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Selected Writings
It begins with the poetry (French and English en face), including such masterpieces as "Le Cimetiere Marin" and portions of "La Jeune Parque"; then ranges through Valéry's work in fields as various as architecture, logic, the dance, literature, philosophy, and painting. It concludes with excerpts from his creative writings such as Monsieur Teste and the drama Mon Faust.
The list of translators for this volume is distinguished. Among them are Lionel Abel, Léonie Adams, Malcolm Cowly, James Kirkup, C. Day Lewis, Jackson Mathews, Louise Varese, and Vernon Watkins.
The list of translators for this volume is distinguished. Among them are Lionel Abel, Léonie Adams, Malcolm Cowly, James Kirkup, C. Day Lewis, Jackson Mathews, Louise Varese, and Vernon Watkins.
256 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1950
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About the author
Paul Valéry
563 books459 followersAmbroise-Paul-Toussaint-Jules Valéry was a French poet, essayist, and philosopher. His interests were sufficiently broad that he can be classified as a polymath. In addition to his fiction (poetry, drama and dialogues), he also wrote many essays and aphorisms on art, history, letters, music, and current events.
Valéry is best known as a poet, and is sometimes considered to be the last of the French Symbolists. But he published fewer than a hundred poems, and none that drew much attention. On the night of 4 October 1892, during a heavy storm, Paul Valéry entered an existential crisis, which made a big impact on his writing career. Around 1898, his writing activity even came to a near-standstill, due partly to the death of his mentor Stéphane Mallarmé and for nearly twenty years from that time on, Valery did not publish a single word until 1917, when he finally broke this 'Great Silence' with the publication of La Jeune Parque at forty-six years of age. This obscure but superbly musical masterpiece, of 512 alexandrine lines in rhyming pairs, had taken him four years to complete, and immediately secured his fame. It is esteemed by many in France as the greatest French poem of the 20th century.
Valéry is best known as a poet, and is sometimes considered to be the last of the French Symbolists. But he published fewer than a hundred poems, and none that drew much attention. On the night of 4 October 1892, during a heavy storm, Paul Valéry entered an existential crisis, which made a big impact on his writing career. Around 1898, his writing activity even came to a near-standstill, due partly to the death of his mentor Stéphane Mallarmé and for nearly twenty years from that time on, Valery did not publish a single word until 1917, when he finally broke this 'Great Silence' with the publication of La Jeune Parque at forty-six years of age. This obscure but superbly musical masterpiece, of 512 alexandrine lines in rhyming pairs, had taken him four years to complete, and immediately secured his fame. It is esteemed by many in France as the greatest French poem of the 20th century.
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Displaying 1 - 25 of 25 reviews
June 4, 2023
Our entire language is made up of short little dreams; and the delightful thing about it is that we sometimes fashion from them thoughts that are strangely exact and wonderfully reasonable.
The verse and literary theory were exemplary. The other elements, particularly the dialogues, didn’t resonate. I’m likely the faulty component in the transaction. I did sense a kinship between the author and Wallace Stevens, Kantians adrift in a matrix of dissonance. Such is to be embraced. Perhaps this sentiment surfaces in the brief essay recalling the poet Mallarmé.
The verse and literary theory were exemplary. The other elements, particularly the dialogues, didn’t resonate. I’m likely the faulty component in the transaction. I did sense a kinship between the author and Wallace Stevens, Kantians adrift in a matrix of dissonance. Such is to be embraced. Perhaps this sentiment surfaces in the brief essay recalling the poet Mallarmé.
May 11, 2010
I have not finished this book, nor do I intend to anytime soon as I am not particularly interested in Valéry's poetry in translation--something has been irretrievably lost for me.
Valéry's prose, however, is heavenly, even in translation. He's just that type of writer who can write about practically anything and continually come up with profound insights and wondrous turns of phrase.
The heart of this collection is "Fragments from 'Introduction to the Method of Leonardo Da Vinci" which is a wonderful essay, almost more about Varéry's approaches to living than about Leonardo himself. They should have just published the whole essay. I did end up reading the whole thing but that was only because I hunted it down in the New York Public Library where they had one of the 300 existing copies in English on reserve (i.e. this would have been easier if my French was a little better!). The missing 1/4 is also quite good although not essential. What is upsetting is the nerve of the English editor who decided to just splice the fragments hither and thither, never mentioning that some parts are from the original Introduction and others are from an Introduction to the Introduction, written 20 years later!
I have trouble talking about Valéry because of the complexity of his ideas. I will say that his outlook is very unique, a poet-philosopher who is also a Zen engineer, the spiritual scientist who attempts to wrestle chaos with precision. Instead, I will end with a quote of his about personality vs. the true "self," which will probably enlighten you better than my poor scribblings:
Valéry's prose, however, is heavenly, even in translation. He's just that type of writer who can write about practically anything and continually come up with profound insights and wondrous turns of phrase.
The heart of this collection is "Fragments from 'Introduction to the Method of Leonardo Da Vinci" which is a wonderful essay, almost more about Varéry's approaches to living than about Leonardo himself. They should have just published the whole essay. I did end up reading the whole thing but that was only because I hunted it down in the New York Public Library where they had one of the 300 existing copies in English on reserve (i.e. this would have been easier if my French was a little better!). The missing 1/4 is also quite good although not essential. What is upsetting is the nerve of the English editor who decided to just splice the fragments hither and thither, never mentioning that some parts are from the original Introduction and others are from an Introduction to the Introduction, written 20 years later!
I have trouble talking about Valéry because of the complexity of his ideas. I will say that his outlook is very unique, a poet-philosopher who is also a Zen engineer, the spiritual scientist who attempts to wrestle chaos with precision. Instead, I will end with a quote of his about personality vs. the true "self," which will probably enlighten you better than my poor scribblings:
Our personality itself, which, stupidly, we take to be our most intimate and deepest possession, our sovereign good, is only a thing, and mutable and accidental in comparison with this other most naked ego; since we can think about it, calculate its interests, even lose sight of them a little, it is therefore no more than a secondary psychological divinity that lives in our looking-glass and answers to our name. It belongs to the order of Penates. It is subject to pain, greedy for incense like false gods; and like them, is food for worms. It expands when praised. It does not resist the power of wine, the charm of words, the sorcery of music. It admires itself and through self-admiration becomes docile and easily led. It is lost in the masquerade and yields itself strangely to the anamorphosis of sleep. And further, it is painfully obliged to recognize that it has equals, to admit that it is inferior to some--a bitter and inexplicable experience for it, this.
August 22, 2014
The Bee Haiku
[Inspired by S., and of course Paul Valery's poem "The Bee"]
My love lies dormant,
But if stung by some torment,
It will rise again.
The Sacrifice of the Bee
[Apologies to Ralph Waldo Emerson]
Artists are like bees:
The sting they put into art
Takes their life away.
Memories of Kuchuk
[Inspired by Flaubert's experience of the Bee in Egypt]
How sweet it would be
To leave memories that might
Remain in her heart.
Ghawazee
[Inspired by Edward William Lane, translator of "1001 Nights"]
She danced the dance that
Beheaded John the Baptist
And amused Pharoahs.
http://www.williamhpeck.org/the_dance...
L’Abeille
[Paul Valery's poem "The Bee"]
Quelle, et si fine, et si mortelle,
Que soit ta pointe, blonde abeille,
Je n’ai, sur ma tendre corbeille,
Jeté qu’un songe de dentelle.
Pique du sein la gourde belle,
Sur qui l’Amour meurt ou sommeille,
Qu’un peu de moi-même vermeille,
Vienne à la chair ronde et rebelle !
J’ai grand besoin d’un prompt tourment :
Un mal vif et bien terminé
Vaut mieux qu’un supplice dormant !
Soit donc mon sens illuminé
Par cette infime alerte d’or
Sans qui l’Amour meurt ou s’endort !
The Bee
[Translated by Lionel Abel]
So deadly delicate your sting!
Yet, O golden bee, I place
Over this soft curve, saddening,
Nothing but a dream of lace.
Prick the breast’s fine gourd and press
Home where love dies, where sleeps his spell!
Thus may some of my rosiness
Rise to the round and stubborn flesh!
I need a hurt that’s keen and swift.
A torment prompt and soon done with
Is better than one that sleeping lies.
O may my body be made warm
By this tiny gold alarm
Without which love sleeps or dies!
The Bee
[Translated by "Noetica"]
However deadly, cruel, and keen
O darling bee, may be your sting,
I’m scarcely draped with anything:
This dream of lace my only screen.
So prick this lovely breast serene
Where ailing Love lies languishing.
My scarlet self I’d have you wring
From flesh, so round and libertine!
I dearly need some quick distress:
A lively pain, and well-defined,
But not this dormant mournfulness.
So flood with light this dozing mind:
Your golden little sting apply
Lest Love succumb to sleep, or die.
http://camelsnose.wordpress.com/2010/...
[Inspired by S., and of course Paul Valery's poem "The Bee"]
My love lies dormant,
But if stung by some torment,
It will rise again.
The Sacrifice of the Bee
[Apologies to Ralph Waldo Emerson]
Artists are like bees:
The sting they put into art
Takes their life away.
Memories of Kuchuk
[Inspired by Flaubert's experience of the Bee in Egypt]
How sweet it would be
To leave memories that might
Remain in her heart.
Ghawazee
[Inspired by Edward William Lane, translator of "1001 Nights"]
She danced the dance that
Beheaded John the Baptist
And amused Pharoahs.
http://www.williamhpeck.org/the_dance...
L’Abeille
[Paul Valery's poem "The Bee"]
Quelle, et si fine, et si mortelle,
Que soit ta pointe, blonde abeille,
Je n’ai, sur ma tendre corbeille,
Jeté qu’un songe de dentelle.
Pique du sein la gourde belle,
Sur qui l’Amour meurt ou sommeille,
Qu’un peu de moi-même vermeille,
Vienne à la chair ronde et rebelle !
J’ai grand besoin d’un prompt tourment :
Un mal vif et bien terminé
Vaut mieux qu’un supplice dormant !
Soit donc mon sens illuminé
Par cette infime alerte d’or
Sans qui l’Amour meurt ou s’endort !
The Bee
[Translated by Lionel Abel]
So deadly delicate your sting!
Yet, O golden bee, I place
Over this soft curve, saddening,
Nothing but a dream of lace.
Prick the breast’s fine gourd and press
Home where love dies, where sleeps his spell!
Thus may some of my rosiness
Rise to the round and stubborn flesh!
I need a hurt that’s keen and swift.
A torment prompt and soon done with
Is better than one that sleeping lies.
O may my body be made warm
By this tiny gold alarm
Without which love sleeps or dies!
The Bee
[Translated by "Noetica"]
However deadly, cruel, and keen
O darling bee, may be your sting,
I’m scarcely draped with anything:
This dream of lace my only screen.
So prick this lovely breast serene
Where ailing Love lies languishing.
My scarlet self I’d have you wring
From flesh, so round and libertine!
I dearly need some quick distress:
A lively pain, and well-defined,
But not this dormant mournfulness.
So flood with light this dozing mind:
Your golden little sting apply
Lest Love succumb to sleep, or die.
http://camelsnose.wordpress.com/2010/...
August 8, 2008
Reading Valery's prose is never unfulfilling. He was a polymath in every regard, and often there are so many ideas and images in one paragraph that a reader is overwhelmed. The problem with this selection is the amount to which the body of his ideas is distilled, chopped apart. One is left only wanting. Each selection seems to end before the idea is flushed out. I suppose this volume can serve to test the waters.
Read
October 8, 2025Every so often a work appears that appeals to my sense of being, one that ponders familiar, recurring questions, and that offers commentary on a life’s journey in thematic harmony with my own. Paul Valéry’s words are just that. I wish I were fluent in French so that I could read the original Libraire Gallimard edition, published in 1930 as Morceaux choisis: Prose et Poésie. Alas, I feel a cheat, reading this book in translation. Gallimard provides the suggestion of intellectual sophistication with a consistent style that I have yet to find among English language publishers. I see an impressive mountain that I cannot even begin to climb.
This volume offers a morsel of M. Valéry’s engaging poetry, rhyme translated to free verse, with thoughts for romance and death, among others. On a technical note, he strongly encouraged a monotonic recitation of poetry. He would no doubt shake his head at my occasional gleeful drift into grandiloquence. The words and rhythms should stand for themselves without a speaker’s misguided intervention, he rather dogmatically believes. Though he may be right, I mildly disagree.
The prose selections interestingly echoed many of the thoughts that have been aswirl in my soul of late. While I often feel alone with my ruminations, this author gives no such admission. Apparently, he lived among others who thought as he did. Mythology is one topic that comes to my mind with some frequency, for one. Here is M. Valéry’s take:
His perception and wit caught my attention.
I have never used psilocybin. From what I understand of its effects, this author may well have been reporting from the frontlines of a mind heavily influenced by that substance. Where does fiction end and reality begin? Or put differently, how are we to distinguish the leprechaun from the lemur? He leaves little room for optimism for those of us inclined to the scientific method, which is good news for the talented novelist and for those fond of four-leaf clovers. “Yes, dear friends, I do not know what to do in order to escape from what does not exist! To such an extent does the spoken word govern us, and everything around us, that one cannot see how to set about foregoing the imaginary which cannot be dispensed with.” M. Valéry wrote with a clarity that surmounted structure and distraction. His is a voice worth remembering as one that transcends time.
This volume offers a morsel of M. Valéry’s engaging poetry, rhyme translated to free verse, with thoughts for romance and death, among others. On a technical note, he strongly encouraged a monotonic recitation of poetry. He would no doubt shake his head at my occasional gleeful drift into grandiloquence. The words and rhythms should stand for themselves without a speaker’s misguided intervention, he rather dogmatically believes. Though he may be right, I mildly disagree.
The prose selections interestingly echoed many of the thoughts that have been aswirl in my soul of late. While I often feel alone with my ruminations, this author gives no such admission. Apparently, he lived among others who thought as he did. Mythology is one topic that comes to my mind with some frequency, for one. Here is M. Valéry’s take:
Indeed there are so many myths in us, and such commonplace ones, that it is almost impossible to segregate completely in our minds anything that is not a myth. One cannot even talk about it without creating a myth, and am I not at the moment making a myth of a myth in order to satisfy the whim of a myth?
His perception and wit caught my attention.
I have never used psilocybin. From what I understand of its effects, this author may well have been reporting from the frontlines of a mind heavily influenced by that substance. Where does fiction end and reality begin? Or put differently, how are we to distinguish the leprechaun from the lemur? He leaves little room for optimism for those of us inclined to the scientific method, which is good news for the talented novelist and for those fond of four-leaf clovers. “Yes, dear friends, I do not know what to do in order to escape from what does not exist! To such an extent does the spoken word govern us, and everything around us, that one cannot see how to set about foregoing the imaginary which cannot be dispensed with.” M. Valéry wrote with a clarity that surmounted structure and distraction. His is a voice worth remembering as one that transcends time.
October 31, 2023
Listen endlessly, hear
The song of waiting and the shock of time, The constant rocking of the reckoning,
Identity and quantity, And the voice of the ocean Reiterating: I win and lose, I lose and win . .
Oh! fing a little time outside of time!
More than alone on the shore of the ocean,
I give myself like a wave
To the monotonous transmutation
Of water into water,
Myself into myself…
The song of waiting and the shock of time, The constant rocking of the reckoning,
Identity and quantity, And the voice of the ocean Reiterating: I win and lose, I lose and win . .
Oh! fing a little time outside of time!
More than alone on the shore of the ocean,
I give myself like a wave
To the monotonous transmutation
Of water into water,
Myself into myself…
August 28, 2016
I've read only "The Graveyard By The Sea" (Le Cimetière marin) from this collection. The first time I heard about this poem was during the screening of Miyazaki's Kaze Tachinu (The Wind Rises), that takes its title from Valery's verse "Le vent se lève!... Il faut tenter de vivre!" ("The wind rises… We must try to live!"). Today I was reminded of this poem during an episode of the current Korean drama I'm watching (Kill Me, Heal Me), so I had to look it up. Fortunately it's not a problem finding a poem on-line.
I don't read poetry in translation; the heart of the poem is somehow always missing. So, if it's not written originally in a language I understand, I give it a wide berth.
I tried to make an exemption this time around ... pure torture. On the same page I found the original poem, and you know what..... even if my French is pretty crappy (an understatement), I found it beautiful all the same.
1. Ce toit tranquille, où marchent des colombes,
Entre les pins palpite, entre les tombes;
Midi le juste y compose de feux
La mer, la mer, toujours recommencee
O récompense après une pensée
Qu’un long regard sur le calme des dieux!
2. Quel pur travail de fins éclairs consume
Maint diamant d’imperceptible écume,
Et quelle paix semble se concevoir!
Quand sur l’abîme un soleil se repose,
Ouvrages purs d’une éternelle cause,
Le temps scintille et le songe est savoir.
3. Stable trésor, temple simple à Minerve,
Masse de calme, et visible réserve,
Eau sourcilleuse, Oeil qui gardes en toi
Tant de sommeil sous une voile de flamme,
O mon silence! . . . Édifice dans l’ame,
Mais comble d’or aux mille tuiles, Toit!
4. Temple du Temps, qu’un seul soupir résume,
À ce point pur je monte et m’accoutume,
Tout entouré de mon regard marin;
Et comme aux dieux mon offrande suprême,
La scintillation sereine sème
Sur l’altitude un dédain souverain.
5. Comme le fruit se fond en jouissance,
Comme en délice il change son absence
Dans une bouche où sa forme se meurt,
Je hume ici ma future fumée,
Et le ciel chante à l’âme consumée
Le changement des rives en rumeur.
6. Beau ciel, vrai ciel, regarde-moi qui change!
Après tant d’orgueil, après tant d’étrange
Oisiveté, mais pleine de pouvoir,
Je m’abandonne à ce brillant espace,
Sur les maisons des morts mon ombre passe
Qui m’apprivoise à son frêle mouvoir.
7. L’âme exposée aux torches du solstice,
Je te soutiens, admirable justice
De la lumière aux armes sans pitié!
Je te tends pure à ta place première,
Regarde-toi! . . . Mais rendre la lumière
Suppose d’ombre une morne moitié.
8. O pour moi seul, à moi seul, en moi-même,
Auprès d’un coeur, aux sources du poème,
Entre le vide et l’événement pur,
J’attends l’écho de ma grandeur interne,
Amère, sombre, et sonore citerne,
Sonnant dans l’âme un creux toujours futur!
9. Sais-tu, fausse captive des feuillages,
Golfe mangeur de ces maigres grillages,
Sur mes yeux clos, secrets éblouissants,
Quel corps me traîne à sa fin paresseuse,
Quel front l’attire à cette terre osseuse?
Une étincelle y pense à mes absents.
10. Fermé, sacré, plein d’un feu sans matière,
Fragment terrestre offert à la lumière,
Ce lieu me plaît, dominé de flambeaux,
Composé d’or, de pierre et d’arbres sombres,
Où tant de marbre est tremblant sur tant d’ombres;
La mer fidèle y dort sur mes tombeaux!
11. Chienne splendide, écarte l’idolâtre!
Quand solitaire au sourire de pâtre,
Je pais longtemps, moutons mystérieux,
Le blanc troupeau de mes tranquilles tombes,
Éloignes-en les prudentes colombes,
Les songes vains, les anges curieux!
12. Ici venu, l’avenir est paresse.
L’insecte net gratte la sécheresse;
Tout est brûlé, défait, reçu dans l’air
A je ne sais quelle sévère essence . . .
La vie est vaste, étant ivre d’absence,
Et l’amertume est douce, et l’esprit clair.
13. Les morts cachés sont bien dans cette terre
Qui les réchauffe et sèche leur mystère.
Midi là-haut, Midi sans mouvement
En soi se pense et convient à soi-même
Tête complète et parfait diadème,
Je suis en toi le secret changement.
14. Tu n’as que moi pour contenir tes craintes!
Mes repentirs, mes doutes, mes contraintes
Sont le défaut de ton grand diamant! . . .
Mais dans leur nuit toute lourde de marbres,
Un peuple vague aux racines des arbres
A pris déjà ton parti lentement.
15. Ils ont fondu dans une absence épaisse,
L’argile rouge a bu la blanche espèce,
Le don de vivre a passé dans les fleurs!
Où sont des morts les phrases familières,
L’art personnel, les âmes singulières?
La larve file où se formaient les pleurs.
16. Les cris aigus des filles chatouillées,
Les yeux, les dents, les paupières mouillées,
Le sein charmant qui joue avec le feu,
Le sang qui brille aux lèvres qui se rendent,
Les derniers dons, les doigts qui les défendent,
Tout va sous terre et rentre dans le jeu!
17. Et vous, grande âme, espérez-vous un songe
Qui n’aura plus ces couleurs de mensonge
Qu’aux yeux de chair l’onde et l’or font ici?
Chanterez-vous quand serez vaporeuse?
Allez! Tout fuit! Ma présence est poreuse,
La sainte impatience meurt aussi!
18. Maigre immortalité noire et dorée,
Consolatrice affreusement laurée,
Qui de la mort fais un sein maternel,
Le beau mensonge et la pieuse ruse!
Qui ne connaît, et qui ne les refuse,
Ce crâne vide et ce rire éternel!
19. Pères profonds, têtes inhabitées,
Qui sous le poids de tant de pelletées,
Êtes la terre et confondez nos pas,
Le vrai rongeur, le ver irréfutable
N’est point pour vous qui dormez sous la table,
Il vit de vie, il ne me quitte pas!
20. Amour, peut-être, ou de moi-même haine?
Sa dent secrète est de moi si prochaine
Que tous les noms lui peuvent convenir!
Qu’importe! Il voit, il veut, il songe, il touche!
Ma chair lui plaît, et jusque sur ma couche,
À ce vivant je vis d’appartenir!
21. Zénon! Cruel Zénon! Zénon d’Êlée!
M’as-tu percé de cette flèche ailée
Qui vibre, vole, et qui ne vole pas!
Le son m’enfante et la flèche me tue!
Ah! le soleil . . . Quelle ombre de tortue
Pour l’âme, Achille immobile à grands pas!
22. Non, non! . . . Debout! Dans l’ère successive!
Brisez, mon corps, cette forme pensive!
Buvez, mon sein, la naissance du vent!
Une fraîcheur, de la mer exhalée,
Me rend mon âme . . . O puissance salée!
Courons à l’onde en rejaillir vivant.
23. Oui! grande mer de delires douée,
Peau de panthère et chlamyde trouée,
De mille et mille idoles du soleil,
Hydre absolue, ivre de ta chair bleue,
Qui te remords l’étincelante queue
Dans un tumulte au silence pareil
24. Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre!
L’air immense ouvre et referme mon livre,
La vague en poudre ose jaillir des rocs!
Envolez-vous, pages tout éblouies!
Rompez, vagues! Rompez d’eaux rejouies
Ce toit tranquille où picoraient des focs!
I don't read poetry in translation; the heart of the poem is somehow always missing. So, if it's not written originally in a language I understand, I give it a wide berth.
I tried to make an exemption this time around ... pure torture. On the same page I found the original poem, and you know what..... even if my French is pretty crappy (an understatement), I found it beautiful all the same.
1. Ce toit tranquille, où marchent des colombes,
Entre les pins palpite, entre les tombes;
Midi le juste y compose de feux
La mer, la mer, toujours recommencee
O récompense après une pensée
Qu’un long regard sur le calme des dieux!
2. Quel pur travail de fins éclairs consume
Maint diamant d’imperceptible écume,
Et quelle paix semble se concevoir!
Quand sur l’abîme un soleil se repose,
Ouvrages purs d’une éternelle cause,
Le temps scintille et le songe est savoir.
3. Stable trésor, temple simple à Minerve,
Masse de calme, et visible réserve,
Eau sourcilleuse, Oeil qui gardes en toi
Tant de sommeil sous une voile de flamme,
O mon silence! . . . Édifice dans l’ame,
Mais comble d’or aux mille tuiles, Toit!
4. Temple du Temps, qu’un seul soupir résume,
À ce point pur je monte et m’accoutume,
Tout entouré de mon regard marin;
Et comme aux dieux mon offrande suprême,
La scintillation sereine sème
Sur l’altitude un dédain souverain.
5. Comme le fruit se fond en jouissance,
Comme en délice il change son absence
Dans une bouche où sa forme se meurt,
Je hume ici ma future fumée,
Et le ciel chante à l’âme consumée
Le changement des rives en rumeur.
6. Beau ciel, vrai ciel, regarde-moi qui change!
Après tant d’orgueil, après tant d’étrange
Oisiveté, mais pleine de pouvoir,
Je m’abandonne à ce brillant espace,
Sur les maisons des morts mon ombre passe
Qui m’apprivoise à son frêle mouvoir.
7. L’âme exposée aux torches du solstice,
Je te soutiens, admirable justice
De la lumière aux armes sans pitié!
Je te tends pure à ta place première,
Regarde-toi! . . . Mais rendre la lumière
Suppose d’ombre une morne moitié.
8. O pour moi seul, à moi seul, en moi-même,
Auprès d’un coeur, aux sources du poème,
Entre le vide et l’événement pur,
J’attends l’écho de ma grandeur interne,
Amère, sombre, et sonore citerne,
Sonnant dans l’âme un creux toujours futur!
9. Sais-tu, fausse captive des feuillages,
Golfe mangeur de ces maigres grillages,
Sur mes yeux clos, secrets éblouissants,
Quel corps me traîne à sa fin paresseuse,
Quel front l’attire à cette terre osseuse?
Une étincelle y pense à mes absents.
10. Fermé, sacré, plein d’un feu sans matière,
Fragment terrestre offert à la lumière,
Ce lieu me plaît, dominé de flambeaux,
Composé d’or, de pierre et d’arbres sombres,
Où tant de marbre est tremblant sur tant d’ombres;
La mer fidèle y dort sur mes tombeaux!
11. Chienne splendide, écarte l’idolâtre!
Quand solitaire au sourire de pâtre,
Je pais longtemps, moutons mystérieux,
Le blanc troupeau de mes tranquilles tombes,
Éloignes-en les prudentes colombes,
Les songes vains, les anges curieux!
12. Ici venu, l’avenir est paresse.
L’insecte net gratte la sécheresse;
Tout est brûlé, défait, reçu dans l’air
A je ne sais quelle sévère essence . . .
La vie est vaste, étant ivre d’absence,
Et l’amertume est douce, et l’esprit clair.
13. Les morts cachés sont bien dans cette terre
Qui les réchauffe et sèche leur mystère.
Midi là-haut, Midi sans mouvement
En soi se pense et convient à soi-même
Tête complète et parfait diadème,
Je suis en toi le secret changement.
14. Tu n’as que moi pour contenir tes craintes!
Mes repentirs, mes doutes, mes contraintes
Sont le défaut de ton grand diamant! . . .
Mais dans leur nuit toute lourde de marbres,
Un peuple vague aux racines des arbres
A pris déjà ton parti lentement.
15. Ils ont fondu dans une absence épaisse,
L’argile rouge a bu la blanche espèce,
Le don de vivre a passé dans les fleurs!
Où sont des morts les phrases familières,
L’art personnel, les âmes singulières?
La larve file où se formaient les pleurs.
16. Les cris aigus des filles chatouillées,
Les yeux, les dents, les paupières mouillées,
Le sein charmant qui joue avec le feu,
Le sang qui brille aux lèvres qui se rendent,
Les derniers dons, les doigts qui les défendent,
Tout va sous terre et rentre dans le jeu!
17. Et vous, grande âme, espérez-vous un songe
Qui n’aura plus ces couleurs de mensonge
Qu’aux yeux de chair l’onde et l’or font ici?
Chanterez-vous quand serez vaporeuse?
Allez! Tout fuit! Ma présence est poreuse,
La sainte impatience meurt aussi!
18. Maigre immortalité noire et dorée,
Consolatrice affreusement laurée,
Qui de la mort fais un sein maternel,
Le beau mensonge et la pieuse ruse!
Qui ne connaît, et qui ne les refuse,
Ce crâne vide et ce rire éternel!
19. Pères profonds, têtes inhabitées,
Qui sous le poids de tant de pelletées,
Êtes la terre et confondez nos pas,
Le vrai rongeur, le ver irréfutable
N’est point pour vous qui dormez sous la table,
Il vit de vie, il ne me quitte pas!
20. Amour, peut-être, ou de moi-même haine?
Sa dent secrète est de moi si prochaine
Que tous les noms lui peuvent convenir!
Qu’importe! Il voit, il veut, il songe, il touche!
Ma chair lui plaît, et jusque sur ma couche,
À ce vivant je vis d’appartenir!
21. Zénon! Cruel Zénon! Zénon d’Êlée!
M’as-tu percé de cette flèche ailée
Qui vibre, vole, et qui ne vole pas!
Le son m’enfante et la flèche me tue!
Ah! le soleil . . . Quelle ombre de tortue
Pour l’âme, Achille immobile à grands pas!
22. Non, non! . . . Debout! Dans l’ère successive!
Brisez, mon corps, cette forme pensive!
Buvez, mon sein, la naissance du vent!
Une fraîcheur, de la mer exhalée,
Me rend mon âme . . . O puissance salée!
Courons à l’onde en rejaillir vivant.
23. Oui! grande mer de delires douée,
Peau de panthère et chlamyde trouée,
De mille et mille idoles du soleil,
Hydre absolue, ivre de ta chair bleue,
Qui te remords l’étincelante queue
Dans un tumulte au silence pareil
24. Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre!
L’air immense ouvre et referme mon livre,
La vague en poudre ose jaillir des rocs!
Envolez-vous, pages tout éblouies!
Rompez, vagues! Rompez d’eaux rejouies
Ce toit tranquille où picoraient des focs!
February 26, 2019
What a miracle that caused me to be! O circumstance, Human,
Only chance!
So many other men have not possessed me.
I have found in your structure and in your substance
The hour, the being, the hour of being and the being of the hour!
The coincidence of your memories, of the kind of day it was,
Of the nature of your sleep, of your leisure and of your manias,
I have found
My nourishment in your weaknesses,
My possibilities in your ignorances,
An opportunity in your disgusts…
Now we belong to each other. We are indistinguishable.
This is love!
You are my Mad-One-because-of-me: YOUR IDEA.
(From "Song of the Master Idea", translated by Louise Varèsi)
Revered by many, Paul Valéry certainly enters my canon of exceptional writers, poets, and philosophers. His oblique approaches to the topics of time, art, ideas, body and mind have provided me with many new perspectives. It may be self-evident that the phenomena of this world present a delectable feast for the enquiring mind, but I know of few others who have made such good use of this fact, or sallied forth with such creative abandon.
Borges, as always, puts the matter most delicately. From Valéry as Symbol:
Paul Valéry leaves us at his death the symbol of a man infinitely sensitive to every phenomenon and for whom every phenomenon is a stimulus capable of provoking an infinite series of thoughts. Of a man who transcends the differential trails of the self and of whom we can say, as William Hazlitt did of Shakespeare, "he is nothing in himself." Of a man whose admirable texts to no exhaust, do not even define, their all-embracing possibilities. Of a man, who in an age that worships the chaotic idols of blood, earth and passion, preferred always the lucid pleasures of thought and the secret adventures of order.
April 24, 2022
ვალერა კაი ვინმეა მარა პესიმისტია
February 25, 2015
Horrible. As a reading experience its been one of my least enjoyable forays into French letters.
Valery is the worst kind of renowned writer. He gushes; he's over-emotional; he writes clearly with a joy at how his own words sound to his own ears. He adds his own italics and belabors points as if the excitement he received at divining these his insights can be imparted to the rest of us, by his enthusiasm alone.
I'm more interested in his essays than his poems; but I found them to be some of the most tedious and sententious I've ever encountered. He rambles on for pages among abstractions and idealism without ever coming to rest on an example which demonstrates his point. Endless pontificating.
His prose is tortured, difficult, dense--unrelieved by pauses or intervals. Now, if you read twenty pages at a stretch you will certainly come up with some intense ideas here and there..but the problem is you have to sift through a dozen others in the same stretch which are only worth dismissing.
Both his good ideas and his bad ideas all resound the same in one's ears. Valery thinks every one of his ideas is fabulous and expends the same vigorous effort on each.
His poetry is the kind where the poet begins lines like this:
"Oh! Songbird who wings beneath the.."
"O sunset that lay beneath the..."
"O! Rainfall splattering this page..."
This is one author who needs to be boiled down into a book of aphorisms, like a Duc de la Rochefaucault.
Valery is the worst kind of renowned writer. He gushes; he's over-emotional; he writes clearly with a joy at how his own words sound to his own ears. He adds his own italics and belabors points as if the excitement he received at divining these his insights can be imparted to the rest of us, by his enthusiasm alone.
I'm more interested in his essays than his poems; but I found them to be some of the most tedious and sententious I've ever encountered. He rambles on for pages among abstractions and idealism without ever coming to rest on an example which demonstrates his point. Endless pontificating.
His prose is tortured, difficult, dense--unrelieved by pauses or intervals. Now, if you read twenty pages at a stretch you will certainly come up with some intense ideas here and there..but the problem is you have to sift through a dozen others in the same stretch which are only worth dismissing.
Both his good ideas and his bad ideas all resound the same in one's ears. Valery thinks every one of his ideas is fabulous and expends the same vigorous effort on each.
His poetry is the kind where the poet begins lines like this:
"Oh! Songbird who wings beneath the.."
"O sunset that lay beneath the..."
"O! Rainfall splattering this page..."
This is one author who needs to be boiled down into a book of aphorisms, like a Duc de la Rochefaucault.
January 28, 2016
Until now I had only read about Valery. Now I understand first hand his unique genius. A brilliant poet and a great essayist. His philosophical ideas on art and language are every bit as important as his poetry. The selected writings are a great introduction.
March 6, 2009
Sincere as the tide that you know you cannot control but you're mad at it for it not betraying what it always was, will be…
March 30, 2017
I have enjoyed most of the book. Paul Valéry is a theopoet with very interesting insights about God, man and the world. I have learned that to understand a poem we first need to understand the poet.
November 9, 2025
"Myth is the term for everything which exists and subsists only on the basis of language. There is no speech so obscure, no gossip so fantastic, no remark so incoherent that we cannot give it meaning. One can always assume a meaning for the strangest language." (Valery, pg. 199).
To describe this book as being filled with examples of fine writings and sublime thought would be to do a considerable disservice to the edifice of reason, poetry, and prose that Monsieur Paul Valery offers up here! It is all here, from 73 pages of poems in both French and sublime translations, to prose pieces on topics as varied as Architecture, Dance, and, as it shows above, Myth. And what stands steady, like a beacon on a storm strewn hill top, is Valery's complete genius as a writer, of both poetry and prose, and his profonnd depth of understanding and comprehension of all that he surveys (in this 'survey' of his best work)! To add on, in pieces on Stephane Mallarme's "Coup de des", Valery combines clean insight into the work of that master of French verse with an insider's knowledge of the great master that satisfies the 'tabloid' reader in all us Literary aficionados. This book, in its 'opening' of so many aspects of Valery's oeuvre, creates a clear and succinct portrait of Valery in all his manifestations, thus creating the fertile soil for the growth of new fans of French verse in general and Valery in particular. I feel as if my command of the English language would never do justice to the sublimity of the reading of this essential (and quite enjoyable) work! Read it and you will discover why French verse, and Valery, is as serious as a heart attack: a mighty fine book is here!
To describe this book as being filled with examples of fine writings and sublime thought would be to do a considerable disservice to the edifice of reason, poetry, and prose that Monsieur Paul Valery offers up here! It is all here, from 73 pages of poems in both French and sublime translations, to prose pieces on topics as varied as Architecture, Dance, and, as it shows above, Myth. And what stands steady, like a beacon on a storm strewn hill top, is Valery's complete genius as a writer, of both poetry and prose, and his profonnd depth of understanding and comprehension of all that he surveys (in this 'survey' of his best work)! To add on, in pieces on Stephane Mallarme's "Coup de des", Valery combines clean insight into the work of that master of French verse with an insider's knowledge of the great master that satisfies the 'tabloid' reader in all us Literary aficionados. This book, in its 'opening' of so many aspects of Valery's oeuvre, creates a clear and succinct portrait of Valery in all his manifestations, thus creating the fertile soil for the growth of new fans of French verse in general and Valery in particular. I feel as if my command of the English language would never do justice to the sublimity of the reading of this essential (and quite enjoyable) work! Read it and you will discover why French verse, and Valery, is as serious as a heart attack: a mighty fine book is here!
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September 9, 2025I've been on a Paul Valery bender and absolutely love him. Not always revered as the deep thinker he's remembered as, esp by the French left. But there's a level of insight here, into the mind and human nature that is indescribable at times. Someone who suffered a deep crisis of reason and spent the rest of his life exploring the darkest recesses of the mind, its workings and the metaphysical implications - the most important one probably being the limits of knowledge. Very dense at times, especially the cahiers, and enough for a life time of study. Valery's poetry is difficult and should probably be read in French. I think he's going to have a resurgence as a thinker as AIs begin to penetrate deeper into the noumenon than a human mind can.
November 21, 2021
Exquisito. Pulcro. Con gran calidad literaria. He tenido la inmensa suerte de leerlo con el soporte de los poemas originales al igual que su traducción al castellano y jo, un gustazo poder saborear el tacto aterciopelado del autor y el acierto con el que adjetiviza al amor en cada fragmento… el bosque amigo mi poema fav de la obra🤍
March 19, 2023
A birthday present from a dear friend who wishes I were a Francophile. The following spoke to the mathematical illiterate in me... "Rare are the individuals who are not hurt by not understanding, and who accept the fact gracefully, as one accepts not understanding a language or algebra. One can live without those things."
April 24, 2019
Think these were a little too abstract for pre-bedtime reading, so I got lost a bunch. Will have to try reading something of his again in different context. Still some moments of fun philosophical/aesthetic/poetic rumination.
June 25, 2020
A collection of essays and poetry by Paul Valery. This does make easy reading.
July 21, 2020
I always wanted to read something by him, I guess in that way I am a satisfied consumer . . . .
March 29, 2024
My favorite French poet. His prose poems are mini masterpieces.
July 2, 2013
This book of poems and fragments (the editor's word) of Valéry is not easy going. I had to read it in small doses because of his prose is so packed with ideas, skimming would be fatal to the effect.
Of the poems my favorite was "The Graveyard by the Sea" - timeless and haunting and very "French". The other poems were a delight to read - he wrote for the reader, which this reader always appreciates!
The prose pieces were very scattered - they are fragments as the editor puts it. So you're reading them as an ephemeral entity - for the immediate words and ideas and not as a close argument. Sometimes it works, the Leonardo pieces especially as he argues that Leonardo is the supreme man of our times.
Of the poems my favorite was "The Graveyard by the Sea" - timeless and haunting and very "French". The other poems were a delight to read - he wrote for the reader, which this reader always appreciates!
The prose pieces were very scattered - they are fragments as the editor puts it. So you're reading them as an ephemeral entity - for the immediate words and ideas and not as a close argument. Sometimes it works, the Leonardo pieces especially as he argues that Leonardo is the supreme man of our times.
November 2, 2014
His notebooks mostly for me were the most fascinating, his meditations on the nature of what poetry is and isn't.
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