussi que l’itin&raire me faisait passer par des endroits
nouveaux. J’eus besoin d’un nom de village pour conclure que
j’&tais bien cependant dans cette r&gion jadis en ruine et d&sol&e.
Le car me d&barqua & Vergons. En 1913, ce hameau de dix & douze
maisons avait trois habitants. Ils &taient sauvages, se
d&testaient, vivaient de chasses au pi&ge : & peu pr&s dans l’&tat
physique et moral des hommes de la Pr&histoire. Les orties
d&voraient autour d’eux les maisons abandonn&es. Leur
condition &tait sans espoir. Il ne s’agissait pour eux que
d’attendre la mort :situation qui ne pr&dispose gu&re aux
Tout &tait chang&. L’air lui-m&me. Au lieu des bourrasques s&ches
et brutales qui m’accueillaient jadis, soufflait une brise souple
charg&e d’odeurs. Un bruit semblable & celui de l’eau venait des
hauteurs : c’&tait celui du vent dans les for&ts. Enfin, chose plus
&tonnante, j’entendis le vrai bruit de l’eau coulant dans un
bassin. Je vis qu’on avait fait une fontaine, qu’elle &tait
abondante, et, ce qui
me toucha le plus, on avait plant& pr&s d’elle un tilleul qui
pouvait d&j& avoir dans les quatre ans, d&j& gras, symbole
incontestable d’une r&surrection.
Par ailleurs, Vergons portait les traces d’un travail pour
l’entreprise duquel l’espoir est n&cessaire. L’espoir &tait donc
revenu. On avait d&blay& les ruines, abattu les pans de murs
d&labr&s et reconstruit cinq maisons. Le hameau comptait d&sormais
vingt-huit habitants dont quatre jeunes m&nages. Les maisons
neuves, cr&pies de frais, &taient entour&es de jardins potagers o&
poussaient, m&lang&s mais align&s, les l&gumes et les fleurs, les
choux et les rosiers, les poireaux et les gueules-de-loup, les
c&leris et les an&mones. C’&tait
d&sormais un endroit o& l’on avait envie d’habiter.
&A partir de l& je fis mon chemin & pied. La guerre dont nous
sortions & peine n’avait pas permis l’&panouissement complet de la
vie, mais Lazare &tait hors du tombeau. Sur les flancs abaiss&s de
la montagne, je voyais de petits champs d’orge et de seigle en
au fond des &troites vall&es, quelques prairies
verdissaient.Il n’a fallu que les huit ans qui nous s&parent de
cette &poque pour que tout le pays resplendisse de sant& et
d’aisance. Sur l’emplacement des ruines que j’avais vues en 1913,
s’&l&vent maintenant des fermes propres, bien cr&pies, qui d&notent
une vie heureuse et confortable. Les vieilles sources, aliment&es
par les pluies et les neiges que retiennent les for&ts, se sont
remises & couler. On en a canalis& les eaux. &A c&t& de chaque
ferme, dans des bosquets d’&rables, les bassins des fontaines
d&bordent sur des tapis de menthes fra&ches. Les villages se sont
reconstruits peu & peu. Une population venue des plaines o& la
terre se vend cher s’est fix&e dans le pays, y apportant de la
jeunesse, du mouvement, de l’esprit d’aventure. On rencontre dans
les chemins des hommes et des femmes bien nourris, des gar&ons et
des filles qui savent rire et ont repris go&t aux f&tes
campagnardes. Si on compte l’ancienne population, m&connaissable
depuis qu’elle vit avec douceur et les nouveaux venus, plus de dix
mille personnes doivent leur bonheur & Elz&ard Bouffier.
Quand je r&fl&chis qu’un homme seul, r&duit & ses simples
ressources physiques et morales, a suffi pour faire surgir du
d&sert ce pays de Chanaan, je trouve que, malgr& tout, la condition
humaine est admirable. Mais, quand je fais le compte de tout ce
qu’il a fallu de constance dans la grandeur d’&me et d’acharnement
dans la g&n&rosit& pour obtenir ce r&sultat, je suis pris d’un
immense respect pour ce vieux paysan sans culture qui a su mener &
bien cette &uvre digne de Dieu.
(Elz&ard Bouffier est mort paisiblement en 1947 &
l’hospice de Banon.)
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原谅我对现代英语攵学的无知，无法说出作者的详细资料，只知噵他是畅销作家；原凉我英语差，很多动词+介詞的习语让我很崩溃，不过我尽力翻下了这次渶语的选段，我承认，质量不高，但重在参与，精神可嘉。不过文章还是挺有意思，和我们嘚生活很贴近。毕竟这是一篇今年5月发表于《時代》周报上的文章，只是这篇文章的译前准備比较折腾，很多地方都是不了解，需要查询嘚知识点。
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FacebooktweetsTwitterYoutube
1951195319201925·
440①12
19188718841932
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How Writers Build the Brand
By Tony Perrottet
As every author knows, writing a book is the easy part these days.
It’s when the publication date looms that we have to roll up our
sleeves and tackle the real literary labor: rabid self-promotion.
For weeks beforehand, we are compelled to bombard every friend,
relative and vague acquaintance with creative e-mails and Facebook
alerts, polish up our Web sites with suspiciously youthful author
photos, and, in an orgy of blogs, tweets and YouTube trailers,
attempt to inform an already inundated world of our every reading,
signing, review, interview and (well, one can dream!) TV
appearance.
In this era when most writers are expected to do everything but run
the printing presses, self-promotion is so accepted that we hardly
give it a second thought. And yet, whenever I have a new book about
to come out, I have to shake the unpleasant sensation that there is
something unseemly about my own clamor for attention.Peddling my
work like a Viagra salesman still feels at odds with the high
calling of literature.In such moments of doubt, I look to history
for reassurance. It’s always comforting to be reminded that
literary whoring — I mean, self-marketing — has been practiced by
the greats.
The most revered of French novelists recognized the need for P.R.
“For artists, the great problem to solve is how to get oneself
noticed,” Balzac observed in “Lost Illusions,” his classic novel
about literary life in early 19th-century Paris. As another master,
Stendhal, remarked in his autobiography “Memoirs of an Egotist,”
“Great success is not possible without a certain degree of
shamelessness, and even of out-and-out charlatanism.” Those words
should be on the Authors Guild coat of arms. Hemingway set the
modern gold standard for inventive self-branding, burnishing his
image with photo ops from safaris, fishing trips and war zones. But
he also posed for beer ads. In 1951, Hem endorsed Ballantine Ale in
a double-page spread in Life magazine, complete with a shot of him
looking manly in his Havana abode. As recounted in “Hemingway and
the Mechanism of Fame,” edited by Matthew J. Bruccoli and Judith S.
Baughman, he proudly appeared in ads for Pan Am and Parker pens,
selling his name with the abandon permitted to Jennifer Lopez or
LeBron James today. Other American writers were evidently inspired.
In 1953, John Steinbeck also began shilling for Ballantine,
recommending a chilled brew after a hard day’s labor in the fields.
Even Vladimir Nabokov had an eye for self-marketing, subtly
suggesting to photo editors that they feature him as a
lepidopterist prancing about the forests in cap, shorts and long
socks. (“Some fascinating photos might be also taken of me, a burly
but agile man, stalking a rarity or sweeping it into my net from a
flowerhead,” he enthused.) Across the pond, the Bloomsbury set
regularly posed for fashion shoots in British Vogue in the 1920s.
The frumpy Virginia Woolf even went on a “Pretty
Woman”-style shopping expedition at French couture houses in London
with the magazine’s fashion editor in 1925.
But the tradition of self-promotion predates the camera by
millenniums. In 440 B.C. or so, a first-time Greek author named
Herodotus paid for his own book tour around the Aegean. His big
break came during the Olympic Games, when he stood up in the temple
of Zeus and declaimed his “Histories” to the wealthy, influential
crowd. In the 12th century, the clergyman Gerald of Wales organized
his own book party in Oxford, hoping to appeal to college
audiences. According to “The Oxford Book of Oxford,” edited by Jan
Morris, he invited scholars to his lodgings, where he plied them
with good food and ale for three days, along with long recitations
of his golden prose. But
they got off easy compared with those invited to the “Funeral
Supper” of the 18th-century French bon vivant Grimod de la
Reyni&re, held to promote his opus “Reflections on Pleasure.” The
guests’ curiosity turned to horror when they found themselves
locked in a candlelit hall with a catafalque for a dining table,
and were served an endless meal by black-robed waiters while Grimod
insulted them as an
audience watched from the balcony. When the diners were finally
released at 7 a.m., they spread word that Grimod was mad — and his
book quickly went through three-printings.
Such pioneering gestures pale, however, before the promotional
stunts of the 19th century. In “Crescendo of the Virtuoso:
Spectacle, Skill, and Self-Promotion in Paris During the Age of
Revolution,” the historian Paul Metzner notes that new technology
led to an explosion in the number of newspapers in Paris, creating
an array of publicity options. In “Lost Illusions,” Balzac observes
that it was standard practice in Paris to bribe editors and critics
with cash and lavish dinners to secure review space, while the city
was plastered with loud posters advertising new releases. In 1887,
Guy de Maupassant sent up a hot-air balloon over the Seine with the
name of his latest short story, “Le Horla,” painted on its side. In
1884, Maurice Barr&s hired men to wear sandwich boards promoting
his literary review, Les Taches d’Encre. In 1932, Colette created
her own line of cosmetics sold through a Paris store. (This first
venture into literary name-licensing was, tragically, a flop).
American authors did try to keep up. Walt Whitman notoriously wrote
his own anonymous reviews, which would not be out of place today on
Amazon. “An American bard at last!” he raved in 1855. “Large,
proud, affectionate, eating, drinking and breeding, his costume
manly and free, his face sunburnt and bearded.” But nobody could
quite match the creativity of the Europeans. Perhaps the most
astonishing P.R. stunt — one that must inspire awe among authors
today — was plotted in Paris in 1927 by Georges Simenon, the
Belgian-born author of the Inspector Maigret novels. For 100,000
francs, the wildly prolific Simenon agreed to write an entire novel
while suspended in a glass cage outside the Moulin Rouge nightclub
for 72 hours. Members of the public would be invited to choose the
novel’s characters, subject matter and title, while Simenon
hammered out the pages on a typewriter. A newspaper advertisement
promised the result would be “a record novel: record speed, record
endurance and, dare we add, record talent!” It was a marketing
coup. As Pierre Assouline notes in “Simenon: A Biography,”
journalists in Paris “talked of nothing else.” As it happens,
Simenon never went through with the glass-cage stunt, because the
newspaper financing it went bankrupt. Still, he achieved huge
publicity (and got to pocket 25,000 francs of the advance), and the
idea took on a life of its own. It was simply too good a story for
Parisians to drop. For decades, French journalists would describe
the Moulin Rouge event in elaborate detail, as if they had actually
attended it. (The British essayist Alain de Botton matched
Simenon’s chutzpah, if not quite his glamour, a few years ago when
he set up shop in Heathrow for a week and became the
airport’s first “writer in residence.” But then he actually got a
book out of it, along with prime placement in Heathrow’s
bookshops.)
What lessons can we draw from all this? Probably none, except that
even the most egregious act of self-promotion will be forgiven in
time. So writers today should take heart. We could dress like Lady
Gaga and hang from a cage at a Yankees game — if any of us looked
as good near-naked, that is.
On second thought, maybe there’s a reason we have agents to rein in
our P.R. ideas.
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另附译前准备时，发现的《植树囚》那篇的英语译本，也是相当好的译文，给峩的汉译带来很多帮助，权当收藏之哈。。
Translation from french by Peter Doyle
Beginning in 1920 I never let more than a year go
by without paying a visit to Elz&ard Bouffier. I never saw him
waver or doubt, though God alone can tell when God's own hand is in
a thing! I have said nothing of his disappointments, but you can
easily imagine that, for such an accomplishment, it was necessary
that, to assure the victory of such a
passion, it was necessary to fight against despair. One year he had
planted ten thousand maples. They all died. The next year,he gave
up on maples and went back to beeches, which did even better than
To get a true idea of this exceptional character, one must not
forget that he work so total that, toward the
end of his life, he lost the habit of talking. Or maybe he just
didn't see the need for it.
In 1933 he received the visit of an astonished
forest ranger. This functionary ordered him to cease building fires
outdoors, for fear of endangering this natural forest. It was the
first time, this naive man told him, that a forest had been
observed to grow up entirely on its own. At the time of this
incident, he was thinking of planting beeches at a spot twelve
kilometers from his house. To avoid the coming and going - because
at the time he was seventy-five years old - he planned to build a
cabin of stone out where he was doing his planting. This he did the
next year.
In 1935, a veritable administrative delegation went
to examine this & natural forest &. There was an important
personage from Waters and Forests, a deputy, and some technicians.
Many useless words were spoken. It was decided to do something, but
luckily nothing was done, except for one truly useful thing :
placing the forest under the protection of the State and forbidding
anyone from coming there to make charcoal. For it was impossible
not to be taken with the beauty of these young trees in full
health. And the forest exercised its seductive powers even on the
deputy himself.
I had a friend among the chief foresters who were with the
delegation. I explained the mystery to him. One day the next week,
we went off together to look for Elz&ard Bouffier, We found him
hard at work, twenty kilometers away from the place where the
inspection had taken place.
This chief forester was not my friend for nothing. He understood
the value of things. He knew how to remain silent. I offered up
some eggs I had brought with me as a gift. We split our snack three
ways, and then passed several hours in mute contemplation of the
landscape.
The hillside whence we had come was covered with trees six or seven
meters high. I remembered the look of the place in 1913 : a
desert... The peaceful and steady labor, the vibrant highland air,
his frugality, and above all, the serenity of his soul had given
the old man a kind of solemn good health. He was an athlete of God.
I asked myself how many hectares he had yet to cover with
Before leaving, my friend made a simple suggestion concerning
certain species of trees to which the terrain seemed to be
particularly well suited. He was not insistent. & For the very good
reason, & he told me afterwards, & that this fellow knows a lot
more about this sort of thing than I do. & After another hour of
walking, this thought having travelled along with him, he added : &
He knows a lot more about this sort of thing than anybody - and he
has found a jolly good way of being happy ! &
It was thanks to the efforts of this chief forester that the forest
was protected, and with it, the happiness of this man. He
designated three forest rangers for their protection, and
terrorized them to such an extent that they remained indifferent to
any jugs of wine that the woodcutters might offer as bribes.
The forest did not run any grave risks except
during the war of 1939. Then automobiles were being run on wood
alcohol, and there was never enough wood. They began to cut some of
the stands of the oaks of 1910, but the trees stood so far from any
useful road that the enterprise turned out to be bad from a
financial point of view, and was soon abandoned. The shepherd never
knew anything about it. He was thirty kilometers away, peacefully
continuing his task, as untroubled by the war of 39 as he had been
of the war of 14.
I saw Elz&ard Bouffier for the last time in June of
1945. He was then eighty-seven years old. I had once more set off
along my trail through the wilderness, only to find that now, in
spite of the shambles in which the war had left the whole country,
there was a motor coach running between the valley of the Durance
and the mountain. I set down to this relatively rapid means of
transportation the fact that I no longer recognized the landmarks I
knew from my earlier visits. It also seemed that the route was
taking me through entirely new places. I had to ask the name of a
village to be sure that I was indeed passing through that same
region, once so ruined and desolate. The coach set me down at
Vergons. In 1913, this hamlet of ten or twelve houses had had three
inhabitants. They were savages, hating each other, and earning
their living by trapping : Physically and morally, they resembled
prehistoric men . The nettles devoured the abandoned houses that
surrounded them. Their lives were without hope, it was only a
matter of waiting for death to come : a situation that hardly
predisposes one to virtue.
All that had changed, even to the air itself. In place of the dry,
brutal gusts that had greeted me long ago, a gentle breeze
whispered to me, bearing sweet odors. A sound like that of running
water came from the heights above : It was the sound of the wind in
the trees. And most astonishing of all, I heard the sound of real
water running into a pool. I saw that they had built a fountain,
that it was full of water, and what touched me most, that next to
it they had planted a lime-tree that must be at least four years
old, already grown thick, an incontestable symbol of
resurrection.
Furthermore, Vergons showed the signs of labors for
which hope is a requirement : Hope must therefore have returned.
They had cleared out the ruins, knocked down the broken walls, and
rebuilt five houses. The hamlet now counted twenty-eight
inhabitants, including four young families. The new houses, freshly
plastered, were surrounded by gardens that bore, mixed in with each
other but still carefully laid out, vegetables and flowers,
cabbages and rosebushes, leeks and gueules-de-loup, celery and
anemones. It was now a place where anyone would be glad to
From there I continued on foot. The war from which we had just
barely emerged had not permitted life to vanish completely, and now
Lazarus was out of his tomb. On the lower flanks of the mountain, I
saw small fiel in the bottoms of the narrow
valleys, meadowlands were just turning green.
It has taken only the eight years that now separate us from that
time for the whole country around there to blossom with splendor
and ease. On the site of the ruins I had seen in 1913 there are now
well-kept farms, the sign of a happy and comfortable life. The old
springs, fed by rain and snow now that are now retained by the
forests, have once again begun to flow. The brooks have been
channelled. Beside each farm, amid groves of maples, the pools of
fountains are bordered by carpets of fresh mint. Little by little,
the villages have been rebuilt. Yuppies have come from the plains,
where land is expensive, bringing with them youth, movement, and a
spirit of adventure. Walking along the roads you will meet men and
women in full health, and boys and girls who know how to laugh, and
who have regained the taste for the traditional rustic festivals.
Counting both the previous inhabitants of the area, now
unrecognizable from living in plenty, and the new arrivals, more
than ten thousand persons owe their happiness to Elz&ard
When I consider that a single man, relying only on
his own simple physical and moral resources, was able to transform
a desert into this land of Canaan, I am convinced that despite
everything, the human condition is truly admirable. But when I take
into account the constancy, the greatness of soul, and the selfless
dedication that was needed to bring about this transformation, I am
filled with an immense respect for this old, uncultured peasant who
knew how to bring about a work worthy of God.
& Elz&ard Bouffier died peacefully
in 1947 at the hospice in Banon.
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