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,
The weak
Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,
Devilish leopard!
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.
Your body
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
Virgin
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) –
To Paradise.
Sylvia Plath
http://duhovni-razvoj.blogspot.co.il/2013/05/razmjena-energije-u-odnosima.html
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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[1] 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
Svako ubija onog koga voli,
dobro slušajte što vam kažem…
Neko gorkim pogledom,
neko riječju laskavom
Kukavica poljupcem,
hrabar mačem.
Neko ubija voljenog dok je mlad,
neko dok je star
Neko ga zadavi rukama žudnje,
neko rukama od zlata
Milostivi ubija nožem jer se tijelo brže ohladi…
Neko voli premalo,
neko voli previše,
neko kupuje a neko prodaje
Neko ubijajuci pusti suzu,
a neko i ne trzne
Jer svako ubija onog koga voli,
al svakoga to ne ubije.
The Ballad of Reading Gaol-Oscar Wilde
Don’t be fooled by me.
Don’t be fooled by the face I wear,
For I wear a mask, I wear a thousand masks,
Masks that I am afraid to take off,
But none of them are me.
Pretending is an art that’s second nature to me.
But don’t be fooled
I give you the impression that I am secure,
That all is sunny and unruffled with me,
Within as well as without,
That confidence is my name and coolness is my game,
That the water’s calm and I am in command,
And that I need no one.
Don’t believe me, please!
My surface may be smooth,
But my surface is my mask,
My varying and ever-concealing mask.
Beneath lies the real me,
In confusion and fear,
In loneliness.
I idly chatter with you in the suave tones of surface talk.
I tell you everything that’s really nothing,
Of what’s crying within me.
So, when I’m going through my routine,
Please don’t be fooled by what I’m not saying,
And what I’d like to be able to say,
But what I can’t say.
Only you can call me into aliveness,
Each time you’re kind and gentle and encouraging.
Each time you try to understand because you really care,
My heart begins to grow wings,
Very small wings, very feeble wings, but wings.
With your sensitivity and sympathy and your powers
of understanding,
You can breathe life into me, I want you to know that.
I want you to know how important you are to me,
How you can be a creator of the person that is me if you choose to.
Please choose to.
Do not pass me by.
It will not be easy for you.
My long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.
The nearer you approach to me, the blinder I may strike back.
I fight against the very thing I cry out for.
But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls.
In this lies my hope,
My only hope.
Who am I, you may wonder,
I am someone you know very well-
I am a hurting member of your family,
I am the person sitting beside you in this room,
I am every person you meet on the street.
Please don’t believe my mask,
Please come behind it to glimpse the real me.
Please speak to me, share a little of yourself with me,
At least recognize me.
Please.
Because you care.
Charles C. Finn
Nemoj da te zavara izraz moga lica.
Jer, nosim masku, tisuće maski,
maske koje se bojim skinuti,
a nijedna od njih nisam ja.
U pretvaranju sam pravi majstor,
ali ne daj se zavarati.
Za ime Božje, ne daj se zavarati.
Pretvaram se da sam siguran
da je sve med i mlijeko u meni
i oko mene
da mi je ime samouvjerenost a smirenost moja igra
da je sve mirno i da sve kontroliram
i da ne trebam nikog.
Ali, ne vjeruj mi.
Možda se čini da sam smiren, ali
moja smirenost je maska
uvijek promjenjiva i koja sakriva.
Ispod nje nema spokoja.
Ispod nje je zbrka, strah i samoća.
Ali, ja to sakrivam.
Ne želim da itko zna.
Hvata me panika na pomisao o mojoj slabosti
i da će me otkriti.
Zato frenetično kreiram masku da bi iza nje sakrio
nonšalantno, sofisticirano pročelje,
da mi pomogne da se pretvaram,
da me zaštiti od pogleda koji zna.
Ali baš takav pogled je moje spasenje.
Moja jedina nada i ja to znam.
Dakako, ako iza njega slijedi prihvaćanje.
Ako slijedi Ijubav.
To je jedina stvar koja me može osloboditi od mene samoga,
od zatvora što sam ga sam sagradio,
od prepreka što ih sam tako bolno podižem.
To je jedino što će me uvjeriti u ono u što ne mogu uvjeriti sam sebe,
da uistinu nešto vrijedim.
Ali ja ti ovo ne kažem. Ne usuđujem se. Bojim se.
Bojim se da iza tvoga pogleda neće uslijediti prihvaćanje,
da neće uslijediti Ijubav.
Bojim se da ćeš me manje cijeniti, da ćeš se smijati,
a tvoj bi me smijeh ubio.
Bojim se da duboko negdje nisam ništa, da ne vrijedim,
i da ćeš ti to vidjeti i odbiti me.
Zato igram svoju igru, svoju očajnu igru pretvaranja
sa sigurnim pročeljem izvana
i uplašenim djetetom unutra.
Tako počinje svjetlucava ali prazna parada maski,
a moj život postaje bojište.
Dokono čavrljam s tobom učtivim tonovima površnog razgovora.
Kažem ti sve, a zapravo ništa,
i ništa o onome što je sve,
i sto plače u meni.
Zato kad sam u kolotečini,
neka te ne zavara to što govorim.
Molim te pažljivo slušaj i pokušaj čuti ono što ne kažem.
Što bih volio da mogu reći,
što zbog opstanka moram reći,
ali što reći ne mogu.
Ne volim ništa kriti,
Ne volim igrati umjetne, lažne igre,
želim prestati s igrama.
želim biti iskren i spontan te biti ja,
ali mi ti moraš pomoći.
Moraš pružiti ruku
čak i kada se čini da je to posljednje što želim.
Samo ti možeš iz mojih očiju ukloniti prazan pogled živog mrtvaca.
Samo me ti možeš prizvati u život.
Svaki put kad si Ijubazan, nježan i kad me hrabriš,
svaki put kad pokušaš razumjeti jer uistinu brineš,
moje srce dobije krila,
vrlo mala krila,
vrlo slaba krila,
ali krila!
Sa svojom moći da me oživiš možeš udahnuti život u mene.
Želim da to znaš.
Želim da znaš koliko si mi važan,
kako možeš biti stvoritelj – do Boga pravedan stvoritelj – moje osobe
ako tako izabereš.
Samo ti možeš srušiti zidove iza kojih dršćem,
samo ti možeš ukloniti moju masku,
samo ti me možeš osloboditi moga sjenovitog svijeta panike,
i nesigurnosti, iz mojega usamljenog zatvora,
ako tako odlučiš.
Molim te odluči. Ne mimoilazi me.
Neće ti biti lako.
Dugotrajno uvjerenje o bezvrijednosti gradi snažne zidove.
Što mi bliže priđeš
to naglije mogu uzvratiti.
To je nerazumno, ali unatoč tome što o čovjeku kažu knjige,
ja sam često nerazuman.
Borim se baš protiv one stvari za kojom čeznem.
Ali rekoše mi da je Ijubav jača od snažnih zidova,
i tu leži moja nada.
Molim te pokušaj pobijediti zidove
čvrstom rukom
jer dijete je vrlo osjetljivo.
Tko sam, možda se pitaš?
Ja sam onaj kojega znaš vrlo dobro.
Jer ja sam svaki čovjek na kojega naiđeš
i ja sam svaka žena na koju naiđeš…
Charles C. Finn
aleksandra sergejevna 