Stephane Mallarme
“A Throw Of The Dice Will Never Abolish Chance”
Translated by A. S. Kline
A THROW OF THE DICE
NEVER
EVEN
WHEN TRULY CAST IN THE ETERNAL
CIRCUMSTANCE
OF
A SHIPWRECK’S DEPTH
Can be
only
the
Abyss
raging
whitened
stalled
beneath
the desperately
sloping
incline
of
its
own wing
through an
advance falling back from ill to take flight
and veiling the gushers
restraining
the surges
gathered far within
the
shadow buried deep by that alternative sail
almost matching
its
yawning depth to the wingspan like a hull
of a vessel
rocked
from side to side
THE
MASTER beyond
former calculations
where
the lost manoeuvre with the age
rose
implying
that formerly he grasped the helm
of
this conflagration of
the concerted
horizon at his feet
that readies
itself
moves
and merges
with
the blow that grips it
as
one threatens fate
and the winds
the unique Number which
cannot be
another
Spirit
to hurl it
into
the storm
relinquish
the cleaving there and pass proudly
hesitates
a
corpse pushed
back by the
arm from the secret
rather
than taking
sides
a
hoary madman
on
behalf
of
the waves
one
overwhelms
the head
flows
through the submissive beard
straight
shipwreck that
of the man
without
a vessel
empty
no
matter where
ancestrally never to
open the fist
clenched
beyond
the helpless head
a legacy in vanishing
to
someone
ambiguous
the
immemorial ulterior demon
having
from
non-existent regions
led
the old man towards this ultimate meeting with probability
this
his
childlike shade
caressed and smoothed and rendered
supple
by the wave and shielded
from
hard bone lost between the planks
born
of
a frolic
the sea through the old man or the old man against the sea
making
a vain attempt
an
Engagement
whose
dread the veil of
illusion rejected
as the phantom of a
gesture
will
tremble
collapse
madness
WILL NEVER ABOLISH
AS IF
A simple
insinuation
into
silence
entwined
with irony
or
the
mystery
hurled
howled
in some
close
swirl of mirth and terror
whirls
round
the abyss
without
scattering
or
dispersing
and cradles the virgin index there
AS
IF
a solitary plume overwhelmed
untouched
that a cap of
and
fixes
in
crumpled velvet with a sombre burst of laughter
that rigid whiteness
derisory
in
opposition to the heavens
too much so
not to signal
closely
any
bitter prince of the reef
heroically adorned with it
indomitable
but contained
by
his petty reason virile
in lightning
anxious
expiatory
and pubescent
dumb laughter
that
IF
The
lucid and lordly
crest of
vertigo
on
the invisible brow
sparkles
then shades
a
slim dark tallness
upright
in its siren coiling
at the moment
of
striking
through
impatient ultimate
scales bifurcated
a rock
a deceptive manor
suddenly
evaporating
in fog
that imposed
limits on
the infinite
IT
WAS THE
NUMBER
stellar
outcome
WERE
IT TO HAVE EXISTED
other than as a fragmented agonised hallucination
WERE IT TO HAVE BEGUN AND
ENDED
a surging that denied and closed when visible
at
last
by
some profusion spreading in sparseness
WERE
IT TO HAVE AMOUNTED
to the fact of the total though as little as one
WERE
IT TO HAVE LIGHTED
IT WOULD BE
worse
no
more
nor less
indifferently
but as much CHANCE
Falls
the
plume
rhythmic
suspense of the disaster
to
bury itself
in
the original foam
from
which its delirium formerly leapt to the summit
faded
by
the same neutrality of abyss
NOTHING
of the memorable crisis
where
the event
matured accomplished
in sight of all non-existent
human
outcomes
WILL HAVE TAKEN PLACE
a
commonplace elevation pours out absence
BUT THE PLACE
some
lapping below as if to scatter the empty act
abruptly
that otherwise
by
its falsity
would
have plumbed
perdition
in this region
of
vagueness
in
which all reality dissolves
EXCEPT
at
the altitude
PERHAPS
as
far as a place fuses with beyond
outside
the interest
signalled
regarding it
in
general
in
accord with such obliquity through such declination
of
fire
towards
what
must be
the
Wain also North
A
CONSTELLATION
cold
with neglect and desuetude
not
so much though
that
it fails to enumerate
on
some vacant and superior surface
the
consecutive clash
sidereally
of
a final account in formation
attending
doubting
rolling
shining
and meditating
before
stopping
at
some last point that crowns it
All Thought expresses a Throw of the Dice
The Faun
These nymphs,
I would perpetuate them.
So bright
Their
crimson flesh that hovers there, light
In the air
drowsy with dense slumbers.
Did
I love a dream?
My doubt,
mass of ancient night, ends extreme
In many a
subtle branch, that remaining the true
Woods
themselves, proves, alas, that I too
Offered
myself, alone, as triumph, the false ideal of roses.
Let’s
see….
or if those women you note
Reflect
your fabulous senses’ desire!
Faun,
illusion escapes from the blue eye,
Cold, like
a fount of tears, of the most chaste:
But the
other, she, all sighs, contrasts you say
Like a
breeze of day warm on your fleece?
No!
Through the swoon, heavy and motionless
Stifling
with heat the cool morning’s struggles
No water,
but that which my flute pours, murmurs
To the
grove sprinkled with melodies: and the sole breeze
Out of the
twin pipes, quick to breathe
Before it
scatters the sound in an arid rain,
Is
unstirred by any wrinkle of the horizon,
The
visible breath, artificial and serene,
Of
inspiration returning to heights unseen.
O Sicilian
shores of a marshy calm
My vanity
plunders vying with the sun,
Silent
beneath scintillating flowers, RELATE
‘That I
was cutting hollow reeds here tamed
By talent:
when, on the green gold of distant
Verdure
offering its vine to the fountains,
An animal
whiteness undulates to rest:
And as a
slow prelude in which the pipes exist
This
flight of swans, no, of Naiads cower
Or
plunge…’
Inert, all things burn in the tawny
hour
Not seeing
by what art there fled away together
Too much
of hymen desired by one who seeks there
The
natural A: then I’ll wake to the primal fever
Lily! And
the one among you all for artlessness.
Other than
this sweet nothing shown by their lip, the kiss
That
softly gives assurance of treachery,
My breast,
virgin of proof, reveals the mystery
Of the
bite from some illustrious tooth planted;
Let that
go! Such the arcane chose for confidant,
The great
twin reed we play under the azure ceiling,
That
turning towards itself the cheek’s quivering,
Dreams, in
a long solo, so we might amuse
The
beauties round about by false notes that confuse
Between
itself and our credulous singing;
And create
as far as love can, modulating,
The
vanishing, from the common dream of pure flank
Or back
followed by my shuttered glances,
Of a
sonorous, empty and monotonous line.
Try then,
instrument of flights, O malign
Syrinx by
the lake where you await me, to flower again!
I, proud
of my murmur, intend to speak at length
Of
goddesses: and with idolatrous paintings
Remove
again from shadow their waists’ bindings:
So that
when I’ve sucked the grapes’ brightness
To banish
a regret done away with by my pretence,
Laughing,
I raise the emptied stem to the summer’s sky
And breathing
into those luminous skins, then I,
Desiring
drunkenness, gaze through them till evening.
O nymphs,
let’s rise again with many memories.
‘My eye,
piercing the reeds, speared each immortal
Neck that
drowns its burning in the water
With a cry
of rage towards the forest sky;
And the
splendid bath of hair slipped by
In
brightness and shuddering, O jewels!
I rush
there: when, at my feet, entwine (bruised
By the
languor tasted in their being-two’s evil)
Girls
sleeping in each other’s arms’ sole peril:
I seize
them without untangling them and run
To this
bank of roses wasting in the sun
All
perfume, hated by the frivolous shade
Where our
frolic should be like a vanished day.’
I adore
you, wrath of virgins, O shy
Delight of
the nude sacred burden that glides
Away to
flee my fiery lip, drinking
The secret
terrors of the flesh like quivering
Lightning:
from the feet of the heartless one
To the
heart of the timid, in a moment abandoned
By
innocence wet with wild tears or less sad vapours.
‘Happy at
conquering these treacherous fears
My crime’s
to have parted the dishevelled tangle
Of kisses
that the gods kept so well mingled:
For I’d
scarcely begun to hide an ardent laugh
In one girl’s
happy depths (holding back
With only
a finger, so that her feathery candour
Might be
tinted by the passion of her burning sister,
The little
one, naïve and not even blushing)
Than from
my arms, undone by vague dying,
This prey,
forever ungrateful, frees itself and is gone,
Not
pitying the sob with which I was still drunk.’
No matter!
Others will lead me towards happiness
By the
horns on my brow knotted with many a tress:
You know,
my passion, how ripe and purple already
Every
pomegranate bursts, murmuring with the bees:
And our
blood, enamoured of what will seize it,
Flows for
all the eternal swarm of desire yet.
At the
hour when this wood with gold and ashes heaves
A feast’s
excited among the extinguished leaves:
Etna! It’s
on your slopes, visited by Venus
Setting in
your lava her heels so artless,
When a sad
slumber thunders where the flame burns low.
I hold the
queen!
O certain
punishment…
No,
but the soul
Void of
words, and this heavy body,
Succumb to
noon’s proud silence slowly:
With no
more ado, forgetting blasphemy, I
Must
sleep, lying on the thirsty sand, and as I
Love, open my mouth to wine’s true constellation!
Farewell
to you, both: I go to see the shadow you have become.