Originally posted on nagovor na filosofiju:
Kastalija odgaja vrsne glazbenike i povjesničare umjetnosti, filologe, matematičare i druge znanstvenike. Svaki kastalski zavod i svaki Kastalac trebalo bi da poznaje samo dva cilja i ideala: u svojoj struci postići što je moguće veće savršenstvo, te održavati vitalnost i prilagodljivost svoje struke … njegovanjem trajnih prisnih i prijateljskih odnosa sa svim drugim disciplinama. Ovaj potonji ideal, zamisao unutrašnjeg jedinstva svih ljudskih duhovnih stremljenja, ta ideja univerzalnosti u našoj je presvijetloj Igri našla svoj savršeni izraz. Ako se od fizičara ili povjesničara glazbe ili bilo kojega drugog znanstvenika povremeno i zahtijeva stroga i asketska postojanost u jednoj, vlastitoj, struci, i ako odricanje od težnje k univerzalnosti koristi trenutnom vrhunskom uspjehu na uskom području – mi, naprotiv, mi Igrači staklenim perlama nipošto ne smijemo prihvaćati ni provoditi takvo ograničenje i samodostatnost, jer je naša zadaća upravo u tome da očuvamo ideju jedne Universitas litterarum i njezin najviši izraz – tu plemenitu…
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Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple
Tongues of dull, fat Cerberus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean
The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell
Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora’s scarves, I’m in a fright
One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,
But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.
Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.
Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher’s kiss.
Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.
I am too pure for you or anyone.
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern -
My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.
Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.
I think I am going up,
I think I may rise -
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I
Am a pure acetylene
Attended by roses,
By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.
Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) -
Originally posted on Horizonti humanosti. Uređuje - MARJAN HAJNAL:
View original još 1,139 riječi
Originally posted on Interesting Literature:
By Luna Gradinšćak
Milorad Pavić (1929-2009) once said that in his life he experienced something which most famous writers get only after death. Certainly, he thought of glory and fame, which he lived to achieve. And it is true: his Dictionary of the Khazards (1984; English translation 1988) at the very beginning sold in enormous quantities. Nowdays he is one of the most translated Serbian writers and his books are sold in all parts of the world. In Poland, a drama by Pavel Pasini based on Pavić’s novel, named Dictionary of the Khazards: Children of Dreams was staged last year; it won an award on the occasion of the International Day of Theatre. Therefore, this writer, according to prominent researchers in Serbian literature, is one of the followers and venerators of Miloš Crnjanski (about whom I wrote last time) who made a poetic revolution. Pavić, who was also a professor…
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Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.
The Ballad of Reading Gaol