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1月29日

翻着玩玩

Trockne Blumen

 

Withered Flowers

Ihr Blümlein alle,

Die sie mir gab,

Euch soll man legen

Mit mir ins Grab.

 

Wie seht ihr alle

Mich an so weh,

Als ob ihr wüßtet,

Wie mir gescheh?

 

Ihr Blümlein alle,

Wie welk, wie blaß?

Ihr Blümlein alle,

Wovon so naß?

 

Ach, Tränen machen

Nicht maiengrün,

Machen tote Liebe

Nicht wieder blühn.

 

Und Lenz wird kommen,

Und Winter wird gehn,

Und Blümlein werden

Im Grase stehn.

 

Und Blümlein liegen

In meinem Grab,

Die Blümlein alle,

Die sie mir gab.

 

Und wenn sie wandelt

Am Hügel vorbei

Und denkt im Herzen:

Der meint' es treu!

 

Dann, Blümlein alle,

Heraus, heraus!

Der Mai ist kommen,

Der Winter ist aus!

 

All ye little flowers

To me she gave.

You shall all be lying

With me in my grave.

 

Why do you all look on me

With such woe and pain,

As if you already knew

How I was slain?

 

All ye little flowers

How wan you appear!

All ye little flowers

Why all the tears?

 

Alas, tears cannot bring back

The green of May

Nor again make dead love

Burst into blossoms gay.

 

And Spring will come.

And Winter will go.

And little flowers

Will in meadows grow.

 

And little flowers will lie

With my in my grave—

All the little flowers,

To me she gave.

 

And when past nearby hills,

Wanders she,

Thinking, in her heart of hearts:

He has been true to me!

 

Then all ye little flowers,

Come out, come on!

May has arrived,

The Winter gone!

 

Die schöne Müllerin

Wilhelm Müller (1794-1827)

 

 

1月1日

Flaubert's Parrot

Quoting:
Flaubert: Pride is a wild beast which lives in caves and roams the desert; Vanity, on the other hand, is a parrot which hops from branch to branch and chatters away in full view.
 
The control of tone is vital. Imagine the technical difficulty of writing a story in which a badly-stuffed bird with a ridiculous name ends up standing out for one third of the Trinity, and inwhich the intention is neither satirical, sentimental, nor blasphemous. Imagine further telling such a story from the point of view of an ignorant old woman without making it sound derogatory or coy. But then the aim of Un coeur simple is quite elsewhere: the parrot is a perfect and controlled example of the Flaubertian grotesque. (It cannot help being serious and comic at the same time.)
 
I don't much care for coincidences. There is something spooky about them: you sense momentarilly what it must be like to live in an ordered, God-run universe, with himself looking over your shoulder and helpfully dropping coarse hints about a cosmic plan...
I don't even care for harmless, comic coincidencs. I once went out to dinner and discoverd that the seven other people present had all just finished reading A Dance to the Music of Time. I didn't relish this: not least because it meant that I didn't break my silence until the cheese course.