Happy 103rd, Sam

Words [Trying to sing, softly]:

Age is when to man
Huddled o'er the ingle
Shivering for the hag
To put the pen in the bed
And bring the toddy
She comes in the ashes
Who loved could not be won
Or won not loved
Or some other trouble
Comes in the ashes
Like in that cold light
The faces in the ashes
That old starlight
On the earth again.

[Long pause.]

From Words and Music
Written in English and completed towards the end of 1961.
First broadcast on the BBC Third Programme on November 13th, 1962
Samuel Beckett (13 April 1906 - 22. December 1989)



Related:
Waiting for Sam

Pitch 'n' Putt with Joyce 'n' Beckett

Her voice his eyes

On the other side I had seen a little girl,
her right hand holding a man's left,
leading him towards the night,
her voice being his eyes.
The sun is red, she said, and soon
she will dive into the glistening sea.

Having eyes only for the man at her side
she had not taken notice of me,
and still I felt like an intruder.
Suddenly I sensed myself walking away,
and only the sun could see
my eyes burning with sorrow and joy.

Could you see through walls,
there's a girl holding a man's hand
her voice being his eyes.
© Sean Jeating

To ————

ONE word is often profaned!
For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And Pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the heaven rejects not:
The desire of the moth for the star
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion for something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

To Harriet*****

WHOSE is the love that, gleaming through the world,
Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn?
Whose is the warm and partial praise,
Virtue's most sweet reward?
Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul
Riper in truth and virtuous daring grow?
Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on,
And loved mankind the more?

Harriet! on thine :—thou wert my purer mind;
Thou wert the Inspiration of my song;
Thine are these early wilding flowers,
Though garlanded by me.

Then press into thy breast this pledge of love,
And know, though time may change and years may roll,
Each flow'ret gathered in my heart
It consecrates to thine.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Sa jeunesse

The Old-Fashioned Way

The Indian Serenade

I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me - who knows how?
To thy chamber window, sweet.

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream -
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
Oh, beloved as thou art!

Oh lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white alas!
My heart beats loud and fast
Oh, I press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

100 Hours of Astronmy

Lucky who has an observatory in his neighbourhood, especially these days.
Those who haven't can let their eyes travelling around the clock via Internet.

http://www.100hoursofastronomy.org/

And here's, for a beginning, 'a bit more' about the International Year of Astronomy.
Well, actually it's quite a lot to discover. :)

Check around and enjoy.

Eyes travelling 30 million light years

'Clear' sky. So our astrophysicist yesterday went on sightseeing-tour. Today he sent an email ("colours will follow").

Galaxy NGC 3628

Rich Poetry at The Poor Mouth's

Who would not feel a great desire
to celebrate McGonagall & McIntyre?
There's a poetry slam right over here,
it's great fun though without beer.

So hurry soon over to Jams, please.
The winner might win a ton of cheese,
or even unlike Gordon Brown
get a statue in Edinburgh Town.



Bertus, et tu? :)

For those few who still wouldn't know

The ominous bicycle has been found, and
Flann fooled you all.

The Taoiseach's New Clothes III

Once I don't do 'things' immediately, they would often vanish in the realm of oblivion.
That's why I am thankful to the very inner voice whispering: Carpe noctem.

Be it then: Some - do I need say?: very personal - thoughts before the chapter picture- respectively cowengate is going to get closed.

And some last words before diving in media res: I've been following with interest (and often chucking) what has been posted about this 'issue'. By the following, which I shall be writing 'without filtres', thus as the thoughts come, I do not intend to attack anybody.

*

What has happened?
A 'clever' chap (I promised to come back to this point) unasked nails some caricatures to some museum walls, and ...
... nothing happens.
So, after a while, the 'clever chap' - did anyone notice I did not call him 'artist'? - emails a newspaper.
[Comment: It would not make much sense to hit a nail into the wall of any museum's toilet, as long as noone takes notice, hm?]

Well, and what happens afterwards, meanwhile everybody (at least in the blogosphere) should / could know.

Thus, end of the beforegoing.

De gustibus not est disputandum.
Quite. Either you have it, or you have it not.

So, why would I publish caricatures of a naked Taoiseach?

Ladies, gentlemen, this is not about a "clever chap" trying to advertise his 'artwork'/name; this is about freedom of speech / music / arts / satire ...
... and - last not least - freedom from censorship!!

Yes, again, I am writing this 'without filtres', without caring about 'wrong' syntax, 'wrong' prepositions, 'wrong' idioms.

Satire is satire is satire.

Imagine all the flags burning if this were, f.e. about a naked Mohammed or any of the very genleman's afficionados.

Conclusion:
Ha, ...
... what a great fun to show a Taoiseach without clothes;
... what a fun to attack the 'fucking bastards' elected by a majority of most intelligent voters;
... what a fun we (bloggers) had while ...

... approximately 280,000 children died of starvation.

Oops. Did I spoil the fun? Sorry. Am I a fucking kill-joy? Forgive me.

After all, who cares, hm?

We - the great champions of the blogosphere had a splendid time, hadn't we?

Exactly the fun, Heinrich Heine once defined:

Der Knecht singt gerne Freiheitslieder
des Abends in der Schenke.

The peasant loves to sing songs of freedom (rebel-songs)
in the pub at night.

- - -

I am proud of myself ... as I knew before that I'd not be able to express my thoughts (in English).

So, please, forgive me and head on to read the very best post on this very topic.

The peace of the night.


The Taoiseach's New Clothes

The Taoiseach's New Clothes II

Brian, Borges & Bioy

Want a T(aoiseach)-Shirt?

Physiognomy of fine gentlemen

The Impossible Fact

Meeting John McGahern

Almost exactly about this time 13 years ago, early in April:
Why not meeting halfway, he had suggested; at Blake's in Enniskillen.

So, on a bright and sunny (Satur-) day arriving in Enniskillen. Oh, what a wonderful world! Eleven years ago, summer '85: Each of the few noises reechoing; a voice here, a pair of stilettos there; at least one person sitting in each of the few cars parking in the main road.
Today: spring in the air, spring in the faces; no one sitting in the long row of parked cars, reading a newspaper. A cheerful laughter here, no supicious glances at the stranger with the strange bag. What a difference!

Blake's of the Hollow. He's not arrived, yet. After a while, I decide to rather wait in front of the entrance, enjoying the sun and - the very difference.
"May I leave my camera-bag?" - "There's no bomb in it, eh?" Laughingly the barkeeper nods, takes the bag.

Waiting. Waiting. For Godot? No. For John McGahern. Here he comes.

Two pints of Guinness, some sandwiches and two pots of tea later - apart from his work - we'd have talked about: history; many of his colleagues; the (then) political situation; abortion; the (ab)use of language, censorship, the Church.

At one stage he says: "One of the best things in my life so far has been to see the Church's influence fading."
"Well, I remember f.e. that [in autumn 1990] especially in rural western areas quite a few priests would call upon their flock by no means to vote for Mary Robinson becoming President."
"And, did it keep the majority from electing her?"
"Still, ...
"Still?"
"And you think that's irreversible?"
"Yes."
"Hm, that's what Gorbatchov said about Glasnost and Perestroika."
"Never again was said after the Holocaust, too, and still we are having our Srebrenicas and Rwandas. Yes. But we should never give up hope."

"Is that your Message to the Irish People?"
"À la Seán MacBride?" And again there is this tiny almost imperceptible smile.

And so we are going to talk about MacBride's 'testimony', finally coming to chapter 11 - Criminal Neglect of Forestry.
"Ah, yes, forestry", he says, raises his arm and asks the waiter to bring us another pot of tea.

Why would I've told this? Well, today three years ago John McGahern died.
Died?
Not really, hm?
You can meet him every day - in his books.

Oh well ... and whenever striving through his forest.