It's not about basketball

Steve Kerr * 27 September 1965

Hunger for life

Sometimes ...

 

there is no need for words ...

Beers & Books CCXXII – Thomas Valentin

...

Thomas Valentin ( 23 January 1922 – 22 December 1980)

Beers & Books CCXXI – Heinrich Mann

Der Untertan

"My father, after all, was a nationalist."
*
The youth of King Henri Quatre
&
The completion of  King Henri Quatre

"The Bourbon King (i.e. Henry Quatre)
was first ambassador of reason and human happiness."
*

Heinrich Mann (27 March 1871 – 11 March 1950)

Beers & Books CCXX – Gabriele Wohmann

"There's also a satisfaction
that takes place in the mind: thinking."

Gabriele Wohmann (21 May 1932 – 22 June 2015)

Beers & Books CCXIX – J.L. Carr

...

J.L. Carr (20 May 1912 – 26 February 1994)

Beers & Books CCXVIII – Studs Terkel

We are living in the United States of Alzheimer's.
A whole country has lost its memory.
When it can't remember yesterday,
a country forgets what it once wanted to be.

Louis "Studs" Terkel (May 16, 1912 – October 31, 2008)

Laughing Lhursday* – Salvatore Dalí

Salvador Dalí (11 May 1904 – 23 January 1989)

* [For first time visitors]: Typo in the title? Nah. It's just that
I would not let a tiny T spoil an avantgardistic alliteration.

Just be clear!

with thanks to my dear friend Erkan.

Beers & Books CCXVII – Thomas Piketty

Capital in the Twenty-First Century

Thomas Piketty * 7 May 1971

250th anniversary ...

... of him who stubbed virgin soil  and planted a blue flower.  

Born May 2nd, 1772 as Georg Philipp Friedrich von Hardenberg in Oberwiederstedt Manor / Harz mountains, when choosing his pseudonym he probably bethought himself of the name his ancestors in Großenrode had kept until the sons of Bernhard de Novalis decided to take Hardenberg as their family name. And 'stubbing virgin soil' (which is the meaning of Novalis) he intended to do, this Novalis who when in May 1789 meeting Gottfried August Bürger, felt taken with this ardent advocate of a folksy poetry, but distanced himself, after he had met the Bürger-critical Friedrich von Schiller. 'Everything must be poetic', henceforth is his maxim. Less romantic contemporaries shrug off his work as fustian, others (glorifying him) explain his desire for death (Hymns to the Night) with his not getting over the death of his great love (Sophie von Kühn); but Novalis arguably did more than inventing the symbol of romanticism – the Blue Flower dreamt up by the protagonist in his fragmental novel Heinrich von Ofterdingen: Studies of law and mining, arts, science, love: the 'dreamer' , who in view of an accelerating celerity commended his contemporaries to exercise slowness, was eager for knowledge, was concerned about many things. Often disputed. Self-critical, too. And he is not given as much time as Goethe. Death comes quickly. March 25th, 1801 Novalis dies, not even 29 years old. Probably he got infected, while tending his from phtisis suffering friend Friedrich. What remains from Novalis? Much more than Pollen (Blüthenstaub)

Beers & Books CCXVI – Giovannino Guareschi

Minutes and seconds are strictly city preoccupations.
In the city people hurry, hurry
so as not to waste a single minute,
and fail to realize
that they are throwing a lifetime away.

Giovannino Guareschi (1 May 1908 – 22 July 1968)

Rather be it Shakespeare

On Shakespeare's 458th birthday and
the 406th anniversary of either his death
and the death of Cervantes
just to wish a very special literary evening.

It's also World Book Day?

Well, yes. But isn't every day a day of the book?

Comparing the results of my recent attempts to write some sonnets myself with what I am rereading these days, I came to the conclusion, in order not to put anyone off the realm of poetry, to post rather one from the Master of Avondale.

CIII
Alack what poverty my muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O blame me not if I no more can write!
Look in your glass and there appears a face,
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other my verses tend,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell.
       And more, much more than in my verse can sit,
       Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.