CLARE John, (translation of) Leyris Pierre.
Poems and prose of madness.
The Beautiful Letters
Regular price
€19,00
| N° d'inventaire | 25194 |
| Format | 12 x 19 cm |
| Détails | 124 p., 39 plates, paperback. |
| Publication | Paris, 2021 |
| Etat | Nine |
| ISBN | 9782251452364 |
Yet I am what I am
no one knows or cares
John Clare
“Clear, Clare (1793-1864) is as clear as spring water flowing from the Lost Garden. […] More, perhaps, than many greats—putting greatness into question, so to speak. And when the agonizing difficulty of living as a poor peasant with a charge of souls at the same time as an applauded poet of London, then half-forgotten, had led his reason astray, delirium sometimes altered the coherence, but never the purity of his song.
Which, on the contrary, will only truly reach its fullness in madness. This covers at least twenty-eight years, all of them in an asylum […], a cruelly long but incredibly fertile period. Poetry had become the only recourse for a man torn from his roots, from his loved ones, from his identity. Always crossed by Nature because Clare was fortunately left, during the day, the key to the fields and the woods, more everyday than ever and obeying only its own logic, it gushes forth inexhaustibly, having found its freedom.
Pierre Leyris,
Excerpt from this preface.
no one knows or cares
John Clare
“Clear, Clare (1793-1864) is as clear as spring water flowing from the Lost Garden. […] More, perhaps, than many greats—putting greatness into question, so to speak. And when the agonizing difficulty of living as a poor peasant with a charge of souls at the same time as an applauded poet of London, then half-forgotten, had led his reason astray, delirium sometimes altered the coherence, but never the purity of his song.
Which, on the contrary, will only truly reach its fullness in madness. This covers at least twenty-eight years, all of them in an asylum […], a cruelly long but incredibly fertile period. Poetry had become the only recourse for a man torn from his roots, from his loved ones, from his identity. Always crossed by Nature because Clare was fortunately left, during the day, the key to the fields and the woods, more everyday than ever and obeying only its own logic, it gushes forth inexhaustibly, having found its freedom.
Pierre Leyris,
Excerpt from this preface.
no one knows or cares
John Clare
“Clear, Clare (1793-1864) is as clear as spring water flowing from the Lost Garden. […] More, perhaps, than many greats—putting greatness into question, so to speak. And when the agonizing difficulty of living as a poor peasant with a charge of souls at the same time as an applauded poet of London, then half-forgotten, had led his reason astray, delirium sometimes altered the coherence, but never the purity of his song.
Which, on the contrary, will only truly reach its fullness in madness. This covers at least twenty-eight years, all of them in an asylum […], a cruelly long but incredibly fertile period. Poetry had become the only recourse for a man torn from his roots, from his loved ones, from his identity. Always crossed by Nature because Clare was fortunately left, during the day, the key to the fields and the woods, more everyday than ever and obeying only its own logic, it gushes forth inexhaustibly, having found its freedom.
Pierre Leyris,
Excerpt from this preface.