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Percy Byssche Shelley

· Anne Eekhout schrijft historische roman over Mary Shelley · Kathryn Harkup: Making the Monster. The Science Behind Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein · PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY: OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT · Percy Bysshe Shelley: Good-night · Percy Bysshe Shelley: Good-night in een nieuwe vertaling van Cornelis W. Schoneveld · Percy Bysshe Shelley: Good-night · Percy Byssche Shelley: To Night (vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld) · Percy Bysshe Shelley: Nine Poems

Anne Eekhout schrijft historische roman over Mary Shelley

Mary Shelley verblijft op haar veertiende bij een familie in Schotland, waar een innige vriendschap ontstaat met Isabella Baxter.

Samen dwalen ze in het gebied dat al eeuwen verhalen herbergt over monsters en geesten, en op een dag stuiten ze diep in het bos op een man die geen man is. De ledematen log en lelijk, een hoofd dat noch menselijk, noch dierlijk is.

Vier jaar later brengt Mary met haar geliefde Percy Shelley een bezoek aan haar vrienden John Polidori en Lord Byron, bij het Meer van Genève. ’s Avonds bij het haardvuur vertellen ze elkaar verhalen. Een flintertje herinnering brengt haar terug naar haar tijd met Isabella in Schotland, en ook naar David Booth, een zeer intelligente, charismatische, maar tegelijk ook griezelige man, die een grote interesse in Mary en Isabella ontwikkelde. Dan dient ook het monster uit het bos zich weer aan, en vanuit die gedachte ontstaat haar verhaal over het monster van Frankenstein.

Mary is een ode aan de verbeelding, een verhaal over creëren, over de onlosmakelijke band tussen fantasie en werkelijkheid. En evenals Mary Shelley toont Anne Eekhout de kracht van een vrouw wanneer die iets ter wereld brengt wat niemand voor mogelijk had gehouden.

Anne Eekhout debuteerde in 2014 met de roman Dogma, die werd genomineerd voor de Bronzen Uil voor het beste debuut, op de longlist stond van de AKO Literatuurprijs en die wordt vertaald in het Duits. In 2016 verscheen Op een nacht (genomineerd voor de BNG Literatuurprijs) en in 2019 Nicolas en de verdwijning van de wereld, dat de prijs voor het Beste Boek voor Jongeren won. In november 2021 verschijnt de roman Mary waarin met verbluffende verbeeldingskracht de achttienjarige schepper van het meesterwerk Frankenstein tot leven wordt gewekt.

# new novel
Mary
Auteur: Anne Eekhout
Type: Gebonden
ISBN: 9789403153315
NUR: 301
Aantal pagina’s: 384
Uitgever: De Bezige Bij
Verschijningsdatum: 18-11-2021
Prijs: 24,99

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Kathryn Harkup: Making the Monster. The Science Behind Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein

The year 1818 saw the publication of one of the most influential science-fiction stories of all time.

Frankenstein: Or, Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley had a huge impact on gothic horror and science-fiction genres, and her creation has become part of our everyday culture, from cartoons to Hallowe’en costumes. Even the name ‘Frankenstein’ has become a by-word for evil scientists and dangerous experiments. How did a teenager with no formal education come up with the idea for an extraordinary novel such as Frankenstein?

Clues are dotted throughout Georgian science and popular culture. The years before the book’s publication saw huge advances in our understanding of the natural sciences, in areas such as electricity and physiology, for example. Sensational science demonstrations caught the imagination of the general public, while the newspapers were full of lurid tales of murderers and resurrectionists.

Making the Monster explores the scientific background behind Mary Shelley’s book. Is there any science fact behind the science fiction? And how might a real-life Victor Frankenstein have gone about creating his monster? From tales of volcanic eruptions, artificial life and chemical revolutions, to experimental surgery, ‘monsters’ and electrical experiments on human cadavers, Kathryn Harkup examines the science and scientists that influenced Shelley, and inspired her most famous creation.

Kathryn Harkup is a chemist and author. Kathryn completed a PhD then a postdoc at the University of York before realising that talking, writing and demonstrating science appealed far more than spending hours slaving over a hot fume-hood. Kathryn went on to run outreach in engineering, computing, physics and maths at the University of Surrey, which involved writing talks on science and engineering topics that would appeal to bored teenagers, and she is now a science communicator delivering talks and workshops on the quirky side of science.

Making the Monster
The Science Behind Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
By: Kathryn Harkup
Published: 08-02-2018
Format: Hardback
Edition: 1st
Extent: 304 pp
ISBN: 9781472933737
Imprint: Bloomsbury Sigma
Illustrations: 11 black and white illustrations
Dimensions: 216 x 135 mm
£16.99

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PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY: OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT

shelley21

Percy Bysshe Shelley
(1792-1822)

Ozymandias of Egypt

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert… Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on those lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Percy Bysshe Shelley: Good-night

- shelley

Percy Bysshe Shelley

(1792 – 1822)

Good-night

 

Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill

Which severs those it should unite;

Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

 

How can I call the lone night good,

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?

Be it not said, thought, understood —

Then it will be — good night.

 

To hearts which near each other move

From evening close to morning light,

The night is good; because, my love,

They never say good-night.

 

Percy Bysshe Shelley poetry

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Percy Bysshe Shelley: Good-night in een nieuwe vertaling van Cornelis W. Schoneveld

Percy Bysshe Shelley

(1792-1822)

 

Good-night

Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill

Which severs those it should unite;

Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

 

How can I call the lone night good,

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?

Be it not said, thought, understood –

Then it will be — good night.

 

To hearts which near each other move

From evening close to morning light

The night is good, because, my love,

They never say good-night.

 

Slaap zacht

Slaap zacht? o nee, het uur valt zwaar

Dat binden moest wie scheiden wacht;

Verblijven wij steeds bij elkaar,

Dan wordt het pas: slaap zacht.

 

Hoe noem ik slapen  “zacht”, alleen,

Al steunt ’t zijn vlucht als jij ’t lief zegt?

Maar komt voor ’t zeggen, ’t wensen, geen

Moment, volgt slaap zacht echt.

 

Voor harten altijd dicht tesaam,

Van ’s avonds laat tot ’s morgens vroeg,

Is nachttijd, liefste, aangenaam

En slaap al zacht genoeg.

 

Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld 2012

Percy Bysshe Shelley poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

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Percy Bysshe Shelley: Good-night

Percy Bysshe Shelley

(1792 – 1822)

Good-night

 

Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill

Which severs those it should unite;

Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

 

How can I call the lone night good,

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?

Be it not said, thought, understood —

Then it will be — good night.

 

To hearts which near each other move

From evening close to morning light,

The night is good; because, my love,

They never say good-night.

 

Percy Bysshe Shelley poetry

kempis.nl poetry magazine

More in: Archive S-T, Percy Byssche Shelley, Shelley, Percy Byssche


Percy Byssche Shelley: To Night (vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld)

Percy Byssche Shelley

(1792-1822)

 

To Night

Swiftly walk o’er the western wave,

Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave,

Where, all the long and lone daylight,

Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,

Which make thee terrible and dear, –

Swift be thy flight!

 

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,

Star-inwrought!

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;

Kiss her until she be wearied out –

Then wander o’er city, and sea, and land,

Touching all with thine opiate wand –

Come, long-sought!

 

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sighed for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,

And the weary Day turned to his rest,

Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sighed for thee.

 

Thy brother Death came, and cried,

Wouldst thou me?

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,

Murmured like a noontide bee,

Shall I nestle near thy side?

Wouldst thou me? – And I replied,

No, not thee!

 

Death will come when thou art dead,

Soon, too soon –

Sleep will come when thou art fled;

Of neither would I ask the boon

I ask of thee belovèd Night –

Swift be thine approaching flight,

Come soon, soon!

1821

 

Percy Byssche Shelley

Aan de nacht

Jaag snel over de westgolf voort,

Geest van de Nacht!

Uit de mistgrot van ‘t oosters oord,

Waar, ‘t daglicht lang, jij eenzaam wacht,

En bange en blije dromen weeft,

Wat angst, en vriendschap, voor je geeft, –

Snel zij je jacht!

 

Neem ‘n mantel, grijs, met sterbeslag,

Sla hem om!

Blinddoek met j’ haardos eerst de Dag;

Kus haar dan moe, weerom en weerom –

Ga daarna stad, en land, en zeeën af,

‘t Al rakend met je opiumstaf –

Gezochte, kom!

 

Toen de ochtend gloorde voor mijn oog,

Gold jou mijn zucht;

Toen dauw weg was, en het daglicht hoog,

Toen ‘t groen leed door de middaglucht,

En toen moe de Dag zocht naar zijn rust,

Dralend als ‘n gast, lang weggekust,

Gold jou mijn zucht.

 

Je broer de Dood kwam, en vroeg,

“Zocht je mij?”

Je zoet kind Slaap, die ‘n oogfloers droeg,

Gonsde als een middagbij:

“Wou jij dat ik naast je sliep?

Zocht je mij?” – Waarop ik riep,

“Weg hier, jij!”

 

Dood komt na jouw laatste zucht,

Gauw, te gauw –

Slaap komt als jij bent gevlucht;

De gunst die ik nu vraag van jou

Vraag ik hun niet, geliefde Nacht –

Eindig hier gezwind je jacht,

Kom gauw, gauw!

 

Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld

Uit: Bestorm mijn hart, de beste Engelse gedichten uit de 16e-19e eeuw gekozen en vertaald door Cornelis W. Schoneveld, tweetalige editie. Rainbow Essentials no. 55, Uitgeverij Maarten Muntinga, Amsterdam, 2008, 296 pp, € 9,95 ISBN: 9789041740588

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Percy Bysshe Shelley: Nine Poems

Percy Bysshe Shelley

 (August 4, 1792 Horsham, England – July 8, 1822 Livorno, Italy)

Nine Poems

 

Death

1

They die–the dead return not–Misery

Sits near an open grave and calls them over,

A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye–

They are the names of kindred, friend and lover,

Which he so feebly calls–they all are gone–

Fond wretch, all dead! those vacant names alone,

This most familiar scene, my pain–

These tombs–alone remain.


2

Misery, my sweetest friend–oh, weep no more!

Thou wilt not be consoled–I wonder not!

For I have seen thee from thy dwelling’s door

Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot

Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,

And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;

This most familiar scene, my pain–

These tombs–alone remain.

 

Satan broken loose

(fragment)

 

A golden-winged Angel stood

Before the Eternal Judgement-seat:

His looks were wild, and Devils’ blood

Stained his dainty hands and feet.

The Father and the Son

Knew that strife was now begun.

They knew that Satan had broken his chain,

And with millions of daemons in his train,

Was ranging over the world again.

Before the Angel had told his tale,

A sweet and a creeping sound

Like the rushing of wings was heard around;

And suddenly the lamps grew pale–

The lamps, before the Archangels seven,

That burn continually in Heaven.

  

Lines to a critic


1

Honey from silkworms who can gather,

Or silk from the yellow bee?

The grass may grow in winter weather

As soon as hate in me.


2

Hate men who cant, and men who pray,

And men who rail like thee;

An equal passion to repay

They are not coy like me.


3

Or seek some slave of power and gold

To be thy dear heart’s mate;

Thy love will move that bigot cold

Sooner than me, thy hate.


4

A passion like the one I prove

Cannot divided be;

I hate thy want of truth and love–

How should I then hate thee?




To…?


1

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden,

Thou needest not fear mine;

My spirit is too deeply laden

Ever to burthen thine.


2

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion,

Thou needest not fear mine;

Innocent is the heart’s devotion

With which I worship thine.



Song of Proserpine while gathering flowers

on the Plain of Enna


1

Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth,

Thou from whose immortal bosom

Gods, and men, and beasts have birth,

Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom,

Breathe thine influence most divine

On thine own child, Proserpine.


2

If with mists of evening dew

Thou dost nourish these young flowers

Till they grow, in scent and hue,

Fairest children of the Hours,

Breathe thine influence most divine

On thine own child, Proserpine.


Autumn: A Dirge


1

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,

The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,

And the Year

On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,

Is lying.

Come, Months, come away,

From November to May,

In your saddest array;

Follow the bier

Of the dead cold Year,

And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.


2

The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,

The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling

For the Year;

The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone

To his dwelling;

Come, Months, come away;

Put on white, black, and gray;

Let your light sisters play–

Ye, follow the bier

Of the dead cold Year,

And make her grave green with tear on tear.



Death


1

Death is here and death is there,

Death is busy everywhere,

All around, within, beneath,

Above is death–and we are death.


2

Death has set his mark and seal

On all we are and all we feel,

On all we know and all we fear,


3

First our pleasures die–and then

Our hopes, and then our fears–and when

These are dead, the debt is due,

Dust claims dust–and we die too.


4

All things that we love and cherish,

Like ourselves must fade and perish;

Such is our rude mortal lot–

Love itself would, did they not.

 

 


To the moon


1

Art thou pale for weariness

Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,

Wandering companionless

Among the stars that have a different birth,–

And ever changing, like a joyless eye

That finds no object worth its constancy?


2

Thou chosen sister of the Spirit,

That grazes on thee till in thee it pities…




Sonnet


Ye hasten to the grave! What seek ye there,

Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes

Of the idle brain, which the world’s livery wear?

O thou quick heart, which pantest to possess

All that pale Expectation feigneth fair!

Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest guess

Whence thou didst come, and whither thou must go,

And all that never yet was known would know–

Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye press,

With such swift feet life’s green and pleasant path,

Seeking, alike from happiness and woe,

A refuge in the cavern of gray death?

O heart, and mind, and thoughts! what thing do you

Hope to inherit in the grave below?

 

Percy Bysshe Shelley: Nine Poems

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