jeudi 20 novembre 2008
Peter breaks through
James Matthew Barrie, 1860-1937
Mrs. Darling first heard of Peter when she was tidying up her children's minds. It is the nightly custom of every good mother after her children are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things straight for next morning, repacking into their proper places the many articles that have wandered during the day. If you could keep awake (but of course you can't) you would see your own mother doing this, and you would find it very interesting to watch her. It is quite like tidying up drawers. You would see her on her knees, I expect, lingering humorously over some of your contents, wondering where on earth you had picked this thing up, making discoveries sweet and not so sweet, pressing this to her cheek as if it were as nice as a kitten, and hurriedly stowing that out of sight. When you wake in the morning, the naughtiness and evil passions with which you went to bed have been folded up small and placed at the bottom of your mind and on the top, beautifully aired, are spread out your prettier thoughts, ready for you to put on.
I don't know whether you have ever seen a map of a person's mind. Doctors sometimes draw maps of other parts of you, and your own map can become intensely interesting, but catch them trying to draw a map of a child's mind, which is not only confused, but keeps going round all the time. There are zigzag lines on it, just like your temperature on a card, and these are probably roads in the island, for the Neverland is always more or less an island, with astonishing splashes of colour here and there, and coral reefs and rakish-looking craft in the offing, and savages and lonely lairs, and gnomes who are mostly tailors, and caves through which a river runs, and princes with six elder brothers, and a hut fast going to decay, and one very small old lady with a hooked nose. It would be an easy map if that were all, but there is also first day at school, religion, fathers, the round pond, needle-work, murders, hangings, verbs that take the dative, chocolate pudding day, getting into braces, say ninety-nine, three-pence for pulling out your tooth yourself, and so on, and either these are part of the island or they are another map showing through, and it is all rather confusing, especially as nothing will stand still.
Of course the Neverlands vary a good deal. John's, for instance, had a lagoon with flamingoes flying over it at which John was shooting, while Michael, who was very small, had a flamingo with lagoons flying over it. John lived in a boat turned upside down on the sands, Michael in a wigwam, Wendy in a house of leaves deftly sewn together. John had no friends, Michael had friends at night, Wendy had a pet wolf forsaken by its parents, but on the whole the Neverlands have a family resemblance, and if they stood still in a row you could say of them that they have each other's nose, and so forth. On these magic shores children at play are for ever beaching their coracles (1). We too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more.
Of all delectable islands the Neverland is the snuggest and most compact, not large and sprawly, you know, with tedious distances between one adventure and another, but nicely crammed. When you play at it by day with the chairs and table-cloth, it is not in the least alarming, but in the two minutes before you go to sleep it becomes very real. That is why there are night-lights.
Occasionally in her travels through her children's minds Mrs. Darling found things she could not understand, and of these quite the most perplexing was the word Peter. She knew of no Peter, and yet he was here and there in John and Michael's minds, while Wendy's began to be scrawled all over with him. The name stood out in bolder letters than any of the other words, and as Mrs. Darling gazed she felt that it had an oddly cocky appearance.
"Yes, he is rather cocky," Wendy admitted with regret. Her mother had been questioning her.
"But who is he, my pet?"
"He is Peter Pan, you know, mother."
(1) simple boats
(in Peter Pan, ou Peter and Wendy, Ch. 1)
[Illustration : Sir George Frampton, sculpture de Peter Pan, Kensington park (1912)]
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Pour une traduction française : en commentaire
dimanche 12 octobre 2008
A mad tea-party
Lewis Carroll, 1832-1898
The Hatter was the first to break the silence. ‘What day of the month is it?’ he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then, and holding it to his ear.
Alice considered a little, and then said ‘The fourth.’ ‘Two days wrong!’ sighed the Hatter. ‘I told you butter wouldn’t suit the works!’ he added looking angrily at the March Hare.
‘It was the BEST butter,’ the March Hare meekly replied.
‘Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well,’ the Hatter grumbled: ‘you shouldn’t have put it in with the bread-knife.’
The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of nothing better to say than his first remark, ‘It was the BEST butter, you know.’
Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. ‘What a funny watch!’ she remarked. ‘It tells the day of the month, and doesn’t tell what o’clock it is!’
‘Why should it?’ muttered the Hatter. ‘Does YOUR watch tell you what year it is?’
‘Of course not,’ Alice replied very readily: ‘but that’s because it stays the same year for such a long time together.’
‘Which is just the case with MINE,’ said the Hatter.
Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter’s remark seemed to have no sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. ‘I don’t quite understand you,’ she said, as politely as she could.
‘The Dormouse is asleep again,’ said the Hatter, and he poured a little hot tea upon its nose.
The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its eyes, ‘Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself.’
‘Have you guessed the riddle yet?’ the Hatter said, turning to Alice again.
‘No, I give it up,’ Alice replied: ‘what’s the answer?’
‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ said the Hatter.
‘Nor I,’ said the March Hare.
Alice sighed wearily. ‘I think you might do something better with the time,’ she said, ‘than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.’
‘If you knew Time as well as I do,’ said the Hatter, ‘you wouldn’t talk about wasting IT. It’s HIM.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Alice.
‘Of course you don’t!’ the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously.
‘I dare say you never even spoke to Time!’
‘Perhaps not,’ Alice cautiously replied: ‘but I know I have to beat time when I learn music.’
‘Ah! that accounts for it,’ said the Hatter. ‘He won’t stand beating. Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he’d do almost anything you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o’clock in the morning, just time to begin lessons: you’d only have to whisper a hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one, time for dinner!’
(‘I only wish it was,’ the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.)
‘That would be grand, certainly,’ said Alice thoughtfully: ‘but then–I shouldn’t be hungry for it, you know.’
‘Not at first, perhaps,’ said the Hatter: ‘but you could keep it to half-past one as long as you liked.’
‘Is that the way YOU manage?’ Alice asked.
The Hatter shook his head mournfully. ‘Not I!’ he replied. ‘We quarrelled last March–just before HE went mad, you know-’ (pointing with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) ‘–it was at the great concert given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing
“Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
How I wonder what you’re at!”
You know the song, perhaps?’
‘I’ve heard something like it,’ said Alice.
‘It goes on, you know,’ the Hatter continued, ‘in this way:–
“Up above the world you fly,
Like a tea-tray in the sky.
Twinkle, twinkle–”’
Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep ‘Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle–’ and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop.
‘Well, I’d hardly finished the first verse,’ said the Hatter, ‘when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, “He’s murdering the time! Off with his head!”’
‘How dreadfully savage!’ exclaimed Alice.
‘And ever since that,’ the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, ‘he won’t do a thing I ask! It’s always six o’clock now.’
A bright idea came into Alice’s head. ‘Is that the reason so many teathings are put out here?’ she asked.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ said the Hatter with a sigh: ‘it’s always tea-time, and we’ve no time to wash the things between whiles.’
‘Then you keep moving round, I suppose?’ said Alice.
‘Exactly so,’ said the Hatter: ‘as the things get used up.’
‘But what happens when you come to the beginning again?’ Alice ventured to ask.
‘Suppose we change the subject,’ the March Hare interrupted, yawning.
‘I’m getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story.’
(in Alice in Wonderland, 1865)
[Illustration : John Tenniel (ed. originale)]
jeudi 4 septembre 2008
Les écoliers
Sur la route couleur de sable
En capuchon noir et pointu,
Le « moyen » le « bon » le « passable »
Vont, à galoches que veux-tu
Vers leur école intarissable.
Ils ont dans leur plumier des gommes
Et des hannetons du matin,
Dans leurs poches, du pain, des pommes,
Des billes, ô précieux butin
Gagné sur d'autres petits hommes.
Ils ont la ruse et la paresse
- Mais 1’innocence et la fraîcheur -
Près d'eux les filles ont des tresses
Et des yeux bleus couleur de fleur
Et de vraies fleurs pour la maîtresse.
Puis, les voilà tous à s'asseoir
Dans l'école crépie de lune,
On les enferme jusqu'au soir
Jusqu’à ce qu'il leur pousse plume
Pour s'envoler. Après, bonsoir !
mercredi 3 septembre 2008
Le cancre
Il dit non avec la tête
Mais il dit oui avec le coeur
Il dit oui à ce qu'il aime
Il dit non au professeur
Il est debout
On le questionne
Et tous les problèmes sont posés
Soudain le fou rire le prend
Et il efface tout
Les chiffres et les mots
Les dates et les noms
Les phrases et les pièges
Et malgré les menaces du maître
Sous les huées des enfants prodiges
Avec des craies de toutes les couleurs
Sur le tableau noir du malheur
Il dessine le visage du bonheur.
mardi 2 septembre 2008
L'écolier
J’écrirai le jeudi j'écrirai le dimanche
quand je n'irai pas à l'école
j'écrirai des nouvelles j'écrirai des romans
et même des paraboles
je parlerai de mon village je parlerai de mes parents
de mes aïeux de mes aïeules
je décrirai les prés je décrirai les champs
les broutilles et les bestioles
puis je voyagerai j'irai jusqu'en Iran
au Tibet ou bien au Népal
et ce qui est beaucoup plus intéressant
du côté de Sirius ou d'Algol
où tout me paraîtra tellement étonnant
que revenu dans mon école
je mettrai l'orthographe mélancoliquement
lundi 1 septembre 2008
L'oreiller
Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, 1786-1859
Cher petit oreiller, doux et chaud sous ma tête,
Plein de plume choisie, et blanc, et fait pour moi !
Quand on a peur du vent, des loups, de la tempête,
Cher petit oreiller, que je dors bien sur toi !
Beaucoup, beaucoup d'enfants, pauvres et nus, sans mère,
Sans maison, n'ont jamais d'oreiller pour dormir ;
Ils ont toujours sommeil, ô destinée amère !
Maman ! douce maman ! Cela me fait gémir...
mardi 24 juin 2008
Le Petit soldat (1947)
lundi 16 juin 2008
Le Roi et l'oiseau
mercredi 4 juin 2008
La faune
Et toi, que manges-tu, grouillant ?
- Je mange le velu qui digère le
pulpeux qui ronge le rampant.
Et toi, rampant, que manges-tu ?
- Je dévore le trottinant, qui bâfre
l'ailé qui croque le flottant.
Et toi, flottant, que manges-tu ?
- J'engloutis le vulveux qui
suce le ventru qui mâche le sautillant.
Et toi, sautillant, que manges-tu ?
Je happe le gazouillant qui gobe
le bigarré qui égorge le galopant.
Est-il bon, chers mangeurs, est-il
bon, le goût du sang ?
- Doux, doux ! tu ne sauras jamais
comme il est doux, herbivore !
(in Famines)
samedi 24 mai 2008
L'opéra de la lune (fin)
Jacques Prévert, 1900-1977
(Illustrations : Jacqueline Duhéme)
- Ils la remettent à neuf, quoi ?
Pas besoin. Elle n'a jamais été vieille.
- Qu'est-ce qu'ils font alors ?
Ils l'embellissent.
Il y a les équipes de jour qui travaillent
à embellir les nuits.
Et les équipes de nuit qui travaillent
à embellir les jours.
Et ils ne font jamais la guerre ?
Non.
Ils ont autre chose à faire ;
embellir la lune
leur prend tout leur temps. Et ils n'ont
pas besoin de faire la guerre.
Pas plus qu'ils n'ont besoin d'argent.
Et quand une nouvelle fois la nouvelle lune
est terminée ils prennent le téléféerique et
s'en vont voir de loin cette lune nouvelle
afin de juger de l'effet du travail bien fait.
Et puis ils s'en vont en vacances.
- Où ça ?
Un peu partout où ça leur chante.
Un peu partout où ça leur plaît.
Et même une fois ils sont allés passer
leurs vacances au bord de la terre.
Mais ils ne sont pas resté longtemps.
- Ca ne leur pas plu ?
Si. Ils aimaient bien
les fleurs les couleurs
de la mer et le chant
des oiseaux et celui des enfants.
C'était nouveau pour eux.
Ils étaient très contents.
- Pourquoi sont-ils partis ?
A cause du bruit.
- Quel bruit ?
Le bruit des machines à faire des ruines
des machines à faire la guerre
des machines à faire tuer les enfants
de la terre.
Et Michel Morin s'endormait
en répétant tout doucement
ils ont chanté en s'en allant :
C'est bien joli mais nous partons.
