In spring of youth it was my lot
       To haunt of the wide world a spot
       The which I could not love the less-
       So lovely was the loneliness
       Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
       And the tall pines that towered around.

       But when the Night had thrown her pall
       Upon that spot, as upon all,
       And the mystic wind went by
       Murmuring in melody-
       Then- ah then I would awake
       To the terror of the lone lake.

       Yet that terror was not fright,
       But a tremulous delight-
       A feeling not the jewelled mine
       Could teach or bribe me to define-
       Nor Love- although the Love were thine.

       Death was in that poisonous wave,
       And in its gulf a fitting grave
       For him who thence could solace bring
       To his lone imagining-
       Whose solitary soul could make
       An Eden of that dim lake.

But when the night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot as upon all
And the wind would pass me by
In its stilly melody

My infant spirit would awake
To the terror of the lone lake
My infant spirit would awake
To the terror of the lone lake

Yet that terror was not fright
But a tremulous delight
And a feeling undefined
Springing from a darkened mind
Death was in that poisoned wave
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his dark imagining
Whose wildering thought could even make
An Eden of that dim lake

But when the night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot as upon all
And the wind would pass me by
In its stilly melody

My infant spirit would awake
To the terror of the lone lake
My infant spirit would awake
To the terror of the lone lake

Springing from a darkened mind
So lovely was the loneliness
In youth's spring, it was my lot
In its stilly melody
An Eden of that dim lake
An Eden of that dim lake
Lone, lone, lonely...

[extrait MP3]

La courbe de tes yeux fait le tour de mon coeur,
Un rond de danse et de douceur,
Auréole du temps, berceau nocturne et sûr,
Et si je ne sais plus tout ce que j'ai vécu
C'est que tes yeux ne m'ont pas toujours vu.

Feuilles de jour et mousse de rosée,
Roseaux du vent, sourires parfumés,
Ailes couvrant le monde de lumière,
Bateaux chargés du ciel et de la mer,
Chasseurs des bruits et sources des couleurs,

Parfums éclos d'une couvée d'aurores
Qui gît toujours sur la paille des astre,
Comme le jour dépend de l'innocence
Le monde entier dépend de tes yeux purs
Et tout mon sang coule dans leurs regards.

           not like at home' stopping at Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips and
           and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in cotton sun
           frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen
           purulent flesh cos they 'overdid it on the first day'!

Bounder:   (agreeing patiently)  Yes.  Absolutely, yes, I quite agree...

Tourist:   And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses and
           Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and their Watney's
           Red Barrel and their swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending to
           be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging in to
           the queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl of
           Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International
           Cuisine, and every Thursday night there's bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some
           tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some big fat bloated tart with her hair
           Brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.

Bounder:   (beginning to get fed up)  Yes, yes, now...

Tourist:   And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with diarrhoea and flabby
           white legs and hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel, and then, once
           a week there's an excursion to the local Roman ruins where you can buy cherryade
           and melted ice cream and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and then one night they
           take you to a local restaurant with local color and coloring and they show you
           there and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keeps singing 'Torremolinos
           Torremolinos', and complaining about the food, 'Oh! It's so greasy isn't it ?' and
           then you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic
           Dr Scholl sandals and Tuesday's 'Daily Express' and he drones on and on about
           how Mr Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch
           Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuban Libres.
         
Bounder:   Will you be quiet please.

Tourist:   And sending tinted postcards of places they don't know they haven't even
           visited, 'to all at number 22, weather wonderful our room if marked with an "X".
           Wish you were here.'

Bounder:   Shut up.

Tourist:   'Food very greasy but we have managed to find this marvellous little place
           hidden away in the back streets.'

Bounder:   Shut up!

Tourist:   'Where you can even get Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion...'

Bounder:   Shut up!!!

Tourist:   '...crisps and the accordionist plays "Maybe its because I'm a Londoner'" and
           spending four days on the tarmac at Lutton airport on a five-day package tour
           with nothing to eat but dried Watney's sandwiches...

Bounder:   Shut your bloody gob!  I've had enough of this, I'm going to ring the police.

           (He dials and waits.  Cut to a corner of a police station.  One policeman is knitting, another is making a palm
           tree out of old newspapers.  The phone rings.)

Knitting Policeman:  Oh...take it off the hook.  (they do so)

           (Cut back to the travel agent's office.  The man is still going on, the travel agent looks crossly at the phone and
            puts it down.  Then picks it up and dials again.)

Bounder:   Hello, operator, operator...I'm trying to get the police... the police yes, what ?
           the police yes, what?  (takes his shoe off and looks inside) nine and a half, nine and a half,
           yes, yes...I see...well can you keep trying please...

           (Through all this the tourist is going on:)

Tourist:   ...and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are vomiting and throwing up on
           the plastic flowers and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although
           your plane is still in Iceland waiting to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it
           can pick you up on the tarmac at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the
           tarmac until six because of 'unforeseen difficulties', i.e. the permanent strike of
           the Air Traffic Control in Paris, and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take
           off at eight, and when you get to Malaga airport, everybody's swallowing
           Enterovioform tablets and queuing for the toilets and when you finally get to the
           hotel there's no waterin the taps, there's no water in the pool, there's no water in
           the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet, and half the rooms are
           double-booked and you can't sleep anyway...
[...]

(Monty Python Flying Circus, episode 31 "The All-England Summerize Proust Competition")

   J'avais un petit chat tout roux. On l’appelait le chat juif. Je l’avais trouvé dans un champ, volé à sa mère, un vrai sauvage. Il avait quinze jours, peut-être plus. Il savait déjà griffer et mordre. Il était féroce. Je lui ai donné à manger, je l’ai caressé, je l’ai emmené. Il était devenu le chat le plus doux. Une fois, il s’est caché dans la manche du manteau d’une visiteuse, Madame. C’était l’être le plus poli, une politesse naturel, un prince. Il venait nous saluer, les yeux tout engourdis, quand on rentrait au milieu de la nuit. Il allait se recoucher en titubant. Le matin, il nous réveillait pour se coucher dans notre lit. Un jour, on a fermé la porte. Il a essayé de l’ouvrir, il la poussait avec le derrière, il s’est fâché, il a fait un beau tapage ; il a boudé une semaine. Il avait très peur de l’aspirateur, c’était un chat poltron, un désarmé, un chat poète. On lui a acheté une souris mécanique. Il s’est mis à la renifler d’un air inquiet. Quand on a tourné la clef et que la souris s’est mise à marcher, il a craché, il s’est enfui, il s’est blotti sous l’armoire. Quand il a grandi, des chattes rôdaient autour de la maison, lui faisaient la cour, l’appelaient. Cela l’affolait, il ne bougeait pas. On a voulu lui faire connaître le monde. Nous l’avons mis sur le trottoir près de la fenêtre. Il était atterré. Des pigeons l’entouraient, il avait peur des pigeons. Il m’a appelé avec désespoir, gémissant, tout collé contre le mur. Les animaux, les autres chats étaient pour lui des créatures étranges dont il se méfiait ou des ennemis qu’il craignait. Il ne se sentait bien qu’avec nous. Nous étions sa famille. Il n’avait pas peur des hommes. Il sautait sur leurs épaules sans les avertir, leur léchait les cheveux. Il croyait que nous étions des chats et que les chats étaient autre chose. Un beau jour, tout de même, il a dû se dire qu’il devait sortir. Le gros chien des voisins l’a tué. Il était comme une poupée-chat, une poupée pantelante, l’oeil crevé, une patte arrachée, oui, comme une poupée abîmée par un enfant sadique.


... Ce que j’ai pu le regretter ! Il était bon, il était beau, il était sage, toutes les qualités. Il m’aimait, il m’aimait. Mon pauvre chat, mon seul chat.


... Je rêvais de lui... Qu’il était dans la cheminée, couché sur la braise, Marie s’étonnait qu’il ne brûlât pas ; j’ai répondu « les chats ne brûlent pas, ils sont ignifugés ». Il est sorti de la cheminée en miaulant, il s’en dégageait une fumée épaisse, ce n’était pas lui, quelle métamorphose ! C’était un autre chat, laid, gros. Une énorme chatte. Comme sa mère, la chatte sauvage. Il ressemblait à Marguerite.