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ִĻҡС
====
ִʫתһʬ
ﻹв:
http://www.lyrist.org/dashi/baudelaire/
Ƿԭģ
Une Charogne
Rappelez-vous l'objet que nous vîmes, mon âme,
Ce beau matin d't si doux:
Au dtour d'un sentier une charogne infâme
Sur un lit sem de cailloux,
Le ventre en l'air, comme une femme lubrique,
Brûlante et suant les poisons,
Ouvrait d'une façon nonchalante et cynique
Son ventre plein d'exhalaisons.
Le soleil rayonnait sur cette pourriture,
Comme afin de la cuire point,
Et de rendre au centuple la grande Nature
Tout ce qu'ensemble elle avait joint;
Et le ciel regardait la carcasse superbe
Comme une fleur s'panouir.
La puanteur tait si forte, que sur l'herbe
Vous crûtes vous vanouir.
Les mouches bourdonnaient sur ce ventre putride,
D'o sortaient de noirs bataillons
De larves, qui coulaient comme un pais liquide
Le long de ces vivants haillons.
Tout cela descendait, montait comme une vague
Ou s'lançait en ptillant
On eût dit que le corps, enfl d'un souffle vague,
Vivait en se multipliant.
Et ce monde rendait une trange musique,
Comme l'eau courante et le vent,
Ou le grain qu'un vanneur d'un mouvement rythmique
Agite et tourne dans son van.
Les formes s'effaçaient et n'taient plus qu'un rve,
Une bauche lente venir
Sur la toile oublie, et que l'artiste achve
Seulement par le souvenir.
Derrire les rochers une chienne inquite
Nous regardait d'un oeil fâch,
Epiant le moment de reprendre au squelette
Le morceau qu'elle avait lâch.
Et pourtant vous serez semblable cette ordure,
À cette horrible infection,
Etoile de mes yeux, soleil de ma nature,
Vous, mon ange et ma passion!
Oui! telle vous serez, ô la reine des grâces,
Apres les derniers sacrements,
Quand vous irez, sous l'herbe et les floraisons grasses,
Moisir parmi les ossements.
Alors, ô ma beaut! dites la vermine
Qui vous mangera de baisers,
Que j'ai gard la forme et l'essence divine
De mes amours dcomposs!
Charles Baudelaire
Ӣķ룺
http://www.fleursdumal.org/poem/126
- Re: 腐 尸(波德莱尔)posted on 12/22/2004
No wonder we now got a beautiful world of modern poetry writing, if it all started from this direction ... - Re: 腐 尸(波德莱尔)posted on 12/22/2004
xw wrote:
ʬ
XWллӣ͡
Baudelaire һ棬ʱմµϲβϵ̣ǸζʱĿǸʵ̫ˬˡˣ㽶(϶Ħг)װߣ̫ˡ
˳ʣ Ϊʲô ventre en l'air, ӢĶ: ȶ̣ǶƤ죿
- posted on 12/22/2004
wrote:
xw wrote:XWллӣ͡
ʬ
Baudelaire һ棬ʱմµϲβϵ̣ǸζʱĿǸʵ̫ˬˡˣ㽶(϶Ħг)װߣ̫ˡ
˳ʣ Ϊʲô ventre en l'air, ӢĶ: ȶ̣ǶƤ죿
ð
ҶԲʶdzʫܡӦ治ࡣ
˵һסʬЩͬġ桱ָơ
ɷʫлȡ裬⡣뵱蹫ǰ
İ裬ϵĶֲ˼ֱֵ
پ뵽ϻȥأƺһָң
ֶαһЩʵڵĶЩԭģִڻ
جج֮ΨһѾƵķʽҲ֪ĸԡ
˱Alan BergһɿˣWozzeck
һܽܣһLuluĻС
֪IJ岻ܺã˲Удʫܣ
Ūһʲôִ塣Ȼһ·Ĺ
˭˵ģѧҲһǰ̵ҵ
һǺľϸ̻֮ʣʫӽǺʫزʽ
ԡ(ָ֮)
ventre en l'airȷʵӦöƤ죬Ӣһ
Ըе붼ûˣǺ˵
ʫزģķʽһ
ʾȷʵǺһʫ
- posted on 12/22/2004
Ϊڴҷ,XWָ,ͼ,ְðӢ:
A Carcass
My love, do you recall the object which we saw,
That fair, sweet, summer morn!
At a turn in the path a foul carcass
On a gravel strewn bed,
Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman,
Burning and dripping with poisons,
Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way
Its belly, swollen with gases.
The sun shone down upon that putrescence,
As if to roast it to a turn,
And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature
The elements she had combined;
And the sky was watching that superb cadaver
Blossom like a flower.
So frightful was the stench that you believed
You'd faint away upon the grass.
The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly,
From which came forth black battalions
Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid
All along those living tatters.
All this was descending and rising like a wave,
Or poured out with a crackling sound;
One would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath,
Lived by multiplication.
And this world gave forth singular music,
Like running water or the wind,
Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion
Shake in their winnowing baskets.
The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream,
A sketch that slowly falls
Upon the forgotten canvas, that the artist
Completes from memory alone.
Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog
Watched us with angry eye,
Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass
The morsel he had left.
And yet you will be like this corruption,
Like this horrible infection,
Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being,
You, my angel and my passion!
Yes! thus will you be, queen of the Graces,
After the last sacraments,
When you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers,
To molder among the bones of the dead.
Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will
Devour you with kisses,
That I have kept the form and the divine essence
Of my decomposed love!
William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)
Carrion
Darling, do you recall that thing we found
("A lovely summer day!" you said)
That noisome carcass where the path swung round
A sprawling pebble-covered bed.
Its legs raised like a whore's in lubric play,
It burned, oozing rank fetors there,
Shameless and nonchalant, it offered day
Its belly. Poisons filled the air.
The sun beat down on this putrescent mold
As if to fry it to a turn,
To give great Nature back one hundredfold
All she had gathered in her urn.
The skies watched that proud carcass, lax or taut,
Bloom like a flowery mass.
So pungent was the stench, my love, you thought
To swoon away upon the grass.
Horseflies buzzed loud over this putrid belly,
Whence sallied column and battalion
Of sable maggots, flowing like a mucose jelly,
Over this live tatterdemalion.
Waves seemed to rise and fall over this mass,
Spurting with crepitation,
As though this corpse, filled with breaths of gas,
Lived by multiplication.
This world uttered a curious melody,
Like waters, wind, or grains of wheat
That winnowers keep stirring rhythmically
In the broad baskets at their feet.
The forms, fading into a dream, grew fainter;
Here was a sketch of misty tone
On a forgotten canvas which the painter
Completes from memory alone.
Hiding behind the rocks, an anxious bitch
Stood, watching us with angry eye,
Poised to regain the olid morsel which,
Hearing us come, she had laid by.
Yet shall you be like this ordurous blight,
You, too, shall rot in just such fashion,
Star of my eyes, sun of my soul's delight,
Aye, you, my angel and my passion.
Such you, O queen of graces, in the hours,
When the last sacrament is said,
That bear you under rich sods and Iush flower
To molder with the moldering dead.
Then, O my beauty! Tell such worms as will
Kiss you in ultimate coition
That I have kept the form and essence of
My love in its decomposition.
Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil (Mt Vernon, NY: Peter Pauper Press, 1958)
A Carrion
Do you remember the thing we saw, my soul,
That summer morning, so beautiful, so soft:
At a turning in the path, a filthy carrion,
On a bed sown with stones,
Legs in the air, like a lascivious woman,
Burning and sweating poisons,
Opened carelessly, cynically,
Its great fetid belly.
The sun shone on this fester,
As though to cook it to a turn,
And to return a hundredfold to great Nature
What she had joined in one;
And the sky saw the superb carcass
Open like a flower.
The stench was so strong, that you might think
To swoon away upon the grass.
The flies swarmed on that rotten belly,
Whence came out black battalions
Of spawn, flowing like a thick liquid
Along its living tatters.
All this rose and fell like a wave,
Or rustled in jerks;
One would have said that the body, fun of a loose breath,
Lived in this its procreation.
And this world gave out a strange music,
Like flowing water and wind,
Or a winnower's grain that he shakes and turns
With rhythmical grace in his basket.
The forms fade and are no more than a dream,
A sketch slow to come
On the forgotten canvas, and that the artist completes
Only by memory.
Behind the boulders an anxious bitch
Watched us with angry eyes,
Spying the moment to regain in the skeleton
The morsel she had dropped.
And yet you will be like this excrement,
This horrible stench,
O star of my eyes, sun of my being,
You, my angel, my passion.
Yes, such you will be, queen of gracefulness,
After the last sacraments,
When you go beneath the grasses and fat flowers,
Moldering amongst the bones.
Then, my beauty, say to the vermin
Which will eat you with kisses,
That I have kept the shape and the divine substance
Of my decomposed loves!
Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974)
- Re: 腐 尸(波德莱尔)posted on 12/23/2004
- Re: 腐 尸(波德莱尔)posted on 12/23/2004
лл ˹߰ Ļظͷ
ҸһȣӵȻһ߲⣬һĸʬӦеСǺǡ
- posted on 12/23/2004
ãȵĿ˱ϸ˺öࡣ ͦõġ
ŶȥḯʬҲͦʰһƬӡ
ҿθһֲƬǵĵģNekromantikһ
־дʬдģȿǿĻ͵ĵƬǺǣҴܾȾŶ˿һӶǵƬӡ
ⲿƬӦ÷뾭䣬ΪϲеֺӰԹڵijбܵѪﵽ˼
ǹ¹ţ
ƬNekromantik1,2
1,2
1987.1991
ҡ¹
ֲŶ
ԡӢ
Ļ
汾DVD
С1.3G
ע⡿汾һ
Nekromantik 1987¹
ݡ˲ظأJorg Buttgereit
顿ܹһʬ崦˾ŮѱסڰֵһԢУǷسʬ壬ǵİƺֻʬòάϵʧҵˣһ߸ʬܲûʬӣֻԲο
עҿĵȷӰˡӺӵIJҪŻ¡ⲿƬӵˣǿҪ
IINekromantik 21991¹
ݡ˲ظأJorg Buttgereit
顿
ɱûȡѵʬ壬ҽʬ͵ڻؼңǰ̵һճ˶ġθʬõʱмõȻӰ㽫ܵʬҽʬߣķ䡣дˡŻŻŻʱɱѣעĽ
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ڸոõƬǰԼ۹ŵøհԶһ㣬վøĪһȥдⲿӰǣܹĥӰƬ֮һ£ǾǣľٸߣҲⲿӰƬľԳ˵֣˵ĸоһְijɷݣ⣬ֻٶȽΪһʨDDŰȻ˶Щףȴʵ벻ı֮ˡ
ȣҺͬƬֵĹԱûЩӵļ尾ʵӰδֹӳжٹȫṮ̌أΣҪлΪijθij鶯ʹһԵҿбӿйڵвͻҵٴΣҪлƬĵݣû㼫BTڹ͵ӰôҲẨѿ˵㽲һﻰMotherfu cker
˵˲Ӱǡʬı棬֮ɹӰƬ硶֮ؼҡЧڶ¡˵һȫྫƵĵӰһٳ˵й֮ƬУˣ밹࣬ѱҿԡһŮ븯ʬϷ㹻ձתͷĿˡƤӣʵĺеţεıڻˤõĺèÿһֶ壬Ϣʬٵľˣԡij뾴ӰƬʬİʼΪɱսᣬڶ벻ŻΪУξŮ˹ڲݵϱľ飬ҲɴͷΪġ
ʱĵڶȻؼЧʵڵĹ̻ȴѳԽһijɾͣһΪѳΪ˶ӰƬɵʵԶڵڶİȻҲͲΪˡм۵ĸ־ʬβĸͷʬ
ڵСⶥ˵ƬҲڵӰijЩƬзⶥ֮ԢѪ˵ۿԡ120졷̣ԡй硷֮ԱǣԡȺʬ硷ijԭ뷨ԵЩСװIJˡ
һսBTӰƬ.......һ˿....ЩΪǿ,ηֲƬҲҪк...
wrote:
лл ˹߰ Ļظͷ
ҸһȣӵȻһ߲⣬һĸʬӦеСǺǡ
- posted on 12/23/2004
öҲܴúá
Ozymandias
By Percy Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert....Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
- posted on 12/23/2004
ѩףôһ㸯ζ
ԭʫܲôӢĵڶ汾ɣҲһá
ʫҲ̫ŵˣ̫softcoreˡʱǰߣһ֮·֮˸ĺ֮ˡ
һǸͶģҲ㲻
ժһJelinekдɫɫɣ
page 107
Pain itself is merely a consequence of the desire for pleasure, the desire to destroy, to annihilate; in its supreme form, pain is a variety of pleasure. Erika would galdly cross the border to her own murder. Fucking in a slum contains mroe hope for shaping pain, decorating pain. These shabby, frazzled amateur actors work a lot harder, and they are a lot more grateful for the chance to appear in a real movie. They are defective. Their skin has spots, pimples, scars winkles, scabs, cellulite,fat. Poorly dyed hair. Sweat. Dirty feet. In aesthetically demanding films at luxuriously upholstered cinemas, you mostly see the surfaces of men and women. ...Furthermore, at a cheap porno house, the man smashes into the woman with more blatant lust. The woman doesn't talk , although she may squeal, "more, more!" That exhausts the dialogue, but not the man, not by any stretch of the imagination. For he greedily wants to concentrate his climaxes, adding as many as possible.
Here, in the soft-core porno, everything is reduced to outer appearances. They are not enough for Erika, who's such a picky, choosy woman. They are not enough, because, Erika, absorbed in these ensnarled people, whould like to get ant the bottom of this business, which is supposed to be so hard on the senses that everyone wants to do it or at least watch it. ......̸Ӱ: in a cheap flick , you can get a deeper look into the woman., But you can't advance as far into the man. However, no one sees the light at the end of the tunnel. Even if you cut the woman open, you'd see only boweks and innards. The man, standing actively in life, grows outward physically. Eventually , he prodeces the awaited result, or else he doesn't.
ǰ棬Ů˹ȴһ
Page 21
HER instinct for cleanliness is astonishingly sensitive. Dirty bodies form a resinous forest all around her. Not only the dire of bodies, but th egrossest kinds of filth struggling out of armpits and groins, the subtle urine stench of the old woman, the nicotine gushing from the network of hte old man's veins and pores, those innumuerable piles of lowest-quality food stewing in the stomachs. Not only the faint was stench of scurf and scab, not only the stink of shit mocrotones under the fingernails-a very,very faint odor, but the expert can sniff them so eaily, those residues left from burning colorless food, gray, leathery delights( if they can be called delights). They torment HER
sense of smell, HER tastebuds. What upsets HER most of all is the way these people dwell in one another, the way they shamelyessly take possession of one another. Each pushes his way into other minds, into their innermost attention.
Ȿ飬ϲˣϲspicyԡһɡɵ֪ûпⲿӰ͵ԭģοأ
ĶJelinek飬رһθߵķУ˵ⲿ˸ݵֱ̬ȵȣִֻᡢ߰µϵ˲ű̬Ƶġ
ϲԵһʣĺۼ·ͨƪһӶдɵġÿһζ˱ң뿴дʱ״̬ һwomen as lovers, ȫƪСдͷֲԻͶסƺܲϲţıûһš ҲRed RiverдʱһϿһ֣̫죬ʫͬˮһӿȴǺʵġ
УŻǸҵȷײͬ
˵Jelinekİ˷ûеõ λعһҪ
- posted on 12/24/2004
wrote:
ѩףôһ㸯ζ
벨ѩиͬ⣬ʱһкáʫ̼й٣港ʬĸϸڣԽ콿նĸʬִĿĵת䣻ѩʫڿضߵľռ䣬תɳĮʯIJкʯϵģȵȣԱͬʱ⣨shattered visageNothing beside remainsdecaycolossal Wreckboundless and barelone and level sands stretch far away ...ô±Ƚϣִãʫ⣬أϲͼסײʫУߴŻǻᾡⸯļɡ
ϲԵһʣĺۼ·ͨƪһӶдɵġÿһζ˱ң뿴дʱ״̬ һwomen as lovers, ȫƪСдͷֲԻͶסƺܲϲţıûһš ҲRed RiverдʱһϿһ֣̫죬ʫͬˮһӿȴǺʵġ
Jelinek֣ҲȥġϲβĽӡȥµJelinekһתӴСеġΨɡΨˡ
УŻǸҵȷײͬ
кѣһкǧȷţջҪк
- posted on 01/13/2005
Ǻã æ
Re: ʣɶ߰˹
http://my.cnd.org/modules/newbb/viewtopic.php?topic_id=33990&forum=6
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