Long live Heine

Our death is in the cool of night,
our life is in the pool of day.
The darkness glows, I’m drowning,
the day has tired me with light.

Over my head in leaves grown deep,
sings the young nightingale.
It only sings of love there,
I hear it in my sleep.

Heinrich Heine (13.12. 1797 - 17.02. 1856)

Same route - different views

Almost I had forgotten what difference blue sky and some spells of sun do make.
Well, ... and ... freshly fallen snow.

Remember but a few days ago?

Well, here's what it is looking like today.

One more example:

Ten days ago.

This morning.

Seanstronomy

Snowrotic

Metropolis

Those who might rather have expected the opus 'Megashovelling' will have to wait until tomorrow, as - after all the snow shovelling - I watched the restored version of Fritz Lang's silent classic that tonight had its premiere at the 60th "Berlinale".

Stunning!

And now, for those who can't wait until the film will be released in their country: Voilà.

The peace of the night.

Laughing Lhursday

Hostes alienigeni me abduxerunt. Qui annus est?*

* I was kidnapped by aliens. What year is it?

Nah! Neither was I kidnapped nor did I spoil a walk by breaking this or that extremity on icy path(s).


Just extremely busy with not blogging I was for a couple of days. And as you can easily see from above's title, still I would not let a tiny T spoil an absolutely amazing avantgardistic alliteration.

Apropos 'Laughing Lhursday': Visiting Stan, the master of Sentence First, the corners of your mouth will start quite a few expeditions to your ear-lobes.

Take your time, but don't miss coming back for Knatolee's hilarious hen-haiku(s) and ...

... Webwisewoman who caused me a bockety laughter.

The peace of the night.

Killing ... their power

“ ‘Gao Zhisheng! You mother****er! Your date with death is today! Brothers! Let’s show the bastard how brutal we can get. Kill the bastard.’ A leader of the group screamed. Then, four men with electric batons started to beat my head and body with ferocity. Nothing but the noise of the beating and my moaning could be heard in the room. I was beaten so severely that my whole body began shaking uncontrollably on the floor.

But one example. But one example.

How many journalists have been murdered in Mexico since 2000?

But one example. But some examples.

But one ... day ...

Forget it!!

There won't be the day that a (wo)man will not be bullied, imprisoned, tortured or killed by those who have not much more than their power.

Tell my ashes if I were wrong.

One apple a day ...

keeps ...

... the hunger away.

Catwalk

Home warm home

Anything else than triste

Cheers!

The heirs of today's birthday child who once finished his masterpiece in Triest will feel a bit triste when thinking of next year as then they can't suck any more honey / money from their ancestors' genius - in January 2011 the copyright expires.

How cometh I am looking forward to January 13th? :)

This cloak of white feathers

I do not sleep at night nor go out by day, I am sad because the world has disappeared, nor is there food nor bank left, nor open grounds nor fields. Nor will I be enticed out of my house by any girl's invitation while this plague continues, this cloak of white feathers sticking close to dragon's scales, but tell her that I do not want my coat made white like a miller's garment. After New Year one must go wrapped in fur, and during January God makes us start the year as hermits.

Now God has whitewashed the dark earth all around till there is no undergrowth without its white garment, no coppins that's not covered with a sheet: fine flour has been milled on every stump, heavenly flour like April blossoms. A cold veil lies over the woods and the young trees, a load of chalk bows down the trees; ghostly wheaten flour which falls till a white coat of mail covers all the fields of the plain. The soil of the ploughed fields is covered with a cold grit, lying like a thick coat of tallow on the earth's skin, and a shower of frozen foam falls in fleeces big as a man's fist. Across North Wales the snow-flakes wander like a swarm of white bees. Why does God throw down this mass of feathers like the down of his own geese, till here below the drifts sway and billow over the heather like swollen bellies big as heaps of chaff and covered with ermine? The dust piles in a drift where we sang along the pleasant paths.

This garment of snow holds us in grip while it remains cementing together the hills, valleys and ditches und a steel coat fit to break the earth, fixing all into a vast monument greater than the graveyard of the sea. What a great fall lies on my country, a white wall stretching from one sea to another! Who dares fight its rude power? A leaden cloak lies on us. When will the rain come?

Dafydd ap Gwilym

Rational free spirits ...

... are the light brigade who go on ahead and reconnoitre the ground which the heavy brigade of the orthodox will eventually occupy.
Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799)

C'est ça!

:)

"When vanity is not prompting us, we have little to say."
La Rochefoucauld (1613-1680)