Bobin: l'homme-joie

The second Bobin book that interested me while in France had the interesting title of "l'homme joie" or the "joyful man." Very similar in style with "La Bruit de balancoire," with its simplistic cover and handwritten sections (as well as an entire chapter printed on blue paper), I was looking forward to a similar experience I has with the first book. Instead of letters, this book focuses on short stories surrounding particular themes and metaphors, as Bobin tends to do, and the theme of this book seems to be the color blue (along with eternity).

I revised the first excerpt quite a few times, never quite satisfied enough with the wording. The one thing I've noticed about translating is that it never seems good enough no matter how many times I tweak the words and revisit the source. There will always be a little something lacking; although, there is often sometimes something gained, as well. I exercised my creativity to give the color "blue" several names within this segment instead of just one. Whether that adds to or masks the original meaning of the color has yet to be made aware to me. Either way, this is my first encounter with the magnificent color I adore so much as painted in the pages of this book.

(This is also the book where sometimes thing don't make sense. There are a lot of fragmented sentences and vague pronouns like "it" which could refer to pretty much anything. I tried my best, but if you get confused on something, please let me know, as it is integral to this. But I'm pretty sure Bobin is utilizing steam of consciousness style purposefully sometimes, so maybe it's not supposed to make perfect sense?)

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To write is to draw a door upon an insurmountable wall and to follow the opening.

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Let us escape from all this blue, if you don’t mind, eloping instead with the fresh mornings of April. Blue had the sweetness of velvet and the sparkle of a single tear. I would love to write you a letter where there is nothing but this breathless azure. Such a note would be similar to an envelope folded in fours like a diamond one would find in Anvers or Rotterdam. Scintillating paper, white like a wedding dress with its angelic interior, crystal like pure grains of salt. Resembling the fortune of Petit Poucet: millions of diamonds like the tears of the reborn.

Let us reflect a moment, dreaming we are smoke that scales the atmosphere, obscuring the cerulean of the sky. I didn’t do anything today, and I didn’t think at all. The sky came to eat out of my hand like a bird. Now it’s evening, but I can’t let this day spin away like an errant thread without gifting you its beauty. You must see this world. You must see it through my eyes. It’s not just a battlefield filled with silhouettes of soldiers, the clashing of swords ringing out before our souls. Truly, none of that is of any importance.

I passed before a pool, filled with scintillating beads of water; this, yes, was important. We massacre all the passivity in life, but it returns in full abundance. War is hardly an enigma, but the bird that faded into the wooded fog, flying through cracked trees, dazzled and eluded me. I’m trying to tell you such a small thing, but I fear I will injure it by speaking it into life. There are butterflies that cannot blossom their wings without cracking them like glass. This bird fled through the trees like a gliding palace servant, without presence, gilded in a poem.

Eternity is impossible to grasp. It is a life that never ends. It flutters about us like that bird around the pillars of our heart. We are barely at the zenith of our lives, but this doesn’t concern eternity; it doesn’t cease for a second to count its blessings, despite the little assassins that we are.

The pool blossoms as the sky beautifies itself in the water’s crystal reflection. The bird with prophetic wings emblazons the forest like a phoenix, and, for a moment, I succeed at being alive. I realize you might think I’m crazy for writing this to you—but please don’t think so. It isn’t true that our desires are foolish. I just wanted to tell you what one calls a “good day” or a “blue sky.” These expressions are a mysterious design. A slice of light whose fresh blade opens our heart. We are buried underneath billions of stars, and sometimes we perceive this towering infinity—oh just for a second— as it agitates our heads. This is what we call a “good time.”

I imagine someone who has entered Heaven without being aware he is in paradise. He has worries, duties; he is constantly busy. The rings of the smithy forging swords accompany him, though war means nothing now. And suddenly, a gentle light like a snowflake or a bird with wings of gold crashes through the banality of our world. It’s something unhoped for. It takes only a few seconds to live eternally.

“We feel, and thus, we prove that we are eternal creatures.” This thought of Spinoza’s grants the heart the nostalgic comfort of a child resting during a car ride. You and I have a Sun King residing within us. And at certain times, this king descends from his crimson throne to dance in the streets. This is what is called joy.

I don’t like books whose pages are soaked in sky blue; this color gives the sense of death. If my sentences smile like the sun, it is because they escaped the darkness. I live my life in a constant struggle with melancholy. My smile cost me a fortune. Sky blue is a treasure that fell from your pocket, and I’m here to return it to you rightfully. This majestic azure bequeaths the definitive end of despair, making tears rise to your eyes. Do you understand?

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