Jules Laforgue (Uruguay, then France, 1860-1887)
DRAFT TWO
The Cigarette
This world is flat. The other one? The stuff of frauds.
Myself? I go resigned and hopeless to my fate.
To kill the time, as long as death still makes me wait,
I smoke my slender cigarettes in the face of the gods.
Go on, you living, strive, poor skeletons-to-be.
Myself? Those blue meanders twisting toward the sky
immerse me in endless bliss, as if I’m drowsied by
a thousand dying censers’ final scents set free.
Festooned with vivid dreams, I enter heaven, and sight
myself, swirling in some fantastic waltz that gyres
with elephants in rut, sung by mosquito choirs.
When I revive, envisioning the verse I’ll write,
my heart still filled with sweet elation—then I spy
my precious thumb’s been roasted like a goose’s thigh.
L4 was:
I smoke thin cigarettes beneath the nose of the gods.
LL7-8 were:
plunge me in endless bliss, as if I’m drowsied by
a thousand dying censers’ last perfumery.
a thousand dying censers’ last perfumes, set free.
L9 was:
Festooned with dreams, I enter paradise, and sight
L12 was:
And when I waken—musing on the verse I’ll write,
NOTE: Hashish (cannabis resin) from Egypt, Morocco, and Algieria was widely available in Paris during Laforgue’s lifetime, and could be consumed in cigarette form, either alone or in combination with tobacco. Laforgue was born too late to have belonged to the
Club des Hashischins (Club of the Hashish-Eaters), which was active between 1844 and 1849, but he had probably heard of it; that group of Parisian psychotropic-enthusiasts included such literary luminaries as Honoré de Balzac, Charles Baudelaire, Alexandre Dumas, Théophile Gautier, Victor Hugo, and Gérard de Nerval.
DRAFT ONE
The Cigarette
This world is flat. The other one? The stuff of frauds.
Myself, I go resigned and hopeless to my fate.
While killing time, as long as death still makes me wait,
I smoke thin cigarettes beneath the nose of the gods.
Go on, you living, strive (poor skeletons-to-be).
Myself, I’m plunged in endless bliss, as toward the sky
a blue meander twists, as though I’m sleep-borne by
a thousand dying incense burners’ pungency.
On reaching paradise, festooned with dreams, I sight
myself involved in some fantastic waltz that gyres
with elephants in rut, sung by mosquito choirs.
When I awaken, musing on the verse I’ll write,
I notice—with my heart still filled with sweet, sweet joy—
my precious thumb’s been roasted like a goose’s thigh.
FRENCH ORIGINAL
La cigarette
Oui, ce monde est bien plat ; quant à l’autre, sornelles.
Moi, je vais résigné, sans espoir, à mon sort,
Et pour tuer le temps, en attendant la mort,
Je fume au nez des dieux de fines cigarettes.
Allez, vivants, luttez, pauvres futurs squelettes.
Moi, le méandre bleu qui vers le ciel se tord
Me plonge en une extase infinie et m’endort
Comme aux parfums mourants de mille cassolettes.
Et j’entre au paradis, fleuri de rêves clairs
Ou l’on voit se mêler en valses fantastiques
Des éléphants en rut à des chœurs de moustiques.
Et puis, quand je m’éveille en songeant à mes vers,
Je contemple, le cœur plein d’une douce joie,
Mon cher pouce rôti comme une cuisse d’oie.
LITERAL ENGLISH PROSE CRIB
The Cigarette
Yes, this world is flat, indeed; as for the other, baloney/poppycock.
Myself, I go resigned, without hope, to my lot,
and to kill time, while waiting for death,
I smoke under the nose of the gods slender cigarettes.
Go on, you living, struggle, poor future skeletons.
Myself, the blue meander that toward the sky twists
Plunges me into an infinite ecstasy and I fall asleep
as if in the dying perfumes of a thousand incense burners.
And I enter into paradise, garlanded with clear dreams
in which one sees oneself get mixed up in fantastic waltzes
of elephants in rut, to choirs of mosquitoes.
And then, when I wake up, dreaming of my verses,
I contemplate, my heart full of a sweet joy,
my dear thumb, roasted like a goose thigh.
Laforgue, The Cigarette
Linear Mode
