Freakish coincidence. The Swiss poet Philippe Jaccottet's poems are normally too dark and vague for me, but I thought earlier today that they'd go well with Schubert's last sonata, so stuck on Uchida's recording while reading from my collection of Jaccottet's work. I reflected that an analysis of the poems might well make a fine tribute to what really should not have become one of Schubert's last gifts to us, and resolved to post one next time Schubert's birthday/death anniversary came up. Was rather shaken to find out on Reddit that today is Schubert's death anniversary. So, as promised.
Out of all the French poetry I have read, Jaccottet's stands out for the beautiful harmony between its subject matter and the natural contours of the French language. French lends itself very well to the hushed, gently shimmering kind of poetry that Jaccottet writes, Take slow, rich lines such as:
.....Vous entendez les voix sous les tilleuls :
la voix humaine brille comme au-dessus de la terre
(from Lettre du vingt-six juin)
Briller is one of my favourite onomatopoeic words in the French language, and, evidently, Jaccottet's, too- take this, one of my favourite verses of his, from L'inattendu:
Que reste-t-il ainsi qui brille d'un hiver? A la plus petite heure du matin je sors,
la neige emplit l'espace jusqu'aux plus fins bords,
l'herbe s'incline devant ce muet salut,
là se révèle ce que nul n'espérait plus.
That verse starts out, fittingly, lyrically frail; it swells, just as appropriately, like piling snow, to richer, fuller sounds in the second and third lines, before the pliant submission of the penultimate (notice the pleasing long i in s'incline), and the silent miracle of the last. The manipulation of the language's sounds is beautifully judged.
This poetry- wintry, luminous yet dark, wondering at our gifts yet forever brooding on transience, and often speaking of mysterious singing voices- always reminds me of late Schubert. I'll leave you with an extract from La Voix, a poem I often read when listening to the D960. The quiet imperative of this poem, its call for us to salute a peace beyond our reach, has always touched me. I personally do not read in the last sonata any sense of defeat, but nor is it victorious- I only hear, as Jaccottet does, the attainment of a graceful equilibrium, a stillness accepting of any dread evoked by that famous bass trill.
From La Voix, by Philippe Jaccottet:
Mais faisons seulement silence.
Une voix monte, et comme un vent de mars aux bois vieillis porte leur force, elle nous vient sans larmes, souriant plutôt devant la mort.
Qui chantait là quand notre lampe s'est éteinte?
Nul ne le sait.
Mais seul peut entendre le cœur qui ne cherche la possession ni la victoire.
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