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The Sorrows of Young Werther (72) by J.W. von Goethe A neighbour saw the flash, and heard the report of the pistol; but, as everything remained quiet, he thought no more of it. In the morning, at six o'clock, the servant went into Werther's room with a candle. He found his master stretched upon the floor, weltering in his blood, and the pistols at his side. He called, he took him in his arms, but received no answer. Life was not yet quite extinct. The servant ran for a surgeon, and then went to fetch Albert. Charlotte heard the ringing of the bell: a cold shudder seized her. She wakened her husband, and they both rose. The servant, bathed in tears faltered forth the dreadful news. Charlotte fell senseless at Albert's feet.When the surgeon came to the unfortunate Werther, he was still lying on the floor; and his pulse beat, but his limbs were cold. The bullet, entering the forehead, over the right eye, had penetrated the skull. A vein was opened in his right arm: the blood came, and he still continued to breathe. From the blood which flowed from the chair, it could be inferred that he had committed the rash act sitting at his bureau, and that he afterward fell upon the floor. He was found lying on his back near the window. He was in full-dress costume. 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
More in: -Die Leiden des jungen Werther, Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von
Lewis Carroll
(1832-1898)
Father William
‘You are old, Father William,’ the young man said,
‘And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head –
Do you think, at your age, it is right?’
‘In my youth,’ Father William replied to his son,
‘I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.’
‘You are old,’ said the youth, ‘as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door –
Pray, what is the reason of that?’
‘In my youth,’ said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
‘I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment – one shilling a box –
Allow me to sell you a couple?’
‘You are old,’ said the youth, ‘and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak –
Pray, how did you manage to do it?’
‘In my youth,’ said his father, ‘I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength that it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life.’
‘You are old,’ said the youth, ‘one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose –
What made you so awfully clever?’
‘I have answered three questions, and that is enough,’
Said his father; ‘don’t give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!’
Lewis Carroll poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive C-D, Carroll, Lewis
Robert Herrick
(1591-1674)
Counsel To Girls
(To Virgins, To Make Much of Time)
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
The higher he’s a-getting
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.
That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst,
Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
Robert Herrick poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive G-H, CLASSIC POETRY
Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
A Terre
(being the philosophy of many soldiers)
Sit on the bed. I’m blind, and three parts shell.
Be careful; can’t shake hands now; never shall.
Both arms have mutinied against me,-brutes.
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.
I tried to peg out soldierly,-no use!
One dies of war like any old disease.
This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes.
I have my medals?-Discs to make eyes close.
My glorious ribbons?-Ripped from my own back
In scarlet shreds. (That’s for your poetry book.)
A short life and a merry one, my buck!
We used to say we’d hate to live dead-old,-
Yet now…I’d willingly be puffy, bald,
And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys
At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose
Little I’d ever teach a son, but hitting,
Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.
Well, that’s what I learnt,-that, and making money.
Your fifty years ahead seem none too many?
Tell me how long I’ve got? God! For one year
To help myself to nothing more than air!
One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long?
Spring wind would work its own way to my lung,
And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.
My servant’s lamed, but listen how he shouts!
When I’m lugged out, he’ll still be good for that.
Here in this mummy-case, you know, I’ve thought
How well I might have swept his floors for ever.
I’d ask no nights off when the bustle’s over,
Enjoying so the dirt. Who’s prejudiced
Against a grimed hand when his own’s quite dust,
Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn,
Less warm than dust that mixes with arms’ tan?
I’d love to be a sweep, now, black as Town,
Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?
O Life, Life, let me breathe,-a dug-out rat!
Not worse than ours the lives rats lead-
Nosing along at night down some safe rut,
They find a shell-proof home before they rot.
Dead men may envy living mites in cheese,
Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys,
And subdivide, and never come to death.
Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth.
‘I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone’
Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned:
The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now.
‘Pushing up daisies’ is their creed, you know.
To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap,
For all the usefulness there is in soap.
D’you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup?
Some day, no doubt, if…Friend, be very sure
I shall be better off with plants that share
More peaceably the meadow and the shower.
Soft rains will touch me,-as they could touch once,
And nothing but the sun shall make me ware.
Your guns may crash around me. I’ll not hear;
Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince.
Don’t take my soul’s poor comfort for your jest.
Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds,
But here’s the thing’s best left at home with friends.
My soul’s a little grief, grappling your chest,
To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased
On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.
Carry my crying spirit till it’s weaned
To do without what blood remained these wounds.
Wilfred Owen poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: *War Poetry Archive, Archive O-P, Owen, Wilfred
The Sorrows of Young Werther (71) by J.W. von Goethe
“See, Charlotte, I do not shudder to take the cold and fatal cup, from
which I shall drink the draught of death. Your hand presents it to me,
and I do not tremble. All, all is now concluded: the wishes and the
hopes of my existence are fulfilled. With cold, unflinching hand I knock
at the brazen portals of Death. Oh, that I had enjoyed the bliss of
dying for you! how gladly would I have sacrificed myself for you;
Charlotte! And could I but restore peace and joy to your bosom, with
what resolution, with what joy, would I not meet my fate! But it is the
lot of only a chosen few to shed their blood for their friends, and by
their death to augment, a thousand times, the happiness of those by whom
they are beloved.
“I wish, Charlotte, to be buried in the dress I wear at present: it has
been rendered sacred by your touch. I have begged this favour of your
father. My spirit soars above my sepulchre. I do not wish my pockets to
be searched. The knot of pink ribbon which you wore on your bosom
the first time I saw you, surrounded by the children–Oh, kiss them a
thousand times for me, and tell them the fate of their unhappy friend! I
think I see them playing around me. The dear children! How warmly have
I been attached to you, Charlotte! Since the first hour I saw you, how
impossible have I found it to leave you. This ribbon must be buried
with me: it was a present from you on my birthday. How confused it all
appears! Little did I then think that I should journey this road. But
peace! I pray you, peace!
“They are loaded–the clock strikes twelve. I say amen. Charlotte,
Charlotte! farewell, farewell!”
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
More in: -Die Leiden des jungen Werther, Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von
Maria Stuart is een majestueus koninginnendrama waarin twee legendarische vorstinnen uit de Europese geschiedenis elkaar naar het leven staan: Elizabeth I van Engeland (Chris Nietvelt) en de katholieke Maria Stuart van Schotland (Halina Reijn).
Schiller schreef een bloedstollende reconstructie van de laatste dagen van Maria Stuart, veroordeeld wegens het beramen van een aanslag op Elizabeths leven en wachtend op haar executie. Haar gevangenschap is de culminatie van een jarenlange rivaliteit tussen de twee vorstinnen waarbij Maria zich voortdurend opwerpt als Engelse troonopvolger en zodoende zorgt voor een klimaat van achterdocht en dreiging. Schiller laat op subtiele wijze zien hoe Elizabeth net op het ogenblik dat ze haar aartsrivale definitief in haar macht heeft, terugdeinst voor de verantwoordelijkheid haar ter dood te brengen. Maria Stuart lijkt minder bang te sterven dan Elizabeth om haar te doden.
Achter de maskers van de politieke macht, gaan bij Schiller vrouwen schuil van vlees en bloed; vrouwen gefascineerd door elkaar maar ook gevangen in een web van onderlinge rivaliteit en jaloezie. De puriteinse, pragmatische Elizabeth herkent in de verfijnde, flamboyante Maria die de mannen in haar leven bespeelt en voor haar kar spant, eenzelfde eenzaamheid. Zo wordt Maria Stuart niet alleen een rijk geborsteld historisch drama over macht, ambitie en verantwoordelijkheid maar ook een intiem portret van twee vrouwen gevangen in het keurslijf van hun politieke rol.
Met zijn prachtige verzen en verfijnde psychologische karaktertekening vormt Maria Stuart een hoogtepunt in het oeuvre van Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805) en het Duitse classicisme.
acteurs: Chris Nietvelt, Eelco Smits, Halina Reijn, Hans Kesting, Jip van den Dool, Robert de Hoog, Katelijne Damen, Maarten Heijmans, Marc Van Eeghem, Matteo Simoni
auteur: Friedrich Schiller
vertaling: Barber van de Pol
dramaturgie: Jan Peter Gerrits
scenografie, lichtontwerp: Jan Versweyveld
muziek: Daniel Freitag
choreograaf: Emio Greco, Pieter C Scholten
kostuums: Wojciech Dziedzic
assistentie regie: Olivier Diepenhorst
assistentie scenografie: Bart Van Merode
castingadviezen: Hans Kemna
producent: Toneelgroep Amsterdam, Toneelhuis
TONEELGROEP AMSTERDAM
MARIA STUART
regisseur ivo van hove
van friedrich schiller
duur 2:45, incl. 1 pauze
première 03 dec 2014
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Schiller, Friedrich von, THEATRE
Op zaterdag en zondag 13, 14, 20, 21, 27 en 28 december 2014 van 14.00 tot 17.00 uur stellen John Dohmen, Carin de Kok en Sjon Brands hun ateliers open. Vrije toegang, Wilhelminapark 54 en Stedekestraat 15 Tilburg
# Informatie website Sjon Brands
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Art & Literature News, Brands, Sjon, Exhibition Archive, Park
Stefan Zweig
(1881-1942)
In tiefer Nacht
So mitternächtig alle Gassen,
Die silberblank der Mond durchzieht
So blaß und stumm die Häusermassen …
Hinauf zu schlummernden Gelassen
Klingt sonnetrunken noch mein Lied.
Die Straßen sind so traumesselig
Und sprechen leis mein Lied zurück.
Und lauter, voller wirds allmählich
Und bald erdröhnt es hell und fröhlich
Das Lied von meiner Liebe Glück.
Es dringt durch dunkle Fensterläden
So leise trägts der laue Wind.
In tiefem Traum umfängt es jeden
Mit seinen feinen, feinen Fäden
Die Mutter Sehnsucht um uns spinnt,
Daß sich die Mädchenherzen dehnen
Im dunklen Banne seiner Macht,
Und immer heißer wird ihr Sehnen,
Und glühend rinnen brennende Tränen
Hinein in die stumme, verschwiegene Nacht.
Doch mein Lied und ich, wir schreiten
Immer nur weiter, immer nur zu
In die silberblinkenden Weiten
Hin zu den blendendsten Seligkeiten
Hin zu Dir, oh Geliebte Du …
Stefan Zweig poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Y-Z, Stefan Zweig, Zweig, Stefan
Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
Arms and the Boy
Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
2How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
Blue with all malice, like a madman’s flash;
And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.
Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads
Which long to muzzle in the hearts of lads.
Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth,
Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.
For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.
There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;
And God will grow no talons at his heels,
Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls.
Wilfred Owen poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Owen, Wilfred
Willem Jan Otten kreeg in 2014 de P.C. Hooftprijs toegekend voor zijn gehele oeuvre. Dit vanwege de uitzonderlijke kwaliteit van zijn werk als essayist. Datzelfde jaar verscheen een nieuwe verzameling essays getiteld ‘Droomportaal’ met maar liefst tien essays over film.
Willem Jan Otten
VPRO Boeken
zondag 7 december,
NPO 1, 11.20 uur
# Meer info website VPRO BOEKEN
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive O-P, Art & Literature News, Otten, Willem Jan
Anna de Noailles
(1876-1933)
La mort dit à l’homme…
Voici que vous avez assez souffert, pauvre homme,
Assez connu l’amour, le désir, le dégoût,
L’âpreté du vouloir et la torpeur des sommes,
L’orgueil d’être vivant et de pleurer debout…
Que voulez-vous savoir qui soit plus délectable
Que la douceur des jours que vous avez tenus,
Quittez le temps, quittez la maison et la table ;
Vous serez sans regret ni peur d’être venu.
J’emplirai votre coeur, vos mains et votre bouche
D’un repos si profond, si chaud et si pesant,
Que le soleil, la pluie et l’orage farouche
Ne réveilleront pas votre âme et votre sang.
– Pauvre âme, comme au jour où vous n’étiez pas née,
Vous serez pleine d’ombre et de plaisant oubli,
D’autres iront alors par les rudes journées
Pleurant aux creux des mains, des tombes et des lits.
D’autres iront en proie au douloureux vertige
Des profondes amours et du destin amer,
Et vous serez alors la sève dans les tiges,
La rose du rosier et le sel de la mer.
D’autres iront blessés de désir et de rêve
Et leurs gestes feront de la douleur dans l’air,
Mais vous ne saurez pas que le matin se lève,
Qu’il faut revivre encore, qu’il fait jour, qu’il fait clair.
Ils iront retenant leur âme qui chancelle
Et trébuchant ainsi qu’un homme pris de vin ;
– Et vous serez alors dans ma nuit éternelle,
Dans ma calme maison, dans mon jardin divin…
Anna de Noailles poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive M-N, Noailles, Anna de
The Sorrows of Young Werther (70) by J.W. von Goethe
He spent the rest of the evening in arranging his papers: he tore and
burned a great many; others he sealed up, and directed to Wilhelm.
They contained some detached thoughts and maxims, some of which I have
perused. At ten o’clock he ordered his fire to be made up, and a bottle
of wine to be brought to him. He then dismissed his servant, whose room,
as well as the apartments of the rest of the family, was situated in
another part of the house. The servant lay down without undressing, that
he might be the sooner ready for his journey in the morning, his master
having informed him that the post-horses would be at the door before six
o’clock.
“Past eleven o’clock! All is silent around me, and my soul is calm. I
thank thee, O God, that thou bestowest strength and courage upon me in
these last moments! I approach the window, my dearest of friends; and
through the clouds, which are at this moment driven rapidly along by the
impetuous winds, I behold the stars which illumine the eternal heavens.
No, you will not fall, celestial bodies: the hand of the Almighty
supports both you and me! I have looked for the last time upon the
constellation of the Greater Bear: it is my favourite star; for when
I bade you farewell at night, Charlotte, and turned my steps from your
door, it always shone upon me. With what rapture have I at times beheld
it! How often have I implored it with uplifted hands to witness my
felicity! and even still–But what object is there, Charlotte, which
fails to summon up your image before me? Do you not surround me on all
sides? and have I not, like a child, treasured up every trifle which you
have consecrated by your touch?
“Your profile, which was so dear to me, I return to you; and I pray
you to preserve it. Thousands of kisses have I imprinted upon it, and a
thousand times has it gladdened my heart on departing from and returning
to my home.
“I have implored your father to protect my remains. At the corner of the
churchyard, looking toward the fields, there are two lime-trees–there
I wish to lie. Your father can, and doubtless will, do this much for his
friend. Implore it of him. But perhaps pious Christians will not choose
that their bodies should be buried near the corpse of a poor, unhappy
wretch like me. Then let me be laid in some remote valley, or near the
highway, where the priest and Levite may bless themselves as they pass
by my tomb, whilst the Samaritan will shed a tear for my fate.
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
More in: -Die Leiden des jungen Werther, Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von
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