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Mallarmé lui répondit: « Ce n’est point avec des idées, mon cher Degas, que l’on fair des vers. C’est avec des mots. »
Mallarmé avait raison. Mais quand Degas parlait d’idées, il pensait cependant à des discourses intérieurs ou à des images, qui, après tout, eussent pu s’exprimer en mots. Mais ces mots, mais ces phrases intimes qu’il appelait ses idées, toutes ces intentions et ces perceptions de l’esprit—tout cela ne fait pas des vers. Il y a donc autre chose, une modification, une transformation, brusque ou non, spontanée ou non, laborieuse ou non, qui s’interpose, nécessairement entre cette pensée productrice d’idées, cette activité et cette multiplicité de questions et de resolutions intérieures; et puis, ces discourses si différents des discourses ordinaries que sont les vers, qui sont bizarrement ordonnées, qui ne respondent à aucun besoin, si ce n’est au besoin qu’ils doivent créer eux-mêmes; qui ne parlent jamais que de choses absentes ou de choses profondément et secrètement ressenties; estranges discourses, qui semblent faits par un autre personage que celui qui les dit, et s’adresser à un autre que celui qui les écoute. En somme, c’est un langage dans un langage.
Mallarmé answered him: “It’s not with ideas, my dear Degas, that one makes verse. It’s with words.”
Mallarmé was right. But when Degas spoke of ideas, he was thinking about interior discourses or about images, which, after all, could have been expressed in words. But these words, but these intimate phrases which he called his ideas, all these intentions and these perceptions of the spirit–all of that does not make verse. There is therefore something else, a modification, a transformation, brusque or not, spontaneous or not, laborious or not, which interposes itself, necessarily, between this thought fertile with ideas, this activity and this multiplicity of interior questions and solutions and then these discourses which are so different from the ordinary discourses which make up verse, which are so bizarrely ordered, which don’t correspond to any need, if not the need that they must create themselves; which always only speak of absent things or of the things which are profoundly and secretly experienced; strange discourses which seem crafted by another person than the one who said them, and to address themselves to another person than the one who is hearing them. In sum, it’s a language within a language.
–Paul Valéry, “Poésie et pensée abstraite,” Théorie poétique et esthétique (1939) in: Œuvres, vol. 1, p. 1324 (Pléiade ed. 1957)(S.H./E.H. transl.)
More from Scott Horton:
Conversation — August 5, 2016, 12:08 pm
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Conversation — March 30, 2016, 3:44 pm
Joseph Hickman discusses his new book, The Burn Pits, which tells the story of thousands of U.S. soldiers who, after returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, have developed rare cancers and respiratory diseases.
Flor Arely Sánchez had been in bed with a fever and pains throughout her body for three days when a July thunderstorm broke over the mountainside. She got nervous when bolts of light flashed in the sky. Lightning strikes the San Julián region of western El Salvador several times a year, and her neighbors fear storms more than they fear the march of diseases — first dengue, then chikungunya, now Zika. Flor worried about a lot of things, since she was pregnant.
Late in the afternoon, when the pains had somewhat eased, Flor thought she might go to a dammed-up bit of the river near her house to bathe. She is thirty-five and has lived in the same place all her life, where wrinkled hills are planted with corn, beans, and fruit trees. She took a towel and soap and walked out into the rain. Halfway to the river, the pains returned and overcame her. The next thing Flor remembers, she was in a room she didn’t recognize, unable to move. As she soon discovered, she was in a hospital, her ankle cuffed to the bed, and she was being investigated for abortion.
Amount the town of Rolfe, Iowa, will pay anyone who builds a home there:
Ancient Egyptians worshiped some dwarves as gods.
In Italy, a judge ordered that a man who paid for sex with a 15-year-old girl must buy her 30 feminist-themed books, including The Diary of Anne Frank and the poems of Emily Dickinson.
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“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”