Listen, I said that I wanted only the things that we had heard cried, but of course I make exceptions. And so it’s by no means impossible that I may look in at Rebattet’s and order an ice for the two of us. You will tell me that it’s not the season for them, but I do so want one!” I was disturbed by this plan of going to Rebattet’s, rendered more certain and more suspicious in my eyes by the words ‘it’s by no means impossible.’ It was the day on which the Verdurins were at home, and, ever since Swann had informed them that Rebattet’s was the best place, it was there that they ordered their ices and pastry. “I have no objection to an ice, my darling Albertine, but let me order it for you, I don’t know myself whether it will be from Poiré-Blanche’s, or Rebattet’s, or the Ritz, anyhow I shall see.” “Then you’re going out?” she said with an air of distrust. She always maintained that she would be delighted if I went out more often, but if anything that I said could make her suppose that I would not be staying indoors, her uneasy air made me think that the joy that she would feel in seeing me go out every day was perhaps not altogether sincere. “I may perhaps go out, perhaps not, you know quite well that I never make plans beforehand. In any case ices are not a thing that is cried, that people hawk in the streets, why do you want one?” And then she replied in words which shewed me what a fund of intelligence and latent taste had developed in her since Balbec, in words akin to those which, she pretended, were due entirely to my influence, to living continually in my company, words which, however, I should never have uttered, as though I had been in some way forbidden by some unknown authority ever to decorate my conversation with literary forms. Perhaps the future was not destined to be the same for Albertine as for myself. I had almost a presentiment of this when I saw her eagerness to employ in speech images so ‘written,’ which seemed to me to be reserved for another, more sacred use, of which I was still ignorant. She said to me (and I was, in spite of everything, deeply touched, for I thought to myself: Certainly I would not speak as she does, and yet, all the same, but for me she would not be speaking like this, she has come profoundly under my influence, she cannot therefore help loving me, she is my handiwork): “What I like about these foodstuffs that are cried is that a thing which we hear like a rhapsody changes its nature when it comes to our table and addresses itself to my palate. As for ices (for I hope that you won’t order me one that isn’t cast in one of those old-fashioned moulds which have every architectural shape imaginable), whenever I take one, temples, churches, obelisks, rocks, it is like an illustrated geography-book which I look at first of all and then convert its raspberry or vanilla monuments into coolness in my throat.” I thought that this was a little too well expressed, but she felt that I thought that it was well expressed, and went on, pausing for a moment when she had brought off her comparison to laugh that beautiful laugh of hers which was so painful to me because it was so voluptuous. “Oh dear, at the Ritz I’m afraid you’ll find Vendôme Columns of ice, chocolate ice or raspberry, and then you will need a lot of them so that they may look like votive pillars or pylons erected along an avenue to the glory of Coolness. They make raspberry obelisks too, which will rise up here and there in the burning desert of my thirst, and I shall make their pink granite crumble and melt deep down in my throat which they will refresh better than any oasis” (and here the deep laugh broke out, whether from satisfaction at talking so well, or in derision of herself for using such hackneyed images, or, alas, from a physical pleasure at feeling inside herself something so good, so cool, which was tantamount to a sensual satisfaction). “Those mountains of ice at the Ritz sometimes suggest Monte Rosa, and indeed, if it is a lemon ice, I do not object to its not having a monumental shape, its being irregular, abrupt, like one of Elstir’s mountains. It ought not to be too white then, but slightly yellowish, with that look of dull, dirty snow that Elstir’s mountains have. The ice need not be at all big, only half an ice if you like, those lemon ices are still mountains, reduced to a tiny scale, but our imagination restores their dimensions, like those little Japanese dwarf trees which, one knows quite well, are still cedars, oaks, manchineels; so much so that if I arranged a few of them beside a little trickle of water in my room I should have a vast forest stretching down to a river, in which children would be lost. In the same way, at the foot of my yellowish lemon ice, I can see quite clearly postilions, travellers, post chaises over which my tongue sets to work to roll down freezing avalanches that will swallow them up” (the cruel delight with which she said this excited my jealousy); “just as,” she went on, “I set my lips to work to destroy, pillar after pillar, those Venetian churches of a porphyry that is made with strawberries, and send what I spare of them crashing down upon the worshippers. Yes, all those monuments will pass from their stony state into my inside which throbs already with their melting coolness. But, you know, even without ices, nothing is so exciting or makes one so thirsty as the advertisements of mineral springs. At Montjouvain, at Mlle. Vinteuil’s, there was no good confectioner who made ices in the neighbourhood, but we used to make our own tour of France in the garden by drinking a different sparkling water every day, like Vichy water which, as soon as you pour it out, sends up from the bottom of the glass a white cloud which fades and dissolves if you don’t drink it at once.” But to hear her speak of Montjouvain was too painful, I cut her short. “I am boring you, good-bye, my dear boy.” What a change from Balbec, where I would defy Elstir himself to have been able to divine in Albertine this wealth of poetry, a poetry less strange, less personal than that of Céleste Albaret, for instance. Albertine would never have thought of the things that Céleste used to say to me, but love, even when it seems to be nearing its end, is partial. I preferred the illustrated geography-book of her ices, the somewhat facile charm of which seemed to me a reason for loving Albertine and a proof that I had an influence over her, that she was in love with me.
The Captive, by Marcel Proust
tik dabar atkreipiau dėmesį į savo bendradarbės rankas. jos nagai tokie tvarkingi ir gražūs. ir nagų lakas toks subtilus.
jeigu jos paklausčiau ji tikriausiai mergaitiškai sukikentų ir pasakytų, kad nežino koks tai jausmas, bet kad jai patinka gražiai atrodyt, kad jai patinka mada ir panašiai. ir sakytų, ‘žinau, kad tai paviršutiniška, bet’, o aš sakyčiau, kad ‘nė velnio tai nepaviršutiniška. ir kad visai nesvarbu ar tau laimės suteikia daiktai ar kas nors ką gali perskaityt tik tarp eilučių (konkrečiai šitaip nesakyčiau, nes per daug jau poetiškai skamba) ir kad svarbiausia, kad tu esi laiminga.
vienžo, pasibaigus visoms arbatos gėrimo ceremonijoms liko tik trys valandos.
arbatos gėrimo metas
arbatos gėrimo metas
plaukų slinkimo metas. kikenimo metas. langų valymo metas. šiukšlių rūšiavimo metas
darbe sėdėjimo metas
sveikinimosi su žmonėm metas
paukščių klestėjimo metas
the plum blossoms are falling
I haven’t read the newspapers for months,
the plum blossoms are falling
mano miela drauge. ta, kurios nagai tokie gražūs. užmiršau tau tai pasakyt. iš arti jie ne tokie jau ir tobuli. ir apie ką mes po velniais kalbėjom. apie fizinės kultūros mokykloje darymo metą. kai plum blossoms are falling.
mano mama, mano mama, kuri praėjusią savaitę man nepaskambinai ir aš imu galvoti, kad tu nori priversti mane paskambinti tau. bet to tau teks dar palaukt
bet ar tu man priekaištauji
tu juk mane myli
man atrodo, kad tu man sakei, kad mane myli daugiau kartų nei aš
kai aš buvau mažas vaikas tu prieš miegą pabučiuodavai mano kaktą ir aš daugiau neatsimenu
bet mano miela mama, man patinka šita frazė. the plum blossoms are falling. the plum blossoms are falling. the plum blossoms –are– falling. tiesa. nežinau, bet ji man patinka. aš turiu sąrašą žodžių kurie man patinka
bet kalbu tik apie tuos, kurie man nepatinka.
man nepatinka žodis ‘širdis’
man patinka jos forma. man patinka, kad ji tokia saldžiai kičiška, bet kartu tokia nepretenzinga. atsimeni tą koonso skulptūrą
kur milžiniška raudona blizganti širdis kabo ant milžiniško kaspino
bet antra vertus, nemanau, kad tai blogai. kam reikia talento. tiesa. koks jo tikslas?
nesvarbu, neišsiplėsiu, ir taip puikiai suprantu, kaip labai tau visa tai nuobodu.
mama, tu ne pirmas ir nepaskutinis žmogus. tokios nesąmonės visus vargina. tik pažiūrėk, aš net neapibrėžiau aiškių kriterijų, tik pasakiau, kad jie yra.
nežinau, mama. tu juk mane supranti. visos šitos kalbos neturi konkretaus tikslo. jos turi konkrečią priežastį, bet ne tikslą. nes niekas galų gale mano gyvenime neturi tikslo
tik pažiūrėk į šitą durną blogą. kurį rašau arba tada kai tingiu dirbti arba tada kai negaliu susitvarkyti su savo palyginus tikriausiai ne tokiom ir stipriom emocijom. koks jo tikslas.
Patiko (1)Rodyk draugams