#jaccottet

[unionizedwizard]

oc asks 11 for v'rhym and 14 for irma?

11. Is there any existing character from other media that your character resembles? Was the resemblance intentional or was it a coincidence?

it is very likely, yes, but i am drawing a blank at the moment....... if anyone has suggestions i'll happily take them!

14. Do you have any quotes tied to the character, either from the story itself or from another source that fit them?

OKAY SO. have you heard of obscurity by philippe jaccottet. have you read obscurity by philippe jaccottet. when will you read obscurity by philippe jaccottet,

more seriously it's hard to isolate one quote i associate with her in particular, due to the nature of the book (you will see why. shortly.), and because i associate it with her in its entirety. it is a (very loose, and with a rather peculiar syntax) narrative that is more of a meditation than anything; a gradual effort towards understanding. the plot is very simple: the narrator, after spending several years abroad with minimal contact, comes back home and seeks to reconnect with his mentor (whom he refers to as his "master") - everything is very loosely defined, but said mentor seems to be a poet and philosopher, to whom the disciple is extremely devoted. to his surprise, though, his master has abruptly abandoned his family and his beautiful, serene life and is now living in squalor in a dirty, dark city flat. upon seeing the narrator, he starts a long monologue full of despair and bile, which lasts the whole night; at dawn, the narrator escapes, deeply affected, and tries to make sense of this seemingly incomprehensible and tragic change that his master underwent.

the following excerpt is taken from the second half of the book, near the end (my translation):

"At some given point in his life (but what was this point, and what was it that made it come to pass?), my master must have stepped outside of the enchanted circle which magic I have attempted to conjure throughout these pages; from this moment on, then, as I myself begin to do now, he could only see from the outside this happiness in which he had bathed for so long, and no matter how intently he watched it, with desire and endless regret, the more he will have watched it, the more he will have been pulled away from it. Yes, I seem to sense here a cruel game of some kind, the meaning of which I do not yet understand: the light is not freely given to he who seeks it (so too say the Scriptures), it is taken away, ruthlessly, from he who, having known it, failed to remain within its confines...

Could it be, then, that one cannot be faithful to the light either? For, when my master and I spoke, before, of a possible estrangement from the light, he used to reassure me by saying that what mattered most was not to betray its memory, should we think, one day, that we had lost it; to remain faithful, then, as someone waiting for the dawn, and whose vigil lets us believe that it is the very thing that will allow the night to come to an end.

Did he not simplify the matter too much, show too much confidence? I have already alluded to the way he tended to forget, altogether, anything that got in the way of his life, of his thought. Was it not too convenient a deal to be true? He could plainly feel the precarity of his happiness (moreso than I did); but in order to avoid suffering, he came up with the idea that, even should this happiness draw away, it would be enough to keep within himself the memory and taste of happiness; and in this way would the trial be passed, at no cost to himself... But what is a trial without cost?

It seems to me now, and it is for this reason that I briefly stay my reasoning, that I am not far from unconvering at least one of the causes of my master's collapse: he spoke of trials, but as he assumed unquestioned victory in advance, they weren't trials anymore. He couldn't—or wouldn't—imagine that the trial would, in fact, consist in making him unfaithful, would cause him to see this bygone fulfillment as though far removed, hidden behind an impassable wall, so that he would come, in time, to hate its very sight. The brighter, clearer and more aerial this country was, that he had lived in, the more painful its sight came to be for he who had been cast out. From that moment on, chased by a memory that has suddenly turned ironic, by this now-ferocious radiance, he had been forced to run and seek refuge in the darkest corner of the darkest of cities, and the words I had heard him utter were the ashes with which this newfound mourner never tired of covering his head..."

[oncleo]

Ce que je sais c’est que j’ai vécu sept ans à Paris avec beaucoup de plaisir. J’y ai fait des rencontres qui ont été pour moi décisives et importantes. Le seul point noir est que je m’y suis sans doute trouvé un peu trop seul pendant trop longtemps, sans doute un effet de ma timidité protestante, qui se ressent dans certains de mes poèmes de cette époque. Mais autrement j’ai vraiment beaucoup aimé cette ville. Cependant, et pour des raisons qui étaient en grande partie bêtement économiques, il était exclu de continuer à vivre à Paris après avoir rencontré ma femme, dès lors que je savais que c’était avec elle que je vivrais. Le choix de quitter Paris était donc économiquement nécessaire mais il l’était aussi intellectuellement car j’ai toujours été d’une timidité ridicule à l’égard des poètes que je rencontrais et avec qui je me liais d’amitié. Non seulement Francis Ponge, mais aussi André Dubouchet ou Yves Bonnefoy, que je trouvais extrêmement sûrs d’eux. Ce qui devenait absolument ridicule car j’étais paralysé face à eux. Il y avait donc une sorte de raison psychologique, d’hygiène intellectuelle à m’éloigner d’un lieu où j’étais constamment confronté à des gens dont je trouvais qu’ils étaient trois fois plus intelligents et sûrs d’eux que je ne l’étais moi-même. Il s’agissait de filer et de mettre une distance pour exister. Mais, et j’en viens à quelque chose de décisif, je n’étais pas du tout amoureux de la nature. Quand j’ai commencé à me promener dans la campagne suisse, c’était pour imiter Gustave Roud, qui était un grand marcheur et je crois que ça ne m’amusait en fait pas du tout. J’étais un petit lausannois tout à fait lausannois et très content d’être en ville. Mais nous arrivons donc à Grignan et la découverte de la marche a été quelque chose d’absolument décisif pour ma vie d’écrivain. Comme au début nous n’avions pas de voiture et pas encore d’enfants, nous avions beaucoup de temps pour nous promener dans les environs immédiats de Grignan. C’est une campagne dans laquelle il est tout à fait facile de se promener, beaucoup plus qu’en Italie par exemple. Nous étions tout à fait heureux de marcher et c’est ce qui a inspiré cette réalité à mes livres dont je suis quelquefois un peu effrayé parce que je ne suis pas un écologiste avant la lettre et j’ai des scrupules à parler si fréquemment d’arbres, de fleurs, de chemins et de collines. Mais la marche et l’observation de la nature ont été des révélations bienfaisantes qui m’ont emmené beaucoup plus loin. C’est là que mon côté philosophe qui ne lit pas les philosophes s’est imposé à moi. Je ne pouvais pas me contenter de la lumière, il fallait que je comprenne. J’avais une sorte de scrupule à n’être qu’un poète bucolique. Qu’est-ce que ça veut dire d’être à ce point touché par un lieu ? par un verger ?

Entretien, “La géographie d’un poète, une rencontre avec Philippe Jaccottet” https://legrandcontinent.eu/fr/2018/03/01/nous-avons-rencontre-philippe-jaccottet/ 

[undesordredelicieux]

L’amour lui-même ne doit-il pas être absolument sans but ? Jaccottet (Strömholm)

[czekism]

"Ou invisible habitant l'invisible" #breizh #czek #leguilvinec #jaccottet #ink #sketch #boat #fisherboat

[undesordredelicieux]

Qu’est-ce que le regard ? Un dard plus aigu que la langue la course d’un excès à l’autre du plus profond au plus lointain du plus sombre au plus pur un rapace Philippe Jaccottet (Peter Lindbergh)

[xamenotalento]

[saltimbanqu3tt3]

Le mot joie

Je suis comme quelqu'un qui creuse dans la brume à la recherche de ce qui échappe à la brume pour avoir entendu un peu plus loin des pas et des paroles entre des passants échangées…

— Philippe Jaccottet, Pensées sous les nuages

[i-only-eat-four-leaf-clovers]

Translating seemingly untranslatable poems

Traduction : L’Ignorant, Philippe Jaccottet (1957) 

Philippe Jaccottet is a swiss and french author, traductor and poet who recently died at the age of 95 years old. He's known for his way of only saying the "almost", avoiding images at all costs. He sees poets as mushroom pickers, wandering and taking what comes to them.

I tried to translate it as best as I could, but if someone whose english is better than mine has suggestions on how to convey the message better or make it more poetic, I'm all ears.

The older I get, the more ignorant I become 

The more I lived, the less I possess and the less I reign. 

All I have is a space, alternately 

Snowy or shiny, but never inhabited. 

Where is the giver, the guide, the guardian ? 

I stand in my room and at first, I remain silent 

(The silence comes in, like a servant, to put some order), 

And I wait for the lies to step aside one by one : 

What is left ? What remains for this dying man 

That prevents him so well from dying ? What force 

Allows him to still speak between these four walls ? 

Could I know it, me, ignorant and worried ? 

But I do hear him talking, and his words 

Pierce with the day, although still vague : 

Like fire, love establishes its clarity 

Only on the fault and the beauty of charred woods...