"It was a spring day. Birds spilled out their warbling canticles, and humans, having answered their various calls of duty, were bathing in the sanctity of fatigue. Everything was working out its destiny: trees, planets, sharks. All except the Creator! He was stretched out on the highway, his clothing torn, His lower lip hung down like a soporific cable. His teeth were unbrushed, and dust clogged the blond waves of his hair. Numbed by a torpid drowsiness, crushed against pebbles, his body was making futile efforts to get up again. His strength had left him, and he lay there weak as an earthworm, impassive as treebark. Gouts of wine swamped the ruts trenched by his shoulders' nervous twitches."
Lautréamont, From "Maldoror"
(trans. Alexis Lykiard)
previous Jindrich Styrsky
Styrsky poem > here
I have only one complaint... The font is too minuscule, I can hardly read it, and I guess for other people would be difficult as well. Great Blog, love it! Keep the great work!
ReplyDeleteoki i will try larger font, thank you for the feedback and glad you enjoy! :)x
DeleteI recommend the book: THE LAST SONGS OF AUTUMN - The Shadowy Story of the Mysterious Count of Lautréamont.
ReplyDeletehttp://www.amazon.com/LAST-SONGS-AUTUMN-Lautr%C3%A9amont-ebook/dp/B003A03RRA
Thank you Ruy,looks very interesting indeed! x
ReplyDelete