Lyrics: Henry Biggs
Music: Henry Biggs and Mylene Farmer
All alone in a park on a bench in the dark
gone to the wind to the rain not a spark
of life flickers from these eyes, these eyes
memories of innocence caked and pasted with lies
nothing brings me back to innocence any more
except you my little whore vacant and worn
in you she comes back and I'm safe and warm
tasting you I'm back again
dipped in sin, sweet Madeleine
Madeleine (Turn me on) (repeat)
Madeleine to lick your skin
is to take a trip to way back when
to love-to love
the stuff that dreams of love are made of
to her, to a smile, to stare, a caress
to a future hoped for, hoped for yes
and in you she's before me in you sultry silky
in you lips run o'er me in you soft and milky
tasting you I'm back again dipped in sin,
Madeleine it never lasts
the present past is passing fast
staring desperately at the peeling ceiling
I try to guard that fleeting feeling
but it fades and jades and withering blooms
eroding back to this festering room
over, done, I pay, I go
and wander back down through the streets below
aimlessly back to a bench in a park
I plant myself alone in the dark
but tasting you, I'll be back again sweet Madeleine
Idea. . .
...She sent out for one of those short, plump little cakes called 'petites madeleines,'
which look as though they had been moulded in the fluted scallop of a pilgrim's shell.
And soon, mechanically, weary after a dull day with the prospect of a depressing morrow,
I raised to my lips a spoonful of the tea in which I had soaked a morsel of the cake.
No sooner had the warm liquid, and the crumbs with it,
touched my palate than a shudder ran through my whole body, and I stopped,
intent upon the extraordinary changes that were taking place.
An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses,
but individual, detached, with no suggestion of its origin.
And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indiferent to me,
its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory-this new sensation
having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence;
or rather this essence was not in me, it was myself. I had ceased now to feel medioucre,
accidental, mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy?
Proust, Swann's Way
trans. C.K. Scott Moncrieff, The Modern Library, New York.P. 62
In this excerpt Proust describes the ability of the taste of a cookie, a madeleine, to invoke
involuntary memory. Headmess draws on Proust's "episode of the madeleine" and describes
the subject's return to a girl he once loved through his experience with a prostitute named
Madeleine. Madeleine charges his memories of a happier time--of a good relationship
he had in the past. Just as Proust's madeleine is dipped in tea, Headmess's Madeleine is "dipped in sin."
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