Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 23, 2025
It is to his shamelessness that we owe his most beautiful poems, all written in garrets, in taverns, in hospitals yes, and in prison." "In prison! But he didn't steal, did he?" and the commercant's wife looked at me with a frightened air, and I think her hand went towards her pocket.
The passing of things is always a moving subject for meditation, and it is strange how accident will bring back a scene, explicit in every detail a tree taking shape upon the dawning sky, the hairy ugliness of the ape in its branches, and along the grey grass a waddling squad of the ducks betaking themselves to the pond, a poet talking to a commercant's wife, Madame de Calvador leaning on a lover's arm.
I'll meet you there to-morrow night.... Will you dine with me? The dinner there is not really too bad; perhaps you'll be able to bear with it." The commercant's wife hesitated.
The commercant's wife, forgetful of me, charmed by the poet, by the excitement of hearing herself made a subject of a poem, drew nearer. Strange, is it not, that I should remember a few words here and there? "Il m'aime, il m'aime pas, et selon l'antique rite Elle effleurait la Marguerite."
Didn't somebody once describe him as a sort of sensual Christ? He, too, was after the commercant's wife. And didn't he select her as the subject of his licentious verses reassure yourself, reader, licentious merely from the point of view of prosody. "Ta nuque est de santal sur les vifs frissons d'or. Mais c'est une autre, que j'adore."
Word Of The Day
Others Looking