Fleurs du Mal Magazine
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Goblin Market
Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpeck’d cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheek’d peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries;—
All ripe together
In summer weather,—
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy.”
Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bow’d her head to hear,
Lizzie veil’d her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger tips.
“Lie close,” Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
“We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?”
“Come buy,” call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men.”
Lizzie cover’d up her eyes,
Cover’d close lest they should look;
Laura rear’d her glossy head,
And whisper’d like the restless brook:
“Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Through those fruit bushes.”
“No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.”
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cat’s face,
One whisk’d a tail,
One tramp’d at a rat’s pace,
One crawl’d like a snail,
One like a wombat prowl’d obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.
Laura stretch’d her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.
Backwards up the mossy glen
Turn’d and troop’d the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
“Come buy, come buy.”
When they reach’d where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One rear’d his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves, and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heav’d the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
“Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Long’d but had no money:
The whisk-tail’d merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr’d,
The rat-faced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”—
One whistled like a bird.
But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
“Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather.”
“You have much gold upon your head,”
They answer’d all together:
“Buy from us with a golden curl.”
She clipp’d a precious golden lock,
She dropp’d a tear more rare than pearl,
Then suck’d their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flow’d that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She suck’d and suck’d and suck’d the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She suck’d until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gather’d up one kernel stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turn’d home alone.
Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
“Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Pluck’d from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the noonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more, but dwindled and grew grey;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so.”
“Nay, hush,” said Laura:
“Nay, hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
To-morrow night I will
Buy more;” and kiss’d her:
“Have done with sorrow;
I’ll bring you plums to-morrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap.”
Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other’s wings,
They lay down in their curtain’d bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipp’d with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars gaz’d in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapp’d to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Lock’d together in one nest.
Early in the morning
When the first cock crow’d his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetch’d in honey, milk’d the cows,
Air’d and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churn’d butter, whipp’d up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sew’d;
Talk’d as modest maidens should:
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,
One longing for the night.
At length slow evening came:
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep;
Lizzie pluck’d purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homeward said: “The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags.
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep.”
But Laura loiter’d still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.
And said the hour was early still
The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill;
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
“Come buy, come buy,”
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let alone the herds
That used to tramp along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.
Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come;
I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glowworm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark:
For clouds may gather
Though this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us through;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?”
Laura turn’d cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
“Come buy our fruits, come buy.”
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life droop’d from the root:
She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache;
But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning,
Trudg’d home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent till Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnash’d her teeth for baulk’d desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.
Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry:
“Come buy, come buy;”—
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon wax’d bright
Her hair grew thin and grey;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay and burn
Her fire away.
One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dew’d it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watch’d for a waxing shoot,
But there came none;
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dream’d of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crown’d trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.
She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetch’d honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.
Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister’s cankerous care
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins’ cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy;”—
Beside the brook, along the glen,
She heard the tramp of goblin men,
The yoke and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Long’d to buy fruit to comfort her,
But fear’d to pay too dear.
She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter time
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter time.
Till Laura dwindling
Seem’d knocking at Death’s door:
Then Lizzie weigh’d no more
Better and worse;
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kiss’d Laura, cross’d the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook:
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.
Laugh’d every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel- and wombat-like,Love’s Secret
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter skelter, hurry skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes,—
Hugg’d her and kiss’d her:
Squeez’d and caress’d her:
Stretch’d up their dishes,
Panniers, and plates:
“Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries,
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and suck them,
Pomegranates, figs.”—
“Good folk,” said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie:
“Give me much and many: —
Held out her apron,
Toss’d them her penny.
“Nay, take a seat with us,
Honour and eat with us,”
They answer’d grinning:
“Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry:
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us.”—
“Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits
At home alone for me:
So without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I toss’d you for a fee.”—
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One call’d her proud,
Cross-grain’d, uncivil;
Their tones wax’d loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbow’d and jostled her,
Claw’d with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soil’d her stocking,
Twitch’d her hair out by the roots,
Stamp’d upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeez’d their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.
White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,—
Like a rock of blue-vein’d stone
Lash’d by tides obstreperously,—
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire,—
Like a fruit-crown’d orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee,—
Like a royal virgin town
Topp’d with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguer’d by a fleet
Mad to tug her standard down.
One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuff’d and caught her,
Coax’d and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratch’d her, pinch’d her black as ink,
Kick’d and knock’d her,
Maul’d and mock’d her,
Lizzie utter’d not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
But laugh’d in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syrupp’d all her face,
And lodg’d in dimples of her chin,
And streak’d her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kick’d their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writh’d into the ground,
Some div’d into the brook
With ring and ripple,
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanish’d in the distance.
In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze,
Threaded copse and dingle,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse,—
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she fear’d some goblin man
Dogg’d her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin scurried after,
Nor was she prick’d by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with haste
And inward laughter.
She cried, “Laura,” up the garden,
“Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me;
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.”
Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutch’d her hair:
“Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing,
And ruin’d in my ruin,
Thirsty, canker’d, goblin-ridden?”—
She clung about her sister,
Kiss’d and kiss’d and kiss’d her:
Tears once again
Refresh’d her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kiss’d and kiss’d her with a hungry mouth.
Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loath’d the feast:
Writhing as one possess’d she leap’d and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks stream’d like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.
Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart,
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame;
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense fail’d in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topp’d waterspout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is it death or is it life?
Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watch’d by her,
Counted her pulse’s flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cool’d her face
With tears and fanning leaves:
But when the first birds chirp’d about their eaves,
And early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden sheaves,
And dew-wet grass
Bow’d in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
And new buds with new day
Open’d of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura awoke as from a dream,
Laugh’d in the innocent old way,
Hugg’d Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her gleaming locks show’d not one thread of grey,
Her breath was sweet as May
And light danced in her eyes.
Days, weeks, months, years
Afterwards, when both were wives
With children of their own;
Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
Their lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura would call the little ones
And tell them of her early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone
Of not-returning time:
Would talk about the haunted glen,
The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their fruits like honey to the throat
But poison in the blood;
(Men sell not such in any town):
Would tell them how her sister stood
In deadly peril to do her good,
And win the fiery antidote:
Then joining hands to little hands
Would bid them cling together,
“For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather;
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands.”
Christina Rossetti
(1830—1894)
Goblin Market
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Der erste Roman, der den Kolonialismus bloßstellte – und dabei literarische Genregrenzen sprengte.
Vor einigen Jahren wurde »Max Havelaar« (1860) zum wichtigsten Buch der niederländischen Literatur ernannt. Was »Onkel Toms Hütte« für den Kampf gegen die Sklaverei war, war Multatulis Meisterwerk für die Dekolonialisierung.
Erstmals prangerte eine literarische Stimme die Ausbeutung der einheimischen Bevölkerung in den Kolonien – speziell auf Java – offen an. Auf neuartige Weise verbindet der Autor autobiografische Elemente, politische Anklage und literarische Fiktion, wenn er die Ungerechtigkeiten des ausbeuterischen Systems mit moralischer Empörung, satirischem Witz und erzählerischer Raffinesse schildert. Eine Tour de force der Literatur!
Max Havelaar
oder die Kaffeeversteigerungen
der Niederländischen Handels-Gesellschaft
Autor: Multatuli
Übersetzerin: Ira Wilhelm
Verlag Die Andere Bibliothek
Limitierte, nummerierte Originalausgabe
Sprache Deutsch
ISBN 978-3-8477-0487-4
Format: Originalausgabe
Anzahl Seiten 408
Bandnummer 495 (2026)
Gestalter:in: Kosmos Design
Originalausgabe noch nicht lieferbar
Erscheint Dezember 2026
€ 48,00
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Was ist ein Original?
Was ist ein Original?
Ein Ei ohne Schal’. –
Zum Fressen für die Helläugigen …
Wie lebt ein Original?
In Angst und Qual. –
Schließlich, schließlich wird’s nur
Gefressen von den Helläugigen …
Wer sieht dann das Original?
Was weiß ich?
Fürchterlich – fürchterlich –
Ein Ei ohne Schal’.
Ich weiß – ich weiß:
Nur eine Rettung gibt’s –
Kocht hart, kocht hart
Das Ei ohne Schal’!
Laß dich vom rauhen Leben
Hart kneten, du Original!
Dann liegst du den Helläugigen
Recht schwer im Magen –
Sie können dich dann nicht vertragen.
Paul Scheerbarth
(1863–1915)
Was ist ein Original?
(Die Mopsiade)
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Le Coeur Volé
Mon pauvre cœur bave à la poupe,
Mon cœur est plein de caporal ;
Ils lui lancent des jets de soupe,
Mon triste cœur bave à la poupe :
Sous les quolibets de la troupe
Qui pousse un rire général,
Mon triste cœur bave à la poupe
Mon cœur est plein de caporal !
Ithyphalliques et pioupiesques,
Leurs insultes l’ont dépravé.
À la vesprée, ils font des fresques
Ithyphalliques et pioupiesques,
Ô flots abracadabrantesques
Prenez mon cœur, qu’il soit sauvé !
Ithyphalliques et pioupiesques
Leurs insultes l’ont dépravé !
Quand ils auront tari leurs chiques,
Comment agir, ô cœur volé ?
Ce seront des refrains bachiques
Quand ils auront tari leurs chiques :
J’aurai des sursauts stomachiques
Si mon cœur triste est ravalé :
Quand ils auront tari leurs chiques,
Comment agir, ô cœur volé ?
Paris, 1871
Arthur Rimbaud
(1854 – 1891)
Le Coeur Volé
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Banten
Als stapelplaats van zwarte peper
het brandpunt van machtige handelsstromen,
onontwarbare rivaliteit. En strijd.
Te diep was de eerste Hollandsche stap, gezet
door opperkoopman Cornelis de Houtman,
nog even in het bezit van zijn hoofd.
In de slagschaduw van Batavia
en later Merak verdween de welvaart,
veegde historie de horizon leeg.
De haven verwerd tot een slijkerige kreek
met hier en daar een rottende prauw
en kasteel Speelwijck binnen verzakte
en verstuivende muren tot een trapveld
waar een geit nog aan kale struiken knaagt.
Albert Hagenaars
Banten
Uit: Javaanse Suite
Bandung
Zoals dat gaat; verwarrende beelden,
misverstanden en leugens stijgen op
uit ontstaansverhalen van ook deze stad.
De Groote Dwangweg uit Batavia verhief
de al hooggelegen nederzetting
met kantoren, hotels en blanke paleizen.
Zingend en gongbonzend brachten priesters
de heilige kronieken van Krapyak over
naar de grond rond de heilige bronnen.
Haast hoofdstad geworden, liet dit trotse
Parijs van Java zich niet kennen,
In Savoy Homann en sociëteit Concordia
“verboden voor honden en inlanders”
schitterde de beau monde op recepties
en feesten onder te grote kroonluchters.
Geruchten werden echter waar, sieraden
en baljurken raakten verpand, dames en heren
verdwenen in internering, en vaak voorgoed.
In dezelfde zaal van nu het Vrijheidsgebouw
ontsloot Conferentie Asian-Afrika de stad
op een wereld met soortgelijke belangen, hoop.
Kampongs groeiden door, beerputten dicht.
Als toen: schandalen doorstaan elke zuivering.
Albert Hagenaars
Bandung
Uit: Javaanse Suite
Albert Hagenaars: Javaanse Suite I
De bundel Ramkoers – Gedichten 1979-2026 waar
Javaanse Suite deel van uitmaakt verschijnt dit najaar.
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Aanwijzingen
Bij de ondertitels van de film Crimson Peak van Guillermo del Toro
I
Mijn wil is minstens zo sterk als de uwe.
Misschien zien we, wederkerig, dingen
pas als de tijd daar is.
We woonden op zolder.
Moeder speelde soms piano.
We hoorden haar door de vloer.
Dan wisten we dat ze weer in het land was.
Mettertijd zal alles goed komen.
II
De mannen vertrekken vanavond.
Het gaat binnenkort dus sneeuwen.
Je held heeft iets duisters. Overleeft hij het?
Dat hangt van hem af.
Hoe bedoel je?
Personages praten met je. Ze veranderen en maken keuzes.
Keuzes.
Hoe ze zullen worden.
Ik wreef olie op haar littekens.
Toen de storm wilde gaan liggen.
Vastbesloten vlechtend, vervuld van zweet en spijt.
Dat geesten bestaan weet ik zeker.
Bert Bevers
Aanwijzingen
Bert Bevers is dichter en schrijver. Hij woont en werkt in Antwerpen (Be)
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Jerusalem
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon Englands mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land.
William Blake
(1757—1827)
Jerusalem
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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Blake, William
Indianerlied
Murx den Europäer!
Murx ihn!
Murx ihn! Murx ihn!
Murx ihn ab!
Paul Scheerbarth
(1863–1915)
Indianerlied
(Katerpoesie)
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Fleur Jaeggy: Die letzten Tage von Ingeborg. Ingeborg Bachmann aus nächster Nähe – bewegende Szenen einer Freundschaft
Fleur Jaeggy erinnert sich an Ingeborg Bachmann, ihre Weggefährtin, langjährige Freundin, an das viele, viel zu wenige gemeinsame Leben, an lichte, unbeschwerte Nähe und an das schwere Ende Ingeborgs. Und Fleur Jaeggy breitet diese Erinnerungen so aus, wie nur sie es kann, schonungslos anschaulich, in zärtlicher Lakonie.
Im Sommer 1971 fahren die beiden in einem roten Alfa Romeo von Rom aus an die toskanische Küste. Der Plan ist einfach: einen Monat zusammen verbringen, keine Briefe, keine Anrufe, Meer, Sonne. Sie gehen täglich schwimmen, reden bis tief in die Nacht. Italo Calvino kommt zu Besuch, Uwe Johnson schaut vorbei, aber eigentlich sind sie so innig, dass sie niemanden sonst sehen wollen. Nur knapp zwei Jahre später stirbt Ingeborg Bachmann und Fleur Jaeggy bleibt in tiefer Trauer zurück.
Über fünfzig Jahre nach dem viel zu frühen Tod Ingeborg Bachmanns schreibt Fleur Jaeggy dieses sehr private Buch. Die letzten Tage von Ingeborg ist eine Hommage in drei Akten: Es sind Erinnerungen an sonderbar mäandernde Gespräche, Leberwurstessen, Reisen nach Klagenfurt und Wien; es sind Reflexionen über das Altern; vor allem aber ist es das schmerzhafte Protokoll der letzten Tage von Ingeborg Bachmanns Leben im Zentrum für Brandverletzte Sant’Eugenio in Rom. Fleur Jaeggy war bis zuletzt an ihrer Seite.
Fleur Jaeggy ist eine schweizerische und italienischsprachige Autorin, Ex-Model, Intellektuelle, Mystikerin, inzwischen etwas über 80 Jahre alt, ehemals enge Vertraute Ingeborg Bachmanns, Witwe des Adelphi-Verlegers Roberto Calasso, heute lebt sie weitgehend zurückgezogen in Mailand. Ihr weltweit gefeiertes Werk umfasst Romane, Erzählungen und Geschichten – beginnend mit Ich bin der Bruder von XX, wird es fortan vollständig im Suhrkamp Verlag erscheinen.
Ingeborg Bachmann, geboren am 25. Juni 1926 in Klagenfurt, wurde durch einen Auftritt vor der Gruppe 47 als Lyrikerin bekannt. Nach den Gedichtbänden Die gestundete Zeit (1953) und Anrufung des Großen Bären (1956) publizierte sie Hörspiele, Essays und zwei Erzählungsbände. Malina (1971) ist ihr einziger vollendeter Roman. Bachmann starb am 17. Oktober 1973 in Rom.
Fleur Jaeggy
Die letzten Tage von Ingeborg.
Ingeborg Bachmann aus nächster Nähe –
bewegende Szenen einer Freundschaft
Barbara Schaden (Übersetzung Ital.)
Deutsche Erstausgabe
Suhrkamp Verlag GmbH
Hardcover
44 pag.
ISBN-10: 3518433296
ISBN-13: 978-3518433294
Erscheinungstermin: 24.07.2026
16,00 Euro
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More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Bachmann, Ingeborg, Celan, Paul
Francis Rose
Shut up
And stay shut
Where they drink all the better
For families of yet get her
With them in ravishes
Between them with dishes
And they came then with her
In precious labor with love
He may yet get wealth in getting tender
Which they make stronger
With us
Thank you.
How many cakes make jell for jelly
And how many loves make bless
A little flower of rather think better embellishment.
Just why join mass
A mass is a towing to a lock.
At towed they devise
How to a challenge.
Challenge has nothing to do with him.
How are heads held Howard.
She cooked and seized.
Cooked and seized
She cooked and seized.
Forbearance
Cooked and seized.
Bridle is paths.
Just as about a path
Just as a path
Just as a path.
It makes no difference whether four
Ate one.
Sum to sum.
Our adding is more hours.
Ate one
Just as well ate one
Just as well eight one
Just as well eight
One just as well
Eight one.
How much are they like me
Like.
After walked.
Before walked
He made her talk
To have her
Walk
After walked
And leave a walk
Leave walk
Or leave her leave walked.
It is an error
Oh.
Join me
With observation
She may be
Our hour glass
Which we sought
And have not bought
For our hour be
Be an hour for me.
Such is sought
And here bought
For our be
Her be
Err be
Come Francis Rose
Or be
Forty leave fifteen
Thrilled be
Or sought by
It for him
Or for
Her
For him to be
When they may
They may
Shall shelter
They make
Shelter
As they may be
For and to be
Nobody knows how old showers are.
Or how should hours should be.
In inlay should be
That with mean
With be
With held will then
In to be.
What is a square.
Gertrude Stein
(1874 – 1946)
Francis Rose
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The End Of Fear
Though the whole heaven be one-eyed with the moon,
Though the dead landscape seem a thing possessed,
Yet I go singing through that land oppressed
As one that singeth through the flowers of June.
No more, with forest-fingers crawling free
O’er dark flint wall that seems a wall of eyes,
Shall evil break my soul with mysteries
Of some world-poison maddening bush and tree.
No more shall leering ghosts of pimp and king
With bloody secrets veiled before me stand.
Last night I held all evil in my hand
Closed: and behold it was a little thing.
I broke the infernal gates and looked on him
Who fronts the strong creation with a curse;
Even the god of a lost universe,
Smiling above his hideous cherubim.
And pierced far down in his soul’s crypt unriven
The last black crooked sympathy and shame,
And hailed him with that ringing rainbow name
Erased upon the oldest book in heaven.
Like emptied idiot masks, sin’s loves and wars
Stare at me now: for in the night I broke
The bubble of a great world’s jest, and woke
Laughing with laughter such as shakes the stars.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton
(1874 — 1936)
The End Of Fear
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In memoriam Lieke Marsman (1990-2026)
Op 3 juni 2026 is dichter, filosoof en romancier Lieke Marsman op 35-jarige leeftijd overleden. Zij leed aan een zeldzame vorm van kanker.
Lieke Marsman (’s-Hertogenbosch 1990 – Parijs 2026) debuteerde in 2010 met de dichtbundel ‘Wat ik mijzelf graag voorhoud.’ Daarvoor won ze meteen de C. Buddingh’-prijs, de Lucy B. en C.W. van der Hoogtprijs en de Liegend Konijn Debuutprijs. Drie jaar later verscheen ‘De eerste letter’.
In 2017 publiceerde Lieke Marsman haar roman ‘Het tegenovergestelde van een mens’, door NRC uitgeroepen als een van de beste boeken van deze eeuw. Hierin vervlecht ze proza met poëzie en essayistiek om een groot en actueel thema van deze tijd te kunnen belichten: klimaatverandering. In 2017 verscheen eveneens ‘Man met hoed’, een bundel verzamelde gedichten, waarin ook vertalingen van haar hand zijn opgenomen. In ‘De volgende scan duurt vijf minuten’ (2018) onderzoekt Lieke Marsman in tien gedichten en een essay hoe een ziek lichaam zich verhoudt tot een zieke wereld. Het is een vurig pleidooi dat oproept om je heen te kijken en je maatschappelijke verantwoordelijkheid te nemen in een gepolariseerde samenleving.
Op de dag van haar benoeming tot Dichter des Vaderlands verscheen ‘In mijn mand’ (2021), waarin Lieke Marsman de grootste thema’s behandelt die het menselijke bestaan kenmerken: de waarde van het leven en de plek die de dood daarin inneemt. Marsman bekleedde de positie van Dichter des Vaderlands tot 2023. Begin 2023 verscheen haar bundel ‘Ter gelegenheid van poëzie’, een ode aan de poëzie en het belang van het nauwkeurig gebruiken van de taal, gericht en oprecht. In het publieke debat bracht ze dit in de praktijk. Als essayist in de krant en kernachtig op sociale media was Lieke Marsman een zeer maatschappelijk betrokken commentator. Met humor en scherpte wist ze altijd tot de kern van complexe vraagstukken door te dringen.
In 2025 werd ‘Op een andere planeet kunnen ze me redden’ gepubliceerd. Dit boek is een filosofische trip tot in de diepten van de menselijke geest, afgewisseld met dagboekfragmenten die beschrijven hoe de dood Marsman op de hielen zit. Ook werd haar de Constantijn Huygens-prijs toegekend voor haar gehele oeuvre.
Op 9 juni 2026 verscheen Marsmans laatste boek, ‘De dichter en de duivel.’
Een dichter koopt een huis en komt tot de ontdekking dat haar berging toegang biedt tot een ondergrondse wereld waar mensen in ruil voor kleine stukjes ziel hun zonden afkopen. Terwijl ze steeds verder afdaalt, ontmoet ze influencers, politici, opiniemakers en columnisten. Gelukkig is er zo nu en dan een dichter die soelaas biedt, maar uiteindelijk mondt de reis uit in het onvermijdelijke: ze komt oog in oog met de duivel te staan.
Lieke Marsman
De Dichter en De Duivel
Hardcover
Nederlands
9 juni 2026
120 pagina’s
Uitgeverij Pluim
EAN 9789493525146
€ 24,99
Is het mijn sterfdag?
De lucht is stil, als lucht
op een kalender
Is het mijn sterfdag?
Vergeet klokken die luiden
De lucht is stil, als lucht
Is het mijn sterfdag?
Vergeet engelen en psalmen
Ik wil het vanille van een oud boek
Ik wil een koud flesje bier
en ik wil jou, nog één keer
Vergeet de vogels die zingen
Ik wil mijn hond horen drinken
Uit: ’In mijn mand’ (Uitgeverij Pluim, 2021)
• Foto: Wikipedia/Coen Peppelenbos 2014
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