Gray Haskins

‘We must work and affirm,

but we have no guess

of the value

of what we say or do.’

[—Emerson, ‘Illusions’]

*

Life as it’s lived,

A dense tunnel, high wind—

A nod and a smile, 

A small question

Lived. 

I never know – we never know – what’s going to come and find us.

Trifles along the way. You have to joke, and fart, and trip. Forget what to say, mess up. 

(And then move on, indifferent, content, if possible.) 

Feeling well recently has put me on edge a little. I noticed it in the car, coming home. You start to – you catch yourself smiling, and there’s a catch, you feel: there must be a catch; impending grief.

(O poor wretch, come on.)

Anyway.

(A quote from Giorgio Gaber. — If you read French or Italian I highly recommend the bilingual book Gaber–Brel Dialogo by Micaela Bonavia. It is exceptional, and what Brel and Gaber say, and repeat, how they think and thought out their lives, how they lived and reflected on their lives: it does a lot of good to read and reflect with them, such voices are rare, because bold and honest and serious and nonconformist, recent artists whose aim was higher than conventional success, wealth and popularity, intellectual (in the good sense; the ideas lived by, applied—and refined and reapplied), artists concerned with what’s essential, what matters, not in terms of brief political and social fashions, or enthusiasms, but in terms of what lasts.)

*

E pensare 

che basterebbe pochissimo. 

Basterebbe spostare a stacco

la nostra angolazione visiva. 

Guardare le cose

come fosse la prima volta. 

Lasciare fuori campo

tutto il conformismo di cui

è permeata 

la nostra esistenza. 

Dubitare delle risposte 

già pronte.

Dubitare dei nostri 

pensieri fermi,

sicuri, 

inamovibili.

Dubitare delle nostre convinzioni 

presuntuose e saccenti.

Basterebbe smettere

di sentirsi sempre

delle brave persone. 

Smettere di sentirsi vittime

delle madri, 

dei padri,

dei figli. 

Smascherare,

smascherare tutto:

smascherare l’amore,

il riso,

il pianto,

il cuore,

il cervello. 

Smascherare la nostra

falsa coscienza individuale. 

Subito. 

Qui e ora.

*

[And to think

that it would take very little.

It would be enough

to change our point of view.

To look at things

as if it were the first time.

To leave out 

all the conformism

that impregnates

our existence.

To doubt 

ready responses.

To doubt 

our firm, 

secure, 

immovable

thoughts.

To doubt

our pretentious

and pedantic

conventions.

It would be enough

to stop thinking of ourselves always

as ‘good people’.

To stop thinking of ourselves

as victims

of mothers,

fathers,

children.

To unmask,

to unmask everything:

to unmask

love,

laughter, 

tears,

the heart,

the mind.

To unmask 

our false individual conscience.

Soon.

Here and now.]

A perfect government 

and a perfect society 

assume a perfect people. 

That is, 

a perfect government

and a perfect society 

would require 

a perfect people: 

a people without vices; 

a people of perfect virtue; 

that is, angels; 

not men and women 

who actually exist 

(or have existed, 

or will exist).

If the government was perfect, 

would we be happy? 

If every demand 

of every activist 

and concerned citizen 

was granted, 

fulfilled 

(and perfectly so), 

would we be happy?

Change the word ‘happy’

if you will: 

content, 

satisfied 

(with ourselves, 

with others,

how things are, 

our life, 

the world, 

etc.)

I’m reminded of a quote 

from Giorgo Gaber. 

(I’ve reminded myself here.) 

« Io mi appassiono alla realtà,

non ai rapporti di forza.

La politica è un mestiere preciso

che passa attraverso 

l’illusorio uso di parole 

e concetti volgarizzati 

perché deve trovare

più consensi possibili. 

Questo non è il mio gioco:

il mio gioco è la parola precisa, 

non il concetto ambiguo. »

[I’m passionate about reality,

not about systems of force.

Politics is a particular profession

which happens through

the illusive use of words

and simplified concepts

because it has to find

the most consenus possible.

That’s not my thing;

my thing is the exact word, 

not the ambiguous concept.]

I think also of a quote 

from Montagine, 

something I wrote down 

in my journal a while back:

« Nous empêtrons

nos pensées

avec les questions générales

es les causes universelles

et les façons

dont est conduit l’univers,

qui se conduit

très bien sans nous,

et nous laissons de côté

notre cas

et Michel [ou Gray, ou toi, ou qui que ce soit]

qui nous concerne 

encore de plus près

que l’homme en général. »

[We mix up

our thoughts

with general questions

and universal causes

and the ways

in which the world behaves, 

which carries on

very well without us,

and we leave to the side

our case

and Michel [or Gray, or you, or whoever it is],

which concern us

still much more

than mankind in general.]

I think the problem 

for most of us 

(the immense majority of us)

is that we are flooded 

(sure, we mostly allow it, 

and we usually want it, 

because desperate, 

because absolutely

hooked, 

addicted, 

and suffering) – 

is that we are flooded 

with ‘mankind in general’ 

(or ‘culture’, 

or ‘humanity’,

or ‘the world’, 

as you like):

the news, 

social media, 

streaming shows 

and movies, etc. 

Give yourself long enough 

to such abstract concepts 

(‘mankind in general’, 

‘millenials’,

‘Zoomers’, 

‘Americans’,

‘white people’, 

‘conservatives’,

‘liberals’,

whatever) 

and you start to believe 

that these ideas

exist. 

You can’t touch 

any of these;

they are what any individual 

thinks to call them, 

and that’s subject to change 

according to the hour, 

the mood, 

etc.

We don’t think

(or know)

the same things

in the morning

and in the evening,

or have the same opinions

(not really).

We are

all of us

process

(individually,

alone). 

(And because

of our choices,

every one.)

Not as ‘people’

(insert whatever

color

or race),

not as whatever

opinions

we pick up

and point at

(we’re not

what we like,

or do

or say).

The problem

is spiritual

(define ‘spritual’

as you like).

It is one of

feeling. 

If when you see your father

or aunt

or brother

or grandmother

and more than the

temporary guest

of this world

(like you,

like me

fragile,

uncertain,

brief),

you see 

an idea, 

or an opinion

(or a set

of opinions,

vague,

unwieldy),

you’re going to 

suffer

stupidly. 

Because no one

(not you,

not me)

is

their 

opinions

(how many times

have yours changed?

do you feel them

the same

as you did

last week?)

Anyway.

You have to resist the little things that pain you

or worry you, 

that tempt, and say, 

You know you want to stress about this, 

that there’s fear to be played out, 

imagined,

(that is, to let your fear imagine what happens, 

not you). 

My stomach tightens at the thought of going out tonight (or any night). Even determining the time: 

do you have a time you want to go?

6, I say. 

How about 5:45?

That’s good. 

Leave at 5:45? D breaks in. 

Uh. 

And then T:

Could we do 6:15?

Easier for M. 

Well, 

that’s that. 

Little things. Stress. Choosing to go with it, 

to try to find a place in me 

perfectly willing to accept what’s settled, 

even to be not only fine with it, 

but good with it, 

(on good terms, 

ready, 

content).

And so on. 

« Non mais

ce que vous appelez 

la douceur,

qui est un mot

qui revient souvent

de mes proches

ou même des gens

qui me lisent

et parfois des journalistes

et des critiques,

c’est que

je pense que

les plus grands drames 

sont dans les silences,

dans les attentes,

mais aussi

la résolution

des plus grands drames

est dans les silences

et les attentes. »

*

[No but

what you call

sweetness,

which is a word

that comes up often

with my friends and family

or even from people

who read me

and sometimes journalists

and critics,

it’s that

I think that

the greatest dramas

are in the silences, 

in the waiting,

but also

the resolution

of the greatest dramas

are in the silences

and in the waiting.]

*

Voici un autre extrait de la épisode récente sur Les Lueurs avec Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt.

[Here is another extract from the recent episode on Les Lueurs with Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt.]

I had to start writing it, the first novel. 

It’s strange. It isn’t what I – how to put this? – wanted, or would have wanted, or expected, but it’s started, it isn’t nothing, and that is enough now for me. I intend to finish it and publish it. 

Of course (I suppose) I’ll edit it. This seems to me unimportant now. 

The point is, I’m beginning my novel. 

I’m thinking of something Gaber says in this book I got recently. 

He says something along the lines of: 

If you would know yourself, and really, write a novel, or paint a picture, create an album. Take up the work, and see it through, difficulties and all, imperfections and all. Carry it all the way to the end.

It won’t be perfect. It won’t be what you thought it would be, what you wanted or expected: it’ll be something else. But you’ll only know what it is after you’ve done it.

That’s what I mean. 

*

Bisognerebbe mettersi lì

a fare qualcosa,

scrivere una canzone,

un libro,

dipingere un quadro,

e solo dopo

chiedersi:

« Come sono?»,

non prima. 

Magari vien fuori

che sei fascista. 

Peccato,

però almeno

lo sai. 

Altrimenti 

non sai in fondo

chi sei

e non ti puoi cambiare. 

E poi 

c’è il momento 

della verifica. [Giorgo Gaber]

*

[It would be necessary to put yourself there

where you can do something,

write a song,

a book,

paint a picture,

and only after

to ask yourself:

“What am I?”,

not before.

Perhaps you find out

that you’re a fascist.

A shame, 

but at least

you know.

Otherwise

you don’t know at bottom

who you are

and you can’t change.

And then

there’s the moment

that confirms.] 

*

You have to make your life exciting,

even if it’s not,

especially if it’s not,

if only in yourself, 

as you imagine it. 

*

How succesful are you 

in imagining your life, 

in giving it fullness,

in feeling it full? 

*

Quand on écrit

on fait ce qu’on peut,

n’est-ce pas. 

On ne sait les choses

qu’après. 

On ne sait tout 

qu’après. 

On ne sait rien

pendant. 

On ne sait rien. [Brel]

*

[When you write

you do what you can,

isn’t it. 

You don’t what it is

till after.

You don’t know everything

till after.

You know nothing

during.

You know nothing.]

From his journal:

Nov. 8, 1838

Let me never fall into 

the vulgar mistake

of dreaming that I am persecuted

whenever I am contradicted. 

[I, what do I do? I contradict everyone in my head. And then I contradict myself. ‘Existential solitude’?! Ha. I know no intellectuals (in the flesh), or, at least, no one (as far as I know) reading what I’m reading, thinking with the authors I’m thinking with. This is no excuse. But I… I trust myself very little. My thoughts are agitated, sensitive; if anything is sure, it’s a few feelings, the words for which I typically lack.]

No man, I think, 

had ever a greater well being

with a less desert

than I. 

[I cannot say the same. But I admire E’s confidence here.]

I can very well afford

to be accounted

bad or foolish

by a few dozen or a few hundred persons—

I who see myself greeted

by the good expectation

of so many friends

far beyond any power of thought

or communication of thought

residing in me. 

[We sense, but we don’t know. We know, but we don’t know. There is a feeling, and the essential thing is how we serve it, how responsible we are to it, in our everday lives, in our smallest acts. And, importantly, how willing we are to suffer for it, — will we remain loyal when we are most tempted to renounce, on the days and in the hours when we feel its weight the most; in our darkest moments, when it costs us the most, how do we respond to it?]

Besides, I own,

I am often inclined 

to take part with those

who say I am bad or foolish,

for I fear I am both.

[I’ll say in French: tout le monde l’est. Et ce qui importe, c’est de le savoir, et de faire des efforts pour ne pas l’être, ou plutôt de l’être moins, parce qu’on est humain.] [‘Everyone is. And what matters is knowing it, and to make efforts to not be, or rather to be so less, because we’re human.]

I believe and know

there must be 

a perfect compensation. 

[‘Nothing is got for nothing.’]

I know too well 

my own dark spots.

Not having

myself attained,

not satisfied myself,

far from a holy obedience—

how can I expect to satisfy others,

to command their love?

[‘But how can he expect that others should… for who himself will take no heed at all?’]

A few sour faces,

a few biting paragraphs—

is but a cheap expiation

for all these shortcomings of mine.

[To ‘know how to estimate a sour face’, ça vaut la peine. How many I offer up every day, and there’s nothing but a stupid haste or anxiety behind – we’re not so deep (or mean) as that! 

*

Nov. 9, 1838

I find no good lives.

I would live well. 

I seem to be free to do so,

yet I think with very little respect

of my way of living;

it is weak,

partial,

not full

and not progressive.

But I do not see any other

that suits me better. 

The scholars are shiftless

and the merchants are dull.

[As loyal as we are to our best thoughts,

the feelings that stir and move us the most,

the image of our heart,

the hints and nods of the soul,

how we treat ourselves when we’re suffering the most,

how we find our balance again,

our willingness to accept ourselves,

fumbling and grasping as we are,

awkward imperfect near-animals;

how we resist our worst thoughts,

the shallowness and evasions that come and pile on,

suffocate and overwhelm;

how we resist our inherent barbarism,

the meanness that not one of us is free from;

how we get up and go on.] 

The mind tempts, provokes. A whirlwind. Left and right, every direction, it would ensnare you in some trap, some ruse. Little resentments, little offenses, little fears, one after the other, take me! take me!

Concentrated effort is obviously the antidote, a push in a certain direction, be it physical or mental. Sitting in one place, bearing the assault of one’s thoughts, is worse than useless; you’re going to lose. (I’m speaking to myself here.) 

There is the desire in me to do what I want (the entirety) all at once. Naturally this makes things difficult, because impossible. I (like everyone else, I suppose) can only go one step at a time. One page at a time, one shift at a time, one hour at a time, etc. You have to accept these limits. (Otherwise, you’re losing your mind.) 

The mind is irresponsible. It doesn’t know any limits. It is fragile and excessive. It is a circus and a funeral, heaven and hell, redemption and damnation, one merging or reverting into the other, again and again; chaos and the dark. Or, let’s say, it’s just the hint of these things. We fall through life, expecting something.

Life supposes risk. I go to work, I go to my desk, and I don’t know what’s going to happen. In ten minutes I can feel doomed to misery and on the point of bursting with joy. (More often than not, it’s not so extreme, but you know what I mean.) A lot of life happens in our head; a private show. ‘We wake from one dream into another dream’ (Emerson). 

[May everything be forgotten

of what’s behind me,

because behold the sky and the earth.]

[C.F. Ramuz, Aimé Pache peintre vaudois ; quelques traductions encore / some more translations.]

*

C’est vers ce temps qu’il écrivit dans son cahier :

« Je sens bien que je pourrai être encore malheureux,

et que je souffrirai 

et que je ne suis à l’abri de rien

de ce qui nous menace dans la vie :

pourtant tout est changé.

Chaque malheur qui viendra,

il est accepté d’avance ; 

il me trouvera à ma place,

et je le mettrai à sa place,

il ne détruira rien en moi.

Je l’envisagerai

et je lui dirai :

« Je sais d’où tu viens et ce que tu veux ;

voilà, ma porte t’est ouverte. »

Et à chaque joie qui viendra,

je dirai aussi :

« Entre librement. »

Mais moi, 

je resterai le même. 

Parce qu’il y a des certitudes. 

Il me semble que j’ai à moi

deux ou trois grandes certitudes 

auxquelles je suis pour toujours lié,

et c’est pourquoi je me sens fort.

Il y a longtemps sans doute

qu’elles étaient en moi,

ou du moins

elles n’y sont pas venues tout à coup,

mais j’ignorais qu’elles étaient là ;

et il m’a fallu bien de la peine 

pour les découvrir ;

et puis, les ayant découvertes, 

longtemps encore j’en ai douté.

Maintenant je ne doute plus.

Pointet le taupier tend ses trappes ;

moi je peins dans mon village. »

*

[It was near this time that he wrote in his notebook:

“I know well that I could still be unhappier,

and that I will suffer

and that I’m not out of reach of anything

that threatens us in life:

still, everything’s changed.

Every adversity that’ll come

I accept in advance;

it will find me in my place,

and I’ll put it in its place,

it won’t destroy anything in me. 

I’ll look at it

and I’ll tell it:

‘I know where you come from and what you want;

do as you will, my door is open.’

And to every joy that’ll come,

I’ll say too:

‘Enter freely.’

But me,

I’ll stay the same.

Because there are certitudes.

It seems to me that I have

two or three real certitudes

to which I am forever bound,

and that’s why I feel strong.

Probably they’ve been in me for a long time,

or at least

they didn’t come all of a sudden,

but I didn’t know they were there;

and it took me a lot of pain

to find them;

and then, having found them,

still for a long time I doubted.

Now I don’t doubt anymore.

Pointet the mole hunter lays his traps; 

me I paint in my town.]

*

Il y a une résurrection.

Il y a en nous des forces de vie.

Elles nous poussent à mourir souvent,

mais à ressortir de la mort ; 

elles nous font mourir 

pour nous faire mieux vivre. 

*

[There is a resurrection.

There are in us forces of life.

Often they push us to death,

but to come out of death again; 

they do us to death 

to make us live better.]

*

« Il n’y a qu’une espèce d’amour.

Aimer vraiment, 

c’est tout aimer.

Et aime à présent 

même ta douleur,

car l’amour est semblable en tout. »

*

[“There is only one kind of love.

To love truly

is to love everything.

And love now

even your pain,

because love is the same in everything.”]

La réalité, ça n’existe pas !

Ce qui existe, c’est le rêve.

On vit chacun dans son rêve.

Mais tout le monde ne le sait pas. [Brassens]

*

[Reality? It doesn’t exist!

What exists is the dream.

We all live in our dream.

But not everyone knows it.]

*

Ce qui existe vraiment,

c’est ce qu’on a à l’intérieur.

Tout le reste est du vent. [Brassens]

*

[What really exists

is what we have inside of us.

Everything else is wind.]

*

Les choses que l’on invente,

que l’on crée,

que l’on ajoute

sont plus importantes

que les choses réelles. [Brassens]

*

[The things that we invent,

that we create,

that we add

are more important

than the real things.]

*

Je fais tout ce que je peux 

pour raconter des rêves qui, je crois,

correspondent à une préoccupation

d’un certain nombre de gens. 

Vraiment je le crois.

J’essaye de raconter ça,

peut-être naïvement, mais très honnêtement.

C’est une des dernières façons

d’avoir une santé morale. 

Ça ne veut pas du tout dire être naïf d’ailleurs, 

mais c’est faire naïvement les choses,

c’est-à-dire, c’est faire les choses avec son cœur. [Brel]

*

[I do everything I can

to share dreams that, I believe,

correspond to a preoccupation 

of a certain number of people.

Truly I believe it.

I try to share that,

perhaps naïvely, but very honestly.

It’s one of the last ways

to be morally healthy.

I don’t mean at all to say to be naïve,

but to do things naïvely, 

that is, to do things with your heart.]