Les Sept vieillards

So forgive the three weeks of silence, loves. I have had more important things on my mind. Too many games and cigarettes and multiple choices that leave me stranded and sleepy. But it's all over now. R. and I were powering through and kicking it, scoring triumphantly and fist-bumping all the way to 556. After we were done we slept and wandered around thinking about what we would now do. I have projects, purpose. And even beauty, did we see that coming? I think not.

No more falling in love with anyone or anything. Or so I thought. But Apollo blessed us all this weekend and told the sun to shine. Seniors sleep and rejoice and suck the life-water from the Nalgenes by their beds in an effort to chase the aches away. Congratulations, you guys. You worked hard, you deserve this happiness. Soon you must go into the universe, and I with you. Almost there, what am I doing? Last year was so very, very long ago.

More Parisian fields. No more LSATdeath. For good this time.

The Seven Old Men

To Victor Hugo

Swarming city, city full of dreams,
Where the ghost clings to the passerby in broad daylight!
Everywhere mysteries flow like sap
Into the narrow canals of the mighty giant.

One morning, while in the sad street
The houses, whose height the mist extends,
Simulated the two banks of a heightened river,
And which, décor similar to the soul of an actor,

A filthy yellow fog flooded all the space,
I was following, stiffening my nerves like a hero
And discussing with my already weary soul,
The suburb shaken by the heavy carts.

Suddenly, an old man whose yellow rags
Imitated the color of a rainy sky,
And whose appearance would have made alms rain,
Without the malice that shone in his eyes,

Appeared to me. One would have said his pupils were dipped
In venom; his look sharpened the cold,
And his long bristly beard, stiff as a blade,
Protruded, parallel to that of Judas.

He was not bent, but broken, his spine
Making a perfect right angle with his leg,
So much that his cane, completing his expression,
Gave him the shape and the clumsy step

Of a crippled quadruped or a three-legged Jew.
He went entangling himself in the snow and the mud,
Like he himself crushed the dead under his old shoes,
Hostile to the universe rather than indifferent.

His equal followed him: beard, eye, back, staff, rags,
No trait distinguished them, they came from the same hell,
This twin centarian, and these bizarre ghosts
Walked with the same steps toward an unknown aim.

Of what despicable plot was I then the object,
Or what mean fortune thus humiliated me?
For I counted seven times, one minute to the next,
This sinister old man who multiplied himself!

Let the one who laughs at my concern
And who is not seized by a brotherly shudder
Consider well that despite so much degeneration
These seven horrid monsters had the appearance of the eternal!

Could I have, without dying, surveyed the eighth,
Inexorable double, ironic and fatal
Filthy Phoenix, son and father of himself?
—But I turned my back on the hellish procession.

Exasperated like a drunkard who sees double,
I reentered, I closed my door, terrified,
Sick and dejected, spirit feverish and troubled,
Wounded by the mystery and the absurdity!

Vainly my reason wished to take the helm;
The moving tempest diverted its efforts,
And my soul danced, danced, old barge
Without masts, on a monstrous and boundless sea!

Les Sept vieillards

À Victor Hugo

Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rêves,
Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant!
Les mystères partout coulent comme des sèves
Dans les canaux étroits du colosse puissant.

Un matin, cependant que dans la triste rue
Les maisons, dont la brume allongeait la hauteur,
Simulaient les deux quais d'une rivière accrue,
Et que, décor semblable à l'âme de l'acteur,

Un brouillard sale et jaune inondait tout l'espace,
Je suivais, roidissant mes nerfs comme un héros
Et discutant avec mon âme déjà lasse,
Le faubourg secoué par les lourds tombereaux.

Tout à coup, un vieillard dont les guenilles jaunes
Imitaient la couleur de ce ciel pluvieux,
Et dont l'aspect aurait fait pleuvoir les aumônes,
Sans la méchanceté qui luisait dans ses yeux,

M'apparut. On eût dit sa prunelle trempée
Dans le fiel; son regard aiguisait les frimas,
Et sa barbe à longs poils, roide comme une épée,
Se projetait, pareille à celle de Judas.

II n'était pas voûté, mais cassé, son échine
Faisant avec sa jambe un parfait angle droit,
Si bien que son bâton, parachevant sa mine,
Lui donnait la tournure et le pas maladroit

D'un quadrupède infirme ou d'un juif à trois pattes.
Dans la neige et la boue il allait s'empêtrant,
Comme s'il écrasait des morts sous ses savates,
Hostile à l'univers plutôt qu'indifférent.

Son pareil le suivait: barbe, oeil, dos, bâton, loques,
Nul trait ne distinguait, du même enfer venu,
Ce jumeau centenaire, et ces spectres baroques
Marchaient du même pas vers un but inconnu.

À quel complot infâme étais-je donc en butte,
Ou quel méchant hasard ainsi m'humiliait?
Car je comptai sept fois, de minute en minute,
Ce sinistre vieillard qui se multipliait!

Que celui-là qui rit de mon inquiétude
Et qui n'est pas saisi d'un frisson fraternel
Songe bien que malgré tant de décrépitude
Ces sept monstres hideux avaient l'air éternel!

Aurais-je, sans mourir, contemplé le huitième,
Sosie inexorable, ironique et fatal
Dégoûtant Phénix, fils et père de lui-même?
— Mais je tournai le dos au cortège infernal.

Exaspéré comme un ivrogne qui voit double,
Je rentrai, je fermai ma porte, épouvanté,
Malade et morfondu, l'esprit fiévreux et trouble,
Blessé par le mystère et par l'absurdité!

Vainement ma raison voulait prendre la barre;
La tempête en jouant déroutait ses efforts,
Et mon âme dansait, dansait, vieille gabarre
Sans mâts, sur une mer monstrueuse et sans bords!
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Stealing time and fire, pray for grace, blood and pretty much everything else.