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Silly Sunshine

Enivrez-vous

A brief and very silly conversation on Twitter brought this poem to mind. As it happens, I was thinking that the expression, "la petite mort" is less apt for me personally than something like "enivré de l'amour." A really good parallel example if you can be natural and sensible and not easily offended, is the look on a baby's face just after he's finished nursing at his mother's breast. I've seen that exact look on a grown man's face. 


The translation is not my own; I'm thinking of working it over slightly, just for fun. But this is my favorite published one, from an old novel, name of which I do not recollect at the moment. It's not as literal as some translations, and therefore captures the original sentiment better.

(a. I'm still following along here, I promise and b. going to post some more silly lists later and this week.)

Be always drunken. 


Nothing else matters: 

that is the only question. 

If you would not feel the horrible burden of Time

weighing on your shoulders 

and crushing you to the earth, 

be drunken continually.


Drunken with what? 

With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you will. 

But be drunken.


And if sometimes, 

on the stairs of a palace, 

or on the green side of a ditch, 

or in the dreary solitude of your own room, 

you should awaken 

and the drunkenness be half or wholly slipped

away from you, 

ask of the wind, 

or of the wave, 

or of the star,

or of the bird, 

or of the clock, 

or whatever flies, 

or sighs, 

or

rocks, 

or sings, 

or speaks, 

ask what hour it is; 

and the wind,

wave, 

star,

bird, 

clock, 

will answer you: 

"It is the hour to be drunken! 

Be drunken, 

if you would not be martyred slaves of Time; 

be drunken continually! 

With wine, with poetry, or with

virtue, as you will."


Enivrez-Vous 


Il faut 'tre toujours ivre.

Tout est l':

c'est l'unique question.

Pour ne pas sentir

l'horrible fardeau du Temps

qui brise vos 'paules

et vous penche vers la terre,

il faut vous enivrer sans tr've.

Mais de quoi?

De vin, de po'sie, ou de vertu, ' votre guise.

Mais enivrez-vous.

Et si quelquefois,

sur les marches d'un palais,

sur l'herbe verte d'un foss',

dans la solitude morne de votre chambre,

vous vous r'veillez,

l'ivresse d'j' diminu'e ou disparue,

demandez au vent,

' la vague,

' l'toile,

' l'oiseau,

' l'horloge,

' tout ce qui fuit,

' tout ce qui g'mit,

' tout ce qui roule,

' tout ce qui chante,

' tout ce qui parle,

demandez quelle heure il est;

et le vent,

la vague,

l''toile,

l'oiseau,

l'horloge,

vous r'pondront:

"Il est l'heure de s'enivrer!

Pour n're pas les esclaves martyriss du Temps,

enivrez-vous;

enivrez-vous sans cesse!

De vin, de po'sie ou de vertu, ' votre guise."


Charles Baudelaire


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