31 Days (30)

Octavio Paz
(1914-1998)

from “La Verdad contra el Compromiso”
Prólogo al libro
Tristeza de la verdad: André Gide regresa de Rusia
de Alberto Ruy-Sánchez

El ensayo es un género difícil. Por esto, sin duda, en todos los tiempos escasean los buenos ensayistas. En uno de sus extremos colinda con el tratado; en el otro, con el aforismo, la sentencia y la máxima. Además, exige cualidades contrarias: debe ser breve pero no lacónico, ligero y no superficial, hondo sin pesadez, apasionado sin patetismo, completo sin ser exhaustivo, a un tiempo leve y penetrante, risueño sin mover un músculo de la cara, melancólico sin lágrimas y, en fin, debe convencer sin argumentar y, sin decirlo todo, decir lo que hay que decir... Esto fue lo que se me ocurrió después de leer este notable ensayo de Alberto Ruy Sánchez. Su libro pertenece simultáneamente a la historia moderna, a la literatura y a la más viva actualidad: la conversación de André Gide al comunismo, sus años de creyente devoto, sus dudas y su final, valerosa apostasía. Con este libro Ruy Sánchez se ha revelado como uno de nuestros mejores ensayistas. Su escritura es nerviosa y ágil, su inteligencia aguda sin ser cruel, su ánimo compasivo sin condescendencia ni complicidad. El asunto de su ensayo requería todo esto: el episodio de Gide es uno de los capítulos más impresionantes de la historia, casi siempre lamentable, de las relaciones entre los intelectuales del siglo XX y el comunismo. Fue una admirable lección de moral que, como es sabido, muy pocos se atrevieron a imitar.

The essay is a difficult genre. That's why, undoubtedly, in every era, there’s a lack of good essayists. At one end, it’s akin to the treatise; at the other, with the aphorism, the judgment and the maxim. Also, it demands contradictory qualities: it must be brief but not laconic, light and not superficial, deep without heaviness, excited without pathos, complete without being exhaustive, at the same time light and penetrating, smiling without moving a muscle of the face, melancholy without tears and, in end, it must convince without arguing and, without saying everything, say what it is necessary to say... This was what occurred to me after reading this notable essay of Alberto Ruy Sánchez. His book belongs simultaneously to modern history, to literature and to the most vivid actuality: the conversion of André Gide to communism, his years as a devout believer, his doubts and his final, courageous apostasy. With this book Ruy Sánchez has been revealed as one of our best essayists. His writing is nervous and agile, his intelligence sharp without being cruel, his compassionate spirit without condescension or complicity. The material of his essay needed all this: the Gide episode is one of the most impressive chapters of the history, almost always lamentable, of the relations between the intellectuals of the XXth century and communism. It was an admirable moral lesson that, as everyone knows, very few dared to imitate.

31 Days (29)

Theodor Fontane
(1819-1898)

from Vor dem Sturm
Achtundzwanzigstes Kapitel:
Aus Renatens Tagebuch

Auf einer schmalen Landzunge zwischen zwei märkischen Seen liegt das adlige Stift Lindow. Es sind alte Klostergebäude: Kirche, Refektorium, alles in Trümmern, und um die Trümmer her ein stiller Park, der als Begräbnisplatz dient, oder ein Begräbnisplatz, der schon wieder Park geworden ist. Blumenbeete, Grabsteine, Fliederbüsche und dazu Kinder aus der Stadt, die zwischen den Grabsteinen spielen.

Und auf einem dieser Grabsteine stand ich und sah in die niedersteigende Sonne, die dicht vor mir das Kloster und die stillen Seeflächen vergoldete. Wie schön! Es war ein Blick in Licht und Frieden.

Im Scheiden erst las ich den Namen, der auf dem Steine stand:

Renate von Vitzewitz.

On a narrow tongue of land between two lakes of the Brandenburg Marches there lies the aristocratic estate of Lindow. These are old cloister buildings: Church, refectory, everything in ruins, and around the ruins a quiet park which serves as a burial place, or a burial place which has become a park again. Flowerbeds, gravestones, lilac bushes and in addition the children from the town who play between the gravestones.

And I stood on one of these gravestones and watched the descending sun which gilded the cloister and the quiet lake surfaces close before me. How beautiful! It was a glimpse of light and peace.

In the remains I could read only the name which stood on the stone:

Renate von Vitzewitz.

31 Days (28)

Vincent Voiture
(1597-1648)

Pour vos beaux yeux et vostre beau visage


Pour vos beaux yeux et vostre beau visage,
Et la douceur de ce divin langage
Dont vous tenez tout le monde enchanté,
Cloris, on doit souffrir vostre fierté,
Et prés de vous avoir moins de courage.

Il est donc vray, que je ne fus pas sage,
De ne pouvoir endurer un outrage,
Moy que l'Amour tient si bien arresté
Pour vos beaux yeux.

A tout souffrir desormais je m'engage,
Et dans les fers d'un eternel servage,
Et les rigueurs de vostre cruauté,
Je chanteray vostre extrême beauté,
Et je ferois mille fois davantage
Pour vos beaux yeux.

For your lovely eyes and pretty face


For your lovely eyes and pretty face,
And the softness of this divine language
With which you hold everybody enchanted,
Cloris, one must endure your pride,
And near you have less boldness.

It is therefore true, that I was not wise,
Not to be able to endure an insult,
Me whom Love holds so well in charge
with your lovely eyes.

To suffer everything I nevertheless agreed,
And in the irons of an eternal bondage,
And rigours of your cruelty,
I will sing your extreme beauty,
And I will do one thousand times more
For your lovely eyes.

31 Days (27)

Leopoldo Lugones
(1874-1938)

Historia de Mi Muerte


Soñé la muerte y era muy sencillo;
una hebra de seda me envolvía,
y a cada beso tuyo,
con una vuelta menos me ceñía
y cada beso tuyo
era un día;
y el tiempo que mediaba entre dos besos
una noche. La muerte era muy sencilla.
Y poco a poco fue desenvolviéndose
la hebra fatal. Ya no la retenía
sino por solo un cabo entre los dedos...
Cuando de pronto te pusiste fría
y ya no me besaste...
y solté el cabo, y se me fue la vida.

The Story of My Death


I dreamed of death and it was very simple;
a thread of silk was wrapping around me,
and to every kiss of yours,
I gave back less in return
and every kiss of yours
was one day;
and the time that elapsed between two kisses
one night. Death was very simple.
And little by little unrolled
the fatal thread. Already I was not holding
more than one end between my fingers...
When suddenly you became cold
and you stopped kissing me...
and I released the end, and life fled from me.

31 Days (26)

Jakob & Wilhelm Grimm
(1785-1863 / 1786-1859)

from “Der Froschkönig oder der eiserne Heinrich“


Dann schliefen sie ein, und am andern Morgen, als die Sonne sie aufweckte, kam ein Wagen herangefahren, mit acht weißen Pferden bespannt, die hatten weiße Straußfedern auf dem Kopf und gingen in goldenen Ketten, und hinten stand der Diener des jungen Königs, das war der treue Heinrich. Der treue Heinrich hatte sich so betrübt, als sein Herr war in einen Frosch verwandelt worden, daß er drei eiserne Bande hatte um sein Herz legen lassen, damit es ihm nicht vor Weh und Traurigkeit zerspränge. Der Wagen aber sollte den jungen König in sein Reich abholen; der treue Heinrich hob beide hinein, stellte sich wieder hinten auf und war voller Freude über die Erlösung. Und als sie ein Stück Wegs gefahren waren, hörte der Königssohn, daß es hinter ihm krachte, als wäre etwas zerbrochen. Da drehte er sich um und rief:

»Heinrich, der Wagen bricht.«
»Nein, Herr, der Wagen nicht,
es ist ein Band von meinem Herzen,
das da lag in großen Schmerzen,
als Ihr in dem Brunnen saßt,
als Ihr eine Fretsche (Frosch) wast (wart).«

Noch einmal und noch einmal krachte es auf dem Weg, und der Königssohn meinte immer, der Wagen bräche, und es waren doch nur die Bande, die vom Herzen des treuen Heinrich absprangen, weil sein Herr erlöst und glücklich war.

from “The Frog-king, or Iron Henry“


Then they fell asleep, and next morning, as the sun woke them, a horse-drawn carriage came driving up, drawn by eight white horses, with white ostrich feathers on their heads and golden harnesses, and behind them stood the servant of the young king, the loyal Henry. The loyal Henry had become so sad, when his master was transformed into a frog, that he had to place three iron bands around his heart, so that it would not shatter from woe and misery. Now, however, the carriage was come to fetch the young king to his kingdom; loyal Henry lifted them both in, stood up behind again and was full of joy at their redemption. And when they had gone part of the way, the king's son heard a crack behind him as if something had broken. So he turned round and cried:

"Henry, the carriage is breaking."
"No, Lord, it's not the carriage,
it's one of the bands around my heart,
which suffered such great pain,
when you lay in the well,
when you were turned into a frog."

Again and yet again there came a crack as they went on their way, and each time the king's son thought that the carriage was breaking, yet nevertheless these were only the bands springing off the heart of loyal Henry because his Lord had been released and was now happy.

31 Days (25)

Georges Perec
(1936-1982)

from La Disparition

Trois cardinaux, un rabbin, un amiral franc-maçon, un trio d'insignifiants politicards soumis au bon plaisir d'un trust anglo-saxon, ont fait savoir à la population par radio, puis par placards, qu'on risquait la mort par inanition. On crut d'abord à un faux bruit. Il s'agissait, disait-on, d'intoxication. Mais l'opinion suivit. Chacun s'arma d'un fort gourdin. "Nous voulons du pain ", criait la population, conspuant patrons, nantis, pouvoirs publics. Ça complotait, ça conspirait partout. Un flic n'osait plus sortir la nuit.

A Mâcon, on attaqua un local administratif. A Rocamadour, on pilla un stock : on y trouva du thon, du lait, du chocolat par kilos, du maïs par quintaux, mais tout avait l'air pourri. A Nancy, on guillotina sur un rond-point vingt-six magistrats d'un coup, puis on brûla un journal du soir qu'on accusait d'avoir pris parti pour l'administration. Partout on prit d'assaut docks, hangars ou magasins.

Plus tard, on s'attaqua aux Nords-Africains, aux Noirs, aux juifs. On fit un pogrom à Drancy, à Livry-Gargan, à Saint-Paul, à Villacoublay, à Clignancourt. Puis on massacra d'obscurs trouffions, par plaisir. On cracha sur un sacristain qui, sur un trottoir, donnait l'absolution à un commandant C.R.S. qu'un loustic avait raccourci d'un adroit coup d'yatagan.

On tuait son frangin pour un saucisson, son cousin pour un bâtard, son voisin pour un croûton, un quidam pour un quignon.

Dans la nuit du lundi au mardi 6 avril, on compta vingt-cinq assauts au plastic. L'aviation bombarda la Tour d'Orly. L'Nhambra brûlait, l'Institut fumait, l'Hôpital Saint-Louis flambait.

Three cardinals, a rabbi, an masonic admiral, a trio of insignificant politicos subject to the arbitrary will of an Anglo-Saxon cartel, informed the population by radio, then by billboards, that they risked death by starvation. They ended up believing in this false rumour. It was, people said, like an intoxication. But public opinion followed. They all armed themselves with strong bludgeons. "We want bread," shouted the population, jeering at bosses, the wealthy, the authorities. They plotted, they conspired everywhere. A police officer did not dare to go out any more at night.

In Mâcon, they attacked an administrative office. In Rocamadour, they ransacked a stockpile: they found tuna, milk, kilos of chocolate, quintals of corn, but everything seemed rotten. In Nancy, they guillotined twenty-six magistrates on a roundabout just like that, then they burned an evening newspaper which they accused of having taken the side of the administration. Everywhere they took by assault warehouses, sheds or stores.

Later, they attacked North-Africans, the Blacks, Jews. They had a pogrom in Drancy, in Livry-Gargan, in Saint-Paul, in Villacoublay, in Clignancourt. Then they slaughtered obscure bystanders, for pleasure. They spat on a sexton who, on a sidewalk, gave absolution to a Commander C.R.S that a chap had shortened with one artful blow from a bullwhip.

They killed their brothers for a sausage, their cousins for a loaf, their neighbours for a crust, anyone for a bite.

At night from Monday till Tuesday, April 6th, they counted twenty-five attacks with gelignite. Aviators bombed the Tower of Orly. The Alhambra burned, the Institute smoked, the Saint-Louis hospital flamed.

31 Days (24)

Juana Inés de Asbaje y Ramírez de Santillana
[Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz]
(c. 1651-1695)

from Respuesta a Sor Filotea de la Cruz

Una vez lo consiguieron una prelada muy santa y muy cándida que creyó que el estudio era cosa de Inquisición y me mandó que no estudiase. Yo la obedecí (unos tres meses que duró el poder ella mandar) en cuanto a no tomar libro, que en cuanto a no estudiar absolutamente, como no cae debajo de mi potestad, no lo pude hacer, porque aunque no estudiaba en los libros, estudiaba en todas las cosas que Dios crió, sirviéndome ellas de letras, y de libro toda esta máquina universal. Nada veía sin refleja; nada oía sin consideración, aun en las cosas más menudas y materiales; porque como no hay criatura, por baja que sea, en que no se conozca el me fecit Deus, no hay alguna que no pasme el entendimiento, si se considera como se debe. Así yo, vuelvo a decir, las miraba y admiraba todas; de tal manera que de las mismas personas con quienes hablaba, y de lo que me decían, me estaban resaltando mil consideraciones: ¿De dónde emanaría aquella variedad de genios e ingenios, siendo todos de una especie? ¿Cuáles serían los temperamentos y ocultas cualidades que lo ocasionaban? Si veía una figura, estaba combinando la proporción de sus líneas y mediándola con el entendimiento y reduciéndola a otras diferentes. Paseábame algunas veces en el testero de un dormitorio nuestro (que es una pieza muy capaz) y estaba observando que siendo las líneas de sus dos lados paralelas y su techo a nivel, la vista fingía que sus líneas se inclinaban una a otra y que su techo estaba más bajo en lo distante que en lo próximo: de donde infería que las líneas visuales corren rectas, pero no paralelas, sino que van a formar una figura piramidal. Y discurría si sería ésta la razón que obligó a los antiguos a dudar si el mundo era esférico o no. Porque, aunque lo parece, podía ser engaño de la vista, demostrando concavidades donde pudiera no haberlas.

Once they obtained for me a very holy and very candid priest who believed that study was a thing reserved for the Inquisition and ordered to me not to study. I obeyed him (for the approximately three months that his power to be in charge lasted ) as far as not picking up a book; however, as for not studying absolutely, since it does not fall down under my power, I could not do it, because although not studying in books, by studying all the things that God has created, making use of lettering, and seeing as a book all this universal machinery. I could see nothing without reflecting on it; hear nothing without consideration, even the most small and material things; because since there is no creature, however lowly, which is not aware that God made it, so there is nothing which does not amaze the understanding, if he considers to whom it owes its being. In this way I, I say again, looked at and admired all of them; in such a way that from the same persons with whom I was speaking, and from what they were saying to me, a thousand considerations were being highlighted: Wherefrom could there come such a variety of spirits and wits, since we are all of one species? What are the temperaments and secret qualities which cause it? If I saw a figure, I found myself combining the proportion of its lines according to my understanding and transforming it into various others. I walked sometimes through the alcove of a bedroom of ours (which is a very large room) and found myself observing that although the parallel lines of its two sides and its roof are all on one level, sight feigns that its lines were inclining each to the other one and that its roof was lower in the distance than in the foreground: wherefrom I inferred that the lines of vision run straight, but not parallel to each other, since they end up forming a pyramidal figure. And I wondered if this was the reason that caused the ancient ones to doubt if the world was spherical or not. Because, although it seems to be so, it could be a trick of the sight, displaying concavities where they could not be.

 

31 Days (23)

Franz Kafka
(1883-1922)

from Josefine, die Sängerin oder Das Volk der Mäuse

Unsere Sängerin heißt Josefine. Wer sie nicht gehört hat, kennt nicht die Macht des Gesanges. Es gibt niemanden, den ihr Gesang nicht fortreißt, was umso höher zu bewerten ist, als unser Geschlecht im ganzen Musik nicht liebt. Stiller Frieden ist uns die liebste Musik; unser Leben ist schwer, wir können uns, auch wenn wir einmal alle Tagessorgen abzuschütteln versucht haben, nicht mehr zu solchen, unserem sonstigen Leben so fernen Dingen erheben, wie es die Musik ist. Doch beklagen wir es nicht sehr; nicht einmal so weit kommen wir; eine gewisse praktische Schlauheit, die wir freilich auch äußerst dringend brauchen, halten wir für unsern größten Vorzug, und mit dem Lächeln dieser Schlauheit pflegen wir uns über alles hinwegzutrösten, auch wenn wir einmal – was aber nicht geschieht – das Verlangen nach dem Glück haben sollten, das von der Musik vielleicht ausgeht. Nur Josefine macht eine Ausnahme; sie liebt die Musik und weiß sie auch zu vermitteln; sie ist die einzige; mit ihrem Hingang wird die Musik – wer weiß wie lange – aus unserem Leben verschwinden.

Our singer is called Josefine. Whoever has not heard her, cannot know the power of her song. There is nobody whom her song cannot tear away from what our people value more than the whole of music. Quiet peace is for us the dearest music; our life is heavy, even if we wish to escape from everyday worries, so attached are we to them, that we can be no more raised to such distant things as the music is to us. However, we do not deplore it very much; we don't even go that far; we have a certain practical cleverness which we need, admittedly, extremely urgently for our biggest advantage, and with the smile of this cleverness we look around at everything distrustfully, even if we could once – which does not happen, however – have felt desire for the grace which perhaps comes out from music. Only Josefine is an exception; she loves music and also knows how to provide it; she is the only one; at her death music – who knows for how long – will disappear from our life.

31 Days (22)

Gérard de Nerval
(1808-1855)

from Odelettes

El Desdichado

Je suis le Ténébreux, – le Veuf, – l'Inconsolé,
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la Tour abolie :
Ma seule Étoile est morte, – et mon luth constellé
Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie.

Dans la nuit du Tombeau, Toi qui m'as consolé,
Rends-moi le Pausilippe et la mer d'Italie,
La fleur qui plaisait tant à mon coeur désolé,
Et la treille où le Pampre à la Rose s'allie.

Suis-je Amour ou Phoebus ?... Lusignan ou Biron ?
Mon front est rouge encor du baiser de la Reine ;
J'ai rêvé dans la Grotte où nage la Sirène...

Et j'ai deux fois vainqueur traversé l'Achéron :
Modulant tour à tour sur la lyre d'Orphée
Les soupirs de la Sainte et les cris de la Fée.

The Poor Devil

I am the Melancholic, – the Widower, – the Disconsolate,
The Prince of Aquitaine in the abolished Tower:
My only Star is dead, – and my spotted lute
Carries the black Sun of Melancholia.

In the night of the Tomb, You who have consoled me so,
Return me Pausilippus and the sea of Italy,
The flower which pleased my desolate heart so much,
And the trellis where the Vine forms an alliance with the Rose.

Am I Love or Phoebus?... Lusignan or Biron?
My forehead is still red from the Queen’s kiss;
I have dreamed in the Grotto where the Siren swims ...

And I have twice crossed Acheron as a conqueror:
Modulating, in turn, on the lyre of Orpheus
The sighs of the Saint and the cries of the Fairy.

31 Days (21)

Augusto Roa Bastos
(1917-2005)

from La Excavacion

El primer desprendimiento de tierra se produjo a unos tres metros, a sus espaldas. No le pareció al principio nada alarmante. Sería solamente una veta blanda del terreno de arriba. Las tinieblas apenas se pusieron un poco más densas en el angosto agujero por el que únicamente arrastrándose sobre el vientre un hombre podía avanzar o retroceder. No podía detenerse ahora. Siguió avanzando con el plato de hojalata que le servía de perforador. La creciente humedad que iba impregnando la tosca dura lo alentaba. La barranca ya no estaría lejos; a lo sumo, unos cuatro o cinco metros, lo que representaba unos veinticinco días más de trabajo hasta el boquete liberador sobre el río.

Alternándose en turnos seguidos de cuatro horas, seis presos hacían avanzar la excavación veinte centímetros diariamente. Hubieran podido avanzar más rápido, pero la capacidad de trabajo estaba limitada por la posibilidad de desalojar la tierra en el tacho de desperdicios sin que fuera notada. Se habían abstenido de orinar en la lata que entraba y salía dos veces al día. Lo hacían en los rincones de la celda húmeda y agrietada, con lo que si bien aumentaban el hedor siniestro de la reclusión, ganaban también unos cuantos centímetros más de "bodega" para el contrabando de la tierra excavada.

La guerra civil había concluido seis meses atrás. La perforación del túnel duraba cuatro. Entre tanto, habían fallecido, por diversas causas, no del todo apacibles, diecisiete de los ochenta y nueve presos políticos que se hallaban amontonados en esa inhóspita celda, antro, retrete, ergástula pestilente, donde en tiempos de calma no habían entrado nunca más de ocho o diez presos comunes.

De los diecisiete presos que habían tenido la estúpida ocurrencia de morirse, a nueve se habían llevado distintas enfermedades contraídas antes o después de la prisión; a cuatro, los apremios urgentes de la cámara de torturas; a dos, la rauda ventosa de la tisis galopante. Otros dos se habían suicidado abriéndose las venas, uno con la púa de la hebilla del cinto; el otro, con el plato, cuyo borde afiló en la pared, y que ahora servía de herramienta para la apertura del túnel.

The first landslide took place approximately three meters behind his back. It did not seem at all alarming to him at first. It could be just a soft seam of the area above. The darkness just became a little denser in the narrow hole through which one could advance or retreat by crawling on one's belly. He could not stop now. He kept on going forward with the tin plate which served him as a shovel. The increasing moisture that as pouring from him encouraged him forward. The barrier could not be far now; at most, approximately four or five meters, which represented approximately twenty-five days more work up to the liberating hole on the river.

Alternating in turns every four hours, six prisoners were advancing the excavation twenty centimeters every day. They could have gone forward more rapidly, but their working capacity was limited by the possibility of concealing the dirt in their garbage containers without it being noticed. They had abstained from urinating in the canister that was going in and coming out twice a day. They did it in the corners of the humid and raw cell, by which means, although it increased the sinister stench of the prison, they could gain a few more centimeters of "wine cellar" for the contraband of the excavated dirt.

The civil war had concluded six months before. The digging of the tunnel had lasted four. Meanwhile, for diverse causes, not really very pleasant, seventeen of eighty nine political prisoners who were gathered in this inhospitable cell, cavern, toilet, pestilential pit, where in calmer times never had any more than eight or ten common prisoners had been enclosed, had died.

Of the seventeen prisoners who had had the bad luck to die, nine had been carried off by different illnesses contracted before or after their imprisonment; four, by the urgent pressures of the torture chamber; two, by the swift cupping glass of galloping consumption. Another two had committed suicide by opening their own veins, one with the spike of the buckle of the belt; another, with a plate, whose rim had been sharpened in the wall, the one which now was serving as a tool for the excavation of the tunnel.

31 Days (20)

Heinrich Heine
(1797-1856)

from Aus der Matratzengruft

Orpheisch

Es gab den Dolch in deine Hand
Ein böser Dämon in der bösen Stunde –
Ich weiß nicht, wie der Dämon hieß –
Ich weiß nur, daß vergiftet war die Wunde.

In stillen Nächten denk ich oft,
Du solltest mal dem Schattenreich entsteigen
Und lösen alle Rätsel mir
Und mich von deiner Unschuld überzeugen.

Ich harre dein – o komme bald!
Und kommst du nicht, so steig ich selbst zur Hölle,
Daß ich alldort vor Satanas
Und allen Teufeln dich zur Rede stelle.

Ich komme, und wie Orpheus einst
Trotz ich der Unterwelt mit ihren Schrecken –
Ich finde dich, und wolltest du
Im tiefsten Höllenpfuhle dich verstecken.

Hinunter jetzt ins Land der Qual,
Wo Händeringen nur und Zähneklappen –
Ich reiße dir die Larve ab,
Der angeprahlten Großmut Purpurlappen –

Jetzt weiß ich, was ich wissen wollt,
Und gern, mein Mörder, will ich dir verzeihen;
Doch hindern kann ich nicht, daß jetzt
Schmachvoll die Teufel dir ins Antlitz speien.

Orpheus-like

There was a dagger in your hand
A bad demon at the bad hour –
I do not know what the demon was called –
I know only that the wound was poisoned.

On quiet nights I often think,
You should emerge sometimes from the Shadow-realm
And solve all riddles for me
And persuade me of your innocence.

I await you – O come soon!
And if you do not come, I’ll sink myself to hell,
So that I there in front of Satan
And all the devils can put you to the question.

I come, and like Orpheus once
Cross I the underworld with her horrors –
I find you, though you wanted
In the deepest infernal pool to hide yourself.

Down now in the land of torture,
Where only hands are wrung and teeth gnashed –
I tear the larva off of you,
The pompous proud magenta cloth –

Now I know what I wanted to know,
And with pleasure, my murderer, I want to forgive you;
However, now I cannot hinder, that
Ignominiously the devils in your face should vomit.

31 Days (19)

Voltaire (François-Marie Arouet)
(1694-1778)

from Abrégé de l'Histoire Universelle depuis Charlemagne jusques à Charlequint

Plusieurs esprits infatigables ayant débrouillé autant qu'on le peut, le chaos de l'Antiquité, et quelques Génies éloquents ayant écrit l'Histoire Universelle jusqu'à Charlemagne, j'ai regretté qu'ils n'aient pas fourni une carrière plus longue. J'ai voulu pour m'instruire de ce qu'ils ne disent pas, mettre sous mes yeux un précis de l'Histoire, laquelle nous intéresse, à mesure qu'elle devient plus moderne.

Ma principale idée est de connaître autant que je pourrai, les mœurs des Peuples, et d'étudier l'Esprit humain. Je regarderai l'ordre des Successions des Rois et la Chronologie comme mes guides, mais non comme le but de mon travail. Ce travail serait bien ingrat, si je me bornais à vouloir apprendre seulement en quelle année un Prince indigne d'être connu, succéda à un Prince barbare.

Il semble en lisant les Histoires, que la Terre n'ait été faite que pour quelques Souverains, et pour ceux qui ont servi leurs passions; tout le reste est négligé. Les Historiens, semblables en cela aux Rois, sacrifient le Genre-Humain à un seul homme. N'y a-t-il donc eu sur la Terre que des Princes; et faut-il que presque tous les Inventeurs des Arts soient inconnus, tandis qu'on a des suites chronologiques de tant d'hommes qui n'ont fait aucun bien ou qui ont fait beaucoup de mal? Autant il faut connaître les grandes actions des Souverains qui ont changé la face de la Terre, et surtout de ceux qui ont rendu leurs Peuples meilleurs et plus heureux; autant on doit ignorer le vulgaire des Rois, qui ne servirait qu'à charger la mémoire.

Several tireless minds having disentangled as much as they can the chaos of Antiquity, and some eloquent Geniuses having written Universal Histories until Charlemagne, I regretted that they have not provided a longer compass. I wanted to instruct myself in what they do not say, to put a summary of History under my eyes, which interests us, insofar as it becomes more modern.

My main idea is to know as much as I can about the morals of the People, and to study the human Mind. I shall look at the order of the Successions of the Kings and the Chronology like my guides, but not as the purpose of my work. This work would be very ungrateful, if I contented myself with wanting to learn only in which year one Prince unworthy to be known, succeeded to another barbaric Prince.

It seems sometimes, when one is reading History, that the Earth was made only for certain Sovereigns, and for those who served their desires; all the rest is neglected. The Historians, similar in this to the Kings, sacrifice the human species to a single man. Have there then been only Princes on the Earth; and is it necessary that almost all the creators of the Arts are unknown, while we have chronological lists of so many men who did no good or who did a lot of evil? So much it is necessary to know the great actions of those Sovereigns who changed the face of the Earth, and especially those who made their People happier and better; so much should one ignore the common crowd of Kings, who serve only to weigh down the memory.

31 Days (18)

Domingo Faustino Sarmiento
(1811-1888)

from Facundo: Civilización y Barbarie en Las Pampas Argentinas
Introducción

¡Sombra terrible de Facundo, voy a evocarte, para que sacudiendo el ensangrentado polvo que cubre tus cenizas, te levantes a explicarnos la vida secreta y las convulsiones internas que desgarran las entrañas de un noble pueblo! Tú posees el secreto: ¡revélanoslo! Diez años aún después de tu trágica muerte, el hombre de las ciudades y el gaucho de los llanos argentinos, al tomar diversos senderos en el desierto, decían: "¡No, no ha muerto! ¡Vive aún! ¡El vendrá!" ¡Cierto! Facundo no ha muerto; está vivo en las tradiciones populares, en la política y revoluciones argentinas; en Rosas, su heredero, su complemento: su alma ha pasado a este otro molde, más acabado, más perfecto; y lo que en él era sólo instinto, iniciación, tendencia, convirtióse en Rosas en sistema, efecto y fin; la naturaleza campestre, colonial y bárbara, cambióse en esta metamorfosis en arte, en sistema y en política regular capaz de presentarse a la faz del mundo como el modo de ser de un pueblo encarnado en un hombre que ha aspirado a tomar los aires de un genio que domina los acontecimientos, los hombres y las cosas. Facundo, provinciano, bárbaro, valiente, audaz, fue reemplazado por Rosas, hijo de la culta Buenos Aires, sin serlo él; por Rosas, falso, corazón helado, espíritu calculador, que hace el mal sin pasión, y organiza lentamente el despotismo con toda la inteligencia de un Maquiavelo. Tirano sin rival hoy en la tierra, ¿por qué sus enemigos quieren disputarle el título de Grande que le prodigan sus cortesanos? Sí; grande y muy grande es para gloria y vergüenza de su patria; porque si ha encontrado millares de seres degradados que se unzan a su carro para arrastrarlo por encima de cadáveres, también se hallan a millares las almas generosas que en quince años de lid sangrienta no han desesperado de vencer al monstruo que nos propone el enigma de la organización política de la República. Un día vendrá, al fin, que lo resuelvan; y la Esfinge Argentina, mitad mujer por lo cobarde, mitad tigre por lo sanguinario, morirá a sus plantas, dando a la Tebas del Plata el rango elevado que le toca entre las naciones del Nuevo Mundo.

Terrible shade of Facundo, let's evoke you, so that shaking off the gory dust that covers your ashes, you can arise to explain to us the secret life and the internal convulsions that tear the entrails of a noble people! You possess the secret: reveal it to us! Ten years after your tragic death, on having taken diverse footpaths in the desert, the man of the cities and the gaucho of the Argentine plains were still saying: "No, he has not died! He’s still alive! He will return!” True! Facundo has not died; he is alive in the popular traditions, in politics and Argentine revolutions; in Rosas, his heir, his complement: his soul has gone on into this other mould, more finished, more perfect; and what in him was only an instinct, initiation, tendency, has turned in Rosas into a system, the effect and the end; the rural, colonial and barbarian nature, has transformed itself by this metamorphosis into art, in system and in regular politics capable of presenting itself to the face of the world as the way of life of a people personified in a man who aspires to put on the airs of a genius who dominates events, men and objects. Facundo, provincial, barbarian, brave, bold, has been replaced by Rosas, son of educated Buenos Aires, without being himself; for Rosas, false, frozen heart, calculating spirit, who harms without passion, organizes despotism slowly with all the intelligence of a Machiavel. Tyrant without rival today on the earth: why do his enemies want to dispute the title of Great that his courtiers lavish? Yes; great and very great he is, to the glory and shame of his homeland; because if it has discovered thousands of degraded beings that bow before his carriage in order to drag it over corpses, it has also produced in thousands the generous souls who in fifteen years of bloody fight have not lost hope of winning over the monster that proposes to us the enigma of the political organization of the Republic. One day will come, at last, a solution to it; and the Sphinx Argentina, half woman for cowardice, half tiger for bloodthirstiness, will die at its roots, giving to the Thebes of la Plata the high status that awaits him between the nations of the New World.

31 Days (17)

Friedrich Heinrich Karl de la Motte Fouqué
(1777-1843)

from Undine

Es mögen nun wohl schon viele hundert Jahre her sein, da gab es einmal einen alten guten Fischer, der saß eines schönen Abends vor der Tür und flickte seine Netze. Er wohnte aber in einer überaus anmutigen Gegend. Der grüne Boden, worauf seine Hütte gebaut war, streckte sich weit in einen großen Landsee hinaus, und es schien ebensowohl, die Erdzunge habe sich aus Liebe zu der bläulich klaren, wunderhellen Flut in diese hineingedrängt, als auch, das Wasser habe mit verliebten Armen nach der schönen Aue gegriffen, nach ihren hochschwankenden Gräsern und Blumen und nach dem erquicklichen Schatten ihrer Bäume. Eins ging bei dem andern zu Gaste, und eben deshalb war jegliches so schön. Von Menschen freilich war an dieser hübschen Stelle wenig oder gar nichts anzutreffen, den Fischer und seine Hausleute ausgenommen. Denn hinter der Erdzunge lag ein sehr wilder Wald, den die mehrsten Leute wegen seiner Finsternis und Unwegsamkeit, wie auch wegen der wundersamen Kreaturen und Gaukeleien, die man darin antreffen sollte, allzusehr scheueten, um sich ohne Not hineinzubegeben. Der alte fromme Fischer jedoch durchschnitt ihn ohne Anfechtung zu vielen Malen, wenn er die köstlichen Fische, die er auf seiner schönen Landzunge fing, nach einer großen Stadt trug, welche nicht sehr weit hinter dem großen Walde lag. Es ward ihm wohl mehrenteils deswegen so leicht, durch den Forst zu ziehn, weil er fast keine andre als fromme Gedanken hegte und noch außerdem jedesmal, wenn er die verrufenen Schatten betrat, ein geistliches Lied aus heller Kehle und aufrichtigem Herzen anzustimmen gewohnt war.

Now it may already probably be many hundred years ago, that there was once an old good fisherman, who sat of a beautiful evening before the door and mended his nets. Moreover, he lived in an exceedingly graceful area. The green ground on which his hut was built stretched far back into a big landlocked lake, and it even seemed at times as if the spit of earth was reaching out because of its love for the clear blue flood, just as the water was striving to put its loving arms around the nice meadow, because of its desire for the glittering grass and flowers and for the comforting shade of its trees. One went with the other as a companion, and each was just as nice as the other. Admittedly, there were very few or no people at all to be found at this pretty place, excluding the fisherman and the inhabitants of his house. This was because behind the spit of earth there lay a very wild wood which people found it difficult to make their way through, because of its darkness and impenetrability, as well as because of the wondrous creatures and tricks, which were rumoured to live in it, which inspired them to make their way around it instead. Nevertheless, the old devout fisherman had made his way through it without challenge on numerous occasions, carrying the delightful fish which he caught on his nice spit of land to the big town which lay not too far behind the big wood. It as probably easier for him to make his way through the forest, though, because he entertained virtually no thoughts which were other than devout and what's more, in addition, every time when he entered the threatening shades he would start to sing an ecclesiastical song from his bright throat and frank heart.

31 Days (16)

Arthur Rimbaud
(1854-91)

from Derniers Vers
Eros, Moral, Christentum

Ô saisons, ô châteaux


Ô saisons ô châteaux,
Quelle âme est sans défauts ?

Ô saisons, ô châteaux,

J'ai fait la magique étude
Du Bonheur, que nul n'élude.

Ô vive lui, chaque fois
Que chante son coq gaulois.

Mais ! je n'aurai plus d'envie,
Il s'est chargé de ma vie.

Ce Charme ! il prit âme et corps.
Et dispersa tous efforts.

Que comprendre à ma parole ?
Il fait qu'elle fuie et vole !

Ô saisons, ô châteaux !

Et, si le malheur m'entraîne,
Sa disgrâce m'est certaine.

Il faut que son dédain, las !
Me livre au plus prompt trépas !

– Ô Saisons, ô Châteaux !

O seasons, O castles

O seasons, O castles,
What soul is without defects?

O seasons, O castles,

I made the magic study
Of that Happiness, which cannot be escaped.

Long may it live, every time
That its French cockerel sings.

However! I don’t want it any more,
It took over my life.

That Charm! it took soul and shape.
And it dispersed all my efforts.

What to understand in my words?
It makes them run away and fly!

O seasons, O castles!

And, if misfortune draws me away,
Its disfavour to me is certain.

It is necessary that her contempt, weary!
Deliver me to the most prompt demise!

– O seasons, O castles!

31 Days (15)

Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
(1547-1616)

from El ingenioso hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha

En resolución, él se enfrascó tanto en su lectura, que se le pasaban las noches leyendo de claro en claro, y los días de turbio en turbio; y así, del poco dormir y del mucho leer, se le secó el celebro, de manera que vino a perder el juicio. Llenósele la fantasía de todo aquello que leía en los libros, así de encantamentos como de pendencias, batallas, desafíos, heridas, requiebros, amores, tormentas y disparates imposibles; y asentósele de tal modo en la imaginación que era verdad toda aquella máquina de aquellas sonadas soñadas invenciones que leía, que para él no había otra historia más cierta en el mundo. Decía él que el Cid Ruy Díaz había sido muy buen caballero, pero que no tenía que ver con el Caballero de la Ardiente Espada, que de sólo un revés había partido por medio dos fieros y descomunales gigantes. Mejor estaba con Bernardo del Carpio, porque en Roncesvalles había muerto a Roldán el encantado, valiéndose de la industria de Hércules, cuando ahogó a Anteo, el hijo de la Tierra, entre los brazos. Decía mucho bien del gigante Morgante, porque, con ser de aquella generación gigantea, que todos son soberbios y descomedidos, él solo era afable y bien criado. Pero, sobre todos, estaba bien con Reinaldos de Montalbán, y más cuando le veía salir de su castillo y robar cuantos topaba, y cuando en allende robó aquel ídolo de Mahoma que era todo de oro, según dice su historia. Diera él, por dar una mano de coces al traidor de Galalón, al ama que tenía, y aun a su sobrina de añadidura.

As a result, he became so absorbed in his reading, that he spent the nights reading from dusk till dawn, and the days reading till dark; and in this way, from too little sleep and too much reading, his mind dried up, so that he came to lose his judgment. Filling himself up with the fantasy of all that that he was reading in the books, as much of enchantments as of their consequences, battles, challenges, wounds, flirtatious remarks, loves, thunderstorms and impossible nonsense; and he mixed it all up in his imagination in such a way that he believed to be true all that machinery of famous dreamed inventions that he was reading, so that for him there was no another more true history in the world. He said that the Cid Ruy Díaz had been a very good gentleman, but that he could not compare with the Knight of the Ardent Sword, who with only a knife had cut in half two fierce and extraordinary giants. It was better for Bernardo del Carpio, because at Roncesvalles he had killed Roldán the enchanter, employing the strength of Hercules, when he drowned Anteus, the son of the Earth, between his arms. He said a lot of good of the giant Morgante, because, in spite of being of that generation of giants, who are all haughty and impolite, he alone was affable and of good breeding. But, especially, it was well with Reinaldos de Montalbán, above all when he sallied forth from his castle and robbed everyone who was passing, and when in retreat e stole that idol of Mahomet made entirely of gold, as it says in his history. It was he who gave, after giving a brace of kicks to the traitor Galalón, to his mistress some more, and even some to his niece in addition.

31 Days (14)

Rainer Maria Rilke
(1875-1926)

from The Duino Elegies
Die erste Duineser Elegie

Wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich denn aus der Engel
Ordnungen? und gesetzt selbst, es nähme
einer mich plötzlich ans Herz: ich verginge von seinem
stärkeren Dasein. Denn das Schöne ist nichts
als des Schrecklichen Anfang, den wir noch grade ertragen,
und wir bewundern es so, weil es gelassen verschmäht,
uns zu zerstören. Ein jeder Engel ist schrecklich.
Und so verhalt ich mich denn und verschlucke den Lockruf
dunkelen Schluchzens. Ach, wen vermögen
wir denn zu brauchen? Engel nicht, Menschen nicht,
und die findigen Tiere merken es schon,
daß wir nicht sehr verläßlich zu Haus sind
in der gedeuteten Welt. Es bleibt uns vielleicht
irgend ein Baum an dem Abhang, daß wir ihn täglich
wiedersähen; es bleibt uns die Straße von gestern
und das verzogene Treusein einer Gewohnheit,
der es bei uns gefiel, und so blieb sie und ging nicht.
O und die Nacht, die Nacht, wenn der Wind voller Weltraum
uns am Angesicht zehrt –, wem bliebe sie nicht, die ersehnte,
sanft enttäuschende, welche dem einzelnen Herzen
mühsam bevorsteht. Ist sie den Liebenden leichter?
Ach, sie verdecken sich nur mit einander ihr Los.
Weißt du's noch nicht? Wirf aus den Armen die Leere
zu den Räumen hinzu, die wir atmen; vielleicht daß die Vögel
die erweiterte Luft fühlen mit innigerm Flug.

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
Oh, to whom can we turn for help? Not angels, not humans;
and even the knowing animals are aware that we feel
little secure and at home in our interpreted world.
There remains perhaps some tree on a hillside
daily for us to see; yesterday's street remains for us
stayed, moved in with us and showed no signs of leaving.
Oh, and the night, the night, when the wind
full of cosmic space invades our frightened faces.
Whom would it not remain for – that longed-after,
gently disenchanting night, painfully there for the
solitary heart to achieve? Is it easier for lovers?
Don't you know yet ? Fling out of your arms the
emptiness into the spaces we breath –perhaps the birds
will feel the expanded air in their more fervent flight.

[Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming]

31 Days (13)

François-René de Chateaubriand
(1768-1848)

from Mémoires d'Outre-Tombe
Préface Testamentaire

J'ai exploré les mers de l'Ancien et du Nouveau-Monde, et foulé le sol des quatre parties de la terre. Après avoir campé sous la hutte de l'Iroquois et sous la tente de l'Arabe, dans les wigwuams des Hurons, dans les débris d'Athènes, de Jérusalem, de Memphis, de Carthage, de Grenade, chez le Grec, le Turc et le Maure, parmi les forêts et les ruines; après avoir revêtu la casaque de peau d'ours du sauvage et le cafetan de soie du mameluck, après avoir subi la pauvreté, la faim, la soif et l'exil, je me suis assis, ministre et ambassadeur, brodé d'or, bariolé d'insignes et de rubans, à la table des rois, aux fêtes des princes et des princesses, pour retomber dans l'indigence et essayer de la prison.

J'ai été en relation avec une foule de personnages célèbres dans les armes, l'Église, la politique, la magistrature, les sciences et les arts. Je possède des matériaux immenses, plus de quatre mille lettres particulières, les correspondances diplomatiques de mes différentes ambassades, celles de mon passage au ministère des Affaires étrangères, entre lesquelles se trouvent des pièces à moi particulières, uniques et inconnues. J'ai porté le mousquet du soldat, le bâton du voyageur, le bourdon du pèlerin: navigateur, mes destinées ont eu l'inconstance de ma voile; alcyon, j'ai fait mon nid sur les flots.

Je me suis mêlé de paix et de guerre; j'ai signé des traités, des protocoles, et publié chemin faisant de nombreux ouvrages. J'ai été initié à des secrets de partis, de cour et d'état; j'ai vu de près les plus rares malheurs, les plus hautes fortunes, les plus grandes renommées. J'ai assisté à des sièges, à des congrès, à des conclaves, à la réédification et à la démolition des trônes. J'ai fait de l'histoire, et je pouvais l'écrire. Et ma vie solitaire, rêveuse, poétique, marchait au travers de ce monde de réalités, de catastrophes, de tumulte, de bruit, avec les fils de mes songes, Chactas, René, Eudore, Aben-Hamet, avec les filles de mes chimères, Atala, Amélie, Blanca, Velléda, Cymodocée. En dedans et à côté de mon siècle, j'exerçais peut-être sur lui, sans le vouloir et sans le chercher, une triple influence religieuse, politique et littéraire.

I have explored the seas of the Old and the New World, and traversed the soil of the four corners of the earth. Having camped in Iroquois huts and Arab tents, in Huron wigwams, in the remains of Athens, Jerusalem, Memphis, Carthage, Granada, among the Greeks, the Turks and the Moors, among forests and ruins; having dressed in bearskin robes among the savages and the silken caftans among the Mamelukes, been subjected to poverty, to hunger, to thirst and to banishment, I have sat myself down, minister and ambassador, embroidered with gold, festooned with insignia and ribbons, at the tables of kings, the parties of princes and princesses, to fall once more into destitution and try out yet another prison.

I have been connected with a horde of famous figures in the armed forces, the Church, politics, the law, the sciences and the arts. I have huge materials, more than four thousand individual letters, diplomatic correspondence from my various embassies, those from my career in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, among which are pieces particular to myself, unique and unknown. I have carried the musket of the soldier, the staff of the traveller, the badge of the pilgrim: navigator, my destiny has been at the mercy of my sails; swallow, I made my nest among the billows.

I have mixed myself in peace and war; I have signed treaties, protocols, and published numerous works on the way. I have been initiated into the secrets of parties, the court and the state; I have seen up close the rarest misfortunes, the highest destinies, the greatest reputations. I have witnessed sieges, congresses, conclaves, the rebuilding and the destruction of thrones. I have made history, and I have been able to write it. And my solitary, dreamy, poetic life, walked side by side with this world of realities, disasters, disorder, noise, with the threads of my dreams, Chactas, René, Eudore, Aben-Hamet, with the girls of my chimeras, Atala, Amélie, Blanca, Velléda, Cymodocée. From within and to one side of my century, I have exercised on it (perhaps), by accident and without my searching for it, a triple influence: religious, political and literary.

31 Days (12)

José Lezama Lima
(1912-1976)

Retrato de Don Francisco de Quevedo

Sin dientes, pero con dientes
como sierra y a la noche no cierra
el negro terciopelo que lo entierra
entre el clavel y el clavón crujiente.
Bailados sueños y las jácaras molientes
sacan el vozarrón Santiago de la tierra.
Noctámbulo tizón traza en vuelo ardientes
elipses en Nápoles donde el agua yerra.
Muérdago en semilla hinchado por la brisa
risota en el infierno, el tiburón quemado
escamas sueltas, tonsura yerto.
En el fin de los fines ¿qué es esto?
Roto maíz entuerto en el faisán barniza
y en la horca se salva encaramado.

Portrait of Don Francisco de Quevedo

Without teeth, but with teeth
as it saws and does not close at night
the black velvet that buries it
between the carnation and the creaking shoulderblade.
Dancing dreams and the softening jacarandas
extract the echoing Santiago from the ground.
Active at night ember plans in flight ardent
ellipses in Naples where the water congeals.
Mistletoe in seed inflated by the breeze
resounds in hell, the burnt shark
free scales, shears stiffly.
In the end of ends: what is this?
Broken corn wrong in the pheasant varnishes
and in the gallows it is saved raised.

31 Days (11)

Arthur Schopenhauer
(1788-1860)

from Aphorismen
Grundeinteilung

Aristoteles hat die Güter des menschlichen Lebens in drei Klassen geteilt – die äußeren, die der Seele und die des Leibes. Hievon nun nichts, als die Dreizahl beibehaltend, sage ich, daß was den Unterschied im Lose der Sterblichen begründet, sich auf drei Grundbestimmungen zurückführen läßt. Sie sind:

Was Einer ist: also die Persönlichkeit, im weitesten Sinne. Sonach ist hierunter Gesundheit, Kraft, Schönheit, Temperament, moralischer Charakter, Intelligenz und Ausbildung derselben begriffen.

Was Einer hat: also Eigentum und Besitz in jeglichem Sinne.

Was Einer vorstellt: unter diesem Ausdruck wird bekanntlich verstanden, was er in der Vorstellung Anderer ist, also eigentlich wie er von ihnen vorgestellt wird. Es besteht demnach in ihrer Meinung von ihm, und zerfällt in Ehre, Rang und Ruhm.

Aristotle has divided the good things of human life into three classes – those that are external, those that are to do with the soul and those to do with the body. I shall say nothing, for now, about this threefold division, but rather that what makes a difference in the lot of mortals can be brought back to three basic rules. They are:

What one is: or rather, to personality, in the largest sense. As long as we include under this same heading health, strength, beauty, temperament, moral character, intelligence and education.

What one has: thus, property and possessions (however defined).

How one looks: by this expression is to be understood, what he regards himself to be in the opinion of others, thus, actually, how he is regarded by them. He exists therefore through their opinion of him, and remains uncomforted by honour, rank and fame.