Assourdissants Silences (Suspense Crime) (French Edition)

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So people are discovering this little universe and, as anything new coming out of the shadows, some are getting worried. Is this the future of our culture? Those poorly written stories that seem to only be porn in disguise? I've read interesting arguments.

There are good things in here too, people have a chance to express themselves, it's a way of seeing our favourite characters a bit more when the real story is finished, a way not to tell them good bye. And I thought there was something missing. In this site, stories are written by fans, for fans, right? It's not a site for professionals and we all know it.

In this site people publish stories. But it's not really publishing. It's sharing and here we get to the important part of this rant. It's sharing with readers. Sharing what is in your imagination, your talent and your flaws. But to really have an exchange, you have to have some kind of answer.

A Tale of Two Cities (Webster's French Thesaurus Edition)

And here is where the reviews are important. People writing and publishing fanfictions aren't professionals, as I said. They have flaws well authors too but maybe it's not the same. But it's up to us, readers, to point out what is good or bad in their writing. A real author who publishes a book only have his publisher's view and maybe his friend's and family's.

No customer reviews

On this site, we can always better ourselves by receiving advices from people all around the world. What a chance this is! Why do so few people use this right they have to express their views on what they've read? Why don't they give the chance to authors to see what they do well or what they do badly? I've read commentaries for that book I've told you about in the beginning. Those things, I remember thinking them about other stories. Even in some stories I like, I can see some of the flaws pointed out. Because contrary to a book, what is published on this site can always be changed.

So just to tell the author you liked their job is important because you acknowledge they have worked on it and shared it with you. And it can be frightening to share a story, let me tell you. This way, you finalise the exchange, you show the author he shared his work with something other than the cyber wind. Even better, you can point out what was particularly good, the best sentence, the last thought after reading it, something like that. And you can also tell when something wasn't good because you can like something and still see that it could be better.

It's called not being blinded by love! Here, today's rant is finished. Hope you weren't bored as hell, and if you want to react and tell me what you think even if what you think is that I must really have nothing to do if I write this kind of thing. Which is totally false by the way you can, there are PMs for that. What a wonderful site!

So, I had something more to say about reviews. As a reviewer, I think a lot about it. This time, it will be about three things: Something we all know! By reading stories, I've noticed authors who were asking something like this: What I care for are reviews! First, a review is more specific to a chapter. The authors also want to know if someone keeps liking the story.

Once you've added the story to your favourite list, or your alert list, how can they be sure you still like it as much as before? How do they know you're still reading? The answer is simple: The stats can't show you this. And then, chapters after, you may read a call for reviews by your favourite author.

And you feel awful for them. And sometimes, you feel angry at them for using their own story to threaten you. Second, we all have different views on what should be in our favourite list or alert list. I remember a talk I had with a great someone. That person asked me what I thought meant more between favouriting an author or following a story.

We had different views on it. For said person, following a story showed you didn't want to miss a single chapter and waited for them. To me, I follow a story when I don't want to miss an update. But I favourite it when I really love it! That's why I always favourite a story when it's finished. If the author creates 2 or 3 good stories, I'll put them on alert.

If the author wrote 10 stories I loved, I'll favourite them. We all have different views on it. So you don't know how the author will take it when you favourite their story, and they don't know what you thought when you did. It doesn't mean much. With words in a review , you can make it clear!

Third, it starts with a little game I've played, as an author. I had a look at the favourite list of the ones that favourited my stories. In some cases, I was honoured because I found myself being the only representant of a fandom or the list wasn't big. But when you're the favourite story of someone who is on this site since two months ago, with other favourite stories from the same fandom, it doesn't mean anything anymore.

And if you use favourite lists every time you like a story, then you're likely to be in that second category. I know that if I listened to myself, I could easily reach the favourite stories in the MxM fandom! But with reviews, you can show what in that story is great, what you liked. Reviews are way more personal: So try and think about it.

We have alerts, we have favourites and we have reviews. We have to give everything a value and know what they represent to us. But as we're all different, we have to explain it somehow to someone, when we use it to show something. With the lists, if you want to be understood, you have to let the author know the key. Else, it doesn't mean much.

Isn't it easier to simply review a few words that are more likely to be understood right away and where you can even give this key? So today's rant will not be about reviews, for a change There is a practice I've been noticing on this site that makes no sense to me. I've been wondering for quite a long time why so many authors need to precise "Third person point of view" at the beginning of their chapters. I must say I hate it because I think it's totally useless. When the narrator is only using the third person, it's obvious the point of view is third person.

We are not in a grammar lesson where you have to show you know what third person is So when I read this, I feel the author does not expect me to be able to think and that makes me upset. Now, I wonder where this habit comes from.

I understand the need to precise whose point of view you're using when using first person point of view, and when the person whose eyes you're writing through is changing along the story because if it is always the same person, the beginning of the story should make it clear. For as long as I remember, I've always thought fate was something you saw coming. In every story, every anime, every video-game, there are foreboding events before the life of the hero is definitely changed.

The family being awfully nice to the protagonist, the neighbours breaking a window, the sun being brighter than usual, or just a feeling that something today is different. But when I woke up that morning, there was nothing amiss. I glimpsed at my alarm clock. My mother was calling me to eat, as usual. You know who the character is, have a name, and see that he uses anime and videogames in his thought process. No need for "Matt's PoV". So yes, is it because someone used to writing with changing first person point of view decided to try the third person and wrote "Third person point of view" out of habit?

But why is it so popular nowadays? I just think that it is good to let readers think for themselves a bit. We are used to reading books after reading the summary first, when we go to the cinema, we saw the teaser before. When was the last time we saw a movie or a play, or read a book with absolutely no idea of what it was we were going to see? Anyway, I'm wondering about it because someone told me they hated it when the point of view used was not written. So to you who reached this part of my profile and has obviously nothing to do right now, what do you think?

Do you prefer it when it is written or do you prefer to discover it for yourself? Do you feel sometimes that too much information is made clear and that authors shold trust their readers' brain more and actually imply some things instead of writing everything explicitly? Or am I on my own with this thought? So, I've been meaning to rant here for sometimes. I have so many things I wonder about or want to complain about on this website. So I think I'll rant again pretty soon tomorrow soon. But today, it won't be your usual rant in which I complain about something. Today, I will talk about something that is very important to me as a reader.

If you've ever read one of my reviews, then you may have noticed that there's something very important to me when I read: I love listening to music when I read. When I read, I want authors to make me feel things. Music is another great way to give an emotion and I will not start talking about the hierarchy of arts according to Schopenhauer So when the emotion of the text fit the one coming from what is in your ears, it just makes you go even deeper into the situation and the emotions of the scene. I love using music when reviewing because I always have a music in my mind.

Even when I'm not listening to music as I read, if I get into it well enough, then it is likely I will have a somewhat fitting music in my mind. And sometimes, I feel that a music will be the best way to express the emotions a story made me go through, because I'm not as great as you guys, and I often find myself stuck for words to really express my feelings.

I know I'm not the only one to love mixing both though. Many authors use music for inspiration, or when they write. You have song fics, you even have authors who make playlists for their stories. I'm not exactly sure about those. I think there're an interesting way to understand the author , what they thought about when writing, and discover music.

But at the same time, the balance when listening to music while reading is hard to find. Because both are activities that could retain your whole focus. If you don't know the songs, you may end up just listening to the music and not pay attention to the text you're trying to read. That, and music is pretty personal. Or better said, music is universal and individual. It's universal because it can speak to everybody well, as long as your ears works of course.

How I'd hate not to be able to hear So what fits for an author may not fit the understanding of their readers. For instance, one could hear Misirlou and think of it as epic music, perfect to building suspense. Another can listen to it as a song meant for routine because it's kind of repetitive. But that's not the only thing about music and texts. Music and words fit so well together I won't quote a famous poet, but words are music. Writing can be music.

There's rhythm in a text. Sometimes it will go fast, sometimes it will slowdown, and as a Chopin lover, I strive in those rhythm variations. Finding the right word is like finding the right key, the right note to create a good memory. So when something feels so right in a text, I find that the best way to express it is to say that it's " in tune ".

In tune with the characters, in tune with the emotion. At school, when I was younger, we had to analyse texts a lot. And I always thought we were overanalyzing them. I found the exercice interesting but isn't it a bit too much to assume that every thing, every effect was planned? Maybe that's why we had to import "serendipity" in our language But I'm drifting out of the subject.

But those analysis were interesting still, because even if it's serendipity, it helps you understand where the emotions of the text may come from. And one of the things we studied a lot was the music of the sentences. How a sentence may contain a lot of "s" as if mimicking snakes. There's so much subtlety in language, and finding the right word means finding the one word that will express best what the situation is, what emotion the character is feeling, what action he is doing.

But it also means finding the right music to the text , the one music that will help create a velvety atmosphere or a violent one. I have this thing with Ls and Vs. There's something so suave in those letters. That's why I think "love" is really a wonderful word! All that to say something, and if you want to take something from this, here is the lesson of the day: Not only will it help you find mistakes such as missing comas, where you put natural pauses, missing words, grammar mistakes, and so on Because sometimes, the problem is not that the sentence structure is bad, the problem only comes from the music of the text, making this particular moment too long, or too short, or too clear, or too vague.

Okay, that's all for this rant. It was so long, sorry. I just have more to say about things I love than when I complain! This rant started with a text about the terror attacks in Paris. But I don't think this is the place to talk about that. I said what needed to be said about it, and you should see it either in the previous rant, either in the beginning of this long accumulation of words that is my profile. Those terror attacks are shocking and I think I won't stop thinking about it anytime soon. But, I define this space here for fan fictions.

This doesn't have that much to do with them, and someone coming here wouldn't find that much use in knowing what I did the morning after that night. If I need to express more about it, I'll just write a fic Drawing a parallelism between my feelings and the one a hammy boy could have felt at L's death for instance.

So yeah, and maybe I'll turn it into an act of resistance by using an act against culture to get inspiration for writing. I have too many projects anyway and I'm not sure it would have that much importance if I publish it two years later anyway and that awful moment when you think "if I'm still here in two years" But there is a link between that and the second, more usual, rant that remains here. But I won't explain it, take it as a challenge if you're interested, it shouldn't be very hard to find. So, this rant will be solely about humility , understanding reality , oneself and knowing the meaning of things.

This rant is about opinions. As someone who likes to review, I'm often wondering about what giving your opinion entails , and how it's going to be received. I also wonder if this is one of the reasons not so many people like to say what they think here. I've been witness of a fight because of a negative though constructive review, between the one who wrote it and fans of the one who received it. I still don't understand why those people didn't target me as well as I said pretty much the same as what was written in that review, I guess I'm lucky and they didn't wan to read my long long paragraph.

But yeah, when we publish our opinion, we know it can receive negative criticism as well, all the more if you're not just saying you love something. That's where debate comes. We wouldn't be able to go forward if we all thought the same way or if we didn't voice our opinion. However, I can't help thinking some people are forgetting what an opinion is.

In particular, one criticism, or sentence about the coming review, makes me want to rant endlessly. When you look at comments, on YouTube always a source of fun , or here, sometimes, you may encounter someone saying " I'll try to be as objective as possible " or someone complain by saying " you're not being objective enough , if you were, you'd see how crappy or good this is! I may even have done it sometimes! Sometimes, you just can't find the right word. Still, every time I read this, I don't know if I want to talk some sense into those people or if I should just laugh at them People pretending their judgement is objective are either extremely delusional about what it means to judge something, or they're just very vain and think they hold the one truth or that they're experts.

Even in court, the judge can't be objective. Even if you look for the one truth as hard as you can, as if you were in a Phoenix Wright game, once that truth is found out, you may still not pronounce the same sentence as another judge would. Thankfully, I believe that to prevent too much variation between judgements, there is the law. And the law is the one bringing in some sense of objectivity. And even with the rules given by the objective law, you have different ways of choosing the deserved sentence for someone. The difference may come from the life the judge has, that may relate to what is happening or has happened in your life.

If you're a very involved Feminist and you have to judge a conflict between an employee and her male boss, the outcome may be very different than if you are a macho man. So when it comes to judging writings, art, food When you don't have as many rules as there's in the law, how could you have an objective opinion? I believe you can't. So, and that's my subjective conclusion, you can't have an objective opinion. However, you can have a credible opinion.

Collectif Urgence Palestine - Genève

I think the trials are not meant to be completely objective. We'd have to let a robot say the final word for it to work. They're meant to be fair , and to make sense. As much as possible. So judges are provided guidelines and then, they're free to judge. By reviewing, I'm appointing myself to be the judge to your writing. I have some implacable rules.

How good the grammar is, how coherent things are I have questions that I always try to answer. Originality of the plot, good characterization and character development, nice to read style, conveys emotions, I think about them and tick or not the boxes. The questions I ask about my reviews are always the same, and this structure may give my review a credibility that some would call "objective". Whether I tick the box is a subjective choice. I have my own story, my own taboos and my own expectations. They're mine, and are bound to bring differences in the way I judge some things.

But still, they help back up my opinion. Because there's not such thing as a bad opinion but there are poor opinions. The ones that can't be asked up with anything. And this maybe a political sentence here more than one about reviews. You can have any opinion you want, but once you state them, you have to be able to back them up because this is your opinion and you should have reasons for them. If those reasons come from ignorance of reality, then you'll have a hard time doing so without being seen as an idiot.

Poor opinions are made while being ignorant of reality. On this website, the reality is your humility, that you don't hold the one truth of the story and can only speak for yourself. Get to Know Us. English Choose a language for shopping. Amazon Music Stream millions of songs. Amazon Advertising Find, attract, and engage customers.

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Knee high, on a table, she was emerging from a hundred heads. The hair flight of a flame to the extreme west of desire if it should all unlace settles a diadem dying it would seem near the crowned brow its former fireplace but without sighing for more gold than this live cloud kindling the fire ever within at first the only one continues in the jewel of the eye true or remiss a tender naked hero would degrade her who stirring no star or fire would just condensing with glory womanhood flashing with her head wreak the escapade of strewing rubies on the doubt she would scorch like a joyous and tutelary torch.

As I supported the waist of the living allegory who was already resigning her post, perhaps because of a failure on my part to emit any further stream of words and gracefully cushioned her arrival on the ground: Usite a la Renaissance anglaise. Anecdotes or Poems hi or any of the other standard theatrical accessories to impress you with her charm.

As you, Madame, would not have grasped so decisively, in spite of its duplicated rhyme on the final stroke, my little spiel based on a primitive form of the sonnet 1 , if each term had not echoed to you from various drums, to charm a mind open to multiplicities of meaning. Je me rendis compte. Simplement le pare de Madame. Anecdotes or Poems ii3 The White Water Lily I had been rowing for a long time, with a strong, clean, soporific motion, my eyes turned inward and utterly oblivious of my journey, as the laughter of the hour was flowing all around. So much motion- lessness was idling away the time that, brushed by a dull sound into which my skiff half slid, I was able to confirm that it had come to a stop only by the steady glittering of initials on the bared oars, which reminded me of my worldly identity.

What was happening, where was I? To understand the episode properly, I had to remember my early departure, on this flaming July day, through the lively gap between the drowsing vegetation of a persistently narrow and wayward stream, in search of water flowers and with the intention of explor- ing a property that belonged to the friend of a friend, to whom I should say hello on the spur of the moment.

Without having been detained by any strip of grass before one vista more than another, as all alike were borne away with their reflections in the water by the same impartial oar-strokes, I had just run aground and mysteriously ended my little voyage on some clump of reeds in the middle of the stream: Detailed inspection showed me that this obstacle of tapering greenery in the current masked the single arch of a bridge that was extended on land, in both directions, by a hedge enclosing a series of lawns. Merely the gardens of Madame , the unknown lady whom I was to greet.

A pretty enough neighbourhood during the season; the character of a person who had chosen so watery and impenetrable a retreat for herself could only be in harmony with my own tastes. Surely she had formed this crystal into an internal mirror to shelter her from the brilliant tactlessness of the afternoons; she would come there, and the silvery mist icing the willows would soon be only the limpidity of her gaze familiar with every leaf.

Anecdotes ou Poemes Toute je Fevoquais lustrale. Quand un imperceptible bruit me fit douter si Fhabitante du bord hantait mon loisir, ou inesperement le bassin. Le pas cessa, pourquoi? Connait-elle un motif a sa station, elle-meme la promeneuse: Bent forward in the sporting posture in which curiosity held me, as if beneath the spacious silence through which the stranger would announce herself, I smiled at this dawn of a slavery released by a feminine possibility: I was going to conclude. When an imperceptible noise made me wonder whether the inhabitant of the shore was haunting my leisure time or, unexpect- edly, the pond.

The footsteps stopped, why? Subtle secret of feet that come and go, leading the mind wherever she may choose, dear shadow buried in cambric and the lace of a skirt flowing down over the ground as if to surround from heel to toe, floatingly, this initiative by walking opens up a transient space with its knowing double arrow, very low and with the folds thrown back in a train. Has she some conscious reason for standing still, this walker: Si vague concept se suffit: Separes, on est ensemble: La pause se mesure au temps de ma determination.

Conseille, 6 mon reve, que faire? So vague an idea is enough: Apart, we are together: I merge into her obscure intimacy, in this moment suspended on the water where my dream is delaying the indecisive creature, better than any visit followed by others could do. How many trivial conversations there would have to be, in com- parison with this one which I have made in order not to be heard, before we could regain an understanding as intuitive as our present one, my ear flat against the mahogany and facing all the now-silent sand! The pause is measured by the time it takes me to decide.

Tell me, my dream, what shall I do? Sum up in a glance the virgin absence dispersed in this solitude and depart with it, as, to remember a certain place, you pluck one of the magical closed water lilies that suddenly rise up, enveloping nothing in their hollow whiteness, made of untouched dreams, from a happiness that will never be realized, and from the breath that I am now holding for fear of some apparition: If, drawn by some unusual feeling, that Pensive or Haughty, Cruel or Happy creature appeared, so much the worse for the indescribable face that I shall never know!

The Ecclesiastic Springtime incites an organism to actions which, in any other sea- son, are alien to it, and many a natural history treatise teems with descriptions of this phenomenon among animals. How much more plausibly interesting it would be to list some of the changes caused by this climactic moment in the behaviour of individuals who have been created for spirituality!

In my own instance, when the irony of winter has barely left me, I still cling to some of its ambivalent condition, until it is replaced by a naive or absolute naturalism cap- able of seeking pleasure in the differentiation of various blades of grass. Nothing in the present case could bring profit to the crowd, so I escape, in order to meditate on it, I escape beneath some shade trees lately surrounding the town: Keen was my surprise just now when, in a seldom-frequented corner of the Bois de Boulogne, I saw a lowly sombre commotion through the chinks within the myriad bushes that are no good for hiding anything: Tout, se frictionner ou jeter les membres, se rouler, glisser, aboutissait a une satisfaction: La Gloire La Gloire!

Anecdotes or Poems temptation of a backward glance, to merely imagine the quasi- diabolical apparition who continued to rumple the new season right and left with his sides and stomach, thus achieving a chaste frenzy. Everything, rubbing himself or twitching his limbs, rolling, slither- ing, resulted in satisfaction: The frantic flappings of a cloth have been familiar to you, O solitude, cold silence strewn through the greenery, perceived by senses less subtle than troubled; as if the darkness hidden in its folds was finally shaken out of it!

He had only to look cheerily within himself for the cause of a pleasure or duty which, in the presence of a lawn, could hardly be explained by a return to the gambols of the seminary. As the influence of the vernal breeze softly enlarged the immutable texts inscribed on his flesh, he too, emboldened by this disturbance that pleased his sterile thinking, had come to acknowledge the general well-being by an immediate, clean, violent, positive contact with Nature, stripped of all intellectual curiosity; and far from the obediences and constraints of his occupa- tion, from canons and prohibitions and censures, he was rolling in the bliss of his innate simplicity, happier than a donkey.

When the object of his outing had been attained, I should not dream of denying that the hero of my vision stood up straight in a single bound, not without shaking off the pistils and wiping off the sap that clung to his person, so that he could return unperceived into the crowd and the habits of his ministry; but I have the right to avoid considering such matters.

Surely my discretion in regard to those incipiently glimpsed frolics has been rewarded by being fixed forever as the daydream of a passer-by who was pleased to complete it, an image stamped with a mysterious seal of modernity, at once baroque and beautiful. All around, a deceptive tran- quillity of opulent woodlands is holding some extraordinary state of illusion poised, what answer can you give me?

An unresponsive uniform invites me to a certain barrier, and with- out a word I hand over my ticket instead of the metallic bribe. Un gout pour une maison abandonnee, lequel paraitrait favor- able a cette disposition, amene a me dedire: Gage de retours fideles, mais voila que ce battement, vermoulu, scande un vacarme, refrains, altercations, en-dessous: Anecdotes or Poems who has stolen away stealthily, feeling that there are bitter and luminous sobbings this year, many a wavering indefinite idea shunning haphazard things like branches, a certain quivering that makes you think of some autumn beneath the skies.

Nobody and, since the arms of doubt have flown away like someone who carries off a prize in secret splendour, a trophy too insignificant to be visible! I waited, in order to be that very person, until the train that had set me down there alone, once more under the influence of its habitual motion, slowly shrank in scale to the proportions of childish monster carrying various people somewhere. Conflict For a long time, for some time now — so I believed — my thought abstained from any accidents, even true ones; preferring to draw from the fountain of its own essence, instead of chance. A fondness for an abandoned house, which might seem to favour such a state of mind, now leads me to issue a retraction: A reward for faithful returns; but now the banging of those worm-eaten shutters is rhythmically beating a raucous din, refrains, altercations, from below: Les maitres si quelque part, denues de gene, verbe haut.

Cette cohue entre, part, avec le manche, a Fepaule, de la pioche et de la pelle: Aucun homme de loi ne se targue de deloger Fintrus — baux tacites, usages locaux — etabli par surprise et ayant meme paye aux proprietaires: Quelque langage, la chance que je le tienne, com- porte du dedain, bien sur, puisque la promiscuite, couramment, me deplait: A henceforth exclusive feeling of tenderness that, in the process of suppressing lovely places, this was the one that suffered the greatest insult; I am becoming the host of its decline: Earth-diggers, well-diggers, with worn-out corduroy on their legs — evidence that the embankment must be making progress; relax- ing in a trench, they gradually arrange the blue and white transverse stripes of their jerseys like a sheet of water clothing oh!

Weary and strong, a teeming mass wherever the earth is in need of alteration, they find their independ- ence in the absence of a factory, throughout inclement weather. The masters, if anywhere, are unconstrained, loud of speech. These hordes come and go, their pick- and shovel-handles on their shoulders: No man of law prides himself on ousting an intruder — silent leases, local customs — established by surprise and even after paying the owners: I must play the role or else restrict the trespass as far as I have the right to do.

If I happened to utter any language, it would sound scornful, of course, because promiscuous things generally displease me: Alternatives, je prevois la saison, de sympathie et de malaise. So I withdraw my defence just as quickly, with the same sensitivity that had heightened it; and I introduce the beseiger with my own hand. Alternatives, I can foresee this time, one of sympathy and uneasi- ness. Tres raide, il me scrute avec animosite.

Sans que je cede meme par un pugilat qui illustrerait, sur le gazon, la lutte des classes, a ses nouvelles provocations debordantes. Le mal qui le ruine, Pivrognerie, y pourvoira, a ma place, au point que le sachant, je souffre de mon mutisme, garde indifferent, qui me fait complice. Apprehension quant a cette heure, qui prend la transparence de la journee, avant les ombres puis Pecoule lucide vers quelque profondeur. Les compagnons apprecient Pinstant, a leur faqon, se concertent, entre souper et coucher, sur les salaires ou interminablement disputent, en le decor vautres. Anecdotes or Poems May no stranger cross its threshold as if to a tavern, the workers will go to their workplace by a rented road mown through the fields.

I understand at whom the compliment is aimed, well! He studies me with hostility, looking very stiff. Impossible to blot him out mentally: Nor can I even succumb to his copious new provocations by a fist-fight that would illustrate the class struggle on the lawn. The evil that is ruin- ing him, drunkenness, will do that job for me, so completely that I, knowing it, am suffering from my own silence; my continuing impassivity has made me an accomplice.

I have even been affected by a nervous weakness due to indolent, warped, contradictory states of mind and the contagiousness, caused by agitation, of a certain imbecile intoxication. All the same, when you steep yourself in a realm of echoes, tran- quillity is required; and I have so much of it that I am silent, especially on Sunday evenings. Some misgivings about the hour, which, before the shadows fall, becomes as transparent as the day, and then sheds it lucidly into some deep place.

I like to be present calmly during this crisis, so that it may have a witness of some kind. My companions appreciate the moment in their own way; between supper and bedtime they hold a consultation about their wages or else argue interminably, as they sprawl in the scenery. Ce colloque, frequent, en muettes restrictions de mon cote, manque, par enchantement; quelle pierrerie, le ciel fluide! Toutes les bouches ordinaires tues au ras du sol comme y degorgeant leur vanite de parole. A quoi — tait, dans la conscience seule, un echo — du moins, qui puisse servir, parmi Pechange general.

Tristesse que ma production reste, a ceux-ci, par essence, comme les nuages au crepuscule ou des etoiles, vaine. Ainsi vais-je librement admirer et songer. Always the same story: Quieted, all commonplace mouths are flush with the ground, as though they were disgorging their vain speeches there. I was going to conclude: At what — an echo, in the mind alone, falls silent — at least, something that might be useful in general trading.

How sad that my products should remain, for these men, in a state of essence, as vain as the evening clouds or stars! In reality, today, what is the matter? The work gang lies at its meeting-place, but vanquished. Its indi- vidual members, slumped in the grass, and staggering as if shot down, have hardly found the strength to arrive and drop on this tiny battlefield: So I am going to marvel and muse freely. No, my gaze cannot escape toward the horizon from the window where I am leaning, without some part of me inappropriately over- stepping those scattered plague victims, which would show a lack of courtesy and propriety in my turn; from my own standpoint, I must appreciate their mysteriousness and assess their task: Je penserai, done, uniquement, a eux, les importuns, qui me ferment, par leur abandon, le lointain vesperal; plus que, nagueres, par leur tumulte.

Anecdotes or Poems not enough for them unlike the majority and more fortunate ones — first they worked for a substantial part of the week to gain it; and now here they are, with no knowledge of tomorrow, crawling through the haze and digging motionlessly — making as big a hole in their destiny as the one they have dug daily till now in the reality of the ground a foundation for a temple, assuredly.

By stopping, waiting, and momentarily committing suicide, they honourably retain the sacred part of existence, without witnessing what it is or what lightning-bolts this festal occasion is shedding. The knowledge that would become resplendent — of a certain pride in their daily work, simply to resist and stand tall — is magnified on all sides by a colonnade of trees; some instinct sought that knowledge in a large number of drinks, to contort them in this way, and at dusk, victims rather than officers, with the absoluteness of a ritual consummation, they have reached the point of representing the stupefaction of tasks when they are imposed by necessity instead of some desire.

The constellations are starting to shine: Thus I shall think only of them, the intruders, who are shutting out the distant twilight from me, more effectively by their current surrender than by their previous hubbub. As I watch over them alongside a limpid unwavering river, I may see these artisans of elementary tasks as the people — a healthy understanding of the human condition is daily bending their backs in order to draw forth, without the intermediary of wheat, the miracle of life that assures presence: Son aiguillette, sans bouffette, Triste, pend aux sapins givres, Et la neige qui tombe est faite De tous ses cartels dechires!

The brigand in bold garb 5 brocaded with fine gold who slashed the grapes till they bled purple. Now merely a bald old Guritan in his cold and bolted sky, 10 letting a rusty sunbeam slap against his mauve breeches. His aglet with no rosette dangles sadly in the frosted firs, and the falling snow is composed 1 5 of all his shredded challenges! Mysticis umbraculis Prose des Fous Elle dormait: Uncollected Poems The Boundless, that proud dream lulling all stars and souls 5 like tiny grains of sand within its surging brine!

In the Mystical Shadows Liturgy for the Feast of Fools She was asleep; her bare and jewelless finger, placed beneath her nightgown, quivered; after a deep sigh it grew still, hitching up the cambric to her waist. And her belly seemed like a snowdrift where, while a gold sunbeam lit its forest lair, the mossy nest of some bright finch might lie. La mitre byzantine et le baton sculpte. Dante, au laurier amer, dans un linceul se drape, Un linceul fait de nuit et de serenite: Anacreon, tout nu, rit et baise une grappe Sans songer que la vigne a des feuilles, Pete.

Tu comprends que le pauvre est le frere du chien Et ne vas pas drapant ta lesine en poeme. Comme un chacal sortant de sa pierre, 6 chretien Tu rampes a plat ventre apres qui te bafoue. Vieux, combien par grimace? Mets a nu ta vieillesse et que la gueuse joue, Leche, et de mes vingt sous chatouille la vertu. Amid the scarlet flashes of their gay tambourine all the great Bohemians, fantastically decked in rosemary, 10 pass by, spangled with stars, maddened with the Absolute. Hatred of the Poor Those midnight rags of yours, with holes exposing your freckles and red bristles — I love them all: Like a jackal leaving its lair, dear Christian, you grovel after those who mock at you.

What price a tear, old man? Bare your senility; let it swindle, coax, 1 0 wheedle the virtue that my twenty sous have. Uncollected Poems Que veut cette medaille idiote, ris-tu? Le Chateau de Pesperance Ta pale chevelure ondoie Parmi les parfums de ta peau Comme folatre un blanc drapeau Dont la soie au soleil blondoie. Uncollected Poems Why that silly old coin, you scoff? The money is glittering, some day it must verdigris, I am scarcely devout and very stubborn, make your choice.

Clutch it tight, tell yourself you have it only out of scorn — or because I own too much. Because a bit of roast was done to a turn, because the paper reported a rape, because the maid had forgotten to button her blouse over her tawdry and ill-shaped breasts, because on the clock he could see a naughty old couple from a bed as big as a vestry, or because he lay awake with his leg shamelessly brushing another leg beneath the sheets, some simpleton plants his cold dry wife underneath him, rubs his tasselled crown against her white cap and toils inexorably, puffing and panting: The Castle of Hope Your fair hair is fluttering across the scents of your skin like a white flag frolicking as its silk glints yellow in the sunlight.

A son ventre compare heureuses deux tetines Et, si haut que la main ne le saura saisir, Elle darde le choc obscur de ses bottines Ainsi que quelque langue inhabile au plaisir. Uncollected Poems My heart wearies of beating a ditty in tears on a drum that has burst with such fluid, renounces its past and, unfurling your tresses in waves, marches off and mounts an attack, scales the heights — or else rolls drunkenly over marshes of blood, to plant that banner of finest gold on a dark-hued copper castle — where Hope, listlessly weeping, rubs up and smooths down Night black as a black cat without one pallid star gleaming.

Du cygne quand parmi le pale mausolee Ou la plume plongea la tete, desolee Par le diamant pur de quelque etoile, mais Anterieure, qui ne scintilla jamais. Etang de la pourpre complice!

Et sur les incarnats, grand ouvert, ce vitrail. La chambre, singuliere en un cadre, attirail De siecles belliqueux, orfevrerie eteinte, A le neigeux jadis pour ancienne teinte, Et la tapisserie, au lustre nacre, plis Inutiles avec les yeux ensevelis De sibylles, offrant leur ongle vieil aux Mages. O this mansion of degenerate dismal country! The drab water, no longer visited by a feather or unforgettable swan, is calm: Pool, accomplice of that purple! Wide open, over the rose hues, this stained-glass window. The curious room within a frame — the pomp of a warlike era, all the goldwork tarnished — used to be tinged with snowy yesteryear; its lustrous pearly tapestries are useless folds with the buried eyes of Sibyls offering their aged fingernails toward the Magi.

One of them, with a woven past of flowers on her gown bleached in a locked ivory chest and with a bird-strewn sky on the black silver, ghostly and garbed in risen flights, seems an aroma carrying, O roses! Une Aurore trainait ses ailes dans les larmes! Ombre magicienne aux symboliques charmes! Elle a chante, parfois incoherente, signe Lamentable! Froide enfant, de garder en son plaisir subtil Au matin grelottant de fleurs, ses promenades, Et quand le soir mechant a coupe les grenades!

Uncollected Poems far from the void bed veiled by a spent candle, an aroma of cold bones roaming over the sachet, a bunch of flowers faithless to the moon one is still shedding petals on the dead wax ; their stalks and their prolonged regret are steeped 35 in one solitary vase with languid brilliance. Sorceress shadow with symbolic charms!

A voice, a distant evocation of the past, is it mine, is it ready to utter incantations? O what distance hidden in those calls! And so, by means of silence and dark shadows, all things alike return to the long-distant past, 55 fateful, defeated, weary, and monotonous, like water settling in some ancient pool. She has sung, sometimes incoherently, a lamentable sign! Did it ever possess that? Cold little girl, preserving as her subtle pleasure her walks in the dawn shivering with flowers and when wicked dusk slit the pomegranates!

Uncollected Poems Le croissant, oui le seul est au cadran de fer De Phorloge, pour poids suspendant Lucifer, Toujours blesse, toujours une nouvelle heuree, Par la clepsydre a la goutte obscure pleuree, Que, delaissee, elle erre, et, sur son ombre, pas Un ange accompagnant son indicible pas! II ne sait pas cela, le roi qui salarie Depuis longtemps la gorge ancienne et tarie.

Reviendra-t-il un jour des pays cisalpins! Et bientot sa rougeur de triste crepuscule Penetrera du corps la cire qui recule! He knows nothing of that, the king whose pay has so long hired those dried and aged breasts. Her father does not know it, nor the wild 75 glacier mirroring his arms of steel, when on some sprawling heap of corpses with no resinous coffins, enigmatically he offers his dim silvery trumpets to the old pines!

Will he return some day from the Cisalpine lands! For all things are bad dreams and ill omens! On the fingernail raised amid the stained-glass window according to the memory of those trumpets, the old sky burns, turning a finger into an envious candle. O vain climat nul! Et lui, lorsque la brise, ivre de ces delices, Suspend encore un nom qui ravit les calices, A voix faible, parfois, appelle bas: Uncollected Poems In the Garden One day the young lady strolling over the lawn before summer adorned with fruits and allurements, when sated Noon had scattered the twelfth of the hours, halted her fair steps amid such bounty and, tragic abandoned bride, declared 5 to Death enticing her Poet: Doom, you are telling a lie!

I know I am jealous of the false Eden where he, in his grief, will never be dwelling. Sonnet pour elle O si chere de loin et proche et blanche, si Delicieusement toi, Mery, que je songe A quelque baume rare emane par mensonge Sur aucun bouquetier de cristal obscurci. Sleep on impassively with no fear 5 that a breath might confess something on waking that you never had contemplated with a kind of pout. All the dreams that are amazed when they are baffled by such beauty lend not one flower to the cheek unpaid diamonds in the eye anything on waking that you never had.

Sonnet for her O so dear from afar and nearby and sheer white, so deliciously yourself, dear Mery, that I dream of some rare balm shed by deceit on whichever vase of darkened crystal do you know, yes! Uncollected Poems no song can ever spark 5 the sudden gleam of a smile if you wish we shall make love with your lips wordlessly softly softly between the rounds sylph in imperial purple 10 a flaming kiss is sundered on the very tips of the pinions if you wish we shall make love Street Folk The Seller of Garlic and Onions With garlic we distance the tedium of paying a visit; whenever I cut an onion weeping Elegy can hardly wait.

The Roadmender You level those pebbles and, being a troubadour, I too must crack open a cube of brains each day. The Newsboy Over and over, whatever the headline, without even catching a cold when the ice thaws, this cheery little half-pint keeps calling out some new number. Uncollected Poems The Old Clothes Woman Your keen eye parts me from my togs peering right into their contents so that like a god I go naked. Fan Belonging to Mery Laurent Frigid roses to exist all alike will interrupt your frosted breath with a quick white calyx but should my fluttering liberate 5 the whole bunch with a profound shock that frigidity will melt into the laughter of a rapturous blossoming see how like a good fan you are better than a phial at carving the sky into fragments no flask could be stoppered without losing or violating the fragrance of Mery.

Uncollected Poems Homage Every Dawn however numb when she lifts a dark fist to grip the trumpets of the blue which she blows though deaf and dumb has the shepherd with the gourd plus the rod struck forcibly where his future steps will be till the vast spring is outpoured So you live facing the brink O Puvis far from the crowd de Chavannes never alone as you lead our time to drink at the nymph without a shroud which your glory will make known.

Little Ditty Warlike When I feel my leg reddish-dyed dressed in a pair of military pantaloons by the fireside it not to keep my peace suits me I wait for onslaughts to begin with the virgin hostility of nothing but a drumstick in the white gloves of the soldiery stark bare or keeping its bark yet, not to outgeneral Germany but as a different kind of threat to the end that is sought from me.

Uncollected Poems to cut short all the lunacy of the wild nettle Sympathy. Tomb Anniversary — J a n nary i8gy The black rock, cross how the north wind has rolled it on! Here almost always if the dove has cooed, 5 with nubile folds its immaterial sorrow oppresses the ripe star of that tomorrow whose glint will silver all the multitude. Uncollected Poems Qui cherche, parcourant le solitaire bond Tantot exterieur de notre vagabond — Verlaine? Verlaine is hidden in the lawn to catch no more than in plain harmony before the lip drank there or spent its breath a much-maligned and shallow trickle, death.

Herodias Canticle of John the Baptist The sun that was exalted when it miraculously halted is once more sinking low brightly aglow Appendix i: II les multiplia au gre de ses relations. Rue, au 23, Ballu. None of the verse addresses reproduced below failed to reach its destination. The poet adds that the idea came to him purely for aesthetic reasons, because of an obvious similarity between the format of a postal address and the layout of a quatrain.

He has penned many such things to entertain his friends. Now June is here I express my satisfaction that Monsieur Degas rhymes with the mock-orange blossom. Monsieur Monet, whose vision goes astray neither in winter nor in summer, lives painting at Giverny located near Vernon, in the Eure. At the Villa des Arts, near the Avenue de Clichy, paints Monsieur Renoir who gets something other than the blues when faced with a bare shoulder.

Adieu Forme et le chataignier! Occasional Verses Paris, the home of Madame Mery Laurent, who dwells far from the vulgar herd in her tres chic little house at 9 Boulevard Lannes. Amusing herself by fattening up her spleen or charming liver Madame Mery Laurent at the waters of Evian Savoy. Catulle attentive to the Muse distributes breeze and tulle at 66 Rue Taitbout. Farewell to the elm and chestnut! Despite the gold of their crowns Henri de Regnier has come back to exactly 6 Rue Boccador.

Our friend Viele-Griffin is savouring his fame very slowly like a lone and exquisite dish at Nazelles in Indre-et-Loire. Vers de circonstances Apte a ne point te cabrer, hue! Si tu ne fuis 1 1 bis rue Balzac chez cet Heredia. Occasional Verses Never inclined to buck, gee up! Without taking a tumble in the grass innocent distributor, do your part, hurry to Madame Berthe Manet, at Mezy, by Meulan. Mademoiselle Ponsot, may our best wishes in full bloom greet you at Chalet-Suisse located at Route de Trouville, Honfleur.

If you are seeking a medico like with neither wig nor baldness dear Doctor Hutinel 13, see — de la Boetie. In the depths of Saint-James, Neuilly, Doctor Fournier, pensive, prudent, reflective, thinks of courting only an orchid. Augusta Holmes sought after as a fair relative of the harp-playing kings, at 40 Rue Juliette Lamber. Halt, postman, at the sound groaned by the cellos: Lavoisier Madame Degrandi who casts the riches of her throat so high that they reach our silence. Age is helping to weigh me down so you, my thought, must go alone to 1 1 Rue de Traktir, the home of the charming Monsieur Seailles.

Monsieur Leon Dierx, avenue Ci proche, 13, de Clichy. Tapi sous ton chaud mac-ferlane, Ce billet, quand tu le recois Lis le haut; 6, cour Saint-Franqois Rue, est-ce Moreau? Simple, tendre, aux pres se melant, Ce que tout buisson a de laine Quand a passe le troupeau blanc Semble Fame de Madeleine. Occasional Verses At Montigny, Monsieur Grosclaude takes unwavering aim at a rabbit or else, clad in his green smock, casts a sweep-net into the Loing. Unless he is haunting the clouds or sailing where the litchi ripens, Monsieur Leon Dierx, 1 3 Avenue de Clichy, close at hand.

Simple, soft, blending with the fields, the fleece that all the shrubbery yields when the white flocks have crossed the plain might be the soul of Madeleine. Vers de circonstances Mme N. Autour de marbres le lis croit — Brise, ne commence par taire, Fiere et blanche, son regard droit, Nelly pareille a ce parterre. Faune, qui dans une eclaircie Vas te glisser tout en dormant Avec quatre vers remercie Dujardin ton frere normand. Faune, si tu prends un costume Simple comme les liserons Dujardin et moi non posthume Nous te populariserons.

Occasional Verses Mme N. Amid the marbles a lily grows — never, O breeze, seek to oppose her frank gaze, fair high-spirited Nelly so like this flowerbed. From some far-flung dawn in a far-off land so that its flight may now reverse toward your tiny unconscious hand I have marked this wing with a little verse. Presenting the Faun to Various People Had he sat you down in a grove, this Faun would not have been reduced to swelling his hesitant flute with the desultory pangs of his old steps.

O Faun, as you steal through a clearing fast asleep, thank your Norman brother Dujardin in four lines. Faun, if you should wear a garb simple as bindweed Dujardin and I will make you popular not posthumously. Occasional Verses Rightly did you have a little doze, O Faun now so well-known, and wait for these auspicious days when you can go to Baronet.

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Must you hoot like a passing train in the thickets what the pipe alone sighs sotto voce, ugly Faun! O Satyr pursuing not only the brunette but the shy Nymph as well, you are wasting your clumsy kisses there is rapture only with one. Invitation to the Inaugural Soiree of the Revue independante Coddled by success and in gloves of the tightest kind, Edouard Dujardin requests that on the third of March, around nine, without wearing the tiniest jot of formal dress or badge of rank!

Occasional Verses the Review called Independent by the talk of the town, my dear Sir, is warming its house with gold like the gas in its smart premises. Notes by any later writer must be even less satisfactory; they too should either not be read at all, or else be glanced at and then forgotten. The notes below are keyed to the line numbers in the margin of the English translations. In the case of A Dice Throw.

Poetical Works Mallarme first collected his Poesies in a de-luxe edition of about forty copies, published by La Revue independante in October The poems were grouped in nine sections as follows: For the revised edition, prepared in , Mallarme omitted the headings but kept the same main sections: But these differences were relatively minor; as Mallarme acknowledged in his bibliographical note at the end of the book, its basic structure had already been settled by Flowever, the present edition restores the arrangement, which is the last known to have been approved by the author himself.

Poesies is a more formal word than poemes, the term that Mallarme applied to his prose poems. The speaker addresses his colleagues, raising his glass and comparing its foam to the poem he is reciting. The illustrious writers of In Baudelaire might well have seemed to belong in the first category; he was still in excellent health and had just issued the successful revised edition of Les Fleurs du mat. In the second class Mallarme was evidently thinking of Gerard de Nerval whose body was found hanging from a streetlamp in — and also of himself.

These poets do Promethean deeds but suffer less illustrious punishments. The apparition of a dreamlike female figure, intangible and unidentifiable, transforms the evening scene: The beloved, surrounded by stock rococo accessories lapdog, lozenge, fan, abbe in attendance and portrayed as both princess and shepherdess, is raising to her lips a cup of Sevres porcelain decorated with a naked figure of Hebe the Classical goddess of youth and cupbearer to the gods.

Puisque je ne suis pas ton bichon embarbe, Ni tes bonbons, ni ton carmin, ni les Jeux mievres Et que sur moi pourtant ton regard est tombe, Blonde, dont les coiffeurs divins sont des orfevres, Nommez-nous. Because I am not your bewhiskered lapdog, nor your lipstick, your sweets, or coquettish Revelries and since you nonetheless yielded to me, therefore, O blonde whose hair is dressed by goldsmith deities, appoint us — you whose many teasing brambled wiles form a powder- wigged flock of little tame pet sheep nibbling at every heart, bleating with no restraint, — appoint us — and Boucher on a pink fan will paint me, flute in my hand, as I lull the lambs to sleep, dear Duchess, do appoint us shepherd of your smiles.

The earliest surviving draft reads as follows: Le soleil du matin sechait mon corps nouveau Et je sentais fraichir loin de ta tyrannie La neige des glaciers dans ma chair assainie, Ne sachant pas, helas! On 3 June Mallarme sent it to Cazalis with the prefatory remarks: The happiness of the world below is base — your hands have to be very calloused to seize it. But there is a danger in that process: I am rid of it at last, after three months of impotence, and my first sonnet is devoted to a descrip- tion — i.

This is poetry of a new kind, in which material results those of the blood and nerves are examined and combined with mental results those of the mind and soul. Anguish Written early ; published 12 May in Le Parnasse contemporain. Instead, he wants to imitate Chinese art — an aspiration that has been interpreted very differently by different critics is he lowering his sights, for instance, or is he striving for loftier goals than ever? Summer Sadness Written ; after substantial revision, published 30 June in Le Parnasse contemporain.

The earliest surviving draft ? Your hair — is it a tepid river to drown undisturbed the soul obsessing me and tease the Void where thought is all unknown? Let me sup kohl drawn from your eyes, and see if that bane gives this heart stricken by you the impassivity of sky and stone. The blue torments the impotent in general. The second stanza raises a suspicion that I suffer from this cruel disease because of my flight before the possessive sky. In the third stanza, I am as frantic as a man who sees a desperate appeal granted.

Verily, behold the joy of the Impotent!

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