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Op 31 augustus 2014, ter gelegenheid van de 17de editie van Boeken Rond Het Paleis in Tilburg, verschijnt voor het eerst een bundel over de dichter Henri Dolmans (1840-1899)
In dit boek beschrijft auteur en dichter Jef van Kempen het leven en werk van deze Tilburgse dichter, een markante ‘minor poet’ die de negentiende eeuw kleur gaf met zijn vele honderden funeraire gedichten. Henri Dolmans luisterde met de voordracht van zijn op maat geschreven dichtwerk menig begrafenis op, en schreef letterlijk tot aan zijn eigen sterfbed over het onderwerp de dood. Hij werd namelijk op zijn sterfbed gevonden met zijn laatst geschreven gedicht nog in de hand. Het bleek zijn eigen grafgedicht te zijn. Naast een beknopte biografie van Dolmans heeft Jef van Kempen een selectie gemaakt van de vele gedichten die Henri Dolmans heeft nagelaten, zowel van zijn post mortemgedichten als van zijn religieuze en herdenkingsgedichten.
Het Boek met de titel: ‘Henri Dolmans, dichter van jubel en van smart’ is een uitgave van Stichting Cools die werd verzorgd door uitgeverij Art Brut en is verkrijgbaar via de boekhandel.
Jef van Kempen,
Henri Dolmans, dichter van jubel en van smart
Uitgeverij Art Brut 2014
ISBN: 978-90-76326-07-8
(64 p. – geïllustreerd – prijs 10,00 euro)
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Guy de Maupassant
(1850-1893)
SOUVENIRS
Voyez partir l’hirondelle,
Elle fuit à tire d’aile,
Mais revient toujours fidèle,
A son nid,
Sitôt que des hivers le grand froid est fini.
L’homme, au gré de son envie,
Errant promène sa vie
Par le souvenir suivie
De ces lieux
Où sourit son enfance, où dorment ses aïeux.
Et puis, quand il sent que l’âge
A glacé son grand courage,
Il les regrette et, plus sage,
Vient chercher
Un tranquille bonheur près de son vieux clocher.
Rouen, 1869
Souvenirs a paru dans les Annales politiques et littéraires du 12 décembre 1897
Guy de Maupassant poetry
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AIM Awards 2014:
Poet Kate Tempest
for Independent Album
One of the nominations for this year’s AIM Awards is the wonderful Kate Tempest, who recently released her debut solo album Everybody Down on Big Dada. The album was produced by Dan Carey, and is in the running for Independent Album Of The Year.
The full list of nominees
INDEPENDENT ALBUM OF THE YEAR
Actress – Ghettoville
Arctic Monkeys – AMMixRadio
East India Youth – Total Strife Forever
Fred V & Graffix – Recognise
Gruff Rhys – American Interior
Kate Tempest – Everybody Down
London Grammar – If You Wait
Mogwai – Rave Tapes
Tune-Yards – Nikki Nack
Within Temptation – Hydra
The fourth annual AIM Independent Music Awards
takes place at London’s The Brewery
on 2nd September 2014.
# More on Everybody Down from Kate Tempest
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (52) by J.W. von Goethe
NOVEMBER 26.
Oftentimes I say to myself, “Thou alone art wretched: all other mortals
are happy, none are distressed like thee!” Then I read a passage in an
ancient poet, and I seem to understand my own heart. I have so much to
endure! Have men before me ever been so wretched?
NOVEMBER 30.
I shall never be myself again! Wherever I go, some fatality occurs to
distract me. Even to-day alas–for our destiny! alas for human nature!
About dinner-time I went to walk by the river-side, for I had no
appetite. Everything around seemed gloomy: a cold and damp easterly wind
blew from the mountains, and black, heavy clouds spread over the plain.
I observed at a distance a man in a tattered coat: he was wandering
among the rocks, and seemed to be looking for plants. When I approached,
he turned round at the noise; and I saw that he had an interesting
countenance in which a settled melancholy, strongly marked by
benevolence, formed the principal feature. His long black hair was
divided, and flowed over his shoulders. As his garb betokened a person
of the lower order, I thought he would not take it ill if I inquired
about his business; and I therefore asked what he was seeking. He
replied, with a deep sigh, that he was looking for flowers, and could
find none. “But it is not the season,” I observed, with a smile. “Oh,
there are so many flowers!” he answered, as he came nearer to me. “In my
garden there are roses and honeysuckles of two sorts: one sort was
given to me by my father! they grow as plentifully as weeds; I have been
looking for them these two days, and cannot find them. There are flowers
out there, yellow, blue, and red; and that centaury has a very pretty
blossom: but I can find none of them.” I observed his peculiarity, and
therefore asked him, with an air of indifference, what he intended to
do with his flowers. A strange smile overspread his countenance. Holding
his finger to his mouth, he expressed a hope that I would not betray
him; and he then informed me that he had promised to gather a nosegay
for his mistress. “That is right,” said I. “Oh!” he replied, “she
possesses many other things as well: she is very rich.” “And yet,” I
continued, “she likes your nosegays.” “Oh, she has jewels and crowns!”
he exclaimed. I asked who she was. “If the states-general would but pay
me,” he added, “I should be quite another man. Alas! there was a time
when I was so happy; but that is past, and I am now–” He raised his
swimming eyes to heaven. “And you were happy once?” I observed. “Ah,
would I were so still!” was his reply. “I was then as gay and contented
as a man can be.” An old woman, who was coming toward us, now called
out, “Henry, Henry! where are you? We have been looking for you
everywhere: come to dinner.” “Is he your son?” I inquired, as I went
toward her. “Yes,” she said: “he is my poor, unfortunate son. The Lord
has sent me a heavy affliction.” I asked whether he had been long in
this state. She answered, “He has been as calm as he is at present for
about six months. I thank Heaven that he has so far recovered: he was
for one whole year quite raving, and chained down in a madhouse. Now he
injures no one, but talks of nothing else than kings and queens. He used
to be a very good, quiet youth, and helped to maintain me; he wrote a
very fine hand; but all at once he became melancholy, was seized with a
violent fever, grew distracted, and is now as you see. If I were only to
tell you, sir–” I interrupted her by asking what period it was in which
he boasted of having been so happy. “Poor boy!” she exclaimed, with a
smile of compassion, “he means the time when he was completely deranged,
a time he never ceases to regret, when he was in the madhouse, and
unconscious of everything.” I was thunderstruck: I placed a piece of
money in her hand, and hastened away.
“You were happy!” I exclaimed, as I returned quickly to the town, “‘as
gay and contented as a man can be!'” God of heaven! and is this the
destiny of man? Is he only happy before he has acquired his reason, or
after he has lost it? Unfortunate being! And yet I envy your fate: I
envy the delusion to which you are a victim. You go forth with joy to
gather flowers for your princess,–in winter,–and grieve when you can
find none, and cannot understand why they do not grow. But I wander
forth without joy, without hope, without design; and I return as I came.
You fancy what a man you would be if the states general paid you. Happy
mortal, who can ascribe your wretchedness to an earthly cause! You
do not know, you do not feel, that in your own distracted heart and
disordered brain dwells the source of that unhappiness which all the
potentates on earth cannot relieve.
Let that man die unconsoled who can deride the invalid for undertaking
a journey to distant, healthful springs, where he often finds only a
heavier disease and a more painful death, or who can exult over the
despairing mind of a sinner, who, to obtain peace of conscience and an
alleviation of misery, makes a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre. Each
laborious step which galls his wounded feet in rough and untrodden paths
pours a drop of balm into his troubled soul, and the journey of many a
weary day brings a nightly relief to his anguished heart. Will you dare
call this enthusiasm, ye crowd of pompous declaimers? Enthusiasm! O God!
thou seest my tears. Thou hast allotted us our portion of misery: must
we also have brethren to persecute us, to deprive us of our consolation,
of our trust in thee, and in thy love and mercy? For our trust in the
virtue of the healing root, or in the strength of the vine, what is it
else than a belief in thee from whom all that surrounds us derives its
healing and restoring powers? Father, whom I know not,–who wert once
wont to fill my soul, but who now hidest thy face from me,–call me back
to thee; be silent no longer; thy silence shall not delay a soul which
thirsts after thee. What man, what father, could be angry with a son for
returning to him suddenly, for falling on his neck, and exclaiming, “I
am here again, my father! forgive me if I have anticipated my journey,
and returned before the appointed time! The world is everywhere the
same,–a scene of labour and pain, of pleasure and reward; but what does
it all avail? I am happy only where thou art, and in thy presence am I
content to suffer or enjoy.” And wouldst thou, heavenly Father, banish
such a child from thy presence?
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
To be continued
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (51) by J.W. von Goethe
NOVEMBER 21.
She does not feel, she does not know, that she is preparing a poison
which will destroy us both; and I drink deeply of the draught which is
to prove my destruction. What mean those looks of kindness with which
she often–often? no, not often, but sometimes, regards me, that
complacency with which she hears the involuntary sentiments which
frequently escape me, and the tender pity for my sufferings which
appears in her countenance?
Yesterday, when I took leave she seized me by the hand, and said,
“Adieu, dear Werther.” Dear Werther! It was the first time she ever
called me dear: the sound sunk deep into my heart. I have repeated it a
hundred times; and last night, on going to bed, and talking to myself
of various things, I suddenly said, “Good night, dear Werther!” and then
could not but laugh at myself.
NOVEMBER 22
I cannot pray, “Leave her to me!” and yet she often seems to belong to
me. I cannot pray, “Give her to me!” for she is another’s. In this way
I affect mirth over my troubles; and, if I had time, I could compose a
whole litany of antitheses.
NOVEMBER 24.
She is sensible of my sufferings. This morning her look pierced my very
soul. I found her alone, and she was silent: she steadfastly surveyed
me. I no longer saw in her face the charms of beauty or the fire of
genius: these had disappeared. But I was affected by an expression much
more touching, a look of the deepest sympathy and of the softest pity.
Why was I afraid to throw myself at her feet? Why did I not dare to take
her in my arms, and answer her by a thousand kisses? She had recourse to
her piano for relief, and in a low and sweet voice accompanied the music
with delicious sounds. Her lips never appeared so lovely: they seemed
but just to open, that they might imbibe the sweet tones which issued
from the instrument, and return the heavenly vibration from her lovely
mouth. Oh! who can express my sensations? I was quite overcome, and,
bending down, pronounced this vow: “Beautiful lips, which the angels
guard, never will I seek to profane your purity with a kiss.” And
yet, my friend, oh, I wish–but my heart is darkened by doubt and
indecision–could I but taste felicity, and then die to expiate the sin!
What sin?
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (50) by J.W. von Goethe
NOVEMBER 8.
Charlotte has reproved me for my excesses, with so much tenderness and
goodness! I have lately been in the habit of drinking more wine than
heretofore. “Don’t do it,” she said. “Think of Charlotte!” “Think of
you!” I answered; “need you bid me do so? Think of you–I do not think
of you: you are ever before my soul! This very morning I sat on the
spot where, a few days ago, you descended from the carriage, and–” She
immediately changed the subject to prevent me from pursuing it farther.
My dear friend, my energies are all prostrated: she can do with me what
she pleases.
NOVEMBER 15.
I thank you, Wilhelm, for your cordial sympathy, for your excellent
advice; and I implore you to be quiet. Leave me to my sufferings. In
spite of my wretchedness, I have still strength enough for endurance.
I revere religion–you know I do. I feel that it can impart strength
to the feeble and comfort to the afflicted, but does it affect all men
equally? Consider this vast universe: you will see thousands for whom it
has never existed, thousands for whom it will never exist, whether it be
preached to them, or not; and must it, then, necessarily exist for me?
Does not the Son of God himself say that they are his whom the Father
has given to him? Have I been given to him? What if the Father will
retain me for himself, as my heart sometimes suggests? I pray you, do
not misinterpret this. Do not extract derision from my harmless words. I
pour out my whole soul before you. Silence were otherwise preferable to
me, but I need not shrink from a subject of which few know more than I
do myself. What is the destiny of man, but to fill up the measure of
his sufferings, and to drink his allotted cup of bitterness? And if that
same cup proved bitter to the God of heaven, under a human form, why
should I affect a foolish pride, and call it sweet? Why should I be
ashamed of shrinking at that fearful moment, when my whole being will
tremble between existence and annihilation, when a remembrance of
the past, like a flash of lightning, will illuminate the dark gulf of
futurity, when everything shall dissolve around me, and the whole world
vanish away? Is not this the voice of a creature oppressed beyond all
resource, self-deficient, about to plunge into inevitable destruction,
and groaning deeply at its inadequate strength, “My God! my God! why
hast thou forsaken me?” And should I feel ashamed to utter the same
expression? Should I not shudder at a prospect which had its fears, even
for him who folds up the heavens like a garment?
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
To be continued
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (49) by J.W. von Goethe
NOVEMBER 3.
Witness, Heaven, how often I lie down in my bed with a wish, and even a
hope, that I may never awaken again. And in the morning, when I open my
eyes, I behold the sun once more, and am wretched. If I were whimsical,
I might blame the weather, or an acquaintance, or some personal
disappointment, for my discontented mind; and then this insupportable
load of trouble would not rest entirely upon myself. But, alas! I feel
it too sadly. I am alone the cause of my own woe, am I not? Truly,
my own bosom contains the source of all my sorrow, as it previously
contained the source of all my pleasure. Am I not the same being who
once enjoyed an excess of happiness, who, at every step, saw paradise
open before him, and whose heart was ever expanded toward the whole
world? And this heart is now dead, no sentiment can revive it; my eyes
are dry; and my senses, no more refreshed by the influence of soft
tears, wither and consume my brain. I suffer much, for I have lost
the only charm of life: that active, sacred power which created worlds
around me,–it is no more. When I look from my window at the distant
hills, and behold the morning sun breaking through the mists, and
illuminating the country around, which is still wrapped in silence,
whilst the soft stream winds gently through the willows, which have shed
their leaves; when glorious nature displays all her beauties before me,
and her wondrous prospects are ineffectual to extract one tear of joy
from my withered heart, I feel that in such a moment I stand like a
reprobate before heaven, hardened, insensible, and unmoved. Oftentimes
do I then bend my knee to the earth, and implore God for the blessing
of tears, as the desponding labourer in some scorching climate prays for
the dews of heaven to moisten his parched corn.
But I feel that God does not grant sunshine or rain to our importunate
entreaties. And oh, those bygone days, whose memory now torments me!
why were they so fortunate? Because I then waited with patience for
the blessings of the Eternal, and received his gifts with the grateful
feelings of a thankful heart.
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
To be continued
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (48) by J.W. von Goethe
OCTOBER 27.
I could tear open my bosom with vexation to think how little we are capable of influencing the feelings of each other. No one can communicate to me those sensations of love, joy, rapture, and delight which I do not naturally possess; and, though my heart may glow with the most lively affection, I cannot make the happiness of one in whom the same warmth is not inherent.
OCTOBER 27:
Evening: I possess so much, but my love for her absorbs it all. I possess so much, but without her I have nothing. OCTOBER 30. One hundred times have I been on the point of embracing her. Heavens! what a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing before us, and yet not dare to lay hold of it! And laying hold is the most natural of human instincts. Do not children touch everything they see? And I!
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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Guy de Maupassant
(1850-1893)
LÉGENDE DE LA CHAMBRE
DES DEMOISELLES À ÉTRETAT
Lentement le flot arrive
Sur la rive
Qu’il berce et flatte toujours.
C’est un triste chant d’automne
Monotone
Qui pleure après les beaux jours.
Sur la côte solitaire
Est une aire
Jetée au-dessus des eaux ;
Un étroit passage y mène,
Vrai domaine
Des mauves et des corbeaux.
C’est une grotte perdue,
Suspendue
Entre le ciel et les mers,
Une demeure ignorée
Séparée
Du reste de l’univers.
Jadis plus d’une gentille
Jeune fille
Y vint voir son amoureux ;
On dit que cette retraite
Si discrète
A caché bien des heureux.
On dit que le clair de lune
Vit plus d’une
Jouvencelle au coeur léger
Prendre le sentier rapide,
Intrépide
Insouciante au danger.
Mais comme un aigle tournoie
Sur sa proie,
Les guettait l’ange déchu,
Lui qui toujours laisse un crime
Où s’imprime
L’ongle de son pied fourchu.
Un soir près de la colline
Qui domine
Ce roc au front élancé,
Une fillette ingénue
Est venue
Attendant son fiancé.
Or celui qui perdit Eve,
Sur la grève
La suivit d’un pied joyeux ;
“Hymen, dit-il, vous invite,
“Venez vite,
“La belle fille aux doux yeux,
“Là-bas sur un lit de roses
“Tout écloses
“Vous attend le jeune Amour ;
“Pour accomplir ses mystères
“Solitaires
“Il a choisi cette tour.”
Elle était folle et légère,
L’étrangère,
Hélas, et n’entendit pas
Pleurer son ange fidèle,
Et près d’elle
Satan qui riait tout bas.
Car elle suivit son guide
Si perfide
Et par le sentier glissant.
Bat la rive
Mais lui, félon, de la cime,
Dans l’abîme
Il la jeta, – Dieu Puissant !
Son ombre pâle est restée
Tourmentée,
Veillant sur l’étroit chemin.
Sitôt que de cette roche
On approche
Elle étend sa blanche main.
Depuis qu’en ces lieux, maudite
Elle habite,
Aucun autre n’est tombé.
C’est ainsi qu’elle se venge
De l’archange
Auquel elle a succombé.
Allez la voir, Demoiselles,
Jouvencelles
Que mon récit attrista,
Car pour vous la renommée
L’a nommée
Cette grotte d’Étretat !
A son pied le flot arrive
Bat la rive
Qu’il berce et flatte toujours.
C’est un triste chant d’automne
Monotone
Qui pleure après les beaux jours.
Légende de la Chambre des Demoiselles à Étretat a paru dans le Mercure de France du 15 décembre 1922.
Guy de Maupassant poetry
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (47) by J.W. von Goethe OCTOBER 19. Alas! the void the fearful void, which I feel in my bosom! Sometimes I think, if I could only once but once, press her to my heart, this dreadful void would be filled.OCTOBER 26. Yes, I feel certain, Wilhelm, and every day I become more certain, that the existence of any being whatever is of very little consequence. A friend of Charlotte's called to see her just now. I withdrew into a neighbouring apartment, and took up a book; but, finding I could not read, I sat down to write. I heard them converse in an undertone: they spoke upon indifferent topics, and retailed the news of the town. One was going to be married; another was ill, very ill, she had a dry cough, her face was growing thinner daily, and she had occasional fits. "N--is very unwell too," said Charlotte. "His limbs begin to swell already," answered the other; and my lively imagination carried me at once to the beds of the infirm. There I see them struggling against death, with all the agonies of pain and horror; and these women, Wilhelm, talk of all this with as much indifference as one would mention the death of a stranger. And when I look around the apartment where I now am--when I see Charlotte's apparel lying before me, and Albert's writings, and all those articles of furniture which are so familiar to me, even to the very inkstand which I am using,--when I think what I am to this family--everything. My friends esteem me; I often contribute to their happiness, and my heart seems as if it could not beat without them; and yet---if I were to die, if I were to be summoned from the midst of this circle, would they feel--or how long would they feel the void which my loss would make in their existence? How long! Yes, such is the frailty of man, that even there, where he has the greatest consciousness of his own being, where he makes the strongest and most forcible impression, even in the memory, in the heart, of his beloved, there also he must perish,--vanish,--and that quickly. The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan. To be continued fleursdumal.nl magazine
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The Sorrows of Young Werther (46) by J.W. von Goethe
OCTOBER 10.
Only to gaze upon her dark eyes is to me a source of happiness! And
what grieves me, is, that Albert does not seem so happy as he–hoped to
be–as I should have been–if–I am no friend to these pauses, but here
I cannot express it otherwise; and probably I am explicit enough.
OCTOBER 12.
Ossian has superseded Homer in my heart. To what a world does the
illustrious bard carry me! To wander over pathless wilds, surrounded by
impetuous whirlwinds, where, by the feeble light of the moon, we see the
spirits of our ancestors; to hear from the mountain-tops, mid the roar
of torrents, their plaintive sounds issuing from deep caverns, and the
sorrowful lamentations of a maiden who sighs and expires on the mossy
tomb of the warrior by whom she was adored. I meet this bard with silver
hair; he wanders in the valley; he seeks the footsteps of his fathers,
and, alas! he finds only their tombs. Then, contemplating the pale moon,
as she sinks beneath the waves of the rolling sea, the memory of
bygone days strikes the mind of the hero, days when approaching danger
invigorated the brave, and the moon shone upon his bark laden with
spoils, and returning in triumph. When I read in his countenance deep
sorrow, when I see his dying glory sink exhausted into the grave, as he
inhales new and heart-thrilling delight from his approaching union with
his beloved, and he casts a look on the cold earth and the tall grass
which is so soon to cover him, and then exclaims, “The traveller will
come,–he will come who has seen my beauty, and he will ask, ‘Where is
the bard, where is the illustrious son of Fingal?’ He will walk over my
tomb, and will seek me in vain!” Then, O my friend, I could instantly,
like a true and noble knight, draw my sword, and deliver my prince from
the long and painful languor of a living death, and dismiss my own soul
to follow the demigod whom my hand had set free!
The Sorrows of Young Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther) by J.W. von Goethe. Translated by R.D. Boylan.
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Voltaire
(1694-1778)
A Mademoiselle de Guise
Vous possédez fort inutilement
Esprit, beauté, grâce, vertu, franchise ;
Qu’y manque-t-il ? quelqu’un qui vous le dise
Et quelque ami dont on en dise autant.
Voltaire poetry
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