Bokelskere.no

Un jour, j'ai vu le soleil se coucher quarante-quatre fois!

Et un peu plus tard tu ajaoutais:

Tu sais... quand on est tellement triste on aime les couchers de soleil...

— Les jour des quarante-quatre fois, tu étais donc tellement triste?

Mais le petit prince ne répondit pas.

Slik er livet, falle syv ganger, reise seg åtte.

He, who grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him; nor below
Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted cell.

In my youth's summer I did sing of One,
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind;
Again I seize the theme, then but begun,
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind
Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears,
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind,
O'er which all heavily the journeying years
Plod the last sands of life--where not a flower appears.

I'm sorry for people who make a great to-do about the transitory nature of things and get lost in meditations on earthly nothingness. Surely we are here precisely so as to turn what passes into something that endures; but this is only possible if you can appreciate both.

at high noon

at a small college near the beach

sober

the sweat running down my arms

a spot of sweat on the table

I flatten it with my finger

blood money blood money

my god they must think I love this like the others

but it's for bread and beer and rent

blood money

I'm tense lousy feel bad

poor people I'm failing I'm failing

a woman gets ut

walks out

slams the door

a dirty poem

somebody told me not to read dirty poems

here

it's too late.

my eyes can't see some lines

I read it

out -

desperate trembling

lousy

they can't hear my voice

and I say,

I quit, that's it, I'm

finished.

and later in my room

there's scotch and beer:

the blood of a coward.

this then

will be my destiny_

scrabbling for pennies in dark tiny halls

reading poems I have long since become tired

of.

and I used to think

that men who drove busses

or cleaned out latrines

or murdered men in alleys were

fools.

there was one

made a thousand dollars

one day

in a town larger than

El Paso

jumping taxies between

universities and ladies'

clubs.

hell, you can't blame him:

I've worked for $16 a week,

quit, and lived a month on

that.

his wife is suing for divorce

and wants $200 a week

alimony.

he has to stay famous and

keep

talking.

I see his work

everywhere.

gnore all possible concepts and possibilities – ignore Beethoven, the spider, the damnation of Faust – just make it, babe, make it: a house a car a belly full of beans pay your taxes fuck and if you can't fuck copulate. make money but don't work too hard – make somebody else pay to relax, and stay of the streets wipe your ass real good use a lot of toilet paper it's bad manners to let people know you shit or could smell like it if you weren't careful.

[...] og jeg forlangte i disse øyeblikk intet annet av livet enn at det bestandig måtte bestå av en lang rekke deilige eftermiddager.

Det skjer, at mens

du tenner din sigarett

og leser din avis på benken

i den lange alleen

med gult løv flytende

som hundeekskrementer

at oktober tar tak i

din sjel

og hvirvler den imellom

travle Parisgater,

Rue Mouffettard

der du går forbi bugnende druevogner

og inn i baren på hjørnet

for å kjøpe rødvin

og lenger nede

brød og potetstappe...

a symphony orchestra. there is a thunderstorm, they are playing a Wagner overture and the people leave their seats under the trees and run inside to the pavilion the women giggling, the men pretending calm, wet cigarettes being thrown away, Wagner plays on, and then they are all under the pavilion. the birds even come in from the trees and enter the pavilion and then it is the Hungarian Rhapsody # 2 by Lizst, and it still rains, but look, one man sits alone in the rain listening. the audience notices him. they turn and look. the orchestra goes about its business. the man sits in the night in the rain, listening. there is something wrong with him, isn't there? he came to hear the music.

Men, i Guds navn, leser, spør du meg hvor de skulle?... Men, i Guds navn, leser, svarer jeg, vet man hvor man skal hen? Hvor skal du hen selv? Må jeg minne deg om Æsops historie? Hans herre Xantippos sa til ham en sommerkveld eller vinterkveld, for grekerne badet året rundt: «Æsop, gå til badene; hvis det er lite folk der, skal vi bade.» Æsop gikk. På veien traff han en athensk vaktpatrulje. «Hvor skal du?» «Hvor jeg skal?» svarte Æsop. «Det vet jeg ikke.» «Vet du ikke? Gå rett i fengsel.» «Nå,» svarte Æsop, «sa jeg ikke at jeg ikke visste hvor jeg skulle? Jeg ville gå til badene, og nå går jeg i fengsel.»

Varmen har kommet, sommeren er på vei, jeg føler meg svært mye eldre og svært mye skjørere. Den sanden jeg har under føttene, den glødet, det hvite som lyser i øynene mine, det skjærer, og jeg lurer på hvor lenge man kan gå omkring uten å fortelle til noen hva man egentlig går og tenker på, dag som natt.

Jeg liker godt å se på disse tingene, datteren min som forsøker å komme inn i verden, men jeg synes også det er sårt å se denne forjettende bevegelsen utfolde seg foran øynene mine, enda et lite menneske som ønsker å bli voksent, enda et lite menneske som om noen år skal tenke: Alt jeg ville bli, har jeg blitt, alt jeg har blitt, ønsker jeg å bli kvitt. Jeg husker hvordan jeg, da jeg gikk på ungsomsskolen, begynte å stå foran speilet og betrakte mitt eget ansikt som om det var en fremmeds.

For hver dag som går, får jeg mindre og mindre framtid og mer og mer fortid, og for hver svidde dag som ryker bort, vokser kun én ting: ensomheten. Jeg vet ikke. Jeg kan ikke forklare det, jeg kan bare leve det.