Tom Lanoye
L’ENVOYE DE LANOYE
Dear descendents — should you still
read and take note of this entreaty:
be strict.
In all I did, I came up short, measured
against the starry sky in which I lost myself
even before I could tame it to a dance floor.
I’d hoped to feel it on my bare feet
while waltzing with the sun. Still now I misjudge
the touchability of every horizon.
If I’m scornful of myself, here is why: I know no bounds.
Always: too much, too loud, too coarse, too big, too keen
and never enough. Three souls in one breast. The fool,
the nerd and a wretch who seeks his salvation in toil.
Dear futures— should you still
read and take note of this plea:
be forgiving.
No noble pedigrees can I present,
no warrant, no appeal from rogues with
a rope already around their neck. I ask nothing,
nor have I hidden agendas up my sleeve.
If I do touch you, let it be for this: at most my speech,
whose sound is meant to exalt fate, with or without
a god, of each of us despairing, but all the more
impellingly. And last of all: the cruel conclusion that
when this opera ends, no echo will be heard, let alone acclaim.
Only the silence of billions of lives. Once alive.
Fully, fulfilled. Now gone. Just dust and dirt. Again,
just one. As we will be as well.
I’m only you. And you,
like hell, are me.
L’ENVOYE DE LANOYE
L’ENVOYE DE LANOYE
Nageslacht — zo u nog leest
en dit verzoekschrift tot u neemt:
wees streng.
Ik schoot in alles wat ik deed tekort, gemeten
naar de sterrenhemel waarin ik mij verloor
nog voor ik hem tot dansparket kon temmen.
Ik had hem willen voelen aan mijn blote voeten
terwijl ik walste met de zon. Nog steeds vergis
ik mij in de aanraakbaarbeid van élke horizon.
Als ik me haat, is het daarom: ik ken geen maat.
Altijd: te veel, te luid, te grof, te groot, te graag en nooit
genoeg. Een drietal zielen in één borst. De nar, de nerd
en een vertwijfelde die zijn verlossing zoekt in zwoegen.
Toekomstige — zo u nog leest
en deze bede tot u neemt:
wees mild.
Het zijn geen adelbrieven die ik voor kan leggen,
geen dwangbevel, geen bedelwoord van boeven
met het koord al om hun nek. Ik vraag u niets en
voer ook geen verborgen protocollen in mijn schild.
Als ik u raak, hoop ik hierom: hooguit mijn spraak
waarvan de klank bedoeld is om het lot, ook zonder god,
van elk van ons hoofdschuddend, maar des te meer
meeslepend te bezingen. Tot slot: het wreed besluit
dat na die opera geen echo klinkt, laat staan gejuich.
Alleen het zwijgen van miljarden levens. Ooit bestaand,
voluit, voldaan, en nu verdwenen. Weer stof en slik. Weer
één. Zo zal ’t ook ons vergaan.
Ik ben maar u.
En u bent ik.
From: Vrij - Wij?
Publisher: CPNB,
L’ENVOYE DE LANOYE
Dear descendents — should you still
read and take note of this entreaty:
be strict.
In all I did, I came up short, measured
against the starry sky in which I lost myself
even before I could tame it to a dance floor.
I’d hoped to feel it on my bare feet
while waltzing with the sun. Still now I misjudge
the touchability of every horizon.
If I’m scornful of myself, here is why: I know no bounds.
Always: too much, too loud, too coarse, too big, too keen
and never enough. Three souls in one breast. The fool,
the nerd and a wretch who seeks his salvation in toil.
Dear futures— should you still
read and take note of this plea:
be forgiving.
No noble pedigrees can I present,
no warrant, no appeal from rogues with
a rope already around their neck. I ask nothing,
nor have I hidden agendas up my sleeve.
If I do touch you, let it be for this: at most my speech,
whose sound is meant to exalt fate, with or without
a god, of each of us despairing, but all the more
impellingly. And last of all: the cruel conclusion that
when this opera ends, no echo will be heard, let alone acclaim.
Only the silence of billions of lives. Once alive.
Fully, fulfilled. Now gone. Just dust and dirt. Again,
just one. As we will be as well.
I’m only you. And you,
like hell, are me.
From: Vrij - Wij?
L’ENVOYE DE LANOYE
Dear descendents — should you still
read and take note of this entreaty:
be strict.
In all I did, I came up short, measured
against the starry sky in which I lost myself
even before I could tame it to a dance floor.
I’d hoped to feel it on my bare feet
while waltzing with the sun. Still now I misjudge
the touchability of every horizon.
If I’m scornful of myself, here is why: I know no bounds.
Always: too much, too loud, too coarse, too big, too keen
and never enough. Three souls in one breast. The fool,
the nerd and a wretch who seeks his salvation in toil.
Dear futures— should you still
read and take note of this plea:
be forgiving.
No noble pedigrees can I present,
no warrant, no appeal from rogues with
a rope already around their neck. I ask nothing,
nor have I hidden agendas up my sleeve.
If I do touch you, let it be for this: at most my speech,
whose sound is meant to exalt fate, with or without
a god, of each of us despairing, but all the more
impellingly. And last of all: the cruel conclusion that
when this opera ends, no echo will be heard, let alone acclaim.
Only the silence of billions of lives. Once alive.
Fully, fulfilled. Now gone. Just dust and dirt. Again,
just one. As we will be as well.
I’m only you. And you,
like hell, are me.
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