I'm not Claudia.


Ravaged after my war
When I came to know you
I was a young boy blue
I was a young boy blue
I was a young boy blue
This song is sung for you

This song is sung for me
This song is sung for you

Blue was the color I saw
After we began to talk
I could not see much else
I was a young boy blue
I was a young boy blue
This song is sung for you

This song is sung for me
This song is sung for you

I’m grateful for the words you chose
I’m grateful for the heights to which you rose
I’m grateful for the words you chose
I’m grateful for the heights to which you rose


- Boy Blue - Hercules and Love Affair

"When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings."

- William Shakespeare, Sonnet XXIX


When you are old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


- The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats (1989)


Je me tais, je souris d’un air contraint. La bonne pose devant moi une assiette avec un bout de camembert crayeux. Je parcours la salle du regard, et un violent dégoût m’envahit. Que fais-je ici ? Qu’ai-je été me mêler de discourir sur l’humanisme ? Pourquoi ces gens sont-ils là ? Pourquoi mangent-ils ? C’est vrai qu’ils ne savent pas, eux, qu’ils existent. J’ai envie de partir, de m’en aller quelque part où je serais vraiment à ma place, où je m’emboîterais… Mais ma place n’est nulle part ; je suis de trop.

Elle me fixe sans paraître me voir. Elle va parler. J’attends un discours tragique, haussé à la dignité de son masque, un chant funèbre.

Elle ne dit qu’un seul mot :

« Je me survis. »

L’accent ne correspond pas du tout au visage. Il n’est pas tragique, il est… horrible : il exprime un désespoir sec, sans larmes, sans pitié. Oui, il y a en elle quelque chose d’irrémédiablement desséché.

Le masque tombe, elle sourit.

« Je ne suis pas triste du tout. Je m’en suis souvent étonnée, mais j’avais tort : pourquoi serais-je triste ? J’étais capable autrefois d’assez belles passions. J’ai passionnément haï ma mère. D’ailleurs toi, dit-elle avec défi, je t’ai passionnément aimé. »

Elle attend une réplique. Je ne dis rien.

« Tout ça, c’est fini, bien entendu.

— Comment peux-tu le savoir ?

— Je le sais. Je sais que je ne rencontrerai plus jamais rien ni personne qui m’inspire de la passion. Tu sais, pour se mettre à aimer quelqu’un, c’est une entreprise. Il faut avoir une énergie, une curiosité, un aveuglement… Il y a même un moment, tout au début, où il faut sauter par-dessus un précipice : si on réfléchit, on ne le fait pas. Je sais que je ne sauterai plus jamais.


- Jean-Paul Sartre, La Nausée

Auguries of Innocence - William Blake

To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill’d with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro’ all its regions.
A dog starv’d at his master’s gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm’d for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf’s and lion’s howl
Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand’ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus’d breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher’s knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won’t believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever’s fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov’d by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never be by woman lov’d.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider’s enmity.
He who torments the chafer’s sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother’s grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer’s song
Poison gets from slander’s tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy’s foot.

The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist’s jealousy.

The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags
Are toadstools on the miser’s bags.
A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro’ the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Throughout all these human lands;
Tools were made and born were hands,
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright,
And return’d to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven’s shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar’s rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier, arm’d with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer’s sun.
The poor man’s farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric’s shore.

One mite wrung from the lab’rer’s hands
Shall buy and sell the miser’s lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant’s faith
Shall be mock’d in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne’er get out.

He who respects the infant’s faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child’s toys and the old man’s reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar’s laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour’s iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket’s cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet’s inch and eagle’s mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne’er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They’d immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation’s fate.
The harlot’s cry from street to street
Shall weave old England’s winding-sheet.

The winner’s shout, the loser’s curse,
Dance before dead England’s hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro’ the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.