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1 - Le souffle réparateur de la parole : The Wars de Timothy Findley / The Healing Strength of Words:Timothy Findley's The Wars

Modern memories of the Great War: Timothy Findley’s The Wars (1977)

Helen Goethals
p. 65-76


La puissance de The Wars résulte d’une combinaison très particulière du conte et de l’effet poétique. Les sources du roman de Timothy Findley sont les témoignages de la Grande Guerre tels qu’ils ont été découverts et travaillés par les historiens et les critiques culturels dans les années 1970. La poésie s’insinue dans la prose de ce court roman de trois manières distinctes. D’abord, les nombreux échos des poètes de la Première Guerre transforment l’histoire d’un déshonneur militaire individuel en tragédie de toute une génération presque perdue. Ensuite, les libertés de mise en page propres à la poésie réussissent à transmettre un peu de cette expérience traumatique et presque inimaginable. Enfin, et c’est là le plus important, les effets poétiques de l’écriture de T. Findley nous permettent d’aller au-delà des souvenirs tangibles et visibles de la Grande Guerre afin de mieux la penser à travers notre imagination auditive.

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  • 1 All page references are to the Faber & Faber, 2001 edition. The original edition of the novel was p (...)

1One of the characters of The Wars, Harris, is described as "Almost, if not, a poet. Certainly a storyteller" (Findley 116).1 This would make an excellent description of the author Timothy Findley himself and, indeed, it could be argued that it is precisely its combination of poetry and story-telling that makes The Wars so compelling a novel. Despite the plural noun in the title, the plot of Findley’s third novel focusses on the Britannic world in the First World War, a time and place which is also well-known for producing some very fine and innovative poetry. Whether written in prose or verse or both, ‘war literature’ as a category holds out two attractions. One is historical: we are interested in what writers can reveal about the lived experience of a particular war. The poems, novels and short stories written out of the experience of war are historical documents in their own right. They can be read as surviving fragments of the past, offering insights into what people were feeling and thinking at the time.

2The second interest of ‘war literature’ is philosophical: in writing about a particular war, writers probe the raison d’être of war in general. When we read the literature of the past we not only gain an access to that (historical) past but we gain it through a particular (in this case, literary) mode of access. Furthermore, each literary mode, be it poem, novel or short story, frames in its own distinct way our thinking about certain past events. As the variety of documents used by Findley to tell his story of the Great War is designed to show, how we access an event will shape what we think about that event. While reflecting on the many useful connections to be made between what Findley’s novel and certain poems have to say about the First World War, we need to remain aware that poems and novels offer different, and by no means interchangeable, modes of access to the past.

3Once that literary difference has been admitted, we must also face a further difficulty standing in the way of a comparison. In addition to being different literary forms, the works being compared differ in their status as historical documents. Isaac Rosenberg’s "Dead Man’s Dump," along with all the other poems produced during or soon after the war, can be classed as a primary source. The Wars, on the other hand, for all its careful marshalling of the evidence, was written in the 1970s, and comes under the heading of secondary sources. There are several ways around this historical discrepancy; the one that best suits my purpose here is to compare Findley’s 1970s selection of Great War documents to be included in his narrative with the 1970s selections of Great War poems. We shall begin by placing Findley’s novel within the context of the general historiography of the Great War, and in our brief sketch of this historiography, we shall include not only history as written by the historians but also history as written by the literary critics or, more precisely, poetry anthologists.

4The most convenient way to situate Findlay’s novel within the general historiography of the Great War is to borrow the broad configurations developed by Antoine Prost and Jay Winter in the work they co-wrote in 2004, Penser la Grande Guerre : un essai d’historiographie. They divide the official historical writing of the war into three broad periods.

5The first involves the type of history which historians even today continue to write against, and on which we need not dwell here. The period lasted from 1919 to 1959 and was comprised almost exclusively of history seen from above, political and military histories from which the historian’s personal experience of war was rigorously excluded. During this period the historians’ main concern was to establish who was responsible for the war; almost nothing was said about the actual experience of war.

6What Prost and Jay call ‘the second configuration’ ran from 1959 to 1969, a period when historians became interested in the role played during the war by social and economic forces, often, though by no means always, seen from a Marxist perspective. This new perspective was well-received in the new institutions of higher education which opened in the 1960s and by the mass paperback-reading public that went there. It was made possible by the opening of military archives in 1967 (allowing investigation into the 1917 mutinies, for example) and by the new form of historical writing embodied in the television documentary. 1964, the fiftieth anniversary, was very much a turning point in this phase. Prost and Winter make a very interesting observation about the impact of the 26-hour series commissioned by the BBC for the 1964 commemorations:

Leurs textes proposent une vision de la guerre par en haut, mais leurs images introduisent en force l’histoire d’en bas. A la suite de ces émissions, dont le point de vue était celui des officiels, la BBC reçut un immense courrier d’inspiration bien différente : non, la guerre avait été un massacre, et il aurait fallu le montrer en évoquant le vécu des soldats. (Prost and Winter 34) 

7During this period, historical writing about the Great War took a decidedly visual turn. A.J.P. Taylor’s The First World War: An Illustrated History, also published in 1964, became a bestseller, selling more than 250,000 copies. In France, Marc Ferro produced a ground-breaking TV documentary (later released as a film) and he has never since ceased to develop his reflections on the relationship between history and the moving image.

8In the mid-1970s appeared what our authors call a third period, which continues right up to the present time. Over the last fifty years, social historians (including themselves) naturally came to see in culture both the expression and the reason for the historical change embodied in the First World War. Such a perspective was strengthened by the fall of the Berlin Wall, and epitomized in a 1992 work by Samuel Hynes entitled A War Imagined: The First World War and English Culture. During this period, which is ongoing, the arts in general and literature in particular, became invested with a new historical significance.

9First published in 1977, The Wars can readily be seen as a reflection on the research done into social history via visual documents, while at the same time being a work in the vanguard of the cultural turn. Running like a thread drawing together both configurations was a new focus on the psychological effects of war, an interest which developed out of Paul Fussell’s ground-breaking study, The Great War and Modern Memory. Published in 1975 and still not translated into French, this work inaugurated an interest in memory and what happens to an event when the last of the eyewitnesses dies, an enquiry which is very much at the forefront of Findley’s novel and which may even have been the trigger for his choosing to base the plot on the life of his long-dead disgraced uncle.

  • 2 Robert Graves' expression was used in an article published in The Listener, October 1941. The artic (...)
  • 3 The sixteen First World War poets commemorated in Westminster Abbey are: Richard Aldington, Laurenc (...)

10So much for the historian’s historiography of the Great War. How can it be related to the poetry of the period? One answer to that question would be to claim that, if one accepts the proposition that as eyewitnesses to war (on whatever front) the writing of poets can be read as historical evidence, as what Robert Graves called "a form of higher journalism." Such a view allows us to read poems as primary sources.2 The problem is that there are rather a lot of them. The historian Keith Robbins estimated that the number of poems written in August 1914 alone was a staggering 1½ million, 50,000 a day! (Robbins quoted by Giddings 8). But by 1985, a long process of selection had whittled down the number of British poets to a mere sixteen "representative poets" quite literally canonized in the Poets’ Corner of Westminster Abbey.3

11The published editions of these poets’ works, lives and letters more or less address the question of what view of war each poet can individually offer, but the anthologies of war poetry propose a much wider view than that. When poems by different poets are gathered together, a collective narrative is produced, one in which the year-by-year experience of certain poets’ historical experience of the war is seen as going hand in hand with the psychological and aesthetic needs of the time. The poetry written between 1914 and 1918 came to be seen in terms of a moral and stylistic progress, from innocence to experience, from the lyrical to the modernist, from the short poem to the long. During the "second configuration," critical works such as Bernard Bergonzi’s Heroes’ Twilight (1965) and Jon Silkin’s Out of Battle (1972) argued just such an ethical and aesthetic parallel, but the dialectical chronology of the poetry written at the time is perhaps best seen in the titles of the five chapters of an anthology compiled by a crime novelist:

  1. Rupert Brooke and the initial reaction

  2. Charles Sorley and the first hints of realism

  3. Siegfried Sassoon: disillusion and anger

  4. Wilfred Owen and the wider vision of the war

    • 4 Table of Contents of Gregson, J.M., Poetry of the First World War, 1976. In Men Who March Away: Poe (...)

    Isaac Rosenberg: odd man out.4

12Not all anthologies follow this quasi-Darwinian order. There are as many narratives as there are anthologies. The best-known remains Up the Line to Death, compiled by Brian Gardner in the 1960s. In Gardner’s selection, the ethic-aesthetic parallel is avoided by grouping the poems according to the chronological experience of the soldier at war, from volunteering through training and deployment to his final engagement and its outcome. The moral regress of the war is not effaced but remains in the background. Findlay’s view of the war strikes me as very close to that of Gardner: "The journey from Laurence Binyon’s ‘The Fourth of August’ to Philip Johnstone’s ‘High Wood’ was a long and terrible one: a journey paved with the corpses of a generation" (Gardner xxv).

13All anthologies set poems within a narrative frame, so that anthologists, writers and historians are faced with the same choices: which events/poems to choose? In what order should they be arranged? Until recently, historians have tended not to voice such questions, but anthologists feel required to defend a personal choice and arrangement of the historical evidence (in the form of poems), and (in the obligatory preface) they reflect on the limits of their choice. Findlay’s writing resembles the work of an anthologist inasmuch as it constantly throws up reflections on his choices of what and how to tell the story of the Great War.

14A further textual complication comes with the choice of historical subject. One of the distinguishing features of the First World War is the extent to which the lives and work of its poets have been woven into the very tissue of the historical narrative. Again, this is true of The Wars, a novel which is quite literally haunted by the war poets who glide through it, like the ghost of Lady Sorrel, leaving tell-tale traces. Of course, like all ghosts, they can only be seen by those with eyes to see them.

15Thomas Hardy is the first and perhaps the most constant of the spectral presences: hidden in the photograph of the unrecognized and undated sighting of the iceberg lie Hardy’s lines on the loss of the Titanic, "The Convergence of the Twain." Right from the beginning of the novel, Hardy’s contrast between pitiful human desire and an implacable immanent will provides a visionary way of understanding a life "obscured by violence" (3). We catch another glimpse of Hardy when Robert’s mother seeks comfort in the sublime and temporary oblivion of the "Wind and the Rain" (151-54). What is said in the novel about Robert’s mother, who cannot sing the hymns that are meaningless for the mothers of sons condemned to violence, was equally true of Hardy, "What she needed was an empty cathedral in which to rail at god" (54).

16The theme of death as an accident of a pitiless Fate is varied in the image of the hand of cards that Robert has been dealt (8), but this time we hear an echo of "Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante" in The Waste Land. Eliot also haunts Findley’s tale, often when he wants us to think about trauma and time. To give just one plangently beautiful example:

The following morning (Tuesday) Robert was in Rouen. He sat in the cathedral, had some lunch by the river and returned to the station at 3 pm. The train wound down through evening and the dark until at 6 am it arrived at a town that apparently had no name. Here they were told they could not get off and had to sit on board until 11 am. When, at last, the train pulled away it plunged almost at once into a thick green wood. This was now Wednesday. The nightingales sang in the wood at noon. (Findley 182)

17Surely the nightingales are there to provide a contrast with other wars, as they are in the final stanzas of "Sweeney among the Nightingales":

The host with someone indistinct
Converses at the door apart,
The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart,

And sang within the bloody wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud,
And let their liquid droppings fall
To stain the stiff dishonoured shroud. (Eliot 59)

18The list of poetic echoes could go on for a long time: undoubtedly, the best way to re-read The Wars is after having read one of the anthologies of war poetry which Findley might have read. Many other Georgian poets have cameo parts in the Garsington-like world of Stourbridge St. Aubyn, the manor-house almost within sight of Rupert Brooke’s "Granchester." It is tempting but not, I think, profitable to read The Wars ultimately as a roman-à-clef in the manner of Pat Barker’s Regeneration trilogy. Findley’s inclusion of the war poets is lighter, subtler, and ultimately much more profound. Not only do poems provide a kind of background music to his narrative, but they make tragic what to the military historian would have appeared as a (relatively) simple tale of disgrace. "Music, when soft voices die / Vibrates in the memory …"

  • 5 Pratt, Mary Louise, Towards a Speech-Act Theory of Literary Discourse, Bloomington: Indiana Univers (...)

19No doubt Findley was able to juggle with these poetic notes because, like Harris, he was "almost, if not, a poet." It has long been agreed that poetry and prose are not easily divided from each other, and that more poetry can be found in a novel by, say, Virginia Woolf or William Faulkner, or indeed in the ordinary speech of a Jamaican street-market than in many self-proclaimed poems. But it was not until 1977 that the Canadian critic Mary Louise Pratt used Speech Act theory to demonstrate that poetry was not a different language from prose but a different use of language.5 And for that reason it is actually easier to demonstrate the different uses of language, to separate poetic effects from prose effects, when the poetic is embedded in the prose of a novel than when it is found diffused throughout a poem.

  • 6 Letter to George and Tom Keats, December 1817.

20Language is used poetically in order to move us to want to do what it says or, perhaps more often, suggests. We can illustrate this with a few examples from The Wars. How do poetic effects achieve the representation of violence, which could be posited as one of Findley’s main aims in this novel? I can only briefly draw attention to a few devices. Several come into the traumatic scene with which the novel opens and which is then repeated (207-209). Likeness in the form of repetition is in itself a fundamentally poetic device. In this instance it communicates the psychological truth of one of the effects of trauma, which is to fix an image in the mind’s eye, so that the original experience is repeatedly relived, rerunning the film of what happened, but in an imagined form. Research has been carried out into how and why this might in itself be therapeutic, but it is at any rate a constant in the experience of trauma, and so this is what Findley’s words are trying to do: to re-visualize a moment, frozen in time, without necessarily seeking to understand it. Such a method is precisely what Keats called "Negative Capability, that is when man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact & reason."6

21One example of the mysterious ways in which poetry, and poetry alone, moves us is through what the mu collective, a Belgian research group working at the time Findley was writing The Wars, called the tabular rhetoric of poetry, the use made of the layout on the page. Findley does this frequently, so arranging the words as to literally slow down our reading and so gather into our minds some experience of the trauma he wishes to convey. For example, to express the shock of Rowena’s death:

  • 7 Other examples of the "tabular rhetoric" of poetry are the shooting of the horse on the ship (68) a (...)

She fell.
It was Sunday.
Robert wasn’t there. (Findley 15)

22One last example: Findley’s use of language is poetic when he employs the startling effect of the untoward. Poetry is an attention-seeking use of language, not for itself, not for its own sake, but in order to express what is (as Larkin put it) "almost being said." This often works by a dislocation of language, an osteopathic form of violence, whereby language hurts us into the poetic experience, just as, according to Auden, "Mad Ireland hurt [Yeats] into poetry." This also explains why poetry often meets with a hostile reception: we do not like to be hurt, even if it is ultimately for our own good. Examples of what is broadly termed catachresis are "The moon rose red" and "One day bled into the next." The effect is not always felt as painful: it can be comic too, as in the case of the unforgettable ski pole, which produces both a surreal effect and a Hardy-like satire of circumstance (Findley 135-136).

23A poet’s words are meant to wound us but that does not mean that all wounds have to be made into poems. Findley draws our attention to the case of the painting "With Wolfe at Quebec" (Findley 49) in which there is no blood but "His wounds are poems." That is something different altogether, involving the recasting of the perpetrator as victim, and the use of the posture of self-defence in order to justify aggression. We all use poetic devices, even in everyday language: that does not make all that we say poetry.

24We could multiply and develop the examples of poetic effects in The Wars, but the point is not to suggest that Findley’s novel is a poem. Rather, the question we need to ask is why Findley chose to write a novel that was almost-poetry. What do poems do better than novels?

25Following the critics of the Toronto school, I believe that the technology available at any given time shapes what we are able to communicate, then and later. Stories were first told in verse and only afterwards in prose. In other words, the fundamental difference between the two forms is historical: the novel is linked to the rise of the written word, the printing press, improvements in print technology and literacy levels. Both poetry and novels are what the Canadian critic Harold Innis called time-biased forms of communication, but they work differently in terms of fixing memories. Novels appeal to our visual imagination but, as Plato pointed out, the written word is mute. The Wars, like the illustrated histories of the 1960s, is saturated with images and an awareness of the strengths and weaknesses of images. "There is no good picture of this except the one that you can make in your own mind." (75)

  • 8 Dominique Chipot, En pleine figure. Haikus de la guerre de 14-18, Paris: Editions Bruno Doucey, 201 (...)

26Poetry, on the other hand, is linked to oral culture and the decline in its popularity corresponds to a decline in the value of the transmission of knowledge by word of mouth. Throughout the twentieth century attempts were made—by Pound and the Imagists among others—to arrest that decline by fitting poetry into the newly-dominant written culture which was developing the visual imagination. Interestingly, one of the latest—and perhaps least expected—studies of the culture of trench warfare is a collection of haikus,8 En pleine figure. Haikus de la guerre de 1914-18. Haikus are interesting because they combine the oral (17 syllables) with the visual (the Japanese etching) and the discovery that the haiku form flourished in the French trenches throws an entirely new light on our view of that war.

27Speaking more generally, why do people turn to poetry in wartime? No doubt partly because, belonging to an earlier oral tradition, poets listen to the environment they find themselves in, and they teach us to apprehend the world through our auditory imagination, as well as our visual one. It is a proven fact that our sense of hearing binds us together, as sociable beings, better than our sense of sight, and this is something of which we need to be reminded in times of distress. Findley tells us this in the incident of the German sniper:

He could have killed them all. Surely that had been his intention. But he’d relented. Why?
The bird sang.
One long note descending: three that wavered on the brink of sadness.
That was why.
It sang and sang and sang, till Robert rose and walked away. The sound of it would haunt him to the day he died. (Findley 146)

28It was not that the sight of its beauty arrested the destructive impulse but because after listening to its song it became impossible to want to pull the trigger. "The sound of it would haunt him …" Poetry, like the origins of language itself, has always been linked to birdsong. The nightingale, in particular, has long been adopted a fitting symbol for poetry, not because it is a visual marvel nor because it is the ideal example of victimhood. The nightingale is actually visually a nondescript bird, and it is not the female but the male which sings (and one need not be a feminist to find that fact unfortunate for the victim theme). No, the aptness of the nightingale as a symbol for poetry comes from its song being unmistakable and completely heart-stopping.

29Why is poetry an indispensable source of knowledge for the First World War? The question concerns verse form not only as a source of knowledge about the past but also as a mode of access to the elements that make up that past. In terms of making sense of an apparently nonsensical world, in terms of adding to our understanding of the world that surrounds us and which continues to be haunted by the Great War, how can poetry help? It would be difficult to convey the futility of trench warfare more pithily than in the canon of "We’re Here Because We’re Here," sung to the tune of "Auld Lang Syne." To that quality, we might add that poetry has to sound right, which makes it easy to memorize. Images sear themselves onto our mind’s eye and some gifted people are able to transfer such images onto a canvas but "memorable speech" (Auden’s definition of poetry) can be learnt by anyone and so passed on from one generation to another. The Wars offers fine insights into the Great War but can its 218 pages say that much more than the 14 lines of Wilfred Owen’s "Anthem for Doomed Youth" which, once memorized, never cease to inhabit one’s understanding?

30This is not of course to suggest that we confine our historical knowledge of the Great War to the reading of documents in verse nor would we want to put away the novels, but poems do express truths about trauma, and the need to bind together individual and collective understanding, in ways that no other use of language can. For confirmation, let us return to Prost and Winter and, noting the final acoustic metaphor, let us look at what they have to say about war poetry as a unique form of commemoration:

Les témoins de la guerre ont laissé bien des formes de témoignage. […] La mise en forme de la mémoire de ceux qui ont participé à la guerre porte la marque des différences nationales. La poésie de guerre est beaucoup plus importante en Grande-Bretagne que dans les autres pays belligérants. Peut-être la musique de la traduction de la Bible du roi Jacques était-elle dans l’esprit des millions de personnes qui ont lu les poèmes de Wilfred Owen, un poète gallois tué juste avant l’armistice. La poésie comme quintessence de la mémoire est profondément enracinée dans la tradition romantique anglaise, et c’est la raison pour laquelle, en Grande-Bretagne, la voix sombre des poètes de la Grande Guerre s’est intégrée au choral de la mémoire d’une façon inconnue ailleurs. (Prost and Winter 242 and 244)

31In sum, this essay pleads the case that, after reading about and, in our mind’s eye, visualising wars, we do not then neglect to listen to them. Bearing in mind Robert Frost’s dictum that "poetry begins in delight and ends in wisdom," perhaps it would be wise to close on a note in keeping with the plural of Findley’s title. In 1985 Edna Longley published a book on poetry in Northern Ireland, which she entitled Poetry in the Wars, the cover of which shocked many critics because it superimposed Wilfred Owen’s famous preface "The poetry is in the pity" onto a scene of rioting in Belfast. By the poetic act of association and in homage to a great poet who died recently, it is appropriate to end on a quotation from a poem by Seamus Heaney. The whole of this "Song" can be both seen and heard online, in the poet’s own voice:

  • 9 "Song" in Seamus Heaney, Field Work, London: Faber and Faber, 1979. Heaney's own recording of the p (...)

There are the mud-flowers of dialect
And the immortelles of perfect pitch
And that moment when the bird sings very close
To the music of what happens.

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Chipot, Dominique, En pleine figure. Haikus de la guerre de 14-18, Paris: Editions Bruno Doucey, 2013.

Eliot, T.S., Collected Poems 1909-1962, London: Faber & Faber, 1963.

Findley, Timothy, The Wars, Toronto: Clarke Irwin, 1977.

Gardner, Brian, Up the Line to Death. The War Poets 1914-18, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1964, revised 1976.

Giddings, Robert, The War Poets, London: Bloomsbury, 1988.

Gregson, J.M., Poetry of the First World War, 1976.

Heaney, Seamus, Field Work, London: Faber and Faber, 1979.

Parsons, I.M., Men Who March Away: Poems of the First World War, 1966.

Pratt, Mary Louise, Towards a Speech-Act Theory of Literary Discourse, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1977.

Prost, Antoine and Jay Winter, Penser la Grande Guerre : un essai d’historiographie, Paris: Editions du Seuil, 2004.

Robbins, Keith, The First World War [1985], Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002.

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1 All page references are to the Faber & Faber, 2001 edition. The original edition of the novel was published in Toronto by Clarke Irwin, in 1977.

2 Robert Graves' expression was used in an article published in The Listener, October 1941. The article was republished with an "additional comment" in The Common Asphodel, 1949.

3 The sixteen First World War poets commemorated in Westminster Abbey are: Richard Aldington, Laurence Binyon, Edmund Blunden, Rupert Brooke, Wilfred Gibson, Robert Graves, Julian Grenfell, Ivor Gurney, David Jones, Robert Nicholls, Wilfred Owen, Sir Herbert Read, Isaac Rosenberg, Siegfried Sassoon, Charles Sorley and Edward Thomas.

4 Table of Contents of Gregson, J.M., Poetry of the First World War, 1976. In Men Who March Away: Poems of the First World War, published in 1966, the Canadian anthologist I.M. Parsons had taken a similar line but he had illustrated his narrative through poems rather than poets. His seven chapters are entitled: Visions of Glory, The Bitter Truth, No More Jokes, The Pity of War, The Wounded, The Dead, Aftermath.

5 Pratt, Mary Louise, Towards a Speech-Act Theory of Literary Discourse, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1977.

6 Letter to George and Tom Keats, December 1817.

7 Other examples of the "tabular rhetoric" of poetry are the shooting of the horse on the ship (68) and Robert Ross's thoughts after the gang-rape (193).

8 Dominique Chipot, En pleine figure. Haikus de la guerre de 14-18, Paris: Editions Bruno Doucey, 2013.

9 "Song" in Seamus Heaney, Field Work, London: Faber and Faber, 1979. Heaney's own recording of the poem is available from Internet Poetry Archive

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Bibliographical reference

Helen Goethals, « Modern memories of the Great War: Timothy Findley’s The Wars (1977) », Caliban, 53 | 2015, 65-76.

Electronic reference

Helen Goethals, « Modern memories of the Great War: Timothy Findley’s The Wars (1977) », Caliban [Online], 53 | 2015, Online since 24 August 2015, connection on 19 January 2022. URL : ; DOI :

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About the author

Helen Goethals

Université de Toulouse 2-Jean Jaurès, CAS.

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Caliban – French Journal of English Studies est mis à disposition selon les termes de la licence Creative Commons Attribution - Pas d'Utilisation Commerciale - Pas de Modification 4.0 International.

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