La Brûlante Lumière de lamour (Essais Doc.) (French Edition)

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Et bien d'autres Au fait, mon amour, je t'aime! Le but de la vie n'est pas le bonheur, quoiqu'on le pense habituellement, mais de devenir meilleur. Entre cet absolu et ce relatif, quel point de jonction? En conclusion, tout n'est-il pas indiscutablement "relatif"? T pour Nao. Affirmation gratuite! Le parfait, c'est l'absolu ; l'imparfait, c'est le relatif ; au regard du parfait qui est tout, le relatif, le contingent n'est rien ; au regard du parfait, le relatif est sans valeur Faux!

Et personne n'oserait soutenir une telle opinion. Je puis encore raisonner comme suit : Ou bien ce n'est pas Dieu qui est l'auteur de l'Univers j'exprime ainsi ma conviction. Leur Dieu est pur Esprit. Au contraire! Yorik C'est impossible. Eh bien! Et alors? Pourquoi Rien? C'est regrettable. Dieu, on lui fait dire ce qu'on veut. Mais comment ne pas craindre ce Dieu terrible!

Et de nous regarder dans ce miroir qu'est la vie, est la souffrance la plus terrible qu'on puisse imaginer. Ce que je hais dans mes enfants, c'est ce que je suis! Un jour on m'oubliera et je ne le souhaite pas mais pour moi c'est trop tard j'ai rater ma vie. Je n'aurai jamais une seconde chance C'est pas vraiment a faire mais si ce n'est pas toi c'est lui qui te le ferra. Les religions veulent s'approprier chacune la connaissance de ce Dieu, mais Dieu existe en dehors de quelque religion que ce soit et n'en a pas besoin.

C'est certainement ma plus grande invention. Tout ce qu'ils font, ils le font librement. Que les autres ne le sont dans leurs exercices. Quand saint Louis m'aime, dit Dieu. Je sais qu'il m'aime. Tous les prosternements du monde Ne valent pas le bel agenouillement droit d'un homme libre. Toutes les soumissions, tous les accablements du monde. C'est un homme libre, c'est un libre baron de l'Ile-de-France. Or c'est tout. Sans doute il craint Dieu. Et quand il m'aime c'est vrai. Et quand il dit qu'il m'aime c'est vrai. Et pourtant Dieu est en train de gagner la partie contre le Diable!

Mais les anges ne pourraient pas aimer le diable qui est contre leur nature. They are simple nights when the whole sky seems to me deserted, with cold, dead stars, in an absurd universe in which just us, in our great solitude, we are struggling hard on a provincial planet, like in a borrow in which there is no running water, no electric light, in which express trains never stop.

Maybe that whatever here is heavy and oppressing becomes light, whatever here is dark and opaque becomes shinny and transparent. Whatever that we try without achieving not even half a way, our useless gestures, our fallen dreams…. Besoin de douceur si tu savais Tu sais? Non chalance? Oui, je pense aussi…. Mon amour est vertigineux. Proverbe toucouleur. A bon entendeur, salut! Donc, mes yeux, vous avez tant de plaisir, vous recevez tant de bonheur par ces yeux ; mais toi, mon coeur, plus tu les vois s'y complaire, plus tu languis, plus tu as de chagrin.

Tristesse de savoir que de nouveau Il est observateur de la vie. Maintenant, c'est fini. C'est une erreur. Le futur confirmera mon oracle. Even when i try to forget you I can't stop thinking about you About the way you acted and played with me I can't let go off the past Even when i try to laugh I can't, i'm so tired of acting I need to show the truth All i do is cry Even when i try to have fun I can't , you always come back in my minds I try to forget you, it's so difficult All i do is try Even now i realized Too many tears have been sheded All of this as got to stop I have to mend my broken heart.

Et pourtant j'attends, trop souvent Si tu m'attends, je reviendrai. Attends et avec eux refuse de lever ton verre. Et qui ne m'a pas attendu Peut bien dire : "C'est de la veine". La poudre du temps me recouvre le visage. As —tu pu la pleurer? As-tu pu le revoir? Eh toi! As-tu pu oublier? As-tu pu pardonner? Alaichem Sholom! Cela peut nous sembler une aubaine et c'en est une. Elle nous apporte un sentiment de paix, ou nous fait rire. Mais ce n'est que pour une saison.

Merci de faire partie de ma vie! Dans tous les cas : Travaille comme si tu n'avais pas besoin d'argent. Et danse comme si personne ne te regardait. Blanche-neige est une addictive. Elle explore des territoires limites. Blanche neige est lasse de ses sept nains priapiques, mineurs de fond de ses fantasmes. Il suffit de vouloir combattre. Lui, Son attention, Sa grandeur.. L'amour aussi intense soit-il, ne doit pas faire souffrir. Vivre un amour par courrier je n'en veux pas. Un homme qui me trompe, non plus. De Musset. Il est beau de savoir manier les mots mais vivez votre amour, cela vous apportera plus de bonheur ou de malheur.

Confrontez vous au quotidien. Je n'attendais que Lui.. L'amour est un sentiment qui nous fait toujours avancer plus loin. Nicolas pour toi je suis capable de te suivre ou tu veux. Mon bb je t'aime! Il est assez riche pour cela. Ca vaut le coup.. Hello, I love you ne me diras-tu pas ton nom? Bonjour a vous, vous savez je passe des moment a la fois joyeux et a la fois si triste que j'ai le gout de lacher prise et de mourrir. J'apprend que je suis enceinte de 8semaine et 2jours. J'en parle a mon conjoint qu ies en prison pour m'avoir battu a maintes reprises.

Il dit qu'Il change parce que il m'aime du plus profond de son coeur. L'eau ne change jamais. Le sable ne deviendra pas autre chose. Fleury L'amour n'est-il pas plus fort que nous? Que tout? Faites attention au temps Il temporise l'amour Le fait rentrer dans son reflet de nuit Chemisette de soie Pour le jour il lui met des roses au vase et lui donne un cadeau d'anniversaire En temps et en heure Attention au temps Il dit : "et bien!

La tention du temps Tu n'es pas belle, tu es magnifique Tu n'es pas dans mon coeur, tu es mon coeur Et je ne pleurerais pas si tu pars, mais je mourrais Comme jamais je ne le fus jusqu'ici! Chacune de tes lignes de fuites! A te recouvrir De chair et de sang! De souffle! Ah, oui, l'amour! Je ne t'aime que parce que c'est toi que j'aime, et je te hais sans fin, te hais et te supplie, et la mesure de mon amour voyageur est de ne pas te voir, de t'aimer en aveugle.

Aimer c'est tout partager, c'est faire des concessions qui n'en sont pas. C'est vouloir passer du temps avec toi, parler de tout , de rien, de choses importantes. Je l'arrose de temps en temps, elle survit. Un ami en a peur. Et la famille, n'en parlons pas. J'avais un chat aussi, puis des poissons, un furet Mais si, je vous aime.

Mon amour je t'aime! C'est pas beau je sais. Pas assez confiant? Trop peur d'un nouvel abandon.


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Claro que si! Il ne me manque rien. Cette manie que j'ai de trop souvent vouloir me plaire! Moi aussi. Tout dans ton regard me dit ce que tu veux ami. Me dit-elle. A la force de la nature, je la regarde. Elle est belle, lui aussi, tout le monde il est beau. La question n'est plus de savoir qu'est-ce que c'est que l'amour. Un mur…ou un rivage.. Et la Vie? Une Majuscule. Tout est devenu flou.. Insultes de pacotille… Le paradis pour tous? Une belle fumisterie! Dessus dessous.. Aux bas-fonds.. Murs de haine.. Que cesse le simulacre..

Le reste serait du bavardage… 15 mai — reprise le 14 septembre …. Hoy discordia y guerra evitaras si es que la vida en paz quisieras disfrutar..!

Queridos amigos este es el primer verso de este poema, que les dedico por su noble gesto de promover un tema tan importante en la red. Le public veut du fast-food, du fun, du sexy, du glamour, du fashion. Il n'est pas contrariant, le public, il veut ce qu'on lui donne, et il en redemande. C'est un principe, le client est roi. Sa philosophie: "je consomme donc je suis". Je veux, je prends, je jette. Les lois? Ce sont des trucs de pauvres. Ils ont le culot d'exister? Mais ils se croient tout permis! Qu'est-ce-que c'est que ce buisness?

Ils ne vont pas rouler en Ferrari, non plus! Rien ne doit nous distraire et surtout pas de badinage. Le Plan doit perdurer. C'est tout le monde, c'est personne. Ce n'est pas moi. Il y aura toujours des libres penseurs. J'ai le grand plaisir de remercier les fondateurs de ce site des Hommes honnettes. Le contexte fait Simple question! Pourquoi s'aimer si c'est pour s'aimer soi?

A toi je t'ai dit Que de l'amour Sur les ponts on ne passera plus,ensemble. Le manque et le vide se ressemblent L'absence est totale quand j'y repense. Ami e , entends-tu? Tjs la meme equipe de pot car on ne change pas une equipe ki gagne, certe BENOIT allias Peppino, il etudie comme un laid pour ces repechs et tjs sans femme ms bon cella ne nous regarde pas en plus nous avons apprit que son surnom a legerement ete modifier en pepunouille ms bon cela ne nous regarde pas Mtn place a Bruno Marcello Love cannot be defined.

It's somewhere you find yourself without realising how you got there Sur le sablier. Combat le froid de l'onde et laisse toi partir Je vous jure que j'aime me sentir libre. Si un jour la vague revient, j'aurai encore la force de me ramener, sur le sable. Seul sur le sable, les yeux dans l'eau Moi, ce que je ressent? Pour moi l'amour c'est la plus belle chose au monde et en plus je me cherche un chum si je vous interesse appeller au et j'ai 9ans signer jennifer dauphin. Plus que des regrets, envies de vengeance, envie d'oublier ton visage, ton nom, tout de toi.

Tout ce qui m'a fait t'aimer. Plus de toi, plus de moi, plus de nous. Nous qui n'a jamais exister. Ce soir, nulle ne tient ta main. C'est dit. Liaison inhumaine? A l'ombre. A l'ombre d'un arbre, j'attends ses fruits. Le soleil qui brille pour tous Mon ventre s'en souvient encore. On avait beau essayer Les minutes sont parfois futiles, longues dans la douleur.

Chronique Livres

Les heures sont interminables, d'autres du rendez-vous. Ma vie ne fait qu'y penser Unie vers celle que l'on aime, unie vers celui que l'on aime. Uni vers celle que l'on aime, uni vers celui que l'on aime L'amour c la pire chose qui puisse ns arriver, quoique c oci la plus belle. Tu sais avec ta voix, panser mes blessures, avec ton sourire, raviver ma joie, avec ton regard faire renaitre mon espoir. Mais tu sais mieux que quiconque me faire du mal, me faire pleurer, me faire douter. Pourtant il n'y a pas un doute possible: je ne suis pas grand chose pour toi, une amie tout au plus T'oublier serait m'oublier un peu, car pour toi je pourrais abandonner mes yeux, car tu es mon seul paysage, je pourrais abandonner ma peau, car tu es mes seules caresses, je pourrais abandonner ma bouche car tu es le seul gout que j'aime Millye, tes la, bulle d'innocence.

J'ai mal! Une force s'empare de moi. Sans explication tu pars, sans excuse non plus. Je t'aime, je te respecte, toi et ton devenir, maintenant et demain encore plus loin de moi. G des petits cop1, mais le pbls c ke je ne les gardes pas lgt a cause de mes parents, g 20 ans mais g pas le droit de sortir kn je vx. Il tien a moi et ne veut pa me perdre. Ode pluie. Il pleut, les gouttes se rassemblent, et flaque! Les ondes circulaires entourent le choc, et viennent mourrir sur le rebord. Puis un chant d'oiseau, printannier, se dessine. Je regarde le ciel. De jour comme de nuit calme et violent au ralentie, l'espace d'une vie il nous aime et nous aussi.

Il devient urgent de nous contacter, de parler une langue Universelle,une langue vraie, une langue d'amour et non de reproches, de culpabilisations, de pouvoirs. Je n'ai toujours pas compris. Ce n'est pas rien ce grand A puisque c'est toi qui me l'a offert et me l'a appris. Aimer avec ce grand A c'est Aimer encore, sans rien renier, ni rien oublier , quand tout s'est enfui. Est-ce une de ces malheureuses histoires? Certains appellent ca la vie, la vraie. Au premier jour j'ai perdu l'amour et de ce fait un peu la vie, car vivre sans amour n'est pour moi qu'un etat de semi torpeur.

Certe, ils pu consoler instant cette peine que je porte, je leur dois bien cela. Il faut s'y faire je ne suis qu'humain Un jour. Ainsi passe le temps, la vie est un long fleuve Pas de pessimisme, ici, que dis-tu? Humain, si tu ne crois plus en rien, bouge. Le fou. Ta, ta la, la , la , ta la la , ta, ta la, la la, je t'aime.

Il y a que parfois je me sens loin de toi durant mon sommeil onirique. C'est mon site de repos xxx Soleil. Et si on parlait d'amour N'y a t-il pas de mot pour exprimer ce chao? Je te dis je t'aime d'avoir trop saigner Carnivore j'oublie parfois d'aimer. Et toi? FCNA je t'aime, au fait, sarah si tu lis cela, c'est que t'es un peu curieuse Dans l'ensemble tout va bien, notre coeur bat et rebat encore. Il n'inspire que consommation et abus Heureusement que l'amour croise son chemin et sublime en sa conscience. Je vous aime, aime toi, aime nous. Ami m'entends-tu?

Il semblerait bien qu'il manque des convictions pour ma voie. L'amour c'est Pour Amladi Perle issue de larmes et de cendre. Pour ceux que j'aime et qui se reconnaitront si, par hasard, ils tombent sur ce message. Sinon, pour tous ceux qui le liront L'amour quel beau secret Mais pourquoi faut-il se cacher pour aimer???? Est-ce qu'on pourrait me conseiller? L'amour n'est rien sans toi. Tu sens cette main qui anime. Tu sens le temps qui nous dit: " J'ai besoin de toi.

Jaimerais tant avoir de tes nouvelles. Merci Ta petite soeur Vanessa. Le bonheur d'une femme heureuse. C'est avec le temps Tous les jours l'amour se manifeste. Mais qu'est-ce que l'amour? Un jour tu es au paradis Et le lendemain tout est fini Qu'est-ce que l'amour? N'est-ce qu'une illusion Pour pouvoir te sentir mieu? Ou n'est-ce que ce sentiment dont tout le monde parle Et dont tout le monde Veut s'approprier la vie? Tite puce perdue. Ami prend donc ton verre et surtout ne te renverse pas. L'eau de tes yeux. Je vois l'eau de tes yeux qui brille et irise le regard de ma vie.

Le soleil se couche, le vent frai se pose le nez, les mains, les joues, et le bout de tes pieds. Je vois l'eau de tes yeux qui coule dans ce ruisseau de peine et qui rejoind ma mer de chagrin. Que je suivrais combien de temps? L'amour t'attend. Je m'aime. C'est fou comme je m'aime. Pendant la nuit je m'oublie, c'est mon inconscient qui fait que je fuis. Si un jour je me reproduis, Clone je le nommerais. Et si un jour je meurs, mon fils saura me venger. Je m'aime, je m'aime, c'est fou comme je m'aime. Je m'aime, c'est fou ce que je m'aime. Non, je m'aime, pour mieux pouvoir vous aimer.

La confiance nous honnore,le repos nous fascine les enfants qui babillent,on ne sait pas. La voie du bonheur que nous connaissons illusoire, Tu sais cette voie que je n'emprunterai pas sans toi. Je la marque sans rime et sans trop de besoin de toi. J'apprends de cette vie qui me fascine, que n'aimer plus que toi me fascinera, avec la certitude de vivre ces rares moments ou tu entendras, dans des moments encore inutiles: je t'ai A nos ennuis! Qui aimer sans faillir? Je veux bien vivre d'amour et d'eau fraiche, je veux bien me battre pour sauver mon amour, pour sauver l'amour , je veux bien mourir par amour si l'amour peux me survivre et se perpetrer encore et encore.

J'aime beaucoup cette petite phrase "L'amour ne se divise pas, il se multiplie". Merci aussi d'absorber et de refleter l'amour et le respect que je vous porte. S: un petit geste d'amour Merci pour eux. Humblement , je vous embrasse. Paix avec son environement, paix avec soi.

Ce serait comme quand les etres en soufrances deviennent des etre sensible J'aimerais en savoir plus sur ton histoire, si tu veux bien sur. A plus. Le mot Amour est un mot trop lourd qui parfois nous fais perdre notre sang froids. Infini comme les atomes qui nous constituent pourquoi avoir peur, alors que l'on peut aimer, et le dire!!! C'est fatima qui m'a offert ce cadeau.

Aujourd'hui jela remercie et je souhaite la remercier encore et encore, chaque jour, chaque vie. Qui cede a la haine oublie sa peine Qui cede a la peur oublie son coeur Qui cede a l Amour vis pour toujours. J'ai peur, peur d'elle, ou encore d'une autre. Peur qu'elle prenne ton bras, qu'elle t'attire vers elle. J'ai peur de ces femmes qui te parlent, peur de celles qui te touchent, peur de celles qui pourraient t'approcher.

J'ai peur de te perdre, peur de t'aimer encore plus fort, peur de pleurer sur ton bras. Peur de me sentir m'ensevelir sous ton corps, peur de crier ma peine, peur de pleurer, encore et encore. J'ai peur de te sentir partir, peur que tu la rejoignes, ce soir. Peur que tu effleures sa main, encore douce sous la chaleur de tes doigts. Avec de la patience aussi. Encore et encore.


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Narcisse, tu connais? Si nous aimons. Ouais, OK pour l'amour. Mais qu'est-ce que c'est? Je ne crache pas dessus. Alors, qu'est que c'est l'amour? Je ne sais pas. Je cherche. Moi,l'amour,je trouve que c'est le plus beau mot du dictionnaire. J'ai un chum mais il me parle presque pas je sais pas pourquoi. Amour ahhhh! Quel beau mot! Une fois de plus, je fais avec. Le plus beau cadeau que l'on m'ai fait c'est de m'aimer, mais m'aimer vrai, m'aimer fort, m'aimer tendre, m'aimer doux, m'aimer simple Aujourd'hui le remercie et je souhaite le remercier encore et encore, chaque jour, chaque vie.

Elle me parle tant Un baiser dans la courbe de ta nuque, un soupir dans le rebond de ta hanche, une caresse le long de ton aisselle, ma langue, aveugle, qui devine tes formes Viens soigner mon coeur, malade d'amour Je suis malade d'amour Cette nuit, tu es venue me rendre visite Il ma dit un jour :: " on s'aimera toujours , on fera des enfants jusqu'a l'age de ans " Je l'aimais A ne plus s'en passer The Turning Point of Feminism.

Symbolic Violence. Exclusive Democracy. The Headscarf and the Republic. The Feminization of Professional Names. The Politics of Reproduction. Sexualities on Parade. Chiennes de garde of the World, Unite! New Gendered Mosaics. Perhaps, to take this notion further, it would be interesting to find out to what extent each of those terms is also the name of the relation between the two others—with philosophy playing the middle role between translation and poetry, and poetry between philosophy and translation. I think that's where my interest comes from! Of course for us, when we were young, Latin and Greek were the languages that projected us into other languages; so translation was the experience of Greek and Latin, languages we call dead—and we should perhaps reconsider this label: after all, what is a "dead" language?

That is where my experiences began, and then came Ger-. Thus, I'd have to point to some sort of archaeological relationship with "dead" languages. Could translation be another way of naming Greek and Latin? And here, unfortunately, I cannot add an et cetera , though I should note that in earlier years it might have been easier than I thought to enter into another language, especially a related language. I was seventeen when I first went to Spain. At that time I said I couldn't understand a thing, yet ten or twenty years later I read a Spanishlanguage newspaper without, obviously, having learned the language.

At bottom there is a sort of familiarity with foreign languages, as long as they belong to the same family. That knowledge can function without any academic preparation. So much for my own story! Now, as for the magazine, I can only say that at its source lies a relation between language and literature. Languages exist for writers only insofar as there are literary works in them—a literature within literary languages, let's say—and that can only come about when a language is able to welcome great literary works from other languages.

Let us take an easy example and I know some would not agree with me, but they're not here! Because, by my criterion, Breton is not a language. Well, it's a fact: Breton never welcomed a translation of Goethe, for instance, or Dante. A language-literature that has the capacity of receiving masterpieces of other languages is of one texture. It all goes together. It was in this light that the project for the magazine was sketched out. Translation, therefore, is not an accident. It is, as you have said, the energy that emanates from the continued relation among languages, among great languages, through this obligation of receiving one another's literary works, past and present.

That's the situation. And what does it mean? It implies, especially at this moment, that is, at the decline of the twentieth century. I think a lot of writers feel this way, that all great languages are in a state of dangerous simplification. A certain menace is weighing on languages: a relation to English—not just to any English, but to a form of international English.

What has happened to the sentence? What happens to the sentence when it becomes the little politicians' sentence or the screen sentence on computer terminals? What has happened to the sentence in all languages? Thus, something one might call conservation and defense has arisen. Of course, that's not the only concern, either of the magazine or of concerned writers. We are not merely conservationists in a conservatory, but I believe there is that aspect of a very deep commitment to conservation, or, if you will, of memorization, of rememorization.

To confront a menace that is an attitude. This commitment is not, I should emphasize, reactionary, or even reactive; it is meant to protect—in a word, to shelter, as Heidegger would say. To maintain the language in its literary works: this is important because it leads us to the past of many languages. But I should be a bit more modest: the magazine's scope is limited to a few Indo-European languages belonging to the same family, although we have published some Chinese translations.

We're open, but in fact in most cases, our texts are the roses of the languages of Paris, whose stems are those of our neighbors. You yourself have authored a work entitled Tombeau de du Bellay. Correct me if I'm wrong, but in your desire to emphasize the place of translation, both in your own thought and in the identity of the magazine, is there an ambition, similar to du Bellay's, of ornamenting the French language through the practice of translation? That is, of not only making French readers discover or rediscover texts of the Renaissance but also, through translation, proposing poems that, because of their difficulty, are examples of the densification of language and contrib-.

Translation there by becomes a means of perfecting the tools of language. MD: In listening to you, it occurred to me that the defense we're talking about has nothing to do with the sixteenth century, as we shall see, since in that day the concept of defense was really a question of transforming the vernacular into a great language through the practice of imitation—paraphrasing du Bellay's "double bind" [said in English], he might have said: In order to imitate, I do not imitate; I do as the great authors of the past have done, and thus I stop imitating the greatest authors.

Defense, today, has become more complicated! But what might be the most troubling and important topic is the "perfecting" that you have just mentioned. In fact, do we want to say that a language such as French, one of the ten languages that has produced masterpieces, has not achieved its perfection? Surely it has, since so many great works have been written in it and so many great works from other languages translated into it.

One might then ask what the meaning of perfection is. Let me try to find an example. What strikes me is this: it's an equivocal situation. Some literary critics complain of the lexical or terminological wealth of a given writer. It is quite simple to accuse a literary person, for in France, literary is a pejorative term: "It's too literary! MD: Yes, it's too rhetorical to use rare and erudite words, but at the same time they fail to consider that nothing is as neologistic as socalled common journalistic language.

What we're supposed to do today, with the greatest of ease, is invent signs, not words. Journalistic language is in ferment. We are in a state of fermented, corrupted lexicalization. But at the same time critics call attention to the fact that a writer uses such and such an old word, or uses a neologism in his poem in a rather erudite fashion, and this they condemn. In the end, everything is a struggle!

Is that. I don't know, but there should be an attitude of vigilance against signmaking, the dangerous semiotization of language, as well as against language inventions founded on old forms—neologisms as they have always been practiced. SG: In the final analysis, if a language is "great," if it is a living language and thus does not merely duplicate the image of a dead language , isn't it always characterized by this particular dialectic—by the efforts of some to assimilate new terms or ideas and make of them new expressions and, simultaneously, the efforts of others to criticize such practices, bent on continuing their task of refining the language?

If what you say is true, this condition might be seen as a very good sign, not as a moment of crisis! People are conscious: they react; they do not exclude foreign expressions; they do not seek to "Etiemblize" the language without, at some point, seeing they might thereby weaken it. Even if the writer-critic Etiemble has gone on the warpath against the Americanization of the French language, the language has always been enriched by this process of assimilation! MD: That's true, but it's a question of reterritorialization, of reappropriating a foreign element that enters into the language. Here is an example: one of the actual menaces weighing on all languages is a form of desyntaxation.

Conservation and literary invention would then imply an effort to reaffirm syntax, to play in its favor, to encourage syntactical complexity and obstacles. This is hardly a form of purism, of academic interest, because spoken speech, in the past—I think we must add that—was heavily syntaxed. Thus it's not a question of "correct" versus "incorrect" syntax, but of the use of certain locutions, such as "des fois que. What I mean is that one must fight for syntax within the spirit of the language in its popular state, and against a way of speaking that may be taking the upper hand and which, though some might call it "popular," is in fact not within the spirit of the popular medium.

Thus the conservation of language would be joined with another motive, that of re-. SG: Could you talk about the writing of poetry in France today? With everything you've just said, could one now characterize the way French poets react to language, without necessarily going into names or schools? How does this concept of reterritorialization affect contemporary writing? MD: A current direction that is much bruited about goes something like this. I don't know whether there is a return to narrative; if there is, I don't know whether it has a future, because I don't believe that poetry can continue through a narrative direction.

That doesn't mean theme—a thematic, a something about which one writes and thinks—is excluded, but I don't believe that narration—the telling of a story—on the poetic level, with names of people, or in the lyrical mode or the elegiac I mode, can be done today. But in any case, it's in the wind. I believe something has occurred: the various successive experimental movements have, to some extent, worn out poetry—that is, made the relation between reader and poetic text difficult, made the relation impossible.

There was a movement that consisted in exterminating, in systematically excluding the thematic, the narrative, even. In the end, how does one recognize a poetic text? What kind of pleasure will there be in reading a poetic work? What will one find under the rubric of poetry that cannot be found elsewhere, whether this "elsewhere" is fiction or the literary pages of anthropology when, all of a sudden, an anthropologist speaks to us about death and desire?

We must be very cautious here. The poem, as a form of linguistic acrobatics, must take shelter, even if by ruse, under something recognizable—a story, or something to do with action in time, something that has a narrative element to it. But I take that to be a pretext and an alibi. The poem might present itself as something "hanging," like a shirt on a clothesline; the narrative thread would then be this clothesline on which, attached by clothespins, lots of things would be hanging.

I follow the line and find the poem, the surface, and then I go back to the line and pass to the next poem. Perhaps in that sense there must be a line, a return to rhetoric. After all, that is one of the ruses, a savoir faire , to make the poem readable again, to allow readers to listen once again to the French language. I don't know if that is indeed happening, but if it is, it's useful. As for a panorama of contemporary poetry, that's a more difficult question.

SG: Let me break in for a minute. Do you see, as a poet and as a professor of French literature, a particular mode of French poetic writing? A constant? When you talk or write about it, do you see something that has eliminated other possible poetic forms—as happened, for instance, with those historical poems of Alfred de Vigny's, after they gave way to Baudelaire? Do you think that French poetry today, and as it has been practiced through the mid-eighties, has somehow sealed its identity in relation to fiction?

MD: But the seal is complicated since, at the heart of it, the distinction between prose and verse was explicitly refused—or if not refused, at least forced to vanish. In that sense, listening to the dance of language, its. Thus it's very difficult to isolate one as against the other. That said, there is something very simple concerning the situation today: not only are there no more genres in poetry—there are no more tragic poems, no more epic poems—perhaps there are also no more lyrical poems!

MD: No more satirical poems, no more political ones. The last grouping of poets as a school went under the label of surrealism, and that poetry, written by us, written by all of us as Ducasse wrote , has also disappeared. In lieu of genres we have poetical works: we have Ponge's works, works by Michaux. There is Char, Saint-John Perse. I've mentioned only the complete works of a poet and, in some cases, poems written by poets now dead. Would we say the same today? I don't know if we'll be able to continue this particular series. That's what troubles me.

SG: But this series has a subseries. There are generations, and while I don't want to compile an impossible anthology of poetry, there are poems by Char, du Bouchet, Dupin; and following them there will be, not to say imitators, but poets whose sensitivity will express itself in similar registers, compatible with previous ones.

MD: But then there will only be poetry if there is a great work written by a poet, by one of them, by someone. In the second half of this century, that is how poetry occurs. This is rather worrisome. Should there no longer be a will on the part of the poet to write a great poetic oeuvre, there might no longer be any poetry in the language—I'm not saying forever, but for a long.

In other words, what would be the conditions for a great poetic oeuvre? As far as I'm concerned, there's one that seems important: I would readily say that the poet is someone who, in some sense, must explain himself. Whatever was written down during the poet's lifetime in forms other than poetry is there: conferences, papers. There's a poetic oeuvre insofar as there is an "accompanying explanation," a multiple discourse to go along with it. That is unquestionably a powerful reason to include nonpoetic works in a complete edition.

I might also formulate it in another way, using another theorem:Poetry is not alone. What counts are the relations it has with itself, and as a result of which it is. In relation to these confrontations, rivalries, jealousies, and comparisons that it has, for instance, with music, with philosophy, with painting. That is, everything that was once called ut pictura poesis, ut musica poesis. Thus, the arts form a circle, a dance of the arts, which, fundamentally, one could see as the dance of the muses.

One shouldn't lose sight of that. One should hold out one's hand to music and say: "What are you doing, you musicians who claim to be more musical than we? What does philosophy do in its own way? Perhaps here I shall try to elaborate. If there is a proximity between philosophy and poetry, each vast and enigmatic, each a realm of experience and work, it is perhaps because in its tissue, in its texture, in its linguistic material, philosophy is poetic.

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The rigor of its thought is such that it is in fact none other than a rhetorical rigor, a tropological or figured one. The question of figures or tropes; the. But indeed there is—and let's call it language! SG: You've just answered my question when you spoke of the constituent parts of an oeuvre. Clearly your parapoetic works figure in that definition, as well as your poetic works. But in listening to you, I was also made aware of the importance you attribute to pleasure, the pleasure we find as readers, going from shirt to shirt on that clothesline!

The autonomy of language, brilliantly suggestive, fulfills numerous functions, one of which, for me at least, is pleasure. We are not engaged in the fabrication of a purely hermetic text, but one also influenced, from beginning to end, by that trinity you defined; and yet translation may be the code that allows an uninterrupted reading of your work.

There we find translations, that is, movements in space, as well as on a metaphorical level. This leads to my next question. The oral quality, the spoken, plays a central role in American poetics. Unquestionably, that is not the only tendency—there is also a language influence at play among certain American poets—but from Walt Whitman to Allen Ginsberg, the factor of enunciation has been one of the bridges permitting the reader to accede to an undeniable pleasure.

Is there, in France, a reinterpretation not only of the lyrical, of that narrative you have described, but also of an oral inscription? Or, put another way, is Heidegger's influence still predominant in contemporary French poetry? MD: There I can't agree, for in a certain sense, there's nothing more vocal than a page taken from Heidegger! One might even imagine a public reading of many of his pages. This runs in the direction of orality, this vocality of language. But wait a moment. I believe there is a radical, inseparable vocalization of poetry, since it is a linguistic manifestation I'll explain that in a minute , but on the other hand, when this vocalization or oralization becomes a performance, a certain staging of the gestural—I find that more questionable.

The poem is deeply bound with a decision of quantity, space, time, accents—that is, a decision founded on diction. The poem's diction constitutes the poem's poetics. That is a constitutive part of the poem's poetics. That's one thing. But the oral, the vocal—that's in the poem of language; there's no doubt in my mind. I never shared the caricatural view that poetry was not made to be said, to be read out loud, to be heard.

I don't believe that. And I have never believed it, but on the other hand, I'm not so sure that the festival moment, the regulated, preconceived moment of a vociferal act, itself operating within the field of a whole complex of technological apparatus—for isn't it a question, essentially, of a series of relays: the microphone, the recording session, the sound conditions for the audience on a given evening—should be considered part of the poem. I do believe that my own poems are meant to be heard.

SG: How then would you define the relation between poetic diction, performance, and sound conditions in your own work? MD: What bothers me when I give readings are the technical conditions involved, the possible staging of an "act. But that doesn't stop me for one minute from believing that the diction of a poem makes up the poem. If there is a considerable.

But the song is the place where we are trying to find poetry, and I have nothing against popular music. Language is also meant to be composed like a song, and it's by that route that the young will rediscover poetry, and in particular, assonance and rhyme, paronomasia, humor, story line, and satire.

Popular songs have taken that up for themselves. And it's said there are many good songwriters and singers! Music is there too, as an accompaniment, as it was in the time of the troubadours and also in the time of the ancient Greeks. It has always been there. Such a tradition might also be a way of finding out where poetry might end up if it allows everything that belongs to it to be taken away, including a large public. SG: You have been translated in the U. What are the connections to that Other, in a way, whose name also happens to be Michel Deguy? MD: It's quite simple!

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Sometimes, on certain pages, in certain stanzas, I say to myself, "That's very good; I'm sure it makes a poem in English. It really doesn't make one think or sing in English. Poetry, allowed to make her claims cultural , prefers to sneak away, vanish into nature—But nature has disappeared. Where is she going? You can hear her in language when her door is left swinging; a door must open and close. What door? The tongue itself as porter of language: swinging portal, thus she stamps the threshold; she allows it to be a threshold of immensity. Where does she come from?

By divagations she storms her way, sketches out her licentious regime, hollows out her bed so as not to sleep in it. There isn't any "and so forth" to the I-saw-myself-seeing-myself of Monsieur Teste. The regime of intersubjectivity is open and spaciously circumscribed by Socrates; the exchange is completed when, and if, I know that you know that I know-I-don't-know-anything. You will know when you know that I know that you know that I know that I know nothing.

On l'entend dans la langue quand sa porte bat; il faut qu'une porte s'ouvre et se ferme.

Le thème de la lumière, de "la Chanson de Roland" au "Roman de la Rose"

Quelle porte? Tu sauras, quand tu sauras que je sais que tu sais que je sais que je ne sais rien. Joseph Guglielmi was born in in Marseille. Ends of Lines , extract. Translated by Michael Palmer and Norma Cole. Le Mouvement de la mort , extracts. Translated by Norma Cole. Shearsman , n. Hot Bird MFG 2, no. Serge Gavronsky: I've always been struck by the energy that arises from your work, which is rather rare in contemporary French poetry.

Were I to generalize, I might even say that you are a unique phenomenon in French poetry since, judging from the texts of yours that I've read and the opportunities I've had to hear you read in public, the nature of your voice sustains the decision in your poetry to exist as an electrifying experience.

[LIVE] REAL TOUCH MUSIC - Tu es l'amour de ma vie

Joseph Guglielmi: That compliment, my friend, goes right to my heart! I don't think energy is the result of a particular decision; it's rather like an electric current that either passes through or doesn't. But I would still have to say that language itself, in its natural state, already contains an energy charge. Between words, in order for them to make sense, in order for meaning to occur, there must be some sort of energy; without it, there's no poetry, there's no language.

SG: As you know, since you're a reader of American poetry, at least in a certain kind of American poetry the oral aspect is preponderant. There is a "performance" factor, an insistence on the polish of the delivery, a concern for public reception of works read out loud to an audience. I believe this sort of practice carries over into the content of the work itself since, consciously or unconsciously, the poet begins to "hear" his or her poetry, an experience which then, at least in part, dictates the nature of his or her poetry and constitutes a sort of updated Whitmanesque poetics, as opposed to both a Wallace Stevens strand and what is referred to as "academic" poetry in the U.

Would you talk about the place of that vocal quality in your work? JG: At least two stages have got to be taken into account in answering your question. The first one is the writing, and perhaps in that first stage there is already a foreshadowing of orality. For example, in my Fins de vers , I tried to write using an eight-foot line, a rhythmic eightfooter, not rhymed, of course!

And when I read it out loud I try to discover this rhythm in the writing, and I find it and at the same time transform it, increasing its tension so as to underline the scansion.

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When I scan the lines, I try to give them maximum energy as you've noted , an expressive energy. I'm not adding meaning but expression, to make the reading more "brawny"! That way, the line communicates to the listener through a tension, a scansion. What does their presence correspond to? Even readers who do not understand a foreign language must, I imagine, be struck by this insertion, and for those who do understand, it is an added semantic and phonic attraction. Could you talk about the way these insertions function in your writing? JG: If I might answer in two ways, the first would simply be that I like doing it, that it's fun!

But in a more serious vein, let me add that, as you know, I've been translating American poets such as Larry Eigner, Rosmarie Waldrop, Clark Coolidge, and at this moment, an American poet living in Paris, Joseph Simas. This linguistic activity, that is, translation, gives me a great deal of pleasure, even if at times it makes me sweat! To answer your question then, sometimes I simply use these languages—I was about to say that I stuff them, but I'll say I place them in my work, I use them to articulate my texts. Sometimes when I put an American line in my poem it adds an even greater element of energy, because English, for me, is a very musical language.

All you have to do is listen to a blues singer, or even a Shakespearean actor. There's a special musical quality that really touches me, and I try to pepper my own verse with it a bit, for a little more energy, power. SG: When you translate American poets, to say nothing of your translations from the Italian, do you feel a difference, one that's only noticeable to the translator, a difference between the nature of the English language and the presence of the French—that is, when you go from English to French, do you feel a loss, an enrichment, a displacement?

First of all, as I've just said, there's a loss of musicality and also a loss on the level. There's a relief in English writing, a force, an energy to use the word again that is often lost in French, although something else may be gained. But that musicality is lost, and I would say the same thing for Italian. I once attended a meeting of poets at the Pompidou Center—there was a Russian poet, an American, and many French poets.

But let me tell you, I was really struck by how flat French sounded beside the Russian and American readings! I'm certainly not asking for a bel canto , but there wasn't that song, that sort of folly that those other languages convey. Unfortunately, French has a rather flat musical line. It's a flat language.

You know, in the south of France, when you talk like a northerner, like a Parisian, they say you're talking "sharply," "pointedly. The type of reading you mentioned, at times a bit flamboyant, is rarely found among Paris poets, although a certain fellow by the name of Artaud clearly wanted to break with that tradition! JG: Not to be unjust, I should point out that work on language is also very important for me.

This questioning of language by language itself if I might simplify a bit is really the essence of poetry. Alongside that, I do raise the problem of public diction, which is a specific problem and one that characterizes my own work, but for all that, I certainly don't neglect the work on language, which is the poet's work as found in Jacques Roubaud, Claude Royet-Journoud, Anne-Marie Albiach, Jean Daive, and others. These are people who are interested in all the problems of diction, including public readings.

Perhaps they don't ask the same questions I do, but they do, quite insistently, ask similar ones. SG: Right, sorry! As a consequence, his language is at once "philosophic" and current, a spoken language that one might easily associate with prose. He's marvelously able to synchronize these levels of language, which indicate to the reader separate and apparently distinct preoccupations.

Are you yourself touched by some of these themes, by some of these translations of themes into a working poetic language? He speaks about Judaism, but—and isn't that one of the traits of Judaism, that is, to be subversive? If not, then not. Didn't he title one of his recent books Subver -. I think he confronts nearly all the great questions that exist and, though they will never be resolved, remain fundamental. Claude Royet-Journoud was born in Lyon in Translated by Gary G. San Francisco: Minerva's Typorium, Translated by Keith Waldrop.


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