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Marcel Schwob: Words of Paul Claudel and Monelle

WORDS MONELLA

Monelle found me wandering in the plain and took me by the hand.

- Do no surprise, she says, it's me and not me;
You will find me again and you lose me;
Again I come among you, for few men saw me and I understood none;
And you forget me and you know me and you forget me. And

Monelle said: I will speak of small prostitutes, and you'll know the beginning.

Bonaparte killer, to eighteen years, met under the iron gates of the Palais Royal a little prostitute. She was pale and shivering with cold. But "it was live," she said. Neither you nor I do not know the name of this little Bonaparte took by a November night in his room at the Hotel de Cherbourg. It was in Nantes, Brittany. She was weak and tired, and her lover had abandoned. It was simple and good, his voice had a very soft sound. Bonaparte remembered it all. And I think after the memory of her voice moved him to tears and he looked for a long time and never see her again in the winter evenings.

Because, you see, small prostitutes out that once the crowd for a night job of goodness. Poor Anne ran up to Thomas de Quincey, the opium eater, faulting in the broad streets of Oxford under the big lights on. Eyes wet, she gave him the lips a glass of sweet wine, kissed and hug. Then she went into the night. Maybe she died soon. She coughed, "said De Quincey, the last night that I saw. Maybe she still wandering in the streets, but, despite the passion of his research, though the laughter Bravata people he was addressing, Anne was lost forever. When he later had a warm house, he thought often with tears that poor Anne could live there with him, instead he was the sick or dying, or sorry, in the blackness of a central b ... London, and she had carried all the pathetic love of his heart.

You see, they cry out of compassion towards you and caress you with their hand bony hand. They do not understand you if you are very unhappy, they cry with you and console you. Early Nelly came to convict Dostoevsky infamous out of his house, and dying of fever, has long looked with her large black eyes trembling. Early Sonia (it has existed as the others) has embraced the murderer Rodion after the confession of his crime. "You're lost! "She said with a tone of despair. And, rising suddenly, she threw herself on his neck and kissed him ... "No, there is not now on earth a man more unfortunate than you! "She exclaimed in a fit of pity, and suddenly she burst into sobs.

As Anne and one that has no name and who came to the sad young Bonaparte, little Nell sank in fog. Dostoevsky does not say what had become of little Sonia, pale and gaunt. Neither you nor I know if she could help through Raskolnikov in his atonement. I think not. It went very gently into his arms, having suffered too much and loved too.

None of them, you see, can not stay with you. They are too sad and they are ashamed to stay. When you weep no more, they dare not look at you. They will learn the lesson they have to you learn, and they go away. They come through the cold and rain you kiss on the forehead and wipe your eyes and frightful darkness resumes. Because they may have to go elsewhere.

You do know that while they are caring. Do not think of anything else. Do not think about what they have done in darkness. Nelly in the horrible house, Sonia drunk on the bench of the Boulevard, Anne relating the empty glass from the wine merchant to a dark alley may have been cruel and obscene. They are creatures of flesh. They came out of a dead dark to give a kiss of pity under the lamp on the high street. Right now, they were divine.
Forget everything else.

Monelle paused and looked at me
I got out of the night, she said, and I'll return the night. Because, I too am a little prostitute. And

Monelle said:
I pity you, I pity you, my beloved.
However I return at night, for it is necessary that you get lost before I was. And if you find me, I will escape again.
For I am the one who is alone. And
Monelle said:
Because I'm alone, you will give me the name of Monelle. But you think that I All other names.
And I'm this and this, and one that has no name.
And I will lead you among my sisters who are myself, and like prostitutes without intelligence;
And you see them tormented by lust and selfishness and cruelty and pride and compassion and patience, not having not yet found;
And you see them go and look away;
And you'll find me yourself and I find myself, and you lose me and I lose.
For I am that which is lost soon found. And

Monelle said:
On this day you will touch a little woman of the hand and flee;
Because all things are fleeting, but Monelle is the most fleeting.
And before finding me, I teach you in this plain, and you write the book Monelle.

Monelle And handed me a ferrule dug a filament which burned pink.
- Take this torch, "she said, and burns. Burn everything on earth and in heaven. And breaks the rod and extinguish it when you've burned, because nothing should be transmitted;
that thou mayest be the second narthécophore and that you will destroy the fire and the fire came down from heaven back to heaven. And

Monelle said: I will speak of the destruction.

Here's the word: Destroy, destroy, destroy. Destroy in yourself, destroy around you. Make room for your soul and other souls.
Destroy all good and evil The ruins are similar.
Destroy the old houses of men and old houses of souls, dead things are mirrors that distort. Destroy
because all creation comes destruction. And for goodness
top must destroy the goodness below. And so the new property appears saturated with evil.
And to imagine a new way, we must break the ancient art. And so the new art seems a kind of iconoclasm.
For any construction debris is made, and nothing is new in this world that forms.
But we must destroy the forms. And

Monelle said: I'll talk about training.

The very desire of the new is that the appetite of the soul that wants to form.
And souls reject old forms and snakes their old skins. And patients
collectors of old snake skins sadden young snakes because they have a magical power over them.
For whoever has the old snake skins prevents young snakes to evolve. That
why snakes rob their bodies in the ear of a stuffed deep green, and an annual youth gather in a circle to burn the old skins.
So be similar to the destructive and formative seasons.
frames your house yourself and burn it yourself.
Do not throw rubbish behind you, that everyone would use its own ruins. Do build
point in last night. Let your escape buildings adrift. Contemplate
new buildings to the smallest impulses of your soul.
For any new desire, make new gods. And

Monelle said: I will speak of the gods.
Let the old gods die, do not sit, like a mourner from their graves;
For the old gods fly from their graves;
And only protects the young gods point by wrapping strips;
That any god flies, created soon;
Let all creation perish soon established;
That the ancient god offers its inception in the young god in order that it be crushed by it;
That any god is god of the moment. And

Monelle said: I will speak of moments. Look

all things under the aspect of time. Let me go
tone at the option of the moment.
Think at the moment Any thought that is hard contradiction. Likes
yet. Any lasting love is hate. Be honest with
yet. Frankly that lasts is a lie.
Be fair to the moment. All justice is injustice that lasts.
Deal with time. Any action that takes is a reign deceased.
Be happy with yet. Any lasting happiness is unhappiness.
Have respect for all times and make no links between things.
N'attarde not the time: you weary agony.
Look: any time is a cradle and a coffin that all life and death will seem strange and new. And

Monelle said: I shall tell you about life and death.

moments are like sticks mid-party white and black;
item does not arrange your life in drawings made with white halves. Because then you will find drawings done with black halves, each
That darkness is traversed by the expectation of future whiteness.
Do not say I live now, I will die tomorrow. Do not divide between the reality of life and death. Say: Now I live and die.
Depletes every moment all positive and negative things. The rose
Fall lasts a season, it opens every morning, every night it closes. Be
similar to roses, offers Tear leaves your pleasures, trampling pain.
That any ecstasy in you is dying, that every pleasure wants to die.
That pain is in you all the passage of an insect will fly. Do not close on the insect rodent. Do not become enamored with these black beetles.
That any joy in you is the passage of an insect will fly. Do not close the sucking insect. Do not become enamored with these Cetonids golden.
That any intelligence in you shine on and off in a flash.
Thy happiness is divided into lightnings. And share your joy will be equal to that other. Have
atomistic contemplation of the universe.
Do not stand up to nature. Do not lean against things the feet of your soul. May your soul away point his face as the bad child.
Go in peace with the red light of morning and evening light gray. Be dawn to dusk melee. Mind
death with life and divides them into moments. Do not wait
death: it is in you. Be his friend and want it against you, and she is like your own. Die
of your death; do not envy the dead ones. Varies kinds of death with the kind of life. Here
anything uncertain for living, all dead for sure thing. And

Monelle said: I will speak of dead things.

Burns thoroughly dead and scatter their ashes to the four winds of heaven.
Burns carefully past actions, and crushes the ashes as the phoenix that would revive the same.
Do not play with the dead and do not point caress their faces. Do not laugh at them and do not cry over them: forget them.
Do not trust in things past. Never mind point to build coffins for the beautiful moments: think of the moments that will kill. Have
of distrust for all cadavers.
do not embrace the dead as they choke the living. Have
for dead things the respect due to building stone.
Do not stain your hands along the lines worn. Purify your fingers in new waters.
Breath the breath of your mouth and aspirating the dead breath. Do
contemplates point past lives more than your past life. No point collecting empty envelope.
Do not wear a cemetery in you. The dead give pestilence. And

Monelle said: I will speak of your actions.

That any section of crumbling clay transmitted between your hands. Breeze any cut where you have been drinking.
Breath on the lamp life as the rider behind you. For every lamp is old smoker.
Do you bequeath anything to yourself, neither pleasure nor pain.
Be not the slave of no clothes, neither soul nor body.
never strikes the same side of the hand. Do not focus
in death carried away your picture in the running water.
Flee the ruins and do not cry one.
When you leave your clothes at night, take off your clothes in your soul the day, put yourself naked at all times.
Any satisfaction you seem fatal. Whip it forward.
Do not digest the past days: fed up of things to come. Do
confesses point things past, because they are dead; before you confess future things.
Do not go down collect the flowers along the path. Just keep all appearances. But leaves the surface, and do not look back. Do not Look Back
: behind you ran panting flames of Sodom, and you would be changed into a statue petrified with tears.
Do not look behind you. Do not watch too much before you. If you look in you, everything is white.
Do not be surprised by anything the comparison of remembrance surprise you with all the novelty of ignorance.
Surprise yourself of anything, because everything is different in life and in death similar. Mounts in
differences; destroy in similarities.

Do not run toward permanence: they are neither on earth or in heaven.
The reason being permanent, you destroy it, and let it change your sensitivity.
Do not be afraid to contradict you: there is no contradiction in the moment. Dislikes
your grief, for she not continue.
Consider your nails grow, and small scales of your skin that fall.

Be forgetful of all things. With a sharp punch
you look after your memories kill patiently as the old emperor was killing flies.
Do not take your joy of remembrance to the future. Do
remember it and do not anticipate.
Do not say I work to gain: I work to forget. Be oblivious to the acquisition and labor.
Rise against any work against any activity that exceeds the moment, get up.
Thy march does not go from one end to another, for there is no such thing, but that your every step is a projection rectified. You
blot with your left foot track of your right foot.
The right hand should ignore what has just the right hand.
Do not know thyself.
Do you heed of your freedom: forget yourself. And

Monelle said: I will speak of my words.
Words are words as they are spoken. The words kept
died and breed pestilence.
Hear my words spoken and not acting according to my written words.

Having spoken in the plain, Monelle fell silent and became sad, for she was to return at night.

And she told me later:
Forget me and I'm done.

And I looked across the plain and saw the rise of Monelle sisters.

Schwob

PALABRAS DE MONELLA

Monelle me encontro on the plain where I wandered and took my hand.

"Do not be surprised," he said, I am and not me;
joins meet again and I lose again;
return to be among you, as few men I have seen and none has understood
Y forget me and recognize me and I forget. Monelle

And he also said: I will speak of small prostitutes and know the beginning. Bonaparte

the murderer, at eighteen, found near the iron gates of the Palacio Real to a little prostitute, who was pale and shivering. But she said she "had to live." Neither you nor I know the name of that girl that Bonaparte, one night in November, took his hotel room in Cherbourg. It was Brittany, Nantes. She felt weak and tired and her lover had just left. It was simple and good, his voice had a very sweet sound. Bonaparte recalled everything. And I think that, later, the memory of the sound of her voice moved him to tears and looked for a long time without ever seeing her again in the winter nights.

Because, you know, small prostitutes out only once in the night crowd to carry out an act of kindness. Poor Anne went to Thomas de Quincey, the opium-eater, who fainted on the wide street in Oxford under the big lights burning. With moist eyes, led him to his lips a glass of sweet wine, kissed him and pampered him. Then sank back into the night. Maybe later died. Coughing, says De Quincey, the last night I saw her. Perhaps still wandering the streets, but, despite the passion with which he sought, but defied the laughter of those who are led, Anne lost forever. When he was later a nice house, he thought often with tears in his eyes that poor Anne could have lived there with him, instead of which he imagined ill or dying, or homelessness in the central darkness of a London brothel, and had been with her all the compassionate love of his heart. They

, you know, you throw into a cry of compassion and hands caress them with their hands gritty. Only understand when they are very unhappy, cry with you and comfort. The little Nelly out of his infamous house to go to meet the inmate Dostoyevsky and, dying of fever, looked long and trembling with big black eyes. The small Sonia (existed as the others) kissed the murderer Rodion after he confessed his crime. "You lost," she said in a tone of despair. And incorporated suddenly, he threw his neck and kissed him ... "No, in all the land there is now a man more miserable than you!" he exclaimed in a fit of piety and suddenly burst into tears.

As Anne and one that has no name and went to meet the sad young Bonaparte, little Nelly sank into the fog. Dostoevsky did not say what had become of the little Sonia, pale and haggard. Neither you nor I know if he could help all the way to Raskolnikov in his atonement. I think not. He died very gently in his arms, after suffering too much and loving too.

None of them, you know, can keep you. Would be too sad and are ashamed to stay. When you cry no longer dare not look at them. They teach the lesson they had to teach and go. Come through the cold and rain, kiss on the forehead and eyes secarles, and the terrifying darkness take them over again. Because they may have to go elsewhere.

You know only as they are charitable. Do not think of anything else. No need to think about what they could do in the dark. Nelly in the horrible house, Sonia drunk on the bench of the boulevard, bring Anne back to the office empty glass of wine in a dark alley, was perhaps cruel and obscene. Are women meat. They left a dark alley to give a kiss under the lamp on piety from the main street. At that time were divine.
Forget everything else. Monelle

stopped and looked at me
night I left, he said, and again at night. Because I'm a little prostitute. Monelle

And he also said:
I have pity for you, I have pity on you, my beloved. However
again the night because I need to lose before returning to find me. And if I go back to find you I'll run again.
Because I'm the one who is alone. And

Monelle also said
call me cause I'm single Monelle. But do not forget that I own all the other names.
And I'm this and that and that has no name.
And I take with my companions, who are like myself and prostitutes without intelligence;
And see, tormented by lust and selfishness and cruelty and pride and patience and piety, because they still have not found themselves;
And'll go get him away;
And you and I find myself I find myself, and I lose and you lose.
Because I am that which is lost as it is. Monelle

And he also said:
That day a young woman will touch his hand and he will flee;
Since all things are fleeting, but Monelle is the most fugitive.
And before you return to find me, I'll show you in this plain and you write the book Monelle.

and handed me a splint Monelle recessed in a filament that burned pink.
"Take this torch," he said, "and burned. Burn everything on earth and in heaven. And the cast off bankruptcy and once you've burned all, since nothing has to be transmitted;
So that you are a nartecóforo and destroy the fire and the fire came down from heaven to rise again to heaven. Monelle

And he also said: you talk about destruction.

This is the word destroy, destroy, destroy. Destroy yourself, destroyed around you. Make room for your soul and other souls.
Destroy all good and all evil. The debris are similar.
Destroy the old haunts of men and the old mansions of the souls of dead things are distorting mirrors.
Destroy, as all creation comes from the destruction.
And to achieve superior goodness goodness is to annihilate inferior. And so again it seems to be saturated with evil.
And to imagine a new art must break the ancient art. And so the new art as a kind of iconoclasm.
For all construction is made of ruins, and nothing is new in this world outside of forms.
But you have to destroy the forms. Monelle

And he also said: you talk about training.

The very desire of the new is not more than the appetite of the soul that wants to form. And souls
discarded the old ways and old snakes their skins. And patients
collectors of old snake skins of the young snakes grieve because they have a magical power over them. Because
who owns the old snake skins prevents them from becoming young snakes. So snakes
rob your body in the green channel of a deep thicket, and once a year the young people gather in circles to burn their old skins. Aseméjate
then destroying and forming stations.
Build your house yourself and burn yourself.
not throw rubbish behind you, that each one is worth its own ruins.
never build on last night. Let your buildings to drift. It includes new buildings
every little boost in your soul.
For every new desire, make new gods. Monelle

And he also said: I will speak of the gods.

Leave the old gods die, do not remain seated, like a mourner beside their graves;
For the old gods leave their graves;
and do not protect young gods wrapping bandages;
That all flight lift God created good;
That all creation perish not well established;
That the ancient God gives his creation to the young god to be destroyed by it;
That every god is god of time. Monelle

And he also said: I will tell of moments. Look

all things under the aspect of time. Leave your
I follow the whim of the moment.
think at the moment. All thought that lasts a contradiction. Ama
far. All love that lasts is hate.
Be honest with the moment. All sincerity that lasts is a lie.
Be fair with the moment. Any lasting justice is injustice.
acts on the moment. All lasting action is a dead kingdom.
Be happy with the moment. All that is lasting misery.
Have respect for all the moments, and do not establish links between things ever.
not delay the time, would be an agony.
Look, any time is the cradle and coffin, that all life and death will seem strange and new. Monelle

And he also said: you talk about life and death.

moments are like chalk half white and half black;
not organize your life through drawings made with half white, because then you will find drawings done with black halves;
Let every darkness is pierced by waiting whiteness come.
not say: I now live and die tomorrow. Do not break the reality between life and death. Say: I live and die. Exhaust
every moment all positive and negative things.
The rose autumn lasts a season, every week opens every night closes.
Aseméjate at the roses offer your petals to the tearing of the pleasures, the trampling of the pain. That all ecstasy
languish in you, that every pleasure wants to die.
That all pain is in you the way an insect that is going to take flight. Do not limit yourself to sucking insect. Do not fall for these golden rose-beetles.
That all intelligence shines on and off on you so hard in a flash. What you said is
divided into flares. So your share of joy will be equal to that of others. Cultivate
atomistic contemplation of the universe.
not fight nature. Do not lean on the things the foot of your soul. Your soul does not turn your head away as the bad boy.
Go in peace with the red light in the morning and the gray glow of the night. Be the dawn mingled with the dusk. Mix
death with life and divide at a time.
not expect the death in you. Be his friend and keep you glued, death is like yourself. Die
your death, do not envy the old deaths. Death rates vary with the types of life. Ten
all things uncertain for living every thing for sure dead. Monelle

And he also said: I will speak of dead things.

carefully burning the dead and cast his ashes to the four winds of heaven. Burning
carefully past actions and crushes the ashes, because the phoenix reborn from them would be the same.
not play with the dead and will not caress your face. Do not laugh at them and do not cry: Forget it.
Be wary of things past. Never mind to build beautiful coffins for the last moments: think of killing the moments to come.
wary of all the bodies.
not kiss the dead, because they choke the living. Please be
dead things respect due to them to stones used for building.
Do not stain your hands over the items expended. Purify your fingers into new waters.
Breathe the breath of your mouth and suck the breath not dead.
not contemplate the past lives other than your previous life. No collections empty envelopes.
in you not wear a cemetery. The dead are pestilence. Monelle

And he also said: you talk about your actions.

That all transmitted cup is made of clay dust in your hands. Broken glass in all that you've had. Blow
lamp life hands you the rider. For every old lamp smokes.
Never legues anything yourself, neither pleasure nor pain.
not be a slave to any clothing, or soul or body.
never hit with the same side of the hand.
Do not contemplate on death; let your image will go to the running water.
Flee the ruins and do not cry in their midst.
When you take off the clothes at night, undress your soul the day, take your clothes off at all times. All
satisfaction will seem threatening. Make this move with a whip.
digieras No recent days, feed on future events.
not confess things past, because they are dead, confessed to you things to come.
not go down to cut the flowers along the road. Be satisfied with any appearance. But lets look and do not look back.
Never look back: moving towards you breathless flames of Sodom and you would become petrified statue tears.
not look behind you. Do not look too far ahead of you. If you look in all white.
Let nothing surprise you, by comparing it in remembrance, that everything you surprised by the novelty of ignorance.
That all things surprise you, because all things are different in life and death similar. Build on the differences
; destroys the similarities.
Do not talk to the stays, and who are neither on earth or heaven.
Reason, which is permanent, destroy, and let you change your sensitivity. Fear not contradict
: No contradiction at the time.
not love your pain, and it will not last.
Think of your nails grow and the flakes of skin falling off. Check
all things to oblivion.
With a steely punch patiently kill you devote your memories, and the former emperor killed flies.
do not take your joy of remembrance into the future.
not remember and do not provide.
not say, work to acquire, but work to forget. Check to forget the acquisition and labor. Rebel
any work, against any activity that exceeds the time, rebel.
That you will not walk from one end to another, as there such a thing, but that each of your steps is a projection corrected.
cleared with your left foot your right foot footprint.
right hand should ignore what has just the right hand.
not you know yourself.
not worry at all about your freedom: forget yourself. Monelle

And he also said: I will speak my words.

Words are words while saying them.
preserved words are dead and breed pestilence.
Go by my words spoken and not act according to my written words.

After talking to me like the plain, Monelle stopped and felt sad because I had to re- sink at night.
And, by far, he said,
Forget and you shall find me.
And I looked and saw the plains rise to Monelle sisters.

Translation Carlos Chamber and Miguel Angel Fronten

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Battistessa

L'Enfant-Jésus of Prague

Il neige. Grand Le monde est mort sans doute. C'est octobre.
Mais bon qu'il fait, mon Dieu, dans la petite chambre!
The chimney full of coals glowing
Colours the ceiling reflects a sleepy
And we only hear the water boiling with little noise.
Up there on the shelf above the two beds,
Under its glass globe, crowned,
One hand holding the world, the other ready
To cover these little ones who put their trust to her,
Any kind in his great coat
solemn and beautiful in this huge yellow hat,
The Infant Jesus of Prague reign and throne.
He is all alone before the fire that illuminates
As the host hiding at the back of the sanctuary,
The Divine Child custody until his little brothers.
unheard as the breath that is exhaled,
The eternal existence fills the room, equal
To all those poor innocent things and naive!
When he is with us no harm comes to us.
can sleep, Jesus, our brother is here.
It is ours, and all these good things too: The doll
wonderful, and the wooden horse,
And the sheep are there in that corner, all three.
And we sleep, but all these good things are ours!
... The curtains are drawn there, nowhere,
In the snow and the night sounds a kind of time. The child in
are lit
chaud comprend qu'il dort avec bonheur et que l'aime quelqu'un qui est là well,
S'agite un peu, vaguement gossip, you sort words, it
Essay of reveille et ne peut pas.

Paul Claudel

The Infant Jesus of Prague

Nieva. The world has certainly dead. It's December.

But in the fourth, oh God, how pleasing the environment!

Full of red charcoal chimney

sleepy shades on the ceiling reflects

And only hear the water boiling

singing on the corner

between the two cots,

niche in glass, edged head.

the world in one hand, and the other hand provides

to cover those children who have confidence in him,

Thank you kindly in her solemn mantle

And great under her golden crown , Queen

the Infant Jesus of Prague, in full pomp.

is alone. The home front illuminates the

As a host in the bottom of the hidden shrine,

his two brothers A Child-God watches. Very

remains as exhaled breath most sweet,

All

eternal life is filling the room,

These poor things innocent and naive.

if he is with us, we will know no sorrow.

Well we sleep, our brother Jesus

are here and with it the best love.

The doll, horse, white carnerito,

There in that corner lie the three together.

And we sleep, but all that is ours!

Cream curtains ... A clock in the distance,

in the snow and the night takes one hour undecided.

The child, in the warmth of her bed, guess

sleeping and there by someone who wants it.

Shake, babbles, a tiny, distended. Try

wake - try, but can not.

Translation JOSE ANGEL Battistessa

Why Does My Pinky Finger Hurt

José Ángel Pablo Neruda, and Donald D. Claude Couffon Walsh lay Rutebeuf

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Rutebeuf

Little is known. Born in Champagne, he lived in Paris in the second half of the thirteenth century. It was a Menestrel he did contract work and living of her singing. His name is merely a pseudonym made up of "dumb" and "ox." Rutebeuf
poetry, minstrel and devout, is made not for singing but for the recitation. The autobiographical character of his verses make him one of the most modern poets throughout the Middle Ages. His work is of a lyric poet that reflects all aspects of his time. A work that speaks to us a menudo there términos conmovedores, del sufrimiento de la vida cotidiana.

Lament Rutebeuf

covient Do not you tell,
How I made following a shame
For though the story did oy
In what way I got my fame
darreniere,
Who bele gente no nen st. At Paine
nasqui
which lasted over a week, she began to moon
plain.
Now hear, that rhymes
You ask me, How I
following are amending
Fame take. I do not
qu'engagier sell,
That I had to hear as
And as a fere
(Quanques I fet is A refers)
That, who would wish retrere,
It durroit too. Fect companion
Diex me a Job, Let me
tolu has one cop
Quanques j'avoie. From
UEIL Destre which Miex veoie, voi
Do I not go the way
Do I drive. At this
dolor dolorous and hard
What I Mieda nuiz
From the dark eye. But I do not
I quanques he wills,
Ainz sui Dolenz and if I moisten
mourning, in great
C'or sui afondement
Se cels
Who having found me one up here
secoru, lor the thank you. The cuer
ve sad and blackened
De cest mehaing, I
Quar n'i not my gaaing voi. But I do not
quanques I Haing:
is my damages. Do
Sai C'a fet my outrage;
devendra Now sober and wise
After the fet
And keep me from forfet;
Més what is it ja as fet?
Tart meus sui, sui
pie me aparceüs
As I sui ja es las
birth attendants is the first year.
gart me in my right eyelash Diex san
us Who ot por Paine and ahan,
And gart me soul!
Golden Child Geu my fame;
My horse broke the jame
Has lists;
Gold wants my money norrice,
Who am I and destraint Pellice
Por child Pestre,
Or brera resell it in the Estre. Cil
Damediex that fist nestra
Li Li doinst Chevance
And sends her sustain a
doinst And I still can aleja
Qu'aidier li,
That does me harm povretez
Miex And his live li destruct
What I do! Se
I m'esmai I can not but have
C'or dousaine do not, in my
meson,
Busch por Ceste seson. If not
esbahiz fu Més hom sui
Com I see, has fled
C'onques not have hands. My
oste wants money for his having
Oste,
And I have almost everything Oste,
And if I were naked li Costé
Against yver.
Cist word to me hard and diversity, which moult me
Chang Li worm
Towards yesteryear;
Por poi n'afol about g'i entan. Do not
m'estuet taner in tan, the Quar
resveil
tane me when I Azzez m'esveil;
If no sai, I was asleep or awakening
Or will I think
What I share my PENR despens
For what can spend tens:
Tel century have Gie. Mi
pledge tuit are committed
And Chiesa desmanagié me, For I
Geu
Three months have seen nului
My child, having fame ra
C'un whole month
My outgoing ra Geu site.
I gisoie endementier
In the other bed,
Or j'avoie lice offense.
Onques my hands m'abelit
Gesir that when, following
Quar I have my fora
And it's sui Mehaigne
Until fenir horns. Li
sEvent only come evil;
Everything has m'estoit future
Was void. What are mid

That friend became so closely held j'avoie
And as im?
I cooked it too cler sow
There were not many Feme
Si are bankrupt.
Itel friend Bailiff me wrong,
C'onques both com Diex
assailed in many a cost, vi
Do one for me Oste.
li vens I cooked them Oste,
The amor is dead. These are
friend enporte vens,
ventoit And my door Its
enporta,
C'onques naked they comforted me
Do nothing from his m'aporta. Ice
m'aprent
auque Who has deprived the prent;
Més eyelash too tart
Who repents too has had its
De por fere friends
it does not trueve whole halves
A SeCorr him. But then fortune
Lerai corre
If I hear a rescorre
Se jel then fere. To my
preudommes m'estuet TRERE
Who Cortois and debonere
me one And Norris. Mi
another friend are tuit porri:
I sent a mestre Orri
And is li lais.
We must of his lais
fere And this gent Lessia relay
Sanz claim, it did
nothing els in bitter
That was in LCTR amor proclaim. He took gold

Who fist three parts of him, who refuse
not set nului
Who Reclaim
Who aeure seignor and the claim, which cels
And tempt that he loves me
That storm,
What I doinst bone health,
What I face his flying
All sanz desroi.
Monseignor is son of King
My words and my lament sending it to me
Mestia,
That moult volentiers Aidi me: This is related
Good Quena
of Poitiers and Toulouse;
It Savr although eyelash if fetement goulouse
Who is doulouse.

Explicit Rustebuef the lament.

Rutebeuf

Rutebeuf Lay

need not tell you how
have put me to shame,
Since you have heard the story of how

wife recently took
That was not easy nor beautiful,
When pain was born
It lasted over a week that began with
already full moon.
Listen, then, that rhymes You
you ask,
As I have improved
Women.
To pawn or sell anything more I have,
A so much I had to answer and so do

(That what I have done is to redo)
What if I wanted
tell all would take too long.
From me the friend of Job, God did that once
off all my
I had.
My right eye that looked more
sees no longer follow the path
not lead me.
Oh, what pain and suffering hard
That dark night is noon
to my eyes.
Now I have as I want,
But suffering and suffering so deeply

in extreme misery Since I
If not help me decide here

Those who have rescued me with his mercy.
The sad I have blackened heart disease

I do not see any profit.
Nothing I have of what I love, is
my sadness.
not know if it was for my excesses,
I have become sober and measured
After the fact,
And start again I will refrain.
"But what's the point if it is done? Afternoon

I've changed I realized later That
trap was already
the first year. That
me keep my sanity
God who for us both and my soul Penile
God protect.
Because a child my wife moans,
My horse against the fence

He broke a leg and requires the nurse to nurse
her more money so let me no skin or coat

To not hear the child in home. That
Good God that brought the world
provides food,
subsistence grant him
And my troubles to me
To help alleviate, poverty
That
And I hurt your bread can find
Better than me .
Although I tremble anything I can,
Now in my house I have nothing I
And even for the winter fire
I have.
very thought makes me tremble at home
Because now I have some logs

not to turn them on in the winter.
Nobody was harassed and never
As I am.
Rent
That requires the owner to pay it.
Almost everything sold at home,
I have nothing to throw me over
In winter. Hard and bitter
are my words,
Both have changed after a year
All my verses.
not understand how I did not freak out
When I think, needless to
When I wake
dye my skin, black
makes me wake up and do not know if I sleep or veil
Or if I think
in how to do to spend less,
Pass time: this is the life that now bears

of my money
And I have nothing left of my house and I have moved
Since I've lain
Three long months have seen nobody,
And my wife had a child
During Full
almost one month death touched
While I lay by my side in the other bed

Where was little delight.
I've never had less pleasure
That then I,
already losing a lot of money
And my body amenguaba
Until the end. Solos
not know come evils
What had to happen happened to me
.
My friends where they went
how close I
me and I loved so much? Too
think the time
The amenguó. Very strong
If they were not lost. Those friends mistreated me

Since the time that God Everywhere

mistreat me, come see me I saw none. I think time
scattered,
Love is dead.
To those friends was
wind blowing outside my door,
And took them so well that nobody

comforted me and gave me that helps anyone.

This shows me our good friend uses the latest
And we realize that too

We spent by friends,
That misfortune there is never any
That we helper.
'll leave it to the Fortuna
Follow
rolling while I think to be saved. I'll beg
protective eating
That
always kindly gave me.
Other friends and rotted,
and shipping Trash Bin
And there I leave,
must learn to give people just
to leave, without asking anything,
Leave it behind.
There is nothing in them that I can
not love than the love of my claim. Please

then He who is still three one
And anyone who claims to refuse

know who proclaims lord and master,
Whoever entices who loves
Such is my case, my health
Whole keep
And I do not rest
His will.
My lord, son of the King, sending
My poems and my pain Since

often helped me a lot of good wins;
is good Count of Poitiers and Toulouse
;
He will know well what needs
Poor man who suffers so much.

Traducción of Miguel Ángel Frontana

Green Unitard Dallas Texas

The Charles-Marie Leconte de Lisle and Rubén Darío

Elves

Crowned thyme and marjoram

joyous elves dancing on the plain.

Trail wooden deer familiar

On a black horse, a knight out.

His spur gold shines in the dark night;

And when he crosses a ray of moonlight shining

We see, a reflection of changing,

On her hair a silver helmet.

Crowned thyme and marjoram

joyous elves dancing on the plain.

They all surround a small swarm

Who in the air hover seems dumb.

- Bold Knight, the serene night,

Where are you going so late? said the young Queen.

evil spirits haunt the forests

Come dance instead on fresh grass.

Crowned with thyme and marjoram

joyous elves dancing on the plain.

- No! my fiancee eyed and sweet

expected, and tomorrow we will be husband.

Let me pass, Elves prairie

Who trample round floral foams;

not dwell far from my love, behold

already daybreak.

Crowned with thyme and marjoram

joyous elves dancing on the plain.

- Rest, Knight. I'll give

Opal magical golden ring,

And what is better than fame and fortune,

My dress spun in the moonlight.

- No! he said. - Go on! - And his white finger

It touches the heart the warrior trembling.

Crowned with thyme and marjoram

joyous elves dancing on the plain.

And under the spur from the dark horse.

He runs, he jumps up and goes without delay;

But the knight shivers and looks;

He sees on the road a white

Who walks quietly and holds out his arms

- Elf, spirit , demon, do not stop!

Crowned with thyme and marjoram

joyous elves dancing on the plain.

Do not stop, obnoxious ghost!

I will marry my beautiful with gentle eyes.

- O my dear husband, the grave eternal

Will our wedding bed, "she said.

I'm dead! - And he, seeing her thus,

anxiety and love fell dead, too.

Crowned with thyme and marjoram

joyous elves dancing on the plain.

CHARLES-MARIE Leconte de Lisle

Los Elfos

tomillo De hierbas y Rústicas Coronados,

los Alegres Elfos Bailan en los Prados.

the forest for hard and narrow path

dark horse in motion a gentleman.

His spurs shine at night bruna,

and, when he wraps his lightning moon

gleaming with bright flashing lights

silver helmet on his hair.

herbs thyme and rustic crowned

cheerful elves dancing in the meadows.

What light swarm all around him,

and moved swiftly into the air tacking.

"gentle knight, Dó going so fast?"

question Queen soft smile.

find ghosts and dragons everywhere;

see, and we will dance in the blue prairie.

herbs thyme and rustic crowned

cheerful elves dancing in the meadows.

"No! My fiancee, the beautiful eyes,

awaits me, and tomorrow we will be married.

Let me continue, Elves delighted

that holláis sheer moss in lawns.

Away, I'm away from my beloved, and

and brilliance of the day are announced. "

herbs thyme and rustic crowned

joyful dancing in the Elves meadows.

"It is, sir, I will give unto you choose

magical opal, the golden rings

and what better than fame and fortune:

my skirt, woven with moonbeams. "

"No," he says. "Then go!" And his white finger

touches your heart and infúndele fear.

herbs thyme and rustic crowned

cheerful elves dancing in the meadows.

And the dark horse, feeling the spur,

hand, runs, jumps, flies without delay;

but the knight, trembling, lean:

looks over a white path

the arms tends marching noiselessly.

"Let me, O demon, elf cursed!"

herbs thyme and rustic crowned

cheerful elves dancing in the meadows.

"Allow me, always hated ghost!

I will marry my fiancee. "

" Oh, my beloved husband, the grave perennial

be our solemn wedding bed! "

" I died! "Says her, and he, desperate

anguish of love and falls dead at his side.

herbs thyme and rustic crowned

cheerful elves dancing in the meadows.

RUBEN DARIO

Mastrabating In The Shower

René Ghil: Arriving late at night

In m'en Venant de nuit au tard ...

Venant In m'en tard de nuit au
be sont les éteint Etelle:
ah! they ne sont-elles roses
tard au rosier
my boredom and my lover, she is loving me
died in a midnight.

To hear me weep aloud
to the highest ground
night the nightingale does silence:
him and that is it me instead
and his lover never lies and that she
in die in abalone.

On my way to late night
went out the Etel
tell him, my dear Mother, that the bird likes
any spring.
But you put the whole earth
my only love and my twenty years ...

Rene Ghil

Coming late in the evening ...

Coming late in the evening went off

wood residues:

Ay! Why, later,

roses do not bloom in the rose of my torment,

Why, love me, did not know

At midnight die my lover?

To hear screaming and crying,

night in the deepest ground,

silence the nightingale does not want.

And why would not I be it,

Your lover may not lie and she

He does not die in the elm tree?

Coming late in the evening went off

wood residues:

You tell them, Mother tender,

That bird always loves spring.

My only love, my twenties

Together

put on earth ... Translation

Miguel Angel Fronten

Average Dress Size In Japan

Paul Verlaine and Manuel Machado 2

Mon rêve familier

I often have this strange and penetrating dream

one unknown woman and I love and who loves me

And that is, each time, not quite the same, while Ni

in fact another who loves me and understands me.

Because she understands me and my heart, transparent

For her alone, alas! ceases to be a problem

For her alone, and the sweat of my brow,

She only knows how to cool, crying.

Is it brown, blonde or redhead? I do not know.

His name? I remember it is sweet and sound

As those that loved life exiled.

Her gaze is like the gaze of the statues,

And his voice distant, so calm and grave, she

The inflection of dear voices that were silenced.

Paul Verlaine

My dream pet read by Francois Perier

Mi sueño familiar

a menudo el sueño Tengo extraño y penetrating,

una desconocida I love and who loves me

and is not always or entirely the same nor completely

other and loves me and understands me.

Because she understands me, and my heart

transparent to herself, alas! longer a problem,

for herself and the burner of my pale face

she knows just freshen crying.

Is brown, blond or red? I do not know.

name? I remember that sound is sweet and

as the beloved who banished life.

His look is similar to the statues look

and his voice distant and quiet y serious tiene

the inflection las voces han Callado that querida.

MANUEL MACHADO

Tax Credit Fordonated Car

Robert de Montesquiou and Luis Antonio de Villena

NOTICE

you who dislike the air of delightful roses

Avoid this garden where flowers do little;

Where the exhortation of the blue hydrangea,

Chilly, gloomy corymbs its blossoms.

hydrangeas whose blue light is late

disgracing the bee and scare sparrows,

inconspicuous And, around the front of its hero, What

bats throughout a league.

Swarms mysterious, enigmatic flowers

Snowballs glaucous and dragonfly atrocious

Bee silence ray colorless,

Who made his solitary and fierce honey

where the massive moon has left her pallor

Falling from the heavens, his pale coach.

Robert de Montesquiou

ADVERTENCIA

that gustas Tú sólo el aire encantador de las rosas,

evita este jardín in bloom soon,

where the call of the blue hydrangea,

chilly, is expanding its corymbs arrears.

whose light blue Hydrangeas

dead bee to shame and dread of the sparrow, and do not attract

on the front of his heroes, but bats

over a league.

Swarms mysterious, enigmatic flowers

snowballs glauca and dragonfly atrocious

bee silent, colorless ray,

that makes her lonely and wild honey in the parterre

in the moon dejo caer su Palor

, alto cielo, su palid Carroz.

Versión of Luis Antonio de Villena

Dilated Cervix For Dogs

Stéphane Mallarmé and Proust

windows

Tired of sad hospital, and foul incense
Who rises in the ordinary white curtains
Towards the large crucifix weary of empty wall,
The moribund surnois straightens an old back

drags and goes less to heat their
rot than to see the sun on the stones, glue
The white hair and bones the thin face
the windows a beautiful ray light tan wants,

And the mouth, feverish and azure blue voracious
This young, she went to her breathe treasure
skin and once virginal! From a long foul
bitter kiss the warm tiles of gold.

Drunk, he lives, forgetting the horrors of the holy oils, herbal teas
, the clock and the bed inflicted
cough, and when the night is bleeding from the tiles,
His eye on the horizon light gorged,

Sees galleys gold, beautiful as swans
on a river of crimson and of perfumes sleep In
cradling the tawny flash and rich in their lines in a large
nonchalance loaded with memory!

Thus, taken from the disgust of the man with the soul lasts
Sprawled in happiness, where his selfish
Eat, and insists on looking for that junk
To offer the woman suckling her young,

I am and I cling to every window
Hence it rotates the shoulder to life, and blessed
In their glass, washed eternal dews, gilded by the morning
chaste Infinity

I focus see me and angel! and I die, and I
- That the glass be art or mysticism -
To be reborn, wearing my dream tiara
In heaven where earlier blossoms Beauty!

But, alas! Here below is the master: his obsession
Just sickens me sometimes to this safe haven, and vomiting
impure Stupidity
me strength to hold my nose to the sky.

Is there a way, oh I know that the bitterness
to drive the crystal
insulted by the monster and run away with my two featherless wings
- At the risk of tomber pendant l'éternité?

Stephane Mallarme

windows

Tired of the hospital and smelling incense That

trivial amounts in the white curtains

Towards

Wall cross-weary solitude

Their backs up the man in agony,

Creeps and is not so much by his wounds

warm to see the sun much closer, to stick, With the gray

and bones of his lean figure,

Al crystal bright large windows,

And feverish mouth, azure blue anxious

Tal, young breathed his pleasure more valuable

- A virgin skin and other time! -

tarnishes

With long kiss sour the warm glass of gold.

Drunk, lives, oblivious to the horror of the oils,

Clock, teas, and even the bed done,

cough, when the later bleeds on the tiles,

His eye, the horizon full of brightness,

Go

gold galleries, beautiful swans,

Asleep on a river purple and fragrant, Rocking

tawny reflections of their lines

In a large lazy loaded with nostalgia!

So with disgust by hard man,

mired in pleasures that their appetites

eat alone, and still looking for that mud

to give the nursing mother to her children,

I flee, run away and cling to all windows

Wherever the back to live, blessed,

in your glass, wash sprays

eternal morning Dora Infinite breed.

I look and I see angel lay down and wish

"That the glass is the art, or mysticism-

flaunting my dream Reborn which

headband above In heaven Beauty in bloom.

Mas ay! The Here-below is the master, their treatment is often disgusted

often even in this quiet,

And with their unclean Stupidity makes me vomit

to cover my face in front of the azure.

Is there any way, oh Yo you know the anguish,

to sink and the monster that has insulted the glass-run

And then, with my wings without feathers,

A risk of eternity? Translation

JOSE ANGEL Battistessa

Anti Freeze Patch Pokemon Soul Silver Usa

Battistessa José Ángel : The infusion of Aunt Léonie-final version and four sketches

is known the giddy way Proust wrote several versions of a page. Versions that are authentic musical variations. We chose for this blog an unforgettable page of "La recherche" with the four sketches that precede it.

La Tante Léonie tisane

Au bout d'un moment, l'j'entrais embrasser, Françoise faisait infuser are thé, ou, if important ma felt restless, she asked her tea instead, and it was I who was responsible for dropping the bag of pharmacy in a plate the amount of lime that was then put in boiling water. The desiccation of the stems had twisted them into a fantastic trellis in which the interlacing pale flowers opened, as if a painter had arranged, had been asked of the most ornamental. The leaves have lost or changed their appearance, seemed the most disparate things, a transparent wing of a fly on the underside of a white label, a rose petal, but had been stacked , crushed or plaited, as in making a nest. A thousand trifling little details - the charming prodigality pharmacist - they had removed a dummy preparation, gave me, like a book where we marvel to meet the name of an acquaintance, the pleasure of understanding that was stems many real limes, like those I saw Avenue de la Gare, altered, precisely because they were not duplicates, but themselves and they had aged. And each new character is there that the metamorphosis of an ancient character, in small gray balls I recognized the green buttons that do not come forward; but especially the pink glow, moon and that was sweet up the blossoms among the frail forest of stems from which they hung like little golden roses - a sign, like the gleam that shows still on a wall instead of a mural erased the difference between the parts of the tree that had been "colored" and those who did not - showed me that these petals were those who flourish before the bag had balmy night pharmacy Spring. The flame rose candle, yet it was their color, but half off and deadened in the diminished life what was now theirs and that is like the twilight of flowers. Soon my aunt could soak in the boiling infusion she savored the taste of dead leaf or flower faded a little madeleine she handed me a piece when it was sufficiently softened.

Sketches

I

was the hour when my aunt took her tea. Françoise shaking the bag was dropped on the pharmacy shelf flowering stems, as drying had retracted, curved, made stiff and fragile. Master drawing ever have, intertwined stems, leaves and flowers of strawberry or purple so let them go along with all their charm, the power of the decorative effect he thinks he can draw from the variety offered and the plant where he thought he could unravel a pattern matching and opposition seemed only decorative and "posed" as was the tea. The drying of the stems had twisted, receding, stiffened in arabesques that could have been deformed without breaking them, and they were the most capricious, the most fragile, but also the best designed, most fixed trellises. Torn and jagged by age, some green, others so white we took them first to a piece of paper, like other roses wild rose petals, leaves seemed put here and there with this disorder full of art that are idle at the pile in a nest where the rods worn, bent imitated, seemed to braid for felting. But what pleased me most was the multitude of flowers as many as in a hawthorn bush. How the rods were bent, had brought in large numbers through the cracks of this small grid where the stem end of each twig, the birth of each leaf green or pink, in all corners of the trellis those provisions bloomed, numerous, flattened, regular, like the drawing of a chasuble which had been painted on a symmetrical, showing the tacking their pistils, their little pink gold. Gold is in fact that in contrast to the stems and leaves, the flowers appeared, but a gold where there was the pink petals at the bottom of this hot freckle held by some old lace, and red and green flowers still not open, especially in the buttons. Because everything had survived, slender pistils of gauze between the petals as the legs of a fly crushed between its wings translucent, hard little buttons that did not come to maturity, abnormal outgrowths of the stem to the failure of the flower, these thousand unnecessary features that had not submitted a design, a reconstruction, a simulation of the plant, all these are traits that the plant itself and that the change in the desiccation and death had caused them and that was even better that it was the plant itself that it was made me say, but it's her. Tel strand twisted but its stalk; such small ball hardened but a button as freckles brighter but the transposition of the yellow petals of the flower is where all wet if it crushes. Because it was so the plant itself as I watched her extended along the Vivonne a hot day, everything that had left its mark, it remained the same color, yet so powerful that it was small shells or crumpled flowers next to the dry stems alabaster.

II

was the hour when my aunt took her tea. Françoise while the water heated in the kettle took a packet of the pharmacist. I was instructed to take myself how much it had dried stems and flowers. The desiccation of the stems, giving them the most capricious curves, then by making these curves so steep and so fragile that the had broken rather than redress, the mingled in a kind of trellis, in the foliage which flowers bloomed in folded as many as in a hawthorn bush, with this symmetry, this stylization in the truth as we could not get more of a great painter, which ask to get the maximum effect decorative leaves, stems and flowers [interrupted]

Desiccation of stems had twisted into arabesques and he then cured by a kind of graceful trellis where the development of symmetrical flowers folded reminded to drawings in which a teacher tries to put the stem, leaves and flowers of the same plant as the finest and most decorative. Here and there a piece of rod was so yellow it looked like a straw so frayed that we would have thought a piece of string, and attached to the perforated sheets together, the others remained oval, became white to believe that a pharmacist's label had fallen para error in the bag, and all other roses, wild rose petals as giving the idea of different materials stacked to the bird to nest, they imitated by how they felting stems here and there, under the guise of art ingenious hidden disorder. But what gave the small forest of alabaster, transparent, intricate and fragile clarity of dawn were the flowers. At first they seemed to be painted on a gold chasuble, with tacking their pistils. But again had any differential drying, showed some pistils between black translucent petals like antennae and legs fly crushed between their wings, others still in bud, depending on the degree of maturation where were the surprises death were as yellow broom, green like a green fruit, red like an anemone, some like cherries were forming small clumps approaching soft, caressing posing coaxingly head on one another like children who laugh and we want to embrace, and most strawberry like flowers that we have killed at sunset and would have kept the saffron-ray decline, were like a golden antique lace, a little crumpled, almost red, with all the clothes, all added their stamens openwork.

III

was the hour when my aunt took her tea, Françoise put water in the kettle to heat and if I then I had the privilege to overthrow the package where the pharmacist were the dried stems and flowers and take what was needed for brewing. I've never seen anything more charming than this package of pharmacy. Curved rods and formed a hardened fantastic trellis in the tracery of which bloomed like flowers in a drawing master who tried to ask stems, leaves and flowers, the most beautiful and most decorative possible the different aspects that the degree of dryness gave yellow rods here looked like a straw and then a frayed piece of string, and leaves as one white an oval label fell backwards by mistake in the package plant to pharmacy, the other pink as a wild rose petal, all assembled, stockpiled in its diversity as does a bird to its nest, and the persistence of a mile small features and unnecessary plant weathered but recognizable, which showed that it was not a preparation plant, a reconstruction of the plant, a simulation of the plant, but the plant itself, as you can 'was regarded in the shade when we were lying under the trees on a hot day, every twig, every size, every nuance was that the current form a stalk, a tail and a button that had not matured, the deeper color where it would have crushed the flower out without making an orange liqueur, these little flowers that if looked more closely were based on the degree of hatching they were dead, yellow as gorse, dressed like flowers with stamens of strawberry, red as anemones, red like old lace, like a strawberry flower that we have killed at bedtime and would have kept her on the cup Saffron declining rays in clusters whose grains were caressing, bent their heads pensively against each other ; Some translucent petals kept between their dark pistils like a fly with legs and antennae are crushed between the wings, but all of which contrasted so vividly on the stems and leaves that they all seemed the same, gold , rose gold, as painted on a jumpers, basting with their stamina and I knew nothing more charming than this infusion, this small grove of alabaster, inextricable, translucent and fragile these sweet pink gold ; was decorative as a design of a master who is posed this way both the most ornamental and most natural, stems, flowers and leaves reduced to one over the others was sweet like a nest woven of the most diverse things, but mostly it was where it was like a flowery glade was like a rose gold setting, and that gold was only the survival of petal color, brightness difference with its alabaster stem meant transposed the immense difference there is between the rest of the plant when she saw and flesh color of the flower of the flower that is said incorrectly that 'there is nothing left, it loses its colors, since when I was all dried thrown into boiling water to which they would give a taste faded, they still kept just as necessary in a kind of twilight the warm colors whereby their bouquets bloomed this bag of tea as a summer afternoon.

IV

Here and there broken parts of the stems and yellowed leaves or shredded white and pink seem intertwined as to felt a nest, be the most diverse things, a straw, a piece of string, a label oval stumbled in the package plant, a rose petal, the smallest features of the plant weathered but recognizable, showed that it was not a reconstruction, a development, a simulation of the plant itself but itself as it was and what she had become. Without too much trial and error was recognized in a small yellow hull a button that would open when the plant was dead, in a capsule like a red anemones, fruit that had not come to maturity, this small bunch of small balls with capsules as red anemones pose dreamily his head against each other as the heads of tender children are seeds that have not come to maturity. These black son squashed between the petals like antennas and pasta fly between their wings are the pistils and stamens But especially this bright flowers that makes them separate from everything else, painted in gold on a jumper with the foliage of their stamens, is the survival of the meaning, the abstract-like gold is rising replaces the bright colors of the dawn-of these colors that were so essentially different from the rest of the plant and that even now they shine in the same forest translucent and fragile like little golden roses parted, hardly tarnished by a kind of twilight, like scorched shells of old lace and made this bag of Pharmacy (where I was going to plunge into boiling water to which they would a Fané goût) où les bouquets jouaient rêveurs, où les coupes s'ouvraient ébréchées de rose et d'or, fleurissant et doux comme un jour d'été.

Marcel Proust (Du côté de chez Swann)

The infusion of Aunt Léonie

After

a while I went to kiss him, Françoise he made tea, or, if my aunt was agitated, he asked his tea instead, and I was in charge of turning the pharmacy bag on a plate the amount of lime which then had to throw in boiling water. The stems, when dried, had curved, forming a lattice whose whimsical entanglement would have the flowers pale, as if the painter had been provided, the had placed in the most ornamental. The leaves, which had changed its appearance or had lost, seemed like the most dissimilar the transparent wing of a fly, back, blank label, the petal of a rose, but they had been stacked, flattened or twisted as in making a nest. Mil-lovely little things useless prodigality pharmacist, which had been abolished in artificial preparation, gave me, like a book in which we wonder to find the name of someone you know, the pleasure of understanding that stems of lime trees were really authentic, like the ones I saw in the Avenue de la Gare, altered, precisely because they were not imitations but themselves and because they aged. And as each new feature was not in them than the metamorphosis of an ancient trait, I recognized in the gray ball of green buds have not developed, but above all the rosy glow, soft lunar and brought out the flowers in the fragile forest of stems that were hung like little golden roses-sign, as el claror que sigue revelando en un muro el sitio que ocupaba un fresco borrado, de la diferencia entre las partes del árbol que habían sido “en color” y las que no lo habían sido— me mostraba que aquellos pétalos eran realmente los que, antes de adornar la bolsa de la farmacia, habían perfumado las noches de primavera. Esa llama rosada de cirio seguía siendo su color, pero a medias apagado y adormecido en esa vida disminuida que era ahora la suya, y que es como el crepúsculo de las flores. Poco después mi tía podía mojar en la infusión hirviente, cuyo gusto a hoja muerta o a flor marchita saboreaba, una pequeña madalena, de la que me tendía un pedacito cuando ya estaba lo bastante blando.

preparatory versions

I

was the time when my aunt took her tea. Françoise, shaking the bag from the pharmacy, did fall into the tray than flowering stems, when dried, had shrunk, curved, becoming rigid and brittle. Never has a picture of a great artist, to have at crisscrossing the stems, leaves and flowers of strawberry or violet so that they can express at the same time that all his natural charm all the power he decorative effect thinks he can get the variety that gives the plant and where he thought he could distinguish one element from similarity and opposition, it seemed as ornamental and "armed" as it was that tea. The stems, when dried, were bent, shriveled, hardened forming arabesques that were not able to deform without breaking, were the most capricious, the most fragile, but also the best drawn, the strongest of the trellis. Broken and worn by age, some green, others as white which I took for a piece of paper, others in pink as briar rose petals, the leaves seemed placed here and there, so artistic that mess that the birds piled in a nest in which the spent stems, twisted, imitated, seemed braid for plush. But what I liked most was the many flowers, so like a hawthorn. The way in which the stems had bent the had gathered in large numbers in the interstices of the small grid of the stems where the tip of each twig, at the birth of each leaf green or pink, all angles of the lattice, were opened, numerous, flattened, regular, and the design of a chasuble in which they had been painted symmetric intervals, revealing the interwoven with their pistils, their little pink gold. Gold, in effect, in contrast to the stems and leaves seemed to be flowers but gold in that there was some pink on the bottom of the corolla, the warm red with some old lace, and red and green flowers not completely open, especially in the buds. Because everything had survived, pistils thin gauze between the petals as a fly's legs crushed between its wings translucent, hard pimpollitos had not reached maturity, abnormal growths of the stem instead of the flower, those thousand useless peculiarities not had submitted a design, a reconstruction, a simulation of the plant, all those traits that are the plant itself and that under the change desiccation and death had caused them, and showed even better than it really was the plant itself, made me say, but if she is. Some twisted blade, but if your plumule; some ball hard, but it is a bud, a more vivid red, but yellow is the transposition of the flower petals where it is very wet if it is crushed. Since it was so much the same ground as I watched her lying on the banks of the Vivonne on a hot day, all she had left their mark, and which persisted even its color, was so intense that even the flowers gold small wrinkled shells beside the dry stalks of alabaster.

II

was the time when my aunt took her tea. Françoise, while boiling water, took a package from the pharmacist. I was responsible for removing the needed amount of dried stems and blossoms. The drying of the stems, giving them more whimsical curves, and then returning those curves so rigid and fragile that one could've broken before straightening, the mixing in a kind of lattice, in which ornamental flowers opened in bent number as large as in a hawthorn bush, with a symmetry, a stylization in truth I could not have overcome a great painter, providing for maximum effect decorative leaves, stems and flowers [here is interrupted]

The drying of stems forming curved arabesques had then had hardened, making them a kind of delicate trellis bent the flowers, opening the way symmetrical, suggested in the drawings in which a teacher tries to provide the stem, leaves and flowers of the same plant as more beautiful and decorative. Here and there the tip of a stem was so beige that looked like a straw so frayed that it had taken over a piece of string, and attached to the leaves, a few puffs, others retained their oval shape, so that white that had become could believe that a pharmacist's label had fallen by mistake into the bag, and other entirely rosy, as briar rose petals, giving the idea of the diverse materials that piles up the bird to its nest, whose witty and hidden art mimicked by the way cake stems here and there, under the appearance of disorder. But what gave the grove of alabaster, transparent, inextricable and frail, their clarity of dawn, were the flowers. At first glance looked like gold, and painted in a chasuble, with interwoven with their pistils. But there also had differential drying everything from black pistils showed some petals translucent as antennae and legs of flies crushed between his wings, others still in bud, depending on the degree of maturation in which death had caught were yellow as the Broom, green as green fruit, red as an anemone and some like cherries soft clusters were gathered, they caressed, resting her head affectionately on one another like children who make us laugh and we feel like kissing, and most, like strawberry flowers had been plucked from the sunset and they had preserved saffron shrinking ray, were golden as old lace, a little crumpled, almost red, with all the dapper, all the adornment of their stamens drafts.

III

was the time when my aunt took her tea. Françoise put water to boil in the kettle and I, if there, had the privilege of dumping the contents of the package pharmacist who were the dried stems and blossoms and take from it the amount required for infusion. I've never seen anything more charming than this package of pharmacy. The stems were bent and hardened a whimsical interweaving lattice in which flowers were open and in the drawing of a great artist who has tried to have stems, leaves and flowers of the most beautiful and decorative as possible, the various aspects that the degree of drying gave the stems, yellow here, looked like a piece of straw and frayed beyond a piece of string, and leaves one as a white oval label, seen upside down, falling by plant bug in the package of pharmacy pink the other as a briar rose petal, all that together in their diversity as a bird makes its nest, the persistence of thousand small and useless traits of the plant, altered but recognizable, and showed that it was an elaboration of plant, a reconstruction of the plant, a simulation of the plant but the plant itself, as we had looked in the shade, lying under the trees on a hot day; every twig, every thickness, every nuance was but the current form of a stalk, an outgrowth of a bud that had not matured, deeper color where there have been possible without crushing the flower out of it a liquid orange, those flowers which, if looked at more closely, were, according to the degree of hatching they had to die, such as broom yellow, stamens and flowers adorned with strawberry-red anemones, red and old lace, as strawberry flower that had been torn from the sun and had kept in his cup saffron shrinking ray in the form of branches whose fruit is cherished and bent dreamily heads toward each other, some of whose petals, pistils his dark translucent like a fly whose legs and antennae are crushed between the wings, but all of which highlighted so clearly on the stems and leaves that looked all the same, gold , rose gold, as painted on a chasuble, with interwoven with their stamina, I do not know anything more adorable than that infusion, that this small leaved alabaster, inextricable, translucent and fragile, these roses dusted with gold, was something decorative and a picture of a great artist who has as at once more natural and more ornamental, stems, leaves and flowers piled upon each other, it was something soft as a nest composed of various things, but it was there, especially where it looked like undergrowth flourished, it was a sunset pink gold, and that gold was only the survival of the color of the petals, the difference brightness between him and alabaster stem meant transposing the immense difference between the rest of the plant when it is alive and flesh colored the flower of the flower, with inaccuracy, it is said that there is nothing left to lose color, because in the time, dried, I would put them into the boiling water, which was going to get a taste faded, still preserved, just outlined, as a kind of twilight, the warm colors with their blooming bouquets that bag of tea as a summer afternoon.

IV

Here and there, broken parts or frayed yellow stems and leaves appeared to be white or pink quilting intertwined to a nest, things seemed to be more diverse, a blade straw, a piece of string, a label oval fall by chance in the package plant, a rose petal, the lower features of the plant, altered but recognizable, showed that it was not a reconstruction, a development, a simulation plant but herself, she same as it had been and what had changed. Without hesitating too could be recognized in a yellow peel a bud that would open at the time the plant was dead in a red capsule as an anemone, a fruit that had not reached the time, this bunch of balls whose red capsules pose dreamily as anemones heads on each other, as the heads of tender children are seeds that did not reach the time. They crushed black wires from the petals like antennae and legs of flies its wings are the pistils and stamens, but above all, the brightness of the flowers that makes stand out from all the rest, painted with gold as a chasuble with the foliage of the stamens, is subsistence, meaning, short-and gold of the dawn replaces the bright colors of the aurora, "of those colors that were so fundamentally different from the rest of the plant and that now shines in the same forest still translucent and fragile as gold roses ajar, just overshadowed by a sort of twilight, as Reddish buds of old lace, and became the pharmacy bag (which I was going to rush into the boiling water , which would give him a taste faded), which moved the branches dreamers, which opened the cups chipped pink and gold, flourishing and warm como un día de verano.

Traducción of Carlos Cámara y Miguel Ángel Frontana