#maybe happiness is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom

[lickthecowhappy]

I struggled with this one so please be nice to me. I think the prolonged exposure to low grade sadness made me grumpy.

The French text in this poem is taken from Gustave Flaubert’s 1842 novela Novembre.

And for the record, I don't think Crowley is really this much of a sad sack, it's just artistic license.

Translated version is below the cut.

Deux Langues de Nous

Rhapsodies poétiques,  I stuttered and struggled- laid utterly bare- surrounded by the words of infamous poets,  all fleeing my grasp like timid prey. souvenirs de mauvaises lectures,  How desperate I was to recall any  soliloquy, monologue, or profession of love  crafted so carefully by the human heart. hyperboles de rhétorique,  I could not compare thee to a Summer's day,  nor my love to a red red rose; I only scrabbled for  any stale crumb of affection my mouth could offer. que toutes ces grandes douleurs sans nom,  We couldn't say it, unspoken all those years-  until I put a name to what could have been,  and took “Us” with me when I left. mais le bonheur aussi ne serait-il pas  une métaphore inventée un jour d’ennui?  Perhaps I was not created to be loved,  only to be used and discarded. Cast down  once Love, Herself, tired of me. J’en ai longtemps douté,  For one bitter moment I believed in my  withered soul that you might hold me dear.  How foolish I must have seemed in your eyes. aujourd’hui je n’en doute plus. You and I were speaking two different languages and you were never very good with French. I suppose we both learned that the hard way.

[Translation]

[Two Languages of Us]

[Poetic rhapsodies,] I stuttered and struggled- laid utterly bare- surrounded by the words of infamous poets,  all fleeing my grasp like timid prey. [memories of bad readings,] How desperate I was to recall any  soliloquy, monologue, or profession of love  crafted so carefully by the human heart. [rhetorical hyperboles,] I could not compare thee to a Summer's day,  nor my love to a red red rose; I only scrabbled for  any stale crumb of affection my mouth could offer. [all these great nameless pains,] We couldn't say it, unspoken all those years-  until I put a name to what could have been,  and took “Us” with me when I left. [But maybe happiness too, is a metaphor  invented on a day of boredom?] Perhaps I was not created to be loved,  only to be used and discarded. Cast down  once Love, Herself, tired of me. [I doubted it for a long time,]  For one bitter moment I believed in my  withered soul that you might hold me dear.  How foolish I must have seemed in your eyes. [today I no longer doubt it.] You and I were speaking two different languages and you were never very good with French. I suppose we both learned that the hard way.

Read more of my work here. This poem is also available on AO3.

[zemagltd]

Everyday Poetry - "Maybe happiness too is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom." Gustave Flaubert

[kashilascorner]

Read in 2020: Novembre, by Gustave Flaubert

Maybe happiness too is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom

[jewelrylove]

😍😍Vintage Jewelry Antique Gothic Style Skull Rings 😍😍

“Maybe happiness too is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom”

[dk-thrive]

Maybe happiness too is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom.

Gustave Flaubert, November. (Hesperus Press; Translation edition, February 1, 2005) Originally 1842.

[wepicy]

Happiness Quote By Gustave Flaubert, “Maybe happiness too is a metaphor invented on a day of boredom” Gustave Flaubert, - November