Self-Portrait

    Translated by Clare Cavanagh

    Between the computer， a pencil， and a typewriter

    half my day passes. One day it will be half a century.

    I live in strange cities and sometimes talk

    with strangers about matters strange to me.

    I listen to music a lot： Bach， Mahler， Chopin， Shostakovich.

    I see three elements in music： weakness， power， and pain.

    The fourth has no name.

    I read poets， living and dead， who teach me

    tenacity¹， faith， and pride. I try to understand

    the great philosophers——but usually catch just

    scraps² of their precious thoughts.

    I like to take long walks on Paris streets

    and watch my fellow creatures， quickened by envy，

    anger， desire； to trace a silver coin

    passing from hand to hand as it slowly

    loses its round shape （the emperor's profile is erased³）。

    Beside me trees expressing nothing

    but a green， indifferent perfection.

    Black birds pace the fields，

    waiting patiently like Spanish widows.

    I'm no longer young， but someone else is always older.

    I like deep sleep， when I cease to exist，

    and fast bike rides on country roads when poplars and houses

    dissolve like cumuli on sunny days.

    Sometimes in museums the paintings speak to me

    and irony⁴ suddenly vanishes.

    I love gazing at my wife's face.

    Every Sunday I call my father.

    Every other week I meet with friends，

    thus proving my fidelity⁵.

    My country freed itself from one evil. I wish

    another liberation would follow.

    Could I help in this？ I don't know.

    I'm truly not a child of the ocean，

    as Antonio Machado wrote about himself，

    but a child of air， mint and cello⁶

    and not all the ways of the high world

    cross paths with the life that——so far——

    belongs to me.