By Ariane Charton
'Un poète peut parler de lui, de ses amis, des vins qu’il boit, de l. a. maîtresse qu’il a ou qu’il voudrait avoir, du temps qu’il fait, des morts et des vivants, des sages et des fous : mais il ne doit pas faire de politique.'
Enfant negative du romantisme, Alfred de Musset (1810-1857) fut considéré de son vivant comme un météore qui n’avait jamais donné los angeles pleine mesure de son expertise. On ne voulait voir en lui qu’un auteur de comédies charmantes, de contes légers et de poèmes lyriques. los angeles Confession d’un enfant du siècle fut publiée dans une sorte d’indifférence : il ne chercha jamais à dissiper ces malentendus. Observateur désabusé d’une époque qui l’ennuie, il est pourtant celui qui dit le mieux le désenchantement de sa génération. Trop souvent réduit à sa réputation d’écrivain sentimental et à sa liaison avec George Sand, Musset est notre contemporain : parce qu’il position sa vie et son œuvre sous le signe de l. a. modernité et de l. a. liberté individuelle.
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Truest, honest is not a mock superlative for you. 52 Nothing’s against one’s will, here. Only there is great determinacy going along with Kill Devil Hills, North Carolina. It was even sexy on the map, on the tongue, to the ear. There was nothing in its set I would arrange. The appeal, the poker game, the number room are the data of this science, the food put to hunger. The rinse was mine. Come lie on my towel . . then, were I made to decline, biding time alone, not on my life. It was midday. I was burning.
Samsara, the great inoperative screw— ravel means unravel. When you ﬁnd you are running the same run of soy, I catch you pressing the spacebar well past error, an act of silence, a string of wrongs. You drive a character so fast I can’t make it out, the lowercase gong to end all documents. That’s the spirit. A prince is by deﬁnition. A deﬁnition settles. All God’s squirrels get darker as you go north. At a certain point, three 44 lines look astral. One up two away— root root root. From the corner breathing comes a guest going home, zeroing in.
Hate its odds. 37 INFRACTION The body hurries. And then not pants, after all, is the trouble in the ofﬁng, the percent sign with the little o’s these legs went to wear. Why have math wrecked by the bed? Is any aptness outlasting the stereo’s shufﬂe mode, planted hours ago, tracking our hideous goodnight? So fast a ﬁt so singular, one warms to it, a pledge; “the world never this complete” contracts this morning. It came over me, nothing over nothing. As far as possible. A rose, a hundredfold as hard.