A simple and accessible French poem stirs a bitter cup.

Excerpt from Jacques PRÉVERT, Paroles (1945)

Jacques Prévert’s brief poem is a clear and saddening glimpse of what seems to be the end of a relationship, but the whole thing is deliciously vague. Who are these two people, and what is the nature of their relationship? We know the one who leaves is a man, which we know from the subject pronoun; but the gender of the one left behind and crying is satisfyingly unclear. All we work with is a sparse series of phrases which convey simple images in a stream of consciousness, much like viewing a slideshow of photographs or watching a short film. The reader can delicately apply their own experience, their own preferences, to the particulars that Prévert omits. One might easily take a macabre delight in the simple turns of phrase that evoke such hurtful pangs, such dark little switches of recognition. After all, people in relationships of many flavors have probably parted as sadly as this, perhaps over a final cup of coffee and a farewell cigarette, or in a context similar enough to stir one’s own little cup of bitterness.

I appreciate this poem for its simplicity and accessibility. It was read aloud in a French class I participated in recently, and the little raw nerve it struck led me to investigate Jacques Prévert further, including picking up a copy of his book of poems, Paroles. At this time I connected him as the screenwriter of Les Enfants du paradis (The Children of Paradise, 1945). This multifaceted writer has also had some of his poetry set to music by various composers, or sung by contemporary vocalists such as Édith Piaf. Upon learning this fact, I imagined what sort of music might accompany Déjeuner du matin. Would a slow timbre suffice, or should the adjoining notes be as quick and cruel as the lines of the poem itself? The words in themselves are so brief and strong, what other sound could convey the same feeling? I have read the poem aloud and listened for an appropriate cue, something in the sound of the words that may give me a clue. Unfortunately my training was not in music. Needless to say, this sad little poem has helped tie together various threads of my francophone experience, on both literary and cinematic fronts. It is interesting for myself to note that Prévert had not been discovered before, in the context of a similar academic experience, of while having lived in France for a short time. It is especially silly as I have enjoyed other French poets such as Charles Baudelaire, particularly his Les Fleurs du Mal (Flowers of Evil) and his translations from English of the stories of the American writer Edgar Allen Poe. My recent and whimsical discovery of Prévert has helped to remind me of the richness of any language tradition, and the many depths I can still delightfully explore in French.

]]> http://24thepowerbreakfast.wordpress.com/2009/08/06/les-fleurs-du-mal/ Thu, 06 Aug 2009 11:27:41 +0000 CurlySue http://24thepowerbreakfast.wordpress.com/2009/08/06/les-fleurs-du-mal/

Le Soleil

Le long du vieux faubourg, où pendent aux masures
Les persiennes, abri des sécrètes luxures,
Quand le soleil cruel frappe à traits redoublés
Sur la ville et les champs, sur les toits et les blés,
Je vais m’exercer seul à ma fantasque escrime,
Flairant dans tous les coins les hasards de la rime,
Trébuchant sur les mots comme sur les pavés
Heurtant parfois des vers depuis longtemps rêvés.

Ce père nourricier, ennemi des chloroses,
Eveille dans les champs les vers comme les roses;
II fait s’évaporer les soucis vers le ciel,
Et remplit les cerveaux et les ruches le miel.
C’est lui qui rajeunit les porteurs de béquilles
Et les rend gais et doux comme des jeunes filles,
Et commande aux moissons de croître et de mûrir
Dans le coeur immortel qui toujours veut fleurir!

Quand, ainsi qu’un poète, il descend dans les villes,
II ennoblit le sort des choses les plus viles,
Et s’introduit en roi, sans bruit et sans valets,
Dans tous les hôpitaux et dans tous les palais.

— Charles Baudelaire

“La sottise, l’erreur, le péche, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.

Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches;
Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux,
Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux,
Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches.

Sur l’oreiller du mal c’est Satan Trismégiste
Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté,
Et le riche métal de notre volonté
Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste.

C’est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent.
Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas;
Chaque jour vers l’Enfer nous descendons d’un pas,
Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent.

Ainsi qu’un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyrisé d’une antique catin,
Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin
Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange.

Serré, fourmillant comme un million d’helminthes,
Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de démons,
Et quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons
Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes.

Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l’incendie,
N’ont pas encore brodé de leurs plaisants dessins
Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins,
C’est que notre âme, hélas! n’est pas assez hardie.

Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices,
Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents,
Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants,
Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices,

Il en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde!
Quoiqu’il ne pousse ni grands gestes, ni grands cris,
Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris
Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde.

C’est l’Ennui!- L’oeil chargé d’un pleur involontaire,
Il rêve d’échafauds en fumant son houka.
Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat,
Hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frère!”

(Charles Baudelaire)

Me vuelven loca los gardens. Tantas flores y tanta belleza provocan en mí el delirio… me siento culpable escogiendo una u otra flor porque es como si estubiese rechazando a las que no me llevo. Esta vez el maletero del coche acabó lleno de hortensias (hydrangeas).

Buscando en la red cómo cuidarlas me encontré con una información interesante que suscitó mis pensamientos más oscuros:  “La hortensia contiene hidrangerina que es un glucósido cianogenético, que produce intoxicaciones con síntomas parecidos a la ingestión del cianuro”.

Detrás de la belleza siempre hay algo perverso, esto ya lo decía Baudelaire en Les fleurs du mal:

Tu marches sur des morts, Beauté, dont tu te moques;

De tes bijoux l’Horreur n’est pas le moins charmant,

Et le Meurtre, parmi tes plus chères berloques,

Sur ton ventre orgueilleux danse amoureusement.

*********************

Caminas sobre muertos y te burlas, Belleza
El Horror, de tus broches no es el menos precioso;
y el Crimen, que se cuenta entre tus caros dijes,
danza amorosamente en tu vientre orgulloso.

(Fragmento de Hymne à la Beauté, en Les fleurs du mal. 1861.)

No sufran. De momento no entra dentro de mis planes ponerme a cocinar pastelitos de hortensia para nadie.

The Flowers of Evil & Artificial Paradise

by Charles Baudelaire

Translated by R J Dent

‘A brand new translation that vividly brings Baudelaire’s masterpiece to life for the new millennium’

Here’s my new book. It’s a translation of Charles Baudelaire’s The Flowers of Evil, published by Solar Books on November 9th 2008. According to the blurb it’s ‘a brand new translation that vividly brings Baudelaire’s masterpiece to life for the new millennium’.

The translation was a labour of love; it started years ago, when I studied Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal as an undergraduate. I realised how inaccurate the available translations were, and promptly set about translating twenty or so of the best poems, particularly the banned ones. In the process, I very quickly came to admire Charles Baudelaire’s poetic voice. It was refined and dignified, and yet very daring. I now understand these contradictions, if that’s what they are.

Charles Baudelaire

I found the translation process itself very interesting. Because Baudelaire’s writing is very visual, it was almost like time-travel; I wandered around 19th century Paris, absorbing the sights, sounds, scents; was taken into the bedrooms of many dusky women, all of them sprawled across their beds, dressed only in jewels and perfume.

When I had finished the translation, I was back in the 21st century. I couldn’t wait to get back to Baudelaire’s Paris. The translation process itself was very much like archaeology. I had the French text and I would work at it steadily, uncovering its buried English meaning, word by word, line by line, until finally, the whole poem would stand naked before me in all its pristine glory. That’s Baudelaire’s poetry for you. If only all translation work was like that.

Incidentally, I very much enjoyed translating the introductory essay by Guillaume Apollinaire, which is now published for the first time in English.

Solar Books has done a great job with The Flowers of Evil. With it they’ve included a new version of Artificial Paradise, which is a series of Baudelaire’s reflections on wine, hashish and opium.

Odilon Redon’s cover picture, which he painted specifically for The Flowers of Evil, perfectly captures the zeitgeist of Baudelaire’s 19th century Paris.

The Flowers of Evil & Artificial Paradise

Charles Baudelaire

Translated by R J Dent

SOLAR BOOKS

ISBN-10: 0-9799847-7-7

ISBN-13: 978-0-9799847-7-8

Publication date: November 2008

It can be ordered from Solar Books at:

http://www.solarbooks.org/solar%20titles/flowersofevil.html

or from Amazon.com at:

http://www.amazon.com/Flowers-Artificial-Paradise-Solar-Nocturnal/dp/0979984777/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1236890663&sr=8-1

or from Amazon.co.uk at:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Flowers-Artificial-Paradise-Solar-Nocturnal/dp/0979984777/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1217774414&sr=1-1

Details of this book and my other work can be found at:

www.rjdent.com

]]> http://rjdent.wordpress.com/2009/01/11/paris-baudelaire-beckett-moonstone-silhouettes-the-seine-and-the-three-graces/ Sun, 11 Jan 2009 02:41:16 +0000 R J Dent http://rjdent.wordpress.com/2009/01/11/paris-baudelaire-beckett-moonstone-silhouettes-the-seine-and-the-three-graces/

Paris in December, 2008. Visiting Charles Baudelaire’s grave was paramount. I put my translation of Baudelaire’s poem Landscape on his grave. I covered it with a copy of the cover of my recently-published translation of Baudelaire’s The Flowers of Evil & Artificial Paradise.

The Flowers of Evil (Translated by R J Dent)

It was a very moving moment, made all the more poignant by the fact that a steady stream of people visited his grave. People came in ones and twos to pay their respects and/or leave offerings. I knew Baudelaire was considered an important literary figure in France, one who is still ignored and derided in England, but I had no idea that he was so revered by the French.

Charles Baudelaire

There are three names on the gravestone, there being just the one stone for the family plot. The name at the top is Jacques Aupick, Baudelaire’s step-father, a man that Baudelaire hated. Next is Charles Baudelaire’s name. Beneath his name is Caroline Archenbaut Defayes, Baudelaire’s mother, a woman he loved dearly. Baudelaire should really be in his own grave and have his own gravestone. Either that or a new stone should be cut that puts Charles Baudelaire’s name at the top – after all, he’s the reason that people go to that particular grave.

Charles Baudelaire's grave © 2009 R J Dent archive

In the same cemetery, I found Samuel Beckett’s grave.

Samuel Beckett's grave © 2009 R J Dent Archive

It was simple and unadorned. And no one visited it. It was all very Beckett-ian.

Samuel Beckett

Later that day I walked along the left bank of the Seine, then had coffee and croissants in a riverside café.

Seine (left bank) © 2009 R J Dent archive

Continuing my theme of pretention, I spent a part of that day proof-reading and editing my latest poetry collection, Moonstone Silhouettes. The collection needed proofing and editing so I took it with me to France, simply so that I would always know that it had been edited in Paris. Now Moonstone Silhouettes will always be tinged with memories of Paris, December 2008.

moonstone silhouettes - r j dent

On another day I went into the Louvre and stood in front of the Three Graces. It’s my favourite sculpture. I found it by accident – having forgotten it was in the Louvre. I was wandering through the less-crowded rooms, trying to avoid the Mona Lisa/Venus de Milo/Da Vinci Code mob – and doing a very good job of it – when I went into a cool, spacious room and almost fell over the Three Graces. There they were – right in front of me – and all three looking quite lovely too. Obviously I wanted to touch them and I did reach out a hand – but at the last minute, sense, or lack of nerve, prevailed and I stood there simply staring in awe at those beautiful stone nymphs.

The Three Graces - Louvre

Obviously there’s a lot more, but that’s all I’m sharing at present. Paris was wonderful, a delightful experience, full of wonders, marvels and deep emotions. Every time I stepped outside in Paris, I could feel the air crackle with the electricity of life.

Paris at night © 2009 R J Dent archive

Paris is a city for the eternally young. I will go back – and I’ll probably edit and proof-read another book of mine while I’m there. I might even touch the Three Graces. They won’t mind.

Au revoir.

© R J Dent (2009)

www.rjdent.com

Charles Baudelaire’s The Flowers of Evil & Artificial Paradise translated by R J Dent is available from:

http://www.amazon.com/Flowers-Artificial-Paradise-Solar-Nocturnal/dp/0979984777/ref=sr_1_14?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1239004510&sr=1-14

or:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Flowers-Artificial-Paradise-Solar-Nocturnal/dp/0979984777/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1217774414&sr=1-1

(Gustave Courbet, Ritratto di Charles Baudelaire, 1847)

Charles Baudelaire tradotto da Antonio Prete
(Da: Zibaldoni, anno quinto, III serie, 9 maggio 2006.)

Le Voyage (Il viaggio)

         A Maxim du Camp

I

Pour l’enfant, amoureux de cartes et d’estampes,
L’univers est égal à son vaste appétit.
Ah ! que le monde est grand à la clarté des lampes!
Aux yeux du souvenir que le monde est petit!

Un matin nous partons, le cerveau plein de flamme,
Le coeur gros de rancune et de désirs amers,
Et nous allons, suivant le rythme de la lame,
Berçant notre infini sur le fini des mers:

Les uns, joyeux de fuir une patrie infâme;
D’autres, l’horreur de leurs berceaux, et quelques-uns,
Astrologues noyés dans les yeux d’une femme,
La Circé tyrannique aux dangereux parfums.

Pour n’être pas changés en bêtes, ils s’enivrent
D’espace et de lumière et de cieux embrasés;
La glace qui les mord, les soleils qui les cuivrent,
Effacent lentement la marque des baisers.

Mais les vrais voyageurs sont ceux-là seuls qui partent
Pour partir ; coeurs légers, semblables aux ballons,
De leur fatalité jamais ils ne s’écartent,
Et sans savoir pourquoi, disent toujours : Allons!

Ceux-là, dont les désirs ont la forme des nues,
Et qui rêvent, ainsi qu’un conscrit le canon,
De vastes voluptés, changeantes, inconnues,
Et dont l’esprit humain n’a jamais su le nom!

I

Per il ragazzo che ama scrutare carte e stampe
l’universo è a misura del suo sogno profondo.
Il mondo è sconfinato al lume delle lampade!
Agli occhi del ricordo com’è piccolo il mondo!

Un mattino, i pensieri in fiamme, noi partiamo:
ci pungono rancori, e desideri amari.
Ma andiamo: persi nel ritmo dell’onda, culliamo
questo nostro infinito sul finito dei mari.

Gli uni una patria infame fuggono, altri i natali
orribili, altri, astrologhi che hanno fatto naufragio
negli occhi di una donna, della Circe fatale
fuggon la tirannia e il profumo malvagio.

Per non esser mutati in bestie, ecco l’ebbrezza
di spazi e luci e cieli infocati di braci.
Il sole che li strugge, il gelo che li sferza
lentamente cancellano le ferite dei baci.

Ma i veri viaggiatori partono per partire:
cuori leggeri, come palloni in alto vanno,
il loro corso mai vorrebbero smarrire,
dicono sempre “andiamo!”, ed il perché non sanno.

I loro desideri hanno forma di nuvole.
Come il coscritto sogna il cannone, essi anelano
a voluttà immense, sconosciute e mutevoli,
dal nome che a nessuno davvero si disvela.

II

Nous imitons, horreur ! la toupie et la boule
Dans leur valse et leurs bonds ; même dans nos sommeils
La Curiosité nous tourmente et nous roule,
Comme un Ange cruel qui fouette des soleils.

Singulière fortune où le but se déplace,
Et, n’étant nulle part, peut être n’importe où!
Où l’Homme, dont jamais l’espérance n’est lasse,
Pour trouver le repos court toujours comme un fou!

Notre âme est un trois-mâts cherchant son Icarie;
Une voix retentit sur le pont : « Ouvre l’oeil! »
Une voix de la hune, ardente et folle, crie:
« Amour… gloire… bonheur ! » Enfer ! c’est un écueil!

Chaque îlot signalé par l’homme de vigie
Est un Eldorado promis par le Destin;
L’Imagination qui dresse son orgie
Ne trouve qu’un récif aux clartés du matin.

Ô le pauvre amoureux des pays chimériques!
Faut-il le mettre aux fers, le jeter à la mer,
Ce matelot ivrogne, inventeur d’Amériques
Dont le mirage rend le gouffre plus amer?

Tel le vieux vagabond, piétinant dans la boue,
Rêve, le nez en l’air, de brillants paradis;
Son oeil ensorcelé découvre une Capoue
Partout où la chandelle illumine un taudis.

II

Imitiamo la trottola che danzando si svolge,
la palla che rimbalza, e persino dormendo,
lei, la Curiosità, ci tormenta e rivolge
come Angelo che in alto sferzi i soli tremendo.

È una sorte ben strana: la meta si disloca,
può essere dovunque, eppure mai si mostra.
L’Uomo, la cui speranza non diviene mai fioca,
chiede riposo e folle gira come una giostra.

È l’anima un naviglio che cerca la sua Icaria.
“Attenzione !” si sente gridare dalla soglia
del ponte, e dalla coffa un grido incendia l’aria:
“Gloria… piacere… amore…!”. Dannazione! uno scoglio!

Ogni isola avvistata da quello ch’è di scolta
pare un verde Eldorado promesso dal Destino,
la Fantasia che già nell’orgia era disciolta
scorge soltanto un banco al lume del mattino.

Povero innamorato di regioni chimeriche!
Ti metteranno ai ferri, ti getteranno in mare,
ubriaco marinaio, inventore d’Americhe,
il cui miraggio rende gli abissi più amari?

Così il vecchio barbone, se la melma calpesta,
sogna, col naso all’aria, paradisiaci cieli,
con lo sguardo stregato una Capua egli avvista
ovunque una candela un tugurio riveli.

III

Étonnants voyageurs ! quelles nobles histoires
Nous lisons dans vos yeux profonds comme les mers!
Montrez-nous les écrins de vos riches mémoires,
Ces bijoux merveilleux, faits d’astres et d’éthers.

Nous voulons voyager sans vapeur et sans voile!
Faites, pour égayer l’ennui de nos prisons,
Passer sur nos esprits, tendus comme une toile,
Vos souvenirs avec leurs cadres d’horizons.

Dites, qu’avez-vous vu?

III

Viaggiatori mirabili! Quali nobili storie
leggiamo nei vostri occhi, profondi come mari!
Mostrateci gli scrigni delle vostre memorie,
gioielli d’astri e d’etere, meravigliosi e rari.

Vogliamo navigare senza vapore e vela.
Per ridurre la noia d’una vita murata,
offrite ai nostri spiriti, tesi come una tela,
tutti i vostri ricordi da orizzonti cerchiati.

Dite: che avete visto?

IV

« Nous avons vu des astres
Et des flots ; nous avons vu des sables aussi;
Et, malgré bien des chocs et d’imprévus désastres,
Nous nous sommes souvent ennuyés, comme ici.

La gloire du soleil sur la mer violette,
La gloire des cités dans le soleil couchant,
Allumaient dans nos coeurs une ardeur inquiète
De plonger dans un ciel au reflet alléchant.

Les plus riches cités, les plus beaux paysages,
Jamais ne contenaient l’attrait mystérieux
De ceux que le hasard fait avec les nuages.
Et toujours le désir nous rendait soucieux!

- La jouissance ajoute au désir de la force.
Désir, vieil arbre à qui le plaisir sert d’engrais,
Cependant que grossit et durcit ton écorce,
Tes branches veulent voir le soleil de plus près!

Grandiras-tu toujours, grand arbre plus vivace
Que le cyprès? – Pourtant nous avons, avec soin,
Cueilli quelques croquis pour votre album vorace,
Frères qui trouvez beau tout ce qui vient de loin!

Nous avons salué des idoles à trompe;
Des trônes constellés de joyaux lumineux;
Des palais ouvragés dont la féerique pompe
Serait pour vos banquiers un rêve ruineux;

Des costumes qui sont pour les yeux une ivresse;
Des femmes dont les dents et les ongles sont teints,
Et des jongleurs savants que le serpent caresse.»

IV

“Abbiamo visto astri,
e poi alti marosi, e deserti, ma sì,
nonostante gli choc, gli improvvisi disastri,
ci siamo anche annoiati, e spesso, come qui.

Sopra il viola del mare la gloria alta del sole,
la gloria delle mura quando il sole è cadente,
nell’anima accendevano un inquieto ardore
d’affondare in un cielo dal riflesso splendente.

Ricchissime città, paesaggi incantevoli,
non raggiungono mai il fascino segreto
dei paesi che il caso disegna con le nuvole.
E il desiderio sempre ci rendeva inquieti.

Il godimento dà al desiderio forza.
Desiderio, vecchio albero, il piacere è concime,
più sul tronco si fa dura e forte la scorza,
più sfiorano i tuoi rami il celeste confine.

Crescerai sempre, grande albero, più vivace
del cipresso? Comunque, con molta cura abbiamo
preso schizzi da dare al vostro album vorace,
fratelli che apprezzate ciò che vien da lontano.

Abbiamo visto idoli dal volto elefantesco,
troni ingemmati con intarsio luminoso,
palazzi lavorati con cesello fiabesco:
per il vostro banchiere un sogno rovinoso.

Costumi che a guardarli t’infondono un’ebbrezza,
donne che si dipingono sia le unghie che i denti,
esperti giocolieri che il serpente carezza”.

V

Et puis, et puis encore?

V

E poi, e poi ancora?

VI

« Ô cerveaux enfantins!

Pour ne pas oublier la chose capitale,
Nous avons vu partout, et sans l’avoir cherché,
Du haut jusques en bas de l’échelle fatale,
Le spectacle ennuyeux de l’immortel péché:

La femme, esclave vile, orgueilleuse et stupide,
Sans rire s’adorant et s’aimant sans dégoût;
L’homme, tyran goulu, paillard, dur et cupide,
Esclave de l’esclave et ruisseau dans l’égout;

Le bourreau qui jouit, le martyr qui sanglote;
La fête qu’assaisonne et parfume le sang;
Le poison du pouvoir énervant le despote,
Et le peuple amoureux du fouet abrutissant;

Plusieurs religions semblables à la nôtre,
Toutes escaladant le ciel ; la Sainteté,
Comme en un lit de plume un délicat se vautre,
Dans les clous et le crin cherchant la volupté;

L’Humanité bavarde, ivre de son génie,
Et, folle maintenant comme elle était jadis,
Criant à Dieu, dans sa furibonde agonie:
“Ô mon semblable, ô mon maître, je te maudis!”

Et les moins sots, hardis amants de la Démence,
Fuyant le grand troupeau parqué par le Destin,
Et se réfugiant dans l’opium immense!
- Tel est du globe entier l’éternel bulletin.»

VI

“O infantili menti!

Per non dimenticare la cosa capitale
dappertutto abbiam visto, senza averlo cercato,
lungo tutti i gradini della scala fatale,
il noioso spettacolo dell’eterno peccato:

la donna, schiava vile, stupida ed orgogliosa,
senza ironia amarsi, senz’ombra di vergogna;
l’uomo, tiranno cupido, ghiotto, duro, vizioso,
schiavo della sua schiava, rivoletto di fogna;

e il singulto del martire, del boia l’allegrezza,
la festa che fa sapido il sangue e profumato,
l’amaro del potere che ogni despota spezza,
il popolo che gode se abbrutito e frustato;

più d’una religione che alla nostra è parente
dar la scalata al cielo; e poi la Santità,
come sopra le piume del letto un gaudente,
con i chiodi e i cilici cercar la voluttà;

l’Umanità, ubriaca del suo genio, boriosa,
anche ora come un tempo, folle levare un grido
a Dio rivolta, in una agonia furiosa:
‘Mio signore, mio simile, ecco, ti maledico!’;

e i meno sciocchi, fieri amanti di Demenza,
sottrarsi al grande gregge raccolto dal Destino,
rifugiarsi nell’oppio, dentro la sua potenza.
– Questo è del globo intero l’eterno bollettino”.

VII

Amer savoir, celui qu’on tire du voyage!
Le monde, monotone et petit, aujourd’hui,
Hier, demain, toujours, nous fait voir notre image:
Une oasis d’horreur dans un désert d’ennui!

Faut-il partir ? rester ? Si tu peux rester, reste;
Pars, s’il le faut. L’un court, et l’autre se tapit
Pour tromper l’ennemi vigilant et funeste,
Le Temps ! Il est, hélas ! des coureurs sans répit,

Comme le Juif errant et comme les apôtres,
À qui rien ne suffit, ni wagon ni vaisseau,
Pour fuir ce rétiaire infâme : il en est d’autres
Qui savent le tuer sans quitter leur berceau.

Lorsque enfin il mettra le pied sur notre échine,
Nous pourrons espérer et crier : En avant!
De même qu’autrefois nous partions pour la Chine,
Les yeux fixés au large et les cheveux au vent,

Nous nous embarquerons sur la mer des Ténèbres
Avec le coeur joyeux d’un jeune passager.
Entendez-vous ces voix, charmantes et funèbres,
Qui chantent : « Par ici ! vous qui voulez manger

Le Lotus parfumé ! c’est ici qu’on vendange
Les fruits miraculeux dont votre coeur a faim;
Venez vous enivrer de la douceur étrange
De cette après-midi qui n’a jamais de fin!»

À l’accent familier nous devinons le spectre;
Nos Pylades là-bas tendent leurs bras vers nous.
« Pour rafraîchir ton coeur nage vers ton Électre!»
Dit celle dont jadis nous baisions les genoux.

VII

Ma è un sapere amaro quel che si trae dai viaggi!
Il mondo è eguale e piccolo, così in tutte le ore,
oggi, ieri, domani, rinvia la nostra immagine:
nel deserto di noia un’oasi di orrore!

Partire? O restare? Resta, se puoi restare,
parti, se devi. Uno va, l’altro si rintana
per ingannare il Tempo, avversario fatale
e vigile. C’è chi mai posa, e s’allontana,

come l’Ebreo errante, o l’Apostolo, al quale
non basta certo il treno e neppure il vascello
per sfuggire all’infame reziario; c’è chi assale
invece il tempo senza uscire dal cancello.

Quando poi la sua zampa sentiremo vicina
al dorso, grideremo “avanti!” con speranza.
Come un tempo ci accadde di partir per la Cina,
con i capelli al vento, lo sguardo in lontananza,

ci imbarcheremo un giorno sul mare delle Tenebre,
avendo il cuor leggero d’un giovane viandante.
Sentite queste voci affascinanti e funebri
che cantano: “Di qui, voi, voi che siete amanti

del Loto profumato: qui si può vendemmiare
il frutto misterioso che il desiderio affina.
Venite, e la dolcezza gustate singolare
di questo pomeriggio che mai non declina”.

Rivela un noto spettro il familiare accento;
laggiù ciascuno ha un Pilade che l’invoca e l’adocchia:
“Alla tua Elettra vieni se vuoi un lenimento!”,
dice quella cui un tempo baciammo le ginocchia.

VIII

Ô Mort, vieux capitaine, il est temps! levons l’ancre!
Ce pays nous ennuie, ô Mort! Appareillons!
Si le ciel et la mer sont noirs comme de l’encre,
Nos coeurs que tu connais sont remplis de rayons!

Verse-nous ton poison pour qu’il nous réconforte!
Nous voulons, tant ce feu nous brûle le cerveau,
Plonger au fond du gouffre, Enfer ou Ciel, qu’importe?
Au fond de l’Inconnu pour trouver du nouveau!

VIII

Su, Morte, capitano, è tempo di salpare!
Via l’ancora, m’annoia troppo questo paese.
Se neri come inchiostro sono il cielo ed il mare,
le nostre menti, sai, di luce sono accese.

Versaci il tuo veleno: esso ci riconforta!
Vogliamo, tanto forte ci brucia dentro un fuoco,
andar giù nell’abisso: Cielo o Inferno, che importa?
Fino in fondo all’Ignoto per incontrare il nuovo!

***

Tot Sarah Brightman, de data asta cu o melodie de o forta pe care nu i-as fi ghicit-o:

Ah.. blood vino kon este tour.. y yo no fui.. XD…

Tracklist: 

1.- SPLEEN
2.- LE REVENANT
3.- LA FIN DE LA JOURNEE
4.- DANSE MACABRE
5.- BRUMES ET PLUIES
6.- LES LITANIES DE SATAN (industrial ver.)
7.- OBSESSION
8.- L’IRREPARABLE
9.- LES LITANIES DE SATAN (Brutal Autism Mix)
10.- LE REVENANT (Hypnotic Sensual Breath Mix)
11.- BRUMES ET PLUIES (-quiche- Mix)
12.- LA FIN DE LA JOURNEE (Dreamscape Recollection Mix)

Peso:
48MB

Descargar:
LES FLEURS DU MAL

 

La sottise, l’erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.

Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal

Putting all the vegetables away
That you bought at the grocery store today
And it goes fast
You think of the past
Suddenly everything has changed

Putting all the clothes you’ve washed away
And as you’re folding up the shirts you hesitate
Then it goes fast
You think of the past
And suddenly everything has changed

My dear, you’re not that old. People often patronise me; “oh, you’re still so young!” They’re four or five years older than me. I believe I lived my life until now faster and more intensely than they have.
Of course I’m younger than they are. Of course I have so much to see and discover. But I bet that the majority of them when they were my age hadn’t done and seen as much as I have. I bet they didn’t start as young as I did. I bet they didn’t read as much as I did, drink like I did, fuck like I did, take the drugs I did, travel like I did.

I sometimes leap to conclusions. Sometimes I assume people haven’t had as much experience as I have. But most of the time I leap to the opposite conclusion: that they have. They act so savvy, I assume that they know life just like I do. Then they let a detail slip: that they never took a train on their own; that they’ve only ever slept with two people; that they never missed a day of school in their whole lives; that the spliff we shared last night was their first; that they’ve never left the country they were born in.

Nostalgia. Things change. Too many memories. I sometimes am blown away by my memories. How things have changed. A year ago, four years ago, six years ago, ten years ago. Ten years ago, just over ten years ago, I was 13 and I had my first teenager summer. Accelerated. Too much, too fast, heading down the wrong roads. Nine years ago I was abused. Slammed on the breaks, changed tracks. Still drinking heavy, still out of control. Eight years ago weed saved me, chilled me out, slowed me down. Seven years ago Sonik came along and brought me stability and suddenly all the horrors of the previous three were just a nightmare. 13 to 16 were another girl’s life.

16 to 18 belong to yet another girl still. One who was settled, slow, happy. A snuggly little couple. We had a car, a flat, a social life. The occasional rave, the daily spliffs, the weekend drinks with friends. Anyone else would have been sucked into that life. Married and had kids, just like he wanted. I destroyed Sonik’s life. Those are the years where everyone else met their partner. He was lucky and got the crazy girl, the different girl, the girl who wanted things differently and who bolted suddenly, without warning. One morning I’m laying in bed teasing him, the next day he comes back from work to find me throwing my stuff into binbags and chucking them into the car.

I’m going to stop here. Too much digging into the past is a bad idea. But this song sums up those flashbacks that strike you when you are least expecting it; you look at yourself, at what you’ve become, at how easy life is now, or at least how different life is, or how easy it was. You used to be a different person and you would never have imagined that the routine you’ve carved out for yourself in the present would be a groove you could follow.

One of my favourite Baudelaire poems, from memory (I’m too lazy to google it and the pleasure lays in the recitation)
J’ai plus de souvenirs que si j’avais mille ans.
Un vieux meuble à tiroirs encombré de bilans
de vers, de billets doux, de procès, de romances
avec de longs cheveux roulés dans des quittances
cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau.
Je suis un pyramide, un veritable caveau
qui contient plus de morts que la fosse commune.
Je suis un vieux cimetierre, abhoré de la lune
où comme des regrets, se trainent de longs vers
qui s’acharnent toujours sur mes morts les plus chers.
Je suis un vieux boudoir, plein de roses fannées
Où gît tout un fouillis de modes surannées
Et où les pastels plaintifs et les pâles Boucher,
Seuls, respirent l’odeur d’un flacon débouché.