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The park

The park

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Published by christselentis
André Breton, POISSON SOLUBLE (1924)
André Breton, POISSON SOLUBLE (1924)

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Published by: christselentis on Jan 05, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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The park, at this time of day, stretched its blond hands over the magic fountain. A meaninglesscastle rolled along the surface of the earth. Close to God the register of this chateau was open at adrawing of shadows, feathers, irises. The Young Widow's Kiss was the name of the country inncaressed by the speed of the automobile and the drapings of horizontal grasses. Thus the branches dated the year before never stirred at the approach of the window blinds, when the lightsends the women hurrying to the balcony. The young girl from Ireland, troubled by the jeremiadsof the east wind, listened in her breast to the seabirds laughing."Daughters of the blue sepulcher, feast days, forms of the angelus of my eyes and my head thatring when I awaken, customs of provinces set aflame, you bring me the sun of white carpentryshops, of mechanical sawmills and wine. My hands, so reassured, are my pale angel. Seagulls of the lost paradise!"The phantom enters on tiptoe. He quickly inspects the tower and descends the triangular staircase. His red silk stockings throw a whirling light on the slopes of rushes. The phantom isaround two hundred years old; he still speaks a bit of French. But in his transparent flesh the dewof evening and the sweat of stars are paired. He is lost to himself in this countryside moved to pity. The dead elm and the bright green catalpa alone sigh in the avalanche of milk from thefierce stars. A fruit stone bursts into a fruit. Then the nacelle-fish passes, its hands over its eyes,asking for pearls or gowns.A woman is singing at the window of this fourteenth-century chateau. In her dreams are black walnut trees. I do not know her yet because the phantom too often brings on nice weather aroundhim. Night has suddenly fallen like a great rose window of flowers turned inside out over our heads.A building is the steeple bell of our flights: flight at five o'clock in the morning, when palenessassails beautiful lady travelers on the express in their bed of ferns, flight at one o'clock in theafternoon as one passes through the olive of murder. A building is the steeple bell of our flightinto a church resembling the shadow of Madame de Pompadour. But I was ringing the bell at thegate of the chateau.
 Several maidservants came to meet me clad in satin tights the color of daylight. In the mad night,their compassionate faces were proof of the fear of being compromised. "What may I do for you?""Tell your mistress that the edge of her bed is a river of flowers. Take her back into the theater vault where three years ago the heart of a capital that I have forgotten beat longingly. Tell her that her time is precious to me and that all her reveries are aflame in the chandelier of my head.Do not forget to inform her of my desires incubating under the stones that you are. And you whoare more beautiful than a grain of sunshine in the beak of the dazzling parakeet in this doorway,tell me immediately how she is, whether it is true that the drawbridge of the ivy vines of speechis lowered here simply by knocking with the stirrup.""You are right," she says to me. "The shadow here present went out on horseback a while ago.The reins were made of words of love, I believe, but since the nostrils of fog and the sachets of azure have brought you to this eternally swinging door, enter and caress me all the way up thesestairs seeded with thought."Great isosceles wasps flew up from below. The pretty dawn of evening preceded me, its eyes onthe heaven of my eyes, without turning round. Thus do ships lie down in the silver storm.Several echos answer one another on land: the echo of rains like a cork on a line, the echo of thesun like solder mixed with sand. The present echo is that of tears, and of the beauty appropriateto unreadable adventures, to mutilated dreams. We were arriving at the destination. The phantomwho took a notion along the way to assume the body of Saint Denis claimed he saw his severedhead in each rose. A stammering glued to the windowpanes and the railing, a cold stammering,mingled with our unrestrained kisses.On the edge of the clouds a woman stands, on the edge of the islands a woman stands as grapeclusters ripen on high walls decorated with sparkling grapevines, with beautiful black and goldgrapes. There is also the American grapevine, and this woman was an American grapevine, of 
the sort most recently acclimated to France that produces seeds of that purple foxglove whosefull flavor has not yet been savored. She was walking back and forth in a corridor apartment likethe corridor pull-mans of the great European express trains, the one difference being that thelight shed by the lamps did not clearly pick out the lava flows, the minarets, and the greatindolence of the beasts of the air and the water. I coughed several times and the train in questionglided through tunnels, put suspension bridges to sleep. The divinity of the place staggered.Having caught her in my arms, all rustling, I placed my lips on her throat without a word. Whathappens next escapes me almost entirely. It is only later that I find us again, her in a terribly bright-colored outfit that makes her look like a gear in a brand-new machine, me buried asdeeply as possible inside this impeccable black suit that I have not taken off since.Meanwhile, I must have passed through a cabaret run by very elderly Leaguers whom my civilstatus threw into a bird's perplexity. I also remember a crane raising packages heavenward thatmust have been hair, and, my God, how frighteningly light they were. Then it was the future, thevery future itself. The Flame-Child, the marvelous Wave of just a while before, guided myfootsteps like garlands. The small cracks in the sky finally awoke me: there was no more park,no more night or day, no more white burials conducted by glass hoops. The woman who wasstanding near me caught sight of her feet in a puddle of winter water.Looking back I no longer see clearly, it is as if a waterfall stood between the theater of my lifeand me, who am not the principal actor in it. A much-cherished buzzing accompanies me, alongwhich grasses yellow and even break. When I say to her: "Take this smoked glass which is myhand in your hands, an eclipse is here," she smiles and dives into the seas to bring back the branch of blood coral. We are not far from the meadow of death and yet we take refuge from thewind and from hope in this faded salon. I have dreamed of loving her the way one loves inreality. But I have not been able to rid myself completely of half a green lemon, her scull-likehair, the inadvertence of traps for catching animals alive. She is sleeping now, facing the boundlessness of my loves, in front of this mirror that earthly breaths cloud. It is when she isasleep that she really belongs to me; I enter her dream like a thief and I truly lose her as one losesa crown. I am stripped, surely, of golden roots, but I hold the strings of the storm and I keep thewax seals of crime.

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