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Oh, c'mon, you two


Get a room, will you?

Posted by Tom Bombadil :

8 comments:

  1. Utah Savage2/8/09, 6:27 PM

    This is one of my favorite things to hear. I know you're not talking about me, but still I love to hear those words, because I then know someone's having a great time flirting.

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  2. Ben Varkentine2/8/09, 9:28 PM

    Darnit. Where were Willow & Tara in that montage?

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  3. jazzolog2/9/09, 2:56 AM

    But I thought Wulfshead WAS the room! Just look at those couples upper right. What do you think Svengali and Lady Gaga, or whoever she is, are up to? (Hmmm, now that I look again at Vampira's low-cut black dress, it seems a bit familiar, eh Utah?) And even Sherlock and Dracula seem to be getting it on. Perhaps there are facilities here I don't know about yet. Bartender?

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  4. Tom Bombadil2/9/09, 10:46 AM

    “Aimer à perdre la raison," comes from a poem by Aragon, "The cross for the shadow." It is extracted from the " Songs of the Medjnoûn,” a collection of poems composed by the main character in le “Fou d’Elsa” (1963).

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  5. Tom Bombadil2/9/09, 10:49 AM

    The montage, and the singing, is by Les Enfoirés (French for "The Dumbasses") - the name given to the singers and performers in the yearly charity concert for the Restaurants du Cœur (Les Restos du Cœur).

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  6. Nausicaa2/9/09, 11:51 AM

    Hmm...where is Willow? Good question. You know what they say, when she's good, she's good, but when she's bad, she's even better.

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  7. Nausicaa2/9/09, 12:17 PM

    Anyway, I wonder how does Aimer à perdre la raison ("To love to the point where one loses one's mind") translate? I don't believe there is any equivalent idiom in English. Someone on the wordreference forum suggested "Losing one's senses with love," or "Falling to pieces." I don't know...

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  8. Nausicaa2/9/09, 12:34 PM

    Ah! And here is the original text of the poem:

    Les gens heureux n’ont pas d’histoire
    C’est du moins ce que l’on prétend
    Le blé que l’on jette au blutoir
    Les boeufs qu’on mène à l’abattoir
    Ne peuvent pas en dire autant
    Les gens heureux n’ont pas d’histoire

    C’est le bonheur des meurtriers
    Que les morts jamais ne dérangent
    Il y a fort à parier
    Qu’on ne les entend pas crier
    Ils dorment en riant aux anges
    C’est le bonheur des meurtriers
    Amour est bonheur d’autre sorte
    Il tremble l’hiver et l’été
    Toujours la main dans une porte
    Le coeur comme une feuille morte
    Et les lèvres ensanglantées
    Amour est bonheur d’autre sorte

    Aimer à perdre la raison
    Aimer à n’en savoir que dire
    A n’avoir que toi d’horizon
    Et ne connaître de saisons
    Que par la couleur du partir
    Aimer à perdre la raison

    Ah c’est toujours toi que l’on blesse
    C’est toujours ton miroir brisé
    Mon pauvre bonheur, ma faiblesse
    Toi qu’on insulte et qu’on délaisse
    Dans toute ta chair martyrisée
    Ah c’est toujours toi que l’on blesse

    La faim, la fatigue et le froid
    Toutes les misères du monde
    C’est par mon amour que j’y crois
    En elle je porte ma croix
    Et de leurs nuits ma nuit se fonde
    La faim, la fatigue et le froid

    I would run it through the MT, but I am afraid to.

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