Mlle - LUXURIA

«ces quelques pas du palier a la chambre dalbertine, ces

Quelques pas que person ne ne pouvait plus arreter, je les fis avec

Delices, avec prudence, comme plonge dans un element

Nouveau, comme si en avancant javais lentement deplace

Du bonheur, et en meme temps avec un sentiment inconnu de Toute-puissance, et dentrer enfin dans un heritage qui

Meut de tout temps appartenu."*

A winters night

The northern quay

The isle of dogs

The rabid one is me You sip your drink

Undismayed

And I just said

«these days my heart seems to be a kind of hand grenade»

Nothing in the air tugs at the tower blocks

As you raise your finger and pull the pin

Nothing much on earth moves down these desolating docks

Do you really think you just scratched your chin?

But you were never albertine

And I was never poor marcel

Who were you that time round,

Mademoiselle?

Monsieur a peur du parfum des princesses

And now I act up And youve a winning frown

Ive contracted love

As Im devoured down

Blame my deadening intensity

And tell me how you got the part in this

My own illicit agony

I lay it on pretty thick

You spread yourself pretty thin

Ducking and dividing under every skin

And my final words as you get up and leave

«if youre free as air, I dont want to breathe»

Good evening,

I am the madman in love with your daughter

We need to talk

Just you and me I saw her last in eden

Or some other far eastern quarter

Where the river snakes its way out to sea

But you were never albertine

And I was never poor marcel

Who were you that time round,

Mademoiselle?

Those few steps from the landing to albertines door,

Those few steps which no one now could prevent my Taking, I took with delight, with prudence, as though

Plunged into a new and strange element, as if in going

Forward I had been gently displacing the liquid stream

Of happiness, and at the same time with a strange feeling

Of absolute power, and of entering at length into an Inheritance which had belonged to me from all time.

Translated by c k scott moncrieff