Kategorie: sonntag: lutaretir

 I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.


William Butler Yeats, 1916

Es war ein Geier, der hackte in meine Füße. Stiefel und Strümpfe hatte er schon aufgerissen, nun hackte er schon in die Füße selbst. Immer schlug er zu, flog dann unruhig mehrmals um mich und setzte dann die Arbeit fort. Es kam ein Herr vorüber, sah ein Weilchen zu und fragte dann, warum ich den Geier dulde. »Ich bin ja wehrlos«, sagte ich, »er kam und fing zu hacken an, da wollte ich ihn natürlich wegtreiben, versuchte ihn sogar zu würgen, aber ein solches Tier hat große Kräfte, auch wollte er mir schon ins Gesicht springen, da opferte ich lieber die Füße. Nun sind sie schon fast zerrissen.« »Daß Sie sich so quälen lassen«, sagte der Herr, »ein Schuß und der Geier ist erledigt.« »Ist das so?« fragte ich, »und wollen Sie das besorgen?« »Gern«, sagte der Herr, »ich muß nur nach Hause gehn und mein Gewehr holen. Können Sie noch eine halbe Stunde warten?« »Das weiß ich nicht«, sagte ich und stand eine Weile starr vor Schmerz, dann sagte ich: »Bitte, versuchen Sie es für jeden Fall.« »Gut«, sagte der Herr, »ich werde mich beeilen.« Der Geier hatte während des Gespräches ruhig zugehört und die Blicke zwischen mir und dem Herrn wandern lassen. Jetzt sah ich, daß er alles verstanden hatte, er flog auf, weit beugte er sich zurück, um genug Schwung zu bekommen und stieß dann wie ein Speerwerfer den Schnabel durch meinen Mund tief in mich. Zurückfallend fühlte ich befreit, wie er in meinem alle Tiefen füllenden, alle Ufer überfließenden Blut unrettbar ertrank.

Franz Kafka, 1920

Frühling lässt sein blaues Band
Wieder flattern durch die Lüfte;
Süße, wohlbekannte Düfte
Streifen ahnungsvoll das Land.
Veilchen träumen schon,
Wollen balde kommen.
– Horch, von fern ein leiser Harfenton!
Frühling, ja du bist’s!
Dich hab ich vernommen!

– Eduard Mörike, 1832

Eine kurze Liste von Leseanregungen. Unterstützt den lokalen Buchhandel, Amazon macht genug Geld mit Serververmietungen.

Linke Hirnhälfte:

Daniel Kahneman – Schnelles Denken, Langsames Denken

Yuval Noah Harari – Eine kurze Geschichte der Menschheit

Nassim Nicholas Taleb – Antifragilität

David Graeber – Bullshit Jobs

Naomi Klein – Die Entscheidung

Rechte Hirnhälfte:

Vladimir Nabokov – Lolita

Michail Bulgakov – Der Meister und Margarita

Albert Camus – Der Fremde

Wolfgang Herrndorf – Arbeit und Struktur

Thomas Bernhard – Der Untergeher

Er blickte um sich, als sähe er zum ersten Male die Welt. Schön war die Welt, bunt war die Welt, seltsam und rätselhaft war die Welt! Hier war Blau, hier war Gelb, hier war Grün, Himmel floß und Fluß, Wald starrte und Gebirg, alles schön, alles rätselvoll und magisch, und inmitten er, Siddhartha, der Erwachende, auf dem Wege zu sich selbst. All dieses, all dies Gelb und Blau, Fluß und Wald, ging zum erstenmal durchs Auge in Siddhartha ein, war nicht mehr Zauber Maras, war nicht mehr der Schleier der Maya, war nicht mehr sinnlose und zufällige Vielfalt der Erscheinungswelt, verächtlich dem tief denkenden Brahmanen, der die Vielfalt verschmäht, der die Einheit sucht. Blau war Blau, Fluß war Fluß, und wenn auch im Blau und Fluß in Siddhartha das Eine und Göttliche verborgen lebte, so war es doch eben des Göttlichen Art und Sinn, hier Gelb, hier Blau, dort Himmel, dort Wald und hier Siddhartha zu sein. Sinn und Wesen war nicht irgendwo hinter den Dingen, sie waren in ihnen, in allem.

„Wie bin ich taub und stumpf gewesen!” dachte der rasch dahin Wandelnde. „Wenn einer eine Schrift liest, deren Sinn er suchen will, so verachtet er nicht die Zeichen und Buchstaben und nennt sie Täuschung, Zufall und wertlose Schale, sondern er liest sie, er studiert und liebt sie, Buchstabe um Buchstabe. Ich aber, der ich das Buch der Welt und das Buch meines eigenen Wesens lesen wollte, ich habe, einem im voraus vermuteten Sinn zuliebe, die Zeichen und Buchstaben verachtet, ich nannte die Welt der Erscheinungen Täuschung, nannte mein Auge und meine Zunge zufällige und wertlose Erscheinungen.”

– Hermann Hesse, Siddharta

“Among other things, you’ll find that you’re not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You’re by no means alone on that score, you’ll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You’ll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It’s a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn’t education. It’s history. It’s poetry.”

― J.D. Salinger, The Catcher In The Rye

Es war, als hätt’ der Himmel
Die Erde still geküßt,
Daß sie im Blütenschimmer
Von ihm nun träumen müßt‘.

Die Luft ging durch die Felder,
Die Ähren wogten sacht,
Es rauschten leis’ die Wälder,
So sternklar war die Nacht.

Und meine Seele spannte
Weit ihre Flügel aus,
Flog durch die stillen Lande,
Als flöge sie nach Haus.

_{Joseph von Eichendorff, 1835}

You are so beautiful,
Nothing compares 2 U,
Nothing else matters,
Let me be there for you.

Kiss from a rose,
My heart will go on,
Wonderful tonight.

I got you babe,
In your eyes,
Just the way you are.

„Ein Mensch kann einsam sein, obwohl er von vielen geliebt wird, wenn er nicht für einen Menschen ‚der Liebste‘ ist.“

Anne Frank – Tagebuch der Anne Frank

They’re selling postcards of the hanging
They’re painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors
The circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner
They’ve got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker
The other is in his pants
And the riot squad they’re restless
They need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight
From Desolation Row.

Cinderella, she seems so easy
„It takes one to know one,“ she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets
Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he’s moaning,
„You belong to Me I Believe.“
And someone says, „You’re in the wrong place, my friend
You’d better leave.“
And the only sound that’s left
After the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up
On Desolation Row.

Now the moon is almost hidden
The stars are beginning to hide
The fortune-telling lady
Has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel
And the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love
Or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he’s dressing
He’s getting ready for the show
He’s going to the carnival tonight
On Desolation Row.

Ophelia, she’s ’neath the window
For her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday
She already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic
She wears an iron vest
Her profession’s her religion
Her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon
Noah’s great rainbow
She spends her time peeking
Into Desolation Row.

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood
With his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago
With his friend, a jealous monk
NOW, he looked so immaculately frightful
As he bummed a cigarette
Then he went off sniffing drainpipes
And reciting the alphabet
You would not think to look at him
But he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin
On Desolation Row.

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world
Inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients
They ARE trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser
She’s in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read
„Have Mercy on His Soul“
They all play on the penny whistle
You can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough

From Desolation Row.
Across the street they’ve nailed the curtains
They’re getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera
In a perfect image of a priest
They are spoon-feeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words
And the Phantom’s shouting to skinny girls
„Get outta here if you don’t know“
Casanova is just being punished for going
To Desolation Row.

At midnight all the agents
And the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone
That knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory
Where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders
And then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles
By insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping
To Desolation Row.

Praise be to Nero’s Neptune
The Titanic sails at dawn
Everybody’s shouting
„Which side are you on?“
And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot
Fighting in the captain’s tower
While calypso singers laugh at them
And fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea
Where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much
About Desolation Row.

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
About the time the door knob broke
When you asked me how I was doing
Or was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name
Right now I can’t read too good
Don’t send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them
From Desolation Row.

„Oscar was a social introvert who trembled with fear during gym class and watched nerd British shows like Doctor Who and Blake’s 7, and could tell you the difference between a Veritech fighter and a Zentraedi walker, and he used a lot of huge-sounding nerd words like indefatigable and ubiquitous when talking to niggers who would barely graduate from high school. One of those nerds who was always hiding out in the library, who adored Tolkien and later the Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman novels (his favorite character was of course Raistlin), and who, as the eighties marched on, developed a growing obsession with the End of the World. (No apocalyptic movie or book or game existed that he had not seen or read or played—Wyndham and Christopher and Gamma World were his absolute favorites.) You get the picture. His adolescent nerdliness vaporizing any iota of a chance he had for young love. Everybody else going through the terror and joy of their first crushes, their first dates, their first kisses while Oscar sat in the back of the class, behind his DM’s screen, and watched his adolescence stream by. Sucks to be left out of adolescence, sort of like getting locked in the closet on Venus when the sun appears for the first time in a hundred years. It would have been one thing if like some of the nerdboys I’d grown up with he hadn’t cared about girls, but alas he was still the passionate enamorao who fell in love easily and deeply. He had secret loves all over town, the kind of curly-haired big-bodied girls who wouldn’t have said boo to a loser like him but about whom he could not stop dreaming. His affection—that gravitational mass of love, fear, longing, desire, and lust that he directed at any and every girl in the vicinity without regard to looks, age, or availability—broke his heart each and every day. Despite the fact that he considered it this huge sputtering force, it was actually most like a ghost because no girl ever really seemed to notice it. Occasionally they might shudder or cross their arms when he walked near, but that was about it. He cried often for his love of some girl or another. Cried in the bathroom, where nobody could hear him.“

– Junot Diaz. „The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao“

_{https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Brief_Wondrous_Life_of_Oscar_Wao}

“A legion of horribles, hundreds in number, half naked or clad in costumes attic or biblical or wardrobed out of a fevered dream with the skins of animals and silk finery and pieces of uniform still tracked with the blood of prior owners, coats of slain dragoons, frogged and braided cavalry jackets, one in a stovepipe hat and one with an umbrella and one in white stockings and a bloodstained wedding veil and some in headgear or cranefeathers or rawhide helmets that bore the horns of bull or buffalo and one in a pigeontailed coat worn backwards and otherwise naked and one in the armor of a Spanish conquistador, the breastplate and pauldrons deeply dented with old blows of mace or sabre done in another country by men whose very bones were dust and many with their braids spliced up with the hair of other beasts until they trailed upon the ground and their horses‘ ears and tails worked with bits of brightly colored cloth and one whose horse’s whole head was painted crimson red and all the horsemen’s faces gaudy and grotesque with daubings like a company of mounted clowns, death hilarious, all howling in a barbarous tongue and riding down upon them like a horde from a hell more horrible yet than the brimstone land of Christian reckoning, screeching and yammering and clothed in smoke like those vaporous beings in regions beyond right knowing where the eye wanders and the lip jerks and drools.”

― Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West

Nun senkt sich wieder auf die heim′schen Fluren
die Weihenacht! die Weihenacht!
Was die Mamas bepackt nach Hause fuhren,
wir kriegens jetzo freundlich dargebracht.

Der Asphalt glitscht. Kann Emil das gebrauchen?
Die Braut kramt schämig in dem Portemonnaie.
Sie schenkt ihm, teils zum Schmuck und teils zum Rauchen,
den Aschenbecher aus Emalch glase.

Das Christkind kommt! Wir jungen Leute lauschen
auf einen stillen heiligen Grammophon.
Das Christkind kommt und ist bereit zu tauschen
den Schlips, die Puppe und das Lexikohn.

Und sitzt der wackre Bürger bei den Seinen,
voll Karpfen, still im Stuhl, um halber zehn,
dann ist er mit sich selbst zufrieden und im reinen:
„Ach ja, son Christfest is doch ooch janz scheen!“

Und frohgelaunt spricht er vom ′Weihnachtswetter′,
mag es nun regnen oder mag es schnein.
Jovial und schmauchend liest er seine Morgenblätter,
die trächtig sind von süßen Plauderein.

So trifft denn nur auf eitel Gück hienieden
in dieser Residenz Christkindleins Flug?
Mein Gott, sie mimen eben Weihnachtsfrieden …
„Wir spielen alle. Wer es weiß, ist klug.“

Kurt Tucholsky
(* 09.01.1890, † 21.12.1935)