For praise of silence
Valery said essentially that the libraries are full of works dreamed, ever written. One could join the praise of silence which I happen to think that I will not write.
A little book appeared in 1960 under the title Celebration of Silence / by yourself. It opened. It contained only blank pages, like the volumes of the Works of Captain Colette, if one believes his glorious girl.
In fact, the silence of a pristine sheet "that defends its whiteness" is on the desk of a author, one of the most obvious - and disincentives - anywhere. Most eloquent, too: "My alike have tolerated too happy chatter, idle considerations, intentionally abstruse. Null nonsense, nonsense, nonsense, falsehoods, bragging, do they were spared. The fat will swagger, the impostor it awarded a patent for integrity, talkative encroaches on the margins, dry fruit plays with dice, it distills his sententious sayings. I'm better than boredom we are forced to exude, that the vulgarities that we made the support. For my spurs - oh imperial japan! - I hate also the wealth and thrift, the scruffy and stuffy. I wish it was for us, state, status, more honorable than being the foil - trimming - that draws the stationer of the tank to make it dry. Because it contains so, for the mind, anything is possible. His silence condenses, summarizes them all.
Las! some, some can not see such a sheet, an irresistible itch to do press mark their territory as well as dogs do they just perceive a terminal. Leaves to make the paper complicit in their follies, their dislikes - Their mediocrity when we should use it for praise, and first of the leaf itself, which happens in simplicity, with its single lobe, that of the plane, the water lily or burdock.
*
"If I am afraid that the hacks are doodlers such as graffiti on the walls the most venerable, I hope, however, intimidate (one salutary act) the best authors. With them, I will taste, approached, the irresolution of the wrist when the fingers are not resolved to draw the first word. I secretly m'étoilerai a happy image, and I exalt the joys of expression that "who knows that writing is an art," peppers his book. I would be grateful if my silence molt native vein of silence in which the watermark stylist thought and even the breath of the reader. "
¶
* I hear that. But trying to influence the respiratory rhythm of who you bed, forcing him to perceive all the nuances which turns silent in creation, demanding extraordinary powers indefinitely. I shall therefore to indicate, among its myriad forms, from those that I preferred, selected:
● chirping silence of the cave where stalactites calcite riverbed rises on the ground, balusters growing infinitesimal;
● that of a forest that flakes in the air calm, offering us all Tricks of the fall;
● that, corseted, internal to the tree, he must listen to the ear to the trunk of an oak tercentenary, and in the grove Colbert, in the forest of;
● that of a horizon of leaves, prior to the 'crumbles the awakening of birds
● the above pollination of space, the fertilization of the audience with the opening bars of Parsifal or Pelleas et Melisande;
● who fomented a storm and the lightning scar original;
● the creatures of Georges de La Tour, which is not the recollection of the characters or Philippe de Champaigne Le Nain brothers;
● one to split stone, fence monastery, one, open, the abbey of Port-Royal des Champs;
● that, fleece, a blade of snow, when all of nature, amazed, a finger on his lips, listening candor amassed add to self ...
*
And I had said, and I had said, but if large and various is the spectrum of silence, a Benedictine even forgo the transcribing.
¶
Yet I would suggest the silence of the sea, and this is not a metaphor, but one I am sometimes perceived hold all directions the lookout, on a shore oceanic.
Verbose, inexhaustible ocean uses, depending on the time and place, to all records - from the warm whisper to use sand that it blossoms into a gratification of interstices, the screams, the explosions of anger that feeds the fearlessness of the man he apostrophe.
However, on several occasions, my ear, rendered passive by the monotony of the rumor, was also strongly seized by the slamming of a wave spreads out over a sea, by the summation we would be a invisible but very close. Like an actor on a stage monologue that would have a memory lapse, which buterait a word, the ocean ceased his muttering a few seconds. Enough, however, that the extent that rumor seemed to rob me, 'said surface and spread abroad to the limits of the visible. A book had just opened on a broadsides where I can read finally distinctly all that came to me not always, that nebulous and chaotic. However that was needed, obviously, the image of a limb united, without ribs, which was spread to the eye, the edges of the sky limits.
flow did he achieve, fragile, a balance point, all forces vanish? Had he met in the unwinding of his remarks, an aporia? Would he, believed the same vigilance, prone to distraction, to inadvertently?
He immediately resumed, and in the same tone, rehashing his confused, and I would have thought to inattention on my part if I had had such a feeling of unusual and specifically , unheard. The curtain (beads of rain) that separates us from the waves had the time a sigh, ajar. Too little for me to decipher some scrap of their idiom, but enough to the ocean appeared more majestic, though largest in its fury and its excesses. I really perceived to favor this hiatus, this confining, as illustrated, the word 'empire . That of the sea taking in size, durability, all those who had to stand, a land ... subject to earthquakes.
*
May more brave than me compose a celebration of silence that makes justice to its multiple speckling, and his book can serve, for the reader of this china that I wore as a child in my ear, because we had the illusion to hear the sea
Ah! that such work would be safe, that would teach the virtues, the fertility of silence, a time when the tumult of cities, is superimposed a universal chatter that pervades, like swarms of locusts, the ether of the Shepherds of Arcadia! And would it be safe even if he recalled the silence that always and everywhere, has the last word. The same in the mastaba, tombs, cemeteries or mausoleums, in the tomb of a cemetery abandoned village.
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the tomb of Harpocrates * (I)
From a reader named Eugene Mersea humanist, I received long ago, a letter in which he told me a hand obtain in world literature, all the remarks about the silence on the other hand, recording his reflections on the same topic, proper food for the praise of silence that he planned and was to be titled The Tomb Harpocrates. We exchanged a few letters until his death put an end to our correspondence.
I give below a few fragments of the forthcoming book that the author had provided, and I beg your pardon his heirs to do without their authorization: I could not find trace of her progeny.
*
*
Nobody can claim to have managed to fully explore the silence which, according to Joubert is with time and space, one dimension of the infinite. Overcoming the fear that seized Pascal before this cosmic silence, trying to edge of abyss to work with him taking guides for those who in the republic of letters to the empire of dreams through the realm of music, have approached so close that they received as a message of eternity, and his mysterious eloquence, have a universal language.
*
[...] we communicate through speech, we communed in silence. "Guessed better ... agreed to," writes Colette. It what Robert Menard called "high silence wonder of love." O, magic of these silences enharmonic, which, as observed Jean Guitton, "can be silent together without breaking the interview." "The souls weigh in silence as gold. "
*
can deny that in certain circumstances, silence is actually the last bastion of freedom ? And this silence is not deceptive.
*
Like Aesop's tongue, silence can be qualified, bias, better or worse things. Is not it strange, however, that this word - unpronounceable by definition - awakens in us as echo? Is not the word of the French language which has the most rhymes, and the richest? Is it not, ultimately, the keystone of the building sound? It is with the stones of silence which raises the temple music ... and also that of Harpocrates, the god with the index finger on his mouth so beloved by Maurice de Guerin. (To be continued)
*
* Harpocrates: in Greek mythology, the god silence.
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The Whispers of Love *
The love
If I write at length, not through a chatterbox, but after failing to find the word - unique - where I would love. Meaning you, reading me, my desperation to be "silent ?
Who will write a learned treatise entitled: "Love considered advent of language? But I love you too closed mouth, buzzing trills.
*
The lover
Among the opulent pleasures that I owe you, how can we forget our laughs which are lost in the shouting of the sea, a pleasure given to disorders of the flow; sleep infused rumor that follows?
* * François Solesmes The Murmurs of love , Ink Navy.
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