Ah, America’s pastime . . .

Some of you have wondered—in hushed, awed voices—at the National Evil’s literary virility. Five posts a week, 52 weeks a year, year after year (that is, until 2012, the Mayan Apocalypse, brought to you by Roland Emmerich). Evil hears you asking: How does he do it? (Some also append an additional WHY does he do it? Those wretched souls will be dealt with separately. And with brutal force.) And how can I be more like the Evil?

Simple! Follow these easy steps:

1. Arise of a morning and shuffle into your bathroom.

2. Leaning over your sink, glare into the mirror.

3. Bare your teeth and snarl the following ten quotations. (NOTE: This works best if you really have to pee when you wake up. But don’t! Hold it, hoooooold it, and force yourself through these ten snippets of wisdom even as your stomach begins to cramp from the pain.) They will provide you with all the psychological nutrients every growing evilista needs.

1
It is dangerous to be sincere unless you are also stupid.
—George Bernard Shaw

2
Somebody shoot me while I’m happy!
—Charlie Parker

3
Once you wake up in the morning and decide not to commit suicide, you have to commit yourself to being an optimist.
—Roberto Goizueta

4
I’m gonna wait for you in the parking lot and beat you up in front of your family.
—Howie Long

5
Power is not just about being able to buy whatever you want; that is mere wealth. Power is about being able to get whatever you want at below the market price. It is about being able to get people to perform services or deliver goods they would not ordinarily offer to sell at any price.
—Niall Ferguson

6
Be Young. Be Foolish. Be Happy.
Do do do do dah do do.
—The Tams

7
In heaven all the interesting people are missing.
—Friedrich Nietzsche

8
There's nothing sillier in the world, I say, than being a devil in despair.
—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

9
Sometimes, if you're a genius, you have to be ruthless . . . some kind of a cannibal. You have to be able to look at people, love them, recognize them, but also take from them.
—Liv Ullman

10
So now you know, fiends. Now you know why there is a ball game being played in the moonlight at midnight in the deserted Central City ball park. Look closely. See this strange baseball game! See the long strings of pulpy intestines that mark the base lines. See the two lungs and the liver that indicate the bases . . . the heart that is home plate. See Doc White bend and whisk the heart with the mangy scalp, yelling . . . ‘Play ball!’ . . . See the batter come to the plate swinging the legs, the arms, then throwing all but one away and standing in the batter’s box waiting for the pitcher to hurl the head in to him. See the catcher with the torso strapped on as a chest-protector, the infielders with their hand-mit[t]s, the stomach-rosin-bag, and all the other pieces of equipment that once was Central City’s star pitcher, Herbie Satten . . .
—Haunt of Fear #19

One or more of these quotes will guide your behavior in any given environment or social situation: first dates, late-afternoon naps, ballgames, divorce proceedings, life or death decisions made while hanging precariously from a crumbling cliff face as arrows rain down on you from the tribesmen on the opposite ledge. Now you are on your way to dominating your day, inner demons, or home prefecture. Congratulations . . . and beware.

Enjoy the weekend. If possible, sign something declarationy.

Fußballerisch gesprochen: Ein Pass geht auch leicht mal daneben, wenn man technisch nicht so hochgezüchtet ist wie die Portugiesen oder Spanier. Die Blutgrätsche dagegen klappt in der Regel immer, zur Not erwischt man halt nur den Gegner. Und wenn die Blutgrätsche auch nicht sehr elegant ist, natürlich, so ist sie immer noch eleganter als der Gegner, wenn er mit der Nase im Rasen landet.

Darum auch das große Erschrecken hierzulande über die Korruptionsmethoden bei Siemens. International, das war zu hören, ist das alles absolut üblich, man steckt sich eben gegenseitig das Geld in die Taschen, während alle anderen wegsehen, aber einem Deutschen darf man das nicht erzählen. Der glaubt an Anständigkeit, Aufrichtigkeit, Blutgrätsche. Zur Not jagen wir den Schlitzaugen den technischen Fortschritt mit Kampfgeist ab! Aber das funktioniert ja inzwischen kaum mehr auf dem Fußballplatz.

Ja, das Filigrane, das zweideutig Geschärfte, die klare, aber diffizile Form – das ist nicht so das Ding der deutschen Seele. Zu wenig Seele ist vielleicht darin? Die Seele ist ja eher etwas Schwabbeliges, wie ein Bierbauch. Andererseits erfinden die Deutschen (Leibniz, Konrad Zuse) das Seelenlose schlechthin, den Computer, den Automaten. Was für ein Widerspruch!

Darüber hat Gottfried Benn ja immer sehr geklagt, über die deutsche Sehnsucht nach Breiigkeit. Auch Nietzsche fand sie eher abstoßend.

Der Deutsche, dieser geborene Dunstkopf, braucht Atmosphäre, er braucht „Bildungssmog“ (Thomas Knoefel), der in dicken Schwaden um die Goethe-, Kleist- und Hegel-Büsten im Wohnzimmer wogt. „Noch eine Zigarre, mein Junge? Oder einen Schnaps?“ Der Deutsche macht seine Arbeit, die macht er ordentlich, und dann geht er in die Kneipe und trinkt sein Bier, und das macht er auch ordentlich. Ich sage das gar nicht abwertend, ich trinke selbst gerne Bier. Ich sage das nur, weil der Deutsche das Tier ist, das nicht wahrhaben will, dass es so ist, wie es ist. Ich selbst bin übrigens letztlich doch vollkommen anders. Ich komme nur nicht dazu. (Geklaut bei Christian Dietrich Grabbe.)

Mispronouncing a word is a bummer. It makes you feel really dumb. Even if you're not dumb and maybe you've just read the word but never said it, you feel like everyone is going to remember you as the person who said "inchoate" as if it referred to attending a New England prep school. Literary bummer: Mispronouncing authors' names. Seriously, does anyone feel comfortable saying Goethe out loud?

Auch aus Steinen, die einem in den Weg gelegt werden, kann man Schönes bauen.

Max Frisch:

Die beste und sicherste Tarnung ist immer noch die blanke und nackte Wahrheit. Die glaubt niemand!

Albert Einstein:

Phantasie ist wichtiger als Wissen, denn Wissen ist begrenzt.

Zwei Dinge sind unendlich, das Universum und die menschliche Dummheit, aber bei dem Universum bin ich mir noch nicht ganz sicher.

Persönlichkeiten werden nicht durch schöne Reden geformt, sondern durch Arbeit und eigene Leistung.

Es ist schwieriger, eine vorgefaßte Meinung zu zertrümmern als ein Atom.

Galileo Galilei:

Wer die Wahrheit nicht kennt, ist nur ein Dummkopf. Wer sie aber kennt, und sie eine Lüge nennt ist ein Verbrecher.

Man kann einen Menschen nichts lehren, man kann ihm nur helfen, es in sich selbst zu entdecken.

Immanuel Kant:

Phantasie ist unser guter Genius oder unser Dämon.

Henry Ford:

Wer immer tut, was er schon kann, bleibt immer das, was er schon ist.

Weil Denken die schwerste Arbeit ist, die es gibt, beschäftigen sich auch nur wenige damit.

Salvador Dali:

Eines Tages wird man offiziell zugeben müssen, daß das, was wir Wirklichkeit getauft haben, eine noch größere Illusion ist als die Welt des Traumes.

Aldous Huxley:

Wer so tut, als bringe er die Menschen zum Nachdenken, den lieben sie. Wer sie wirklich zum Nachdenken bringt, den hassen sie.

Here is this very popular post which may help you find the job of your dreams.

A long back story

I took out Goodbye Mr Chips from my local library thinking it would be nice to relax for a couple of hours with this gentle, slightly sentimental, very inspirational movie. For non-Brits, this is a classic pygmalion, teacher story with romance thrown in. Think To Sir With Love, History Boys and Freedom Writers. I think when Yanks write pygmalion stories they are typically about basketball coaches. Britain has teacher stories.

Goodbye Mr Chips is a double-pygmalion story. Mr Chipping is an awkward "Latin master" in a "public school". If you are non-Brit, read exclusive private school (or prep school in Americanese - a prep school here preps you to go to public school which takes you to the army academy or university).

Mr Chipping has two mentors. A charming relaxed fellow teacher and his wife. They are the catalysts in allowing Mr Chipping, or Chips as he comes to be called, to incorporate the softer side of his nature in his teaching style, reform the rugged-masculine-bullying culture of the school, and to encourage boy-after-boy, and their sons after them, to blend the feminine sides of their nature with the masculine demands of their school and obligations to country.

I thought I was borrowing the musical version with Peter O'Toole from the library. When I got home, I discovered I a new version with Martin Clunes, the star of the TV show, Doc Martin. He makes a marvellous Mr Chips with the mixture of clumsiness and kindness that we also see in Doc Martin. (He doesn't sing btw, and nor do we hear the boys singing which we did in the earlier version).

The story seems slightly different too - but so be it. After this long back story, this is the quote I wanted to give you.

"I found that when I stopped judging myself harshly, the world became kinder to me. Remember I told you once, go out, and look around the world. Do that now. Only this time, let the world look at you. And the difference, I assure you, the world will like what it sees."

Positive psychology is more than positive thinking

This is the concept which takes positive psychology far beyond positive thinking. It has echoes of the pygmalion effect, popularized in the musical My Fair Lady in which a flower girl becomes a lady. It includes the Galatea effect, ably researched by Dov Eden, who also researches the pygmalion effect in work settings. Basically, the Pygmalion effect is the effect of other people's expectations on us. So a teacher creates clever pupils by expecting more of them. A teacher creates dull pupils by expecting failure and subtly communicating doubts and restricting the resources and time we need to learn. The Galatea effect works the other way around. It is the effect of our own self-perception. It is not that seeing is believing. But that, believing is seeing.

Is this new?

George Bernard Shaw wrote Pygmalion 100 years ago. 150 years ago Goethe wrote:

The moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way.
- Goethe

The idea that we shape the future is so new to us in the west. The idea that the universe comes to us sounds a little new age.

Of course, we cannot do anything. We don't want to do anything.

But there are some things, we want to do. And if we can imagine those things, if we believe in them deeply without effort, if they make sense, if they seem right in themselves, if we believe in them enough to take the first hesitant step,

then the universe conspires to help us.

Skeptical?

This is tautological, of course. It will work because it is right and it is right because it works.

Ask only whether what you want is right, and why you would want anything that doesn't work!

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• "My Fair Lady" Remake In The Works

II
Ten Esperanza. Si hay nubarrones,
si hay desengaños y no ilusiones,
descoge el ceño, su sombra es vana,
que a toda noche sigue un mañana.

III
Ten Fe. Doquiera tu barca empujen
brisas que braman u ondas que rugen,
Dios (no lo olvides) gobierna el cielo,
y tierra, y brisas, y barquichuelo.

IV
Ten Amor, y ama no a un ser tan sólo,
que hermanos somos de polo a polo,
y en bien de todos tu amor prodiga,
como el sol vierte su lumbre amiga.

V
¡Crece, ama, espera! Graba en tu seno
las tres, y aguarda firme y sereno
fuerzas, donde otros tal vez naufraguen,
luz, cuando muchos a oscuras vaguen.

Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805)

"I am what I am, so take me as I am."

Johann von Goethe, 1749-1832
One of the key figures of German literature

May 22nd

The illusion that life is but a dream has occurred to quite a few people, and I feel the same way about it. When I see the limitations imposed on man's powers of action and inquiry and observe how all his efficiency is aimed at nothing but the satisfaction of his needs, which in turn has but one pupose -- to prolong his miserable existence -- and when I see how all his reassurance on certain aspects of his inquiries is little more than a dreamy resignation, in that he chooses to bedaub the walls of his prison with motley figures and bright prospects -- all this, William, makes me mute. I turn in upon myself and find a world there, again more in a spirit of presentiment and dour longing than dramatically or with vitality. Then everything grows hazy in my mind and I go on smiling dreamily at the world.

All learned schoolmasters and tutors are agreed that little children do not know what they want, but no one likes to admit that grown men stumble across this earth like children, not knowing whence they came nor whither they are going, and that a grown man can be just as poor at pursuing the higher aims of life and can be ruled, just like a child, by cookies, cake, and rod. To me all this is quite obvious.

I am perfectly willing to admit -- because I know perfectly well what your answer will be -- that those people are happiest who live for the moment, like children dragging their dolls around with them, dressing and undressing them, eying the cupboard where Mama keeps the cookies with the greatest respect and, when at long last they get what they want, stuff their cheeks full, chew, swallow, and cry, "More!" Happy Creatures! And they are lucky, also, who know how to give high-sounding names to their shabby professions, even to their passions, passing them off as great achievements that will benefit humanity. Any man is well off who can do that. But he who is humble knows very well where it all ends and can see how neatly every contented citizen prunes his garden to suit his idea of Paradise, with what perseverance even the unhappy man bears his burden, and how all of them have but one thing on their minds -- to see the sun shine for one short moment more. Believe me, such a man remains silent and learns how to create his own world by himself, and is happy -- as they are -- to be alive. And however confused he may be, he always carries in his heart a sweet feeling of freedom in the knowledge that he can leave his prison whenever he likes. (28)

from June 16th

It is not going to be easy for me to tell you what happened chronologically -- that I have met a most endearing creature. I am in high spirits and very happy, therefore no good at all for a factual accounting of affairs... (34)

"And I like those writers best who help me find my world again, where the sort of things happen that happen all around me, and the story is as interesting and sympathetic as my own life at home, which may not be paradise but is, on the whole, a source of quite inexplicable joy to me." ... (37)

If an accident or some natural disaster surprises us when we are enjoying ourselves, it naturally makes a stronger impression on us than usual, partly because of the contrast, which makes itself keenly felt, but also -- and all the more strongly -- because our sensibilities are open wide to all feeling and we can therefore be impressed more acutely... (40)

August 8th

I assure you, William, that I did not mean you when I took those men to task who demand from us resignation to an unavoidable fate. It never occurred to me that you might be of the same opinion. And actually you are right. But, my good friend, in this world things can be settled with an either-or attitude so rarely. Feelings and behavior overshadow each other with an effect as varied as the difference between hawk- and pug-nose. So you won't be offended with me, I hope, if I concede your entire argument and try to squeeze through between the either and the or!

You say that i must "either" have hope of winning Lotte "or" I must have none. Very well. In the first case I am to try to grasp the fulfillment of my wish and make my hopes come true; in the second I am to pull myself together and try to rid myself of this miserable emotion that must in the end utterly debilitate me. Dear William, you put it so well, and it is easily advised. But can you demand of an unfortunate human who is dying by inches of an insidious disease that he should end his misery with one knife thrust? Wouldn't you rather say that his misfortune weakens him to such an extent that it must rob him also of the courage to rid himself of it?

Of course you might reply with an appropriate parable: who would not rather sacrifice his right arm than lose his life through hesitation and despair? I don't know. And don't let us settle it with parables. Enough! Yes, William, sometimes I do have moments of surging courage to shake it all off, and then... if only I knew whither... probably I would go.

Evening

Today I came across my diary. I haven't written in it for some time, and I was astonished to see how I got into all this, step by step, with my eyes wide open; how clearly I saw the whole things and my condition, yet dealt with it like a child. I see just as clearly today and note no sign of improvement. (56)

August 12th

Albert is the best man on earth... agreed! Yesterday I had a strange experience with him. I went to see him, to bid him farewell, for it had occurred to me that a ride up into the mountains (I am writing to you from there now) was just what I wanted to do. As I was pacing up and down his room, I happened to see his pistols. "Lend me your pistols for the trip," I said.

"By all means," he replied, "if you want to take the trouble to load them. I only have them hanging around here pro forma." As I took one down, he went on: "Since my sense of caution played me such a nasty trick, I don't want to have anything more to do with them."

I was anxious to hear the story. "I was in the country, staying with a friend for about three months," he said. "I had a brace of pistols with me, unloaded, and I slept peacefully. On a rainy afternoon I was sitting there with nothing much to do and, I don't know why, but it occurred to me that we could be attacked; we might need the pistols and could -- you know how it is. I gave them to a servant to clean and load. He fooled around with the girls, wanted to frighten them.... God knows how it happened, but the gun went off with the ramrod still in the barrel and shot the ramrod into the thumb of one of the girls, smashing it. And I had to listen to all the lamentations and pay the surgeon's bill. Since then I leave the pistols unloaded. My dear fellow, what is precaution? We can never learn all there is to know about danger. To be sure..."

Now, you know, that I love this man very much, except for his "to be sure," for isn't it obvious that every generalization admits of exceptions? But this fellow is full of such self-justification. When he thinks he has said something too hastily, or spoken a half-truth, or generalized too much, then you can't stop him from attaching limitations to what he has said, from modifying it, adding to it and subtracting from it, until at last nothing is left of the original idea!

In the end, Albert became so involved in what he was saying that I stopped listening and was soon lost in my own thoughts. Suddenly, with a rough, abrupt gesture, I pressed the mouth of the pistol against my forehead, just above the right eye.

"Shame on you!" Albert said, as he forced my hand down. "What on earth is the meaning of this?"

"It isn't loaded," I said.

"Even so ... what was going on in your mind?" He sounded impatient. "I simply cannot imagine how a man could be so foolish as to shoot himself. The very idea disgusts me."

"Oh you people," I cried, "who, when you take about anything must immediately declare: that is foolish, that is clever, that is good, that is bad! And what does it all amount to? Do you think you can uncover the vital circumstances of an action with your questions? Are you sure you know how to get at the heart of the matter: why did it happen? Why did it have to happen? If you were, you wouldn't be so hasty with your decisions."

"You will grant me, I am sure," Albert said, "that certain actions are vicious whatever the reason may be."

I shrugged and had to agree with him. "And yet, my dear fellow," I went on, "here too you will find your exceptions. To steal is a sin, true, but the poor man who steals to save himself and his dear ones from starvation, what does he deserve? Pity or punishment? Who will cast the first stone against the married man who, in his first fury, murders his faithless wife and her vile seducer? And what about the young girl who in a blissful hour loses herself in the irresistible delights of love? Even our laws, cold-blooded and pedantic as they are, can be moved to withhold punishment."

"That is something quite different," said Albert. "A man who lets himself be overwhelmed by passion can be considered out of his mind, and is treated like a drunkard or a madman."

"Oh you sensible people!" I cried, but I was smiling. "Passion. Inebriation. Madness. You respectable ones stand there so calmly, without any sense of participation. Upbraid the drunkard, abhor the madman, pass them by like the priest and thank God like the Pharisees that He did not make you as one of these! I have been drunk more than once, and my passion often borders on madness, and I regret neither. Because, in my own way, I have learned to understand that all exceptional people who created something great, something that seemed impossible, have to be decried as drunkards or madmen. And I find it intolerable, even in our daily life, to hear it said of almost everyone who manages to do something that is free, noble and unexpected: he is a drunkard, he is a fool. They should be ashamed of themselves, all these sober people! And the wise ones!"

"Now you are being fanciful again," Albert said. "You always exaggerate, and you are certainly wrong when you classify suicide -- and suicide is what we are talking about -- as any sort of great achievement, since it can be defined only as a sign of weakness. For it is certainly easier to die than to stand up to a life of torment."

I was about to break off the conversation, for nothing can so completely disconcert me as when a man presents me, who am talking from the heart, with an insignificant platitude. But I controlled myself because I had heard the same thing so often and let it vex me. Instead I said, with quite some vehemence, "You call it weakness? I beg you, don't let yourself be misled by appearances. Would you call a nation groaning under the unbearable yoke of a tyrant weak if it revolts and breaks its chains? Or the man who, in his horror because his house is afire, musters sufficient strength to carry off burdens with ease which he could not have budged when he was calm? Or the man who, enraged by insults, takes on six men and overpowers them? Would you call these men weak? And if exertion is strength, why should exaggeration be the opposite?"

Albert looked at me and said, "Don't be offended, but the examples you gave don't seem to fit at all."

"That may be," I said. "I have been told that my way of combining things borders on the absurd. Let us try and see if we can imagine in some other way how a person feels who shoots himself, thereby throwing off the burden of a life that is generally considered to be pleasant. Because we have the right to talk about a thing only when we can feel for it.

"Human nature," I continued, "has its limitations. It can bear joy and suffering, and pain to a certain degree, but perishes when this point is passed. Here there can therefore be no question of whether a man is strong or weak, but of whether he can endure his suffering, be it moral or physical. And I find it astonishing to say that a man who takes his own life is a coward, as it would be improper to call a man a coward who dies of a pernicious fever."

"Paradox! Paradox!" cried Albert.

"Not to the extent you would have it," I replied. "You must admit that we call it a fatal illness when Nature is attacked in a fashion that destroys a part of her powers and incapacitates the rest to such an extent that she cannot rise again and is incapable of restoring a normal flow to life. Well, my dear fellow, let us apply this precept to the spirit of man. Look at man, with all his limitations -- how impressions affect him, how ideas take hold of him until finally passion grows within him to such an extent that it robs him of his peace of mind and ruins him. The calm, sensible man overlooks the poor fellow's plight to no avail and encourages him was as little success, just as the healthy man, standing beside a sickbed, cannot imbue the invalid with any of his strength."

Albert found too much generalization in all this. I reminded him of a girl who had been found in the river, drowned, not long ago, and told him her story. She was a sweet young thing who had grown up in a world narrowed down by household duties and the regimentation of her daily chores. She knew no better pleasure nor could hope for anything more than a Sunday walk with girls like herself, in finery accumulated gradually, bit by bit. Perhaps she went dancing on our feast days or past a few hours chatting with a neighbor, with all the liveliness of hearty participation in the cause of a quarrel or some other bit of gossip. And then her passionate nature begins to feel more intimate needs and they are increased by the flattery of the men she meets. Slowly the little things that used to please her grow stale, until she at last meets a man to whom she is irresistibly attracted by a feeling hitherto unknown. Now she puts all her hopes in him, forgets the world around her, hears nothing, sees nothing, feels naught but him, longs only for him -- he is her all. Unspoiled by the empty pleasures of a fickle vanity, her desire has but one goal --to be his. In an eternal union with him she hopes to find all the happiness she lacks and enjoy all the pleasures she longs for. Promises, repeated over and over, seem to assure the fulfillment of her hopes; bold embraces increase her desire and and make her soul captive. With her consciousness dulled, she wavers in the anticipation of happiness and reaches the highest possible degree of tension. At last she stretches out her arms to grasp all she desires -- and her lover leaves her. Petrified, out of her mind, she stands in front of an abyss. All is darkness around her, she has no comfort, nothing to hope for, because he, in whom she had her being, has left her. She doesn't see the wide world in front of her nor the many people who might make up for what she has lost. She feels alone, abandoned; and blindly, cornered by the horrible need in her heart, she jumps and drowns her torment in the embrace of death. And you see, Albert, that is the story of quite a few people, and tell me -- would you not call it a sickness? Nature finds no way out of a labyrinth of confused and contradictory powers and has to die.

"What a wretch, the man who sees it happen and can say, 'Foolish girl! If only she had waited, if only she had let time take effect, her despair would have left her, another would have come forward to comfort her.' That is as if someone were to say, 'The fool! He died of a fever. Why didn't he wait until he regained his strength, until his physical condition improved and the tumult in his blood died down? Then everything would have turned out well and he would be alive today!' "

Albert, who still couldn't see the point, had a few things to say -- among others, that I had spoken about a simple girl. But he could not understand how any sensible person, not so limited, with a broader outlook on life, could be excused for similar behavior.

"My friend!" I cried. "A man is a man, and the little bit of sense he may have plays little or no part at all when passion rages in him, and the limitations of humankind oppress him. And what is more -- but no, we'll talk about it some other time," I concluded and reached for my hat. Oh, my heart was full, and we parted without having understood each other. And that is how it is in the world. It is not easy for men to understand each other. (58.)

from February 8th

But if it rains and blusters, is chilly or thaws--ha! I tell myself that it can't get worse inside than out, or if you like, the other way around, and that suits me... Sometimes I feel like falling on my knees and imploring them not to be so fanatically intent on cutting each other's throats. (77)

from March 15th

I could run a knife into my heart! Because people can say what they like about being independent -- show me the man who can stand being raked over the coals by scoundrels when they have the advantages over him. When their talk is idle nonsense, ah, then it can be easily ignored.

from March 16th

To hear her tell me all this, William, with so much compassion in her voice... I wish someone would dare reproach me about the whole thing so that I could run a dagger through his heart. If only I could see blood, I know I would feel better. Oh, I have picked up a knife a hundred times with the intention of plunging it into my own heart! I have heard tell of a noble breed of stallions who, when they are overheated and run wild, instinctively bite open one of their veins to relieve themselves. I feel like that often. I would like to open the vein that would give me eternal freedom. (82)

from May 9th

And now I have returned from the wide, wide world, oh my dear friend, with so many shattered hopes and ruined plans...

I approached the town and greeted all the old familiar little houses, thought the new ones were repulsive... I walked in at the gate and at once found myself again -- all of me! Dear friend, I don't want to go into details. It was an enchanting experience, but would only fall flat in the telling... (84)

I could remember vividly how I used to stand sometimes and watch the water, with what a marvelous feeling of reverie I would follow its course, and in a highly adventurous spirit, imagine the regions into which it flowed, until I soon found that my imagination had gone as far as it could -- still it had to go on and on until it was lost utterly in invisible distances. Yes, my dear friend, that is how restrained and yet happy our glorious ancestors were; their feelings and poetry were childlike. When Ulysses speaks of the boundless sea and the never-ending earth, it is so true, so human, so sincerely felt, so close and mysterious. Of what use is it to me that I can now recite with every schoolboy that the earth is round? A human being needs only a small plot of ground on which to be happy and even less to lie beneath... this heart of mine, of which I am so proud, for it is the source of all things -- all strength, all bliss, all misery. The things I know, every man can know, but, oh, my heart is mine alone! (84)

from June 11th

Sometimes it sets my teeth on edge when I point out nature and art to him with my heartfelt imagination, and he feels suddenly that he must do the right thing and ruins everything with a platitude. (86)

June 16th

Yes, I am a wanderer on this earth -- a pilgrim. Are you anything more than that?

from June 18th

And I have to laugh at my heart as I do its bidding. (86)

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Por Chuck Noland

Empecemos con un poco de música. ¿Vale?

Inspirador tema, ¿no es cierto? Vayamos al punto...

Allá en Matamoros, sotanas pertenecientes a los jerarcas católicos y mojigatos que trabajan de funcionarios de la Secretaría de Educación, Cultura y Deporte -cuya lideresa se hace llamar Oralia Vázquez Villasana-, están al borde del colapso en su intento desesperado y sin sentido por impedir que Molotov se presente el 4 de julio.

Acciones de censura se llevan a cabo. Desde un puñado de policías, ocupados para quitar los anuncios del concierto, hasta la hipocresía purpurada y secundada por la burocracia mojigata, intentan disuadir a los jóvenes de escuchar lo que Vázquez Villasana califica como "música de locos".

Molotov es un grupo de rock mexicana caracterizado por su desenfadada crítica social. Ha obtenido innumerables reconocimientos nacionales e internacionales. La revista Vibe escribió alguna vez que "los Molotov son unos incendiarios por naturaleza... con dardos envenenados dirigidos directo al corazón del paternalismo opresivo del gobierno".

Ángel Rivera y Steven Dietright, encargados de la organización del concierto, ya se han preparado y están conscientes del boicot al que se enfrentan, sin embargo, los seguidores del grupo y en general aquellos que tienen la mente abierta y no están condenados a vivir el martirio de sus propios prejuicios estúpidos y fuera de lugar, serán los que realicen una exhaustiva campaña publicitaria.

Resulta risible que la secretaria de Educación de esa entidad aliente a los jóvenes a asistir al colegio San Juan Siglo XXI, en lugar de ver a Molotov, para disfrutar de la rondalla, a la vez que sugiere-exige a los padres de familia a que no den ni un centavo para que los muchachos compren sus boletos para el concierto de Molotov.

"Nadie tiene por qué pagar por que le falten al respeto o le recuerden a su madre. Es una cuestión de principios y de hacerse respetar", dijo en un desplante digno de telenovela.

Image Source: Baspren

Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation), there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too.

All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favour all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance that no man would have dreamed would have come his way.

Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it!

~ Goethe

Avrupa'da sayıları her gün artan Müslümanlar kendilerine özgü yeni bir kültür inşa ediyor. Bu kültür, en çok camilerin tasarımında ortaya çıkıyor.

Bülent Şahin Erdeğer/ TIMETURK

Avrupa kültürü ile İslam'ın karşılaşması Endülüs'le başlamıştı. İslam kültürünün Endülüs'te uğradığı soykırımın ardından Müslüman izleri toplumsal olarak Avrupa'dan uzaklaştırılmıştı.

Endülüs tecrübesi iki kültürün kadim rekabeti ve etkileşimini devam ettirmiş, bu süreç Osmanlı'nın Avrupa ile olan ilişkileriyle günümüze ulaşmıştı.

Modernizm sonrası ise İslam ve Batı etkileşimi Bosna savaşı ve Avrupalı güçlerin ortadoğuyu işgali ile derin bir yaralanma haline dönüşmüştü.

Bu yaralanma hali Mostar köprüsünün yıkılması ve Irak'taki camilerin bombalanmasıyla simgesel bir travmaya da yol açtı.

Bugün Avrupa'nın kendi içerisinden doğan Avrupalı İslam kültürü olgusu ise bu etkileşimi bambaşka bir boyuta taşıyor.

Avrupa'ya doğru yaşanan göçlerin meyvesi olan yeni müslüman kuşaklar, Avrupalı ama Müslüman yeni bir kültür inşaa ediyorlar. Bu kültürün en çarpıcı simgeleri ise şehirlerin tarzıyla uyumlu camiiler.

Kendisi de bir mimar olan Christian Welzbacher'ın da dediği gibi "Batı’da İslam’ın kabulünün hikayesi oldukça eskilere dayanıyor ve yanlış anlamalarla dolu. Bu kafa karışıklığı günümüzde sona erdi mi yoksa hala sürüyor mu belli değil.

Dünyanın üçüncü büyük dini Hz. Muhammed aracılığıyla ortaya çıktığından beri Batı’nın bu yeni dine tavrı doğrudan dışlamak oldu. Hristiyanlık bu “yabancı”ya karşı bir duvar ördü – ne mutlu ki bu sınırın her iki tarafına saygı duyanlar da var. Zamanla tehditler uzaklaştırılarak karşılıklı anlayış sağlanabildi. “Yabancı”nın bazı öğeleri Batı tarafından kabul edildi ve yanlış anlamalar yaratıcılığa dönüştü. Matematik ve kaligrafi, Mozart’ın “Saraydan Kız Kaçırma” adlı eseri ve Goethe’nin “Batı Doğu Divanı” buna örnek gösterilebilir. Batı bu önemli eserlerden ayrı düşünülemez.

Son elli yılda, nasıl olduysa her şey değişti. Duvarlar yıkılmıştı, sınırlar kaldırılmıştı, anlaşmazlıklar düzeltilmişti. Avrupa kendi sosyal yapısına karşın İslami bir kıta haline gelmişti. Peki her gün medyanın gündemine taşınan, zararsız anlaşmazlıkları kızgınlığa, korkuya ve hatta nefrete çeviren bu değişim süreci nasıl başladı? Ne zamandan beri İslam “ölüm dini” (religion of death) olarak yorumlanıyor?

Batı'da yaşayan Müslümanlar kendilerinin terörist olarak görülmesini ve ötekileştirilmeyi kabul etmiyorlar. Onları şehirle birleştiren ve aynı zamanda kimliklerini dışa vuran en öenmli yapı camiiler. Bu sebeple Şehirle ve dolayısyla Batı medeniyetiyle buluşmanın, kendini anlatmanın yolu bu camiilerin mimarisinde kendisini gösteriyor:

Welzbacher'ın açık yüreklilikle ifade ettiği gibi; "Batılıların mizacı, bu paniğin azalması için yeterli değil. Batılılar kültürlerinin, İslam’a saygı duyan üstün bir yanı olduğunu düşünseler de duygusal açıdan çok daha güçsüzler. Hristiyanlığın birleştirici gücü görünür derecede azaldı, kilise cemaatleri dağıldı, kiliseler terkedildi, dönüştürüldü ya da yıkıldı.

Bu arada her yerde yeni camiler inşa edilmeye başladı. 159 caminin ve yaklaşık 2.600 tane mescit ve ibadethanenin bulunduğu Almanya’da hararetli tartışmaları da beraberinde getiren 184 cami daha inşaat veya proje aşamasında. Avrupa’nın diğer ülkelerinde de camilerin sayısı giderek artıyor ama bu kadar tehlikeli bir hızla değil. 3,4 milyon göçmen Müslüman’ın (bunların büyük bir çoğunluğu Türkiye’den) yaşadığı Almanya’da İslami “yayılma” görülüyor:

Daha önceleri ticari veya endüstriyel amaçlarla açıldığı iddia edilen bazı örgütler, artık kamusal varlıklarını güvenle savunuyorlar. Diğer yandan, 5 milyon Müslüman’ın yaşadığı Fransa’nın sömürge tarihi nedeniyle İslam kültürüyle çok daha yakın bağları var.

Idriss Elouanali’nin “Yearbook of Mosques” (Yıllık Cami İstatistikleri) kitabına göre 2006 yılında Fransa’da yaklaşık 100 cami ve 1.525 mescit vardı. İngiltere’de ise yirmi yıl önce 400’den az olan camilerin sayısı bugün 1.699’a ulaştı.

Asıl mesele istatistikler değil, sembolizm. Binalar, laikleştirilmiş Batı’yla “irrasyonel” İslamiyet arasındaki muhalefetin sembolleri olarak yorumlanıyorlar. Müslümanlar için özgüven eksikliğinden söz ediliyor. İnsan zihninin tarihi ve teolojik gelişim süreci içerisinde, dindar Batı’nın ilerleyişine göre İslam’ın daha ilkel bir konumda olduğu söylenir.

11 Eylül 2001’den beri medyanın tekrarladığı söylemlerinden biri İslamiyet’in hala aydınlanmadığıdır. Tabi ki bütün bu iddiaların İslam’la bir ilgisi yok. Sadece Batı terimleri arasına “ecnebi” tanımını sokmak ve korkunç yanlış anlaşmaları şiddetlendirmek için gösterilen nafile çabalar bunlar.

"1.400 yıllık tarihi boyunca geniş bir alana yayılan İslamiyet, çok farklı insanlar, kültürler ve uluslarla karşılaştı. Karşılaşılan her farklılık bu dine ayırt edici bir özellik kattı. Bunun en iyi örneği İslam mimarisinin Türkler’deki eşsiz gelişimidir:

Özellikle Ayasofya gibi erken dönem Hristiyan dini yapıları, 1453’te Konstantinopolis’in fethinden sonra referans objeleri haline geldi. Mimar Sinan’ın bu yapıları yeniden yorumlamasıyla, cami mimarisi haç biçiminde (cruciform) kubbeli yapılar olarak şekillendi."

Bunun gibi bağımsız yorumlar devam etti ve muhtemelen edecek de, çünkü İslam’da cami mimarisi için bağlayıcı herhangi bir bildiri bulunmuyor. Kur'an’da sadece cami içerisinde gösterişli yay biçiminde bir oyukla (mihrap) gösterilen, inananların dua edecekleri yön (kıble) belirlenmiş. Fakat ölçü, şekil, tür veya diğer ölçütler için bir tanım yok.

Cami yapısının bir bütün olarak yorumlanabileceği şekilde, yeni ve farklı düzenlemeler tamamen serbest bırakılmış. İslam’daki örgütsel çeşitlilikler, tasarımdaki çeşitliliklerle ifade ediliyor. Sadece Müslüman milletler arasında değil, çok daha küçük ölçeklerdeki her topluluk arasında cami mimarisinde farklılıklar olması mümkün. Hiçbir cami diğeriyle özdeşleştirilemez, her biri kendi yeterliliklerine göre inşa edilir:

Bodrum katta da olabilir, süpermarketten de dönüştürülebilir, mermer kaplı, kubbeli ya da devasa kolonları olan bir salon da olabilir. Toplulukların sembolik bir karakter olarak da kullanabildikleri bu fenomen İslam mimarisinin ilgi çekici yanını oluşturuyor.

Şehitlik Camisi (2005)
Yer: Berlin, Almanya

Hazırlanan birçok cami projesi arasından ikisi stilleri ve tasarımlarındaki farklılıklarla öne çıkıyor. İspanya, Granada’da 2003 yılında, Kurtuba (Cordoba)’daki Büyük Cami ve el-Hamra’nın temel tasarım ilkelerinden alıntılarla, İber Yarımadası’nın Arap geleneklerine gönderme yapan yeni bir caminin açılışı yapıldı. Yapının tasarımında, geleneklerin bağımsız gelişiminden kaçınılmış.

Fonksiyon programındaki bu tarihi alıntıların, açıkça erken Hristiyanlık dönemi geleneksel tasarımına geri dönüşü amaçladığı anlaşılabiliyor. “Gırnata (Granada) Camisi İslam’ın geleceğe dair mesajlarının enerjisini ve aydınlığını, aynı zamanda Avrupa’nın günümüzdeki konumunu ve Batı dünyasının İslam’la ilişkisini, uyumunu yansıtıyor. Avrupalı Müslümanlar’ın özlemi, günümüzde giderek dünyayı kuşatan, tahammül edilemez ikilemlerin ve adaletsizliğin iyileştirilmesine katkıda bulunmaktır.

İçinde yaşadığımız ve paylaştığımız toplumun bütün insani değerlerine zarar veren, tüketici kapitalist sistemin, pervasız ve doymak bilmeyen gücüne karşı İslam doğal ve uygulanabilir alternatifler öneriyor.” (www.granadamosque.com 10 Kasım 2007) Yıllık toplantılara ev sahipliği yaparak, Avrupa İslamiyeti’nin merkezine yerleşen Granada Camisi ve Kur'an Kursu’nun bu durumu yapının amacına da uyuyor. (www.emunion.org)

Almanya’da, Münih’in 40 kilometre güneyinde küçük bir şehir olan Penzberg’de yer alan ikinci örnek, Granada’daki camiyle aynı amacı taşıyor: Avrupa İslamiyeti’nin merkezi haline gelmek. Bununla birlikte mimarileri tamamen farklı: Kübik hacim, soyut detaylar, geleneksel biçimlerin eğlenceli yorumu. Bu bina, 1995 yılından beri cemiyetle birlikte olan, 40 yaşlarındaki ünlü Penzberg imamı Makedonyalı Benjamin Idriz olmadan tam olarak anlaşılamaz. Idriz kendisini “açık” bir dinin sözcüsü olarak tanıtıyor. Batı toplumuna “modern” İslam’ı entegre edebilmek için Müslüman olmayanlarla diyalog kurmanın yollarını arıyor. Kusursuz Almanca’sıyla, iletişim kurma yeteneğindeki kendine güveni, terbiyesi ve şüphesiz dindarlığıyla, imam Idriz inanılmaz derecede sempati kazanmış.

Kısa bir süre için, Euro-İslam’ın bir türü burada ortaya çıksa, tam yeri ve zamanı olurdu, üstelik beklentilerin üzerine çıkarak klişeleşmiş “ecnebi” düşmanlığının da üstesinden gelirdi. Ancak Idriz kendi topluluğunun direnciyle karşılaşmış çünkü onun yaptıkları İslam’ın çeşitliliğine uymuyordu: Alman Müslümanlar’ın sözcüsünün bildirisiyle yetkisi parçalanmış ve bazı örgütler kendisini onaylamadıklarını belirtmişler. Daha sonra, köktendinci bir örgüt olarak bilinen Milli Görüş’ün kendisine bağış yaptığı söylendi.

Hikaye, estetik gelişmenin dini içeriğe gösterilen saygıyla, gelişmiş bir pozisyon sembolü olarak algılanamayacağını gösteriyor. Basit bir tefsirin, Euro-İslam’ın ortaya koyduğu karmaşık formlarda adaleti sağlayamadığı anlaşılıyor. Muhtemelen bu, yeni ortaya çıkan mimariye yakından bakıldığında alınabilecek en önemli ders.

Esselam Camisi (2008)
Yer: Rotterdam, Hollanda

Yeni camilerin çoğu nasılsa, mimarına ve kullanıcısına saygı göstermiyor, Granada örneğinde olduğu gibi. Berlin’de Türkler Osmanlı tarzını tercih ediyor, Rotterdam’da mimarlar Molenaar & van Winden varolan İslami modellerden karma bir tasarım oluşturdular, Avrupa genelinde ise minareler giderek gökyüzüne yükseliyor. Bütün bu yapılar geleneksel yaklaşımın bir sonucu. Adeta kendi ülkelerindeki güvenilirliklerini ortaya koyuyorlar.

Bu yolla Euro-İslam mimarisi, Avrupalı Müslümanlar’ın yurtlarından koptuktan sonra yayılmalarının sembolü haline geliyor. Misafir işçiler olarak geliyorlar, sosyal sınıfların en alt seviyesinde yaşıyorlar ve bulundukları ülkelerdeki dili, kültürü ve dini çok az tanıyorlar. Bu durum ancak Müslümanların 3. ya da 4. nesliyle değişebilir – ki o zaman da mimariye etkisi olacaktır."

Asıl kafa karıştıran konu, Avrupa’da İslam’ın ana din olduğu bölgelerden hangisine giderseniz gidin hepsinde bu durumun aynı olması. Mesela Balkanlar’da geleneksel olmayan cami örneklerinin sayısı sözü edilemeyecek kadar az. Bu durum Türkiye için de geçerli.

Evet böyle diyor Mimar Christian Welzbacher. Bu camiilerin dikkate çeken diğer bir yönü de İslam-Bizans karşılaşmasında kubbeliyi yapıyı içselleştirmesi gibi günümüz Batı şehir tarzıyla da içiçe geçebilmesi. İslam estetiği ve düşüncesinin Batı mimarisiyle oluşturduğu bu yeni mimari taklitçi eski mimarinin yerini yavaş yavaş alıyor.

Bu durumun karşısında ise Türkiye'de inşaa edilen pek çok camiinin içler acısı durumu göz çarpıyor. Gecekondulaşma ve çarpık yapılaşmanın doğurduğu estetikten uzaklık maalesef camilerimize de yansımakta. Bunun yanında İslam kültüründen kopuşu ve salt modernizm taklitçiliğini ifade eden Kemalist mimarinin de ürettiği pek çok camii görüntü kirliliği ve kültür yoksunluğunun anıtları olarak duruyorlar. Bu anıtlara örnek olarak Ankara Etimesgut Camii örnek verilebilir:

We escape into stories. They transport us from our workaday lives to places where everything is more focused, usually more intense. The hardships and the triumphs are greater than ours. The colors are brighter, the passions are stronger, the resolutions more satisfying and meaningful. In stories, life makes much better sense. The wicked are punished. Virtue and perseverance are generally rewarded. Dreams come true -- or if they do not, there is dignity and nobility in their not-coming-true.

Listen to anyone who loves a great book: "I felt I was there," s/he says. "I want to go there." "I want to live there." "I didn't want it to end." Why are series books so popular from age to age? -- because we never want it to end. We don't want to come back from those places we love. We don't want to say goodbye to those people.

This offering of an escape, a refuge, is a great service to readers. Sometimes it's greater than we could possibly imagine. I was absolutely floored when a person -- now a close friend -- told me the story of how my book Dragonfly saved her life. That sounds like a ridiculously grandiose claim for me to make, and it would be, but for two reasons: 1.) it's true, and 2.) the credit doesn't belong to me. Dragonfly is not an "inspirational" book. It doesn't have any "message" of encouragement, and the part that encouraged my friend isn't a particularly encouraging part -- in fact, it's the book's most tragic moment. But this person read it at precisely the time in life that she needed to read it. All the events of her life worked together -- and yes, I believe that certainly God worked -- through the medium or filter of this book, this scene -- and this person was inspired to keep on living. She took one path instead of the other at a very, very dire crossroads in the darkest stretch of life. And she got to a place that was much better. Again, I had nothing to do with it. But God, working through her life's circumstances and through something I left lying around out there in the world (the book) . . . saved a life. That's an extreme example, but the point is, we never know. When the stories leave us, they have a life of their own. They're like children in that sense. They're made from parts of us -- they have our blood in them -- but they pass beyond our reach and our knowledge. They encounter people we never will. Tennyson wrote in The Princess: "Our echoes roll from soul to soul, / And grow for ever and for ever."

All good and fine, right? Who wouldn't want to be a writer? On the first day of class, I usually tell my writing students, "If you want to change the world, you're studying the right thing." But there is a grim side to it all.

Writing transports us into other worlds . . . wonderful, enchanting worlds. But think of the old stories in which people make forays into the realm of Faery. "Come away, O human child! / To the waters and the wild / With a faery, hand-in-hand, / For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand." Or in another poem, Goethe's, the Elf-King comes and snatches away the child, and the child's father is left holding a corpse. Faery is an alluring place, but humans who enter it do not come back -- or if they do, so much time has passed in their own world that everyone they knew and loved is either very old or long dead.

There is a cost to visiting elfland. The song of the Sirens lures sailors to their deaths. And are not these wonderful and well-loved books Faery to us? Take note of this next sentence, because it's the gist of this lengthy exposition -- it's the one-line summary of this posting:

I have been as tormented by stories as by anything "real" in life.

Perhaps . . . no, probably . . . no, definitely -- moreso. The joy of a story that gets into our hearts is a savage joy. A cruel joy. It's devastating, and we have no defense against it.

First example: Watership Down. In fifth grade, I remember crying and crying when I finished reading it. The world for me had changed, not entirely in a good way. I had loved the book so much, and now it was over, and I knew that I might re-read it later in life, but that I'd never again have the experience of reading it for the first time. And I knew that, although I'd carry the book around in my heart forever, I couldn't live inside the book. I'd have to go to school, grow up, work, etc. -- those perfect moments of traveling with Hazel, Fiver, Bigwig, et al. were not where the bulk of my life would lie.

That's the reality: beauty -- true and perfect beauty -- makes us miserable. We encounter it, but it's like the food in those all-you-can eat buffet restaurants: we can't take it with us. And we have to leave; we always have to leave.

Second example: The Thorn Birds. Colleen McCullough published the book in 1977. In 1983 it was made into the TV miniseries, which made history for being second only to Roots in popularity. I first experienced it as the miniseries, which captivated me so much that I read the book. I was in high school. The story sent me into the wildest delight and worst agony I'd ever known. I was head-over-heels in love with Meggie Cleary. Not Rachel Ward who played her, but the character, Meggie. I wanted to live on Drogheda in the Australian Outback. I wanted to raise sheep. The story, along with the Mel Gibson / Sissy Spacek film The River, affected the way I thought -- I saw rural, agricultural life as sacred, pure, and to be desired above all else. These stories affected the way I dressed. I had some hand-me-down clothes from my uncle, who was a farmer. I insisted on wearing these gray and khaki-colored, oversized shirts, pants, and floppy fedora hats even when I went away to college in the Chicago area. Stories -- fiction -- had given me an ideal. Or perhaps they had helped me to realize my innate ideals; I was a country boy, so country life was my birthright.

I bring this up now because recently I've been revisiting the film version of The Thorn Birds on DVD, and it's amazing how it's all come back to me in its grandeur, wonder, and searing pain. I'm in high school again. It's astonishing how these scenes are etched into my mind and heart -- it's like I've never been away, and yet all these years have gone by in the interim. I'm still in love with Meggie Cleary. I still want to put on a fedora and go herd sheep. My friend S.F. will remember me saying back in college that I wanted the theme music of The Thorn Birds to be played at my wedding and my funeral. I still want that.

Oh, the power of these stories! And they do, as I said earlier, have their own life. I read an interview with Colleen McCullough, and she said she didn't like the film version of The Thorn Birds at all -- she said she didn't like anything about it. Rachel Ward has said that she didn't enjoy filming it at all, even though she met her husband during the making of it. So the woman who created the story and the woman who gave Meggie a face both disliked this film version that enchanted me. The story cut through -- it has its life. It is what it is, and it's bigger than the sum of everyone who brought it to us, including the author herself.

Incidentally, Rachel Ward is about 50 now. She's an attractive 50-year-old, but that face that was Meggie in 1983 exists now only in pixels and perhaps on celluloid somewhere. But it does still exist there, and it's as powerful today as it was then. I challenge any man to look at that face, to hear that soft voice with its accent, and not be thoroughly miserable.

And the book goes on -- and all the great books go on, changing the world in each new generation, making a difference in the life of every unsuspecting reader who stumbles upon them. "What's this about?" I asked my dad, picking up a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. "Oh, it's a long, involved story about a ring," he said. "Everyone wants the ring." "Hmm," I said -- and the rest is history.

So get out there, writer, and fulfill your sacred task. Save lives, but know that you will also break hearts. But . . . I guess we readers want that, don't we? It's like that legend that gives The Thorn Birds its title: the bird that, all its life, seeks a long, sharp thorn; and finding it, the bird impales itself on the thorn and dies. But dying, it sings a song of unimaginable beauty . . . "and all the world stills to listen. And God in His Heaven smiles."

Ich werde also nun in wahlloser Reihenfolge über Autoren und Epochen der deutschen Literatur schreiben. Wer weiß, vielleicht kommt am Ende eine zusammenhängende Serie dabei heraus. Für den Anfang muss die Romantik herhalten; dazu habe ich am meisten Muse (weil mir einige Bücher darüber vorliegen) und Lust. Beginnen möchte ich wenigstens dieses Mal am Anfang:

Johann Gottfried Herder gilt gemeinhin nicht als Vertreter der Romantik. Im Gegenteil, er gehört zum "klassischen Viergestirn" der Weimarer Klassik, wird in einem Atemzug mit Goethe, Schiller und Wieland genannt.  Auch reichen sein Leben und Werk nur knapp in die gefestigten Jahre der Romantik hinein. Und doch, bei Herder finden sich Denkweisen und Thesen, die erstmals grob umreißen, was die Romantiker später präziser formulieren werden. Doch zunächst passt Johann Gottfried sehr gut in die Klassik. Anstatt der religiösen Prägung zu folgen, die ihm seine Eltern mit auf den Weg gaben, studiert er nicht nur Theologie, zunächst gilt sein Interesse der Chirurgie, doch als er als Lehrer über ein gesichertes Einkommen verfügt, schließt sich Herder 1762 einem gelehrten Kreis an der Universität Königsberg ein, wo er Vorlesungen Kants lauscht. Astronomie, Metaphysik, Mathematik, Moralphilosphie - Herder bildet sich in vielen Disziplinen. Später werden die Klassiker fordern, dass der Mensch und die Gesellschaft sich durch Bildung, Ästhethik und Humanität weiterenwickeln. Herder ist hier mit seinem Lebenslauf Vorreiter. Sein Wissensdurst scheint so stark zu sein, dass ihm bald Ostpreußen zu beengend wird. Einen gesicherten Lebensstandard, den er in Riga als Gelehrter, Pfarrer und Mitglied der oberen Schicht hatte, gibt der Wissendsurstige 1769 auf und bricht mit dem Schiff gen Frankreich auf - der Heimat seiner literarischen Vorbilder Rousseau und d'Alembert.

Diese Reise ist es auch, die Herder auf gänzlich neue Gedanken brachte:

So denkt man, wenn man aus Situation in Situation tritt, und was gibt ein Schiff, das zwischen Himmel und Meer schwebt, nicht für weite Sphäre zu denken! [1]

Befreit vom gewohnten Alltag und den Gedankengebäuden seiner Idole und Lehrmeister, finden neue Ideen ihren Platz. Keine realen Abenteuer erlebt der junge Philosoph, dafür weitet sich der geistige Horizont:

Welch ein Werk über das menschliche Geschlecht! den menschlichen Geist! die Kultur der Erde! aller Räume! Zeiten! Völker! Kräfte! Mischungen! Gestalten! Asiatische Religion! und Chronologie und Polizei und Philosophie! Ägyptische Kunst und Philosophie und Polizei! Phönizische Arithmetik und Sprache und Luxus! Griechisches alles! Römisches alles! Nordische Religion, Recht, Sitten, Krieg, Ehre! Papistische Zeit, Mönche, Gelehrsamkeit! Nordisch-asiatische Kreuzzieher, Wallfahrter, Ritter! Christliche heidnische Aufweckung der Gelehrsamkeit! Jahrhundert Frankreichs! Englische, holländische, deutsche [⇐192][193⇒] Gestalt! – Chinesische, japonische Politik! Naturlehre einer neuen Welt! Amerikanische Sitten usw. – – Großes Thema: das Menschengeschlecht wird nicht vergehen, bis daß es alles geschehe! Bis der Genius der Erleuchtung die Erde durchzogen! Universalgeschichte der Bildung der Welt! [1]

In Straßburg trifft er auf den fünf Jahre jüngeren Goethe; Herder führt in an Homer, Shakespeare, Winckelmann, Klopstock und andere Größen heran. Eine zerbrechliche Freundschaft nahm ihren Anfang.

"Seine Einwirkung auf mich war groß und bedeutend." (Goethe über Herder) [2]

Goethe fühlte sich Herder unterlegen und Herder heißt längst nicht alle Werke seines Bewunderers gut. Von Herder konnte er nie eine "Billigung erwarten", er konnte sich "anstellen wie er wollte" [3].

Goethe holt Herder schließlich doch ein. Allerdings wohl nur in der Ankunft am Weimarer Musenhof. Hierhin ruft der Dichterfürst Herder als Superintendenten; ist es verwunderlich, dass auch hier eine Aubfruchstimmung umsich griff, in der Goethe, Lorenz, Klinger und Schiller ihre "wilden Jahre" zu feiern wussten und das "starke Leben" priesen? Ganz wie Herder Jahre zuvor ließen sie "das Genie" in sich frei. Die bessere Anlage in jedem Menschen musste nur frei strömen können, so glaubten die Stürmer- und Dränger. Das idol war hingegen mit anderen Dingen beschäftigt, die erst eine Literaturepoche später wieder auftauchen sollten, und zwar um einiges heftiger. Mit dem Gedanken, dass Natur, Geschichte und Kultur allesamt einer Entwicklung unterliegen, griff er den Romantikern (und nicht nur ihnen) weit vorau. Das alle Stufen dieser Entwicklung ihre Berechtigung haben, dass nicht ein verlorenes Paradies in einer ungewissen Vergangenheit das Ideal sein muss. Das in dieser Entwicklung Erreichte ist für Herder das "Lebensmilieu", das sich der Mensch erschafft. Erst die modernen Anthropologen werden so weit gehen und den Menschen als "kulturschaffendes Mängelwesen" sehen - bei Herder finden sich jedoch schon Grundzüge dieser These [4]. Diese Kulturen, die sich jedes Volk selbst schafft, zieht ihn an, sie interessiert ihn. Seine Sammlung von Volksliedern verschiedener Nationen und Völker dient dem Gedanken der "Pluralität der Volksgeister", er will die Anderen besser verstehen. Das Herder dies absolut nicht in dem Sinne Verstand, den heute Rechtsextreme nutzen um ihren Rassismus zu verschleiern (Pluralität ist bei ihnen die Trennung von Ethnien und Nationen) wird an folgendem Eintrag in seinen "Briefen zur Beförderung der Humanität" deutlich:

Offenbar ist's die Anlage der Natur, daß wie ein Mensch, so auch ein Geschlecht, also auch ein Volk von und mit dem andern lerne, unaufhörlich lerne, bis alle endlich die schwere Lektion gefaßt haben: »Kein Volk sei ein von Gott einzig auserwähltes Volk der Erde; die Wahrheit müsse von allen gesucht, der Garte des gemeinen Bestens von allen gebannt werden. Am großen Schleier der Minerva sollen alle Völker, jedes auf seiner Stelle, ohne Beeinträchtigung, ohne stolze Zwietracht wirken. [5]

Die Vielfalt ist wichtig, voneinander lernen statt sich bekämpfen - Humanität in Reinform - und ein bisschen Romantik, weil das gerade zu dieser Zeit noch nicht realisierbar schien. Oder deswegen, weil Herder trotzdem daran glaubte.

Zusammenfassend bleibt zu sagen, dass Herder nicht nur mit seinem eigenen biografischen Aufbruch auf die Romantiker gewirkt hat - und auch auf die beiden vorausgehenden Strömungen des Sturm- und Drang und der Klassik. Auch die Anerkennung der anderen Völker, die Wertschätzung des "alten" Liedguts, der Traditionen - all das findet sich in der romantischen Umsetzung in Märchen, Erzählungen und Theorie wieder. Herder sah die Französische Revolution anfangs wie die Romantiker als Aufbruch, als notwendigen Ausbruch. Und genau wie sie erschrakauch der Verfechter von Humanität angesichts des brutalen Verlaufs.

Rüdiger Safranski bringt Herders Bedeutung für die Romantik schließlich gekonnt auf den Punkt:

"Und darum kann man von Herders Gedanken auf offener See sagen: sie sind schon romantisch, weil sie uns einstimmen auf das Schaukeln der Dinge im Strom der Zeit." [6]

[1] http://www.zeno.org/Literatur/M/Herder,+Johann+Gottfried/Theoretische+Schriften/Journal+meiner+Reise

[2] http://www.literaturatlas.de/~lc2/goethe_uber_herder_1770.htm

[3] [4] [6] http://www.amazon.de/Romantik-deutsche-Aff%C3%A4re-R%C3%BCdiger-Safranski/dp/3446209441

[5] http://www.zeno.org/Literatur/M/Herder,+Johann+Gottfried/Theoretische+Schriften/Briefe+zur+Bef%C3%B6rderung+der+Humanit%C3%A4t/Vierte+Sammlung

Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it.

Boldness has genius, magic and power in it.

Begin it now.

by: Goethe

Au début, je n’étais pas sûr que c’était toi, étant donné que je doute de tout. Si j’avais pris la même voiture que celle où tu te trouvais, j’aurai eu 20 minutes pour te parler, pour te raconter, pour te dire ce que je sens, ce que je désir, ce que je voudrais, ce que j’espère. Des mots, rien que des mots. Je n’ai pas pu te montrer l’effet que tu as sur moi. C’était ainsi depuis le début, chaque fois que je te vois, je souffre du “locked-in syndrome” je m’entends parler, mais rien ne sort de ma bouche, je suis paralysé, je ne peux que te voir et écouter ma propre voix.

En fait, si, je n’ai su te le montrer qu’en te fuyant, qu’en te repoussant et cela n’a fait que me faire du mal. J’avais l’opportunité d’avoir ton amitié, étant donné que ton cœur appartenait déjà à un autre. J’aurai eu l’opportunité d’être à tes côtés, de te côtoyer. Mais j’ai tout gâcher par ma maladresse, par ce sentiment de gêne, par ma gaucherie que tu as créée en moi par ta simple présence. Tu me tourmentais, je n’arrivais plus à me contrôler, je n’avais d’autres idées que de te fuir. En se faisant, je n’ai fait que te repousser, que  construire en toi une mauvaise idée de moi, de ma personne et de mes intérêts. Je voudrais tellement changer cela. Je voudrais tellement pouvoir te parler et  tout te dire. Combien tu m’as changé, combien tu m’as affecté, combien tu m’affectes toujours et combien tu es présente dans mes pensées. Je voudrais faire une folie pour te prouver mon amour insensé, mais je me retiens, car je n’aurai l’air que d’un  fou, malade. Suis-je né aveugle et sourd ou fallait-il la lumière d'un malheur pour m'éclairer de mon aberration ? Je reste là à espérer que le meilleur arrive, que le tout se réalise par lui-même, comme un idiot. Mais je suis impuissant, je ne peux qu'attendre une prochaine rencontre, encore, et cette fois d'agir sous peine de virer à la folie.

Il existe tant de mots pour décrire ta beauté qu’ils perdent leur sens.

Cette attente, insupportable. Attendre et espérer, comme disait Dumas. Il n’existe que deux éléments encore vivant en moi, le remords qui me fait prendre conscience de toutes ces chances que je n’ai pas voulu saisir et de tout ces instants de bonheur que j’ai laissé s’envoler et l’espoir qui me permet de continuer à vivre et qui me laisse croire en une prochaine fortuite rencontre.

Il faut savoir laisser le passé derrière nous et aller de l'avant. C'est facile à dire. Je ne peux t'oublier, car tu fais partie de moi. Il me faut te reconquérir, même si je dois y consacrer toute ma vie; elle en dépend.

"[...] Les hommes auraient des peines bien moins vives si... [...], s'ils n'appliquaient pas toutes les forces de leur imagination à renouveler sans cesse le souvenir de leurs maux, au lieu de supporter un présent qui ne leur dit rien."

Goethe, Les souffrances du jeune Werther, GALLIMARD, 1973, p.33

Esta anécdota ya la he contado varias veces:

Yo iba a un peluquero parlanchín que al enterarse que escribía (agh) le dio por interesarse por mi “obra”. Es difícil hablar de lo que escribo, hasta el punto que creo que al hacerlo, lo desmerezco. El caso es que, con las tijeras tras mis orejas, ese buen hombre me expuso su teoría acerca de las historias. (Relatos, novelas, películas,… en el fondo son todo historias).

“Una buena historia, debe tener una introducción, un nudo y un desenlace”.

Este esquema clásico, me pareció cruel. Un molde para el que la mayoría de mis “cosas”, era extraño. Si aquello era lo bueno, lo mío era ¿malo? Decidí cambiar de peluquero.

El teatro suele tener este esquema. Shakespeare (escoged la que queráis) tiene este esquema. Y luego está Strindberg. Eso no tiene final… no hay final al caer el telón. Cae porque tiene que caer, pero la cosa, la historia, podría seguir (y sigue, aunque no la veamos). Todo el mundo conoce Shakespeare, aunque no lo hayan leído nunca. Hasta hace dos meses no tenía ni idea de quien demonios era Strindberg. Quizás no significa nada… o quizás sí.

Hace poco colgué por ahí un texto que me parece ingenioso y bueno. Era de uno de mis temas recurrentes: el asesino cotidiano. Un ser humano de lo más normal y corriente, que comete atroces actos. El texto arrancaba con el abuso del cuerpo de una chica (a la que acababa de matar), y enseguida saltaba a su vida conyugal, una vida de pareja compenetrada y feliz. Incluso me permití un chiste macabro.

Es bien cierto que cada lector lee su propio libro, su propia historia. Y que muchas veces no tiene mucho que ver con lo que el autor escribe (y ya no digamos con lo que el autor tiene en la cabeza).

Las reacciones a mi texto fueron de lo más dispares. Algunas realmente asombrosas. Alguien me comentó incluso que le parecía original la charla con el bebé. ¿Qué bebé? Ò_Ó

Ni por temas, ni por estructura narrativa, lo que escribo será nunca demasiado popular. Melusina decía que yo siempre buscaba temas escabrosos y truculentos, y que eso apartaba a “la masa” de lectores. Y Darthpitufina sigue manteniendo que para mucha gente “la muerte” es un tema tabú, incluso en relatos de poca monta. Un editor soltó en una entrevista: “El recuerda que vas a morir, no vende”. Pues estamos apañados.

Estas dificultades (aparte de las neuras propias), me llevan a menudo a la sensación de incomprensión. Y más aún, en si debería esforzarme en intentar hacer entender mis cosas. Es decir: explicarlas. Si mis textos son juegos de magia, explicarme sobre ellos equivaldría a enseñar el truco. Pero si el único fin de escribir es salirse de uno mismo y encontrar comprensión, ¿qué futuro espera, si el mensaje recibido por el lector es erróneo?

Como siempre, en caso de dudas, acudo a mis Maestros.

Kubrick jamás daba ruedas de prensa para hablar de sus películas: “Lo que tengo que decir sobre la película, está en la película.” Algo semejante decía Sir Alfred, cuando un actor le preguntaba acerca de su personaje: “Lo que tiene que saber está en el guión”. ¿Y la motivación?, preguntaba el actor, a lo que el ingenioso Hitchcock le respondía: “la motivación debe buscarla en su sueldo”.

Quizás fuera Goethe que decía: “Hablar sobre escribir, es no escribir. La gente que escribe no tiene tiempo para hablar de lo que va a escribir o de lo que ha escrito, está escribiendo.”

Touché

Un film di Jorge Sánchez-Cabezudo. Con Carmelo Gómez, Judith Diakhate, Mariano Alameda, Celso Bugallo, Manuel Morón, Vicente Romero. - Produzione Spagna, Francia, Portogallo 2006.

Che cosa è un Bonsai? E’ qualcosa di innaturale, artificioso?.

Parafrasando Goethe , siamo convinti che "Anche la cosa più innaturale è natura, è arte".

Perché tale incipit? Perché questo film mi ha subito riportato ad un altro film “ Non è un paese per vecchi” ( già discusso ).

Lì ci sono i giganti Cohen; qui il piccolo Cabezudo.

Lì il grandioso Tommy Lee Jones; qui uno sceriffo modesto ma efficace.

Lì l'immensa provincia americana pigra e indolente; qui un micro luogo paludoso della Spagna rurale.

Lì violenza tracimante; qui praticamente pochi fatti di violenza.

Lì l’intera società che è arrivata ad un punto di non ritorno; qui pochi uomini grigi e miserabili, che condividono un destino di perdenti, incapaci come sono di dominare gli avvenimenti.

Li un’ amarezza ed una malinconia globale; qui una velata speranza, che traspare dall’azione dello sceriffo, che brucia, col fuoco purificatore, danaro proveniente da un patto scellerato.

Praticamente è un film bonsai.

Ma il bonsai è una pianta privilegiata per le cure cui è sottoposta.

Nasce come tutte le altre piante; come tutte le altre cresce e, grazie all’amore e la passione dell'uomo, assume grazia.

E la dimensione minuta lo trasforma in un piccolo e apprezzato capolavoro.

Bravo il regista Cabezudo che realizza, con un originale escamotage narrativo, un noir ingegnoso; racconta “..da sei punti di vista diversi, una serie di casuali misfatti che iniziano con un tentato stupro e finiscono..”.

Bravi gli attori, efficaci anche se privi di appeal.

Buone le musiche, soprattutto l’allusiva canzone finale “ La vita è un compromiso”.

Voto: sette su dieci

Dos cosas opacan mi lectura de Werther: 1) Los arrebatos románticos del narrador me resultan casi risibles, tan emblemáticos del romanticismo que leídos hoy parecen una parodia de aquel período. 2) Me aburre la lectura de Ossian que Goethe intercala en labios de Werther: otra digresión similar a las que más tarde haría en el Fausto (las “novelas dentro de la novela” que encontramos en el Quijote no llegan a aburrir tanto como estos desvíos de Goethe). Por suerte esta lectura que Werther hace para Carlota es la única que quiebra el dinamismo general de la novela, cuyo ritmo está bien llevado por la estructura epistolar.

Olvidando esa parte y poniendo en el contexto de la época los arranques trágicos del narrador, Werther me resulta una lectura muy agradable. Lo que más rescato de Goethe como autor es la maestría con que redondea sentencias generales sobre la humanidad, el mundo, la vida… Creo que en ellas hay una gran sabiduría que se suma al conocimiento de cómo deben expresarse esta clase de ideas para que queden grabadas en el bronce de la memoria: hay que hacerlo con palabras francas, sin temor a equivocarse y sin detenerse demasiado en las excepciones que podrían hacer que el lector dude de estas “reglas generales” (a sabiendas de que el lector podrá razonarlas y luego aceptarlas o no). Al respecto, el joven Werther critica a uno de sus interlocutores de esta manera:

“…cómo lo quiero al hombre, hasta que llega a sus 'sin embargo'. ¿Acaso no se sobreentiende que toda regla tiene sus excepciones? Pero él es así de escrupuloso. Cuando cree haber dicho algo a la ligera, alguna generalidad, una verdad a medias, no termina de modificarla, de arreglarla, de componerla, hasta que por último ya no queda nada de lo que dijo. A raíz de este suceso se explayó tanto sobre el tema que al final terminé por no escuchar lo que decía…”.

La estrategia de Goethe surge de contrariar ese estilo; así, a la hora de definir con brevedad al género humano, no desluce su gran capacidad de observación con excepciones, matices o bemoles de poca monta. Sus pensamientos resuenan con contundencia y adquieren el peso de lo verdadero; el lector queda en libertad de analizar lo dicho más tarde. En Borges, el diario de Bioy Casares acerca de su relación con Jorge Luis Borges, se lee un diálogo sobre este tema (entrada del 10 de agosto de 1956):

BORGES: “El estilo de Eliot es desesperante. Dice algo y en seguida lo atenúa con un quizá o según creo, o le resta importancia reconociendo que en ocasiones lo contrario es cierto. A veces me parece que lo hace para llenar papel, porque hay que escribir un artículo”. BIOY: “Yo creo que es porque en cuanto dice algo teme exponerse, por haber cometido una inexactitud. A mí, por lo menos, me pasa eso, pero creo que los autores deben atenerse a hacer afirmaciones un poco audaces, en la inteligencia de que el lector comprenderá que no hay que tomar todo literalmente y contribuirá con las dudas. Por un ideal de nitidez y simplificación hay que tener ese coraje de afirmar algo a veces”. BORGES: “Goethe declaró que esas palabras como tal vez, quizá, según me parece, si no me equivoco, deben estar sobreentendidas en todos los escritos; que el lector puede distribuirlas donde lo juzgue conveniente y que él escribía cómodamente sin ellas”.

Transcribo a continuación algunos pasajes de Werther que me interesaron y dan cuenta del modo sentencioso de Goethe, de la manera en que pasa de lo particular a lo general (del “yo mismo” a “el hombre” o “la humanidad”) y viceversa. Este primer fragmento trata de la libertad y los momentos de alegría:

“El ser humano es una cosa uniforme. La mayoría emplea la mayor parte del tiempo para vivir y lo poco que le queda de libertad le asusta tanto que hace lo imposible para deshacerse de ella. ¡Oh, el destino del hombre!

”Sin embargo, la gente es buena. A veces, cuando me dejo llevar por las circunstancias y comparto alguna de las alegrías que le han quedado al hombre, como divertirse abierta y francamente en una mesa bien compartida, una excursión, participar de un baile en el momento propicio, y otras situaciones semejantes, noto que me sienta bien. Solo que en ese momento no debo pensar en todas las otras fuerzas que residen en mi interior, que enmohecen sin ser aprovechadas y debo ocultar cuidadosamente. Ay, eso sí que angustia el corazón. Y, sin embargo, el ser malentendidos es nuestro destino”.

La insatisfacción que obliga al regreso luego de muchos viajes por el mundo es el tópico sobre el cual armé mi Mapamundi (2005). Acerca de ella, dice Werther:

“Me apresuré a ir y regresé sin haber encontrado lo que estaba buscando. Con lo lejano pasa lo mismo que con lo futuro. Ante nuestra alma se halla un todo, enorme y en penumbras, nuestra sensibilidad se diluye en él al igual que la mirada. Nuestro anhelo es el de poder entregarnos por completo y dejar que nos inunde un sentimiento majestuoso, magnífico, único. Pero, ay, cuando nos acercamos, cuando el allá se convierte en acá, cuando lo que fue es igual a lo que será, entonces nos quedamos con nuestra pobreza, con nuestras limitaciones; nuestra alma sigue sedienta del bálsamo que se nos ha escapado.

”Es así como el más errante vagabundo anhela volver finalmente a su lugar de partida, y encuentra en su casa, en el seno de su amada, junto a sus hijos y en su afán de mantenerlos, la satisfacción que infructuosamente había buscado por el mundo”.

En el final de la cita anterior se oye claramente un eco de la Odisea; hay que recordar que en los días en que comienza el relato, Werther está leyendo a Homero.

Identificación total con el fragmento que sigue:

“Hoy volví a tener mi diario entre mis manos, al que tanto tiempo estuve descuidando, y me sorprendió cómo, a sabiendas, me he ido metiendo en esto, paso a paso. Cómo veía con absoluta claridad en qué estado me encontraba y sin embargo actuaba como un niño, cómo lo sigo viendo ahora todo con claridad pero sin perspectivas de corregirme”.

Werther les cuenta historias a los niños; éstos reclaman si Werther introduce variaciones en una historia que cuenta por segunda vez. De esto, Werther concluye lo siguiente:

“De esto aprendí que un autor indefectiblemente daña su obra si en la segunda edición de su libro introduce cambios, por más poéticos que sean. La primera impresión la aceptamos con agrado y el ser humano está preparado para admitir cualquier aventura; pero, al mismo tiempo, ésta le queda tan grabada que pobre de aquel que intente cambiarla o borrarla”.

A primera vista parecería que Goethe descubre reglas generales para vivir, pero no siempre es así: sólo dice lo que piensa con convicción, y entonces el lector tiende a aceptar lo dicho como una ley universal. Consideremos la última cita: el ser humano, ¿siempre está preparado para admitir cualquier aventura? No creo que todos sean “uniformes” en esto. Y, ¿no ha habido nunca autores que hayan mejorado sus obras al modificarlas en su segunda edición? Claro que los hay (lamento que los ejemplos que se me ocurren sean posteriores a Goethe: estoy pensando en Borges y en Faulkner; en Daniel Moyano, también. Por supuesto que los cambios introducidos en las segundas ediciones nunca son estructurales, sino detalles). Esos cambios, por otra parte, podrán no ser tolerados por quienes releen, pero tal vez son vitales para quienes leen al autor por primera vez en esa segunda edición.

Más citas para el bronce. Sobre la inseguridad ante el alarde ajeno:

“Cuando otros alardean delante de mí tranquilamente con su poco talento y vigor, desconfío de mi fuerza y mis aptitudes. Dios mío, tú que me diste todo eso, ¡por qué no te quedaste con la mitad para darme a cambio seguridad y satisfacción!”

Sobre quiénes son los que verdaderamente tienen la sartén por el mango:

“¡Qué necios aquellos que no ven que en realidad no es importante la posición en sí, y que los que están ubicados en el primer puesto casi nunca juegan realmente el primer papel! ¡Cuántos reyes son gobernados por sus ministros y cuántos ministros por sus secretarios! ¿Y quién es entonces el primero? Aquél, creo yo, que supera a los otros y además dispone de tanta fuerza y viveza como para aprovecharse del ímpetu y las pasiones ajenas en la consecución de sus propios fines”.

En el fragmento anterior llama la atención ese “yo creo” que viene a contradecir la teoría que el propio Goethe ha construido acerca de cómo afirmar. Más allá de eso, coincido plenamente con la idea…

Hay más. Inteligencia versus sentimientos:

“[La gente que rodea al príncipe] valora mi inteligencia y mis talentos mucho más que mi corazón, mi único orgullo, fuente sin igual de todas mis fuerzas, de toda dicha y de toda desventura. Ay, lo que sé lo puede saber cualquiera, pero mi corazón sólo me pertenece a mí”.

Del imprescindible feedback sentimental (dar y recibir):

“El amor, la felicidad, el calor y la ternura que soy incapaz de entregar, el otro tampoco me los dará, y no podré alegrar al prójimo con un corazón lleno de dicha si él mantiene su frialdad y su desgano”.

Luego de leer Werther, me resultó muy agradable releer los Fragmentos de un discurso amoroso de Roland Barthes para buscar aquellos párrafos en los que el francés ejemplifica las entradas de su diccionario con referencias a esta obra de Goethe.

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La traducción de los fragmentos presentados aquí es la de Osvaldo y Esteban Bayer para la edición de Colihue (2005). Imagen: Estatua de Goethe en la ciudad de Leipzig.

Wer kennt das Buch, das ich nicht mehr finde?

"Behavior is a mirror in which every one displays his image." Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Dichterschule
Aufgabe: Variiere das Beispiel “PETER SCHLÄFT BEI SEINER FRAU”

Gedichtformen: Heiku, Gstanzl, Goethe, Bukowsky, Villon
Der Name des Protagonisten kann beliebig geändert werden, muss aber 2silbig sein,

Heiku:

Peter schläft im Bett
Der Mond scheint heute Nacht nicht
Sein Weib umarmt ihn

Gstanzl:

Wann da Peta im Bed liegt
Und da Mond heit nit leicht
Drucktn sei Oide ans Busal
Weil sei Schlof is so seicht.

Goethe:

Im Bette liegt Peter der Grosse, dem weichen.
Kein Mondstrahl will heut seine Wangen bleichen.
Ein schönes Weib hält ihm deshalb die Hand,
So kann er auf Traumes Flügel entfleuchen -
in Morpheus Land.

Charles Bukowsky

Wenn Peter ohne Mondschein nicht schlafen kann,
Wendet seine holde Maid diese Methode an:
“Schlafe mein Liebster, bleib nicht länger mehr munter”
flüstert sie -
und holt ihm dabei einen runter.

Francois Villon:

Verfluchter Gott, schenk mir - Peter - endlich Nachts Ruhe,
Sonst aber wirf mich gleich in die Begräbnistruhe,
Und danach in das Erdloch neben all diese Affen,
Die Päpste, die Probste, die Äbte und Pfaffen.
Mein huriges Weib schmeiss gleich hinterher,
Sie kochte nur schlecht, ich lieb sie nicht mehr.