Outwit Methods for Spleen

“Spleen” is a poem by Baudelaire, French poet :

Spleen

When the low, heavy sky weighs like a lid
On the groaning spirit, victim of long ennui,
And from the all-encircling horizon
Spreads over us a day gloomier than the night;

What is spleen? Melancholy? Boredom? Both? Sadness? Troth? (I don’t know how to say both for three things).

We have an expression here, “tromper son ennui”, which is literaly : “to outwit one’s boredom” – which leads us to my purpose :

What do you do against spleen, how do you outwit this bug?

I think we would all agree to say that you can’t “fix” spleen. It’s a saudade vague state on sadness and… oh… sorry : there IS a way.

  • Sleep.
  • You can listen to happy music, but it’s sadder, right?
  • Try sad music. Put your forehead against the rainy window and wait.
  • You can wear it out with little things. Walk, talk, movies.
  • You can mock your spleen, write a sarcastic diary about how sad you are.
  • You can use it (to write a sad poem/song – “take a sad song and make it better”)
  • You can define it. Knowing things are always good. Weave a poem to explain subtilities.
  • Become happy stupid. Be SURE you’re happy and read motivational quotes.
  • Let the spleen subengulfmerge you.
  • Cigarettes, liquors and other substances.
  • Chocolate.
  • Wine and cheese (both French, silly).
  • Sex (spleeny sex?).
  • Buster Keaton.
  • Read biographies of people with worse lives.
  • Friends?
  • Become angry.
  • Yi-Ching
  • Do something unusual.
  • Flee.

 

What do YOU do?

picplz 2011-09-27 09.19.10.jpg

Spleen

Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle
Sur l’esprit gémissant en proie aux longs ennuis,
Et que de l’horizon embrassant tout le cercle
Il nous verse un jour noir plus triste que les nuits ;

Quand la terre est changée en un cachot humide,
Où l’Espérance, comme une chauve-souris,
S’en va battant les murs de son aile timide
Et se cognant la tête à des plafonds pourris ;

Quand la pluie étalant ses immenses traînées
D’une vaste prison imite les barreaux,
Et qu’un peuple muet d’infâmes araignées
Vient tendre ses filets au fond de nos cerveaux,

Des cloches tout à coup sautent avec furie
Et lancent vers le ciel un affreux hurlement,
Ainsi que des esprits errants et sans patrie
Qui se mettent à geindre opiniâtrement.

– Et de longs corbillards, sans tambours ni musique,
Défilent lentement dans mon âme ; l’Espoir,
Vaincu, pleure, et l’Angoisse atroce, despotique,
Sur mon crâne incliné plante son drapeau noir.

 

 

 

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