By Ariane Charton
'Un poète peut parler de lui, de ses amis, des vins qu’il boit, de l. a. maîtresse qu’il a ou qu’il voudrait avoir, du temps qu’il fait, des morts et des vivants, des sages et des fous : mais il ne doit pas faire de politique.'
Enfant poor du romantisme, Alfred de Musset (1810-1857) fut considéré de son vivant comme un météore qui n’avait jamais donné los angeles pleine mesure de son expertise. On ne voulait voir en lui qu’un auteur de comédies charmantes, de contes légers et de poèmes lyriques. los angeles Confession d’un enfant du siècle fut publiée dans une sorte d’indifférence : il ne chercha jamais à dissiper ces malentendus. Observateur désabusé d’une époque qui l’ennuie, il est pourtant celui qui dit le mieux le désenchantement de sa génération. Trop souvent réduit à sa réputation d’écrivain sentimental et à sa liaison avec George Sand, Musset est notre contemporain : parce qu’il position sa vie et son œuvre sous le signe de los angeles modernité et de l. a. liberté individuelle.
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The fuel line is leaking, the poultry is long past from the
cage, the skyline is dotted with vultures;
Benny ultimately bought off the stuff and Betty now has a job
as a waitress; and
the chimney sweep was once really smooth as he
giggled up via the
I walked miles during the urban and recognized
not anything as an enormous claw ate at my
abdominal whereas the interior of my head felt
ethereal as though i used to be approximately to go
it's now not rather a lot that not anything means
whatever yet extra that it retains meaning
there's no unencumber, simply experts and self-
appointed gods and hucksters.
the extra humans say, the fewer there's to say.
even the simplest books are dry sawdust.
—from "fingernails; nostrils; shoelaces"
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Walter of Châtillons Latin epic at the lifetime of Alexander the nice used to be a 12th- and thirteenth-century "best-seller:" scribes produced over 200 manuscripts. The poem follows Alexander from his first successes in Asia Minor, via his conquest of Persia and India, to his revolutionary ethical degeneration and his poisoning through a disaffected lieutenant.
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Extra resources for Alfred de Musset
How she longs to see herself discovered by his fleet, mirroring scalpel! In the dark she swoons with love, turns ripe, too ripe, implacably sweet. 55 Exile For some years now I’ve lived in Exile: long enough to pass for native if there were any natives here, which there are not. The sand in Exile falls like rain. It fills my glass, the kind of sand that stands for time, the kind of like that means instead. Each of us says his evening prayers to the star above a different town. We couple, yes, but always it’s with someone else and long ago.
Startled, he moves backward, away from the INVENTION; now, you hear how their songs overlap, hers in harmony with the INVENTION, his alone and at odds: SP. —a-five, a-six, a-seven, eight, we’ll never be lost, we’ll never be late— REP. —my eyes—I don’t—such doubts about —believe—my doubts about—my eyes— Now the REPORTER stumbles to his feet as she sings, and moves toward her, taking her hands in his, to plead, or to pull her away; she resists, and raises her arms— perhaps this is a moment for an intermission?
At last, behind him, the REPORTER enters, scribbling deliberately on a stenographer’s pad. He sings, and writes down his song as he sings it, or perhaps sings it off the page as he writes it, in a rhythmless, documentary plainchant. He does not look up as he walks downstage. REP. —an unconfirmed rumor has it— an unnamed source—a little bird— as someone—wind of which—was heard— alleged invention—said to make— purportedly—the eyeteeth ache— the blood to turn—harmonically— back in its round—arresting sound— alleged inventor—mere hearsay— impossible, say some—to play— nonsense—it plays itself—some say— By now he is standing next to the INVENTOR.