woensdag 16 oktober 2013

Jacques Dutronc - Il Est Cinq Heures, Paris S'Eveille (1968)

Je suis l'dauphin d'la place Dauphine
Et la place Blanche a mauvais'mine.
Les camions sont pleins de lait.
Les balayeurs sont plein d'balais.

Il est cinq heures.
Paris s'éveille.
Paris s'éveille.

Les travestis vont se raser.
Les stripteaseuses sont rhabillées.
Les traversins sont écrasés.
Les amoureux sont fatigués.

Il est cinq heures.
Paris s'éveille.
Paris s'éveille.

Le café est dans les tasses.
Les cafés nettoient leurs glaces
Et sur le boul'vard Montparnasse
La gare n'est plus qu'une carcasse.

Il est cinq heures.
Paris s'éveille.
Paris s'éveille.

Les banlieusards sont dans les gares.
À la Villette on tranche le lard.
Paris by-night regagne les cars.
Les boulangers font des bâtards.

Il est cinq heures.
Paris s'éveille.
Paris s'éveille.

La Tour Eiffel a froid aux pieds.
L'Arc De Triomphe est rallumé
Et l'Obélisque est bien dressé
Entre la nuit et la journée.

Il est cinq heures.
Paris s'éveille.
Paris s'éveille.

Les journaux sont imprimés.
Les ouvriers sont déprimés.
Les gens se lèvent, ils sont brimés
Et moi, c'est l'heure où j'vais me coucher.

Il est cinq heures.
Paris se lève.
Il est cinq heures.
Je n'ai pas sommeil.

vrijdag 11 oktober 2013

Alice Munro - Differently (1989)

“It was true. Maya had a lot of servants, for a modern woman, though they came at different times and did separate things and were nothing like an old-fashioned household staff. Even the food at her dinner parties, which seemed to show her own indifferent touch, had been prepared by someone else.

Usually, Maya was busy in the evenings. Georgia was just as glad, because she didn’t really want Maya coming into the store, asking for crazy titles that she had made up, making Georgia’s employment there a kind of joke. Georgia took the store seriously. She had a serious, secret liking for it that she could not explain. It was a long, narrow store with an old-fashioned funnelled entryway between two angled display windows. From her stool behind the desk Georgia was able to see the reflections in one window reflected in the other. This street was not one of those decked out to receive tourists. It was a wide east-west street filled in the early evening with a faintly yellow light, a light reflected off pale stucco buildings that were not very high, plain storefronts, nearly empty sidewalks. Georgia found this plainness liberating after the winding shady streets, the flowery yards and vine-framed windows of Oak Bay. Here the books could come into their own, as they never could in a more artful and enticing suburban bookshop. Straight long rows of paperbacks. (Most of the Penguins then still had their orange-and-white or blue-and-white covers, with no designs or pictures, just the unadorned, unexplained titles.) The store was a straight avenue of bounty, of plausible promises. Certain books that Georgia had never read, and probably never would read, were important to her, because of the stateliness or mystery of their titles. In Praise of Folly. The Roots of Coincidence. The Flowering of New England. Ideas and Integrities.

Sometimes she got up and put the books in stricter order. The fiction was shelved alphabetically, by author, which was sensible but not very interesting. The history books, however, and the philosophy and psychology and other science books were arranged according to certain intricate and delightful rules — having to do with chronology and content — that Georgia grasped immediately and even elaborated on. She did not need to read much of a book to know about it. She got a sense of it easily, almost at once, as if by smell.”

dinsdag 8 oktober 2013

Boris Vian - La vie, c'est comme une dent (1951)

La vie, c'est comme une dent
D'abord on y a pas pensé
On s'est contenté de mâcher
Et puis ça se gâte soudain
Ça vous fait mal, et on y tient
Et on la soigne et les soucis
Et pour qu'on soit vraiment guéri
Il faut vous l'arracher, la vie