Capitale de la douleur

by Paul Éluard

Paul Éluard was a French poet who was one of the founders of the surrealist movement.

Capitale de la douleur Un recueil de poèmes essentiel du poète surréaliste français (1926).

MAX ERNST - SUITE - MANIE - L’INVENTION - PLUS PRÈS DE NOUS - PORTE OUVERTE - SUITE - LA PAROLE - LA RIVIÈRE - L’OMBRE AUX SOUPIRS - NUL - POÈMES - LIMITE - LES MOUTONS - L’UNIQUE - LA VIE - NUL - INTÉRIEUR - À CÔTÉ - L’IMPATIENT - SANS MUSIQUE - LUIRE - LA GRANDE MAISON INHABITABLE - LA MORT DANS LA CONVERSATION - RAISON DE PLUS - LESQUELS ? - RUBANS - L’AMI - VOLONTAIREMENT - À LA MINUTE - PARFAIT - RONDE - CE N’EST PAS LA POÉSIE QUI… - ŒIL DE SOURD - L’ÉGALITÉ DES SEXES - AU CŒUR DE MON AMOUR - POUR SE PRENDRE AU PIÈGE - L’AMOUREUSE - LE SOURD ET L’AVEUGLE - L’HABITUDE - DANS LA DANSE - LE JEU DE CONSTRUCTION - ENTRE AUTRES - GIORGIO DE CHIRICO - BOUCHE USÉE - DANS LE CYLINDRE DES TRIBULATIONS - DENISE DISAIT AUX MERVEILLES : - LA BÉNÉDICTION - LA MALÉDICTION - SILENCE DE L’ÉVANGILE - SANS RANCUNE - CELLE QUI N’A PAS LA PAROLE - NUDITÉ DE LA VÉRITÉ - PERSPECTIVE - TA FOI - MASCHA RIAIT AUX ANGES - LES PETITS JUSTES

Genres: Poetry, France, French Literature, Classics, Fiction, 20th Century, Philosophy

121 pages, Kindle Edition

First published January 1, 1926

About the author

Paul Éluard was the pen name of Eugène Émile Paul Grindel. French poet, a founder of Surrealism with Louis Aragon and André Breton among others, one of the important lyrical poets of the 20th century. Éluard rejected later Surrealism and joined the French Communist Party. Many of his works reflect the major events of the century, such as the World Wars, the Resistance against the Nazis, and the political and social ideals of the 20th-century.

Reviews

[Luís · Rating 4 out of 5]

Poet of the first half of the 20th century, Dadaist, then surrealist, is particularly close to Aragon and Breton.
He opens the voice to artists' commitment: he defends an active artistic practice to make social change in "the right direction" towards his desired goal.
He navigates around the communist party, ending up excluded from it.
The Capital of Pain is his first published collection. He expresses both his ill-being and love, sometimes crazy, sometimes jaded. Yet, these texts are optimistic; he seeks happiness beyond the lassitude surrounding him. He will at least see it if he only finds it temporarily in a woman's arms, a painting, or among friends. I like these almost joyful flashes entangled in much darker texts.
He undoubtedly knew that Gala was moving away from him. Their story will end when she settles down with Dali. But for the moment, a naked bond still navigates between them. He dissects this link in "love, poetry" before giving up.
I adore his world vision even more than this doomed love: he paints a dark portrait but hopes he can change it. I read Confidence in Humanity, which will always surprise me.

[Steven Godin · Rating 5 out of 5]

Your mouth with lips of gold is not for laughs
And the meaning of your haloed words is so perfect
That in my nights of years, and youth and death
In all the sounds of the world I hear your voice.

In this silken dawn where the cold lingers
Imperiled lust wants to go back to sleep,
In the hands of the sun all the bodies walking
Shiver at the idea of finding their hearts again.

Memories of green wood, fog into which I plunge
I've closed my eyes on myself, I am yours.

My whole life listens to you and I cannot refuse
The terrible leisure your love creates for me.


This and Éluard's 'Last Love Poems' are two stunning works, and he is by far and away my fave French poet of all time. Anyone into the Surrealist movement simply has to read this. He makes the likes of Andre Breton seem average in my opinion. His writings have changed many lives, mine included. He Opened the door for me to explore many other poets.

[P.E. · Rating 4 out of 5]

- Graff in Le Port du Légué, Saint-Brieuc, France

-----

'Nous vivons dans l'oubli de nos métamorphoses
Le jour est paresseux mais la nuit est active
Un bol d'air à midi la nuit le filtre et l'use
La nuit ne laisse pas de poussière sur nous

Mais cet écho qui roule tout le long du jour
Cet écho hors du temps d'angoisse ou de caresses
Cet enchaînement brut des mondes insipides
Et des mondes sensibles son soleil est double

Sommes-nous près ou loin de notre conscience
Où sont nos bornes nos racines notre but

Le long plaisir pourtant de nos métamorphoses
Squelettes s'animant dans les murs pourrissants
Les rendez-vous donnés aux formes insensées
A la chair ingénieuse aux aveugles voyants

Les rendez-vous donnés par la face au profil
Par la souffrance à la santé par la lumière
A la forêt par la montagne à la vallée
Par la mine à la fleur par la perle au soleil

Nous sommes corps à corps nous sommes terre à terre
Nous naissons de partout nous sommes sans limites'

Notre mouvement - Paul Éluard

------

Tes yeux sont revenus d’un pays arbitraire
Où nul n’a jamais su ce que c’est qu’un regard
Ni connu la beauté des yeux, beauté des pierres,
Celle des gouttes d’eau, des perles en placards,

Des pierres nues et sans squelette, ô ma statue.
Le soleil aveuglant te tient lieu de miroir
Et s’il semble obéir aux puissance du soir
C’est que ta tête est close, ô statue abattue

Par mon amour et par mes ruses de sauvage.
Mon désir immobile est ton dernier soutien
Et je t’emporte sans bataille, ô mon image,
Rompue à ma faiblesse et prise dans mes liens

L’Égalité des sexes - Paul Éluard

-----


(...)
Je chante la grande joie de te chanter,
La grande joie de t’avoir ou de ne pas t’avoir,
La candeur de t’attendre, l’innocence de te connaitre,
Ô toi qui supprimes l’oubli, l’espoir et l’ignorance,
Qui supprimes l’absence et qui me mets au monde,
Je chante pour chanter, je t’aime pour chanter
Le mystère où l’amour me crée et se délivre.
(...)


Celle de toujours, toute - Paul Éluard

-----

Ta voix, tes yeux, tes mains, tes lèvres,
Nos silences, nos paroles,
La lumière qui s’en va, la lumière qui revient,
Un seul sourire pour nous deux,
Par besoin de savoir, j’ai vu la nuit créer le jour sans que nous changions d’apparence,
Ô bien-aimé de tous et bien-aimé d’un seul,
En silence ta bouche a promis d’être heureuse,
De loin en loin, ni la haine,
De proche en proche, ni l’amour,
Par la caresse nous sortons de notre enfance,
Je vois de mieux en mieux la forme humaine,
Comme un dialogue amoureux, le cœur ne fait qu’une seule bouche
Toutes les choses au hasard, tous les mots dits sans y penser,
Les sentiments à la dérive, les hommes tournent dans la ville,
Le regard, la parole et le fait que je t’aime,
Tout est en mouvement, il suffit d’avancer pour vivre,
D’aller droit devant soi vers tout ce que l’on aime,
J’allais vers toi, j’allais sans fin vers la lumière,
Si tu souris, c’est pour mieux m’envahir,
Les rayons de tes bras entrouvraient le brouillard.'

Ta voix, tes yeux, tes mains, tes lèvres - Paul Éluard

[Mir · Rating 3 out of 5]

Etchings by John Thein.
(not the cover; that's Picasso)

And also some color plates, maybe by other artists.


A solid but rarely amazing or moving collection of short poems.

Eluard is pretty old-school regarding women, which some readers may find tiresome.

[Jonfaith · Rating 5 out of 5]

She had on her shoulders
A spot of silence a spot of rose
A lid on her breast
Her hands and supple singing arches
shattered the light

Call me Astonished. Such exquisite, translated poetry caught me unprepared, half-asleep, depleted from the culling. After the opening flurry, I expected a levelling, an eventual tide to restore the Mean, yet the verse continued to burn. The sections dedicated to Breton and Ernst were incandescent. I mused, how is it possible?

I beg apologies for my tardy awareness but plead for acceptance into the fold.

[Fede · Rating 4 out of 5]

Éluard's work is possibly the best introduction to Surrealism, even though it lacks the ideological commitment of Breton's and the daring experimental tendencies of Louis Aragon's.
Éluard represents the sunny side of Surrealism, a most intimate dimension of the soul, in which poetry still focuses on feelings and impressions rather than exploiting the intellectual conceptualization of them. There is more expression than analysis of the self in Éluard's writing and imagery indeed.

This collection of poems is centred on the melancholic celebration of Gala, Éluard's wife, who betrayed him and married the Spanish artist Salvador DalÍ.
This charming, dangerously unrealible woman becomes the personification of Desire, both physical and sentimental, fulfilled and frustrated. In fact the poet is perfectly aware of her adulterous affairs, and this knowledge sharpens his feelings to the utmost: in his eyes, Gala's naked body turns into a living monument to passion and beauty, almost melting with the warm atmosphere of sunset or the soft light of dawn ("L'unique"). No hatred, no regret. Her elusiveness is the spell under which he keeps falling:

'My whole life listens to you and I cannot destroy
The terrible pleasures your love creates for me.'
("Nouveaux Poèmes", New poems)

He's perfectly aware that one day she will leave him. And yet, a sweet melancholy - even stronger than pain - makes him look ahead with tenderness and hope:

'If we were to start again, I would meet you without looking for you.'
("Au cœur de mon amour", At the core of my love).

Gala awakens in him opposite bursts of joy and sorrow. She masters his body as well as his soul: 'Am I anything else than your strenght?' the poet asks in "Ta foi", Your faith. The thing is that Gala is not a woman anymore: she has become the Feminine whose power goes far beyond a merely erotic attraction. The poet feels her tantalising power as a sweet burden he cannot rid himself of, lest he loses part of his own enchanted self; so that Gala is finally identified with the truest source of his poetry:

'The shape of your heart is chimerical
And your love resembles my lost desire
Oh whispers of amber, dreams, glances.'
("Nouveaux poèmes")

These short poems are delicate glimpses, dreamy psychological landscapes, photographs of intimate moments of joy and meditation. A deserted beach in the warm light of a summer sunset, a bedroom in the cool glow of a winter starry night: Gala, bathing in the sea or lying naked in bed, is the core of all poetic contemplation, the world in which the poet lives and the source of his inner light.

***

To be read sitting on a beach at dawn, listening to the surf and watching the gulls fly over the sea; or lying in bed, looking at your lover's closed eyes in the first light of the day.

[Edita · Rating 5 out of 5]

To sleep, with the moon in one eye
and the sun in the other,
Love in your mouth,
a lovely bird in your hair,
Adorned like the fields,
the woods, the routes, the sea,
around the whole world so lovely and adorned.

Flee across the landscape
Through branches of smoke and all the fruits of the wind,
Stone legs with sand stockings,
Held by the waist, all the river's muscles,
And the last concern on a face transformed.

[Piotr · Rating 5 out of 5]

lecture masochiste

Le monde entier dépend de tes yeux purs
Et tout mon sang coule dans leurs regards

[SmallToothedSmile · Rating 5 out of 5]

Oh, man-- a beautiful read. I became curiouse of Eluard because of Godard's Alphaville, in which lines were frequently quoted.

[Laura · Rating 4 out of 5]

Free download available at Project Gutenberg

I made the proofing of this book for Free Literature and Project Gutenberg will publish it.

TABLE DE MATIÈRES
RÉPÉTITIONS
MAX ERNST
SUITE
L'INVENTION
PLUS PRÈS DE NOUS
PORTE OUVERTE
SUITE
LA PAROLE
LA RIVIÈRE
L'OMBRE AUX SOUPIRS
NUL
POÈMES
LIMITE
LES MOUTONS
L'UNIQUE

[Etienne Mahieux · Rating 5 out of 5]

Un sonnet surréaliste, est-ce possible ? Oui, répond Éluard. Intraitable sur la création d'images neuves, surprenantes, irrationnelles, telles que les aimait le jeune surréalisme des années 20, à la recherche de l'expression directe de l'inconscient, il ne s'en montre pas moins, dès "Capitale de la douleur" ou "L'Amour la poésie" (qui fait la deuxième partie du recueil), un maître du vers français, fût-il libre. Ses allitérations vous font des frissons dans le cou. Un maître, c'est un maître, même à trente ans, même engagé dans un étrange combat contre une littérature qu'il croit morte et qu'il revivifie.

[Marion · Rating 5 out of 5]

Beautiful insight into a broken man's thought, a stellar path onto which he embarks on the journey to healing his wounds. I love Eluard's poetry, no matter how ambiguous, which surprised me since I'm not usually one to take a fancy in Surrealism... I've been proved wrong. One of the best school reads I've completed, and now a favourite of mine!

[M.W.P.M. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Paul Éluard's Capital of Pain may not be "the key to grasping what Surrealist texts are like" (as if such a key exists), but it is a key text of the French Surrealists, and a remarkable text in any context. Its poems and prose poems capture the ecstasy of the early Surrealists. Indeed, the ecstasy of having survived the First World War (The birds that ruffle their murderous feathers, "Paris During the War", pg. 108), of having survived the Nihilism that followed in its wake; the ecstasy of building a new god to replace the dead one. In fact, many of the poems are named after, or dedicated to, Éluard's fellow Surrealists...

A wall reveals another wall
And the shade protects me from my fearful shadow.
O tower of my love around my love,
Every wall spun out white around my silence.

What have you protected? Sky unfeeling and pure,
Trembling you shielded me. Light in relief
Against a sky the sun's mirror no longer,
Stars by daylight among the green leaves,

The memory of those who spoke without knowing,
Masters of my weakness and I am in their place
With eyes of love and hands too loyal
To depopulate a world I am absent from.
 - Giorgio de Chirico (pg. 61)


Devoured by feathers and obedient to the sea,
He let his shadow pass through the flight
Of the birds of freedom.
He left
The ramp to those who fall in the rain,
He left their roof to all those who prove themselves true.

His body was in order,
The body of others came to disrupt
This arrangement he kept
When his blood first marked the earth.

His eyes are inside a wall
And his face is their heavy ornament.
Another lie by day,
Another night, there are no more blind men.
 - Max Ernst (pg. 114)


His Eyes are all one sky of tears.
Neither his eyelids nor his hands
Are a night sufficient
For his pain to hide in.

He will go ask
The Council of Faces
If he is still able
To hunt his youth

And to be in the plains
The wind's pilot.
It's a matter of experience:
He takes his life by the middle.

Solitary, the pans of the balance . . .
 - Among Few Others, to Philippe Soupault (pg. 119)


Sun of prey my head's prisoner,
Remove the hill, remove the forest.
The sky is more lovely than ever.
Dragonflies from grapes
Give it the precise shapes
I scatter with a gesture.

Clouds of the first day,
Insensitive clouds which nothing sanctions,
Their seeds burn
In the misfire o my gaze.

Finally, the sky must be as pure as night
To cover itself with a dawn.
 - Joan Miró (pg. 126)

Additionally, many of the poems are named after, or dedicated to, influences appropriated by the Surrealists...

The man flees, the horse falls,
The door does not open,
The bird is silent, dig its grave,
Put to death by silence.

A butterfly on a branch
Waits patiently for winter,
Its heart is heavy, the branch bends,
The branch folds up like a worm.

Why cry over the dried flower
And why cry over the lilacs?
Why cry over the amber rose?

Why cry for the tender thought?
Why look for the hidden flower
 If there is no reward?

 - Well, for this, that, and the other.
 - The Building Game, to Raymond Roussel (pg. 59)


The weapons of sleep have plowed into the night
The marvelous furrows that separate our heads.
Through the diamond every medal is false,
Beneath the bursting sky the earth is invisible.

The heart's face has lost its colours
And the sun looks for us and the snow is blind.
If we leave it, the horizon has wings
And our sights in the distance scatter mistakes.
 - Pablo Picasso (pg. 97)

On the fatal slope the voyager profits
From the day's favor, sleet and no pebbles,
And the blue eyes of love, discovers his season
Wearing great stars like rings on each finger.

The ocean has left its ear on the shore
And on the furrowed sand the scene of a fine crime.
Punishment is harder for the hangman than the victim
The knives are signs and the bullets tears.
 - Paul Klee (pg. 106)


A bird flies away,
It flings back the clouds like a useless veil,
It has never feared the light
Enclosed in its flight,
It has never owned a shadow.

Shells of harvest smashed by the sun.
All the leaves in the woods say yes,
They know only how to say yes,
Every question, every reply
And the dew flows in the depths of this yes.

A man with roving eyes describes the sky of love,
He gathers its wonders
Like leaves in a wood,
Like birds in their wings
And men in their sleep.
 - Georges Braque (pg. 121)

My favourite passages...

The eyes of singing animals
And their songs of boredom or anger
Have forbidden me to leave this bed.
I will spend my life here.
 - In the Heart of My Love (pg. 52)


Smiles and sighs, insults rot
In the mouths of mutes and the eyes of cowards.
Take nothing: this burns, that flames!
Your hands are made for your pockets and brows.
 - No Hard Feelings (pg. 68)


A handsome weightless bird more lively than a speck of dust
Drags a headless corpse across a mirror
Balls of sunshine soften its wings
And the wind from its flight drives the light insane
 - Mascha Laughed at the Angels (pg. 73)


Why am I so lovely?
Because my master washes me.
 - The Little Just Ones, II (pg. 78)


She is always unwilling to understand, to listen,
She laughs to hide her fear of herself.
She has always walked beneath the arches of nights
And wherever she went
She left
The mark of broken things. 
 - The Little Just Ones, VIII (pg. 85)


 She plays the way no one plays and I am alone to watch her. It is her eyes which bring her back into my dreams. Almost motionless, aimless.
 And this other one that she grabs by the wing of his ears has kept the shape of his haloes. In the embrace of her hands, a swallow with straight hair flutters hopelessly. It is blind.
 - The Ace of Clubs (pg. 101)


 Caress the night's horizon, look for the heart of jet the dawn covers over with flesh. It would place in your eyes innocent thoughts, flames, wings, and verdures the sun did not invent. 
 It is not the night you lack, but its power.
 - Night (pg. 124)

[Ludivine F · Rating 4 out of 5]

Certains poèmes résonnent en moi forcément plus que d’autres mais dans l’ensemble j’ai beaucoup aimé ce recueil à mi chemin entre la poésie contemporaine qui se moque des codes et de la poésie classique qui ne s’en détache pas.

[Loïs · Rating 4 out of 5]

Gros love sur ce recueil au titre sans équivoque et où les cinq sens sont constamment mis à l'honneur

Gros gros love sur L'invention, L'amoureuse, Sans rancune, Absences II, Les Gertrude Hoffmann Girls, La courbe de tes yeux et les Premièrement VIII, IX, XIII, XVII et XXIX

MAIS
Grosse flemme de lire ceux dédiés à Picasso, sorry not sorry

Ça donne quand même envie de se remettre dans la poésie tout ça !

[Charlotte · Rating 2 out of 5]

Gekocht omdat ik een fragment las in De Tranen der Acacia’s van Hermans (Elle dit l’avenir. Et je suis chargé de le verifier.) en Eluard wel een boeiende mens was, maar vond dit echt vreselijk lol hoeveel keer een mens het woord oiseaux kan gebruiken

[Zorua64 · Rating 1 out of 5]

Je dois être 1 iPad kid parce que g 0 patience pour la poésie (sauf Rimbaud et desnos….)

[laure · Rating 4 out of 5]

i shall run back to this collection every couple of days to drown in éluard's verse once again.
p.s.: je suis une victime.
༄⋆
l'as de trèfle
elle joue comme nul ne joue et je suis seul à la regarder. ce sont ses yeux qui la ramènent dans mes songes. presque immobile, à l’aventure.
et cet autre qu’elle prend par les ailes de ses oreilles a gardé la forme de ses auréoles. dans l'accolade de ses mains, une hirondelle aux cheveux plats se débat sans espoir. elle est aveugle.

[salva · Rating 5 out of 5]

leer a éluard me devuelve la fe en la poesía y en las palabras. artefactos verbales hermosos por todos lados, una forma orgánica que no cesa de transformarse, una repetición melódica, imágenes abigarradas y dispares pero siempre encantadoras. leerlo hace difícil creerle cuando habla de la tristeza, de la soledad.

[Olivia · Rating 5 out of 5]

Un titre assez explicite, de la poésie qui fait effet

[Felipe · Rating 5 out of 5]

Mon petit cœur.

Tengo que leer l’amour la poésie. Mis poemas preferidos de capitale son los de amor.
(no encuentro mi edición de solo capitale así que tengo que poner esta)

Je chante la grande joie de te chanter,
La grande joie de t’avoir ou de ne pas t’avoir,
La candeur de t’attendre, l’innocence de te connaître

[randa · Rating 1 out of 5]

pas du tout aimé. seuls quelques vers isolés et deux-trois poèmes (ceux dont la notoriété est indiscutable, et justifiée) sont à sauver de justesse.

"loin, le soleil aiguise sur les pierres sa hâte d’en finir."

[leonie · Rating 5 out of 5]

regardez-moi devenir une éluard girl 🎀

[zarza · Rating 5 out of 5]

yo pa eso respeto mi racha de duolingo.
para leer poesía y captar al menos 2 de cada 5 palabras en su idioma original.

[ninon · Rating 5 out of 5]

capitale de la douleur plutot je vais te poignarder et tu vas souffrir de ma torture verbale ( en gros

[Francisca · Rating 5 out of 5]

Dice Eduardo Bustos en el prólogo del Capital del dolor de Éluard que la poesía ha de tender a dejar en libertad a quien lo lee. Y no le falta razón. Y la poesía de Éluard es tan potente, es tan efusiva, es tan suma y sutilmente transgresora que una se ve en la condición de tener que escribir lo que piensa y lo que siente al leer este libro por cuarta vez, después de algunos años muy largos. Se convirtió en uno de mis libros predilectos cuando lo leí por primera vez, allá por el 2013. No fue hasta el 12 de marzo de 2017 que lo volvi a leer de nuevo y se convirtió, intachablemente, en uno de mis favoritos. Pareciera que vuelvo a él en los momentos indicados, antes o después de lo profundamente arraigado a la mente humana. Y es que ahora, al leerlo, se han vuelto las palabras purísimo gozo, purísima metáfora, purísima tendencia a las mismas palabras.
La poesía del surrealista para mí es de todo menos surrealista. Es evocadora, imaginativa, fulgurante y prístina. Una puede estar leyéndolo y de repente ser arrasada por imágenes de pájaros, por cantos, por ondeosos y suntuosos cabellos, por objetos de arte y por el profundo amor que Éluard procesaba a las palabras y sus amigos artistas. Y se nota, vaya si se nota. Es una poesía, ante todo, del cómo miramos y cómo sentimos las cosas. Pronostica Éluard que la desesperación no tiene alas. Y así, una se ata a las palabras porque cree ser libre y en el fondo pueden parecer más densas que el propio barro que nos arrastra. Hay puras imágenes de lentitud, de lluvia, de espejos rotos. Es el puro símbolo de la realidad ante la metáfora, esta se transforma y nos transforma. Y como bien dice: no nos falta la noche, sino su poder.
Creo en la poesía de Éluard como creo en esos primeros cantos de pájaros por las mañanas. Es, esta, una poesía del amanecer, de la aurora, de ese finísimo y delicado velo que pasa de la noche al día. Tal vez por eso me parezca una poesía de la transparencia, de lo que vemos tras lo que hay a través de las cosas, de la belleza por la vida y por el sentimiento amoroso. Creo en la poesía de Éluard como creo en las palabras transformadoras y sanadoras. Creo que la palabra, sana; recordad el proverbio: primero se hizo la palabra. Y aquí se hacen las palabras desde las mismas imágenes, desde la misma luz que nos ata a la vida y a la transcendencia humana. Creo en la poesía de Éluard como creo en que la vida puede ser satisfactoria y dolorosa al mismo tiempo. Eso ya no es una creencia, es un hecho. Ahora mismo soy la persona más densa del mundo y sin embargo me hallo aquí, intentando elevarme en las palabras, haciendo que ellas me mezcan y os mezcan.
La poesía de Éluard es poesía sobre la belleza y por la belleza. En ella la sentimos y podemos expresarla en esta tarde de locura, como dice él, desnuda y limpia. Sí, estamos ante una poesía que no es sucia, que se lava a sí misma y nosotros la lavamos y nos lavamos al leerla. Nos volvemos, así, sentimentales como sus poemas. Con gran estado lírico, volveré una quinta vez sobre este poemario, y una sexta, y una séptima, y las que hagan falta. Porque la poesía, toda poesía, hay que lavarla y desnudarla como hacemos con nosotros.

[tomasawyer · Rating 3 out of 5]

J'ai souffert de ne pas tout comprendre mais j'ai fini par accepter de me laisser emporter par les sensations, les images et les sons et j'ai vécu des moments étrangement agréables, tendres, sensuels, amusants, des instants de contemplations paisibles devant la nuit, le jour, les astres, les amours, le ciel, les oiseaux, la beauté des corps et des esprits. C'est étonnant comme des mots alignés ensemble si absurdement sont capables de générer en nous des images si oniriques, des sensations de liberté et d'espoir.

[Hélène Hélène Hélène · Rating 2 out of 5]

J'aurais voulu aimer ce recueil mais j'ai pas du tout accroché. Les poèmes sont courts mais j'avais l'impression de lire du charabia, ça ne m'a pas touché.
Pendant une centaine de page c'est tenable mais après on a l'impression de tourner en rond.
Il y a quand même quelques poèmes et phrases qui sont sympa.

[isab🐝 · Rating 4 out of 5]

“elle se refuse toujours à comprendre, à entendre,
elle rit pour cacher sa terreur d’elle-même.
elle a toujours marché sous les arches des nuits
et partout où elle a passé
elle a laissé
l’empreinte des choses brisées.”

[l · Rating 3 out of 5]

I need guidance for this kind of poetry. Most of it goes right over my head. Some gorgeous lines like 'elle chantait les minutes sans s'endormir' but ...