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| Nuremberg taught me that creating a world of tolerance and compassion would be a long and arduous task. And I also learned that if we did not devote ourselves to developing effective world law, the same cruel mentality that made the Holocaust possible might one day destroy the entire human race. |
Claude is dead.
Almost I am not surprised that our last conversation on this blog was about what we shall be leaving when we die.
"Appeared" at Omnium in June 2008 as "Curieuse au Canada", over the years a friendship developed
Not that we would not have had this and that verbal skirmish, but very soon we agreed to that we disagreed to this and that, and focused on what we like best: (Good) literature, poetry, music and ...
... the fun we had f.e. on the occasional "poetry slams" here or at "The Poor Mouth"!
When once she told me her age I thought she was kidding.
And when she told me about her life: What a woman! What courage!
- - -
After I had told her a bit about Irish literature she wrote:
"Now I
would like German Literature. I know so little. Unless I have read translations
without noticing the country. I doubt it.
Then maybe you could tell me some English, French,
American favourites? Just would like to see if we meet somewhere among
books.
Of course, I read the Russians ( Who doesn't?) Also Faust, Peer Gynt, Don
Quichotte, The Prophet, The Rubayyat. Studied Greek and Latin and
did some translations.
Inevitably I read a lot Canadians (French and English), not necessarily
all good. But I feel it's a bit of a duty to know what one's country
produces.
We have about a ten-year-program in front of us. Just want to make sure you
will not drop me in 3-4 weeks :)))))
I love you, Sir Jeating.
- - -
When I had told her that I am German and Sean Jeating's just my heteronym, she wanted to know more about German literature, and let me know:
Of course I have read some Germans. I couldn't name them instantly, not because I forgot them. It's only that when a book speaks to one's heart, it has no nationality.
Since my student years, I have met few people who read "without borders". I knew, when I discovered your blog, that you were universal.
I read all Hermann Hesse, more than once. Then Remarque, Zweig. Some Brecht, Kant and Schopenhauer. ...
- - -
Dreams.
When very young, I claimed to be a writer and a musician. I became a nurse and loved it. It gave me much to write about. I also never let go of music. But lifepain took over, killed much of my ambitions. I write...I need it like air and water. Sometimes I share it. Mostly it's in boxes. Now and again I read a page, or two...I say to myself, "Claude, it's very good!". Then I put it aside.
Music.
The Music Claude never put aside. Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Abado, Bernstein, Argerich, Gulda ... Hvorostovsky ... Casals, Paco de Lucía; Fado or Flamenco, etc., etc., etc. ...
To please Claude's ears and her heart I tried to find Saturday Night Music. And by trying I learned a bit about music.
Poetry.
We shared some poetry, encouraged eachother. She was good.
I think Claude does like me finally to share this with you:
There lie my dreams and
deep pain.
The detritus of my past
In its destitute beauty.
No recall. No tears. Adieu!
cpg
I love you, Claude. De tout cœur!
Sean
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| "Wouldn't it delight my heart to be able to read a book of my own before I died." |
Tomas O'Crohan (21 December 1856 – 7 March 1937)
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| "An artist, if he's unselfish and passionate, is always a living protest. Just to open his mouth is to protest: against conformism, against what is official, public, or national, what everyone else feels comfortable with, so the moment he opens his mouth, an artist is engaged, because opening his mouth is always scandalous.” |
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| "Sex, God, Alcohol and Ireland, if that is not action enough!" - Harry Rowohlt - |
It's St. David's Day again.
It's a pity for me that the girl whose praises I am always singing, and who holds her court in the wood, does not know of the conversation I had about her with the grey friar today.
I went to the friar to confess my sins. I admitted to him that I have been without any doubt an idolatrous poet since I have always loved and adored a certain lovely girl with dark eyebrows, "And", I told him, "I have never had a single favour from my murdress, nor has my lady ever allowed me a moment of happiness: in spite of this I love her continually and am wasted with pining for my darling. I carry her praise through the whole land of Wales, and in spite of this I live without her, though I long to hear her in my bed between me and the wall."
The brother spoke this to me: "I will give you good advice: if you have loved this foamwhite girl (merely the colour of paper) for so long, it is time now to think of lessening your punishment on that dreadful day which comes to all of us, for all this is of no benefit to your soul. Cease from making rhymes and accustom yourself instead to saying your prayers, for God did not redeem the souls of men that they might make rhymes and elegiacs, and your minstrels' songs are nothing but flattery and idle bawling. This praise of the body is not good, and leads the soul to the devil."
Then I answered each word that the friar had spoken."God is not so cruel as old men tell us: nor will God cut off the gentle soul of a man for loving a woman or a girl. Three things are loved by the whole world.: women, fine weather, and good health, and girls are the fairest flowers in heaven next to God himself. Every man of all peoples is born of woman save these three: Adam, Eve, Melchizedek, and so it is not surprising that man loves girls and women. Gladness falls from Heaven, all misery comes from Hell.
Song makes glad old and young, sick and healthy, and I have an equal right to make poems as you have to pray, I have the same right to sing for my bread as you beg for it. Are not hymns and sequences but other kinds of odes and elegiacs? And are not the psalms of David poems to the good God?
God does not feed man with one food and one relish, he gives him time to eat and a time to worship, a time to pray and a time to make poems. Song springs up at every feast to give pleasure to the ladies, paters are said in church to seek the land of Paradise. Yscuthach drinking with his poets spoke the truth:
'A happy face, his house is full
A sad face, evil and bitterness.'
Though some love holiness, others love being glad together, and there are few men who can make a sweet verse though everyone can say a prayer. And so, my holy brother, I do not think that singing is the greatest sin. When men are as ready to hear paters as the harp, as ready as the girls of Gwynedd are to hear gay songs, then my right hand I'll say paters all day and for ever without ceasing. Till then shame on Dafydd if he sings paters instead of poems!"
Dafydd ap Gwilym c. 1320 – c. 1370
