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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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More in: - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive M-N, Archive M-N, Black Lives Matter, Multatuli, Multatuli, Multatuli, Racism
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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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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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
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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Vachel Lindsay
Meeting Ourselves
We met ourselves as we came back
As we hiked the trail from the north.
Our foot-prints mixed in the rainy path
Coming back and going forth.
The prints of my comrade’s hob-nailed shoes
And my tramp shoes mixed in the rain.
We had climbed for days and days to the North
And this was the sum of our gain:
We met ourselves as we came back,
And were happy in mist and rain.
Our old souls and our new souls
Met to salute and explain—
That a day shall be as a thousand years,
And a thousand years as a day.
The powers of a thousand dreaming skies
As we shouted along the trail of surprise
Were gathered in our play:
The purple skies of the South and the North,
The crimson skies of the South and the North,
Of tomorrow and yesterday.
Vachel Lindsay
(1879 – 1931)
Meeting Ourselves
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When We Two Parted
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o’er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.
George Gordon, Lord Byron
(1788-1824)
When We Two Parted
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Release
With swift
Great sweep of her
Magnificent arm my pain
Clanged back the doors that shut my soul
From life.
Adelaide Crapsey
(1878—1914)
Release
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A Musical
Outside the rain upon the street,
The sky all grim of hue,
Inside, the music–painful sweet,
And yet I heard but you.
As is a thrilling violin,
So is your voice to me,
And still above the other strains,
It sang in ecstasy.
Paul Laurence Dunbar
(1872—1906)
A Musical
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Song of the Old Love
When sparrows build, and the leaves break forth,
My old sorrow wakes and cries,
For I know there is dawn in the far, far north,
And a scarlet sun doth rise;
Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads,
And the icy founts run free,
And the bergs begin to bow their heads,
And plunge, and sail in the sea.
O my lost love, and my own, own love,
And my love that loved me so!
Is there never a chink in the world above
Where they listen for words from below?
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore,
I remember all that I said,
And now thou wilt hear me no more – no more
Till the sea gives up her dead.
Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail
To the ice-fields and the snow;
Thou wert sad, for thy love did naught avail,
And the end I could not know;
How could I tell I should love thee to-day,
Whom that day I held not dear?
How could I know I should love thee away
When I did not love thee anear?
We shall walk no more through the sodden plain
With the faded bents o’erspread,
We shall stand no more by the seething main
While the dark wrack drives o’erhead;
We shall part no more in the wind and the rain,
Where thy last farewell was said;
But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again
When the sea gives up her dead.
Jean Ingelow
(1820 – 1897)
Song of the Old Love
Published in 1898
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Voyages
I
Above the fresh ruffles of the surf
Bright striped urchins flay each other with sand.
They have contrived a conquest for shell shucks,
And their fingers crumble fragments of baked weed
Gaily digging and scattering.
And in answer to their treble interjections
The sun beats lightning on the waves,
The waves fold thunder on the sand;
And could they hear me I would tell them:
O brilliant kids, frisk with your dog,
Fondle your shells and sticks, bleached
By time and the elements; but there is a line
You must not cross nor ever trust beyond it
Spry cordage of your bodies to caresses
Too lichen-faithful from too wide a breast.
The bottom of the sea is cruel.
II
—And yet this great wink of eternity,
Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings,
Samite sheeted and processioned where
Her undinal vast belly moonward bends,
Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love;
Take this Sea, whose diapason knells
On scrolls of silver snowy sentences,
The sceptred terror of whose sessions rends
As her demeanors motion well or ill,
All but the pieties of lovers’ hands.
And onward, as bells off San Salvador
Salute the crocus lustres of the stars,
In these poinsettia meadows of her tides,—
Adagios of islands, O my Prodigal,
Complete the dark confessions her veins spell.
Mark how her turning shoulders wind the hours,
And hasten while her penniless rich palms
Pass superscription of bent foam and wave,—
Hasten, while they are true,—sleep, death, desire,
Close round one instant in one floating flower.
Bind us in time, O Seasons clear, and awe.
O minstrel galleons of Carib fire,
Bequeath us to no earthly shore until
Is answered in the vortex of our grave
The seal’s wide spindrift gaze toward paradise.
III
Infinite consanguinity it bears—
This tendered theme of you that light
Retrieves from sea plains where the sky
Resigns a breast that every wave enthrones;
While ribboned water lanes I wind
Are laved and scattered with no stroke
Wide from your side, whereto this hour
The sea lifts, also, reliquary hands.
And so, admitted through black swollen gates
That must arrest all distance otherwise,—
Past whirling pillars and lithe pediments,
Light wrestling there incessantly with light,
Star kissing star through wave on wave unto
Your body rocking!
and where death, if shed,
Presumes no carnage, but this single change,—
Upon the steep floor flung from dawn to dawn
The silken skilled transmemberment of song;
Permit me voyage, love, into your hands …
IV
Whose counted smile of hours and days, suppose
I know as spectrum of the sea and pledge
Vastly now parting gulf on gulf of wings
Whose circles bridge, I know,
(from palms to the severe
Chilled albatross’s white immutability)
No stream of greater love advancing now
Than, singing, this mortality alone
Through clay aflow immortally to you.
All fragrance irrefragably, and claim
Madly meeting logically in this hour
And region that is ours to wreathe again,
Portending eyes and lips and making told
The chancel port and portion of our June—
Shall they not stem and close in our own steps
Bright staves of flowers and quills today as I
Must first be lost in fatal tides to tell?
In signature of the incarnate word
The harbor shoulders to resign in mingling
Mutual blood, transpiring as foreknown
And widening noon within your breast for gathering
All bright insinuations that my years have caught
For islands where must lead inviolably
Blue latitudes and levels of your eyes,—
In this expectant, still exclaim receive
The secret oar and petals of all love.
V
Meticulous, past midnight in clear rime,
Infrangible and lonely, smooth as though cast
Together in one merciless white blade—
The bay estuaries fleck the hard sky limits.
—As if too brittle or too clear to touch!
The cables of our sleep so swiftly filed,
Already hang, shred ends from remembered stars.
One frozen trackless smile … What words
Can strangle this deaf moonlight? For we
Are overtaken. Now no cry, no sword
Can fasten or deflect this tidal wedge,
Slow tyranny of moonlight, moonlight loved
And changed … “There’s
Nothing like this in the world,” you say,
Knowing I cannot touch your hand and look
Too, into that godless cleft of sky
Where nothing turns but dead sands flashing.
“—And never to quite understand!” No,
In all the argosy of your bright hair I dreamed
Nothing so flagless as this piracy.
But now
Draw in your head, alone and too tall here.
Your eyes already in the slant of drifting foam;
Your breath sealed by the ghosts I do not know:
Draw in your head and sleep the long way home.
VI
Where icy and bright dungeons lift
Of swimmers their lost morning eyes,
And ocean rivers, churning, shift
Green borders under stranger skies,
Steadily as a shell secretes
Its beating leagues of monotone,
Or as many waters trough the sun’s
Red kelson past the cape’s wet stone;
O rivers mingling toward the sky
And harbor of the phoenix’ breast—
My eyes pressed black against the prow,
—Thy derelict and blinded guest
Waiting, afire, what name, unspoke,
I cannot claim: let thy waves rear
More savage than the death of kings,
Some splintered garland for the seer.
Beyond siroccos harvesting
The solstice thunders, crept away,
Like a cliff swinging or a sail
Flung into April’s inmost day—
Creation’s blithe and petalled word
To the lounged goddess when she rose
Conceding dialogue with eyes
That smile unsearchable repose—
Still fervid covenant, Belle Isle,
—Unfolded floating dais before
Which rainbows twine continual hair—
Belle Isle, white echo of the oar!
The imaged Word, it is, that holds
Hushed willows anchored in its glow.
It is the unbetrayable reply
Whose accent no farewell can know.
Hart Crane
(1899—1932)
Voyages
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The Lonely Death
In the cold I will rise, I will bathe
In waters of ice; myself
Will shiver, and shrive myself,
Alone in the dawn, and anoint
Forehead and feet and hands;
I will shutter the windows from light,
I will place in their sockets the four
Tall candles and set them a-flame
In the grey of the dawn; and myself
Will lay myself straight in my bed,
And draw the sheet under my chin.
Adelaide Crapsey
(1878—1914)
The Lonely Death
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