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Umberto Eco
was een Europeaan
in hart en nieren.
De oorlog in Oekraïne en het steeds verder naar een totalitaire staat afglijdende Rusland zou hij met pijn in het hart hebben aanschouwd.
Maar hij zou waarschijnlijk ook op alle mogelijke manieren van zich hebben laten horen en zich volop hebben ingezet voor vrede.
In Hoe herken ik een fascist, een selectie van drie belangrijke essays, weerklinkt Eco’s immer kritische stem.
Het is een stem waarnaar we moeten luisteren, want sluipend fascisme (‘Het eeuwige fascisme’) en zelfopgelegde censuur (‘Censuur en stilte’) vormen een steeds grotere bedreiging voor de Europese vrede.
Zijn oproep om tot nieuwe Europese afspraken te komen (‘Een nieuw verdrag van Nijmegen’) is dan ook bijna profetisch te noemen.
Umberto Eco (1932-2016) was een van de grootste en succesvolste schrijvers van Europa. Hij werd beroemd met zijn historische roman De naam van de roos, waarna romans volgden als De slinger van Foucault, Het eiland van de vorige dag, De begraafplaats van Praag en Het nulnummer. Ook geldt hij als een van de invloedrijkste essayisten van zijn tijd.
Umberto Eco
Hoe herken ik een fascist
Taal: nl
Paperback
2024
80 pagina’s
Uitgeverij Prometheus
EAN 9789044656794
12,50 EURO
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More in: - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive E-F, Fascism, Umberto Eco
Ode To Beauty
Who gave thee, O Beauty!
The keys of this breast,
Too credulous lover
Of blest and unblest?
Say when in lapsed ages
Thee knew I of old;
Or what was the service
For which I was sold?
When first my eyes saw thee,
I found me thy thrall,
By magical drawings,
Sweet tyrant of all!
I drank at thy fountain
False waters of thirst;
Thou intimate stranger,
Thou latest and first!
Thy dangerous glances
Make women of men;
New-born we are melting
Into nature again.
Lavish, lavish promiser,
Nigh persuading gods to err,
Guest of million painted forms
Which in turn thy glory warms,
The frailest leaf, the mossy bark,
The acorn’s cup, the raindrop’s arc,
The swinging spider’s silver line,
The ruby of the drop of wine,
The shining pebble of the pond,
Thou inscribest with a bond
In thy momentary play
Would bankrupt Nature to repay.
Ah! what avails it
To hide or to shun
Whom the Infinite One
Hath granted his throne?
The heaven high over
Is the deep’s lover,
The sun and sea
Informed by thee,
Before me run,
And draw me on,
Yet fly me still,
As Fate refuses
To me the heart Fate for me chooses,
Is it that my opulent soul
Was mingled from the generous whole,
Sea valleys and the deep of skies
Furnished several supplies,
And the sands whereof I’m made
Draw me to them self-betrayed?
I turn the proud portfolios
Which hold the grand designs
Of Salvator, of Guercino,
And Piranesi’s lines.
I hear the lofty Pæans
Of the masters of the shell,
Who heard the starry music,
And recount the numbers well:
Olympian bards who sung
Divine Ideas below,
Which always find us young,
And always keep us so.
Oft in streets or humblest places
I detect far wandered graces,
Which from Eden wide astray
In lowly homes have lost their way.
Thee gliding through the sea of form,
Like the lightning through the storm,
Somewhat not to be possessed,
Somewhat not to be caressed,
No feet so fleet could ever find,
No perfect form could ever bind.
Thou eternal fugitive
Hovering over all that live,
Quick and skilful to inspire
Sweet extravagant desire,
Starry space and lily bell
Filling with thy roseate smell,
Wilt not give the lips to taste
Of the nectar which thou hast.
All that’s good and great with thee
Stands in deep conspiracy.
Thou hast bribed the dark and lonely
To report thy features only,
And the cold and purple morning
Itself with thoughts of thee adorning,
The leafy dell, the city mart,
Equal trophies of thine art,
E’en the flowing azure air
Thou hast touched for my despair,
And if I languish into dreams,
Again I meet the ardent beams.
Queen of things! I dare not die
In Being’s deeps past ear and eye,
Lest there I find the same deceiver,
And be the sport of Fate forever.
Dread power, but dear! if God thou be,
Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
(1803 – 1882)
Ode To Beauty
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More in: Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Emerson, Ralph Waldo
The Snow-Storm
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
(1803 – 1882)
The Snow-Storm
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More in: 4SEASONS#Winter, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Emerson, Ralph Waldo
At the Door
I thought myself indeed secure,
So fast the door, so firm the lock;
But, lo! he toddling comes to lure
My parent ear with timorous knock.
My heart were stone could it withstand
The sweetness of my baby’s plea,—
That timorous, baby knocking and
“Please let me in,—it’s only me.”
I threw aside the unfinished book,
Regardless of its tempting charms,
And opening wide the door, I took
My laughing darling in my arms.
Who knows but in Eternity,
I, like a truant child, shall wait
The glories of a life to be,
Beyond the Heavenly Father’s gate?
And will that Heavenly Father heed
The truant’s supplicating cry,
As at the outer door I plead,
“‘T is I, O Father! only I”?
Eugene Field
(1850 – 1895)
At the Door
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More in: Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Field, Eugene
The Advertiser
I am an advertiser great!
In letters bold
The praises of my wares I sound,
Prosperity is my estate;
The people come,
The people goIn one continuous,
Surging flow.
They buy my goods and come again
And I’m the happiest of men;
And this the reason I relate,
I’m an advertiser great!
There is a shop across the way
Where ne’er is heard a human tread,
Where trade is paralyzed and dead,
With ne’er a customer a day.
The people come,
The people go,
But never there.
They do not know
There’s such a shop beneath the skies,
Because he does not advertise!
While I with pleasure contemplate
That I’m an advertiser great.
The secret of my fortune lies
In one small fact, which I may state,
Too many tradesmen learn too late,
If I have goods,
I advertise.Then people come
And people go
In constant streams,
For people know
That he who has good wares to sell
Will surely advertise them well;
And proudly I reiterate,
I am an advertiser great!
Eugene Field
(1850 – 1895)
The Advertiser
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More in: Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Field, Eugene
Gedicht über Nachtwirkungen
Noch nicht Tag! Die fratzenhafte Nacht
hat mich Stück für Stück entzweigerissen.
Wehe Striemen drücken mir die Kissen,
jede Falte hat mich wund gemacht.
Und der Träume quälerische Schwere:
Wollust, Ekel, Schmerzen, Tränen, Mord,
treibt mein Herz auf einem dunklen Meere
wie ein purpurrotes Segel fort.
Bin ein zitternd Geflecht von Nerven,
allem Bösen in die Hand gegeben,
Und die Schatten sind wie Messerschärfen,
die von meinem Zucken trunken leben.
Und ich möchte in das Dunkel schrein.
Aber meine Stimme ist nicht mehr.
Wilder Bilder ewige Wiederkehr,
stumm, gestaltlos, haltlos muss ich sein!
Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele
(1889 – 1915)
Gedicht über Nachtwirkungen
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More in: #Experimental Poetry Archive, *War Poetry Archive, - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Expressionism, Modernisme
Among the sheaves
I
Among the sheaves—the golden sheaves,
An empty heart, I walk forlorn:
How sadly sigh the alder leaves—
I loathe those fields of mellow corn!
II
Among the sheaves—the golden sheaves,
My heart is full, new hopes are born:
My heart is faint—for Hope deceives:
My passion may be met by scorn!
III
Among the sheaves—the golden sheaves,
My Love is won! No more forlorn,
How sweet the whisp’ring alder leaves—
I bless those fields of mellow corn!
Evelyn Forest
(Pen name of Anne Pares)
( … – … unknown)
Among the sheaves
Illustration: Frederick Eltze (1836–1870)
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Archive O-P, Archive O-P
Der Dichter
Es neigte sich die Schar der jungen Knechte
Dem wirren Haar und dem zerschlißnen Rock.
Die Straße weiter taperte die Rechte,
Die Linke hielt sich krampfig fest am Stock.
Scham schlug ihm rot empor: er war betrunken
Und rang mit seinem Weg; und jäh erblaßt
War er im Rinnstein stolpernd hingesunken
Und raffte sich empor in wirrer Hast.
Da kam’s, daß er den Blick nach innen schlug,
Wo er, buntwechselnd wie Geleucht der Meere,
Wuchernder Blumen Fülle in sich trug.
Und atemraubend gab der süße, schwere
Duft seinem Sinn, der wie ein großer Falter
In ihre tiefen Rätselkelche sank,
Seltsamen Traum und schuf ihn zum Gestalter,
Der Lust und Qual in seine Lieder zwang.
So ging er, in sein Fühlen tief versunken,
Betäubt von Fiebern, Künder schwüler Nächte.
Man wich ihm schonend aus: er war betrunken.
Es neigte sich die Schar der jungen Knechte.
Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele
(1889 – 1915)
Der Dichter
Aus: Versensporn
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More in: #Experimental Poetry Archive, *War Poetry Archive, - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Expressionism, Expressionisme, Modernisme
“Alone—together”
I
Alone, I see the sunrise, from the rocks above the sea;
And the hamlet flushed with rosy light, seems fairy-land to me:
There dwells the pilot’s daughter, whose dear love I’d die to win;
And the blue sky fills my heart with hope, while the merry tide flows in.
II
’Tis noon—we stand together, on the sands beside the sea;
And the maiden, folded to my heart, is sworn my bride to be!
In the sunshine flash the sea-gulls, skimming waves of rippled light;
The fisher boats ride gaily, under cliffs of dazzling white.
III
Alone, I see the sunset, from the churchyard near the sea,
For the cruel grave-stone at my feet, hides my darling’s face from me!
Like some dark pall, the sea-weeds droop from ledges cold and grey;
The night-mists shroud the hamlet, and the tide ebbs fast away!
Evelyn Forest
(Pen name of Anne Pares)
(? – ?)
“Alone—together”
Illustration: Frederick Eltze (1836–1870)
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Archive O-P, Archive O-P
Loin des idées reçues et des poncifs sur Flaubert, Régis Jauffret nous invite à découvrir sa vie et son oeuvre et des aspects méconnus de sa personnalité : l’homme tonitruant et hâbleur qui se cachait derrière un des écrivains incontournables des lettres françaises.
“Depuis longtemps la postérité s’est chargée de peinturlurer Flaubert. Il est admis aujourd’hui qu’il mena toujours une vie d’ermite dans sa maison isolée de Croisset, que son père l’écrasait de sa personnalité, que sa mère était possessive jusqu’à l’empêcher de se marier, de fonder une famille, bref, de quitter le nid.
Nous verrons dans cet ouvrage à quel point ces poncifs sont controuvés. En outre, je me permets à plusieurs reprises d’évoquer le Flaubert tonitruant, hâbleur et par certains aspects assez grotesque qu’évoquent à l’occasion ses contemporains. Ce n’est certes pas pour l’accabler, au contraire cette facette de sa personnalité me semble presque attendrissante et fait de lui un commensale des pantins que nous sommes. Et puis, que voulez-vous, j’ai toujours préféré les humains aux dieux. Si je fus humble dans ma tâche – sans humilité, la littérature se fane au fur et à mesure de son apparition sur le papier, l’écran, le papyrus – je n’ai pas hésité à faire preuve d’une grande familiarité envers le maître. J’ai passé près de cinq années en sa compagnie, il est devenu pour moi une sorte de camarade d’outre-tombe.
Un ami que j’ai pris souvent dans mes bras, malgré son corps fumeux de fantôme et avec lequel je me suis régulièrement disputé jusqu’à la fâcherie. Néanmoins, je n’ai jamais poussé le ridicule jusqu’à me prendre pour lui car je suis assez occupé à me croire vaniteusement moi-même et à finir mon oeuvre à laquelle je tiens davantage qu’à celle de notre Gustave. Je devrais m’abstenir de proférer pareil blasphème.
A force de sincérité les romanciers se montrent mufles”.
Regis Jauffret est l’auteur de nombreux ouvrages dont Microfictions, Sévère, La Ballade de Rikers Island, Papa et Le Dernier Bain de Gustave. Il a reçu le prix Goncourt de la nouvelle pour Microfictions 2018, le prix Femina pour Asile de fous et le prix Décembre pour Univers, Univers.
Dictionnaire amoureux de Flaubert
de Régis Jauffret (Auteur)
Alain Bouldouyre (Dessins)
Éditeur: Plon
Illustrated édition
4 mai 2023
Langue: Français
Broché
480 pages
ISBN-10:2259310613
ISBN-13:978-2259310611
€ 28,00
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More in: - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive E-F, Archive I-J, Gustave Flaubert, Illustrators, Illustration
The Seasons
Spring—and her heart is singing
A song full of joyous cheer;
For each brightening day seems bringing
The hope of her life more near.
Summer—her heart is waiting;
Its dream is yet unfulfilled:
But her trust knows no abating,
Though the Spring’s glad song is stilled.
Autumn—her heart is burning
With the fever of restless fears;
And the darkened days returning
Bring her no relief save tears.
Winter—her heart is broken:
The struggles of Hope are o’er;
But the love that was here unspoken
Will be hers where hearts bleed no more.
Evelyn Forest
(Pen name of Anne Pares)
(? – ?)
The Seasons (1862-63)
Illustration: Frederick Eltze (1836–1870)
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More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Natural history
Song
What can it mean?—that glance so tender,
Out of the depths of two soft dark eyes;
Can it be earnest of heart-surrender,
Making me blest with a sweet surprise?
What can it mean?—white hands caressing
Between them a hand that is scarred and brown:
Is it a dream?—two soft lips pressing
That hard rough hand while the tears fall down.
What can it mean?—you kneel beside me,
Laying your dear head upon my breast,
Giving me all that you once denied me!
Is it, sweetheart, is it love confessed?
Evelyn Forest
(Pen name of Anne Pares)
( …-… unknown)
Song
Illustration: Frederick Eltze (1836–1870)
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive E-F, Archive E-F, Archive O-P, Archive O-P
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