Eluard Quotes

Even when we sleep we watch over one another.

Your eyes in which I travel Have given to signs along the roads A meaning alien to the earth.

The language of my love does not belong to human language, my human body does not touch the flesh of my love.

The curve of your eyes goes around my heart, A round of dance and sweetness, Halo of time, nocturnal and safe cradle, And if I don't know any more all that I've lived through It's because I haven't always been seen by you.

I cannot be known Better than you know me Your eyes in which we sleep We together Have made for my man’s gleam A better fate than for the common nights Your eyes in which I travel Have given to signs along the roads A meaning alien to the earth In your eyes who reveal to us Our endless solitude Are no longer what they thought themselves to be You cannot be known Better than I know you.

You cannot be known Better than I know you.

Il n'y a qu'une vie, c'est donc qu'elle est parfaite

The poet is much more the one who inspires,than the one who is inspired.

We want to be, when we are young, A little man. I would like to be a big child, Stronger and fairer than a man, And more lucid than a child.

Elephants are contagious

His name was Paul Eluard, and he said this thing once: There is another world, but it is in this one...It's like, you know, inside every stove there's a fire. Well, inside every grass blade there's a grass blade, that's just like burning up with being a grass blade. And inside every tree, there's a tree, and inside every person there's a person, and inside this world that seems so boring and ordinary, if you look hard enough, there's a totally magical beautiful world. And anything you would want to know, or anything you would want to happen, all the answers are right there where you are right now. In your life.

Since they weren't sleepy and nothing had been left unsaid, they began to read poetry to each other, taking turns like children and enjoying it. Bachir had a lovely voice, one that was already that of a man. He knew many poems by heart. He lovingly recited Victor Hugo, with warmth Rimbaud's Le bateau ivre, and poems written by young people going into battle; he then moved on to the poets of liberty - Rimbaud again, Eluard, and Desnos.

Le dessin de Man Ray : toujours le désir, non le besoin. Pas un duvet, pas un nuage, mais des ailes, des dents, des griffes. [...] Man Ray dessine pour être aimé.

I cannot be known Better than you know me

شب مرگش كوتاه ترين شب عمرش بود در انديشه دوباره زيستن مي سوخت دست خون آلودش از درد عذابش مي داد سنگيني جسمش مي ناليد از ناتواني سخت در هراس بود ناگه بنا كرد به لبخند زدن همدمي نداشت ميان ميليون ها كس انديشيد كه از او انتقام مي گيرند و خورشيد به خاطر او بالا مي آيد

كُتِبَ عليّ أن أرى حياتي تنتهي مع حياتك …

His name was Paul Eluard, and he said this thing once: There is another world, but it is in this one. Ruprecht looked baffled. It's about how -- she could feel herself going red, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember what Mr Scott had told them -- like, how people are always going somewhere? Like everybody's always trying to be not where they are? Like they want to be in Stanford, or in Tuscany, or in Heaven, or in a bigger house on a fancier street? Or they want to be different, like thinner or smarter or richer or with cooler friends (or dead, she did not say). They're so busy trying to find their way somewhere else they don't see the world they're actually in. So this guy's saying, instead of searching for ways out of our lives, what we should be searching for are ways in. Because if you really look at the world, it's like ... it's like ... It's like, you know, inside every stove there's a fire. Well, inside every grass blade there's a grass blade, that's just like burning up with being a grass blade. And inside every tree, there's a tree, and inside every person there's a person, and inside this world that seems so boring and ordinary, if you look hard enough, there's a totally amazing magical beautiful world. And anything you would want to know, or anything you would want to happen, all the answers are right there where you are right now. In your life. She opened her eyes. Do you know what I mean?

Hazin tarafı şu ki, bu cins azapları bütün dünya bir asır evvel yaşadı, bitirdi. Hegel, Nietzsche, Marx geldiler, geçtiler. Dostoyevski Suat'tan seksen sene evvel bu azabı çekti. Bizim için yeni nedir bilir misiniz? Ne Eluard'ın şiiri, ne de Comte Stravoguine'in azabıdır. Bizim için yeni, en ufak Türk köyünde, Anadolu'nun en ücra köşesinde bu akşam olan cinayet, arazi kavgası veya boşanma hadisesidir. Bilmem, fikrimi anlayabiliyor musunuz?

The story of the “exquisite cadavers” is as follows. In the aftermath of the First World War, a collection of surrealist poets—which included André Breton, their pope, Paul Eluard, and others—got together in cafés and tried the following exercise (modern literary critics attribute the exercise to the depressed mood after the war and the need to escape reality). On a folded piece of paper, in turn, each one of them would write a predetermined part of a sentence, not knowing the others’ choice. The first would pick an adjective, the second a noun, the third a verb, the fourth an adjective, and the fifth a noun. The first publicized exercise of such random (and collective) arrangement produced the following poetic sentence: The exquisite cadavers shall drink the new wine. (Les cadavres exquis boiront le vin nouveau.) Impressive? It sounds even more poetic in the native French. Quite impressive poetry has been produced in such a manner, sometimes with the aid of a computer. But poetry has never been truly taken seriously outside of the beauty of its associations, whether they have been produced by the random ranting of one or more disorganized brains, or the more elaborate constructions of one conscious creator.

Önemli bir kalıt bırakmışsan itilip bir yanda kalmıyordun demek; geç de olsa peşine düşüyor, arayıp buluyorlardı! Ölüp gittikten sonra, bulmuşlar, bulmamışlar… Ölümün ağırlığı altında ezilir giderdik yaşama böyle bakarsak. Ayrılmaz bir parçamızdı ölüm; besleyip büyütüyorduk içimizde! O da bizi üretip büyütüyor; istediğin kadar diret, üretim sonucunu bitirdi mi de tam egemenliğini kuruyordu! Hayır, kuramıyordu! Başkaları dikiliyordu bu kez karşısına; kalıcı yanlarımızı bulup bizi onlar alıp götürüyordu artık. Ölüme yenilmemek için herkesle birlikte ortak çabamızın bitmez tükenmez kıldığı yaşam güzeldi, ölsek de içindeydik onun; yalnız geçmişin değil geleceğin de parçasıydık. En ağır yasa ölüme karşı yaşamamızdır, diyordu Eluard! Bu denli acı güzellik taşımayı yazgımız yapar da ağır olmaz mıydı o yasa? Bir gün bitecekmiş deniyordu gezegendeki yaşam. İnanmıyordu! O duygusuz ölümden bin kez kurnaz, karşı konulamayan yaşam gücü, nasılsa ele geçirdiği bu uçsuz bucaksız egemenliği hiç kaçırır mıydı?

প্রিয়তমা যুবতীটি আমার চোখের পাতায় দাঁড়িয়ে আছে আর ওর চুল জড়িয়ে আছে আমার চুলে, ওর আঙ্গিক আমার হাতের মতন ওর গায়ের রঙ আমার চোখের মতন আমার ছায়া ওকে গিলে ফ্যালে আকাশে ছোঁড়া পাথরের মতন । ওর চোখ সবসময়ে খোলা আর আমাকে ঘুমোতে দেয় না । প্রকাশয় দিনের বেলায় ওর স্বপ্নেরা সূর্যকে বাষ্পে পরিণত করে আমাকে হাসায়, কাঁদায় আর হাসায়, কিছু বলার না থাকলেও কথা বলে ।

He was now surrounded by a small circle of his inferiors and dependents; no one could keep him in order, as once Eluard had done; those he respected most were long since dead, and he could let himself go just as he pleased. He was, as he said himself, a man “who could say shit to anyone on earth.” He was enormously rich; and riches expose a man to pride and luxury, and a foolish elation of heart. As for pride, Lucifer could never have held a candle to Picasso at any time, riches or not; but it did occur to me that in his case luxury might, after so many years of discipline, emerge as facility, and the foolish elation of heart as a persuasion that anything he did was worth showing—that his briefest jotting down of a passing thought, in his private shorthand, was a valid communication of real importance. In short, that the rot of self-indulgence might have spread to his art. If that was so then neither his way of life nor even his work could be a satisfaction to him. If servile adulation, intensive coddling, guarding, shielding from every draught, had so reinforced the deep contradictions in his own character that they had turned him bad then obviously there was no question of happiness. It seemed unlikely that that fine head, with habitual kindness, gaiety, and strength carved deep into all its lines and wrinkles could go bad; but it was not impossible—there are innumerable instances of disastrous change pitiably late in life—and the prospect grieved me.

When Picasso painted his first cubist picture, he was twenty-six: all over the world several other painters of his generation joined up and followed him. If a sixty-year-old had rushed to imitate him by doing cubism at the time, he would have seemed (and rightly so) grotesque. For a young person's freedom and an old person's freedom are separate continents. "Young, you are strong in company; old, in solitude," wrote Goethe (the old Goethe) in an epigram. Indeed, when young people set about attacking acknowledged ideas, established forms, they like to do it in bands; when Derain and Matisse, at the start of the past century, spent long weeks together on the beaches of Collioure, they were painting pictures that looked alike, were marked by the same Fauve aesthetic; yet neither thought of himself as the epigone of the other—and indeed, neither was. In cheerful solidarity the surrealists saluted the 1924 death of Anatole France with a memorably foolish obituary pamphlet: "Cadaver, we do not like your brethren!" wrote poet Paul Eluard, age twenty-nine. "With Anatole France, a bit of human servility departs the world. Let there be rejoicing the day we bury guile, traditionalism, patriotism, opportunism, skepticism, realism and heartlessness!" wrote André Breton, age twenty-eight. "May he who has just croaked… take his turn going up in smoke! Little is left of any man: it is still revolting to imagine about this one that he ever even existed!" wrote Louis Aragon, age twenty-seven. I think again of Cioran's words about the young and their need for "blood, shouting, turbulence"; but I hasten to add that those young poets pissing on the corpse of a great novelist were nonetheless real poets, admirable poets; their genius and their foolishness sprang from the same source. They were violently (lyrically) aggressive toward the past and with the same (lyrical) violence were devoted to the future, of which they considered themselves the legal executors and which they knew would bless their joyous collective urine. Then comes the moment when Picasso is old. He is alone, abandoned by his crowd, and abandoned as well by the history of painting, which in the meantime had gone in a different direction. With no regrets, with a hedonistic delight (his painting had never brimmed with such good humor), he settles into the house of his art, knowing that the New is to be found not only up ahead on the great highway, but also to the left, the right, above, below, behind, in every possible direction from the inimitable world that is his alone (for no one will imitate him: the young imitate the young; the old do not imitate the old).

He illustrated books magnificently; he owned a considerable number, some of the greatest bibliographical interest; but he did not read a great many. This is not to say that he was not a keenly intelligent man, capable of profound understanding; yet his was an exceedingly quick and sometimes impatient mind, not very well suited for the slow accumulative absorption of prose. Verse was another matter: here the concentrated essence could be grasped almost as quickly as a picture or a carving; Picasso certainly read poetry and he certainly loved poets all his life—Max Jacob, Guillaume Apollinaire, Paul Eluard, to name but three. To be a poet was a passport to his kindness.

The good poem allows us to believe we have a soul. In the presence of a good poem we remember/discover the soul has an appetite, and that appetite is for emotional veracity and for the unsayable. The general condition of the soul, therefore, is stoic hunger, stoic loneliness. Paul Eluard wrote, “There is another world, and it is in this one.” The not so good poem isn’t able to startle us into consideration of that world. The soul is never pricked into wakefulness.