2010-02-03, 22:55
#350
2010-02-03, 23:01
#351
2010-03-04, 21:28
#352
2010-04-27, 03:57
#354
2010-04-27, 06:18
#355
2010-04-27, 07:37
#356
2010-06-10, 14:09
#359
Har alltid varit svag för Fröding, å "En konstteori" är en av mina absoluta favoriter:
Annars är (delar av) Eliots The Waste Land något av det vackraste jag någonsin läst.
Citat:
Så jag målar, donna Bianca,
ty det roar mig att måla så!
Om det frågas, donna Bianca,
säg: "Det roar honom måla så!"
En pedant från Salamanca
säger säkert: "Det är ingen pli,
ingen skola, donna Bianca,
ingen stil i Juans måleri.
Vankelmodig tycks han vanka
med sin pensel ibland allt, som är,
forntid, nutid, donna Bianca,
är den vilsne målarn lika kär.
Och det friska och det kranka,
skratt och sorgetårar, natt och dag,
klart och mulet, donna Bianca,
målar han med samma välbehag.
Realistisk är hans tanka
och romantisk är den likaså,
ingen enhet, donna Bianca,
är i denna målarkonst att få!"
Säg pedanten, donna Bianca,
att det roar mig att måla så,
arabesken är en ranka
som en stel pedant ej kan förstå.
ty det roar mig att måla så!
Om det frågas, donna Bianca,
säg: "Det roar honom måla så!"
En pedant från Salamanca
säger säkert: "Det är ingen pli,
ingen skola, donna Bianca,
ingen stil i Juans måleri.
Vankelmodig tycks han vanka
med sin pensel ibland allt, som är,
forntid, nutid, donna Bianca,
är den vilsne målarn lika kär.
Och det friska och det kranka,
skratt och sorgetårar, natt och dag,
klart och mulet, donna Bianca,
målar han med samma välbehag.
Realistisk är hans tanka
och romantisk är den likaså,
ingen enhet, donna Bianca,
är i denna målarkonst att få!"
Säg pedanten, donna Bianca,
att det roar mig att måla så,
arabesken är en ranka
som en stel pedant ej kan förstå.
Annars är (delar av) Eliots The Waste Land något av det vackraste jag någonsin läst.
Citat:
Oh how I loath alla dessa litteraturvetare som reducerat en av historiens vackraste textstycken till ett slags korsord ("Där är Dante! där Tristan och Isolde! där Bibeln! Ovidius!"). Man måste inte förstå för att förstå, så att säga.
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
[...]
Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one i knew, and stopped him, crying: "Stetson
"You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
"That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
"Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
"Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
"O keep the dog far hence, that's friend to men,
"Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
"You! hypocrite lecteur!-mon semblable,-mon frère!"
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
[...]
Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one i knew, and stopped him, crying: "Stetson
"You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
"That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
"Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
"Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
"O keep the dog far hence, that's friend to men,
"Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
"You! hypocrite lecteur!-mon semblable,-mon frère!"
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