Total Eclipse Page #2

- Do you have anything in common?

- No.

- Is she intelligent?

- No.

Does she understand you?

No.

Then the only thing

she can give you is sex.

Hi!

Hey!

Did you find him?

I did.

And did he give you back

Daddy's crucifix?

If your father's capable

of throwing that boy out...

he's got no right having Christ

hanging all over his walls.

You people don't understand

what poverty is.

In Charleville,

if he wanted a book...

he had to steal it.

That proves

what kind of person he is.

I'm sorry.

You shouldn't have said that.

I'm sorry.

- What's going on?

- Nothing.

Are you all right, my dear?

Yes, I'm all right.

It was last summer

during the war...

one of the many times

I ran away from home.

I came down to the river

to fill my water bottle...

and there was a Prussian soldier

not much older than me...

asleep in the clearing.

I watched him for a long time

before I realized...

he wasn't asleep.

He was dead.

And somehow that

clarified things for me.

I understood

that what I needed...

to become the first poet

of this century...

was to experience

everything in my body.

It was no longer enough

for me to be one person.

I decided to be everyone.

I decided to be a genius.

I decided

to originate the future.

Thank you.

The principle

is very like photography...

only instead of

photographing a man's face...

you photograph his voice.

Then twenty years later...

just as you'd open

a photograph album...

you put the relevant cylinder

into the paleophone...

and you listen to

a poet reading his poems...

or singing his songs.

And you think

you could invent...

a machine like that

which worked?

For Christ's sake,

let's get the f*** out of here.

- We can't.

- Why not?

- He's about to read.

- Which one?

Aicard. Over there.

I don't think

I'll like him very much.

Verlaine showed me

some of your poems.

Yes?

Remarkable. Very promising.

Only, it seems all

that ingenuity is marred by...

Well, not exactly

a juvenile urge to shock...

but something of the sort.

- And were you shocked?

- No, I wasn't.

Then why would you suppose

I intended you to be?

That's not really the point.

Seems fair enough to me.

I could object

to your technical approach.

I could object to your tie.

He doesn't like

discussing his poetry.

I see.

A surprise for our friend.

Thank you.

Thank you, gentlemen.

Sulfuric acid.

I would ask you

to bear this in mind...

although, as with all

worthwhile work for children...

it's hoped what is said

is of relevance to adults.

The poem is called

"Green Absinthe."

Green absinthe is the potion

of the damned...

a deadly poison

silting up the veins...

while wife and child

sit weeping in their slum...

I don't believe it.

...pours absinthe

into his brains.

Sh*t.

O drunkard,

most contemptible of men...

- Sh*t!

- Be quiet.

It's authentic sh*t!

Please!

...degraded, fallen,

sinful, and obtuse...

I like it!

...to beat

your wife and child...

For trying to deprive you

of the juice!

- Get out!

- Me?

Yes, you offensive

little bastard. Get out.

I think I may be permitted

to raise some objection...

against the butchering

of French poetry.

No, you may not.

Apologize and get out!

Don't come near.

Be careful!

You think you can frighten me

with that thing.

Careful! Careful, I say!

Get out!

Come on.

Now you, you f***ing...

Come here!

Come here!

In the days of Francois I...

wise and benevolent giants

roamed the countryside...

and one of

their primary functions...

was to rid the world

of pedants...

fools... and writers

of no talent...

by pissing on them

from a great height.

How to make your way

in the literary world.

The depressing thing

about this city...

is that the artists

are even more bourgeois...

than the f***ing bourgeoisie.

We should make a bargain.

You help me, and I'll help you.

If we go away together...

I'm sure you'll be able

to do good work again.

And when we've taken as much

as we can from each other...

we simply split up and move on.

And how would we live?

You have some money,

don't you?

I understand.

I help you by supporting you...

and you help me by renewing

my rusty old inspiration.

Is that it?

Not altogether.

Where have you been?

I thought I'd probably

just get in the way.

Don't shout.

You'll wake the baby.

Is it a boy?

Yes.

Funny-looking little bugger.

Don't.

All right.

All right.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Please.

Why not?

The baby was born.

- Isabelle!

- I didn't know you were coming.

Where is the mouth of darkness?

Mother? She's in

the fields with Vitalie.

- Do you want to see her?

- No.

Thanks.

Are you back for good?

For good I don't know.

For better or worse.

There's work to be done

in the fields.

There's work to be done here.

I thought you were

getting on well in Paris.

Verlaine's wife

started to make trouble.

What kind of trouble?

Threatening a divorce.

She thought we were spending

too much time together.

Spoiled rich girl, I suppose.

That's right.

This work you're doing...

is it the kind of thing

that will lead to anything?

I don't know.

Nevertheless,

it's the kind of work I do.

I don't suppose Paris

ever gets as exciting as this.

You look like a f***ing saint.

Except you haven't

got your halo.

I'll give you your halo.

He's back, isn't he?

I can't leave

Mathilde at the moment.

She's not very well.

I'm not surprised if you keep

setting fire to her.

I haven't set fire

to her since Thursday.

No, it's not very funny.

It's pathetic.

Your acts of violence

are always curiously disgusting.

What do you mean?

They're not clean.

You're always in

some sort of a drunken stupor.

Then you start

apologizing and groveling.

I don't like hurting people.

Then don't.

But if you do, do it coolly.

Don't insult your victims

by feeling sorry afterwards.

I love her, you see.

You can't possibly.

I love her body.

There are other bodies.

I love Mathilde's body.

But not her soul?

I think it's less important

to love the soul.

After all,

the soul may be immortal.

We have plenty

of time for the soul...

but flesh rots.

It's my love of flesh

which keeps me faithful.

Faithful.

What do you mean?

I'm faithful to all my lovers...

because once I love them...

I will always love them...

and when I'm alone

in the evening...

or in the early morning...

I close my eyes...

and I celebrate them all.

That's not faithfulness.

That's nostalgia.

If you don't want

to leave Mathilde...

it's not

because you're faithful.

It's because you're weak.

If strength involves brutality,

I prefer to be weak.

With you, weakness involves

brutality as well.

Don't expect me

to be faithful to you.

Why are you so harsh with me?

Because you need it.

Isn't it enough

for you to know...

that I love you more

than I've ever loved anyone...

and that I will always love you?

Shut up, you sniveling drunk.

- Tell me that you love me.

- For God's sake!

Please.

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