Apollinaire’s *Alcools*—published in 1913—contains a piece as brief as one could possibly wish for. This offers us the dual advantage of being able to quote the text under study in its entirety, while also committing it to memory in a matter of moments.
The title of this poem is “Chantre.” As for the poem itself, here it is:
And the single string of the marine trumpets
That is all. Eight words, counting the title. There is no punctuation—as is always the case with this poet. In treatises on classical versification, this rare form is known as a “monostich”—that is, a poem consisting of a single line. I operate on the premise that we shall find within it all the material necessary to support my argument.
To begin, and in the interest of complete clarity, I must state as precisely as possible what I mean when I speak of drawing upon the unconscious to interpret literary works. There are two primary approaches one might take when engaging with a work of literature—approaching it as a critic rather than as a literary historian. Given that many critics prefer to specialize, it is hardly surprising that some focus on the side of *writing*—the trajectory from creator to text—while others focus on the side of *reading*—the trajectory from reader to text. In the former case, one might recall Baudelaire’s observation: “You gave me your mud, and I turned it into gold”—or, in the latter, Rimbaud’s wish: “May the copper awaken as a trumpet.”
Regarding the side of writing, I will simply note that authors generally explore and work with both their personal experience and their command of language to express things that are entirely new—things that had never been articulated by anyone before, precisely because they had seemed unthinkable or ineffable. They create works in which form and content are inseparable—works that, strictly speaking, can neither be summarized nor translated. These are writings capable of evoking within us an emotion we would never have felt, or a thought we would never have conceived, had it not been for those specific words—an emotion and a thought that will remain forever bound to that very formulation.
The dimension of reading is the one I address in its entirety, dedicating myself fully to all its facets. I operate on the principle that the reading of a literary work must itself be a literary act. This implies, first and foremost, an active form of reading—one that does not merely receive information or meaning passively, but is constantly engaged in the acquisition and fermentation of sense. To read in this productive, almost creative way is to internalize and adopt as one’s own—as if one had invented it oneself—that which the writer has managed to express. In practical terms, this also means that one “rewrites” the work within oneself; in a sense, one becomes a co-author of the work. When I read a piece of writing conceived and composed by an author, I am participating in the birth of that writing. I use the term “text” specifically to refer to the object and result of this collaboration.
A “text” is a work that is currently being read—it consists of pages in the process of being read. In other words, it is a living discourse, characterized by two key features: first, it is shared between the author (who composed it) and the reader (who brought it to life through the act of reading); second, following this logic, while there may be only one “work,” there are as many “texts” as there are readings.
To clarify this, one might say that literary criticism takes as its object of study the process by which works become texts. It examines, first, how reading functions as an activity performed by a reading subject; and second, it examines the outcome of this activity—developing, in concrete terms, a “reading,” which is to say, the emergence of a co-authorship. In short, a specific critical endeavor seeks to transform a work into a text, and the goal of criticism in general is to delineate, distinguish, and describe the various possible ways of approaching a work so as to render it a text.
In contrast, a critic like Jean-Pierre Richard invents and defines the “motifs,” “affective colors,” or “moods” that the text presents to him as he explores it. Drawing upon all available knowledge—without relying on any single external body of scholarship, and following in the footsteps of his mentor Gaston Bachelard—he works much like a poet whose world and language are those of the specific literary work he is examining.
Occupying a middle ground between these two positions—part technician, part poet—the psychoanalyst of a text draws concepts from the Freudian realm, often using terms derived from mythology or literature (such as Oedipus or narcissism), or even metaphors (like “drive”—*pulsion*—which conveys a sense of thrust, or “phantasy”—*fantasme*—which is, at its root, another way of saying “phantom”). These concepts are functional, enabling the analyst to reformulate—in the language of the Unconscious (capitalized)—the echoes of unconscious formations that his attentive ear detects within the text. Furthermore, he claims to penetrate and permeate the text more deeply than the thematic critic does. He also differs from the sociocritic in two respects: first, his analytical instruments are flexible, malleable, and plastic “representations”—adapted to his specific needs rather than rigid, pre-established categories; second, he does not merely wield these instruments as external tools—they must, in a sense, become his own hands, for the simple reason that only the unconscious can perceive the unconscious. Such a situation has no equivalent in any other field of knowledge.
It is time to return—or, more precisely, to arrive—at our poem. One final, self-evident point I wish to recall is that a work’s richness is measured by the suggestions it offers and the number of different readings it can sustain. Yet, it is equally clear that not all works are capable of supporting multiple readings—especially those of limited scope, such as poems, tales, or short stories; and this is even more true for a monostich.
Upon reading the title, “Chantre” (Cantor), a sociocritic might ask, as a matter of principle, whether the poem contains a text relevant to their field. The term primarily denotes a person who sings hymns and religious prayers in Catholic churches. As for the word “trumpets”—used here in the plural—it most frequently appears in two contexts: within the makeup of an orchestra or, more intriguingly, in the context of the fury of war (as in the expressions “martial trumpets” or “trumpets of victory”). While religion and politics are, of course, significant realities of human society, Apollinaire’s line does not seem to evoke anything particularly profound in these areas. Should one conclude that I say this only because I am a layperson when it comes to sociocriticism?
Setting aside this particular mode of interpretation, let us attempt to shed light on our subject by examining the most common meanings of the words that compose it—for the discourse that psychoanalysts listen to is rooted in the most everyday aspects of life. To begin, let us recall that the term “chantre” (bard or singer) has been used metaphorically to refer to singers outside of a strictly ecclesiastical context—specifically, those who celebrate a country, an event, or a great figure through their songs; in other words, poets. It is in this general sense that the term was used to construct various common periphrases in classical language: the “bard” of Thrace (Orpheus), of Thebes (Pindar), of Ilion (Homer), of Mantua (Virgil), or of Roland (Ariosto). Birds, too, are described as “bards of the woods” or “of spring.” There are even instances where frogs are mockingly referred to as “bards of the marshes.” Diderot, for his part, mocked the cowardice of those “bards of victorious causes”—people who only take a side once the situation has become clear and it is safe to do so.
In short, one might consider that the title introduces a discourse concerning the poet—though in a somewhat unconventional or oblique manner. The word itself inevitably associates its subject with figures who command a kind of religious reverence. Yet, knowing the poem’s author, one senses that it should not be taken entirely literally: Apollinaire is both serious—viewing poetry as a grave and essential pursuit—and, at the same time, smiling. “That was how it was in the old days, when everyone had faith,” he seems to suggest, perhaps with a touch of regret. He maintains a certain distance between the term he highlights and the sense of reverence or admiration he appears to feel. And we, of course, must imitate him.
This detached tone is, in fact, extended and reinforced by the use of the coordinating conjunction “And” at the beginning of the sentence. Because it appears at the very start, it coordinates nothing—a fact that comes as a surprise. We are invited to assume that the title itself contained an implicit proposition—perhaps an isolated predicate noun or a descriptive qualification linked by the copula “is”—something along the lines of: the poet, as has long been said everywhere, is a “bard”…—though one can never know exactly what that signifies, leaving everyone free to devise a more precise meaning. Thus, one might add: “And [he is also]…” If you would like me to sketch out an initial elaboration of this lapidary line, it might be: “And he is also someone I would compare to those large, wooden musical instruments—possessing only a single string—that are curiously called ‘marine trumpets,’ even though the word ‘trumpet’ immediately brings to mind a small, brass wind instrument.”
What does this mean? Let us begin by reading it with the eye of a scholar. We might first recall a line from Molière (in the play *Le Bourgeois gentilhomme*), where, speaking of an orchestra, he says:
“We must also include a marine trumpet; the marine trumpet is an instrument that pleases me and is quite harmonious.”
Indeed, it is well known that in the 17th century, the celebrated Philidor brothers—whose orchestras were frequently invited to the royal court by Louis XIII, Louis XIV, and later Louis XV—were, among other things, virtuosos of the marine trumpet, likely providing the *basso continuo*. This orchestral instrument, similar to the modern double bass, was an adaptation of a much cruder and bulkier device once kept on the bows of English sailing ships; before the advent of steam-powered foghorns, it was used to signal a vessel’s approach in foggy conditions. A bow was drawn across it to produce deep, powerful tones.
One might imagine our monostich whispering an ironic—perhaps even self-ironic—judgment: “To be a poet (a court poet, in the old-fashioned sense) and to versify (following a set scale) is, after all, a bit like playing a single-stringed instrument”—it lacks the rich evocations of a polyphony.
Yet, two observations immediately arise from this initial assessment. First, the French word *cordeau* is not exactly the same as *corde* (string). Strictly speaking, a *cordeau* is a line stretched between two stakes, used to mark a straight path on the ground—for instance, in gardening, to delineate a walkway. Hence its use in expressions denoting something precise yet devoid of imagination; thus, “verses drawn with a *cordeau*” are technically correct in their versification, though likely flat, given that there is nothing more to be said about them. When reading our monostich, one must wait until the words “trompettes” (trumpets) and “marines” (marine) appear to realize, in retrospect, that this *cordeau* actually refers to the string of a musical instrument.
Furthermore, there is a striking contrast—within a context evoking music—between the concept of a “string” (the basis for the term “stringed instrument”) and its association with the trumpet, which is the best-known and most common type of wind instrument.
This, in turn, produces two distinct yet related effects. According to one interpretation, the poem might suggest something like: “Traditional poetry—yes, it’s all well and good… but it’s a pity that its only means of expression is verse crafted with such rigid, taut precision—leaving no room for overflow or whimsy.” In this light, Apollinaire is playing the role of a theorist of poetry, doing so in a playful, jesting manner. There is, of course, nothing implausible about such a hypothesis. Given how much this poet innovated in the realm of versification, it is easy to imagine him finding classical verse somewhat “monochordal”—a term that, while synonymous with “monotonous,” also evokes the image of a single, taut string. Such adjectives might perfectly characterize—or even define—the “marine trumpet” (trompette marine), highlighting its limited range of sound and its dull, lackluster timbre.
These interpretations hinge on the presumed intent to affectionately mock the “chanter”—understood here as a stand-in for the traditional poet. A second interpretation is also possible, drawing on the same elements but from a different perspective: “Poetry, sure… but watch out—in musical terms, it’s like playing a trumpet with only one string!” In other words, this time the target is not merely old-fashioned poets; rather, poetry itself is presented with a hearty burst of laughter, highlighting what distinguishes it from ordinary discourse: it is, in effect, an admission that this strange mode of expression employs words incorrectly, askew—in a way that is inadequate and skewed. This interpretation is prompted by a French idiom often used—comically—to suggest that a project is unfeasible or doomed to failure: “It’s like blowing into a violin to produce the sound of a clarinet.”
While our attempts at a dispassionate analysis may yield intriguing results, one cannot help but feel that they are speculative—and, ultimately, not very convincing. This, it seems to me, is due to a specific reason: these various interpretations compete with one another, yet there is no way to choose between them; none holds sway over the others, and none asserts itself as the obvious choice. In short, our initial encounter with the poem is disconcerting. We have stumbled upon oddities—if not outright aporias: the “and” at the beginning of the line, and the “marine trumpets” at the end. We have failed to justify the former, just as we have failed to clearly grasp what the latter represent in this context.
We have attempted what might be called a philological reading: one that is both immediate—insofar as it seeks the meaning of words directly from the dictionary—and scholarly, given that it feels compelled to consult the dictionary in the first place. Yet, this philological approach suffers from a serious drawback: it does not invite us to dream. For a work that presents itself as poetic, this is a heavy burden indeed. It is therefore better to adopt a different attitude and allow ourselves to drift into a state of reverie before the poem.
As soon as we enter this state of reverie, another text emerges—a different configuration, one to which a critic like Jean-Pierre Richard would surely be sensitive. What are we to do now? We listen to the sounds of the words, going further than we did when we merely perceived the “cord” (rope) hidden within the word *cordeau* (line/cord). Reverie knows how to detach itself, how to break free from the linear succession of words to surrender to a different kind of movement. It abandons the logical order of syntax and the realm of abstract semantics, plunging instead into a different logic—what I would call a “logic of matter.” This carries a dual meaning: the evocation of the substances that compose our material world, and an acknowledgment of the very materiality of verbal signs. It is here that our final adjective, *marines* (“marine” or “seafaring”), suddenly imposes the presence of the sea; it washes back—like an ebbing wave—over the signifier */kordô/*, which then, before our mind’s eye, resolves into a “body of water.”
At the same time, the *trompette* (which, to the ear, might suggest *trempette*—a “dip” or “soaking”?) shifts into a *trompe* (which, in turn, evokes *trombe*—a waterspout). It transforms into a type of mollusk shell, a conch—let us borrow a definition of this latter term from the *Petit Robert* dictionary: “Mythology: A spiral shell…”