Almost two years ago, december 2005, i posted a translation of Scève´s dizaine #31 to this blog.
Today i returned to it, it made me happy while i had been sad over some trifles as we usually are whenever we come out of a period of feverishly working on something we honestly believe is changing everything for the better.
It does too, while it lasts.
There has been no gain whatsoever in going from there to here, there has been a little progression, but to speak of any progress would belie the devastating fields of opportunity that have been left untouched, it would be a blunt denial of the failure that comes with any endaviour of this kind. Whatever gain is gained is taken away from what could have been, for you or for others. This kind of activity not being anything towards another thing, just a taking pleasure in moving, the jouissance d´un dérive, the most rewarding joy of floating among ones opera.
Movement moves, there is no need for destination. And then, when you happen to finish a cycle and you stumble back onto one of your departing milestones, the writings of Maurice Scève of Lyon, 16th century France, you suddenly acquire for a very brief moment the translucent grace of a sacred cow strolling on the busy boulevard of a city that hasn’t got a clue what it is all about, let alone that anyone in it would know what they are all about, and most of all, you yourself, giving your shadow ample movement to be noticeable, you are blissfully ignorant of all the nonsense that has brought you here.
The sad Sisters bewailed the old offence
When in the finest clarity of our lives
Disdain is uttered as rightful defence
Against the fierceness of our chaste indulgence
Nor can the hope so long with us
Offer us naught, not the slightest relief.
O vain faith, o believing too lightly
Whomever begets you becomes its mortal host:
Breeding, unable to shorten the grief
And liberty’s blessings from us do exhaust.
