Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition)


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He studied at the New York School of Visual Art, he also began his career alongside Steven Meisel and his shots were quickly fashion-oriented. St Tropez: the eternal sexy sixties city. See all our articles. When I think of Fermob, I immediately think of the stylish garden furniture in the Jardin de Luxembourg! For me, it also represents French quality and expertise. For me, Fermob means dynamic furniture inspired by humans that really becomes a part of our lives. It's sometimes discreet, and always useful and practical. I particularly love the designs: understated pieces that are artistic and timeless.

That's what I'm leaning towards more and more: pieces you never get tired of, year after year. Our soul's like a three-master, where one hears A voice that from the bridge would warn all hands. Another from the foretop madly cheers "Love, joy, and glory" The watchmen think each isle that heaves in view An Eldorado, shouting their belief. Imagination riots in the crew Who in the morning only find a reef. The fool that dotes on far, chimeric lands — Put him in irons, or feed him to the shark!

The drunken sailor's visionary lands Can only leave the bitter truth more stark. So some old vagabond, in mud who grovels, Dreams, nose in air, of Edens sweet to roam. Wherever smoky wicks illumine hovels He sees another Capua or Rome. Amazing travellers, what noble stories We read in the deep oceans of your gaze! Show us your memory's casket, and the glories Streaming from gems made out of stars and rays! We, too, would roam without a sail or steam, And to combat the boredom of our jail, Would stretch, like canvas on our souls, a dream, Framed in horizons, of the seas you sail.

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We have seen sands and shores and oceans too, In spite of shocks and unexpected graves, We have been bored, at times, the same as you. The solar glories on the violet ocean And those of spires that in the sunset rise, Lit, in our hearts, a yearning, fierce emotion To plunge into those ever-luring skies. The richest cities and the scenes most proud In nature, have no magic to enamour Like those which hazard traces in the cloud While wistful longing magnifies their glamour.

Enjoyment adds more fuel for desire, Old tree, to which all pleasure is manure; As the bark hardens, so the boughs shoot higher, And nearer to the sun would grow mature. Tree, will you always flourish, more vivacious Than cypress? We have seen idols elephantine-snouted, And thrones with living gems bestarred and pearled, And palaces whose riches would have routed The dreams of all the bankers in the world.

We have seen wonder-striking robes and dresses, Women whose nails and teeth the betel stains And jugglers whom the rearing snake caresses. Woman, a vile slave, proud in her stupidity, Self-worshipping, without the least disgust: Man, greedy, lustful, ruthless in cupidity, Slave to a slave, and sewer to her lust:.

The torturer's delight, the martyr's sobs, The feasts where blood perfumes the giddy rout: Power sapping its own tyrants: servile mobs In amorous obeisance to the knout:.

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Some similar religions to our own, All climbing skywards: Sanctity who treasures, As in his downy couch some dainty drone, i In horsehair, nails, and whips, his dearest pleasures. Prating Humanity, with genius raving, As mad today as ever from the first, Cries in fierce agony, its Maker braving, 'O God, my Lord and likeness, be thou cursed! But those less dull, the lovers of Dementia, Fleeing the herd which fate has safe impounded, In opium seek for limitless adventure. It's bitter knowledge that one learns from travel.

The world so small and drab, from day to day, The horror of our image will unravel, A pool of dread in deserts of dismay. Must we depart, or stay? Stay if you can. Go if you must. One runs: another hides To baffle Time, that fatal foe to man. And there are runners, whom no rest betides,. Like the Apostles or the Wandering Jew, Whom neither ship nor waggon can enable To cheat the retiary. But not a few Have killed him without stirring from their cradle. But when he sets his foot upon our nape We still can hope and cry "Leave all behind! We'll sail once more upon the sea of Shades With heart like that of a young sailor beating.

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I hear the rich, sad voices of the Trades Who cry "This Way! The scented Lotus. Here it is they range The piles of magic fruit. O hungry friend, Come here and swoon away into the strange Trance of an afternoon that has no end. In the familiar tones we sense the spectre. Our Pylades stretch arms across the seas, "To salve your heart, now swim to your Electra" She cries, of whom we used to kiss the knees.

O Death, old Captain, it is time. Weigh anchor! To sail beyond the doldrums of our days. Though black as pitch the sea and sky, we hanker For space; you know our hearts are full of rays. Pour us your poison to revive our soul! It cheers the burning quest that we pursue, Careless if Hell or Heaven be our goal, Beyond the known world to seek out the New!


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For the boy playing with his globe and stamps, the world is equal to his appetite — how grand the world in the blaze of the lamps, how petty in tomorrow's small dry light! One morning we lift anchor, full of brave prejudices, prospects, ingenuity — we swing with the velvet swell of the wave, our infinite is rocked by the fixed sea. Some wish to fly a cheapness they detest, others, their cradles' terror — other stand with their binoculars on a woman's breast, reptilian Circe with her junk and wand.

Not to be turned to reptiles, such men daze themselves with spaces, light, the burning sky; cold toughens them, they bronze in the sun's blaze and dry the sores of their debauchery. But the true voyagers are those who move simply to move — like lost balloons! Their heart is some old motor thudding in one groove. It says its single phrase, "Let us depart! They are like conscripts lusting for the guns; our sciences have never learned to tag their projects and designs — enormous, vague hopes grease the wheels of these automatons!

We imitate, oh horror! Strange sport! Our soul is a three-master seeking port: a voice from starboard shouts, "We're at the dock! The islands sighted by the lookout seem the El Dorados promised us last night; imagination wakes from its drugged dream, sees only ledges in the morning light. Poor lovers of exotic Indias, shall we throw you in chains or in the sea? Sailors discovering new Americas, who drown in a mirage of agony! The worn-out sponge, who scuffles through our slums sees whiskey, paradise and liberty wherever oil-lamps shine in furnished rooms — we see Blue Grottoes, Caesar and Capri.

Stunningly simple Tourists, your pursuit is written in the tear-drops in your eyes! Spread out the packing cases of your loot, your azure sapphires made of seas and skies! We want to break the boredom of our jails and cross the oceans without oars or steam — give us visions to stretch our minds like sails, the blue, exotic shoreline of your dream! The shine of sunlight on the violet sea, the roar of cities when the sun goes down; these stir our hearts with restless energy; we worship the Indian Ocean where we drown!

No old chateau or shrine besieged by crowds of crippled pilgrims sets our souls on fire, as these chance countries gathered from the clouds. Our hearts are always anxious with desire. Desire, that great elm fertilized by lust, gives its old body, when the heaven warms its bark that winters and old age encrust; green branches draw the sun into its arms.


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Why are you always growing taller, Tree — Oh longer-lived than cypress! Yet we took one or two sketches for your picture-book, Brothers who sell your souls for novelty! We have salaamed to pagan gods with horns, entered shrines peopled by a galaxy of Buddhas, Slavic saints, and unicorns, so rich Rothschild must dream of bankruptcy! Priests' robes that scattered solid golden flakes, dancers with tattooed bellies and behinds, charmers supported by braziers of snakes You've missed the more important things that we were forced to learn against our will.

We've been from top to bottom of the ladder, and see only the pageant of immortal sin:. Many, self-drunk, are lying in the mud — mad now, as they have always been, they roll in torment screaming to the throne of God: "My image and my lord, I hate your soul! And others, dedicated without hope, flee the dull herd — each locked in his own world hides in his ivory-tower of art and dope — this is the daily news from the whole world!

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How sour the knowledge travellers bring away! The world's monotonous and small; we see ourselves today, tomorrow, yesterday, an oasis of horror in a desert of ennui! Shall we move or rest? Rest, if you can rest; move if you must. One runs, but others drop and trick their vigilant antagonist. Time is a runner who can never stop,.

Yet nothing's enough; no knife goes through the ribs of this retarius throwing out his net; others can kill and never leave their cribs. And even when Time's heel is on our throat we still can hope, still cry, "On, on, let's go! If you look seaward, Traveller, you will see a spectre rise and hear it sing, "Stop, here,. Here are the fabulous fruits; look, my boughs bend; eat yourself sick on knowledge.

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Here we hold time in our hands, it never has to end. We know the accents of this ghost by heart; our comrade spreads his arms across the seas; "On, on, Orestes. Sail and feast your heart — here's Clytemnestra. It's time, Old Captain, lift anchor, sink! The land rots; we shall sail into the night; if now the sky and sea are black as ink our hearts, as you must know, are filled with light.

Only when we drink poison are we well — we want, this fire so burns our brain tissue, to drown in the abyss — heaven or hell, who cares? Through the unknown, we'll find the new. The child, in love with globes and maps of foreign parts, Finds in the universe no dearth and no defect. How big the world is, seen by lamplight on his charts! How very small the world is, viewed in retrospect. Some morning we start out; we have a grudge, we itch To hurt someone, get even, — whatever the cause may be, Here we are, leaning to the vessel's roll and pitch, Cradling our infinite upon the finite sea:.

People who think their country shameful, who despise Its politics, are here; and men who hate their home; Astrologers, who read the stars in women's eyes Till nearly drowned, stand by the rail and watch the foam;. Men who must run from Circe, or be changed to swine, Go tramping round the deck, drunken with light and air, Thinking that wind and sun and spray that tastes of brine Can clean the lips of kisses, blow perfume from the hair. But the true travelers are those who leave a port Just to be leaving; hearts light as balloons, they cry, "Come on!

There's a ship sailing! Time's getting short! Those whose desires assume the shape of mist or cloud; Who long for, as the raw recruit longs for his gun, Voluptuousness immense and changing, by the crowd Unguessed, and never known by name to anyone. So, like a top, spinning and waltzing horribly, Or bouncing like a ball, we go, — even in profound Slumber tormented, rolled by Curiosity Like hoops, as some hard Angel whips the suns around.

Bizarre phenomenon, this goal that changes place! Where Man, whose hope is never out of breath, will race Madly, to find repose, just anywhere at all! Our soul before the wind sails on, Utopia-bound; A voice calls from the deck, "What's that ahead there? Each little island sighted by the watch at night Becomes an Eldorado, is in his belief The Promised Land; Imagination soars; despite The fact that every dawn reveals a barren reef. Poor fellow, sick with love for that which never was!

Put him in irons — must we? Mad, drunken tar, inventor of Americas Which, fading, make the void more bitter, more abhorred. So the old trudging tramp, befouled by muck and mud, Ever before his eyes keeps Paradise in sight, And sniffs with nose in air a steaming Lotus bud, Wherever humble people sup by candlelight. Rapport d'information de M. Jean-Jacques Hyest, au nom de la commission des lois, no 40 ;. Alain Vidalies, au nom de la commission mixte paritaire, no ;.

Jean-Jacques Hyest, au nom de la commission mixte paritaire, no 67 ;. En savoir plus sur ce texte En premier lieu elle clarifie l'ouverture et la transmission des successions. Article 1er I. Article 2 I. Article 5 I. Article 6 I.

Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition) Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition)
Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition) Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition)
Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition) Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition)
Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition) Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition)
Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition) Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition)
Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition) Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition)
Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition) Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition)
Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition) Au nom des enfants de la mer (French Edition)

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