“Get Drunk” – #ThursdayQuotables

thursday-quotables

Thursday Quotables is a weekly meme hosted by Bookshelf Fantasies.  Every week, readers share a quote or passage from the book they’re reading that strikes them – whether it be funny or philosophical or something in between.


Listening to Z:  A Novel of  Zelda Fitzgerald this week, I was struck by a poem used in the story and I wanted to share.  It intrigued me, and I think describes many people.  It’s used absolutely perfectly in the story – it very much illustrates Zelda and Scott.  I wanted to share it; it is filled with toppling champagne scented beauty and folly and such things should be shared.


Get Drunk
By Charles Baudelaire

Always be drunk.
That’s it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time’s horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On  wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
“Time to get drunk!
Don’t be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!”

(Copied from All Poetry)

Her Day

Wind softly plays through the grass,
outside her window.
It sings frost into the autumn air
and whispers of snow.

She pulls her knees to her chest
and huddles ‘neath an old blanket.

Four white walls,
the computer’s low hum,
and a black and white cat
(sound asleep)…

she looks around,
but she’s all alone.

With the wind,
she sighs.

The frost enters her lungs,
a plague that chills her veins
and stills her heart.

In her hands she cups
the lonely cupcake,
sweet chocolate frosting
brushed against her thumb.
She inhales the bitter, sweet aroma
of childhood parties,
of sweet sixteen…

she lets it fade away,
erased on the white walls
of her empty apartment.

In a whisper so low,
even thawing strains to hear,
she says:

“Happy birthday,”

and blows
the candle
out.