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Seán Ó Súilleabháin (1903 – 13 December 1996)
The hallway of every man's life is paced with pictures; pictures gay and pictures gloomy, all useful, for if we be wise, we can learn from them a richer and braver way to live. |
"There are many things behind a good novel, but in particular, there is a lot of work - a lot of patience, a lot of stubbornness, and a critical spirit." |
To Be Preserved Forever and No Jail For Thought In Search of Truth and Tolerance |
Perreira Maintains, Little Misunderstandings of No Importance; not translated into Engish: Pizza d'Italia and Dreams of Dreams |
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I, and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am just waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner.
All is well.
Tod bedeutet gar nichts.
Ich bin nur nach nebenan verschwunden.
Ich bin ich und du bist du.
Was immer wir füreinander waren, das sind wir noch.
Nenne mich bei dem alten vertrauten Namen.
Sprich von mir, wie du es immer getan hast.
Ändere nicht deinen Tonfall.
Zwinge dich nicht zu aufgesetzter Feierlichkeit oder Traurigkeit.
Lache weiterhin über die kleinen Scherze, an denen wir gemeinsam Spaß hatten.
Spiele, lächle, denke an mich, bete für mich.
Lass meinen Namen weiterhin so geläufig sein, wie er immer war.
Sprich ihn unbekümmert aus, ohne die Spur eines Schattens.
Das Leben bedeutet all das, was es bisher bedeutete.
Es ist genauso wie immer.
Es geht uneingeschränkt und ununterbrochen weiter.
Ist der Tod nicht nur ein unbedeutender Zwischenfall?
Warum sollte ich vergessen sein, nur weil du mich nicht mehr siehst?
Ich warte einstweilen auf dich, ganz in der Nähe, nur um die Ecke.
Alles ist gut.
Henry Scott Holland (27 January 1847 – 17 March 1918)
There is many a man without learning will get the better of a college-bred man, and will have better words, too. |
Lady Gregory (15 March 1852 – 22 May 1932)
Home (Film, 2009)
Yann Arthus Bertrand * 13 March 1953
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
"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)