by Paul Valéry
From the Notebooks 1894–1914
… Thousands of memories of feeling solitude, and wishing in a rage for the end of hard times or of thought.
Maybe he will only leave a formless pile of glimpsed fragments, sufferings broken against the world, whole years lived in the space of a minute, incomplete and cold constructions, tremendous labors summed up in a single glance, and dead.
But all these ruins have a certain tint of rose.
Logbook [I, 4], 1894
The Wonder
See the wonder:
Waters rolling, fretting, bursting, radiations (of what?), gyrations, great gentle cascades, falling bodies in ecstasy, perpendicular sky, summits, patches of fog and their smooth breaks, drownings, descents, production and cultivation of smiles, shoulders swimming; science as dreamed by an ignorant and powerful poet: a doorway behind which can be glimpsed other interconnecting rooms, walking on the tips of the grasses; leaning close to the leaves, penetration. Acting as though alone, or snoring. Harmonies. Spiral staircases.
Logbook [I, 41], 1894
The Mixture
I thought of cherished, melting things of Cauchy, of Faraday
of the art of building
of melodies mingling on their own
of the movement of boats
of the hall, the orchestra, and the Stage of the Opera, such a psychological picture
the moon up there, like a candle
Logbook [I, 62], 1894
The sea, for me, sensations of my lungs and nostrils, open space, lifting waves, liquid air, vastness, an immense and bristling odor, wide and odorous and wind-blown tree.
Bristling air.
Tabulae meae Tentationum—Codex Quartus [I, 214], 1898–1899
A tender abandoned treasure, blurred like a glimpse of gold in the water, allowed me to see its original glow at the depths of a memory.
Tabulae meae Tentationum—Codex Quartus [I, 214], 1898–1899
Autumn—
Soaked earth, very pure puddles in the mud; marvelous refuse and scraps all over the water and the fields.
The air, delicious, sharp, smooth, profound, biting.
Overall sleekness, fog in the distance, transparent weight of the sky.
Tabulae meae Tentationum—Codex Quartus [I, 283], 1899
Bird perched between
three leaves; at times
a small noise in the dawn—
Existing only at those times—
Is heard, like pain.
Tabulae meae Tentationum—Codex Quartus [I, 290], 1898–1899
And then … there comes a moment—when everything you hold most sure—the very foundations of being, waver—shudder—like—
like a canvas backdrop about to be raised
like a sailboat feeling the wind and moving around its anchor
and then knowledge becomes shaky and
the incense of vanity—
analyze that.
Tabulae meae Tentationum—Codex Quartus [I, 339], 1898–1899
Night. A vast dark and silent Thing/object/. And in it,—feeble multitudes, a downy glow, and gentle noises.
The work of all those insects? that drill, bore, saw and wear down the night.
A night, a nocturne—but truly stifled—with its millions of drowned-out and crystal-clear nuances—the glow of the stars—from every direction, so universal. The rough calm, the spreading silence, the unbroken clamor of all those creatures. The wind fallen silent, the leaves suspended, which have such an effect on me, the water—
Psychology of the night.
Aggravations. Sleep,
the melting borders of night
Lightning—vast
pale changes.
Tabulae meae Tentationum—Codex Quartus [I, 342], 1898–1899
Ear
He was a man endowed with the keenest sense of hearing, and who lived by it.
But he found music and poetry exasperating.
Sounds were boring for him. Noises charmed him. Troubled voices, screeching doors, sacks hitting the ground, crinkling paper, the piston action of breathing, and especially the magnificent and delicate step of animals and of man, rich and luxuriant stirrings—full of things—
Disquisitiones super multiplicitatem universalem [I, 497], 1898
Sickness
After the infinite sweaty night, and the mouth horribly dry, pacing in pain, the thousand faces of despair, anger without strength—morning appears, sad at first, livid like a great change without improvement.
Then still-sullen waking grows clear, a kind of fragile and sleepy comfort is granted. Not changing places, not seeking to feel better.
Little pleasures become possible. A gentle unstable mindlessness—an ennui engendered by the threat. The afternoon grows long and hazy; already the dark feeling has returned. Again a weariness is felt. A terrible masked activity is gathering. The night’s aggravation reappears, dark fever—flashes of sweat—terror.
Disquisitiones super multiplicitatem universalem [I, 498], 1898
Street
Assemble the flavor of man—think, while walking, here is the sky and the roof; here the roof and the windows; the windows and the trees; the sun, and frayed/stripped-down/trimmed-back/ men (gray figures), gray faces of women, slipping among the flat cars, between the mirrors and wheels of fire. A delicate street, a cliff of blue shadow with velvet/velvety/ balconies, unfolds, and drowning in the vast pure ground which carries them along and from which an equal light rises and inundates them, men and women or their rolling groups break apart and form again and float by, moving across views of gardens, melting and separating/dividing/ in the sun. The sky runs on, the flag shows the wind, straight and taut; there is the clear unbroken form of a river, simple and golden, silent water and the population.
Disquisitiones super multiplicitatem universalem [I, 498], 1898
Night of October 10, 1898
… And now you are leaving.
Already the whole city is melting away, coming apart in the water; there are the great colorful images of the earth, smoke from the fields, streaming plains, the outlines of fields and sandbanks, patches of green, working/being moved/ and tumbling over each other/unraveling/; at last the final mountain hangs on the sea’s last thread like a big drop, glistening blue, that falls in an upraised wave.
Disquisitiones super multiplicitatem universalem [I, 505], 1898
Translation of—me—
Delightful country, islands of blue rock on the sea—far and exquisite details—how I love you, this day!
but to be as before, seeing you now—does not tempt me,
I know that—were you reborn, O pure ones, before my eyes, I would think of other things.
Now is when you are beautiful.
Untitled notebook [I, 688], 1899
Countryside
Almond whiteness—the air moving through and over the rough and smooth of the tree—the nakedness of frozen leaves, puddles of water, light on the field, small hard fragments, spongy clods of earth, strips of sand—
The weathered machine, smells, gust of a bursting tree, mist, every patch of water and blade of grass carefully set in place—circulation, pleasure, ideas all come of it; walking.
ɛìκóνɛç [I, 722], 1899
Autumn—you give us an idea of the incorruptible object we’d like to be.
A thing of gold in cold air, a sharp culmination, the feeling that light is not what summer had us believe—the future that feels like a memory, a great change as statue and figure of all changes;—exceed me—cut through me.
Untitled notebook [II, 269], 1901
On the tree of the flesh sings the imperceptible bird of the spirit.
Untitled notebook [II, 397], 1902
All time is only a slight imperfection in the block of eternity, just as the whole universe is only a bubble in the all-embracing purity of space.
The universe is only a bird in the open sky.
Untitled notebook [II, 732], 1902
Untitled notebook [II, 756], 1902–1903
Far from books, yet alone with the power of space in the silent sun (or else babbling in my mind, as soon as the shade of the leaves dresses me, beds me and lets me radiate and makes me sing by this simple change) their numberless words give up the ghost and fade; I have forgotten my learned words. The river of time turns elsewhere and goes on changing.
Here, I love a tree. It carries the sea in its head, and tosses it back and forth. It wants to equal the heat. It quivers in spite of itself around its place. A leaf grows at its every tip. It grows distant from its parts, and its imperceptibly continuing division translates formless or deep or lofty matter into elegant branches, patches, strips, attitudes, chimings, stature.
A simple scene, which will be repeated indefinitely. At last, most of the signs, grown pale. Differentiated pure properties remain. So free that nothing dark can endure and nothing false is possible, I drink.
Algol [II, 894ff], 1903
Complete Poem
The sky is bare. The smoke wafts up. The wall is bright.
Oh, how I want to think clearly!
Jupiter [III, 7], 1903
The Glass Man
“My vision is so true, my feeling so profound, my knowledge so pure, so unwholesomely pure, and so fine,—my representation so clear; and my science so accomplished, that I see and penetrate myself from the far thest edge of the world to my silent word, and from formless matter to rising desire, along nerves and at their centers, I answer myself, I reflect myself, I shiver at the infinity of mirrors—I am made of Glass.”
Untitled notebook [III, 440], 1905
“He had created within his mind a point so luminous, a burning hearth of attention where he was so vigorously consumed, that any object or idea which came there instantly caught fire and was reduced to its volatile elements.”
Untitled notebook [III, 472], 1903
Tears that seep, well up, and fall
Separating from a hidden mass
By a perceptible tension
Like the overbrimming of impotence,
The balance of what cannot be admitted
And the ineffable, passing through
Despite me, despite even
Not having the means for it—
(Is not speech finding again one’s balance?)
Untitled notebook [III, 772], 1905–1906
An enormous cloud across the moon, whorl of ink and silver, twisted mask—surrounded by the twinkling, star-studded sky. I think how childish is the poetry that seeks a thousand imperfect likenesses for this cloud, a thousand camels, monsters, or countries—when its value, its powerful and truly unlimited poetry, is just the opposite, in being formless, simply itself, and beyond the reach of words, free from images.
Untitled notebook [III, 818], 1906
Narcissus, for all he feels independent of any particular figure, and so universal in his heart, sees in himself a finite human face, beautiful but wholly determined—And disturbs the mirror with his final leap.
Untitled notebook [III, 854], 1906
The tree, an enormous body between the fineness of its principles in the earth and the fineness of its aerial consequences.
Untitled notebook [III, 864], 1906
There are moments of calm and lucidity, at night before the onset of sleep, in an indirect light, when the emptiness is so pure and the transparency so complete, when one sees so clearly and sight so lacks a particular object, that the intellect is startled to find itself (at intervals) at this specific instant of time and not another, and if a thought passes that is less simple than the sensation of its own existence, it turns away as from an accident/intermediate and unfinished task/ to return to its mirror. All things seem foreign to it yet unable to keep any secrets, simply by being wholly superficial. At this point, its own death seems independent of its existence, and of a completely different nature than the all-embracing clarity it feels. Its knowledge of the future seems as inconsequential as the weight of memory is lightened in this state. And it effortlessly absorbs the idea of its own extinction, and dissolves it in its comedy of eternity. Since it is, for an instant, as if eternal, what could ideas of change, division, decrease, the day’s labors and return, have in common with this singular moment of permanence which seems unconnected with the rest of the mind and reveals it to be worthless?
Untitled notebook [IV, 81], 1906–1907
A spring so gentle, I might survive myself.
Untitled notebook [IV, 97], 1906–1907
Are you not the intellectual Robinson? Cast into the self, refashioning on your wished-for island your truth, and the instruments it requires.
To hunt! To fish! … Even the parrot is not so far.
Untitled notebook [VI, 135], 1906–1907
My machine, with its changing heaviness, its hairs, its thick fluids, its patches of shade, its dark shadow under the cloth, all this material of skin and eyes, of tensors, pumps, hyaline substances and visions, this whole unruly mechanics, these levers swinging wide, these parts of me that move away and return—to what? The hidden skeleton that causes a finger to be placed on lips of flesh, this nothing, this all, this origin of ideas and new beings—this gaping pit of food where a wisp of smoke takes root. Watch and pass.
Untitled notebook [IV, 273], 1908
The Glass Man
“My vision is so straight, my feeling so pure, my knowledge so unwholesomely complete, and so fine, my representation so distinct, and my science so accomplished, that I penetrate myself from the farthest edge of the world to my silent word; and from formless matter to rising desire, along known nerves and at ordered centers, I follow myself, I answer myself, I reflect and echo myself. I shiver at the infinity of mirrors—I am made of glass.”
A [IV, 360], 1909–1910
Consciousness seems like a mirror of water which shows the viewer now the sky, now the depths; and often the water is jostled and stirred, and makes a multitude of mirrors and transparencies, an inextricable image.
A [IV, 370], 1909–1910
… Day begins with a light darker than any night. I feel it even from my bed: it begins in my head with a calm that lets every thought be seen in its pure state, still simple, half-sleeping, distinct: first resignation, lucidity, well-being as if afloat in a pristine glow. The virgin morning exists like an unbroken note.
Soon everything I have not done, and will never do, rises up and returns me to my regrets as I lie in bed. It is strong, and tenacious as a dream, and clear as waking. I feel acutely how dumb and real these movements are. How true and futile, these tiring demonstrations. It is time to get up and out, and dissipate another hour down in the streets among the bustle of rubbish. Leaving even my torment—unfinished.
B 1910 [IV, 416], 1910
—Awake and alert in the dark, amid the absence of everything else. Asleep and unfeeling in the sun, in the midst of all the noise and flowers.
C 10 [IV, 444], 1910
Psalm CLI
A right idea misled me
A Truth led me astray …
* * *
—What is the value, I thought, of writing?
Will I empty myself into words?
They are unfaithful; they become strangers
Is it paper that must be brought to perfection?
Is it myself?
And when the best is put in writing, I am left with nothing but my foolishness
Will I deny everything that comes to me which exceeds
The power of writing?
The most delicate and most profound, the most unique,
—Don’t we say inexpressible?—
The most faithful, the most malleable, the most true, the instant itself
Are they not mute?
All books seem fake to me—, I have an ear that hears the author’s voice,
I hear it distinct from the book—They are never united.
Terrace (Pepper trees, lemons about to ripen) surrounded on all sides by delicate bellflowers.
D 10 [IV, 462], 1910
Bells. Bells of Genoa. /Dong/ding-ding/Dongdong/ … Dong/ … I remain, with my eye fixed on the bell ringing a hundred meters away, turned away—and my hand frozen, my pen ready—for what?—Emptiness. And only the intention, the need, the instinct, the fantasy of writing—Writing what? The wall draws back the gaze to its repeating diamonds.
“I dream of perfect writings.” And this childish sign of boredom,—this primitive recourse to putting a quick ideal on the horizon of every idle moment, this strange inability to let a day leisurely slip away; and time, and pride, and one’s outward being—to let them experience and accept each other … just as they are.
Dong/dingding/Dongdong—It sings the hours instead of counting them. Liquid, with an infinite liqueur, the notes ring out. The deep and the shrill—on every level of space, as if the air, inhabited in all directions, was waking, scratching itself … shaking off like fleas and bristling at the sounds it finds … spatial animal.
D 10 [IV, 462], 1910
Mount Fascia—834m—its power—color of a monk’s habit—its downward slope through very wide and very slow folds—It dominates everything without soaring—It descends and does not rise. Monastic and military physiognomy. Not talkative. With a silence and nudity, a bareness and gentle tone over its entire mass—which contain and watch over the whole city whose noises and roosters and sirens, bells and wisps of smoke, it seems to hear without ever answering.
Do a fine topographical study of this massif. Happy is he who finds comfort in writing.
Man responds with all his answers, acquits himself by every means. Draws, paints—overstimulates his vocabulary.
Why this need for expression? Who feels it? To communicate. Make last. Secure. Equal. Re-create—
The bells across the way—Two sisters—I know them now.
