Pierre Reverdy Read online

  1911 Death of his father.

  1912 Via Jacob establishes a friendship with Apollinaire, while continuing to frequent their mutual painter friends. Finds a job as a proofreader at a press on rue Falguière, his sole economic mainstay for a number of years.

  1913 Annus mirabilis: Apollinaire, Alcools and Les Peintres cubistes; Blaise Cendrars, La Prose du Transsibérien; Valery Larbaud, A.O. Barnabooth; Igor Stravinsky, Le Sacre du printemps. Reverdy moves to rue Cortot with Henriette Charlotte Bureau, a seamstress by trade. Their Montmartre apartment (for the next thirteen years) is directly above that of the painters Maurice Utrillo and Suzanne Valadon.

  1914 Marries Henriette. In September, Reverdy, age twenty-five, volunteers for military service, but is demobilized after a few months and returns to Paris.

  1915 His first book of poetry, Poèmes en prose (Prose Poems), illustrated by Gris and Henri Laurens.

  1916 Two more books of poems, La Lucarne ovale (The Oval Attic Window) and Quelques poèmes (A Few Poems).

  1917 Stays with Braque in Sorgues (Vaucluse). Publishes Le Voleur de Talan (The Thief of Talan). Founds the seminal little magazine Nord-Sud, which will run eighteen issues through late 1918. Funded by fashion designer and patron of the arts Jacques Doucet, its contributors include Jacob, Apollinaire, Reverdy, Tristan Tzara, and future surrealists Louis Aragon, André Breton, and Philippe Soupault.

  1918 Les Ardoises du toit (Roof Slates) and Les Jockeys camouflés (The Camouflaged Jockeys). Apollinaire brings out Calligrammes shortly before his death; Tzara issues his Manifeste Dada; Cendrars publishes Le Panama ou les aventures de mes sept oncles.

  1919 La Guitare endormie (The Sleeping Guitar) and Self-

  defence, an English-titled collection of essays on art and aesthetics. Breton, Aragon, and Soupault found the magazine Littérature. Death of his mother.

  1921 Étoiles peintes (Painted Stars) and Coeur de chêne (Heart of Oak). Begins an affair with Coco Chanel that will last on and off until the late twenties and then mature into a deep friendship over the rest of their lives. In May, with Jacob acting as his spiritual godfather, Reverdy undergoes baptism and first communion in the church of St-Pierre-de-Montmartre.

  1922 Cravates de chanvre (Cravats of Hemp).

  1924 Age thirty-five, receives his first major literary prize (le

  Prix du Nouveau Monde) for Epaves du ciel (Remnants of Heaven) published by Gallimard. Breton’s Manifeste du surréalisme adopts Reverdy’s definition of the image (first formulated in 1917 in Nord-Sud) as one of its credos: “The image is a pure creation of the mind. It cannot arise from

  a comparison but rather from the coming together of two realities more or less distanced from each other. The more distant and precise the relations between these two juxtaposed realities, the greater the strength of the image—the greater its emotional force and poetic actuality.” His work is published in Kra’s Anthologie de la nouvelle poésie française; in an author’s note, he declares that it has taken him fifteen years to understand the first thing about poetry—or about the real.

  1925 Ecumes de la mer (Sea Foams) and Grande nature (Fully Grown). First visit with his wife, Henriette, to the Benedictine monastery at St. Peter’s Abbey in Solesmes—in the northeast of France, near the Belgian border.

  1926 La Peau de l’homme (The Skin of Man), a “popular novel” and shorter fictions. Moves to Solesmes with his wife, where they live in a small house belonging to the village carpenter near the Benedictine abbey. Responding to derisive comments by certain surrealists about his religious conversion, he writes to a friend: “Realize that I am less and less in a Catholic world, and more and more an anarchist and individualist. Don’t play on the loathsome political connotations of recent conversions. I am bound to nothing and to nobody. I feel less and less moved to make concessions to the world under the pretext of moving toward God. My conversion is an adventure from which I have not yet returned.”

  1927 Publishes Le Gant de crin (The Horsehair Glove), a series of religious meditations in prose, influenced by Jacques and Raïssa Maritain—a book whose style and dogmatism he soon regrets.

  1928 La Balle au bond (Ball on the Bounce).

  1929 Travels to Italy. Pablo Picasso, Flaques de verre (Puddles of Glass), Sources du vent (Sources of the Wind).

  1930 Risques et périls (Risks and Perils), shorter fictions; Pierres blanches (White Stones).

  1931 Trip to Spain.

  1936 Travels in Italy and Greece.

  1937 Ferraille (Scrap Metal).

  1939 Visit to Switzerland.

  1940 Plein verre (Glassful).

  1945 Gallimard publishes his selected early poetry, La Plupart du temps 1915–1922 (Most of the Time 1915–1922).

  1946 Visages, illustrated by Matisse.

  1948 Le Livre de mon bord 1913–1949 (Logbook 1913–1949), meditations in prose. Le Chant des morts (The Song of the Dead), illustrated by Picasso.

  1949 Main d’oeuvre, poèmes 1913–1949 (Hand Labor, Poems 1913–1949), which also includes two new books: Cale sèche (Dry Dock) and Bois vert (Green Wood). Une Aventure méthodique (An Adventure in Method), lithographs by Braque.

  1955 Au Soleil du plafond (Sun on the Ceiling), illustrated by Gris (their 1916–1917 collaborations).

  1956 En vrac (Loose Leaves), notes in prose.

  1959 Braque, lithographs by Braque.

  1960 La Liberté des mers (Freedom of the Seas). Reverdy dies in June at Solesmes.

  [Chronology compiled by Richard Sieburth]

  Translator Index

  John Ashbery [JA] 69, 71, 89, 91, 105, 107, 109, 111, 113,

  115, 129

  Dan Bellm [DB] 155

  Mary Ann Caws [MAC] 137, 139, 141, 143, 145, 147, 149, 159

  Lydia Davis [LD] 55, 131, 153, 157

  Marilyn Hacker [MH] 27, 61 ,65, 133

  Richard Howard [RH] 103, 125, 127

  Geoffrey O’Brien [GOB] 25, 63, 101

  Frank O’Hara [FOH] 151

  Ron Padgett [RP] 3, 5, 9, 11, 15, 17

  Mark Polizzotti [MP] 13, 21, 23, 41, 43, 49, 51, 53, 123

  Kenneth Rexroth [KR] 29, 31, 33, 35, 37, 81 , 83, 85, 93, 95, 97, 99, 152

  Richard Sieburth [RS] 7, 19, 57, 73, 75, 77, 113, 117, 119, 121, 135

  Patricia Terry [PT] 38, 39

  Rosanna Warren [RW] 45, 47, 59

  Plus loin que là

  À la petite fenêtre, sous les tuiles, regarde. Et les lignes de mes yeux et les lignes des siens se croisent. J’aurai l’avantage de la hauteur, se dit-elle. Mais en face on pousse les volets et l’attention gênante se fixe. J’ai l’avantage des boutiques à regarder. Mais enfin il faudrait monter ou il vaut mieux descendre et, bras dessus bras dessous, allons ailleurs où plus personne ne regarde.

  Further Away Than There

  At the little window, under the roof tiles, look. And the lines of my eyes and the lines of hers intersect. I’ll have the advantage of height, she says to herself. But across the way they push open the shutters and the embarrassing attention is fixed. I have the advantage of the shops for looking. But finally I’d have to go up or it’s better if you come down and, arm in arm, let’s go somewhere else where no one looks at us.

  [RP]

  Toujours seul

  La fumée vient-elle de leurs cheminées ou de vos pipes? J’ai préféré le coin le plus aigu de cette chambre pour être seul; et la fenêtre d’en face s’est ouverte. Viendra-t-elle?

  Dans la rue où nos bras jettent un pont, personne n’a levé les yeux, et les maisons s’inclinent.

  Quand les toits se touchent on n’ose plus parler. On a peur de tous les cris, les cheminées s’éteignent. Il fait si noir.

  Always Alone

  Does the smoke come from their chimneys or our pipes? I preferred the sharpest corner of this room to be alone in. And the window across the way is open. Will she come?

  In the street when our arms threw up a bridge, no one looked up and the houses tilted.

  When the roofs touc
h, you don’t dare speak. You are afraid of every cry, the chimneys go out. It is so dark.

  [RP]

  Les Poètes

  Sa tête s’abritait craintivement sous l’abat-jour de la lampe. Il est vert et ses yeux sont rouges. Il y a un musicien qui ne bouge pas. Il dort; ses mains coupées jouent du violon pour lui faire oublier sa misère.

  Un escalier qui ne conduit nulle part grimpe autour de la maison. Il n’y a, d’ailleurs, ni portes ni fenêtres. On voit sur le toit s’agiter des ombres qui se précipitent dans le vide. Elles tombent une à une et ne se tuent pas. Vite par l’escalier elles remontent et recommencent, éternellement charmées par le musicien qui joue toujours du violon avec ses mains qui ne l’écoutent pas.

  The Poets

  His head took shelter fearfully beneath the lampshade. It is green and his eyes are red. There is a musician who does not move. He sleeps. His severed hands play the violin to make him forget his poverty.

  A stairway that leads nowhere climbs around the house. There are, moreover, neither doors nor windows. You see shadows moving on the roof that rush into the emptiness. They fall one by one and do not kill themselves. They quickly climb the stairs again and start over, eternally charmed by the musician who forever plays the violin with his hands that do not listen.

  [RP]

  L’Intrus

  Entre les 4 murs de cette salle basse se mouvaient des esprits obscurs et d’autres extrêmement légers et lumineux.

  Un homme presque nu entra au milieu de ces toiles et dans ces étendues de glace et de désert.

  Il entraînait une caravane en désordre et marchait seul. Une voix qui venait d’ailleurs faisait tinter à nos oreilles un son nouveau. Mais dans ce mélange de capes et d’épées, de chansons et de cris, il régnait un air de carnaval—il y manquait surtout la grâce avec l’esprit.

  Un monde très ancien tournoyait dans nos têtes et l’on attendait le moment où tout allait tomber.

  Mais, dehors, au lieu d’un clair de lune sur un fond de décor—on trouvait un temps gris où manœuvraient les machines hurlantes dissipant le malaise. Dans la rue, nous avions retrouvé la foule et notre siècle. Mais tous ces esprits obscurs ou lumineux, légers et lourds, et l’homme nu de quelle époque étaient-ils descendus ce soir-là?

  The Intruder

  Between the four walls of this low-slung room there was a flutter of shadowy spirits and others quite weightless and bright.

  A nearly naked man entered into these webs and expanses of desert and ice.

  He was leading behind him a caravan in chaos and making his way ahead alone. Out of elsewhere, a voice was making our ears ring with a sound that was new. But in this medley of capes and swords, of songs and shrieks, a carnival atmosphere predominated—noticeably lacking in grace of mind.

  A most ancient world was whirling through our heads and we were awaiting the moment when everything would collapse.

  But outdoors, instead of bright moonlight cast upon a stage backdrop, the skies were grey and filled with the howls of machines that cut right through our malaise. Once out in the street, we regained our century, our crowds. But that other night, from what era did they all descend upon us, those spirits shadowy, bright, weightless, heavy, and that naked man?

  [RS]

  Belle étoile

  J’aurai peut-être perdu la clé, et tout le monde rit autour de moi et chacun me montre une clé énorme pendue à son cou.

  Je suis le seul à ne rien avoir pour entrer quelque part. Ils ont tous disparu et les portes closes laissent la rue plus triste. Personne. Je frapperai partout.

  Des injures jaillissent des fenêtres et je m’éloigne.

  Alors un peu plus loin que la ville, au bord d’une rivière et d’un bois, j’ai trouvé une porte. Une simple porte à claire-voie et sans serrure. Je me suis mis derrière et, sous la nuit qui n’a pas de fenêtres mais de larges rideaux, entre la forêt et la rivière qui me protègent, j’ai pu dormir.

  Under the Stars

  Maybe I had lost the key, and everyone around me laughs and each shows me an enormous key hanging from his neck.

  I am the only one who has no way to get in somewhere. They have all disappeared and the closed doors leave the street sadder. No one. I’ll knock on every door.

  Insults fly out of the windows and I withdraw.

  So, not far outside of town, on the edge of a river and a wood, I found a door. A simple gate with no lock. I got behind it and, beneath the night that has no windows but does have large curtains, between the forest and the river that protected me, I was able to sleep.

  [RP]

  L’Esprit sort

  Que de livres! Un temple dont les murs épais étaient bâtis en livres. Et là dedans, où j’étais entré on ne saura comment, je ne sais par où, j’étouffais; les plafonds étaient gris de poussière. Pas un bruit. Et toutes ces idées si grandes ne bougent plus; elles dorment, ou sont mortes. Il fait dans ce triste palais si chaud, si sombre!

  De mes ongles j’ai griffé la paroi et, morceau à morceau, j’ai fait un trou dans le mur de droite. C’était une fenêtre et le soleil qui voulait m’aveugler n’a pas pu m’empêcher de regarder dehors.

  C'était la rue mais le palais n’était plus là. Je connaissais déjà une autre poussière et d’autres murs qui bordaient le trottoir.

  The Spirit Goes Out

  So many books! A temple whose thick walls were built with books. And inside, where I had entered, who knows how, I don’t know where, I was suffocating. The ceilings were gray with dust. Not a sound. And all these great ideas no longer move, they sleep, or are dead. It’s so hot in this sad palace, so gloomy!

  With my fingernails I clawed at the partition and, bit by bit, I made a hole in the wall on the right. It was a window and the sun that tried to blind me couldn’t keep me from looking out.

  It was the street, but the palace was no longer there. I already knew about another dust and other walls along the sidewalk.

  [RP]

  Des Êtres vagues

  Une honte trop grande a relevé mon front. Je me suis débarrassé de ces encombrantes guenilles et j’attends.

  Vous attendez aussi mais je ne sais plus quoi. Pourvu que quelque chose arrive. Tous les yeux s’allument aux fenêtres, toute la jalousie de nos rivaux recule au seuil des portes. Pourtant s’il n’allait rien venir.

  À présent je passe entre les deux trottoirs; je suis seul, avec le vent qui m’accompagne en se moquant de moi. Comment fuir ailleurs que dans la nuit.

  Mais la table et la lampe sont là qui m’attendent et tout le reste est mort de rage sous la porte.

  Vague Creatures

  Too great a shame holds my head high. I've rid myself of those cumbersome rags and I’m waiting.

  You’re waiting too but I don’t know for what. As long as something happens. In the windows all eyes are shining; all the jealousy of our rivals recoils at the entrance. But what if nothing were coming...

  For now I pass between two sidewalks. I’m alone, with a wind that mocks me as it blows alongside. Where else to flee but into the night.

  But the table and lamp are here waiting for me, and all the rest has died of rage at the door.

  [MP]

  Voyages trop grands

  C’était peut-être la première fois qu’il voyait quelque chose de clair. Il se sentait accroché au dernier wagon du train de luxe pour quelque destination magnifique et regardait distraitement le paysage qui allait, à rebours, bien plus vite que lui. Avec la somme de tous les détails perdus on aurait fait un nouveau monde; mais lui n’avait besoin de rien. De son rôle, qu’il jouait avec le plus grand sérieux, il lui manquait la signification.

  Les plus grandes gares n’avaient pas assez de bruit pour l’émouvoir; au coin de toutes les collines il comprenait mieux l’isolement des maisons blanches. Quand on longeait la mer il ne voyait que les voiles des barques qui en précisaient l’étendue.

  Tout est inerte et trop grand pour ses yeux et son cœur. Sa tête doit rester vi
de et rien ne pourrait la remplir.

  Quand il revenait enfin là d’où il était parti, sa tâche bien remplie, sa journée faite il ne pensait qu’au petit coin de terre où sa vie contenait, où il aurait la place juste pour mourir.

  Trips That Are Too Long

  It was perhaps the first time that he saw something clearly. He felt himself hooked to the last car of a first-class train headed for some magnificent destination and he looked absentmindedly at the countryside that was moving, backwards, much faster than he. With all the lost details, you could have made a new world. But he didn’t need anything. The significance of his role, which he played with the greatest seriousness, escaped him.

  The biggest stations didn’t have enough noise to move him. At the bend of every hill he understood the isolation of the white houses better. When the train ran along the sea, he saw only the sails of the boats that defined the expanse.

  Everything is inert and too big for his eyes and his heart. His head must remain empty and nothing could fill it.

  When finally he was on his way back, his task finished, his journey completed, he thought only of that little plot of earth where his life contained—where he would have—just room enough to die in.

  [RP]

  Chacun sa part

  Il a chassé la lune, il a laissé la nuit. Une à une les étoiles sont tombées dans un filet d’eau vive.

  Derrière les trembles un étrange pêcheur guette avec impatience d’un œil ouvert, le seul, caché sous son large chapeau; et la ligne frémit.

  Rien ne se prend, mais il emplit sa gibecière de pièces d’or dont l’éclat s’est éteint dans le panier fermé.