– – – Louis Aragon (1924)
But amongst all the tunes that sometimes I hum, there is still one that gives me, even today, an untrammeled illusion of Spring and of fields: an illusion of real freedom. Sometimes I forget this tune… and then, suddenly, I find it again. Freedom, freedom… it’s the time of day – the time of the evening – when the wind’s chains of transparent links fly away across the watered silks of the sky, it’s the time of the evening when the ball and chain become slaves of the ankle, and handcuffs become jewels… And sometimes, on the walls of his cell, the hermit and recluse scratches into the stone an inscription that sounds on the hard surface like the sound of wings. And sometimes he sculpts, above a rivet, a calligraphed symbol of the lovers of the earth. And it’s because he’s dreaming. And I, too, am dreaming… am transported… am dreaming… And I dream of a long, long dream where everyone else is dreaming, too… I do not know what will come of this new movement of dreams. I am dreaming at the edge of the world, and at the edge of the night.
So what is it you want to say to me, you, who are way off in the distance? Calling out to me with cupped hands, laughing at what the dreamer is doing… At the edge of the night and of crime, at the edge of crime and of passion… Oh, Rivieras of irreality… your casinos – without distinction of age – open their gambling halls to all and everyone who wants to lose! It is time, it is really time, believe me, to not be winning any more…
“Who’s there?” Well, okay then: let infinity enter!
pp. 28-29, A Wave of Dreams