Letter from Jean-Marie de Sevigne Orcesson world varieties
I have no particular inclination to melancholy music. In these days of an Indian summer when the sun burns its last rays of youth before inclining his body tanned to a fall in which blood is chill, where we start walking when the countryside whitens, my thoughts are elsewhere . Oh, how I talk about books fell off the bedside rather than to alert you of the decline of the song French. You talk about the faces of young women, languid bath in a custom-sea, near the shore of a Greek island, unless it is the Italian Riviera or a Bali night to celebrate life on the ashes the deceased Rajas.
But now, the wealth of rhymes, Hervé Vilard, Barbelivien Didier, Jean-Pierre Francois or C Jerome will soon be played in an imaginary theater of shadows flickering. The brutality of a world forcing us to the vulgarity of new stars escaped by a miracle of any academy forces me to leave my ivory tower to alert you of the decline French variety. Singing in French today is a challenge, sure. "Stirb und werde," Goethe said. You must die to be reborn. Yes but then a slow death, a long and full of delicious agony towards half full. Those, of Hugo, Hervé Vilard
"We, that is an illusion dies
one laugh in the heart"
As Marguerite Duras returned to lucidity and alcohol, I like to let me win the gentle melancholy music by Herve Vilard. Marguerite Duras, sublime, sublime necessarily, when launched, premonitory his young student lover May 68 "Capri, c'est fini." With his turtleneck, it gave substance to the prophecy Jouhandeau launched by fighters of the barricades in May: "Go home!" In ten years you will all notaries ... "
"Why the silence, why this big empty when I think of us.
It was a challenge at times, the spring before the spring"
Thanks Herve. Thank you for holding on in our long night of fog this musical candle beautiful and fragile as ancient Rome. I know, none of your preferred shooting star that the star was Jean-Pierre Francois and his meteoric "I will survive".
"Ah, there is a star that died
It will turn elsewhere."
As the Queen died of Henry Montherlant ultimate bulwark against the invasion of eternal ugliness, meanness, of stupidity and boredom, Jean-Pierre Francois came as an angel green, grime dark cauldron of football for light plateaux of Guy Lux fiat lux ... There's Rimbaud at Jean-Pierre Francois. It has all the audacity:
"In Chinese mirrors, in the eyes of a cat
I will survive"
Rimbaud did I say? That Jean-Pierre François feverish, as Verlaine
"In anonymous nights where I lose my body, I will survive
"
Even if its drift Sarkozyist is obvious, it should be frankly muzzle to ignore pen, light and fresh, Didier Barbelivien. "It's an epicurean al'imagination Catholic or Vendée", told him Sainte-Beuve. Romanian Cioran chose to speak in a language that honors and reveres: French. Didier Barbelivien is in this line, even he sought the light of the spotlight when looking Cioran darkness, fearing the plague as any form of recognition, documentation of major curse. "Elsa", sung by Didier Barbelivien is probably the synthesis of light and shadow, between ice and fire:
"Elsa
The rides Berlin turned in your arms,
The song sailors wept in your voice,
I remember those eyes,
Half blue, lilac halves, Fine
like an operatic aria "
As often, unfortunately, side is missing it should look the best. Nobody has to admire Jerome C, as nobody should be forced to worship Chateaubriand. And yet, for one as for the other, it is a style for eternity. We must revive our memories from beyond the grave and these verses was chased by Jerome
"I'm bad about myself, I want to go
,
There is always a slow,
To I steal your smile "
Since C Jerome, Chateaubriand knew about life, his passions. "Her skirt was short, her bodice ripped, she walked bent and arms crossed. His eyes were black, half opened his mouth to breathe. It made him want to tell her the roses. " The same torments wave C Jerome when Danielle goes ...
"This time that's it, Danielle is going, finished
It's like a cobra bite, the j'vous say"
Then, of course, to discuss the decline of French song, I could call to the witness stand trial braillers and braille from today's beautiful and famous figures, such as Claude Francois, Daniel Guichard, Dave, Gerald Levert, Jacquie Quartz, Mike Brandt or Joe Dassin.
the evening of my life, I just want to finish this letter by quoting the words of Dalida and Alain Delon. If I had to choose, I would like to echo these lines written in Rome you meet him in Athens. On the ruins as beautiful as the words that follow, eternal:
"You are the beautiful love story that I never stop reading,
You're like the wind to sing the violins and carries off the scent of pink
You are to me the only music that makes the stars dance on the dunes "
Jean-Marie de Sevigne Orcesson
PS: Guy Carlier not sing. And it's a shame, otherwise it could have been included in my pantheon of great French music. Before dipping his pen often talented in the ridiculous vitriol from the foam media for days, Guy Carlier offered the young Melody this little jewel of beautiful letters
"There's not that big dream, there's no the great who have feelings
He teaches me the names of the stars at the top of cathedrals
He plays the music of hope, his piano weeps tears of ivory
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