Paul ÉLUARD is working on the verses for his collection “Uninterrupted Poetry”.

Paul ÉLUARD (1895.1952)

Autograph manuscript.

Two quarto sheets numbered 13 and 16 in the corner.

Slnd [1946]

 

Moving proofs of the poet's work, enriching, in blue ink, the verses of his collection Uninterrupted Poetry published in 1946. Éluard dedicated " these pages to those who will misread them and to those who will not like them. "

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The bed, a symbol of defeat

Faded light, empty glass

The word mirror where beauty begs for its bread

Beautiful nightingale in the night

Opens the wounds of insomnia 

May the forest be your lint 

The word carries a cry of agony

Rotten calculation of the escape

The wave from which there is no escape

A man's blood spills
in less than an hour, forever

A man's blood is horrifying

A man's blood says no

To any question when he dies

The word springboard sprang from the viper's loins 

Monstrous statue of indifference

Bell clapper torn off 

Panorama, everything boils down to the smallest detail 

The word facade twilight

Paving in the established order 

Trembling eaglet, son of vertigo 

And the roofs are covered in snow

Or couch grass, like graves 

The happy hands have betrayed

They didn't find anything good

Neither in nature nor in man

Ten fingers are not enough to understand

Impervious stone, massive well

Where the skeleton drinks its shadow 

Immobile centipede spike 

Lips the sails of a windmill

Which runs counter to desires 

Favor chains around the legs 

The word pollen like a spit

Like a palace thrown to the ground 

Thunderstorm, broken clock 

Hard beads drying on the vine

The monetizable fire of virtues

All eyes in their filthy rust

 

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An arrow blossoms

From the arc of the bed of fatigue

Against death, the old story

Whose glory has faded 

The claw fastens the fragile gold

From the clear mirage of its prey 

The vine embraces the crowd

The ear of corn fertilizes the lightning 

Honey makes a cluster of needles curl

Who stitch together the sweetness of life 

The dead pearl splits

In a thousand pearls of fertile fire

The pearl speaks through the brilliance of its candor.
When will I have nothing left but to melt into my own?

Minute lights, island lights

During a stationary journey

On a great journey where no one is alone

Where no one is afraid of their neighbor

Roads I am at the pace of the best men

Routes I'm going further than I expected

I have always needed just one person to live

To exalt others

Pierre, I am not made of wood

My flesh is boiling and vibrant

Our hands are led to dance

By the wing and the song of the birds 

The table regulates the writing

The final point, the right note

The table regulates the harvest

Like our lips, pleasure

The tide rises like the tree

Like our eyes that spread out

 Sailing takes a giant leap forward

Then it inflates to withstand all winds

A sail goes out, returns, reaches the open sea

It diminishes in my sight and grows at the stopover

The man sails and flies, he unravels the distance

He evades his weight, he escapes the earth

I can live within four walls

Without forgetting anything from the outside

Chamber of ancient times, kernel of a giant fruit

I open the door, and out come the madmen and the wise

Each one more beautiful than the last

Each one getting ahead of the morning