The barroom was desolate, Until surprise..
- Alain Badiou : “Depuis les années 1980, la jeunesse a vu se clôturer l'horizon des possibles”.
- L'amour | best quotes | Love quotes, French quotes, Quote citation;
- Nicolas Chamfort.
- Clara Schumann: An Artists Life Based on Material Found in Diaries and Letters - Vol II: 2.
- Edgar Morin : "Mes philosophes à moi".
In vain, my friend, We resist our old pain. In vain we revel in the long night And on the road..
The wind crisped our lips, Shut our ears.. And the river faded in our two hearts… Winter birds play on our heads a melody of the temptation of the departure.. They said: "Smile so to live.. I say : why not keep my old shoe For the entry to the road And for the fire lane. My departure has; if you do realize.. Only one path. Let me then long before I go For sadness and how in the eyes it goes, For the fever which burns the longing before the body.. For the womb of eternity.. And cry What once were promising hopes. We carried the sadness on years And the morning still comes not So give me a one day chance To give you a bunch of the woes which..
Our heavy days trampling.. Angry you may be my friend, And despite your burning.. In your name And without your consent Grateful I am to a black firefly.. That made me drink of its ink Until saturation.. The days were thirsty And the nights were void deserts.. In your name ; My friend, I thank the firefly As , from the source of all the words, she..
French-English Dictionary (35,273 Entries)
And taught me the meaning of history and bravery And the conquests and the outpouring of my being man And a life she made out of a few scribbles So leave street gossiping behind And the treason of the tribe The goal and the means don't clash Despite the distance that seems long and harsh.. Who ; my friend, betrays whom..? Who does the winds bridle And turns her away from the mother-land?
So for him to rest.. Who quenches aspirations in the live spirits, And from our wreck raises ceremony cellars? Who throws us to the sear Since the cradle So to burn And on our bones he rests. I'm asking, my friend, And I don't loose my temper.. And is there actually who does? I really wonder!!! A poet with a tyrannical brilliance will come to you to back up your sustained defeats.
Don't tell him about your secret victories, lest he turns away from you before.. The clock hands are as sharp as a sword. They endlessly turn around. Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way. Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town Waiting for someone or something to show you the way. Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain. You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today. And then one day you find ten years have got behind you. No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun.
So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking Racing around to come up behind you again. The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older, Shorter of breath and one day closer to death. Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time. Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way The time is gone, the song is over, Thought I'd something more to say.
The Pink Floyd. In vain.. I'm trying to put back my scattered memories together.. I push myself through the graves.. The tomb questioned me in reproach and wonder where were yesterday's friends..
Julie ou la nouvelle Eloise, tome premier, PREFACE
Can you believe dead eyes crying.. O my bleeding lifetime wound.. I wake up and do find but a deaf silence.. I stub against its thick walls.. I come back thwarted once again! O grave embracing a memory raped in the dawn of disclosures.. I run away.. I hear your voice coming to me..
O you lying still between the headstones of sleeping souls.. I come back in my wounds rolling.. La crise ne passait pas. Une chose pourtant demeure certaine. Il nie ou maudit, sans vouloir comprendre. Maupassant, au contraire, adore la Nature, entre en communion avec elle. Rien de tel chez Maupassant.
Il est un primitif. Elle est insaisissable. Et il en abuse. Cependant, on ne trouve jamais chez lui de peintures proprement libertines. Il ne tombe jamais dans la basse pornographie. Nos bras ne peuvent rien saisir.
Les caresses sont illusoires. La publication des lettres de Flaubert lui parut une profanation. Seul, libre! La Mort!
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Quoi que nous croyions, quoi que nous pensions, quoi que nous tentions, nous mourrons! La mort est la grande destructrice. Elle nous enveloppe. Son art est tout objectif. Il observe et il sait voir.