[In a return to my greatest inspiration as a writer thirty-five years ago, I have recently been rereading Francis Ponge. Although his influence upon me was and still is immeasurable, I have always been a little shy of posting translations of his work. I am loath to twist and do injustice to his carefully crafted thoughts about things in words. Still, I submit now this humble effort to produce an English translation of Ponge’s L’eau (Ponge, Francis Le parti pris des choses. Paris: Gallimard, 1942.), ]

Water 

Lower than me. It is always lower than me that I find water. I look down on it below. Like the sun, like a fraction of the sun, like a modification of the sun.

It is blank and shiny, formless and fresh, passive and obstinate in its single vice: weight; and equipped with exceptional means for satisfying this vice: getting round things, boring through them, wearing them down, seeping through. 

This vice is also at play within. For water is constantly in a state of breaking up, refusing any kind of solid form, preferring only to humble itself, to prostrate itself on the ground, like a corpse, or certain orders of monks. Ever lower: that seems to be its strategy. The opposite of excelsior.

*

You could almost say that water is insane, because of this hysterical need to obey nothing but its own weight, that possesses it like an idée fixe. 

Of course, we all know this need, which must be met always and everywhere. That wardrobe, for instance, seems stubbornly insistent in its desire to remain fixed to the floor, and, should it find itself, one day, in some form of disequilibrium, would rather come crashing down than contravene the law. But, still, it is, to some extent, just playing with weight, defying it. It doesn’t break up in all of its parts. There is a resistance in it, from which it gains character and shape.

Liquid is by definition that which prefers to obey gravity rather than maintain its shape; refusing to take on any form so as to remain obedient to this force. To lose its footing for the sake of this idée fixe, this morbid compulsion. This vice makes it fast-flowing or stagnant in turns; shapeless or wild; wild and without shape or form. Like a ferocious parasite. Sneaky, underhand, wheedling its way in. Good job then that we can make it do what we want: pump it through pipes to make it spurt up in fountains and then fall back down again, as is its self-destructive wont, as rain: like a true slave. 

…but the sun and the moon are jealous of this exclusive influence and attempt to exercise this influence upon it, when it is found in its state of least resistance, sprawled out in shallow puddles across vast flat distances. The sun then demands greater tribute, forcing it into a perpetual cycle, like roadkill under its wheels.

*

Water escapes me. It runs through my fingers. It is no cleaner than a lizard or a frog: it leaves marks of itself on me that take a relatively long while to dry. It escapes me and yet marks me. There is not much I can do about it.

The idea of water is the same: it escapes me, defies definition, but leaves traces, shapeless stains on this page and on my soul. 

*

Water is neurotic: hypersensitive to ups and downs. It skips down stairs two at a time; playful, childlike in its obedience, always coming back when called.