That way life is not complete their sentences.
thinking revolves around death, but not within it.
no response does not excuse the lack of questions.
between insomnia and drowsiness, God wavers.
A man suffering from sharp certainties.
André says Elisa Breton, not ever taken up the old folders, old papers, letters from another time. Hated and had traveled paths. Only interested in those that sank.
Great invention, the remedies irremediable: the treatment that cures the disease and kills the patient, Stalin or Mao to crush the kulaks and create hunger and so on.
Four dead souls play bridge.
music words and music of words.
least seventy years ago that that rooster is dead, but I still hear singing in the courtyard of the farm of my childhood.
The soft cushion concreted certainties.
dead are dead less than others, Kostas or Paul, for example. A little to what we think, is because there are living more alive than others.
If we were not one and several that are monitored are amazed each other, take turns and relevance, are completed, there would be nobody.
I always had the impression that my friends, dying, were about tell me something.
Wondering if your eyesight is weakened or the world fades.
gods were subcontractors before God: the women were given the initial chaos, which ordered harm than good. The Judeo-Christian God creates everything ex nihilo .
Should I feel proud and humbled when I discover that Heraclitus had said long before me, and better?
Icarus The archangel Gabriel: "No, but you should wait a little."
From the desire to invent Love, from the little ecstasy, invented to God from the accident of birth, making up the country ... We are a species imagination.
vanity's role in the convulsions of history.
action can not be judged in itself without adding this variable, the intention. A man is what he does, more intent. Or less.
opinion changed completely but never stupid.
Is it really progress and not daring to use more word progress, preferring the term change? In any case it is a precaution.
writers have no more than an excuse to write the books they would like to read.
Curing hope of progress, find accommodations to the disaster.
These smart too stupid to understand it all but who understand nothing of substance.
He is not concerned with being happy but to make people believe it is.
This hobby we have never stop to past and present.
If we have to wake the sleeping, light hand on his shoulder.
a pleasure to have preferred an ambition.
We dreams that we deserve. The basis of criticism.
share my opinion. I, no. Happily.
Who is this unknown that classifies me and keep my memories without consulting me?
Death was for him an old unknown.
Express with the irritating style perfect imperfection of life.
Since I do not expect anything occurs at every moment what is not expected.
Life has given us by surprise.
Hell, not to love.
That being imperfect, as all beings, which makes me perfectly happy.
He believes that being rude is a testament to their independence.
so well educated, which mimics almost perfectly happy.
Job does not complain. Sing.
Neither virtue and virtu are enacted.
As more and more aging adds to the wine vinegar.
A very modest indeed, have reason to doubt.
do not want the dead in hopes that I'm ruined over the pleasure of living that I insisted on being still.
axiom Transform a pain in exact in music fair in scar flattened.
I am a pacifist to the point of constantly urged to make peace with myself.
True generosity does not forgive: forget. Better still was not alerted.
that I do not believe in what you believe, but I believe, I believe in you.
My cat looks at me sometimes like watching a child reckless and unreasonable.
nature belong to the body and spirit by the perplexity.
The man who promised me I had used a beautiful future, which enables him to let me die of hunger in the present.
What circle of hell are indifferent?
should try not to attach too much reality to reality. The world urgently needs a little to doubt its existence.
Did your god in his image, which is blurred.
something
A young witch who once loved, and, to my shame, I loved the war times.
Those old people who've been wanting to die, and have waited a long time to see his wish fulfilled ... this is also the truth of life.
Charm, aging, love the girls with perfect indifference.
The happiness we experience when we do not have to know what we love.
Love sharpens the intelligence while giving the right to appear silly, childish, cheerful and playful couple.
variable Monotony of love beautifully.
Write to prove it's boring, write to show is ridiculous: there would have to write but to say .
(of des rencontres Les jours 1992-1993,
Paris, Gallimard, 1995)
Translation Jordi Doce
Claude Roy was born in Paris in 1915, the son of a English-born painter, died in the same city in 1997. Poet, essayist and novelist, was also an active traveler, aware of the great events of world politics. Among his novels include La nuit des pauvres est le manteau , À tort ou à raison , Le malheur d'aimer , Léone et les Siens , The dérobée , Le soleil sur la terre and The traversée du Pont des Arts . In 1982, a serious illness inspired her poems À la lisière du temps. Unanimously received the Goncourt prize in the poetry section in 1985, and ten years after Guillaume Apollinaire Award for his body of work.
contributor was Nouvel Observateur and committee member reading Gallimard. Between 1969 and 1976, chronicled his own life in three volumes: Moi je , Nous , Somme Toute .
These aphorisms Roy calls "minimum", belong to his diary Les rencontres des jours 1992-1993 [Encounters of the days], published in 1995.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment