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Le Gâvre Loire Atlantique nature étang water drop goutte pluie raindrop grass smoke fumée eau mare herbe green grass verdure ATANA studio Anthony SÉJOURNÉ
...4000m2 d'entrepôts partis en fumée en 2012...
Visité en 2014, et surement dans le même état d'abandon à l'heure actuelle...
L’un de ces entrepôts servait d’annexe pour un magasin de meubles. Il contenait de nombreux canapés. C’est d’ici que le feu serait parti.
Un autre entrepôt a été totalement dévasté par les flammes, celui d'une entreprise de garde-meubles. Là , ce sont des meubles, des camions et des oeuvres d'art qui sont partis en fumée.
Un troisième entrepôt a également été touché, dans des proportions moindres, celui d'une société de gardiennage de véhicules.
Lors de cette visite je m'étais rapidement fais viré par la municipale du coin plutôt à l'affut à l'époque...
Faudrait que je retourne y jeter un oeil à l'occasion...
Of all the poets that were so famous in their day, and yet entirely unknown now, surely Edward Fumer is the prime candidate.
Born in Wales in 1862, Fumer's parents were of low birth. His father was a bus conductress, his mother a fisherman. In those days, this kind of gender fluidity was something to hide.
In his biography Edward spoke of the mental difficulties he experienced as each morning his father would don a little black skirt, and his mother both a false beard and a sou'wester, before walking the uncaring streets to their jobs.
Starting work at the age of eleven, as a butcher's boy, the evenings found Fumer scribbling, mostly on walls. It was only later as he discovered the works of Byron, Tennyson, and Browning, that he decided to become a poet.
Words soon began to torrent from his pen, and his mighty epic "Mandylion" was finished as early as 1885. Notice was soon taken of this new young poet, and literary society took him into their collective bosom.
Many a thesis, dissertation and lecture were given on Fumer's work. The enigmatic lines "Hap the may, nine bob buys you a sardine, says our naughty Mary" made little sense at the time, although everyone agreed it was probably deep, and so they could make themselves look clever by discussing it.
The Royal Poets Society brought Fumer to London, where he was suitable fêted.
But it was all a fraud.
Fumer didn't really have a poetic talent at all, he had just been in the right place at the right time. Aware of his own lack of true talent, the strain became too much.
At the young age of fifty two, Fumer ended his own life with the aid of a stereoscope.
He left a note of apology and one final poem:
The poet spins a pretty table
Delicious words, the best he's able
He serves a seeming complex dish,
But really it's the price of fish.
Edward Fumer is buried in Poet's Corner, Westminster Abbey, where on a quiet night, he can still be heard, turning slowly.