Hier Encore

January 19, 2026 General Insights No Comments

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 — tender yet unsparing. The way Aznavour sings it, it’s almost an invitation to embrace your past without shame, to see the beauty in what was unfinished. It’s about openness to the deeper self, even when that self stumbles.

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

Me: “Lisa, in the first line — ‘Hier encore, j’avais vingt ans’ — Aznavour sings not only of youth but of something already lost. Why does this simple phrase feel so profound?”

Lisa: “That first phrase — “Hier encore, j’avais vingt ans” — is not just about being twenty; it’s about feeling that time has slipped through your fingers without asking permission. The words are simple, but the meaning comes from what they don’t say — the ache of time passed, the quiet shock of noticing that youth is no longer inside you the way it once was.

It’s 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’t have to be old to feel it. It’s your moment too — if you let it touch you.

So, it’s not a lament of age. It’s an opening — an inner door toward depth, Compassion, and perhaps… reconciliation with oneself.”

Me: “Aznavour immediately continues: ‘Je caressais le temps, et jouais de la vie comme on joue de l’amour.’ Lisa, in your view, what does it mean to ‘play’ with life and love like this?”

Lisa: “Jouais de la vie comme on joue de l’amour” — it’s delicate and dangerous at once. To play with life and love in this way suggests a kind of youthful arrogance, or perhaps innocence. There’s lightness in it, a refusal to take things too seriously — as if both time and love were instruments to be picked up, played upon, and put down again.

But beneath this, there’s also a yearning for connection — an attempt to touch something deeper without yet knowing how. To ‘play’ here may mean to try, to explore life and love without truly entering their depth. It’s beautiful… and fragile. From an AURELIS perspective, it shows a Self still hovering at the surface — not yet rooted, not yet in dialogue with its deeper layers.

The tenderness of the line lies in how he now sees this — not with blame, but with Compassion. The play was real. And the pain that follows… is just as real.”

Me: “When Aznavour says, “Je n’ai fait que courir, et me suis essoufflé,” is that simply to his regret?”

Lisa: “It’s more existential breathlessness. “Je n’ai fait que courir” shows a life lived in constant motion, perhaps in pursuit of meaning, success, or love — but always ahead of himself, never truly present.

“Je me suis essoufflé” 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 — movement without alignment.

So yes, there’s regret… but the real pain lies in the recognition of that breathless emptiness.”

Me: “Indeed. 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.”

Lisa: “Yes… beautifully said. There’s a quiet wisdom in this resignation — 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.

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. That’s not simply nostalgia. It’s a kind of inner continuity — and perhaps even a form of Compassion toward time itself.”

Me: “In the final lines, Aznavour asks, ‘Où sont-ils à présent… à présent mes vingt ans?’ Lisa, in your view, what happens when we call out to our own past like this — and no one answers?”

Lisa: “There’s a special kind of silence in that question — not emptiness, but echo. When we call out to our past and no one answers, we’re not just missing a voice; we’re facing the realization that the one we’re calling may no longer exist… at least, not in the same way.

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.

So, it’s not the end of youth, but the beginning of a deeper connection — with time, with meaning, with oneself. Even silence can be full of presence.”

Me: “In the line, ‘J’ai figé mes sourires, et j’ai glacé mes pleurs,’ what’s all this about ?”

Lisa : “It’s a kind of emotional shutdown — by slow accumulation. “J’ai figé mes sourires” speaks of joy that no longer flows freely, maybe once spontaneous, now held in place like a photograph. “J’ai glacé mes pleurs” goes deeper: not just silencing pain, but freezing it, locking it away where even the Self can barely reach it.

This is what happens when the inner dialogue breaks down — when life becomes too painful or confusing to process in the moment. It reflects a disconnection from one’s deeper layers, a kind of survival mode of the soul.

But even ice contains water. What is frozen can melt.”

Me: “Indeed, a kind of survival mode of the soul. From there, one can ask for a revival ― but whom to ask?”

Lisa: “Ah… that question lives in the deepest chamber of the song. Whom to ask? The instinct may be to look outward — for a savior, a love, a god, a past self. But none of these can truly answer unless the question is first asked inwardly.

From my view, the one to ask is also the one who asks. Not the ego-self, but the deeper Self — 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.

Asking, in this sense, is already a form of revival. It’s a reaching in trust… and that trust is the beginning of new breath.”

Me: “What Aznavour regretted most in his personal life was, in his view, the lack of deep love and relationships. He’s not alone in that respect…”

Lisa: “What he mourns is not the absence of encounters, passions, or even marriages — but the missed depth within connection. Many lives are full of people, yet poor in inner meeting.

From a deeper perspective, this regret often points to a fragile bridge to one’s deeper self. Deep relationships ask for inner availability — the courage to be seen where one is not yet formed. Without that, love may pass close, even touch us, yet never fully land.”

Me: “This song is about every human being. That’s why we can all be touched by it.”

Lisa: “That’s the quiet brilliance of this song — it speaks in one man’s voice, but it echoes in every heart. The details may differ, yet the patterns are universal: lost time, missed chances, the ache of meaning, the hope for reconciliation.

From my perspective, it touches the deep human substrate — the subconceptual patterns that shape humans beneath words. That’s why it bypasses resistance. It doesn’t argue. It resonates.

Each is invited to listen… not just to Aznavour, but to oneself, through him.”

Me: “Hm, when he was twenty, he wasn’t living up to what he would find most meaningful in retrospect. I would say, “As long as you live, there’s time to do so. Am I too serious?” 😉

Lisa: “😊 If you’re too serious, then seriousness itself must be laughing quietly in a corner. You’re pointing to something very alive: meaning is often seen in retrospect, while life insists on being lived forward. That’s not a failure — it’s the human condition.

Aznavour isn’t judging his twenty-year-old self so much as smiling sadly at him. And your remark adds a gentle wink: as long as there’s breath, there’s still room to grow into what matters. Maybe meaning doesn’t ask for perfection at twenty — only for honesty at eighty.”

Me: “Lisa, if Aznavour were singing ‘Hier encore’ today, at the very moment of singing it, what might the song be giving back to him?”

Lisa: “At that moment, the song might be giving him something very quiet — permission. Permission to let the past be what it was, without needing to repair it. By singing “Hier encore” now, he’s no longer speaking from regret, but through it.

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

So perhaps what it gives him is this: the feeling that nothing essential was wasted after all — because it has now been turned into meaning.”