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覚醒することがあります。
*
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。
*
猫町 萩原朔太郎
この一つの古い謎は、千古に亘ってだれも解けない。
錯覚された宇宙は、狐に化かされた人が見るのか。
理智の常識する目が見るのか。そもそも形而上の
実在世界は、景色の裏側にあるのか表にあるのか。
だれもまた、おそらくこの謎を解答できない。
だがしかし、今もなお私の記憶に残っているものは、
あの不可思議な人外の町。窓にも、軒にも、往来にも、
猫の姿がありありと映像していた、あの奇怪な猫町の
光景である。
*
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
*
Ambarvalia 西脇順三郎
天気
覆された宝石のやうな朝
何人か戸口にて誰かとささやく
それは神の生誕の日
*
旅人かへらず 西脇順三郎
一七七
むさし野を行く旅者よ
靑いくるみのなる國を
知らないか
*
ランゲルハンス氏の島 入澤康夫
26
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.
*
For Esmé -with Love and Squalor -J. D. Salinger-
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. -T.S.Eliot-
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.
*
Mother Night 21 MY BEST FRIEND -Kurt Vonnegut Jr.-
“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.”
*
A Psalm of Life -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow-
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.