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Capital del dolor
Rare book
247 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1926
About the author
Paul Éluard
305 books304 followersPaul Éluard was the pen name of Eugène Émile Paul Grindel. French poet, a founder of Surrealism with Louis Aragon and André Breton among others, one of the important lyrical poets of the 20th century. Éluard rejected later Surrealism and joined the French Communist Party. Many of his works reflect the major events of the century, such as the World Wars, the Resistance against the Nazis, and the political and social ideals of the 20th-century.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 123 reviews
March 12, 2024
Poet of the first half of the 20th century, Dadaist, then surrealist, is particularly close to Aragon and Breton.
He opens the voice to artists' commitment: he defends an active artistic practice to make social change in "the right direction" towards his desired goal.
He navigates around the communist party, ending up excluded from it.
The Capital of Pain is his first published collection. He expresses both his ill-being and love, sometimes crazy, sometimes jaded. Yet, these texts are optimistic; he seeks happiness beyond the lassitude surrounding him. He will at least see it if he only finds it temporarily in a woman's arms, a painting, or among friends. I like these almost joyful flashes entangled in much darker texts.
He undoubtedly knew that Gala was moving away from him. Their story will end when she settles down with Dali. But for the moment, a naked bond still navigates between them. He dissects this link in "love, poetry" before giving up.
I adore his world vision even more than this doomed love: he paints a dark portrait but hopes he can change it. I read Confidence in Humanity, which will always surprise me.
He opens the voice to artists' commitment: he defends an active artistic practice to make social change in "the right direction" towards his desired goal.
He navigates around the communist party, ending up excluded from it.
The Capital of Pain is his first published collection. He expresses both his ill-being and love, sometimes crazy, sometimes jaded. Yet, these texts are optimistic; he seeks happiness beyond the lassitude surrounding him. He will at least see it if he only finds it temporarily in a woman's arms, a painting, or among friends. I like these almost joyful flashes entangled in much darker texts.
He undoubtedly knew that Gala was moving away from him. Their story will end when she settles down with Dali. But for the moment, a naked bond still navigates between them. He dissects this link in "love, poetry" before giving up.
I adore his world vision even more than this doomed love: he paints a dark portrait but hopes he can change it. I read Confidence in Humanity, which will always surprise me.
May 25, 2022
Your mouth with lips of gold is not for laughs
And the meaning of your haloed words is so perfect
That in my nights of years, and youth and death
In all the sounds of the world I hear your voice.
In this silken dawn where the cold lingers
Imperiled lust wants to go back to sleep,
In the hands of the sun all the bodies walking
Shiver at the idea of finding their hearts again.
Memories of green wood, fog into which I plunge
I've closed my eyes on myself, I am yours.
My whole life listens to you and I cannot refuse
The terrible leisure your love creates for me.
This and Éluard's 'Last Love Poems' are two stunning works, and he is by far and away my fave French poet of all time. Anyone into the Surrealist movement simply has to read this. He makes the likes of Andre Breton seem average in my opinion. His writings have changed many lives, mine included. He Opened the door for me to explore many other poets.
May 2, 2021
- Graff in Le Port du Légué, Saint-Brieuc, France
-----
'Nous vivons dans l'oubli de nos métamorphoses
Le jour est paresseux mais la nuit est active
Un bol d'air à midi la nuit le filtre et l'use
La nuit ne laisse pas de poussière sur nous
Mais cet écho qui roule tout le long du jour
Cet écho hors du temps d'angoisse ou de caresses
Cet enchaînement brut des mondes insipides
Et des mondes sensibles son soleil est double
Sommes-nous près ou loin de notre conscience
Où sont nos bornes nos racines notre but
Le long plaisir pourtant de nos métamorphoses
Squelettes s'animant dans les murs pourrissants
Les rendez-vous donnés aux formes insensées
A la chair ingénieuse aux aveugles voyants
Les rendez-vous donnés par la face au profil
Par la souffrance à la santé par la lumière
A la forêt par la montagne à la vallée
Par la mine à la fleur par la perle au soleil
Nous sommes corps à corps nous sommes terre à terre
Nous naissons de partout nous sommes sans limites'
Notre mouvement - Paul Éluard
------
Tes yeux sont revenus d’un pays arbitraire
Où nul n’a jamais su ce que c’est qu’un regard
Ni connu la beauté des yeux, beauté des pierres,
Celle des gouttes d’eau, des perles en placards,
Des pierres nues et sans squelette, ô ma statue.
Le soleil aveuglant te tient lieu de miroir
Et s’il semble obéir aux puissance du soir
C’est que ta tête est close, ô statue abattue
Par mon amour et par mes ruses de sauvage.
Mon désir immobile est ton dernier soutien
Et je t’emporte sans bataille, ô mon image,
Rompue à ma faiblesse et prise dans mes liens
L’Égalité des sexes - Paul Éluard
-----
(...)
Je chante la grande joie de te chanter,
La grande joie de t’avoir ou de ne pas t’avoir,
La candeur de t’attendre, l’innocence de te connaitre,
Ô toi qui supprimes l’oubli, l’espoir et l’ignorance,
Qui supprimes l’absence et qui me mets au monde,
Je chante pour chanter, je t’aime pour chanter
Le mystère où l’amour me crée et se délivre.
(...)
Celle de toujours, toute - Paul Éluard
-----
Ta voix, tes yeux, tes mains, tes lèvres,
Nos silences, nos paroles,
La lumière qui s’en va, la lumière qui revient,
Un seul sourire pour nous deux,
Par besoin de savoir, j’ai vu la nuit créer le jour sans que nous changions d’apparence,
Ô bien-aimé de tous et bien-aimé d’un seul,
En silence ta bouche a promis d’être heureuse,
De loin en loin, ni la haine,
De proche en proche, ni l’amour,
Par la caresse nous sortons de notre enfance,
Je vois de mieux en mieux la forme humaine,
Comme un dialogue amoureux, le cœur ne fait qu’une seule bouche
Toutes les choses au hasard, tous les mots dits sans y penser,
Les sentiments à la dérive, les hommes tournent dans la ville,
Le regard, la parole et le fait que je t’aime,
Tout est en mouvement, il suffit d’avancer pour vivre,
D’aller droit devant soi vers tout ce que l’on aime,
J’allais vers toi, j’allais sans fin vers la lumière,
Si tu souris, c’est pour mieux m’envahir,
Les rayons de tes bras entrouvraient le brouillard.'
Ta voix, tes yeux, tes mains, tes lèvres - Paul Éluard
October 23, 2017
Etchings by John Thein.
(not the cover; that's Picasso)
And also some color plates, maybe by other artists.
A solid but rarely amazing or moving collection of short poems.
Eluard is pretty old-school regarding women, which some readers may find tiresome.
(not the cover; that's Picasso)
And also some color plates, maybe by other artists.
A solid but rarely amazing or moving collection of short poems.
Eluard is pretty old-school regarding women, which some readers may find tiresome.
December 11, 2023
She had on her shoulders
A spot of silence a spot of rose
A lid on her breast
Her hands and supple singing arches
shattered the light
Call me Astonished. Such exquisite, translated poetry caught me unprepared, half-asleep, depleted from the culling. After the opening flurry, I expected a levelling, an eventual tide to restore the Mean, yet the verse continued to burn. The sections dedicated to Breton and Ernst were incandescent. I mused, how is it possible?
I beg apologies for my tardy awareness but plead for acceptance into the fold.
A spot of silence a spot of rose
A lid on her breast
Her hands and supple singing arches
shattered the light
Call me Astonished. Such exquisite, translated poetry caught me unprepared, half-asleep, depleted from the culling. After the opening flurry, I expected a levelling, an eventual tide to restore the Mean, yet the verse continued to burn. The sections dedicated to Breton and Ernst were incandescent. I mused, how is it possible?
I beg apologies for my tardy awareness but plead for acceptance into the fold.
December 28, 2018
Éluard's work is possibly the best introduction to Surrealism, even though it lacks the ideological commitment of Breton's and the daring experimental tendencies of Louis Aragon's.
Éluard represents the sunny side of Surrealism, a most intimate dimension of the soul, in which poetry still focuses on feelings and impressions rather than exploiting the intellectual conceptualization of them. There is more expression than analysis of the self in Éluard's writing and imagery indeed.
This collection of poems is centred on the melancholic celebration of Gala, Éluard's wife, who betrayed him and married the Spanish artist Salvador DalÍ.
This charming, dangerously unrealible woman becomes the personification of Desire, both physical and sentimental, fulfilled and frustrated. In fact the poet is perfectly aware of her adulterous affairs, and this knowledge sharpens his feelings to the utmost: in his eyes, Gala's naked body turns into a living monument to passion and beauty, almost melting with the warm atmosphere of sunset or the soft light of dawn ("L'unique"). No hatred, no regret. Her elusiveness is the spell under which he keeps falling:
'My whole life listens to you and I cannot destroy
The terrible pleasures your love creates for me.'
("Nouveaux Poèmes", New poems)
He's perfectly aware that one day she will leave him. And yet, a sweet melancholy - even stronger than pain - makes him look ahead with tenderness and hope:
'If we were to start again, I would meet you without looking for you.'
("Au cœur de mon amour", At the core of my love).
Gala awakens in him opposite bursts of joy and sorrow. She masters his body as well as his soul: 'Am I anything else than your strenght?' the poet asks in "Ta foi", Your faith. The thing is that Gala is not a woman anymore: she has become the Feminine whose power goes far beyond a merely erotic attraction. The poet feels her tantalising power as a sweet burden he cannot rid himself of, lest he loses part of his own enchanted self; so that Gala is finally identified with the truest source of his poetry:
'The shape of your heart is chimerical
And your love resembles my lost desire
Oh whispers of amber, dreams, glances.'
("Nouveaux poèmes")
These short poems are delicate glimpses, dreamy psychological landscapes, photographs of intimate moments of joy and meditation. A deserted beach in the warm light of a summer sunset, a bedroom in the cool glow of a winter starry night: Gala, bathing in the sea or lying naked in bed, is the core of all poetic contemplation, the world in which the poet lives and the source of his inner light.
***
To be read sitting on a beach at dawn, listening to the surf and watching the gulls fly over the sea; or lying in bed, looking at your lover's closed eyes in the first light of the day.
Éluard represents the sunny side of Surrealism, a most intimate dimension of the soul, in which poetry still focuses on feelings and impressions rather than exploiting the intellectual conceptualization of them. There is more expression than analysis of the self in Éluard's writing and imagery indeed.
This collection of poems is centred on the melancholic celebration of Gala, Éluard's wife, who betrayed him and married the Spanish artist Salvador DalÍ.
This charming, dangerously unrealible woman becomes the personification of Desire, both physical and sentimental, fulfilled and frustrated. In fact the poet is perfectly aware of her adulterous affairs, and this knowledge sharpens his feelings to the utmost: in his eyes, Gala's naked body turns into a living monument to passion and beauty, almost melting with the warm atmosphere of sunset or the soft light of dawn ("L'unique"). No hatred, no regret. Her elusiveness is the spell under which he keeps falling:
'My whole life listens to you and I cannot destroy
The terrible pleasures your love creates for me.'
("Nouveaux Poèmes", New poems)
He's perfectly aware that one day she will leave him. And yet, a sweet melancholy - even stronger than pain - makes him look ahead with tenderness and hope:
'If we were to start again, I would meet you without looking for you.'
("Au cœur de mon amour", At the core of my love).
Gala awakens in him opposite bursts of joy and sorrow. She masters his body as well as his soul: 'Am I anything else than your strenght?' the poet asks in "Ta foi", Your faith. The thing is that Gala is not a woman anymore: she has become the Feminine whose power goes far beyond a merely erotic attraction. The poet feels her tantalising power as a sweet burden he cannot rid himself of, lest he loses part of his own enchanted self; so that Gala is finally identified with the truest source of his poetry:
'The shape of your heart is chimerical
And your love resembles my lost desire
Oh whispers of amber, dreams, glances.'
("Nouveaux poèmes")
These short poems are delicate glimpses, dreamy psychological landscapes, photographs of intimate moments of joy and meditation. A deserted beach in the warm light of a summer sunset, a bedroom in the cool glow of a winter starry night: Gala, bathing in the sea or lying naked in bed, is the core of all poetic contemplation, the world in which the poet lives and the source of his inner light.
***
To be read sitting on a beach at dawn, listening to the surf and watching the gulls fly over the sea; or lying in bed, looking at your lover's closed eyes in the first light of the day.
December 30, 2017
To sleep, with the moon in one eye
and the sun in the other,
Love in your mouth,
a lovely bird in your hair,
Adorned like the fields,
the woods, the routes, the sea,
around the whole world so lovely and adorned.
Flee across the landscape
Through branches of smoke and all the fruits of the wind,
Stone legs with sand stockings,
Held by the waist, all the river's muscles,
And the last concern on a face transformed.
and the sun in the other,
Love in your mouth,
a lovely bird in your hair,
Adorned like the fields,
the woods, the routes, the sea,
around the whole world so lovely and adorned.
Flee across the landscape
Through branches of smoke and all the fruits of the wind,
Stone legs with sand stockings,
Held by the waist, all the river's muscles,
And the last concern on a face transformed.
June 14, 2013
Oh, man-- a beautiful read. I became curiouse of Eluard because of Godard's Alphaville, in which lines were frequently quoted.
June 12, 2022
Free download available at Project Gutenberg
I made the proofing of this book for Free Literature and Project Gutenberg will publish it.
TABLE DE MATIÈRES
RÉPÉTITIONS
MAX ERNST
SUITE
L'INVENTION
PLUS PRÈS DE NOUS
PORTE OUVERTE
SUITE
LA PAROLE
LA RIVIÈRE
L'OMBRE AUX SOUPIRS
NUL
POÈMES
LIMITE
LES MOUTONS
L'UNIQUE
I made the proofing of this book for Free Literature and Project Gutenberg will publish it.
TABLE DE MATIÈRES
RÉPÉTITIONS
MAX ERNST
SUITE
L'INVENTION
PLUS PRÈS DE NOUS
PORTE OUVERTE
SUITE
LA PAROLE
LA RIVIÈRE
L'OMBRE AUX SOUPIRS
NUL
POÈMES
LIMITE
LES MOUTONS
L'UNIQUE
April 8, 2013
Un sonnet surréaliste, est-ce possible ? Oui, répond Éluard. Intraitable sur la création d'images neuves, surprenantes, irrationnelles, telles que les aimait le jeune surréalisme des années 20, à la recherche de l'expression directe de l'inconscient, il ne s'en montre pas moins, dès "Capitale de la douleur" ou "L'Amour la poésie" (qui fait la deuxième partie du recueil), un maître du vers français, fût-il libre. Ses allitérations vous font des frissons dans le cou. Un maître, c'est un maître, même à trente ans, même engagé dans un étrange combat contre une littérature qu'il croit morte et qu'il revivifie.
May 2, 2015
Beautiful insight into a broken man's thought, a stellar path onto which he embarks on the journey to healing his wounds. I love Eluard's poetry, no matter how ambiguous, which surprised me since I'm not usually one to take a fancy in Surrealism... I've been proved wrong. One of the best school reads I've completed, and now a favourite of mine!
August 14, 2021
Certains poèmes résonnent en moi forcément plus que d’autres mais dans l’ensemble j’ai beaucoup aimé ce recueil à mi chemin entre la poésie contemporaine qui se moque des codes et de la poésie classique qui ne s’en détache pas.
May 15, 2023
Franse avant-gardistische poëzie is niet helemaal mijn ding...
May 23, 2022
i shall run back to this collection every couple of days to drown in éluard's verse once again.
p.s.: je suis une victime.
༄⋆
l'as de trèfle
elle joue comme nul ne joue et je suis seul à la regarder. ce sont ses yeux qui la ramènent dans mes songes. presque immobile, à l’aventure.
et cet autre qu’elle prend par les ailes de ses oreilles a gardé la forme de ses auréoles. dans l'accolade de ses mains, une hirondelle aux cheveux plats se débat sans espoir. elle est aveugle.
p.s.: je suis une victime.
༄⋆
l'as de trèfle
elle joue comme nul ne joue et je suis seul à la regarder. ce sont ses yeux qui la ramènent dans mes songes. presque immobile, à l’aventure.
et cet autre qu’elle prend par les ailes de ses oreilles a gardé la forme de ses auréoles. dans l'accolade de ses mains, une hirondelle aux cheveux plats se débat sans espoir. elle est aveugle.
August 19, 2023
leer a éluard me devuelve la fe en la poesía y en las palabras. artefactos verbales hermosos por todos lados, una forma orgánica que no cesa de transformarse, una repetición melódica, imágenes abigarradas y dispares pero siempre encantadoras. leerlo hace difícil creerle cuando habla de la tristeza, de la soledad.
March 6, 2023
Un titre assez explicite, de la poésie qui fait effet
January 29, 2024
regardez-moi devenir une éluard girl 🎀
August 2, 2023
capitale de la douleur plutot je vais te poignarder et tu vas souffrir de ma torture verbale ( en gros
June 5, 2019
J'ai souffert de ne pas tout comprendre mais j'ai fini par accepter de me laisser emporter par les sensations, les images et les sons et j'ai vécu des moments étrangement agréables, tendres, sensuels, amusants, des instants de contemplations paisibles devant la nuit, le jour, les astres, les amours, le ciel, les oiseaux, la beauté des corps et des esprits. C'est étonnant comme des mots alignés ensemble si absurdement sont capables de générer en nous des images si oniriques, des sensations de liberté et d'espoir.
April 27, 2023
J'aurais voulu aimer ce recueil mais j'ai pas du tout accroché. Les poèmes sont courts mais j'avais l'impression de lire du charabia, ça ne m'a pas touché.
Pendant une centaine de page c'est tenable mais après on a l'impression de tourner en rond.
Il y a quand même quelques poèmes et phrases qui sont sympa.
Pendant une centaine de page c'est tenable mais après on a l'impression de tourner en rond.
Il y a quand même quelques poèmes et phrases qui sont sympa.
March 25, 2021
“elle se refuse toujours à comprendre, à entendre,
elle rit pour cacher sa terreur d’elle-même.
elle a toujours marché sous les arches des nuits
et partout où elle a passé
elle a laissé
l’empreinte des choses brisées.”
elle rit pour cacher sa terreur d’elle-même.
elle a toujours marché sous les arches des nuits
et partout où elle a passé
elle a laissé
l’empreinte des choses brisées.”
August 21, 2010
I need guidance for this kind of poetry. Most of it goes right over my head. Some gorgeous lines like 'elle chantait les minutes sans s'endormir' but ...
April 18, 2016
Quel que puisse être mon amour pour Éluard (pour TOUT Éluard, chaque ligne, chaque mot), celui-ci reste mon préféré.
November 15, 2018
very good!
March 12, 2024
No soy mucho de poesía, y considero que, dentro de esta, el surrealismo quizás no es mi estilo, pero Capital del dolor ha sabido mostrarme de muy buena manera una vertiente algo diferente de este género. Descubrí este libro a raíz de que hace un par de días me vi Alphaville, de Godard, donde el protagonista llevaba consigo una copia de este, la peli me gustó bastante y ayer me dio por pillarme el libro. Me llegó este mediodía, al llegar a casa comencé a leerlo y no he parado hasta terminar ahora. A pesar de que en ciertas partes me haya parecido brutal, sigo pensando que quizás me falta algo más de teoría para comprender ciertos aspectos. A pesar de esto, y teniendo en cuenta que no he leído demasiado sobre poesía, me ha gustado muchísimo, hay un puñado de poemas que me han parecido bestiales y que sin duda guardaré con mucho cariño.
April 25, 2024
je suis vraiment pas fan de poésie mais j'ai quand même apprécié, particulièrement le second recueil de poèmes du livre, L'amour la poésie, dédié à Gala.
j'ai surtout aimé la première partie de ce second recueil, c'était beau, c'était charnel (j'ai dû m'empêcher de corner toutes les pages). la suite m'a semblée plus sombre, je me demande s'il l'a écrite après que Gala l'ait quitté pour Salvador Dalí? si ça s'avère être vrai, j'y vois une certaine colère/tristesse, alors que la dernière partie montre à mes yeux une sorte de résignation.
j'ai surtout aimé la première partie de ce second recueil, c'était beau, c'était charnel (j'ai dû m'empêcher de corner toutes les pages). la suite m'a semblée plus sombre, je me demande s'il l'a écrite après que Gala l'ait quitté pour Salvador Dalí? si ça s'avère être vrai, j'y vois une certaine colère/tristesse, alors que la dernière partie montre à mes yeux une sorte de résignation.
Shelved as 'might-read'
April 7, 2020"She is always unwilling to understand, to listen,
She laughs to hide her fear of herself.
She has always walked beneath the arches of nights
And wherever she went
She left
The mark of broken things."
She laughs to hide her fear of herself.
She has always walked beneath the arches of nights
And wherever she went
She left
The mark of broken things."
April 20, 2023
« il avait perdu l’illusion du soleil »
September 3, 2023
Je dois mettre quatre parce qu'autant il y a les plus beaux poèmes que j'ai jamais lus de ma vie autant y a vraiment juste du charabia incompréhensible. Bref, lisez et aimez Eluard quand même.
April 14, 2024
2,5 pas compris
Displaying 1 - 30 of 123 reviews