ANTOLINEZ, le marchant ambulant 1670 - SIMON (Paul), the boxer
Quand j'ai quitté ma maison et ma famille
Je n'étais rien qu'un garçon apeuré
cherchant les quartiers pauvres où l'on va en haillons
Paul SIMON - the boxer
Jose Claudio ANTOLINEZ - le marchant de peinture 1670
Dans ce tableau, Antolinez semble s'être inspiré de Velázquez. Sa technique habile et délicate, avec des emprunts à Rubens et aux Vénitiens, demeure très originale pour suggérer la vibration de l'atmosphère et la légèreté des tissus. Il est un excellent portraitiste.
Illustr musicale: Paul SIMON et Joan BAEZ - the boxer
Les paroles prennent la forme d'une lamentation à la première personne où un jeune homme arrive à New York et n'arrive à trouver ni travail, ni amour, ne trouvant du réconfort qu'avec les prostituées de la Septième Avenue. Il décrit son combat pour surmonter la solitude et la pauvreté. Lors du couplet final, la chanson passe à la troisième personne et décrit un boxeur qui continue le combat malgré tous les coups qu'il reçoit, affirmant qu'il va abandonner mais se refusant à le faire.
I am just a poor boy
Though my story's seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles such are promises
All lies and jest
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest, mhmm
When I left my home and my family
I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers
In the quiet of a railway station running scared
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged people go
Looking for the places only they would know
Asking only workman's wages
I come looking for a job
But I get no offers
Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue
I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there
Now the years are rolling by me
They are rocking evenly
I am older than I once was
And younger than I'll be, that's not unusual
It isn't strange after changes upon changes
We are more or less the same
After changes we are more or less the same
Then I'm laying out my winter clothes
And wishing I was gone, going home
Where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me
Leading me, going home
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
And cut him 'til he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains, mhmm
, the boxer.jpg)
