David Madore's WebLog: Le poète et les mots (citation de Stephen Fry)

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Entry #1910 [older|newer] / Entrée #1910 [précédente|suivante]:

(mercredi)

Le poète et les mots (citation de Stephen Fry)

Comme j'ai la flemme d'écrire quelque chose, je vous offre aujourd'hui une citation de Stephen Fry (tirée de The Hippopotamus, que je lis en ce moment, ayant beaucoup aimé le précédent livre que j'avais lu de lui), que je tâcherai de ressortir la prochaine fois que quelqu'un m'accusera d'utiliser des mots compliqués dans ma prose :

The poet has no reserved materials, no unique modes. He has nothing but words, the same tools that the whole cursed world uses to ask the way to the nearest lavatory, or with which they patter out excuses for the clumsy betrayals and shiftless evasions of their ordinary lives; the poet has nothing but the same, self-same, words that daily in a million shapes and phrases curse, pray, abuse, flatter and mislead. The poor bloody poet can no longer say ope for open, or swain for youth, he is expected to construct new poems out of the plastic and Styrofoam garbage that litters the twentieth-century linguistic floor, to make fresh art from the used verbal condoms of social intercourse. Is it any wonder that, from time to time, we take refuge in gellies and ataractic and watchet? Innocent words, virgin words, words uncontaminated and unviolated, the very mastery of which announces us to possess a relationship with language akin to that of the sculptor with his marble or the composer with his staves.

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