紅茶に浸けたプチ・マドレーヌほどの効果があるかは定かではありませんが、”Open sesame” の呪文が秘密の洞窟の扉を開けたように、言葉の小宇宙が持つリズムとメロディーによって深層に眠るシナプスの記憶が無意識のうちに呼び覚まされることがあります。
アメフリアサガホ スズキ ヘキ
一〇七四 （無題） －宮澤賢治－
Hallelujah Leonard Cohen
Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do you?
It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
You say I took the name in vain
I don’t even know the name
But if I did—well, really—what’s it to you?
There’s a blaze of light in every word
It doesn’t matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah
I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Fêtes de la Patience
Elle est retrouvée.
C’est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.
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,
Science avec patience,
Le supplice est sûr.
Elle est retrouvée.
C’est la mer allée
Avec le soleil.
W. B. Yeats
The Two Trees
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.
J. D. Salinger For Esmé -with Love and Squalor
When he let go of his head, X began to stare at the surface of the writing table,
which was a catchall for at least two dozen unopened letters and at least five or six unopened packages,
all addressed to him. He reached behind the debris and picked out a book that stood against the wall.
It was a book by Goebbels, entitled “Die Zeit Ohne Beispiel.” It belonged to the thirty-eight-year-old,
unmarried daughter of the family that, up to a few weeks earlier, had been living in the house.
She had been a low official in the Nazi Party, but high enough, by Army Regulations standards,
to fall into an automatic-arrest category. X himself had arrested her.
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.
THE WASTE LAND. 2.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Königssee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
Mother Night 21 MY BEST FRIEND
“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.”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
A Psalm of Life
What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
”Life is but an empty dream!”
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,–act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And,departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.