Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391)


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Fischer Verlag , vol. XXX, no. Schabelitz , Starry Night: Van Gogh at the Asylum. London: White Lion, BAJU, Anatole. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, New edition. London: Freedom Press, Statism and Anarchy, ed. First published anonymously in , in Switzerland. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, VI, nos. Carnaval des apparences, ou nouveaux commencements? BALL, Hugo. Zur Kritik der deutschen Intelligenz. Berne: Der freie Verlag, Hans Dieter Zimmermann. Paris and Geneva: Librairie de J. Barbezat, Paris: Hippolyte Souverain, Musique: Habiter le temps.

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Leipzig: Friedrich Fleischer, Ruby Cohn, pp. The Letters of Samuel Beckett, ed. The Grove Centenary Edition, ed. Paul Auster, vol. In Disjecta, pp. Words and Music. The Grove Centenary Edition, vol. III: Dramatic Works, pp. Vathek, conte arabe. Music, Modernity, and God: Essays in Listening. Gesammelte Schriften, vol. II: Klang und Eros, and vol. III: Neue Musik. Stuttgart and Berlin: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, and , respectively.

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Berlin: Verlag Alfred Richard Meyer, I: Gedichte 1, ed. Nach dem Nihilismus. Berlin: Gustav Kiepenheuer Verlag, III: Prosa 1 , ed. Der neue Staat und die Intellektuellen. Henssel Verlag , no. V: Prosa 3 , ed. Souvenirs sur Henri Bergson.

Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music

XXIII, no. XCIX, no. Fernand Braudel, vol. Paris: Librairie Armand Colin, Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, Paris: Presses universitaires de France, Paris: Librairie Charles Delagrave, Remembering the Future. Les Grotesques de la musique. Paris: A. Bourdilliat et Cie, Voyage musical en Allemagne et en Italie. Paris: Jules Labitte, Paris: Centre national de la danse, Paris: Jean-Pierre Delarge, Crystallizing Public Opinion.

Preface by Johannes Goebel. Dietz , vol. XIII, pt. Gomorrhe, Paris: Chez Charles, Preface by Paul Verlaine. Paris: Alphonse Piaget, VII, no. Preface by Jean Wahl. LXII , pp. Berlin: Wegweiser-Verlag, XX, no. Translated by Jacob Sloan. In Revealment and Concealment: Five Essays, pp. Jerusalem: Ibis Editions, Translated by Jeffrey M.

In Revealment and Concealment, pp. The History of the Greek and Roman Theater. Second edition, revised and enlarged. Clark, Die unendliche Heilung: Aby Warburgs Krankengeschichte, ed. Chantal Marazia and Davide Stimilli. London: T. Becket and P. In Essais et Portraits, pp. Paris: Librairie Stock, Frederick the Great: King of Prussia. London: Allen Lane, Spaces Speak, Are You Listening?

Experiencing Aural Architecture. Geist der Utopie. Gesamtausgabe, vol. Munich: Kurt Wolff Verlag, Jahrhunderts, mit besonderer Beziehung auf die Lehre von der Psychopathia Sexualis. Berlin: Verlag von H. Barsdorf, Studien zur Geschichte des menschlichen Geschlechtslebens, vol. Berlin: Verlag von Max Harrwitz, Das Sexualleben unserer Zeit in seinen Beziehungen zur modernen Kultur. Berlin: Louis Marcus Verlagsbuchhandlung, Charlottenburg: Verlag von H.

Die Prostitution. Handbuch der gesamten Sexualwissenschaft in Einzeldarstellungen, vol. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, Pluriverse: An Essay in the Philosophy of Pluralism. Preface by Horace Meyer Kallen. Boston: Marshall Jones Company, Joseph Bollery and Jacques Petit. VIII, ed. Jacques Petit. IX, ed. Le Salut par les Juifs. Paris: Librairie Adrien Demay, Le Sang du pauvre. Sueur de sang VI, ed. Published in Briefe, , ed. Stendhal et le beylisme. Sesto San Giovanni: Mimesis Edizioni, Briefe aus Paris. Six volumes.

Brunet, , for the latter four. Inge and Peter Rippmann, vol. Darmstadt: Joseph Melzer Verlag, Heine: Ungedruckte Stellen aus den Pariser Briefen. Jewish Music and Modernity. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, Absolute Music: The History of an Idea. Das Buch Joram. Munich: J. Deschler, Gesammelte Werke, Prosa II, ed. Marie L. Borchardt, with the assistance of Ernst Zinn, pp. XV, no. In El Aleph, pp.

Buenos Aires: Editorial Losada, Obras completas, ed. Carlos V. Le Langage musical. Essais de psychologie contemporaine. Paris: E. Nouveaux Essais de psychologie contemporaine. Education and Living. Collected in Untimely Papers, ed. James Oppenheim, pp. Huebsch, Youth and Life. Liber de nichilo. In the collection of his works published in Paris by Henri Estienne in , pp. Pierre Magnard. Paris: Librairie Philosophique J. Vrin, Philipsens Forlag , vol. Samlede Skrifter, vol. Copenhagen: Gyldendalske Boghandels Forlag F. Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag, Jan Knopf and Brigitte Versuche, vol.

Werke, vol. Jan Knopf and Gabriele Knopf, pp. Composed between and Der gute Mensch von Sezuan. Berlin: Suhrkamp Verlag, Der kaukasische Kreidekreis. Svendborger Gedichte. London: Malik-Verlag, Jan Knopf, pp. Der Philister vor, in und nach der Geschichte: Scherzhafte Abhandlung. Berlin: n. Werke, ed. Marguerite Bonnet, with the. Kampen: Kok Pharos Publishing House, Studies in Philosophical Theology, no.


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The Prison: A Dialogue. London and Edinburgh: Williams and Norgate, The Statuette and the Background. London: Imprinted by John Windet, Paris: chez A. Amherst: Humanity Books, Victor Delbos. Les Sceptiques grecs. Paris: Imprimerie nationale, Filippo Giunti, pp. Florence: Apresso li Heredi di Bernardo Giunti, Pietro Magrini, pp.

Rime in burla, ed. Franca Petrucci Nardelli, pp. Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, Luca Martini. Included in Li Capitoli faceti, pp. Rime in burla, pp. Three Gothic Novels, ed. Sydney Krause, pp. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, Israel and Hellas. Preface by Otto Kaiser. Allan C. Dooley, et al. Dooley, Susan E. Dooley, and John Berkey. LXXXI, no. Le Roman naturaliste. Der Judenhass und die Juden. Die Lehre von den Geistigen und vom Volke. Spinoza gegen Kant, und die Sache der geistigen Wahrheit. Berlin: Karl Schnabel Verlag, BUCH, Esteban. IV, no. London: Sampson Low, Son, and Marston, III , pp.

VI , pp. XI , pp. XII , pp. Kurzer Hand-Commentar zum Alten Testament, sec. LXXXV, no. Arbeit und Rhythmus. Leipzig: Verlag Emmanuel Reinicke, Werke: Kritische Gesamtausgabe, vol. Josef Oswald, pp. III: Literarische und publizistische Schriften, ed. Griechische Kulturgeschichte, ed. Jacob Oeri. Berlin and Stuttgart: Verlag von W. Spemann, Werke, vols. Weltgeschichtliche Betrachtungen, ed. Peter Ganz, pp. A Clockwork Orange, ed. Andrew Biswell. Homo Necans: Interpretationen altgriechischer Opferriten und Mythen.

Religionsgeschichtliche Versuche und Vorarbeiten, vol. Fifth edition, corrected and augmented. Oxford: Henry Cripps, The Anatomy of Melancholy, vols. I-III: Text, ed. Thomas C. Faulkner, Nicholas K. Kiessling, and Rhonda L. Preface by John B. Oxford: Clarendon Press, Berlin: Max Hesses Verlag, Zweite, erweiterte Ausgabe.

Leipzig: Insel-Verlag, Frankfurt am Main: Insel Verlag, Cambridge: at the University Press, Erewhon: or, Over the Range. Dominique Rabourdin. I Quarantanove Gradini.

Table of contents

Milan: Biblioteca Adelphi, See also the next item. The French counterpart of the previous work. Supplementa Nietzscheana, vol. Le Mythe de Sisyphe. Walker, and Maurice Weyembergh, pp. Die Fackel im Ohr: Lebensgeschichte, Gesammelte Werke, vol. Das Gewissen der Worte. Masse und Macht. Hamburg: Claassen Verlag, Le Normal et le pathologique. John Lehmann. London: John Lehmann, Turin and Paris: chez la Veuve Duchesne, Paris: chez Le Normant, An X - Eliot Memorial Lectures he delivered at the University of Kent in This lecture cycle was held during London: James Fraser, Collected Works, vol.

Joel J. Brattin, Mark Engel, and Michael K. London: George Allen, Newly-enlarged and complete edition. Manchester: The Labour Press Society, Clarke, Fifth edition, enlarged. Marriage in Free Society. Non-Governmental Society. London: A. Publication no. Towards Industrial Freedom. Obras completas, vol. Obras completas, vols. Los pasos perdidos. Paris: Le Nouveau Commerce, A supplement to no. London: Victor Gollancz, The Quiet Athenian.

CATE, Curtis. Friedrich Nietzsche. London: Hutchinson, Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, Ballets sans musique, sans personne, sans rien. Voyage au bout de la nuit. Romans, ed. Henri Godard, vol. Paris: chez Pissot, Ma Vie, translated from the Russian by Bella Chagall. The Elizabethan Stage. Lionel Dax, vol. Musiques nomades, ed. Christian Hauer. Le Temps de la voix. Five volumes. Paris: chez Migneret, An X - Paris: Ladvocat, Libraire, Maurice Regard.

VI, and vol. VII, pp. Paris: Ladvocat, Libraire, Maurice Regard, vol. VI-VII, pp. Henri Rossi. Voyage en Italie. Philippe Antoine. Musical Thought. Sens Magique. Sens-Plastique, vol. The Story of a Nobody, translated by Hugh Aplin. London: Hesperus Press, Die Akustik. Modern German Music: Recollections and Criticisms.

Longman, Orme, Brown, Green, and Longmans, The National Music of the World, ed. Henry G. London: Hurst and Blackett, Au Pays du grand mensonge. Vom Kriege, ed. Marie von Clausewitz. Baudelaire et la musique. Aztecs: An Interpretation. Collection des Tracts, no.

David Gullentops and Malou Haine. Les Enfants terribles. Pour mon plaisir, II. Pour mon plaisir, IX. Le Livre blanc. Paris: Maurice Sachs and Jacques Bonjean, La Machine infernale. Le Secret professionnel. Paris: Librairie Delagrave, Panorama de la musique contemporaine. Le Phonographe. Le Jazz. La Musique moderne, vol.

System der Philosophie, pt. Berlin: Bruno Cassirer, Helmut Holzhey, Julius H. Schoeps, Christoph Schulte, and Hartwig Wiedebach, vols. Hartwig Wiedebach, pp. Die dramatische Idee in Mozarts Operntexten. Hartwig Wiedebach. Ethik des reinen Willens. COHN, Norman. Revised and expanded edition. First published in a different version under the title Ces Plaisirs Paris: Aux Armes de France, Maurice Goudeket, vol. Arago, vol. London: Jacob Tonson, The Works, vol. London: John Tonson, The Works, ed. Donald Francis McKenzie, vol.

Copyright:

Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard. First published in T. III, no. Deutsche Weckrufe. Leipzig: Verlag von Wilhelm Friedrich, Leipzig: Wilhelm Friedrich, Die Musik im heutigen Italien. Breslau: Verlag von S. Schottlaender, Breslau and Leipzig: Verlag von S. Stuttgart: Verlag von Robert Lutz, Leipzig: Hermann Seemann Nachfolger, Zeus: A Study in Ancient Religion. On Music. Music and Imagination. The Pleasures of Music. Uncivilization: Urban Geopolitics in a Time of Chaos. Les Amours jaunes. Essential Cowell: Selected Writings on Music, ed.

Dick Higgins. New Musical Resources. Knopf, On the Art of the Theatre. London: William Heinemann, The Theatre Advancing. The book is not identical to the following item. London: Constable, The Theatre — Advancing. Boston: Little, Brown, and Company, War Is Kind. New York: Frederick A. Stokes, Fredson Bowers, vol. Charlottesville: The University of Virginia Press, The Unrecorded Life of Oscar Wilde. London: W. Allen, London and Ronceverte: The Hambledon Press, The Boys in the Band.

Edward Estlin. LVI, no. Included as no. Complete Poems, , ed. George James Firmage. Preface by Stephen Dunn. Revised, corrected, and expanded edition. La Russie en Sabine Mainberger and Neil Stewart. Forgive me! How graceful and gentle! The way He bears himself, the way He walks!

He wears a yellow silk robe and blue facings. He turns around and I can see that peaceful, radiant countenance. Six monks now come into the room carrying a dead body. Near me is a woman with snakes around her arms and hair. You have seen God! You do not realize how fortunate you are. I am just a poor human creature. He will be back. Yes, I see! Je comprends, ah! Qui frappe si matin? Think upon it. I understand, Lord; oh, yes, I understand! Room, house, you will always be the chapel of my undying remembrance!

I lay there thinking, stretched out on the box-spring held up by four bricks; and the landlord made an opening in the zinc roof to let in more light. Open the door! Where to escape, if the sky and hell are as closed to me as the earth? From that day on, Adam kept trying to break apart the pebbles that looked like an egg.

It was a key. I came across this key: it was quite rusty, poor thing. They were in the stalls of my church: one seated in my place and the others standing. The third was tossing up into the air some pearls that a very large yellow terrier was trying to catch. And I who was hoping for death yesterday, here I am frozen with fear at the idea of the scissors and the thread of my days. He was a believer in Unanism and its spirit of universal participation, which led him to volunteer at a military hospital during World War I.

Apparais dans un corps Pelage vrai et Chaud, toi qui passes la mort. Lament for the Stag Bloody like night, splendid in terror, highstrung, Whimperless you die at our approach. Come forth now above pain and perplexity. However hasty, made impotent by sperm and sweat the Hunter may have been, however culpable his Shadow and feeble the love He held! Come forth corporeal Fur genuine and Warm, crossing your death.

The one I am and hate I was hollow and I was wet With rising joy more lava than milk Retaining the stars of my breast And I reached I said this exquisite death Fecund I stood up once more. The mountains lie stilled in their light Shadows are quicker to darken and subtle golds Repose within the green. He spoke six languages and was responsible for introducing many previously unknown foreign works to the French public.

His own work often took Europe as its subject, and he was most noted for his creation of the character A. Barnabooth, to whom several of his works were attributed. Barnabooth, ; reprinted in A. I move through your corridors humming, With you on your race toward Vienna and Budapest, My voice mingling with your hundred thousand voices, O Harmonika-Zug!

A fall morning at eight, and a lovely singer with violet eyes, sang in the next compartment. In it hatred dies for lack of air, And the greatest love cannot come in. Qui passait. Qui riait. Bitume et roses, don du chant! Recognized by his literary peers for a small but respected body of published work, he eventually won the Nobel Prize in Literature It has been suggested that his interest in the symbolic and the personal had its origin in his Caribbean upbringing.

Perse did not begin to write poetry until the sudden death of his father in When France was invaded, he refused to act as a collaborator in his post as foreign secretary and in settled in the United States, where he served at the Library of Congress as a consultant in French poetry. Song Under the bronze leaves a colt was foaled. Came such an one who laid bitter bay in our hands. Who passed. Here comes news of other provinces to my liking. Who laughed. And tells us of an herb.

O from the provinces blow many winds. What ease to our ways, and how the trumpet rejoices my heart and the feather adept of the scandal of the wing! Came such an one who laid this bitter bay in our hands. Out of the bronze tree comes a great bruit of voices. O what ease in our ways, how many gestes to the year, and by the roads of 63 part 1.

Et quelquesuns en eurent connaissance. Au feu du jour toute faveur! Roses canines et ronces noires peuplent pour nous les rives du naufrage. Living leaves in the morning fashioned in glory. Peace to the dying who have not seen this day! But tidings there are of my brother the poet: once more he has written a song of great sweetness. And some there are who have knowledge thereof. From our dream grown, on our blood fed, and haunting the purple of our nights, they are the fruits of long concern, they are the fruits of long desire, they were our most secret accomplices and, often verging upon avowal, drew us to their ends out of the abyss of our nights.

Sun of being, betrayal! Shall we trace the theme back to its birth? Majesty of the rose, we are not among your adepts: our blood goes to what is bitterer, our care to what is more severe, our roads are uncertain, and deep is the night out of which our gods are torn. Dog roses and black briars populate for us the shores of shipwreck. Now they are ripening, these fruits of another shore. And those who have seen him pass will say: who was 65 part 1.

Allait-il seul au feu du jour montrer la pourpre de ses nuits? Did he go alone at dawn to show the purple of his nights? Sun of being, Prince and Master! At the gait of a binder of sheaves life goes, without hatred or ransom. A child prodigy, he was ably abetted in his early work by his father, an art teacher himself. Inspired by sixteenth-century Italian poets, she often expressed a desire to return to a period in which thought and feeling were melded, before the intervention of the seven- teenth century and what T.

Je ne sais pas de qui je suis la proie. Born to a wealthy Parisian family, Pozzi frequented the salons of the time. As a result, she lost many of her former friends and contacts, which marked the beginning of a slow decline in her health. He moved from his native Narbonne to Paris in In he moved with his wife to the abbey at Solesmes but frequently returned to Paris.

Il neige. Toi, source intarissable de sang. A hand detached from its arm, a free hand, illumined from below by the glow of the hearth— and that innocent empty head smiling at the spider setting forth in the night its useless masterpiece. The wall and the garden are white, the path black, and the house has given way without a sound. It is snowing.

Obscure and complicated accidents take place, impossible to describe. And nevertheless the spirit of order, the even spirit, the spirit common to all despairs is questioning. You, unquenchable source of blood. You, disaster intense with gleams which no surging spring, no cooling glacier will ever try to extinguish with its sap.

You, light. You, sinuosity of buried love, hiding. Ceiling of contradictory ideas. Vertiginous balance of enemy forces. Paths confused in the fray of hair. Toi, clou de diamant. Sur la route mon ombre me suit, oblique, et me dit que je cours trop vite. You, this morning, totally alone in order, calm, and universal revolution. You, diamond nail. The curve of the night stopped at the thatched cottage which was still lit up, at the edge of the meadow, in front of the forest which was closing its gates.

All the freshness inside. The animals were there only to enliven the landscape while all the rest walked. For everything was walking, except the animals, the landscape and me, who with that statue, more immobile than the other one, was up there, on the pedestal of clouds. The trees are heads, or the heads trees, in any case the heads of the trees threaten me. And someone comes to let me in. Through the doorway I notice friends who are laughing. Perhaps about me? Is Ajar From the triangle of the sidewalks of the square all the wires start, and the scythe of the rainbow, broken behind the clouds.

In the center the one who waits, blushes, not knowing where to stand. Everyone is looking and in that same place the wall reveals its wound. Seeking a life of solitude, at the end of the century he moved to the peninsula of Roscanvel, in Brittany, where his daughter, Divine, was born. In , under the Occupation, the Nazis looted his home, destroying most of his manuscripts and badly injuring Roux and his daughter.

It looks as if each single one has been lit up to see like an eye. No sooner has one star or planet vanished than in the manner of a round the next jewelled rhyme arrives. Never any jerkiness, each rhythm always in place. Elle est en vous, pardi! But here back on the velvet is beauty all involved with putting on her dawn blouse.

Suddenly the neighbourhood rooster lets forth with a great crow of a rusted key in a lock. Now at last the Aviary opens up, a vast utterly blank eyelid. No more velvet or jewels, no more swallows or vows, no more rare birds or chickens, no perch, no white path or rose bush, no blouse or beauty, nothing at all—nothing but the great Peacock of Life in all his sapphire glory making a wheel out of our eyes. The splendid Cheek emerges from the hawthorn muslins. Percez le trou solide au plein du mont. He attended medical school in Brest and went on to become a naval doctor; this led to a post in Tahiti, where he spent two years.

His curiosity also took him to China, which provided him with material for his poems. Segalen wrote essays on Rimbaud and Gauguin, and provided libretti for his friend Claude Debussy. Funerary Edict Testament divining the imperial tomb. Here the wind and the water in the veins of the earth and the plains of the wind are propitious. This pleasant tomb shall be mine. Extend the long ceremonial way: — animals, monsters, men.

There you shall place the lofty crenelated fortress. Carve in the depths of the mountain a hole without weakness. Murez le chemin aux vivants. Certes la mort est plaisante et noble et douce. La mort est fort habitable. I make my way inside. Behold me there.

And now close the door, and wall up the space before it. Bar the road to all the living. I do not lament. I rule with gentleness and my dark palace is pleasing. Indeed death is agreeable and noble and sweet. A place one can dwell in. I dwell in death and I am content there. And I shall listen to words.

Out of respect for what cannot be said, no one is ever again to reveal the word glory or commit the character happiness. Let them no longer exist. What dazzling brushstroke would dare the gesture that she, in her innocence, imagines. Let it never come to pass. And just, since it has angles but does not cut. And full of urbanity when, hung from a belt, it bends low and touches earth. And musical, raising its voice, sustained until the sudden fall. And sincere, for its luster is not veiled by its faults nor its faults by its luster.

To praise it is thus to praise virtue itself. Ne le dis pas. For I avow that, turned away from you, I seek somewhere beyond you the response revealed by you. And I will go, crying out to the four spaces: You have heard me, you have known me, I cannot live in silence. He was born in Uruguay to French parents, but both disappeared after the family returned to France when he was just six months old.

From an early age Supervielle used poetry to explore his sense of emptiness and loss, though he later turned to themes of coexistence and exchange in his poems, which are convincing and easily grasped. Those who have stepped inside my cold caverns, Are they sure that they can ever leave again? What else can our hands do for us now? He was educated in the French Mediterranean. After a night of moral and intellectual anguish in October , he renounced poetry for mathematics and the study of mental processes, returning to poetry writing just before World War I.

In he moved to Paris and concentrated solely on notebooks that he wrote in the morning before going to work at the French War Ministry. His poems are among the masterpieces of the twentieth century. The Spinner The spinner, seated near the window sash that opens where a melodious garden sways, drowses by an old snoring wheel. Tired, drunk on azure blue, on guiding Wheedling hairs that dodge her feeble hands, She dreams.

And now her tiny head is nodding. A living spring, formed by leaves and air, Rising in sunlight, sprinkles fresh water Over her garden as she slumbers there. Her dream unwinds, as on a gentle spindle That caresses as it rolls around Unendingly, and with the ease of angels. The deep blue pales beyond so many blossoms. The saint, your sister, smiles in the rose-window, Perfumes your dazed forehead with her innocent breath, And you wither, growing faint in the twilight, Near the casement, where you sat spinning. The sky must yield to the slow tolling of blades.

Leur nuit passe longtemps. The pure endless arms of the goddess Vainly oppose me, harassing my strength. But a thousand icy bonds gradually give way And the silver shards of her naked majesty. The deep current carries me under bridges, Arches full of wind, of murmuring dark, They rush over me, their tedium crushing My proud skull stronger than their doors. Their night passes slowly.

Under such weight, My very soul almost yields up its light Until in a gesture that clothes me in stone, I sweep onward to the scorn of such idle sky. Beau ciel, vrai ciel, regarde-moi qui change! Wide-open vault and chaste shrine to Athene, deep reservoir of calmly shining money, like an eye the supercilious water-structure lies somnolent beneath its burning veils; and my soul-silence too is architecture, a golden hoard roofed with a thousand tiles.

Under this clear sky it is I who change— after so much conceit, after such strange lassitude, but bursting with new power, I give myself up to these brilliant spaces; on the mansions of the dead my shadow passes reminding me of its own ephemeral hour. Caged though you seem behind a mesh of branches, great gulf, consumer of these meagre fences, a blinding secret on the lids, reveal what body draws me to its indolences, what face invites me to this bony soil.

Musical Haunting in Beckett’s Ghost Trio: Beckett and Beethoven 2 in: Headaches Among the Overtones

A faint spark ponders these inheritances. The future, here already, scarcely moves. Dazed with diversity, the enormous swarm of life is bitter-sweet and the mind clear. Chanterez-vous quand serez vaporeuse? Tout fuit! Where now are the colloquial turns of phrase, the individual gifts and singular souls? Where once a tear gathered the grub crawls. And you, great soul, dare you hypostasize a world untarnished by the luminous lies the sun and sea suggest to mortal eyes?

Archaic progenitors, your derelict heads returned to pasture by so many spades, no longer knowing the familiar tread— the real ravager, the irrefutable worm is not for you, at rest now in the tomb; it lives on life and never leaves my side. Il voit, il veut, il songe, il touche! Non, non! Brisez, mon corps, cette forme pensive! Buvez, mon sein, la naissance du vent! Il faut tenter de vivre! Rompez, vagues! Its secret mordancy is so intense the silent gnawing goes by many names. Does the twang wake me and the arrow kill? Sunlight, is it merely a tortoise-shade, the mighty hero frozen in mid-stride?

She gained as much notoriety for her lifestyle as for her writing, participating in the weekly Friday salon of Nathalie Barney, her lover; eating almost nothing; and keeping mysterious assignations never elucidated to this day that greatly provoked Barney.

Beckett in Music Translation: Embodiment and Subjectivity in Richard Barrett’s Ne songe plus à fuir

Although English was her native language, Vivien wrote exclusively in French. Queen, I raised to you this shining palace, From the remains of a vessel shipwrecked at night. Aspirin by simply standing behind the actor reciting the lines. Standing behind, Warhol seemed to be saying, can be as important as standing for. At that time, almost everyone involved in the arts was exploring things African. In , he and Hugo Ball invented Negro chants. In drawing or painting, the initial subliminal line that Motherwell termed the doodle—which the poet Robert Desnos had used in his early Surrealist drawings—was the visual equivalent of the unthinking and uncensored speech that was thought to unleash the powers of the subconscious.

American painters, and then poets, tapped into this spontaneity and energy, but in the reverse order of the movement in France, where the poets had led the way. Nor had places like Haiti, Martinique, Guadeloupe, and Senegal remained untouched by Surrealism, for Breton had multiple contacts with poets beyond the six sides of the Hexagon that is France. Stopping in Martinique on his way to New York, Breton was moved to write the eulogistic tract Martinique charmeuse de serpents Martinique Charmer of Snakes.

In his Le Parti pris des choses Taking the Side of Things he celebrates the dailiness of objects and their mundane but important presence.


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  5. Even Breton, after his exile in New York and his encounter with the Native Americans of the Southwest particularly the Hopis in Arizona , developed a strongly mystical streak. By the time he returned to France, Surrealism—and the epoch that had nourished it—had changed, but its legacies remain undeniable.

    He was born in the fashionable sixteenth arrondissement, where his family ran a pension. Like many other Surrealists of the time, he believed revolution could occur only through a change in the predominant social structure. Deciding this was best done through politics, he broke with Breton in and, with his Russian wife, the novelist Elsa Triolet, joined the Communist Party.

    En sommeil, nerfs tendus tout le long des jambes. In he was expelled from the group, along with Desnos. The Nerve Meter You see an actor as if through crystal. Inspiration with its stairs. Literature must not too readily pass. In sleep, the nerves extend along the legs. Sleep came from a displacement of belief, the embrace loosened, the absurd having stepped on my toes. A kind of constant displacement of the normal level of reality.

    Are you acquainted with that sensitivity hanging in mid-air, that kind of vitality terrifying and split in two, that indispensable point of cohesion to which being no longer rises, that place of menace, that place that hurls you to the ground? I am at the point where I no longer touch life, but with all the appetites still within me, and the insistent titillation of being.

    I have nothing to do now but make myself over. In —, in the pages of his dissident Surrealist journal Documents, he actively studied ethnographic undertakings, linking the avant-garde, the academic, and the literary. For years he was a librarian in Provence and in Paris. In he moved to Paris, which remained his center after several years of traveling throughout Europe.

    During the Resistance, he was in Roussillon. He wrote most of his works in French, his adopted language; he possessed a perfect ear for both English and French and was a well-known translator. Despite many arguments that would divide and change the movement over the years, Breton remained, until his death, in the vanguard of the most talented and gifted writers of his time. Long after Surrealist thought had been eclipsed by the rising popularity of Jean-Paul Sartre and existentialism in the s, Breton remained true to the original conception of the tenets of the movement, frequently citing Rimbaud and Marx, who espoused the notion of changing humankind and the world by freeing the human spirit from the bounds of reason.

    Born in northern France, Breton studied medicine and worked in psychiatric hospitals during World War I. Through his studies he discovered Freud. He was attracted initially to the Dadaists; Surrealism, however, enabled him to approach more directly human desire and the unconscious. With his wife, Jacqueline Lamba, and their daughter, Aube, he went into exile in New York during World War II, returning after the war to a greatly changed Paris and the accusation of the irrelevance of Surrealist thinking and writing in the new climate.

    He nonetheless continued to assemble around him in Paris and in the Lot, at SaintCirq-la Popie, a group of enthusiastic followers. The Mystery Corset My lovely readers, by seeing in all colors Splendid postcards, with lighting effects, Venice part 2. I hold Paris like — to unveil the future for you — your open hand with a waist tightly bound.

    Mais ceux. Subversive, provocative, and in many ways ahead of its time, her work was exhibited with that of the Surrealists in Paris. Born in Nantes, she moved to Paris in and remained there until During the Paris years, she and her lover, Suzanne Malherbe known as Moore , participated in all the literary gatherings of the time. Cahun and Malherbe were arrested by the Gestapo in and sentenced to death.

    Eventually released, Cahun was unable to rejoin the Surrealists in Paris because of illness and instead returned to Jersey, where many of her photographs and archives had been destroyed by the Nazis. Sadistic Judith Who Was Judith She had made atop her house a secret room where she remained closed in. And with a hair shirt over her body, she fasted every day of her life, except for the Sabbath.

    But those. And your military discipline is praised in all countries. After making love to his slave he furtively wipes his lips. On the nights of love, his boots spot the purple in which he wallows, symbolically dyed with the red venom of his poisons, and from top to bottom, the dust or the mud of the paths or worse trail across it, depending on the season.

    But at cockcry, he takes a bath, sends the girl away — and has the sheets changed the silk, the blood coagulated on them. I love them because I recognize in them the distinctive, odious traits of the enemy race. La vie serait donc si propre, plus propre que la mort?

    Pourquoi manger? I kneel down he is living! I hold him under my arm clasped to my side — oh caress of his nascent feathers! Why disgust? So life is that clean, cleaner than death? I frightened myself! Nothing has been accomplished; I was thinking that. Have I really been a criminal from childhood, condemned to destroy everything I love? Watch out for this mouth, this nape, these ears — for everything that can be bitten, torn, sucked until your foreign blood is exhausted — delicious.

    I would still love you, I would have perished happy. I want you to be the victor and you left yourself be conquered! Have I then stopped loving you, Holofernes? Why do we eat? Those have nothing to fear, for they strike me with horror. Countryland, prison of the soul! Imprisoned, at least I knew how to see the bars, and even between the bars. Who allowed you to penetrate my private life! Le gris est le cendrier du soleil. The joy of a crowd has a thousand mouths — and no ears.

    His work went far beyond the wordplay, metaphor, and free associations of Surrealism to a sensuous examination of the possible connections between elements in nature, humans and nature, mind and body.


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    De Chazal was schooled in engineering and wrote in French rather than English, though his writing remained true to the exotic land of his youth. Plastic Sense The idiot bleats with his gaze. Spices set the tongue fox-trotting and the palate waltzing. Grey is the ashtray of the sun. Flashing are the hips of the sun; and gleaming are its breasts. La voix humaine est le midi des sons. Le regard humain est un phare qui navigue. Le brouillard arrondit les sons. Toutes les voix dans le brouillard prennent un ton gai.

    Le bleu est le summum du propre. The human voice is the noon of sounds. The nose is all back: the nose always seems to be looking into the face. The nose only takes on a real face when someone is laughing. The human gaze is a lighthouse sailing around. The gaze is the longest rake. The absolute new is the total nude. Fog gives a round shape to every noise. Every voice in the fog takes on a cheerful tone. Space is the widest of all mouths.

    Blue is the essence of the neat. After a long look at a blue sky, we have our eyes washed and stopped up. After his bath, man has a blue gaze. Le sein est le maximum du fondu ; tous les fruits en un. The breast is melting at its maximum; all fruits in one. The egg Is Just Chins. Breton once commended Desnos for best exemplifying the truth of Surrealism—before excommunicating him for his radio and publicity work. Desnos was arrested by the Gestapo and died of typhus just after the liberation of the Nazi camp Terezin, where he was incarcerated.

    Thy will be done in ersatz is in Heaven. Kippers this day-hour, Delhi bread. And four kippers, sour trace, pa says, As we four give them that trace paths against us. Tout passe. Leica, explains the tourist snap-happily. The ace of spades ready for the assault. Even whatsit thingummy. Me neither for that matter. Poem, could you give me a little more jam, A little more lamb, Another little glass of wine To get us going properly. Listen, I have had enough of the picturesque and the colourful and the charming.

    I love love, its tenderness and cruelty. My love has but one name, but one form. All passes. Mouths press against this mouth. Si tu savais. Loin de moi parce que tu es cruelle. Tell yourself one must not regret things: Ronsard before me and Baudelaire have sung the regrets of ladies old or dead who despised the purest love. When you are dead You will be beautiful and always desirable I will already be dead, enclosed forever complete within your immortal body, in your astonishing image present forever among the constant marvels of life and of eternity, but if I live Your voice and its tone, your look and its radiance, Your fragrance, the scent of your hair and many other things besides will still live in me, Who am neither Ronsard nor Baudelaire, I who am Robert Desnos and who for having known and loved you, Am easily their equal.

    I who am Robert Desnos, to love you Wanting nothing else to be remembered by on the despicable earth. If you knew. Far from me and perhaps still farther being unaware of me and still unaware. Far from me for you cleverly ignore my passionate desires. Far from me for you are cruel. Loin de moi, Si tu savais. Far from me still silent as in my presence and still joyous as the stork-shaped hour falling from on high. Far from me at the moment when the alembics sing, when the silent and noisy sea curls up on the white pillows. Far from me, willed and material mirage.

    Far from me an island turns aside at the passing of ships. Far from me a calm herd of cattle mistakes the path, stops stubbornly at the brink of a steep precipice, far from me, oh cruel one. Far from me, a falling star falls in the night bottle of the poet. He corks it instantly to watch the star enclosed within the glass, the constellations come to life against the sides, far from me, you are far from me.

    Far from me a house is built just now. Far from me. If you knew how I love you and though you do not love me, how I am happy, how I am strong and proud, with your image in my mind, to leave the universe. How I am happy enough to perish from it. If you knew how the world submits to me.

    And you, oh beautiful unsubmissive one, how you are also my prisoner. Oh far-from-me to whom I submit. O balances sentimentales. Is there still time to reach this living body and to kiss on its mouth the birth of the voice so dear to me? And before the real appearance of what has haunted and ruled me for days and years I would doubtless become a shadow. Oh the shifts of feeling. I sleep standing, my body exposed to all the appearances of life and love and you, who only count today for me, I could touch your forehead and your lips less easily than any other lips and forehead.

    In his verse, the play of dualities is always evident. Like Aragon and unlike Breton, he remained with the party faithful. Like Soupault, he was especially drawn to popular poetry and sayings, aphorisms and maxims. Loving She is standing on my eyelids And her hair is in my hair, She has the shape of my hands, The color of my eyes, She is absorbed in my shadow Like a stone within the sky.

    Her dreams in broad daylight Make the suns evaporate, Make me laugh, weep and laugh, And speak, with nothing to say. In the places of drunkenness, the shudder of palms and black wine rages. Are you sure, oh heroine with lighthouse senses, of having vanquished all mercy and shadow, these two washerwoman sisters? So kind is she that my heart has been transformed.

    No longer do I fear the twists and turns of the evening sun, the unbreakable branches, cleansing the windows of all the confessionals where sleeping women await us. In the presence of your grace I am as a child in water, a bouquet in a forest. Nocturnal, the universe moves in your warmth, and in the streets of the cities of yesterday gestures appear, more delicate than the hawthorn, more gripping than the hour.

    The sky encloses life. Useless objects, even the silliness that made you was a delight to me. For where a body begins I take form and conscience And even when a body is undone in death I lie down in its crucible, I wed its torment Its infamy honors my heart and life. He was particularly known for his celebration of the everyday object, in poems generally brief. Follain studied law in Caen and then moved to Paris to work as a lawyer. He died in a car accident in Paris. The celebrated architect Adolph Loos built them a house at 15 avenue Junot in Montmartre, which became a gathering spot for the Surrealists.

    Her poetry is imbued with the transformative power of a Surrealist nocturnal vision. Principal work: Lunaires, Soon you were going to summon me, my steps were going to join yours in the living sand. Now the mountains are burning, and I am a country laid waste. He broke with Surrealism in In he joined the ethnologist Marcel Griaule and a group of linguists and ethnologists in the Mission Dakar-Djibouti.

    When he died, he left a great deal of his work unpublished. For an author accustomed to publishing under a pseudonym, such exposure proved unnerving. Michaux moved to Paris in and soon afterward began to paint and contribute to avant-garde reviews. He traveled widely throughout North and South America, Asia, and Africa, documenting his trips in several travelogues. He also experimented with mescaline; his writings, and the drawings that accompany them, explored exaltation and agony as states induced by the drug.

    In he refused to accept the Grand Prix National des Lettres in protest against the practice of awarding such prizes. Je vous vois, Mais non je ne vous vois pas. Centuries to come, I see you so clearly. A great little century, all bright and shiny, the fourteen-thousandth century CE, believe me!

    The project was to get the moon aspirated out of the solar system. A nice problem. It was in that terribly hot autumn of the year when the moon began to move so fast that it lit up the night like twenty summer suns, and left as planned. Centuries when the homunculi, the size of a closed umbrella, lived from 45 to days, in possession of the appropriate wisdom. All that fooling around with airplanes we were still using gasoline, you know, jet-propelled , the profound imbecilities of still childish social experiments bored us to hell, believe me.

    Nous sentions la prison partout, je vous le jure. Pas beaucoup. Pas moi. How wretched we were and starved for Higher Things. Everywhere felt like a prison, I swear! There we were, nailed to that century, And who would go all the way? Not many. Not me. We sensed the dawning of freedom, in the far distance, for you. We wept, thinking of you. There were a few of us. And now, they are there. Like the shards of ancient ruins, I do not always know their meaning. Their origin is unknown to me, lost in the night of my life, where their forms alone have survived the inexorable sweep of time.

    But there they are, and their marble hardens every year, growing whiter against the dark background of the many forgotten ones. It is nevertheless, like all misfortunes, a surprise. But he is driven out of the station and the station surrounds, for it is not his station, with scorn and commands that he go elsewhere because what is more he has found someone in the net of pity who will drag him about wherever he wishes to go.

    But that is how dishonesty begins. After dishonesty comes the desire for gain, the taste for commerce, and that gives rise to the taste for calculations, then measure, and at last analysis, and one thing leads to another so you end up leaving the deaf man nothing but his bones. He cofounded and directed the part 2. In his absolute view, no pragmatic use should be made of the poetic. He was arrested by the Gestapo in for subversive activities but succeeded in escaping to Mexico, where he married the Surrealist painter Remedios Varo.

    His poetic inventions are numerous and increasingly appreciated by young and emerging poets; his sense of humor is contagious, and his political-poetic positions vigorous. His work described natural objects and attempted to explain the existence of both things and humans in the cosmos.

    In he joined the Communist Party and was active in the Resistance. In , however, he broke with communism. The Pleasures of a Door Kings never touch a door. Lacking many other qualities—blackberries are perfectly ripe—the way this poem is ready. It is a stubbornly closed world. And yet, it can be opened: one must then hold it in the hollow of a dish towel, use a jagged and rather tricky knife, repeat this many times. Hitting it that way leaves white circles, like halos, on its envelope.

    Sometimes, a very rare formula pearls in their nacreous throat, and right away you have an ornament. Vertical channels open within the bark, and through them moisture is drawn down to the ground, drawn to lose interest in vital portions of the trunk. From a tender age, the relinquishing of their living attributes and bodily parts has been a familiar exercise for trees. Unlike the daughters of Carrara, therefore, it will never swathe itself in light nor radiate light. These damsels come from the end of the secondary, whereas slate belongs to the establishments of the primary, and is our old-time governess, stony-hearted, showing a sad, dejected face: a complexion less evocative of night than of the dull penumbra of the ages.

    Nevertheless, a great deal of credit attaches to slate, is put on the slate. A humble prop for a humble science, it is designed less for what must be retained by the memory than for precarious, chalky formulations, for what must be transmitted from one memory to another, rapidly, repeatedly, for what can easily be obliterated.

    Clean slate! Worth contemplating. His deceptively simple style and lyric treatment of universal themes, along with the joyous innocence and spontaneous expression of his spirit, quickly won him many admirers. His childhood was spent in Paris. After serving in World War I, he returned to the city and joined the Surrealist movement, which was already well under way. He did his military service in North Africa; while there the conversations between his fellow soldiers sparked his interest in language.

    O Masques! His poetry is marked by strong rhythm and evocative patterns, much of it recalling African dance. After the war he was elected to the French Parliament and helped convince Charles de Gaulle to free Senegal from French rule. Prayer to the Masks Masks! O Masks! Black mask, red mask, masks black-and-white, Masks from all four points where Spirit blows, I greet you in silence! Masks with unmasked faces, stripped of every dimple and every crease, Who shaped this portrait in your image, this face of mine Bent over the altar of an empty page, Listen to me!

    A pitiful princess is dying, the Africa of empires, part 2. Nous sommes les hommes de la danse, dont les pieds reprennent vigueur en frappant le sol dur. Fix your changeless eyes on your marshaled children Who are giving up their lives like a pauper his last clothes. Tell me, who else could teach rhythm to a grave of guns and machines? They call us men of death. But we are men of dance, Whose feet grow strong by pounding the hard earth. You are the one I seek, on the path of the tiger-cats. The season done, my trials overcome, in the depths of the abyss God!

    He traveled widely beyond Paris, as indicated by his celebrated title Westwego: he was in the United States in and , in Russia in , and in Germany and Scandinavia between and After leaving Surrealism and its tight inner circles, he worked as a journalist but was arrested in for his antifascist activities. He translated metaphysical anguish with extreme concision in his theatrical works and with great subtlety in his poetry and prose. He was appointed head of the drama department of French radio and began the radio station that would become France-musique.

    Les jours, les jours. Suddenly it felt Caught up in the cold. Moral: Always pay attention. Days and days. Who then sighs and who calls, and to what feast what torture or what pardon? The pillars weigh heavy after the unnecessary step and I plunge part 2. Une parure? Un masque? Quaysides and towers are already far away when suddenly I rediscover them, covering like the centuries, with equal love and equal terror, wave upon wave, meanderings of the mind and the bend of my river.

    Where others seek light that abstraction , he brushes aside at a stroke the shimmering of rays, and, possessed by the fury of discovery, touches on the nature of things: Colour. A raiment? A mask? Being itself! Such in its splendour is it also the secret, the magic and moving intersection of the seeing soul and seen presences.

    Without leaving the planes it has constructed, it takes pleasure in metamorphoses, changes as volumes turn, as specta part 2. Pourtant on voit que la montagne tient toujours. Its movement takes place within its own mystery, and gives movement elsewhere, in regions we have not yet attained, in the wake of the planets, beyond themselves, to the shattering sovereign masses of an apple, a chair, a curtain of trees or a group of card-players, suddenly frozen in their own movement by the surge of the invisible squall which carries them on.

    Then, in the spaces between the touches of colour, there are no more than faceless gaps, no more than the void. And yet, manifestly, the mountain still stands. As though I tremble to say it , as though gradually reality were mingling with a kind of omnipotent absence. In , he moved to Paris, where Breton had been eagerly expecting him. Aragon and Breton participated in the revolutionary activities of the Dadaists until founding the Surrealist movement. For a time, however, the writers would continue to be linked by their sympathy for communism.

    Un jour je vis la solitude. It was a tree, the night, whole forests of roads, or the sky and its troubled life, certainly the sun. One day I saw solitude. At the top of hill, a horse, alone, immobile, was planted in an arrested universe. Life and death completed each other, all doors open to possible prolongations. For once, without sharing in the meaning of things, I saw. I left for later the concern of seeing what one was to see. But who could maintain that the promises had been kept?

    When he died, he left her independently wealthy, in addition to bequeathing the legacy of culture and nonconformist beliefs to which he had exposed her. She lived for many years in Maine in an outspoken and greatly respected lesbian lifestyle. Journaux quotidiens Le strontium descend des hauteurs du ciel bleu. Je suis le grand Maure Rival de Petrouchka.

    Give us this day our daily bread, Lord God Almighty! It was during this time, that is, after its initial phase, that women were increasingly included in its ranks. Her stories have a particular twist, as do her poems, one of which is included here. These photographs of — were used as postcards by the Surrealists. During this period, Maar was linked with Georges Bataille and then, from to , was the companion of Pablo Picasso, whose great painting Guernica she photographed in its many stages of composition.

    Valentine Penrose, through her husband, Roland Penrose, was associated with members of the inner circle of Surrealists and was closely connected with Alice Rahon, later the wife of the painter Wolfgang Paalen: bisexual relations had a certain part 3. Surrealist poetry, marked by images and grammatical structures in unlikely confrontations, often has an unforgettable intensity: among its greatest practitioners were some extraordinary love poets, perhaps the greatest being Robert Desnos—known for his facility in sleep-trance experiments and remembered for his tragic death, in his early forties, in the concentration camp of Terezin.

    Char participated in the demonstrations of the Surrealists until deciding to go his own way, free of any group or movement. Several among them demonstrate a lyricism that appealed to readers who would not have been content with the bareness that was to follow. Cultural cross exchanges strengthened the form and content, the import and impact of French poetry in the twentieth century. French poetry became so infused by poetic spirit beyond the Hexagon that it could never again be accused of parochialism.

    That spirit of generosity has become increasingly felt. Te toucher Comme on touche le pain Quand lui seul fait vivre. Touch you The way bread is touched When it alone brings life.

    Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391) Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391)
    Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391) Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391)
    Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391) Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391)
    Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391) Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391)
    Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391) Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391)
    Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391) Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391)
    Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391) Headaches Among the Overtones: Music in Beckett / Beckett in Music (Faux Titre, Volume 391)

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