Category Archives: Proses

There is nothing certain among mortals, but truth reigns among the gods.
Euripides; Andromaque – Ve s. BC. AD

Truth is often eclipsed but never extinguished.
Livy; Maxims and sentences – 1st s. ap. AD

Better to be defeated by telling the truth than to conquer with falsehood.
Bernardo Dovizi da Bibbiena; La Calandria (1513)

The truth should live, and go from century to century, handed down by tradition as a legacy that belongs to posterity.
William Shakespeare; Richard III (1592)

The noblest desire that man can form in his heart is to know the truth. The best time to listen to it with fruit is that of youth.
David Augustin of Brueys; The amusements of reason (1721)

Man is great only by the love of truth, and when he wants to please only by it.
Jean-Baptiste Massillon; Maxims and thoughts (1742)

The truth is pleased to be discovered only to those who know the price as if by instinct.
Simon de Bignicourt; Thoughts and philosophical reflections (1755)

The simplicity of truth is not always the starting point, it is often the last term of the work of thought. In morals, at certain times, it takes a lot of wit to dare to say that two plus two make four.
Alexandre Vinet; Religious indifferentism (1833)

There are truths proved a thousand times, and which must be proved again.
Pierre-Claude-Victor Boiste; Universal Dictionary (1843)

Great truths are not discovered without pain or labor.
Anatole France; The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard (1881)

The truth, however painful it may be, can only hurt to cure.
André Gide; Travel to the Congo (1927)

Truth must be the center of all our activity, it must be the very breath of our life.
Gandhi; Letters to the Ashram (1937)

A truth seems less truthful to us when too many consider it so.
Robert Sabatier; The Book of Smiling Unreason (1991)


Filled with courage,
Small advantage;
Big swirl on the fake perch targeted;
Blurred reflection in the broken mirror.
Fill the tank to the top,
Withdrawal without sit down or lie down.

Rain of white handkerchiefs,
No more white mountains;
Boudoir’s life in balance.
No longer enough nightmares.

Diffraction in ten ways;
Said pardon of a thousand saddletree;
Self-management, self-regulation,
Confection, continuation.

No more handkerchiefs,
Rain of mountains,
No more boudoir,
Life of Nightmares

And tangled dreams.
The forest is red;
No turning back,
Infrared vision;
Dry envies in melee
At the crossroads of yesterday.

Caviar, a brilliant hoax,
The squid burns its nectar tuning
His flight ordered free
By the vacuity of the master.

View of the daring mind.
Everything is small, ephemeral.
Too late, like
A horseless rider
Strives itself without ceasing
To save a princess.

Where are the colors?
Where is the prompter?
From laughter to tears,
From cry to rage.

Feel the melancholy in the melody.
The sky is gray since noon;
The “yes” mutates into “maybe”
Before the poet’s destruction.


Empli de courage,
Petit avantage ;
De gros remous sur le faux perchoir visé ;
Reflet flou dans le miroir brisé.
Remplir le réservoir jusqu’au sommet,
Repli sans se rasseoir ni s’allonger.

Pluie de mouchoirs blancs,
Plus de montagnes blanches ;
Vie de boudoir en balance.
Plus de cauchemars en suffisance.

Diffraction de dix façons ;
Dit pardon de mille arçons ;
Autogestion, auto-régulation,
Confection, continuation.

Plus de mouchoirs,
Pluie de montagnes,
Plus de boudoir,
Vie de cauchemars

Et de rêves emmêlés.
La forêt est rouge ;
Pas de retour en arrière,
Vision infrarouge ;
Pulsions sèches en mêlée
Au carrefour d’hier.

Le caviar, un canular brillant,
Le calamar brûle son nectar accordant
Sa fuite sommée gratuite
Par la vacuité du maître.

Vue de l’esprit téméraire.
Tout est petit, éphémère.
Trop tard, à l’instar
Un cavalier sans cheval
S’évertue sans que cela cesse
À sauver une princesse.

Où sont les couleurs ?
Où est le souffleur ?
Du rire aux larmes,
Du cri à la rage.

Sentir la mélancolie dans la mélodie.
Le ciel est gris depuis ce midi ;
Le “oui” mute en “peut-être”
Avant la destruction du poète.

Golden Tower

From the top of her golden tower,
She passively protests against the Golden Order, and
At the edge of the forest, the poor are ringing the bell.
She believes to elaborate a rope, but
She only condemns them to a death without halo.
She perceives herself in their reflections sent back by a mud-water beaten with blows.

In any case, this is what she says to the ignoramuses.
It’s what she exclaims, but she doesn’t spread much energy.
From now on, she’s on her knees.
It’s heartbreaking, and she’s angry against the old fools.
In any case, this is what she explains selfishly.
It’s painful to light down the deaf who are drowning.
It’s more enviable to veil by living in a sneaky way.

Deep down, in her ivory tower, she no longer sees anything.
Did she once perceive
The monster that has made her so affluent?
She decides not to believe it in order not to fall,
And it’s her choice … Yes, is it her choice?
It’s cruel ; But what isn’t?

Her goldsmith adorns her with audacious ornaments,
And she sometimes leans so one could see her cleavage.
Maybe she can then make them take off?
She no longer unload herself toward the call of the forest;
Replace the string with a whip,
Because it’s the price to pay to isolate herself

At the top of her golden tower.

Tour dorée

Du haut de sa tour dorée,
Elle s’insurge passivement contre l’Ordre d’Or, et
A l’orée de la forêt, les pauvres font sonner la cloche.
Elle croit élaborer une corde, mais
Elle ne fait que les condamner à une mort sans auréole.
Elle se perçoit dans leurs reflets renvoyés par une eau de boue rouée de coups.

En tout cas, c’est ce qu’elle déclare aux ignares.
C’est qu’elle s’exclame mais ne s’étale pas non plus sur la fougue.
Dorénavant, elle est à genoux.
C’est navrant, et elle en veut aux vieux fous.
En tout cas, c’est ce qu’elle explique en égotique.
C’est qu’il est pénible d’éclairer en bas les sourds qui se noient.
Il est plus enviable de se voiler en vivant en sournoise.

Au fond, dans sa tour d’ivoire, elle n’y voit plus rien.
A-t-elle une seule fois perçue
Le monstre qui l’a rendue si cossue ?
Elle décide de ne plus y croire pour ne pas choir,
Et c’est son choix … Oui, est-ce son choix ?
C’est cruel ; mais qu’est-ce qui ne l’est pas ?

Son orfèvre la pare de parures osées,
Et elle se penche parfois pour que l’on voit son décolleté.
Peut-être peut-elle ainsi les faire décoller ?
Elle ne s’épanche plus vers l’appel de la forêt ;
Remplace la corde par un fouet,
Car c’est le prix à payer pour s’isoler

En haut de sa tour dorée.


From the top of his three-masts, the sailor whistled without bitterness.
In the raging storm, all hope seemed to have drowned
Under the waves. And suddenly, a land stood out in the mist.
Him, sorry, misled, torn, could again deploy himself.

And from there, O possible mirage, he thought he had seen a peaceful shore.
Fear was transformed into waiting and relieved his young age.
The tumult exults the occult insult of an uncultivated sultan.
Is he under the yoke of a frenzy? He examines. As a result,
The continent stretches through his astounded globes. Is he betrayed?
What is this infamy which affects the affability of his being and curses it?

Provisional quest, assiduously derisory.
Exciting foil, atoning weir.
Shouldn’t he have drowned himself in the whirlwind of this torrent?
Has he not known this flooded region as a stammering chick?


Du haut de son trois-mâts, le matelot siffla sans amertume.
Dans la tempête déchaînée, tout espoir semblait s’être noyé
Sous les flots. Et soudain, une terre se distingua dans la brume.
Lui, apitoyé, dévoyé, déchiré, pouvait à nouveau s’éployer.

Et de là, ô possible mirage, il croyait apercevoir un paisible rivage.
La crainte se transformait en attente et soulagea son jeune âge.
Le tumulte exulte l’occulte insulte d’un sultan inculte.
Est-il sous le joug d’une frénésie ? Il ausculte. Il en résulte
Que le continent s’étend devant ses globes ébahis. Est-il trahi ?
Quelle est cette infamie qui affame l’affabilité de son être et le maudit ?

Quête provisoire, assidûment dérisoire.
Passionnant repoussoir, expiant déversoir.
N’aurait-il pas dû se noyer dans le tourbillon de ce torrent ?
N’a-t-il pas connu cette région ennoyé en oisillon balbutiant ?


A little bit of music to perfect the contours.
His heart opens itself perpetually to her as it’s her own.
It’s his, and he offers it without return on a detour.
But he often dies when she ran down other paths.

Let us join hands by indulging in as much time as possible,
Let us offer to each one by showing all the sorrow available.

O despair at the counter!
What is this burglar
Who mulls his ritornello?
The most beautiful creature of the Lord,
So prodigious, so marvelous,
Returns a black mirror.

What is this fear? Him, he only hates himself.
Sometimes he thinks they are more alike than she thinks;
Or is it his spirit that plays tricks on him, O love?
Time collapses and flows away from the crowd.
He’s just trying to live, and he wants her to be part of it.
Because if she’s gone; how can he find harmony?


Un peu de musique pour parfaire les contours.
Son cœur s’ouvre perpétuellement à elle car il est sien.
Il est sien, et il l’offre sans retour en un détour.
Mais il se meurt souvent quand elle s’élance sur d’autres chemins.

Donnons-nous la main en s’adonnant au temps autant que possible,
Offrons-nous à chacun en se montrant tout le chagrin disponible.

Ô désespoir au comptoir !
Quelle est cette cambrioleuse
Qui miaule sa ritournelle ?
La plus belle créature de l’Éternel,
Si prodigieuse, si merveilleuse,
Renvoie un miroir noir.

Quelle est cette peur ? Lui, il n’a horreur que de lui.
Parfois, il croit qu’ils se ressemblent plus qu’elle ne l’envie ;
Ou est-ce son esprit qui lui joue des tours, ô amour ?
Le temps s’écroule et il s’écoule loin de la foule.
Il s’essaye juste à la vie, et il veut qu’elle en fasse partie.
Car si elle est partie ; comment peut-il trouver à l’harmonie ?


Thus, he enters into meditation,
And begins the dynamic of creation.
Great sensitivity and compassion;
Thoughts and feelings through observations.

Introspection – Association
Structuring – Composition;
Introspection – Association
Structuration – Composition.

Extreme empathy exalts a shy cyclone.
Knotted, but incredibly quiet.
He suffers from it in face of the typical Cyclop:
All this is only a slight lull.

A magnifying glass intimately amplifying the ego,
Thanks to an ability to concentrate
Which surely reflect itself the evening
Because the peculiarity is aberration.

By prolonging, he confronts experiences.
Peace is rancid after a night of wandering;
Between the turbulence, he has no expectance.
Absence is pure ambivalence and purifies silence.


Ainsi, il entre en méditation,
Et entame la dynamique de création.
Grande sensibilité et compassion ;
Pensées et sentiments au travers d’observations.

Introspection – Association
Structuration – Composition ;
Introspection – Association
Structuration – Composition.

L’empathie extrême exalte un cyclone timide.
Noué, mais incroyablement calme.
Il en pâtit exprès face au cyclope typique :
Tout ceci n’est qu’une légère accalmie.

Une loupe amplifiant intimement le moi,
Grâce à une capacité de concentration
Qui se témoigne sûrement le soir,
Parce que la particularité est aberration.

En prolongeant, il affronte les expériences.
La paix est rance après une nuit d’errance ;
Entre les turbulences, il n’a pas d’expectance.
L’absence est pure ambivalence et purifie le silence.