Trees are the earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven. – Rabindranath Tagore

Les arbres représentent l’interminable effort de la terre pour parler au ciel en écoute. – Rabindranath Tagore

La jeunesse est un don de la nature, mais l’âge est une oeuvre d’art. – Garson Kanin

Youth is the gift of nature, but age is a work of art. – Garson Kanin

]]> http://www.fr.pastoukhov.com/garson-kanin/feed/ 0 http://www.fr.pastoukhov.com/byron/ http://www.fr.pastoukhov.com/byron/#comments Sun, 01 Jan 2012 11:15:21 +0000 ivan http://www.fr.pastoukhov.com/?p=869                                         / Sahara /

When Man, expell’d from Eden’s bowers,

A moment linger’d near the gate,

Each scene recall’d the vanish’d hours,

And bade him curse his future fate.

But, wandering on through distant climes,

He learned to bear his load of grief ;

Just gave a sigh to other times,

And found in busier scenes relief.

G. G. Byron

He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home. -  Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Il est le plus heureux, qu’il soit roi ou paysan, celui qui trouve la paix dans sa maison. – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend.  – Lord Byron

Le pauvre chien, le plus stable ami dans la vie,

Le premier qui vous accepte, le meilleur à vous défendre.  – Lord Byron

No human being is innocent, but there is a class of innocent human actions called games.?  W. H. Auden

Aucun être humain n’est innocent, mais il y a une sorte d’action humaine innocente qui s’appelle jeux. – W.H. Auden

L’homme est le plus proche de lui même quand il atteint le sérieux de l’enfant qui joue. Héraclite

Man is most nearly himself when he achieves the ?seriousness of a child at play.? – Heraclitus

La Photographie est une aventure, tout comme la vie est une aventure. Si quelqu’un veut s’exprimer avec la photographie, il doit avant tout comprendre sa relation à la vie. – Harri Callahan, 1946

Photography is an adventure just as life is an adventure. If man wishes to express himself photographically, he must understand, surely, to a certain extent, his relationship to life. – Harri Callahan, 1946

L’Ame du Vin

Un soir, l’âme du vin chantait dans les bouteilles:

«Homme, vers toi je pousse, ô cher déshérité,

Sous ma prison de verre et mes cires vermeilles,

Un chant plein de lumière et de fraternité!

Je sais combien il faut, sur la colline en flamme,

De peine, de sueur et de soleil cuisant

Pour engendrer ma vie et pour me donner l’âme;

Mais je ne serai point ingrat ni malfaisant,

Car j’éprouve une joie immense quand je tombe

Dans le gosier d’un homme usé par ses travaux,

Et sa chaude poitrine est une douce tombe

Où je me plais bien mieux que dans mes froids caveaux.

Entends-tu retentir les refrains des dimanches

Et l’espoir qui gazouille en mon sein palpitant?

Les coudes sur la table et retroussant tes manches,

Tu me glorifieras et tu seras content;

J’allumerai les yeux de ta femme ravie;

À ton fils je rendrai sa force et ses couleurs

Et serai pour ce frêle athlète de la vie

L’huile qui raffermit les muscles des lutteurs.

En toi je tomberai, végétale ambroisie,

Grain précieux jeté par l’éternel Semeur,

Pour que de notre amour naisse la poésie

Qui jaillira vers Dieu comme une rare fleur!»
— Charles Baudelaire

The Soul of Wine

One night, the soul of wine was singing in the flask:

“O man, dear disinherited! to you I sing

This song full of light and of brotherhood

From my prison of glass with its scarlet wax seals.

I know the cost in pain, in sweat,

And in burning sunlight on the blazing hillside,

Of creating my life, of giving me a soul:

I shall not be ungrateful or malevolent,

For I feel a boundless joy when I flow

Down the throat of a man worn out by his labor;

His warm breast is a pleasant tomb

Where I’m much happier than in my cold cellar.

Do you hear the choruses resounding on Sunday

And the hopes that warble in my fluttering breast?

With sleeves rolled up, elbows on the table,

You will glorify me and be content;

I shall light up the eyes of your enraptured wife,

And give back to your son his strength and his color;

I shall be for that frail athlete of life

The oil that hardens a wrestler’s muscles.

Vegetal ambrosia, precious grain scattered

By the eternal Sower, I shall descend in you

So that from our love there will be born poetry,

Which will spring up toward God like a rare flower!”
Charles Baudelaire — William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

OR :
The Soul of Wine

One night the wine was singing in the bottles:

“Mankind, dear waif, I send to you, in spite

Of prisoning glass and rosy wax that throttles,

A song that’s full of brotherhood and light.

I know what toil, and pain, and sweat you thole,

Under the roasting sun on slopes of fire,

To give me life and to beget my soul —

So I will not be thankless to my sire,

Because I feel a wondrous joy to dive

Down, clown the throat of some work-wearied slave.

His warm chest is a tomb wherein I thrive

Better than in my subterranean cave.

Say, can you hear that rousing catch resound

Which hope within my beating heart sings high?

(With elbows on the table, sprawl around,

Contented hearts! my name to glorify.)

I’ll light the eyes of your delighted wife.

Your son I’ll give both rosy health and muscle

And be to that frail athlete of this life

Like oil that primes the wrestler for the tussle,

In you I fall, ambrosia from above,

Sown by the hand of the eternal Power,

That poetry may blossom from our love

And rear to God its rare and deathless flower!”
Charles Baudelaire — Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

L’éternel épousera-t-il le temporel ?