Poetry

Alfred de Musset by Ariane Charton

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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Extra resources for Alfred de Musset

Example text

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.

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