roisindubh211 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
roisindubh211) wrote2006-08-21 08:18 pm
roisindubh211) wrote2006-08-21 08:18 pm
(no subject)
I am slightly tipsy from Sangria (lovely stuff indeed, I'm licking the drips from my fingers where i spilled it), and thus I feel like writing.
No wonder so many prolific authors were drunks. I feel suddenly as though I could write an epic, or rather a very long and fluting beautiful lyric poem.
I also just bought myself a new book, which always exhilerates me for a few days. Paper is my drug of choice. Peter S Beagle (whose book I just bought), especially- the few of his (sadly less than numerous) works that I own are all books I read and re-read many times, and still they make me tremble and dream and laugh aloud. Fill me with a sense of life.
I've also been looking at some Madeleine L'Engle books I've never seen or even heard of before. She's relatively well known over here as a sci-fi/fantasy writer (A Wrinkle in Time, for instance. Best book ever to start with "It was a dark and stormy night.") She makes me think about my place in the universe, and the likelihood and ways of God. No matter how I'm feeling, her books bring me back to that same sense of awesome purpose- sometimes my own, sometimes on behalf of the whole earth or each of its tiny tiny particles. Brings me back to a certainty that there is such a purpose, and that the universe itself is good, in and of itself.
And now, some appropriate Baudelaire:
Enivrez-Vous'
Il faut être toujours ivre.
Tout est là:
c'est l'unique question.
Pour ne pas sentir
l'horrible fardeau du Temps
qui brise vos épaules
et vous penche vers la terre,
il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
Mais de quoi?
De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, à votre guise.
Mais enivrez-vous.
Et si quelquefois,
sur les marches d'un palais,
sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé,
dans la solitude morne de votre chambre,
vous vous réveillez,
l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue,
demandez au vent,
à la vague,
à l'étoile,
à l'oiseau,
à l'horloge,
à tout ce qui fuit,
à tout ce qui gémit,
à tout ce qui roule,
à tout ce qui chante,
à tout ce qui parle,
demandez quelle heure il est;
et le vent,
la vague,
l'étoile,
l'oiseau,
l'horloge,
vous répondront:
"Il est l'heure de s'enivrer!
Pour n'être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps,
enivrez-vous;
enivrez-vous sans cesse!
De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise."
-- Charles Baudelaire
No wonder so many prolific authors were drunks. I feel suddenly as though I could write an epic, or rather a very long and fluting beautiful lyric poem.
I also just bought myself a new book, which always exhilerates me for a few days. Paper is my drug of choice. Peter S Beagle (whose book I just bought), especially- the few of his (sadly less than numerous) works that I own are all books I read and re-read many times, and still they make me tremble and dream and laugh aloud. Fill me with a sense of life.
I've also been looking at some Madeleine L'Engle books I've never seen or even heard of before. She's relatively well known over here as a sci-fi/fantasy writer (A Wrinkle in Time, for instance. Best book ever to start with "It was a dark and stormy night.") She makes me think about my place in the universe, and the likelihood and ways of God. No matter how I'm feeling, her books bring me back to that same sense of awesome purpose- sometimes my own, sometimes on behalf of the whole earth or each of its tiny tiny particles. Brings me back to a certainty that there is such a purpose, and that the universe itself is good, in and of itself.
And now, some appropriate Baudelaire:
Enivrez-Vous'
Il faut être toujours ivre.
Tout est là:
c'est l'unique question.
Pour ne pas sentir
l'horrible fardeau du Temps
qui brise vos épaules
et vous penche vers la terre,
il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
Mais de quoi?
De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, à votre guise.
Mais enivrez-vous.
Et si quelquefois,
sur les marches d'un palais,
sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé,
dans la solitude morne de votre chambre,
vous vous réveillez,
l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue,
demandez au vent,
à la vague,
à l'étoile,
à l'oiseau,
à l'horloge,
à tout ce qui fuit,
à tout ce qui gémit,
à tout ce qui roule,
à tout ce qui chante,
à tout ce qui parle,
demandez quelle heure il est;
et le vent,
la vague,
l'étoile,
l'oiseau,
l'horloge,
vous répondront:
"Il est l'heure de s'enivrer!
Pour n'être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps,
enivrez-vous;
enivrez-vous sans cesse!
De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise."
-- Charles Baudelaire