Michael Zeleny (larvatus) wrote,
Michael Zeleny

say what?

― for David W. Affeld        
„Die Kunst muß erst recht wieder verachtet, für ganz unnütz gehalten werden, ehe wieder was daraus werden kann, oder sie muß auch recht einseitig auf alles angewendet werden. Es ist ein vergeblicher Wunsch, daß uns das Publicum recht verstehen soll.“
“Art must be despised and considered to be completely useless before anything can be derived from it, or else it must be applied unilaterally to everything. It is futile to wish for the public to understand us correctly.”
« Quand j’aurai inspiré le dégoût et l’horreur universels, j’aurai conquis la solitude. »
“Once I have inspired universal disgust and horror, I will have conquered solitude.”

« Ma carrière n'avait pas été un échec, commercialement tout du moins : si l’on agresse le monde avec une violence suffisante, il finit par le cracher, son sale fric ; mais jamais, jamais il ne vous redonne la joie. »
“My career had not been a failure, at least commercially: if you assail the world with sufficient violence, it ends up spewing its filthy lucre; but never, never does it give you back any joy.”
“You are far from thinking like a good capitalist.
“Post Big Money Think: Fuck them all.
“Pre Big Money Think:
“How does this action assist in generating capital?
“Do I offend anyone who may be useful?
“Do I attract people who may be useful?
“All societies have portrayed merchants as venal cowards―and for good reason.
“Artists can do ‘Pre Big Money Think: Fuck them all’ because they value integrity and etc. more than money. Artists, real artists, generally die broke, hated, etc.
“I don’t say that being a true artist is not morally swell, or even not a good way to live. It’s just different from being a business guy.”
― Victor Yodaiken, email to MZ, 5 May 2001

                      ÇA ?

                                                                              What ?…                                                            

Des essais ? — Allons donc, je nai pas essayé !
Étude ? — Fainéant je nai jamais pillé.
Volume ? —Trop broché pour être relié
De la copie ? —Hélas non, ce nest pas payé !

Un poëme ? — Merci, mais jai lavé ma lyre.
Un livre ? — … Un livre, encor, est une chose à lire !…
Des papiers ? — Non, non, Dieu merci, cest cousu !
Album ? — Ce nest pas blanc, et cest trop décousu.

Bouts-rimés ? — Par quel bout ?… Et ce nest pas joli !
Un ouvrage ? — Ce nest poli ni repoli.
Chansons ? — Je voudrais bien, ô ma petite Muse !…
Passe-temps ? — Vous croyez, alors, que ça mamuse ?

Vers ?… vous avez flué des vers… — Non, cest heurté.
Ah, vous avez couru lOriginalité ?…
Noncest une drôlesse assez drôle, — de rue
Qui court encor, sitôt quelle se sent courue.

Du chic pur ? — Eh qui me donnera des ficelles !
Du haut vol ? Du haut-mal ? — Pas de râle, ni dailes !
Chose à mettre à la porte ? — … Ou dans une maison
De tolérance. — Ou bien de correction ? — Mais non !

Bon, ce nest pas classique ? — À peine est-ce français !
Amateur ? — Ai-je lair dun monsieur à succès ?
Est-ce vieux ? — Ça na pas quarante ans de service
Est-ce jeune ? — Avec lâge, on guérit de ce vice.

ÇA cest naïvement une impudente pose ;
Cest, ou ce nest pas ça : rien ou quelque chose
Un chef-d’œuvre ? — Il se peut : je nen ai jamais fait.
Mais, est-ce du huron, du Gagne, ou du Musset ?

Cest dumais jai mis mon humble nom dauteur,
Et mon enfant na pas même un titre menteur.
Cest un coup de raccroc, juste ou faux, par hasard
LArt ne me connaît pas. Je ne connais pas lArt.

                                   Préfecture de police, 20 mai 1873
                                                          — Tristan Corbière

                        SAY WHAT?

                                                                                         ÇA ?
                                                                      Tristan Corbière

A treatise? You don’t say! I haven’t treated squat!
A study? Slothful wretch, my culture fetid rot.
A volume? Random heap, sheets stacked in disarray.
Good copy? Not with me enmired in the fray.

A poem? Not today, my lyre is being cleaned.
A book? Of fusty tomes far better to be weaned.
A song? Would that it were, my ear is made of tin.
Fun pastime? Sordid den, dire boredom dwells within.

A cadence? Rhythmic flow is broken by dull grind.
A product? I divide what others multiplied.
A story? Handicapped, my lame and laggard Muse.
Clear proof? My mind is fraught by grief and lit by booze.

High fashion? Wealth and style inform nowhere my dress.
Grandstanding or grand mal? My spasms fail to impress.
Evicted from the hall, I lurk behind the stage,
In transit, poised to choose: a joy house or a cage.

Too old? But to retire, my tenure won’t suffice.
Too young? My hectic life will rid me of this vice.
A sage, a slob, an ace, a master, and a clown,
A stud without a flock, a king without a crown.

THIS is without pretense, and yet a blatant pose.
It’s life and nothing but, confessed in deathless prose.
A masterpiece? Could be, I never made one yet!
A farce? A waste? A bomb? Decide and place your bet!

I bet… and I shall sign herewith my humble name;
My child shall overcome each tainted libel claim.
Through chance it will prevail, its fate a stroke of luck
Art knows me not at all — and I don’t give a fuck.

                      — traduced by MZ, 6 September 2005
Tags: baudelaire, comedy, corbière, doggerel, french, houellebecq, metagraph, poetry, traducement, webex

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