Sea-shore memories

OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child,
leaving his bed, wander’d alone, bare-headed, barefoot,
Down from the shower’d halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows, twining and twisting as if they
were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
From your memories, sad brother–from the fitful risings and fallings
I heard,
From under that yellow half-moon, late-risen, and swollen as if with
tears, 10
From those beginning notes of sickness and love, there in the
transparent mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart, never to cease,
From the myriad thence-arous’d words,
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,
From such, as now they start, the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
Borne hither–ere all eludes me, hurriedly,
A man–yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter, 20
Taking all hints to use them–but swiftly leaping beyond them,
A reminiscence sing.
Once, Paumanok,
When the snows had melted–when the lilac-scent was in the air, and
the Fifth-month grass was growing,
Up this sea-shore, in some briers,
Two guests from Alabama–two together,
And their nest, and four light-green eggs, spotted with brown,
And every day the he-bird, to and fro, near at hand,
And every day the she-bird, crouch’d on her nest, silent, with bright
And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing
them, 30
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.
Shine! shine! shine!
Pour down your warmth, great Sun!
While we bask–we two together.

Two together!
Winds blow South, or winds blow North,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
While we two keep together. 40
Till of a sudden,
May-be kill’d, unknown to her mate,
One forenoon the she-bird crouch’d not on the nest,
Nor return’d that afternoon, nor the next,
Nor ever appear’d again.

And thenceforward, all summer, in the sound of the sea,
And at night, under the full of the moon, in calmer weather,
Over the hoarse surging of the sea,
Or flitting from brier to brier by day,
I saw, I heard at intervals, the remaining one, the he-bird, 50
The solitary guest from Alabama.
Blow! blow! blow!
Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumanok’s shore!
I wait and I wait, till you blow my mate to me.
Yes, when the stars glisten’d,
All night long, on the prong of a moss-scallop’d stake,
Down, almost amid the slapping waves,
Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.

He call’d on his mate;
He pour’d forth the meanings which I, of all men, know. 60

Yes, my brother, I know;
The rest might not–but I have treasur’d every note;
For once, and more than once, dimly, down to the beach gliding,
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights
after their sorts,
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,
Listen’d long and long.

Listen’d, to keep, to sing–now translating the notes,
Following you, my brother. 70
Soothe! soothe! soothe!
Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,
And again another behind, embracing and lapping, every one close,
But my love soothes not me, not me.

Low hangs the moon–it rose late;
O it is lagging–O I think it is heavy with love, with love.

O madly the sea pushes, pushes upon the land,
With love–with love.

O night! do I not see my love fluttering out there among the
What is that little black thing I see there in the white? 80

Loud! loud! loud!
Loud I call to you, my love!

High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves;
Surely you must know who is here, is here;
You must know who I am, my love.

Low-hanging moon!
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?
O it is the shape, the shape of my mate!
O moon, do not keep her from me any longer.

Land! land! O land! 90
Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again,
if you only would;
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.

O rising stars!
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you.

O throat! O trembling throat!
Sound clearer through the atmosphere!
Pierce the woods, the earth;
Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want.

Shake out, carols!
Solitary here–the night’s carols! 100
Carols of lonesome love! Death’s carols!
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!
O, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea!
O reckless, despairing carols.

But soft! sink low;
Soft! let me just murmur;
And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea;
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,
So faint–I must be still, be still to listen;
But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to
me. 110

Hither, my love!
Here I am! Here!
With this just-sustain’d note I announce myself to you;
This gentle call is for you, my love, for you.

Do not be decoy’d elsewhere!
That is the whistle of the wind–it is not my voice;
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray;
Those are the shadows of leaves.

O darkness! O in vain!
O I am very sick and sorrowful. 120

O brown halo in the sky, near the moon, drooping upon the sea!
O troubled reflection in the sea!
O throat! O throbbing heart!
O all–and I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night.

Yet I murmur, murmur on!
O murmurs–you yourselves make me continue to sing, I know not why.

O past! O life! O songs of joy!
In the air–in the woods–over fields;
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!
But my love no more, no more with me! 130
We two together no more.
The aria sinking;
All else continuing–the stars shining,
The winds blowing–the notes of the bird continuous echoing,
With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,
On the sands of Paumanok’s shore, gray and rustling;
The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of
the sea almost touching;
The boy extatic–with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the
atmosphere dallying,
The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously
The aria’s meaning, the ears, the Soul, swiftly depositing, 140
The strange tears down the cheeks coursing,
The colloquy there–the trio–each uttering,
The undertone–the savage old mother, incessantly crying,
To the boy’s Soul’s questions sullenly timing–some drown’d secret
To the outsetting bard of love.
Demon or bird! (said the boy’s soul,)
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it mostly to me?
For I, that was a child, my tongue’s use sleeping,
Now I have heard you,
Now in a moment I know what I am for–I awake, 150
And already a thousand singers–a thousand songs, clearer, louder and
more sorrowful than yours,
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me,
Never to die.

O you singer, solitary, singing by yourself–projecting me;
O solitary me, listening–nevermore shall I cease perpetuating you;
Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what
there, in the night,
By the sea, under the yellow and sagging moon,
The messenger there arous’d–the fire, the sweet hell within, 160
The unknown want, the destiny of me.

O give me the clew! (it lurks in the night here somewhere;)
O if I am to have so much, let me have more!
O a word! O what is my destination? (I fear it is henceforth chaos;)
O how joys, dreads, convolutions, human shapes, and all shapes,
spring as from graves around me!
O phantoms! you cover all the land and all the sea!
O I cannot see in the dimness whether you smile or frown upon me;
O vapor, a look, a word! O well-beloved!
O you dear women’s and men’s phantoms!

A word then, (for I will conquer it,) 170
The word final, superior to all,
Subtle, sent up–what is it?–I listen;
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves?
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?
Whereto answering, the sea,
Delaying not, hurrying not,
Whisper’d me through the night, and very plainly before day-break,
Lisp’d to me the low and delicious word DEATH;
And again Death–ever Death, Death, Death,
Hissing melodious, neither like the bird, nor like my arous’d child’s
heart, 180
But edging near, as privately for me, rustling at my feet,
Creeping thence steadily up to my ears, and laving me softly all
Death, Death, Death, Death, Death.

Which I do not forget,
But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother,
That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok’s gray beach,
With the thousand responsive songs, at random,
My own songs, awaked from that hour;
And with them the key, the word up from the waves,
The word of the sweetest song, and all songs, 190
That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,
The sea whisper’d me.

by Walt Whitman

Shantih Shantih Shantih

C’est le temps des rêves! C’est le temps d’oublier « ces journées d’agonie de l’âme, […]ces âpres journées de vide intérieur et de désespoir où, au beau milieu d’un monde détruit, exploité par les sociétés anonymes, l’univers des hommes et leur prétendue culture apparaissent à chaque seconde dans leur splendeur de pacotille, mensongère et vulgaire, grimaçant comme un personnage répugnant dont l’image se concentre dans l’esprit malade jusqu’au comble du désespoir. »

Le temps est venu, le moment s’avère de plus en plus clair, simple, beau. « Le miracle de l’amour, c’est de resserrer le monde autour d’un être qui vous enchante, l’horreur de l’amour, c’est de resserrer le monde autour d’un être qui vous enchaîne.  »


Un instant pour une éternité

Un après-midi d’hiver resplendissant de soleil…Pas de vent, pas de neige…pas de souffle. Un regard derrière la draperie rouge, la rue couverte par un tapis de feuilles oublié par l’automne, la tasse de café sur la petite table ronde, la chambre qui s’effondre dans la lueur, La Pavane pour une infante défunte… Un moment de grâce suspendue…Ah ! Je suis l’artisan de ce monde.


Comme un morne exilé, loin de ceux que j’ aimais,
Je m’ éloigne à pas lents des beaux jours de ma vie,
Du pays enchanté qu’ on ne revoit jamais.
Sur la haute colline où la route dévie
Je m’arrête, et vois fuir à l’horizon dormant
Ma dernière espérance, et pleure amèrement.
Ô malheureux ! Crois-en ta muette détresse :
Rien ne refleurira, ton coeur ni ta jeunesse,
Au souvenir cruel de tes félicités.
Tourne plutôt les yeux vers l’ angoisse nouvelle,
Et laisse retomber dans leur nuit éternelle
L’amour et le bonheur que tu n’as point goûtés.

Le temps n’a pas tenu ses promesses divines.
Tes yeux ne verront point reverdir tes ruines;
Livre leur cendre morte au souffle de l’ oubli.
Endors-toi sans tarder en ton repos suprême,
Et souviens-toi, vivant dans l’ ombre enseveli,
Qu’il n’ est plus dans ce monde un seul être qui t’aime.
La vie est ainsi faite, il nous la faut subir.
Le faible souffre et pleure, et l’insensé s’irrite ;
Mais le plus sage en rit, sachant qu’il doit mourir.
Rentre au tombeau muet où l’homme enfin s’abrite,
Et là, sans nul souci de la terre et du ciel,
Repose, ô malheureux, pour le temps éternel!



Thomas de Zengotita, The dilemma of authenticity



I’ve come across this video and I’ve instantly cherished the theory proposed by de Zengotita.

There’s an” objective knowledge”that humans can’t reach, and there are only good and bad ways to interpret things.[1]


 I believe that De Zengotita reinterprets one of the most debated themes in the past 40 years: identity, but by means of authenticity-a theme intensively explored by the existentialists. Somehow de Zengotita flows between Lyotard’s relativism and Derrida’s theory of deconstruction, both of them pioneers in the field of postmodern studies.


Derrida’s telling us that what we use to know as being stable, it has an unstable basis, right? Well, de Zengotita tells us that “we cannot simply just “be”, as in the traditional societies, but we have to earn it”.

We have to involve ourselves actively and of course consciously in this process, or better, we have to become” the authors of ourselves[2]. I think we face a new ”mal du siècle” but a postmodernist one, and we have to step forward to a new stage: a higher stage of consciousness of our selves, though it might sound too spiritual. Till then, we are somehow stuck into this “destruction/deconstruction” stage, if we take into consideration the so called traditional cyclic theory.

“Being honest of the process of fabrication of who you are”, this is what De Zengotita has identified as the new condition of the postmodernism age. So, this is the root of all evils, isn’t it? I mean those huge identity problems and all the processes of consciousness arise from this almost Sisyphean work of constructing/building our Self?! In this sense, I cannot abstain myself from not suggesting “Herzog” by Saul Bellow as the concrete literary representation of this “dilemma of authenticity”.

I don’t want to sum up or even reduce Thomas de Zengotita’s dilemma of authenticity only as reflexive-cognitive process. No, I believe that he gives his paces in pointing out the fact that we need to make use of this new postmodern sensibility, to make possible a some sort of re-configuration, so that what existentialist have called ”the tragic dialectic”, must end.

We have to dissociate ourselves from the false identities; we shall get rid of a fanatic fundamentalism, of the old ways of living. ”The notion of authenticity has to be re-calibrated”. That is, we have to become aware of the fact that our identities (be it spiritual, be it whatever you like) have different ways of being constructed, ways that we are not aware of. Isn’t that unauthentic authentic?


[1] Lyotard, Jean Francois .The postmodern condition

[2] “author and authenticity have the same semantic root”


Enigma, Callas went away

Voici une chanson qui constitue une excellent médicine pour l’esprit… pour la méditation. La chanson constitue un hommage à la cantatrice grecque Maria Callas.

«  Des chants électroniques des oiseaux au début, mélangé à un rythme lent et les sons d’un piano mène aux chuchotements Sandra et se termine avec quelques samples de Callas chantant Ces lettres, ces lettres, tirées de l’opéra Werther de Jules Massenet »[1].

« Callas est morte

Mais sa voix restera pour l’éternité »

[1] Wikipedia. MCMXC a.D. Enigma