紅茶に浸けたプチット・マドレーヌの香り。
失われた時を求め、”Open sesame” と
呪文を唱える。
*
旅人かへらず -西脇順三郎-
『昔株屋をやつてゐたが
此頃は百姓にもどつた男
橋のたもとで大根の種を買つて
つり銭を待ちながら
ヘッヘッと笑つて云つた
女は男の種を宿すといふが
それは神話だ
女の中に種があんべ
男なんざ光線とかいふもんだ
蜂か風みたいなものだ』
*
或阿呆の一生 -芥川龍之介-
八 火花
彼は雨に濡れたまま、アスフアルトの上を
踏んで行つた。
雨は可也烈しかつた。
彼は水沫の滿ちた中にゴム引の外套の匂を
感じた。
すると目の前の架空線が一本、紫いろの
火花を發してゐた。
彼は妙に感動した。
彼の上着のポケツトは彼等の同人雜誌へ
發表する彼の原稿を隱してゐた。
彼は雨の中を歩きながら、もう一度後ろ
の架空線を見上げた。
架空線は不相變鋭い火花を放つてゐた。
彼は人生を見渡しても、何も特に欲しい
ものはなかつた。
が、この紫色の火花だけは、
――凄まじい空中の火花だけは命と
取り換へてもつかまへたかつた。
*
アメフリアサガホ -スズキ ヘキ-
オレハ
ツマラヌ
ヤマミチノ
アメフリアサガホト
サイテヰル
イツカ
ダレカガ
トホル ダラウ
アメフリアサガホト
オモウダラウ
*
ランゲルハンス氏の島 -入澤康夫-
26
夏至の夜には広場は一面の泥深い沼に変る。
その真中で白い扶養の花が群れ咲くのだ。
沼のまわりを男の子がとりまき、そのある
者は沼に踏みこんで花を取りに行こうとす
る。そして沼に足をとられて、つぎつぎと
沼に吸い込まれる。彼らは声一つ挙げない。
そのうちにも沼はわずかずつだが縮んだり
拡ったりする。はじめての者には、一夜の
うちに街が沼の底になるのではないかと思
われて恐しいのだが、ランゲルハンス氏の
令嬢は笑いながら言うのだ。「毎年のこと
よ」。その翌朝、彼女の窓の下には泥まみ
れの芙蓉の花が沢山おちており、広場は
完全に煉瓦で舗装された元の広場にもどっ
ている。数日後、雨の日だったが、そこを
通りかかると、中央に立っているブロンズ
の裸像に何万というかたつむりがびっしりと
とりついていた。
*
「詩ノート」
一〇七四 （無題） -宮澤賢治-
一九二七、六、一二、
青ぞらのはてのはて
水素さへあまりに稀薄な気圏の上に
「わたくしは世界一切である
世界は移ろふ青い夢の影である」
などこのやうなことすらも
あまりに重くて考へられぬ
永久で透明な生物の群が棲む
*
Hallelujah -Leonard Cohen-
Verse 5
Maybe there’s a God above
But all I’ve ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
And it’s not a cry that you hear at night
It’s not somebody who’s seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
*
Fêtes de la Patience -RIMBAUD-
3.L’Éternité
Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi?-L’Éternité.
C’est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.
Âme sentinelle,
Murmurons l’aveu
De la nuit si nulle
Et du jour en feu.
Des humains suffrages,
Des communs élans
Là tu te dégages
Et voles selon.
Puisque de vous seules,
Braises de satin,
Le Devoir s’exhale
Sans qu’on dise: enfin.
Là pas d’espérance,
Nul orietur.
Science avec patience,
Le supplice est sûr.
Elle est retrouvée.
Quoi ?-L’Éternité.
C’est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.
*
The Two Trees -W. B. Yeats-
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There the Loves a circle go,
The flaming circle of our days,
Gyring, spiring to and fro
In those great ignorant leafy ways;
Remembering all that shaken hair
And how the wingèd sandals dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.
Gaze no more in the bitter glass
The demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
That the stormy night receives,
Roots half hidden under snows,
Broken boughs and blackened leaves.
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.
*
THE WASTE LAND. By T. S. Eliot.
2.
＊ ＊ ＊ ＊
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
*
Mother Night -Kurt Vonnegut Jr.-
21
MY BEST FRIEND . . .
There were tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I sold her jewelry, her favorite furniture,
even her meat ration one time-all for cigarettes
for me,” he said. “We’ve all done things we’re
ashamed of,” I said. “I would not quit smoking
for her sake,” said Heinz.
“We all have bad habits,” I said.
“When the bomb hit the apartment, killed her
and left me with nothing but a motorcycle,”
he said, “the black-market man offered me
four thousand cigarettes for the motorcycle.”
“I know,” I said. He told me the same story
every time he got drunk.
“And I gave up smoking at once,” he said.
because I love the motorcycle so.”
“We all cling to something,” I said.
“To the wrong things-” he said, “and we
start clinging too late. I will tell you the one
thing I really believe out of all the things
there are to believe.”
“All right,” I said.
“All people are insane,” he said. “They will
do anything at any time, and God help
anybody who looks for reasons.”
*
For Esmé -with Love and Squalor
-J. D. Salinger-
Now, for the third time since he had returned
from the hospital that day, he opened the
woman’s book and read the brief inscription
on the flyleaf. Written in ink, in German,
in a small, hopelessly sincere handwriting,
were the words “Dear God, life is hell.”
Nothing led up to or away from it. Alone on
the page, and in the sickly stillness of the
room, the words appeared to have the stature
of an uncontestable, even classic indictment.
X stared at the page for several minutes,
trying, against heavy odds, not to be taken in.
Then, with far more zeal than he had done
anything in weeks, he picked up a pencil stub
and wrote down under the inscription,
in English, “Fathers and teachers, I ponder
`What is hell?’ I maintain that it is the
suffering of being unable to love.”
He started to write Dostoevski’s name under
the inscription, but saw–with fright that
ran through his whole body–that what he
had written was almost entirely illegible.
He shut the book.
*