A correspondence (and a beer) I was unaware of. There is so much that you are aware of that I am unaware of. It sounds like somewhat of a "Bro-mance" to use current parlance, for I read the following after briefly consulting the almost infinite mind of Professor Google: "At last, in September 1740, the French playwright/poet/ philosopher Francois-Marie Arouet, adopted name Voltaire, aged 45, was to meet Frederick, newly crowned king of Prussia, 28. Plans were laid; expectancy soared. "I am sure to faint from joy," wrote Voltaire. Responded Frederick, "I believe I shall die from it."
Ach, dearest of all Scottish Dons in this universe and those yet to discover, it was the time of letters, and according to George Peabody Gooch there does not exist anything like this in the history of literature. While their love-hate relationship lasted 42 years, they met only five times more than we did, my valiant Don. Why would I come to fondly think of you, dearest Don when reading Voltaire writing on November 11th, 1740: Hélas, grand roi, qu'eussiez-vous cru, En voyant ma faible figure Chevauchant tristement à cru Un coursier de mon encolure? C'est ainsi qu'on vît autrefois Ce héros vanté par Cervante, Son écuyer et Rossinante, Ègaré au milieu de bois. Ils ont fait de brillants exploits, Mais j'aime mieux ma destinée; Ils ne servaient que Dulcinée, Et je sers le meilleur des rois.
Waiting for Madame Claude to put this poesy into English rhymes, I wrap you into my arms, most eloquent of all Scot(t)s, and climb a ladder to kiss your shiny baldness. In tenderly esteem Always your stalwart and loving squire
Just saw my name with Voltaire. Never been very fond of the guy. Not sure I could succeed in translating him. And I know so well that traduttore is traditore, But give me a few days. And I'll come to you with my efforts. The poor man might never forgive me.
A correspondence (and a beer) I was unaware of. There is so much that you are aware of that I am unaware of. It sounds like somewhat of a "Bro-mance" to use current parlance, for I read the following after briefly consulting the almost infinite mind of Professor Google: "At last, in September 1740, the French playwright/poet/ philosopher Francois-Marie Arouet, adopted name Voltaire, aged 45, was to meet Frederick, newly crowned king of Prussia, 28. Plans were laid; expectancy soared. "I am sure to faint from joy," wrote Voltaire. Responded Frederick, "I believe I shall die from it."
ReplyDeleteAch, dearest of all Scottish Dons in this universe and those yet to discover, it was the time of letters, and according to George Peabody Gooch there does not exist anything like this in the history of literature.
ReplyDeleteWhile their love-hate relationship lasted 42 years, they met only five times more than we did, my valiant Don.
Why would I come to fondly think of you, dearest Don when reading Voltaire writing on November 11th, 1740:
Hélas, grand roi, qu'eussiez-vous cru,
En voyant ma faible figure
Chevauchant tristement à cru
Un coursier de mon encolure?
C'est ainsi qu'on vît autrefois
Ce héros vanté par Cervante,
Son écuyer et Rossinante,
Ègaré au milieu de bois.
Ils ont fait de brillants exploits,
Mais j'aime mieux ma destinée;
Ils ne servaient que Dulcinée,
Et je sers le meilleur des rois.
Waiting for Madame Claude to put this poesy into English rhymes, I wrap you into my arms, most eloquent of all Scot(t)s, and climb a ladder to kiss your shiny baldness.
In tenderly esteem
Always your stalwart and loving squire
Good heavens, should such embrace occur I believe I shall faint in your arms... (with a very bemused Dulcinea looking on...)
DeleteAnd if it were only to bemuse Dulcinea, there should a way be found to make this happen.
DeleteJust saw my name with Voltaire. Never been very fond of the guy. Not sure I could succeed in translating him. And I know so well that traduttore is traditore, But give me a few days. And I'll come to you with my efforts. The poor man might never forgive me.
ReplyDeleteFrom what I know of "the guy" I like him a lot.
Delete