QuoteReplyTopic: Today in History of Humanities Posted: 30-Mar-2012 at 13:16
I'm thinking this thread as following birth/deaths of important contributors to our knowledge of Humanities - so all poets, writers, philosophers, historians, anthropologists, sociologists, etc will get here. If I have time I may throw a poem, or link a book by the person mentioned. I'm going to use the wiki pages as my main source, plus adding what links with works I can dig from the net. The result can be used as a archive of a sort, instead of endless bookmarking; I cannot do research on additional links than for 2-3 people a day, the next 2-3 will be next year.
1840 – Émile Zola, French novelist and critic (d. 1902). He is one of my favoite novelists ever, and his books started the literature movement called "Naturalism" - because they were potraing life in all it's tragedy, in the lives or real people from low-class in 19 century France. Some of his works are available to read online on this site http://www.readbookonline.net/books/Zola/102/
1861 – Iván Persa, Hungarian-Slovene writer and catholic priest (d. 1935)
A wreathed garland of deserved praise, Of praise deserved, unto thee I give, I give to thee, who knowest all my wayes, My crooked winding wayes, wherein I live, Wherein I die, not live : for life is straight, Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee, To thee, who art more farre above deceit, Then deceit seems above simplicitie. Give me simplicitie, that I may live, So live and like, that I may know thy wayes, Know them and practise them : then shall I give For this poore wreath, give thee a crown of praise.
O Poland ! As long as you imprison
An angelic soul in a boorish skull,
So long your flesh will be hacked by a headsman,
So long your revenge sword will remain dull,
So long a hyena will lie over you
And a grave – your eyes opened in the grave too.
Throw off completely those hideous tatters,
First – that Deianira’s burning attire :
And then arise like great shameless sculptures,
Naked – and bathed up in die Stygian mire,
New – brazen in your iron nakedness –
Not embarrassed by anything – deathless.
Let the people arise at the dead of night
From the quiet grave and frighten the others,
It’s such a big statue – from one block cast tight,
And so hardened, it won’t break under thunders.
But with thunderbolts its hands and wreath are rife,
The eyes that disdain death – the flush of life.
Poland ! You are still deceived with baubles ;
You were the nations’ peacock and parrot,
Now you are a handmaid of other peoples.
Though I know these words won’t quaver a minute
In your heart – where thought doesn’t long remain :
I speak – for I am sad – and full of blame.
Ay, curse me – yet my soul will make you run
Like Eumenides – through the snaky canes,
For you are Prometheus’s only son :
The vulture doesn’t eat your heart – but your brains.
Although in your blood my Muse I will stain,
I’ll reach to your bowels’ core – and pull with a strain.
Put a curse on your son and howl in torment,
But be aware – the hand of the curser
Stretched over me – will coil like a serpent
And snap off, withered away from your shoulder,
Black satans will snatch up the bits of dust then ;
For you have no power to curse – bondwoman !
Rose with dark eyes, mirror of your nothingness, rose with dark eyes, make us believe in the mystery, hypocrite flower, flower of silence.
Rose the colour of pure gold, oh safe deposit of the ideal, rose the colour of pure gold, give us the key of your womb, hypocrite flower, flower of silence.
Rose the colour of silver, censer of our dreams, rose the colour of silver, take our heart and turn it into smoke, hypocrite flower, flower of silence.
A Rock, A River, A Tree Hosts to species long since departed, Marked the mastodon, The dinosaur, who left dried tokens Of their sojourn here On our planet floor, Any broad alarm of their hastening doom Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully, Come, you may stand upon my Back and face your distant destiny, But seek no haven in my shadow, I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than The angels, have crouched too long in The bruising darkness Have lain too long Facedown in ignorance, Your mouths spilling words Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today, You may stand upon me, But do not hide your face.
THERE WAS a graven image of Desire Painted with red blood on a ground of gold Passing between the young men and the old, And by him Pain, whose body shone like fire, And Pleasure with gaunt hands that grasped their hire. Of his left wrist, with fingers clenched and cold, The insatiable Satiety kept hold, Walking with feet unshod that pashed the mire. The senses and the sorrows and the sins, And the strange loves that suck the breasts of Hate Till lips and teeth bite in their sharp indenture, Followed like beasts with flap of wings and fins. Death stood aloof behind a gaping grate, Upon whose lock was written Peradventure.
1840 – Ghazaros Aghayan, Armenian writer, educator, folklorist, historian, and linguist (d. 1911)
Now mind is clear as a cloudless sky. Time then to make a home in wilderness.
What have I done but wander with my eyes in the trees? So I will build: wife, family, and seek for neighbors.
Or I perish of lonesomeness or want of food or lightning or the bear (must tame the hart and wear the bear).
And maybe make an image of my wandering, a little image—shrine by the roadside to signify to traveler that I live here in the wilderness awake and at home.
--The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground--from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split Asunder,--and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!--the wind is in the tree, But they are silent;--still they roll along Immeasurably distant; and the vault, Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
LET us live, live! for, being dead, The pretty spots, Ribbons and knots, And the fine French dress for the head, No lady wears upon her In the cold, cold bed of honour. Beat down our grottos, and hew down our bowers, Dig up our arbours, and root up our flowers; Our gardens are bulwarks and bastions become; Then hang up our lute, we must sing to the drum.
Our patches and our curls, So exact in each station, Our powders and our purls, Are now out of fashion. Hence with our needles, and give us your spades; We, that were ladies, grow coarse as our maids. Our coaches have driven us to balls at the court, We now must drive barrows to earth up the fort.
You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it--it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk. But on what?Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you:"It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."
LEAVES and rain and the days of the year, (Water-willow and wellaway,) All these fall, and my soul gives ear, And she is hence who once was here. (With a wind blown night and day.) Ah! but now, for a secret sign, (The willow's wan and the water white,) In the held breath of the day's decline Her very face seemed pressed to mine. (With a wind blown day and night.) O love, of my death my life is fain; (The willows wave on the water-way,) Your cheek and mine are cold in the rain, But warm they'll be when we meet again. (With a wind blown night and day.) Mists are heaved and cover the sky; (The willows wail in the waning light,) O loose your lips, leave space for a sigh,— They seal my soul, I cannot die. (With a wind blown day and night.) Leaves and rain and the days of the year, (Water-willow and wellaway,) All still fall, and I still give ear, And she is hence, and I am here. (With a wind blown night and day.)
The sweets of evening charm the mind, Sick of the sultry day; The body then no more confin'd, But exercise with freedom join'd, When Phoebus sheathes his ray.
While all-serene the summer moon Sends glances thro' the trees, And Philomel begins her tune,. And Asteria too shall help her soon With voice of skillful ease.
A nosegay, every thing that grows, And music, every sound To lull the sun to his repose; The skies are colour'd like the rose With lively streaks around.
Of all the changes rung by time None half so sweet appear, As those when thoughts themselves sublime, And with superior natures chime In fancy's highest sphere.
This love, that dares not warm before its flame Our yearning hands, or from its tempting tree Yield fruit we may consume, or let us claim In Hymen's scroll of happy heraldry The twining glyphs of perfect you and me -- May kindle social fires whence curls no blame, Find gardens where no fruits forbidden be, And mottoes weave, unsullied by a shame.
For, love, unmothered Childhood wanly waits For such as you to cherish it to Youth: Raw social soils untilled need Love's own verve That Peace a-flower may oust their weedy hates: And where Distress would faint from wolfish sleuth The perfect lovers' symbol is "We serve!"
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
1823 – Alexander Ostrovsky, Russian playwright (d. 1886). A monologue from one of his plays "Poverty is no Crime":
"...KORSHUNOV: What are you crying about, young lady? For
shame, for shame! He, he, he! There! I'm older than you, and
I don't cry. [Looks at her searchingly.] Oh, well, I know
what it's about! I suppose you want to marry a young fellow?
Now, this, my pretty one, is just girlish folly. Now, just listen
to what I'm going to tell you; I'll tell you the truth straight
out. I don't like to deceive any one, and have no need to. Will
you listen, eh? Good! Now, we'll begin with this point. Will
a young man appreciate your love? Any girl will love a young
man; that is nothing unusual for him; but to an old man it is
precious. An old man will reward you for your love with some
little gift, this and that--with gold, and with velvet--and there's
nothing he won't give you. And in Moscow there are lots of nice
things in the shops; there are things worth giving! So it's nice
to fall in love with an old man. That's number one for you! And
then this is what happens with a young and good-looking husband.
You see they are a fickle lot! Before you know it he will be
running after some one else, or some young lady will fall in
love with him, and then his wife may pine away. Then come reproaches
and jealousy. And what is this jealousy, eh? He, he, he! Do you
know, young lady, what this jealousy is? It isn't like a needle
prick in the finger; it's far more painful than that. You see
the cursed thing consumes a man. From jealousy people stab one
another, and poison one another with arsenic! [Laughs spasmodically
and coughs.] But when any one falls in love with an old man,
then all is peaceful for his wife. And here's something else
I will tell you, my dear young lady: Young men like to go on
sprees; they like gayety and distraction, and all sorts of dissipations,
and their wives may sit at home and wait for them till midnight.
And they come home drunk, and bully their wives, and swagger.
But an old man will just sit near his wife; he'll die before
he'll leave her. And he would like to look into her eyes all
the time and to caress her and to kiss her hands. [Kisses
them.] Just like that...." http://www.monologuearchive.com/o/ostrovsky_alexander.html
1782 – Metastasio, Italian poet and librettist (b. 1698)
"The Departure"
Now comes the painful instant
Nice, my Nice, goodbye,
How can I live, my love
So far away from you!
My live will be a burden
Without any happiness
And you, who knows if ever
You will remember me.
On your way I shall always
Be close to you
But you, who knows, if ever
You will remember me.
I suddenly smeared the weekday map
splashing paint from a glass;
On a plate of aspic
I revealed
the ocean's slanted cheek.
On the scales of a tin fish
I read the summons of new lips.
And you
could you perform
a nocturne on a drainpipe flute?
WE will walk by the grating of the park,
When the Great Bear is growing dark,
And, as I wish it, you will wear
Among the ribbons of your hair
The flower called asphodel.
Your eyes in mine will be shining,
When the Great Bear is declining.--
And mine eyes will have the rays
Of the flower called asphodel.
Your eyes into mine will gaze,
And all my being shall with such
A wavering shake as fables tell
The mythic rock felt at the touch
Of the flower called asphodel.
Wind of the dead men's feet, Blow down the empty street Of this old city by the sea With news for me! Blow me beyond the grime And pestilence of time! I am too sick at heart to war With failure any more. Thy chill is in my bones; The moonlight on the stones Is pale, and palpable, and cold; I am as one grown old.
I call from room to room Through the deserted gloom; The echoes are all words I know, Lost in some long ago.
I prowl from door to door, And find no comrade more. The wolfish fear that children feel Is snuffing at my heel.
I hear the hollow sound Of a great ship coming round, The thunder of tackle and the tread Of sailors overhead.
That stormy-blown hulloo Has orders for me, too. I see thee, hand at mouth, and hark, My captain of the dark.
O wind of the great East, By whom we are released From this strange dusty port to sail Beyond our fellows' hail,
Under the stars that keep The entry of the deep, Thy somber voice brings up the sea's Forgotten melodies;
And I have no more need Of bread, or wine, or creed, Bound for the colonies of time Beyond the farthest prime.
Wind of the dead men's feet, Blow through the empty street; The last adventurer am I, Then, world, goodby!
By the hut, left by people and heaven,
Where the fence’s black remnants are steeping,
The ragged beggar and black old raven,
Were discussing the dreams of the sleeping.
The old bird, with commotion’s moans,
Was repeating in hot indecision,
That he had on the tower’s stones
The unusual, fabulous visions;
That in flight, full of valor and air,
He, who lost their usual sadness,
Was a swan, snow white, sweet and fair,
And the beggar – a prince of the greatness!
The ugly pauper was helplessly wailing.
Heavy night was descending and reigning.
The old woman, while passing the dwelling,
Was unceasingly crossing and praying.
1896 – Tristan Tzara, Romanian poet and essayist (d. 1963)
The Great Lament Of My Obscurity Three
where we live the flowers of the clocks catch fire and the plumes
encircle the brightness in the distant sulphur morning the cows lick the
salt lilies my son my son let us always shuffle through the colour of the world which looks bluer than the subway and astronomy we are too thin we have no mouth our legs are stiff and knock together our faces are formeless like the stars crystal points without strength burned basilica mad : the zigzags crack telephone bite the rigging liquefy the arc climb astral memory towards the north through its double fruit like raw flesh hunger fire blood
My God and King! to Thee I bow my knee; I bow my troubled soul, and greet With my foul heart thy holy feet. Cast it, or tread it! it shall do Even what thou wilt, and praise thee too.
My God, could I weep blood, Gladly I would, Or if thou wilt give me that art, Which through the eyes pours out the heart, I will exhaust it all, and make Myself all tears, a weeping lake.
O! 'tis an easy thing To write and sing; But to write true, unfeigned verse Is very hard! O God, disperse These weights, and give my spirit leave To act as well as to conceive!
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