Francis Ponge

 

The Candle 

     Sometimes night revives a singular plant whose gleam breaks up rooms and their furniture into solid masses of shadow.
     Its leaf of gold clings impassively to the hollow of a little alabaster column by means of a very black stem.
     Seedy moths attack it in preference to the too-high moon, which is vaporizing the woods. But, instantly singed or worn out by the struggle, they lie trembling, on the verge of a madness that is close to stupor.
     Meanwhile the candle encourages the reader with the flickering light it throws on his book at each sudden release of an unusual smoke — and then bends over its plate to drown itself in its food.