Mon · Plaisir

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Passa la bellezza nei tuoi occhi neri,
Beauty passes in your black eyes
scende sui tuoi fianchi e sono sogni i tuoi pensieri...
comes down from your hips, and your thoughts are dreams...
Venezia inverosimile più di ogni altra città
Impossible Venice, more than any other city,
è un canto di sirene, l' ultima opportunità.
is a siren song, one last chance.
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Ho la morte e la vita tra le mani,
I have death and life in my hands,
coi miei trucchi da vecchio senza dignità:
in my tricks of a shameless old man
se avessi vent'anni ti verrei a cercare,
if I were twenty, I would come looking for you,
se ne avessi quaranta, ragazzo, ti potrei comprare,
if I were forty, boy, I could buy you,
a cinquanta, come invece ne ho, ti sto solo a guardare ...
Instead I can only stare at you...
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Passa la bellezza nei tuoi occhi neri
Beauty passes me by in your black eyes,
e stravolge il canto della vita mia di ieri;
and upsets the song of my life of yesteryear;
tutta la bellezza, l'allegria del pianto,
all beauty, the happiness of tears,
che mi fa tremare quando tu mi passi accanto...
that makes me quake when you pass by me...
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Venezia, in questa luce del Lido, prima del tramonto
Venice, in this light on the shore, just before dusk
ha la forma del tuo corpo che mi ruba lo sfondo;
has the shape of your body, which robs me of my bearings;
la tua leggerezza danzante,
Your dancing sprightliness,
come al centro del tempo e dell'eternità:
at the centre of time, of eternity:
ho paura della fine, non ho più voglia di un inizio;
I fear the end, as I no longer want a beginning;
ho paura che gli altri pensino a questo amore come a un vizio;
I fear that others will think this love a vice;
ho paura di non vederti più, di averla persa...
I fear not seeing you again, of having lost out...
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Tutta la bellezza che mi fugge via,
All beauty which flees from me,
e mi lascia in cambio i segni di una malattia.
and leaves instead the signs of a malady.
Tutta la bellezza che non ho mai colto,
All the beauty I have not gathered,
tutta la bellezza immaginata, che c'era sul tuo volto,
all the beauty imagined, which was in your face,
tutta la bellezza se ne va in un canto,
all the beauty that goes out in a song
questa tua bellezza, che è la mia, muore dentro un canto.
This, your beauty, which was mine, dies within a song.
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Si tienes un hondo penar, piensa en mi;
If you have a deep sorrow, think of me;
Si tienes ganas de llorar, piensa en mi:
If you feel like crying, think of me:
Ya ves que venero tu imagen divina,
As you see, I worship your divine image,
Tu párvula boca, que siendo tan niña
Your tiny mouth that, as a little girl,
Me enseñó a pecar.
Taught me to sin.
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Piensa en mi, cuando sufras;
Think of me when you suffer;
Cuando llores—también piensa en mi;
When you weep—think again of me;
Cuando quieras quitarme la vida,
Should you wish to take my life,
No la quiero, para nada,
I don't want it, it's no use,
Para nada me sirve—sin ti.
No use to me at all—without you.
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Il fera longtemps clair ce soir, les jours allongent,
La rumeur du jour vif se disperse et s'enfuit,
Et les arbres, surpris de ne pas voir la nuit,
Demeurent éveillés dans le soir blanc, et songent...
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The sunset will be long this evening, days grow long,
The murmurs of the lively day break up and scatter,
And the trees, stunned by the lack of a night,
Stay awake in the evening's white, as they dream...
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Les marronniers, sur l'air plein d'or et de lourdeur,
Répandent leurs parfums et semblent les étendre ;
On n'ose pas marcher ni remuer l'air tendre
De peur de déranger le sommeil des odeurs.
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Chestnut trees in the air, full of torpor and gold,
Spread their perfumes, appear to unfold them,
One daren't walk or stir the tender atmosphere
For fear of unsettling the lethargy of scent.
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De lointains roulements arrivent de la ville...
La poussière, qu'un peu de brise soulevait,
Quittant l'arbre mouvant et las qu'elle revêt,
Redescend doucement sur les chemins tranquilles.
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Faraway drumbeats reach us from the city...
The dust that a light breeze had raised up
Abandoning the swaying tired tree it cloaks
Redescends gently, silently, onto the quiet roads.
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Nous avons tous les jours l'habitude de voir
Cette route si simple et si souvent suivie,
Et pourtant quelque chose est changé dans la vie,
Nous n'aurons plus jamais notre âme de ce soir...
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We habitually see, everyday of our lives,
This simple road we have so very often trod,
Nonetheless there is something that has changed in our lives,
We will never again breathe the life of this dusk...
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Anna de Noailles (1876-1933)
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This is my single instance of Anglophilia: no helot outside the countries once ruled by His Britannic Majesty is capable of fixing a mixed drink.  The French are anatomically incapable of doing it. The things I've tasted in France under the misnomer cocktail are nothing short of obscene, as only heteros with stringy hair can be obscene.  Looking at a Frenchman drenching a martini glass in wet ice to "cool" it is enough to give one a stroke.
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In a bar, I am an archreactionary. No multi-culti shit in a bar, please.
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Basically I love a whiskey highball: a LARGE slug of whiskey (Scotch for me; but Canadian rye will do, if I'm sharing with someone under age) topped by soda water, in a high tumbler. No ice. No goddam ice! NO ICE.
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I also enjoy a classic gin Martini, very dry, straight-up, no junk. 
Keep that glass dry!
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