Baudelaire, Spleen XXXV window.
"He who from the outside looking through an open window never sees so much as looking at a closed window. No object deeper, more mysterious, more fertile, darker, more dazzling, than a window lighted by a candle. What you can see the sun, is always less interesting than what happens behind the glass. In that light black hole or living life, dream life life suffers.
Beyond the waves of the rooftops, I see a woman, mature and wrinkled and poor, always leaning on something, without ever leaving. With her face, her dress, her gesture, with almost nothing, have reconstructed the history of this woman, or rather, his legend, and sometimes I tell it to myself crying.
If it was an old man, I have rebuilt theirs with the same ease.
And I lie, proud to have lived and suffered in people other than me . Perhaps
tell me: 'Are you sure that this legend is true? "What does it matter what the reality may be placed out of me if I helped to live, to feel myself and what I am? "
Et je me couche, et fier d'avoir vécu dans d'autres souffert that moi-même.
If I knew the French would have the text in its original version, but why brag, I can manage with English, a little more. I hope the translation is accurate.
I also tell stories, stories sublime or trivial, stories that make me laugh or mourn, and lie down happy to have lived in people other than me. Stocks vicarious, foolish games, who can not, however foul appease the spleen, this sticky melancholy, stuck to the skin as a film of dirt that does not dissolve as much as I wash. Slpeen hackneyed, stale, dull, that hardly serves to concoct something, I'm not Baudelaire. But enough.
And now? Who are Fermat? I give chase winter nights as the ghost of Banquo, see you at banquets bloody I give myself, and fled startled by your appearance, fled myself. Callas, you may see in the shade, laughing in the darkness of your alleged murderer, a pale reflection of a pale reflection, a shadow of a shadow, why do not you laugh? Sophocles spoke last time, what happened to Oedipus? Are you afraid as Jocasta? Or do you continue to vegetate in the shade, telling stories, not not even open the window of his garret? What about you, Fermi?
What about me?
I have returned to dust worn volumes of my library shelves, some bring good memories, Maigret, good old Maigret. I've re-read. The winter passed, the weather, too.
February 28. Dull winter that will leave no remembrance. These solid heavens, unbearably beautiful, burst of light at the beginning of an early spring. Deep blue, bright, protective.
PD Strangers swift chemical forget what laboriously learned. Play dumb, hoping that the rest do the same. Or maybe ... do not get water to the neck.
