I took’em with VLC. Thanks VLC. Invent stories?
I took’em with VLC. Thanks VLC. Invent stories?
I take screenshots of movies with VLC. Here are a few, just for fun. Find the movie? Imagine a story?
Paul-Jean Toulet (1867-1920) was a French poet. Don’t worry : he’s completely forgotten in France.
He wrote a delicious novel called “My Friend Nane”, and also Les Contrerimes, very short poems.
I offer you this one :
The evening coolness — as if filtered through
An emerald — brings your knees together, pressed,
And so you seem less nude. But, entre nous,
Your husband would say: “Just look at how you’re dressed!”
Cette fraîcheur du soir, qu’on dirai que tamise
Une émeraude, a fait se joindre tes genoux,
Et tu sembles moins nue ainsi. Mais entre nous,
Ton mari te dirait: “Comme vous voilà mise.
Toulet is free, and naughty, light, but always a bit melancholic…
Across the night’s hollow,
O sea, you whom I sense quiver
Like the breast of a lover
Turning on her pillow;
The heavy wind strikes the bluff…
What! If the mocking dart
Of a siren is in my heart –
O heart, divine rebuff.
What, no more tears,
Since no one heeds…
Quietly, like a heart that bleeds,
The rain appears.
Ô mer, toi que je sens frémir
À travers la nuit creuse,
Comme le sein d’ une amoureuse
Qui ne peut pas dormir ;
Le vent lourd frappe la falaise…
Quoi ! Si le chant moqueur
D’ une sirène est dans mon coeur-
Ô coeur, divin malaise.
Quoi, plus de larmes, ni d’ avoir
Personne qui vous plaigne…
Tout bas, comme d’ un flanc qui saigne,
Il s’ est mis à pleuvoir.
One more ?
Iris, with her brilliant pall
Lights with seven fires dancing
The gentle rain, advancing,
Ah, on the summer roses
Drape the shimmering train,
And veil, soft rain,
Their arid poses.
And you, whose joyous cries
Concealed such fears
May I at last see tears
Fill your eyes
Iris, à son brillant mouchoir,
De sept feux illumine
La molle averse qui chemine,
Harmonieuse à choir.
Ah, sur les roses de l’ été,
Sois la mouvante robe,
Molle averse, qui me dérobe
Leur aride beauté
Et vous, dont le rire joyeux
M’ a caché tant d’ alarmes,
Puissé-je voir enfin des larmes
Monter jusqu’ à vos yeux.
Iris is the rainbow, of course…
A last one, the best for me :
We lightly touch as I awake
in the wide, untidy bed;
what faithless dream is in her head
that has her tremble, shake?
A sharp, thin ray of sunlight burns
the ceiling like a shard.
Outside, down in the yard
I hear the scrape of churns.
Dans le lit vaste et dévasté
J’ ouvre les yeux près d’ elle ;
Je l’ effleure : un songe infidèle
L’ embrasse à mon côté.
Une lueur tranchante et mince
Échancre mon plafond.
Très loin, sur le pavé profond,
J’ entends un seau qui grince…
Thanks for reading!
I wrote about this already :
The Ravel’s Bolero Syndrome : when you know someone from ONE thing only
You know Ravel’s Bolero but you don’t know Ma Mère l’Oye, or even the splendid piano concertos, right?
I would like to extend it this way.
Think about Hopper, the painter, and you see these, right? :
Think about Van Gogh, and you see :
All this, it’s worn out. Boring. “Yeah yeah yeah”.
But they painted MANY other great things. It’s really cool to explore this, because they are masters. You can also find other doors, like “Hopper inspired images” (in fashion, in photography).
Use Pinterest to find many great things. I let you explore if you want.
Hmmm, what pattern is it here? What does it say? “Hunt. Explore.”
Thanks for reading!
René François Xavier Prinet (1861-1946) is a bit forgotten. He doesn’t have an English Wikipedia page. Who will write it?
A style, a mood, a spirit, ideas : some authors are a shock. Keenness. Grasp. You’re hungry!
There are many ways and paths here.
William Faulkner. The Sound and the Fury has been the biggest book shock in my life. Haunting style. Liquor. Splendid.
Thomas Bernhard. Controlled methodical rage. Awesome. Unforgettable.
Anton Chekov. A doctor. The sweetest guy ever. Hilarious letters. Marvellous knowledge or human soul. Breaks your heart all the time.
Nietzsche. Toxic genius. Ideas at all stairs. Exhausting. Dense.
Paul Valéry. French genius of the highest range. The virgoest Virgo of spirits.
Ernst Jünger. The Goethe of the XXth Century. Generous, paradox between German spirit and big rushes of humanity. Warrior too.
Proust (rivers of words and intelligence), Kundera (smart and cruel), Yourcenar (cold adorable genius of Belgium), Giono (superb style), Bouvier (one of the best writer/traveler).
What do they have in common too? I want to have a conversation with them…
Have a nice day!
Ahhhh I like this Deleuzian pattern. Here it is :
I have a friend who is always very angry towards the world, how people act, how they entertain, against politics and laws and books. He has a big radar for bullshit.
Most of the time I agree! But I go back to this Tolstoyian question : “Que faire ?”. What do you do? What should you do?
The paths of actions here are numerous : rage, denunciation, analysis, destruction, symbolic acts, militancy or policital career. You go girl! Change the world!
Against bad management I hear friends who fight back with huge strength, lawyers and big energy. Their colleagues scream : “You make a rod for your own back!” (or else they crash down. Tears or depression. It is a way out!). They can… Pyrrhicly win!
The Type we watch here is the Offensive Resistance Fighter.
What counts for them? FACTS. Action.
In war time, in front of the Nazis occupiers, these people wouldn’t have last an afternoon. The Big Rule for resistance is to lie low.
I love that in English “to lie” means “not tell the truth” but also “to recline”, to be on the ground, hiding, undiscovered. Se faire oublier, we way in French : To make yourself forgotten…
Invent your (inner or not) clandestine world, dig burrows (with many entrances), shape your camouflages, fool the chieves and the idiots.
Sliding out of assignations, because you become a nomad, killing obedient roles and solid-frozen “identities” (labels). Leaking. Being between, and moving all the time. Find what you have to do, and do it. Including : loom strongly from nowhere and hit – or disorient. That’s funny!
Don’t expect to meet friends in this forest, Waldgänger. But you will, eventually.
Thanks for reading!
“Haecceity” : it’s about Labels on your Forehead
Article dedicated to Pierre Ansay
Summer 2009. Just a few pictures for you. A dragon (in plastic) is hiding, beware! And a frog.
Have a great week end!
You have in English a few letters “you don’t say”, like the K in knife. If French, if you try to speak what your read, you’re dead.
We love useless letters. AND we sprinkled all this with difficulties.
We love the final useless S, and you have to say Paree for Paris (BUT you have to say it for the city of Reims). I know…
Forget the P and the S in Temps (time), and don’t say the C in Tabac (tobacco). Haut (up) is pronunced “Ho”.
Imagine you have to say “I want” : Je veux. OK, you say “Je ve”, that’s all.
“A knot”? Un nœud – just say “Un ne”.
“Monsieur” is worse, because… Oh forget it!
Other cities? You say all the letters of Brest, but forget the final S for Orléans or Calais, OK? Metz : says “mess”. Bruxelles? Well, some say Bruxel, some others Brussel. Rahhhh!
We don’t say the M in Automne, we don’t say the P in Compter (to count), we don’t say the D in Grand or in Dernier, or the G in Long. But we have to say it if it’s féminine : Dernière, “the feminine last”…
Yes, the genre. A car in feminine. Oh hell… that’s another article, right? 🙂
Thanks for reading! Bonne nuit !
After René Burri, Swiss Photographer, Part 1 : Color, let’s watch his black & white work now.
Henri Michaux : La Ralentie “The slowed down” (extract)
Slowed down she feels the pulse of things; there one snore; one has all the time; quietly, all the life.
One gulps down sounds, one swallow them quietly; all the life.
One live in one’s shoe.
One cleans it up.
One doesn’t need to squeeze oneself.
One has all he time.
One laughs in one’s fist.
One doesn’t believe what one knows anymore
One doesn’t need to count anymore.
One is happy drinking; on is happy not drinking.
One is, one has time.
One is the slowed down.
One has gone out of the drafts.
One has the smile of the clog.
One is not tired anymore.
One is not touched anymore.
One has knees at feet’s end.
One has no shame anymore under the cloche.
One has sold one’s hills.
One put down one’s egg, she put down her nerves.
Ralentie, on tâte le pouls des choses; on y ronfle; on a tout le temps; tranquillement, toute la vie.
On gobe les sons, on les gobe tranquillement; toute la vie.
On vit dans son soulier.
On y fait le ménage.
On n’a plus besoin de se serrer.
On a tout le temps.
On rit dans son poing.
On ne croit plus qu’on sait.
On n’a plus besoin de compter.
On est heureuse en buvant; on est heureuse en ne buvant pas.
On est, on a le temps.
On est la ralentie.
On est sortie des courants d’air.
On a le sourire du sabot.
On n’est plus fatiguée.
On n’est plus touchée.
On a des genoux au bout des pieds.
On n’a plus honte sous la cloche.
On a vendu ses monts.
On a posé son œuf, on a posé ses nerfs.
I write in English because I become a stranger in my own language. It triggers little things : a casualness, a keep-myself-ness from being too (…).
It’s maybe a pop-blog. Plugging trivials with concepts, to make tools, to share micro-seeds.
When the mistake is to stop trying.
A fiery patience.
Sometimes you need “new eyes” to check your work. But sometimes, this person ALSO needs help from another one, another pair of eyes…
What is irreplaceable?
Degradation by habit.
Auto poisoning by “shortfall of use of resources”.
To plug on a outside-miracle : imagination.
“What if the goal of life was to create yourself a soul?”