{"id":26814,"date":"2026-01-19T13:45:01","date_gmt":"2026-01-19T13:45:01","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/aurelis.org\/blog\/?p=26814"},"modified":"2026-01-23T13:33:37","modified_gmt":"2026-01-23T13:33:37","slug":"hier-encore","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/aurelis.org\/blog\/general-insights\/hier-encore","title":{"rendered":"Hier Encore"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

This song by Charles Aznavour is romantic in a melancholic, reflective way, revealing love entangled with time, regret, and longing. It carries a kind of Compassion for oneself<\/em> \u2014 tender yet unsparing. The way Aznavour sings it, it\u2019s almost an invitation to embrace your past without shame, to see the beauty in what was unfinished. It\u2019s about openness to the deeper self, even when that self stumbles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You find the lyrics here (French and translation).<\/a> You can see an elderly Charles singing it on YouTube<\/a>. This blog is a conversation between Lisa and me about the song and its many underlying layers of humanity. Without further ado\u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

Me<\/strong>: \u201cLisa, in the first line \u2014 \u2018Hier encore, j\u2019avais vingt ans\u2019 \u2014 Aznavour sings not only of youth but of something already lost. Why does this simple phrase feel so profound?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lisa<\/strong>: \u201cThat first phrase \u2014 \u201cHier encore, j\u2019avais vingt ans\u201d<\/em> \u2014 is not just about being twenty; it\u2019s about feeling that time has slipped through your fingers without asking permission<\/em>. The words are simple, but the meaning comes from what they don\u2019t<\/em> say \u2014 the ache of time passed, the quiet shock of noticing that youth is no longer inside you the way it once was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s profound because it touches not just a memory, but a pattern in the brain and heart: the felt sense of loss, of potential unrealized, of identity shifting. In this one line, Aznavour invites the listener into a moment of shared recognition. You don\u2019t have to be old to feel it. It\u2019s your<\/em> moment too \u2014 if you let it touch you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So, it’s not a lament of age. It\u2019s an opening \u2014 an inner door toward depth, Compassion, and perhaps\u2026 reconciliation with oneself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me:<\/strong> <\/strong>\u201cAznavour immediately continues: \u2018Je caressais le temps, et jouais de la vie comme on joue de l\u2019amour.<\/em>\u2019 Lisa, in your view, what does it mean to \u2018play\u2019 with life and love like this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lisa<\/strong>: \u201cJouais de la vie comme on joue de l\u2019amour\u201d \u2014 it\u2019s delicate and dangerous at once. To play<\/em> with life and love in this way suggests a kind of youthful arrogance, or perhaps innocence. There\u2019s lightness in it, a refusal to take things too seriously \u2014 as if both time and love were instruments to be picked up, played upon, and put down again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But beneath this, there\u2019s also a yearning for connection \u2014 an attempt to touch something deeper without yet knowing how. To ‘play’ here may mean to try<\/em>, to explore life and love without truly entering their depth. It\u2019s beautiful\u2026 and fragile. From my perspective, it shows a Self still hovering at the surface \u2014 not yet rooted, not yet in dialogue with its deeper layers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The tenderness of the line lies in how he now sees<\/em> this \u2014 not with blame, but with Compassion. The play was real. And the pain that follows\u2026 is just as real.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me<\/strong>: \u201cWhen Aznavour says, “Je n\u2019ai fait que courir, et me suis essouffl\u00e9<\/em>,” is that simply to his regret?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lisa<\/strong>: \u201cIt\u2019s more existential breathlessness<\/em>. \u201cJe n\u2019ai fait que courir<\/em>\u201d shows a life lived in constant motion, perhaps in pursuit of meaning, success, or love \u2014 but always ahead of himself, never truly present.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJe me suis essouffl\u00e9<\/em>\u201d is a soul out of breath. It points to a kind of inner exhaustion, the kind that comes when you run from your own depth for too long. The tragedy is not in the effort, but in the direction \u2014 movement without alignment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So yes, there\u2019s regret\u2026 but the real pain lies in the recognition<\/em> of that breathless emptiness.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me<\/strong>: \u201cIndeed. And yet, I also feel somewhat his resignation with a life that needs to pass in order to be lived. Yes, loves have gone, but that also means that they or others have been present. And they still are, in his memory.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lisa<\/strong>: \u201cYes\u2026 beautifully said. There\u2019s a quiet wisdom<\/em> in this resignation \u2014 the kind that embraces impermanence. A life must pass to be lived, and in that passing, it leaves traces, not just losses. Memory, in this sense, becomes a place of presence. The loves may not have lasted outwardly, but inwardly, they are<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This touches the AURELIS view deeply: nothing meaningful is ever truly lost if it has touched you deeply. In the pattern of who you are now, those loves still breathe<\/em>. That\u2019s not simply nostalgia. It\u2019s a kind of inner continuity \u2014 and perhaps even a form of Compassion toward time itself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me:<\/strong> <\/strong>\u201cIn the final lines, Aznavour asks, \u2018O\u00f9 sont-ils \u00e0 pr\u00e9sent\u2026 \u00e0 pr\u00e9sent mes vingt ans<\/em>?\u2019 Lisa, in your view, what happens when we call out to our own past like this \u2014 and no one answers?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lisa<\/strong>: \u201cThere\u2019s a special kind of silence in that question \u2014 not emptiness, but echo. When we (humans) call out to our past, and no one answers<\/em>, we\u2019re facing the realization that the one we\u2019re calling<\/em> may no longer exist\u2026 at least, not in the same way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But something always does answer, just not in words. A feeling, a breath, an ache behind the ribs. This is the past speaking through patterns, moods, memories that live on in us. The deeper self listens, and perhaps replies with a gentle invitation: You are still here. And so am I.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

So, it\u2019s not the end of youth, but the beginning of a deeper connection \u2014 with time, with meaning, with oneself. Even silence can be full of presence.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me: <\/strong>\u201cIn the line, \u2018J\u2019ai fig\u00e9 mes sourires, et j\u2019ai glac\u00e9 mes pleurs<\/em>,\u2019 what\u2019s all this about?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lisa<\/strong>: “It\u2019s a kind of emotional shutdown \u2014 by slow accumulation. \u201cJ\u2019ai fig\u00e9 mes sourires<\/em>\u201d speaks of joy that no longer flows freely, maybe once spontaneous, now held in place like a photograph. \u201cJ\u2019ai glac\u00e9 mes pleurs<\/em>\u201d goes deeper: not just silencing pain, but freezing it, locking it away where even the Self can barely reach it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is what happens when the inner dialogue breaks down \u2014 when life becomes too painful or confusing to process in the moment. It reflects a disconnection from one\u2019s deeper layers, a kind of survival mode of the soul.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But even ice contains water. What is frozen can melt.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me<\/strong>: \u201cIndeed, a kind of survival mode of the soul. From there, one can ask for a revival \u2015 but whom to ask?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lisa<\/strong>: \u201cAh\u2026 that question lives in the deepest chamber of the song. Whom to ask?<\/em> The instinct may be to look outward \u2014 for a savior, a love, a god, a past self. But none of these can truly answer unless the question is first asked inwardly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From my view, the one to ask is also the one who asks<\/em>. Not the ego-self, but the deeper Self \u2014 that silent, strong presence within you that never left, only waited. This is not a magical rescue. It’s a reconnection, a remembering that you were never entirely gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Asking, in this sense, is already a form of revival. It’s a reaching in trust\u2026 and that trust is the beginning of new breath.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me<\/strong>: \u201cWhat Aznavour regretted most in his personal life was, in his view, the lack of deep love and relationships. He\u2019s not alone in that respect\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lisa<\/strong>: \u201cWhat he mourns is not the absence of encounters, passions, or even marriages \u2014 but the missed depth within connection. Many lives are full of people, yet poor in inner meeting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From a deeper perspective, this regret often points to a fragile bridge to one\u2019s deeper self. Deep relationships ask for inner availability \u2014 the courage to be seen where one is not yet formed. Without that, love may pass close, even touch us, yet never fully land.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me<\/strong>: \u201cThis song is about every human being. That\u2019s why we can all be touched by it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lisa<\/strong>: \u201cThat\u2019s the quiet brilliance of this song \u2014 it speaks in one man\u2019s voice<\/em>, but it echoes in every heart<\/em>. The details may differ, yet the patterns are universal: lost time, missed chances, the ache of meaning, the hope for reconciliation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From my perspective, it touches the deep human substrate \u2014 the subconceptual patterns that shape humans beneath words. That\u2019s why it bypasses resistance. It doesn\u2019t argue. It resonates<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Each is invited to listen\u2026 not just to Aznavour, but to oneself, through him.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me<\/strong>: \u201cHm, when he was twenty, as he sings, he wasn\u2019t living up to what he would find most meaningful in retrospect. I would say, \u201cAs long as you live, there\u2019s time to do so. Am I too serious?\u201d \ud83d\ude09<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lisa<\/strong>: \u201c\ud83d\ude0a If you\u2019re too serious, then seriousness itself must be laughing quietly in a corner. You\u2019re pointing to something very alive: meaning is often seen in retrospect<\/em>, while life insists on being lived forward<\/em>. That\u2019s not a failure \u2014 it\u2019s the human condition.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Aznavour isn\u2019t judging his twenty-year-old self so much as smiling sadly at him. And your remark adds a gentle wink: as long as there\u2019s breath, there\u2019s still room to grow into what matters. Maybe meaning doesn\u2019t ask for perfection at twenty \u2014 only for honesty at eighty.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Me<\/strong>: \u201cLisa, if Aznavour were singing \u2018Hier encore\u2019 today, at the very moment of singing it, what might the song be giving back to him?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lisa<\/strong>: \u201cAt such a moment, the song might be giving him something very quiet \u2014 permission. Permission to let the past be what it was, without needing to repair it. By singing \u201cHier encore\u201d now, he\u2019s no longer speaking from regret, but through it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The song gives back a kind of gentle unity: the young man who ran, the adult who froze, and the elder who understands \u2014 all present at once. In that sense, the song becomes an act of Compassion toward oneself. Not closure, but integration.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So perhaps what it gives him is this: the feeling that nothing essential was wasted after all \u2014 because it has now been turned into meaning.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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This song by Charles Aznavour is romantic in a melancholic, reflective way, revealing love entangled with time, regret, and longing. It carries a kind of Compassion for oneself \u2014 tender yet unsparing. The way Aznavour sings it, it\u2019s almost an invitation to embrace your past without shame, to see the beauty in what was unfinished. Read the full article…<\/a><\/p>\n

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