If heaven breaks
if thunder rolls
if fire spreads
My arms will stretch
And stretch but will never reach
And the cock will crow three times
In the garden of sorrow
In the garden of evil
Midnight on the anvil
Clouds gathering, storm brewing
Christ rising and Love betrayed
Arms will stretch and stretch but will never reach,
Love forlorn, love amiss,
Judas the friend was but a kiss.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Le coeur -horloge
Les battements de mon coeur
Comme une horloge qui marche
A contretemps, a l'envers du monde
A l'envers de tout
Mon coeur qui bat envers et contre tous
Vers toi, vers toi, surtout
Quand il faudrait qu'il s'arrete,
qu'il se cache,
Qu'il stoppe sa course
Stoppe son elan fou,
et arrete son battement
En remontant la pente
Du temps qui mord au coeur
Et nous envoies vers la Mort
Seul, triste, unrepentant,
Mais triomphant.
Comme une horloge qui marche
A contretemps, a l'envers du monde
A l'envers de tout
Mon coeur qui bat envers et contre tous
Vers toi, vers toi, surtout
Quand il faudrait qu'il s'arrete,
qu'il se cache,
Qu'il stoppe sa course
Stoppe son elan fou,
et arrete son battement
En remontant la pente
Du temps qui mord au coeur
Et nous envoies vers la Mort
Seul, triste, unrepentant,
Mais triomphant.
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Amour
Etre en etat d'amour est un etrange phenomene. So much has been written on it, yet, when it happens to you, you cannot resist to try and fathom this 'etat d'ame' as if it was suddenly felt for the first time.
To be in love is to be under unfluence. Drug or alcohol would be the obvious comparison but with Love, the miracle is : where does it come from ?
What strange, sublime chemistry suddenly set it off when meeting that one person ?
Yes up to a point the effects are very comparable to drug or alcohol. But only up to a point. Love is a self sourced feeling. It oblirates everything else.
It is a Tyrant, a despote, nothing else matters, nothing else quite exists.
What is not the object of love regress into a dull, boring, grey background, to be dealt with the least possible. Only our love brings colours and life around.
It is a condition. an illness. An 'etat de grace' et d'agonie. A torment and a folly. Bliss and misery. Yet it is a magic rebirth.
When in love suddenly, one perceives life in a new way, deeper meanings are reached easily. Inner doors are re-opened. The blood runs quicker, the heart beats faster, and the mind races to the essence of things.
One becomes a living flame. Passing through the sacred fire of love , one is bleached and exalted like a transfigured Christ. One ressuscitates into a new life. All at once beautiful and terrifying. A life of extremes, excesses and absoluteness.
Nothing can compare to that most unique experience.
No other madness, no other passion can come close to the passion one can feel for another human being.
Yet, one day, it breaks like a fragile crystal glass, it breaks into a milion little pieces and is reduced to dust. Vanished from the world in a whisper. Why ? no explanation, if God moves in mysterious ways, then Love moves even more mysteriously.
When one loves one is wounded.
One becomes open, cracked, and very frail. A slight movement can be perceived as a blow.
To be in love is to be in a state of permanent prayer, kneeling at the altar of the Beloved.
Not a good position to be in. Not to be wished for.
Yet without this inner wound, one would never understand anything and would remain at the surface of the world. One would stay blind, deaf and mute.
To love is to know why flowers bloom, why the planets whirl in space, why the wind in spring feels so fresh, why the rushing water changes into a torrent at the top of mountains, why wild horses galllop at full speed for no reason in the plain of their freedom, pour rien, pour le geste, pour la beaute de l'instant. And to know why a smile can save the world. To be in love is the Beauty we are all destined for, but avoid carefully because of its twin : suffering.
There is no happy love. There is only the most intrepid experience.
Love is always doomed from the start. A beautiful animal soon entrapped.
A butterfly soon caught in the net of reality.
To be in love is to be under unfluence. Drug or alcohol would be the obvious comparison but with Love, the miracle is : where does it come from ?
What strange, sublime chemistry suddenly set it off when meeting that one person ?
Yes up to a point the effects are very comparable to drug or alcohol. But only up to a point. Love is a self sourced feeling. It oblirates everything else.
It is a Tyrant, a despote, nothing else matters, nothing else quite exists.
What is not the object of love regress into a dull, boring, grey background, to be dealt with the least possible. Only our love brings colours and life around.
It is a condition. an illness. An 'etat de grace' et d'agonie. A torment and a folly. Bliss and misery. Yet it is a magic rebirth.
When in love suddenly, one perceives life in a new way, deeper meanings are reached easily. Inner doors are re-opened. The blood runs quicker, the heart beats faster, and the mind races to the essence of things.
One becomes a living flame. Passing through the sacred fire of love , one is bleached and exalted like a transfigured Christ. One ressuscitates into a new life. All at once beautiful and terrifying. A life of extremes, excesses and absoluteness.
Nothing can compare to that most unique experience.
No other madness, no other passion can come close to the passion one can feel for another human being.
Yet, one day, it breaks like a fragile crystal glass, it breaks into a milion little pieces and is reduced to dust. Vanished from the world in a whisper. Why ? no explanation, if God moves in mysterious ways, then Love moves even more mysteriously.
When one loves one is wounded.
One becomes open, cracked, and very frail. A slight movement can be perceived as a blow.
To be in love is to be in a state of permanent prayer, kneeling at the altar of the Beloved.
Not a good position to be in. Not to be wished for.
Yet without this inner wound, one would never understand anything and would remain at the surface of the world. One would stay blind, deaf and mute.
To love is to know why flowers bloom, why the planets whirl in space, why the wind in spring feels so fresh, why the rushing water changes into a torrent at the top of mountains, why wild horses galllop at full speed for no reason in the plain of their freedom, pour rien, pour le geste, pour la beaute de l'instant. And to know why a smile can save the world. To be in love is the Beauty we are all destined for, but avoid carefully because of its twin : suffering.
There is no happy love. There is only the most intrepid experience.
Love is always doomed from the start. A beautiful animal soon entrapped.
A butterfly soon caught in the net of reality.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
Mysteries Knut Hamsum
Another book I read and re-read all the time across the years is Mysteries by Knut Hansum. From the start, you are hooked by the highly unusual, eccentric character of the hero, and you just know that everything in the story is going to take you along different, surprising paths that you will be delighted to explore. Nagel is a stranger arriving in a little village of Norway, dressed in a bright yellow suit, carrying only a violin case.
From there follows the most captivating, strange and poetic story. He falls in love of course with a young woman, already engaged. But nothing is as you expect in this most subtle and magic novel. 'Mysteries' is so the right title for it. It leaves with a taste of mystery, of a story somehow told at another level that you can not quite grasped. This is the ultimate book to read and re-read, as each time something of its essence eludes you, and you remain spellbound...
From there follows the most captivating, strange and poetic story. He falls in love of course with a young woman, already engaged. But nothing is as you expect in this most subtle and magic novel. 'Mysteries' is so the right title for it. It leaves with a taste of mystery, of a story somehow told at another level that you can not quite grasped. This is the ultimate book to read and re-read, as each time something of its essence eludes you, and you remain spellbound...
Friday, 6 November 2009
Le Grand Meaulnes
Pity the followers of that sorry blog. I hope they dont even bother to check what's on it nowadays, because it sure is the most inane and vacant blog of the blogosphere !
Anyway, Josephine has gone awol, last saw her aboard the Titanic, going up and down momentous waves, as usual, and wondering if she would sink or swim. Sink more likely.
But tbc.
Today it's dark, it rains, November is well started and winter on the way, time to curl by the fire,in good company or with a good book, or with both. I would like to talk about comfort reading and about a book close to my heart, a book that is for me the essence of the comfort-read : 'Le Grand Meaulnes' by Alain-Fournier. I have read it four or five times already, and probably will again. Each time its haunting quality works its magic and infiltrates my heart in a subtle way, as very few books have managed.
For most people it will be a book just like any other. One has to read it probably at the right time and in the right mood. Timing. As with everything really. La danse des astres et la rencontre des etres, des livres, des pets. It's all about meeting in the right place, at the right time. Such a delicate, fragile balance of things, whirling madly as they are, and suddenly, a space , a moment in time, une rencontre, a meeting of souls, of minds, of bodies and something is born. Somewhere in a distant galaxy, from that spark on earth, comets crash into each other and become a planet, a new world is born to the universe, a new harmony joins the music of the spheres, and a new rhythm beats dans la ronde des etoiles.
Meaulnes is a young man of 17, 18 years old, and his mother brings him to stay in a little school deep in the quiet countryside of Sologne, at the beginning of the previous century. He becomes friend with the narrator, another young boy, immediately full of admiration for Meaulnes. But Meaulnes is a restless soul, and soon, he escapes, il fait l'ecole buissonniere, and wanders off in the countryside where he get lost. Night falls, miles away from anywhere, he suddenly stumbles upon a castle full of lights where 'une fete' a lieu. Children are at the center of the rejouissances and Meaulnes is quickly involved. He has a wonderful time and falls asleep, wakes up the morning after to resume his participation in the festivities. There is a boating party and suddenly, there, he meets the woman of his dream. Young, beautiful, shy, and she notices him also of course. Together in a boat, they hardly dare speak to each other. The day goes by and their sweet encounter draws to a close. Not much has happened , but enough to change the course of a destiny.
Later on, Meaulnes gets a lift from some local people and manages to get back to the school. Only, he falls asleep in the carriage and will never remember the way to the castle. That was before the satnav. before maps. When the world could still be full of mystery.
From then on, Meaulnes will not cease to look for the 'Domaine Enchante' and try to find again the elusive, unknown young woman he met there.
The story is all about looking for a lost paradise, the longing that we have for an ideal place where nothing goes wrong, where a permanent 'fete' takes place and where children and animals run free and happy.
Later in the story, Meaulnes meets his mysterious love again, but then, the imperfect narrative becomes a little odd at times, and is not the masterpiece one could expect.
Alain-Fournier was 24 years old when he wrote this story. As Meaulnes in the book, he had met briefly a young woman with whom he fell deeply in love but lost track of. He spend 8 years to find her again but when he did, she was married with children. A year later, he was killed. Aged 28. It was 1914.
Anyway, Josephine has gone awol, last saw her aboard the Titanic, going up and down momentous waves, as usual, and wondering if she would sink or swim. Sink more likely.
But tbc.
Today it's dark, it rains, November is well started and winter on the way, time to curl by the fire,in good company or with a good book, or with both. I would like to talk about comfort reading and about a book close to my heart, a book that is for me the essence of the comfort-read : 'Le Grand Meaulnes' by Alain-Fournier. I have read it four or five times already, and probably will again. Each time its haunting quality works its magic and infiltrates my heart in a subtle way, as very few books have managed.
For most people it will be a book just like any other. One has to read it probably at the right time and in the right mood. Timing. As with everything really. La danse des astres et la rencontre des etres, des livres, des pets. It's all about meeting in the right place, at the right time. Such a delicate, fragile balance of things, whirling madly as they are, and suddenly, a space , a moment in time, une rencontre, a meeting of souls, of minds, of bodies and something is born. Somewhere in a distant galaxy, from that spark on earth, comets crash into each other and become a planet, a new world is born to the universe, a new harmony joins the music of the spheres, and a new rhythm beats dans la ronde des etoiles.
Meaulnes is a young man of 17, 18 years old, and his mother brings him to stay in a little school deep in the quiet countryside of Sologne, at the beginning of the previous century. He becomes friend with the narrator, another young boy, immediately full of admiration for Meaulnes. But Meaulnes is a restless soul, and soon, he escapes, il fait l'ecole buissonniere, and wanders off in the countryside where he get lost. Night falls, miles away from anywhere, he suddenly stumbles upon a castle full of lights where 'une fete' a lieu. Children are at the center of the rejouissances and Meaulnes is quickly involved. He has a wonderful time and falls asleep, wakes up the morning after to resume his participation in the festivities. There is a boating party and suddenly, there, he meets the woman of his dream. Young, beautiful, shy, and she notices him also of course. Together in a boat, they hardly dare speak to each other. The day goes by and their sweet encounter draws to a close. Not much has happened , but enough to change the course of a destiny.
Later on, Meaulnes gets a lift from some local people and manages to get back to the school. Only, he falls asleep in the carriage and will never remember the way to the castle. That was before the satnav. before maps. When the world could still be full of mystery.
From then on, Meaulnes will not cease to look for the 'Domaine Enchante' and try to find again the elusive, unknown young woman he met there.
The story is all about looking for a lost paradise, the longing that we have for an ideal place where nothing goes wrong, where a permanent 'fete' takes place and where children and animals run free and happy.
Later in the story, Meaulnes meets his mysterious love again, but then, the imperfect narrative becomes a little odd at times, and is not the masterpiece one could expect.
Alain-Fournier was 24 years old when he wrote this story. As Meaulnes in the book, he had met briefly a young woman with whom he fell deeply in love but lost track of. He spend 8 years to find her again but when he did, she was married with children. A year later, he was killed. Aged 28. It was 1914.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Novembre
Novembre, dimanche matin, pluie et solitude.
Le lapin mort dans le jardin, a bundle of love dead to the world.
Premier novembre , le jour des morts et des revenants. Le grand hiver sur le seuil et la maison, froide. Dimanche matin, peine et solitude.
Le cafe pas bu, les journaux, pas lus. Le ciel, ferme, muet.
Hier encore, le feu, le lumiere, la joie et la ronde gaie de la vie.
Ce matin plus rien. Hiver acte un, ouverture. deuil et solitude.
le cafe pas bu, les journaux, pas lus.
Le coeur blesse.
Le monde muet.
Le lapin mort dans le jardin, a bundle of love dead to the world.
Premier novembre , le jour des morts et des revenants. Le grand hiver sur le seuil et la maison, froide. Dimanche matin, peine et solitude.
Le cafe pas bu, les journaux, pas lus. Le ciel, ferme, muet.
Hier encore, le feu, le lumiere, la joie et la ronde gaie de la vie.
Ce matin plus rien. Hiver acte un, ouverture. deuil et solitude.
le cafe pas bu, les journaux, pas lus.
Le coeur blesse.
Le monde muet.
Monday, 19 October 2009
Titanic
Josephine is now aboard her very own Titanic, a tall ship of extra-terrestrial dimensions, heading at full speed for the looming iceberg on the horizon. Sailing high and low through the diffident waves, no one aboard knows the real meaning of the coming iceberg, lost as they all are in the sea fog... No one ever knows the real meaning of any experience. Experiences exist only to be renacted ad infinitum. No one knows what this iceberg is made of. It could be real ice, it could be only the ghost of a non-existing ice-wall, a figment of their collective mind. It could well be that Josephine very own Titanic will sail through with resounding success... And that it was all vain fears. But it could also be the final crash, the ultimate encounter. It could be that it wont be sink or swim.
Only sink.
Only sink.
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