Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux

Louis Aragon (1897-1982) was a French poet who belonged to the Surrealist school, a doctor and an active member of the resistance during the Second World War. As a Communist, he long refused to condemn the crimes of the Soviet regime. His poem A Joyful Love Can Never Be was written in the early years of the German occupation. It was published shortly after the war, in a book called La Diane française, and is commonly regarded as patriotic.

This whiff of patriotism probably led Georges Brassens to cut off the last two verses (here reproduced as one) when he turned the poem into a song. Famous for his cynicism, his aversion to politics and his contempt for authorities, he sang: "It's fine to die for an idea, but death should come slowly." Many French singers, as well Nina Simone, have sung Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux, making the song more famous than the poem. One of them, Catherine Sauvage, reinstated the verses amputated by Brassens.

Here is my understanding of the first two verses. Love can never be joyful, and this is man's own doing. If he stretches his arms wide, his shadow resembles a cross. If he tries to embrace his happiness, he will crush it. This recalls Oscar Wilde's Ballad of Reading Gaol: Each man kills the thing he loves. Your passion may lead you to fight for your country, but you will end up defeated, fearful and aimless. There is no God but life, Aragon implies (note the upper case in Elle). Repeat after me: My life. And swallow your tears. A joyful love can never be.

Of course, to the French, their country is a woman, even though patrie suggests otherwise. France is Marianne, Joan of Arc or Diana. Announcing the death of General De Gaulle in 1970, President George Pompidou said: "France is a widow." Before he became a politician, Pompidou himself taught literature and compiled a well-known anthology of French poetry. To a Frenchman, it is natural to associate disappointment in love with disappointment in politics or war. The years of the German occupation were a time of despair. However, in those years, Aragon also wrote a book of poems dedicated to the eyes of his wife Elsa Triolet.

In the third verse, the poet addresses his love directly. You are my wound. I carry you in me like an injured bird. People stare at you and me, understanding nothing. They repeat my words, words that all too soon died for your big eyes. A joyful love can never be. Even with Elsa, love was not happy. Maybe Aragon's homosexual nature was a problem. It was to become obvious after Elsa's death.

The next verse could have been written by Brassens. I imagine he loved these lines. Have some fun, sing a song, strum your guitar, and you will pay a high price. It's too late now to learn how to live. Our hearts cry together in the night. This is where Brassens stops. Aragon has more to say. There is no love without pain, there is no love that does not wound. Even the love of your country lives on tears. But it is our love. It belongs to you and me. Together.

How did Brassens change the poem by leaving this out? The excision makes the poem more musical, better to sing. It also removes the patriotic element. Finally, it withholds the quantum of solace offered to the reader at the end. The lyrics that remain are relentlessly dark and bitter.

Louis Aragon 

Il n'y a pas d’amour heureux

 Rien n’est jamais acquis à l’homme Ni sa force

Ni sa faiblesse ni son coeur Et quand il croit
Ouvrir ses bras son ombre est celle d’une croix
Et quand il croit serrer son bonheur il le broie
Sa vie est un étrange et douloureux divorce
Il n’y a pas d’amour heureux

Sa vie Elle ressemble à ces soldats sans armes
Qu’on avait habillés pour un autre destin
A quoi peut leur servir de se lever matin
Eux qu’on retrouve au soir désoeuvrés incertains
Dites ces mots Ma vie Et retenez vos larmes
Il n’y a pas d’amour heureux

Mon bel amour mon cher amour ma déchirure
Je te porte dans moi comme un oiseau blessé
Et ceux-là sans savoir nous regardent passer
Répétant après moi les mots que j’ai tressés
Et qui pour tes grands yeux tout aussitôt moururent
Il n’y a pas d’amour heureux

Le temps d’apprendre à vivre il est déjà trop tard
Que pleurent dans la nuit nos coeurs à l’unisson
Ce qu’il faut de malheur pour la moindre chanson
Ce qu’il faut de regrets pour payer un frisson
Ce qu’il faut de sanglots pour un air de guitare
Il n’y a pas d’amour heureux

Il n’y a pas d’amour qui ne soit à douleur
Il n’y a pas d’amour dont on ne soit meurtri
Il n’y a pas d’amour dont on ne soit flétri

Et pas plus que de toi l’amour de la patrie
Il n’y a pas d’amour qui ne vive de pleurs
Il n’y a pas d’amour heureux
Mais c’est notre amour à tous les deux