Le serveur héberge plusieurs sites et l’un d’entre eux, Utopique, retournait l’erreur curl: (92) HTTP/2 stream 0 was not closed cleanly: PROTOCOL_ERROR (err 1) lorsqu’on le visitait avec Chrome mais fonctionnait sans souci avec Firefox.

Le plus drôle dans l’histoire (enfin drôle, j’ai passé deux jours à éplucher mes server blocks, les logs et la configuration SSL), c’est que ce site utilise le même modèle de server blocks que les autres. Je soupçonnais principalement la configuration NginX alors qu’en fait, elle n’y était pour rien!

Le problème se situe en fait au niveau de Cloudflare, et apparaît notamment avec le réglage suivant: Caching > Configuration > Browser Cache TTL > Respect Existing Headers.

Pour résoudre le problème, il faut choisir un autre réglage que “Respect Existing Headers”.

On creuse un peu à l’aide de curl pour comprendre ce qu’il se passe:

curl -vvv -I https://utopique.net --http2

Voici le résultat de la commande:

 Trying 2606:4700:3036::ac43:dc02:443…
 TCP_NODELAY set
 Connected to utopique.net (2606:4700:3036::ac43:dc02) port 443 (#0)
 ALPN, offering h2
 ALPN, offering http/1.1
 successfully set certificate verify locations:
 CAfile: /etc/ssl/certs/ca-certificates.crt
 CApath: /etc/ssl/certs
 TLSv1.3 (OUT), TLS handshake, Client hello (1):
 TLSv1.3 (IN), TLS handshake, Server hello (2):
 TLSv1.3 (IN), TLS handshake, Encrypted Extensions (8):
 TLSv1.3 (IN), TLS handshake, Certificate (11):
 TLSv1.3 (IN), TLS handshake, CERT verify (15):
 TLSv1.3 (IN), TLS handshake, Finished (20):
 TLSv1.3 (OUT), TLS change cipher, Change cipher spec (1):
 TLSv1.3 (OUT), TLS handshake, Finished (20):
 SSL connection using TLSv1.3 / TLS_AES_256_GCM_SHA384
 ALPN, server accepted to use h2
 Server certificate:
 subject: C=US; ST=CA; L=San Francisco; O=Cloudflare, Inc.; CN=sni.cloudflaressl.com
 start date: Jul 10 00:00:00 2020 GMT
 expire date: Jul 10 12:00:00 2021 GMT
 subjectAltName: host "utopique.net" matched cert's "utopique.net"
 issuer: C=US; O=Cloudflare, Inc.; CN=Cloudflare Inc ECC CA-3
 SSL certificate verify ok.
 Using HTTP2, server supports multi-use
 Connection state changed (HTTP/2 confirmed)
 Copying HTTP/2 data in stream buffer to connection buffer after upgrade: len=0
 Using Stream ID: 1 (easy handle 0x564540aecc80) 
   HEAD / HTTP/2
   Host: utopique.net
   user-agent: curl/7.68.0
   accept: /
      TLSv1.3 (IN), TLS handshake, Newsession Ticket (4):
   TLSv1.3 (IN), TLS handshake, Newsession Ticket (4):
   old SSL session ID is stale, removing
   Connection state changed (MAX_CONCURRENT_STREAMS == 256)!
   http2 error: Invalid HTTP header field was received: frame type: 1, stream: 1, name: [access-control-allow-headers "origin, x-requested-with, content-type, accept"], value: []
   HTTP/2 stream 0 was not closed cleanly: PROTOCOL_ERROR (err 1)
   stopped the pause stream!
   Connection #0 to host utopique.net left intact
   curl: (92) HTTP/2 stream 0 was not closed cleanly: PROTOCOL_ERROR (err 1)    

A group of people is coming towards us. They’re tourists, from Japan it looks like, a trade delegation perhaps, on a tour of the historic landmarks or out for local colour. They’re diminutive and neatly turned out; each has his or her camera, his or her smile. They look around, bright-eyed, cocking their heads to one side like robins, their very cheerfulness aggressive, and I can’t help staring. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen skirts that short on women. The skirts reach just below the knee and the legs come out from beneath them, nearly naked in their thin stockings, blatant, the high-heeled shoes with their straps attached to the feet like delicate instruments of torture. The women teeter on their spiked feet as if on stilts, but off balance; their backs arch at the waist, thrusting the buttocks out. Their heads are uncovered and their hair too is exposed, in all its darkness and sexuality. They wear lipstick, red, outlining the damp cavities of their mouths, like scrawls on a washroom wall, of the time before.

I stop walking. Ofglen stops beside me and I know that she too cannot take her eyes off these women. We are fascinated, but also repelled. They seem undressed. It has taken so little time to change our minds, about things like this.

Then I think: I used to dress like that. That was freedom.

Westernized, they used to call it.

The Japanese tourists come towards us, twittering, and we turn our heads away too late: our faces have been seen.

There’s an interpreter, in the standard blue suit and red-patterned tie, with the winged-eye tie pin. He’s the one who steps forward, out of the group, in front of us, blocking our way. The tourists bunch behind him; one of them raises a camera.

“Excuse me,” he says to both of us, politely enough. “They’re asking if they can take your picture.”

I look down at the sidewalk, shake my head for No. What they must see is the white wings only, a scrap of face, my chin and part of my mouth. Not the eyes. I know better than to look the interpreter in the face. Most of the interpreters are Eyes, or so it’s said.

I also know better than to say Yes. Modesty is invisibility, said Aunt Lydia. Never forget it. To be seen – to be seen – is to be – her voice trembled – penetrated. What you must be, girls, is impenetrable. She called us girls.

Beside me, Ofglen is also silent. She’s tucked her red-gloved hands up into her sleeves, to hide them.

The interpreter turns back to the group, chatters at them in staccato. I know what he’ll be saying, I know the line. He’ll be telling them that the women here have different customs, that to stare at them through the lens of a camera is, for them, an experience of violation.

I’m looking down, at the sidewalk, mesmerized by the women’s feet. One of them is wearing open-toed sandals, the toenails painted pink. I remember the smell of nail polish, the way it wrinkled if you put the second coat on too soon, the satiny brushing of sheer pantyhose against the skin, the way the toes felt, pushed towards the opening in the shoe by the whole weight of the body. The woman with painted toes shifts from one foot to the other. I can feel her shoes, on my own feet. The smell of nail polish has made me hungry.

“Excuse me,” says the interpreter again, to catch our attention. I nod, to show I’ve heard him.

“He asks, are you happy,” says the interpreter. I can imagine it, their curiosity: Are they happy? How can they be happy? I can feel their bright black eyes on us, the way they lean a little forward to catch our answers, the women especially, but the men too: we are secret, forbidden, we excite them.

Ofglen says nothing. There is a silence. But sometimes it’s as dangerous not to speak.

“Yes, we are very happy,” I murmur. I have to say something. What else can I say?

The Handmaid’s Tale, chapter 5.

Introduction

“Gilead is within you” – Offred has absorbed Gilead’s values, yet the assimilation is not complete. She is off-balanced and torn between two sets of values. It is freedom she chooses although she is very reasonable.

The narrator invites the reader to follow her gradual evolution from external focalizer to internal focalizer: she describes but knows the system and therefore is able to criticize it.

The dramatic confrontation of two opposite worlds

Distinct versus indistinct

The focalization is external: she has swallowed the whole of Gilead’s values and viewpoints. As a consequence:

  • tourists are regarded as aliens
  • she has become a stranger to the Japanese tourists
  • there is an opposition between Gilead and the western world

The Japanese tourists are distinct:

  • they have a voice of their own, as well as an interpreter
  • they are allowed to live their own existence

Conversely, Handmaids are indistinct, all similar: “she called us girls”. They are not allowed to have a face and are reduced to symbols and images, there are not human beings any longer. They are also denied a voice: “I nod”, “murmur”.

A chair, a table, a lamp. Above, on the white ceiling, a relief ornament in the shape of a wreath, and in the centre of it a blank space, plastered over, like the place in a face where the eye has been taken out. There must have been a chandelier, once. They’ve removed anything you could tie a rope to.

A window, two white curtains. Under the window, a window seat with a little cushion. When the window is partly open – it only opens partly – the air can come in and make the curtains move. I can sit in the chair, or on the window seat, hands folded, and watch this. Sunlight comes in through the window too, and falls on the floor, which is made of wood, in narrow strips, highly polished. I can smell the polish. There’s a rug on the floor, oval, of braided rags. This is the kind of touch they like: folk art, archaic, made by women, in their spare time, from things that have no further use. A return to traditional values. Waste not want not. I am not being wasted. Why do I want?

On the wall above the chair, a picture, framed but with no glass: a print of flowers, blue irises, watercolour. Flowers are still allowed. Does each of us have the same print, the same chair, the same white curtains, I wonder? Government issue?

Think of it as being in the army, said Aunt Lydia.

A bed. Single, mattress medium-hard, covered with a flocked white spread. Nothing takes place in the bed but sleep; or no sleep. I try not to think too much. Like other things now, thought must be rationed. There’s a lot that doesn’t bear thinking about. Thinking can hurt your chances, and I intend to last. I know why there is no glass, in front of the watercolour picture of blue irises, and why the window only opens partly and why the glass in it is shatterproof. It isn’t running away they’re afraid of. We wouldn’t get far. It’s those other escapes, the ones you can open in yourself, given a cutting edge.

So. Apart from these details, this could be a college guest room, for the less distinguished visitors; or a room in a rooming house, of former times, for ladies in reduced circumstances. This is what we are now. The circumstances have been reduced; for those of us who still have circumstances.

But a chair, sunlight, flowers: these are not to be dismissed. I am alive, I live, I breathe, I put my hand out, unfolded, into the sunlight. Where I am is not a prison but a privilege, as Aunt Lydia said, who was in love with either/or.

The bell that measures time is ringing. Time here is measured by bells, as once in nunneries. As in a nunnery too, there are few mirrors.

I get up out of the chair, advance my feet into the sunlight, in their red shoes, flat-heeled to save the spine and not for dancing. The red gloves are lying on the bed. I pick them up, pull them onto my hands, finger by finger. Everything except the wings around my face is red: the colour of blood, which defines us. The skirt is ankle-length, full, gathered to a flat yoke that extends over the breasts, the sleeves are full. The whitewings too are prescribed issue; they are to keep us from seeing, but also from being seen. I never looked good in red, it’s not my colour. I pick up the shopping basket, put it over my arm.

The door of the room – not my room, I refuse to say my – is not locked. In fact it doesn’t shut properly. I go out into the polished hallway, which has a runner down the centre, dusty pink. Like a path through the forest, like a carpet for royalty, it shows me the way.

The carpet bends and goes down the front staircase and I go with it, one hand on the banister, once a tree, turned in another century, rubbed to a warm gloss. Late Victorian, the house is, a family house, built for a large rich family. There’s a grandfather clock in the hallway, which doles out time, and then the door to the motherly front sitting room, with its flesh tones and hints. A sitting room in which I never sit, but stand or kneel only. At the end of the hallway, above the front door, is a fanlight of coloured glass: flowers, red and blue.

There remains a mirror, on the hall wall. If I turn my head so that the white wings framing my face direct my vision towards it, I can see it as I go down the stairs, round, convex, a pier-glass, like the eye of a fish, and myself in it like a distorted shadow, a parody of something, some fairy-tale figure in a red cloak, descending towards a moment of carelessness that is the same as danger. A Sister, dipped in blood.

At the bottom of the stairs there’s a hat-and-umbrella stand, the bentwood kind, long rounded rungs of wood curving gently up into hooks shaped like the opening fronds of a fern. There are several umbrellas in it: black, for the Commander, blue, for the Commander’s Wife, and the one assigned to me, which is red. I leave the red umbrella where it is, because I know from the window that the day is sunny. I wonder whether or not the Commander’s wife is in the sitting room. She doesn’t always sit. Sometimes I can hear her pacing back and forth, a heavy step and then a light one, and the soft tap of her cane on the dusty-rose carpet.

The Handmaid’s Tale, chapter 2.

Chapter 2 of The Handmaid’s Tale shows a fragmented vision of the room and details the layout of the house. Offred seems to have a very clear awareness although nothing is explicit. However fragmented she is, she is clearsighted about Gilead in very strategic places in the text, in a very subtle way so she would not be accused if she ever happened to be discovered.

This passage is the beginning of the second chapter of The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood. Offred, the main character, is alone in a bedroom. First, we will see how she describes her environment. Then, we will focus on how Offred reflects on Gilead and the Handmaids’ behaviour. Finally, we will analyze Offred’s coping with the system.

Strategic story-telling: a narrator that knows but who “intends to last”

The room

Impression of nudity due to the use of noun phrases at the beginning of:

  • paragraph 1: “a chair, a table, a lamp”
  • paragraph 2: “a window, two white curtains”
  • paragraph 3: “a print of flowers, blue irises, watercolour”
  • paragraph 5: “a bed”
  • paragraph 6: “so”.

Paragraphs 1 and 2 could be seen in black and white. Colour only appears in paragraph 3 with “blue irises”.

This scene can be imagined filmed. The camera would follow the different elements of the description that tend to transform the room into a prison cell.

The house (inside)

Description of the way she takes to go from her room to the hallway: “hallway” (upstairs) and “pink carpet”, “staircase”, “the clock”, “the mirror”, “hat-and-umbrella stand”. All of these elements show she lives in a wealthy house.

As Offred describes her environment, she makes some reflections on Gilead. There is a shift from perception to thought.