I come from another country, another culture, another solitude Right now I’m finding new ways of cutting across I no longer belong in your world – I’m waiting to mutate I get by with my own kind of biology: I piss, I spit, I cry It’s of vital importance that we shape our ideas as if they were mass-produced objects And I know how to get hold of the moulds… but…
The solitude… solitude… The moulds are made of a new substance, I warn you: they were cast tomorrow morning If at this moment you don’t have a sense of the relativity of your own time-flow There’s no point in going any further with you, there’s no point in looking ahead Because ahead is behind, darkness is light, black is white,
And… the solitude… solitude…
It is of vital importance that the automatic launderettes on main street should be as imperturbable as flashing traffic lights The Detergent Police will show you to a cubicle where you will be allowed to disinfect what you imagine to be your consciousness and which is no more than an appendage of the neurophiliac computer that you call a brain…
But… the solitude… solitude…
Despair is a higher form of criticism: for the time being, let’s call it ‘happiness,’ Since the words you use aren’t really words, but units in a process through which illiterates are able to find peace of mind…
But… the solitude… solitude…
We’ll talk about the legal system later For the moment I want to systematize anarchy I want to measure your infinitely absurd democracies I want to become a total vacuum, nothingness, null and void, non-speech, non-purity, non-emptiness, through a total lack of lucidity
‘La Solitude,’ original words and music by Léo Ferré, © 1971. English adaptation by Peter Hawkins © 1989
ReplyDeleteI come from another country, another culture, another solitude
Right now I’m finding new ways of cutting across
I no longer belong in your world – I’m waiting to mutate
I get by with my own kind of biology: I piss, I spit, I cry
It’s of vital importance that we shape our ideas as if they were mass-produced objects
And I know how to get hold of the moulds… but…
The solitude… solitude…
The moulds are made of a new substance, I warn you: they were cast tomorrow morning
If at this moment you don’t have a sense of the relativity of your own time-flow
There’s no point in going any further with you, there’s no point in looking ahead
Because ahead is behind, darkness is light, black is white,
And… the solitude… solitude…
It is of vital importance that the automatic launderettes on main street should be as imperturbable as flashing traffic lights
The Detergent Police will show you to a cubicle where you will be allowed to disinfect what you imagine to be your consciousness and which is no more than an appendage of the neurophiliac computer that you call a brain…
But… the solitude… solitude…
Despair is a higher form of criticism: for the time being, let’s call it ‘happiness,’
Since the words you use aren’t really words, but units in a process through which illiterates are able to find peace of mind…
But… the solitude… solitude…
We’ll talk about the legal system later
For the moment I want to systematize anarchy
I want to measure your infinitely absurd democracies
I want to become a total vacuum, nothingness, null and void, non-speech, non-purity, non-emptiness, through a total lack of lucidity
LUCIDITY IS LOCATED IN MY PANTS… IN MY PANTS…