Sunday Poetry: Camus about Europe

Albert Camus is the most influential writers to me (See here why). This passage is from his third “Letter to a German Friend” (1944), depicting his unbroken love for European culture in the dark times of the second world war.

“Sometimes on a street corner, in the brief intervals of the long struggle that involves us all, I happen to think of all those places in Europe I know well. It is a magnificent land moulded by suffering and history. I relive those pilgrimages I once made with all the men of the West: the roses in the cloisters of Florence, the gilded bulbous domes of Krakow, the Hradschin and its dead palaces, the contorted statues of the Charles Bridge over the Vltava, the delicate gardens of Salzburg. All those flowers and stones, those hills and those landscapes where men’s time and the world’s time have mingled old trees and monuments! My memories have fused together such superimposed images to make a single face, which is the face of my true native land. … It never occurred to me that someday we should have to liberate them from you. And even now, at certain moments of rage and despair, I am occasionally sorry that the roses continue to grow in the cloister of San Marco and the pigeons drop clusters from the Cathedral of Salzburg, and the red geraniums grow tirelessly in the little cemeteries of Silesia.”

I wish you all a pleasant Sunday.

Sunday Poetry: Adorno about traffic lights

I hate the Frankfurt School. Even more, I hate Theodor W. Adorno. Apart from his atrocious Sociology (I think his philosophy is ridiculous too, but I have not dealt with it in depth yet), he had a very bizarre opinion on Jazz.
However, he seemed to be a heavy fan of traffic lights. In 1962 he wrote the following words to the local newspaper:

“When crossing the Senckenberg plant, near the corner of Dantestraße, one of our secretaries was run over and seriously injured after a passerby had been killed in an accident at the same place a few days earlier. On the way to university, one has to run across the street in an unworthy way, as if one was running for his life. If a student, or a professor, is in the state that is actually appropriate for him, namely in his mind, then the threat of death is immediately prevalent.” 

In consequence of his rant, albeit 25 years later, the city built the now-famous Adorno-Ampel in Frankfurt near his faculty. Kind of lovely anecdote.

I wish you all pleasant Sunday.

Sunday Poetry: Rilke’s “Autumn Day”

It has been a more than stressful week. To indulge in Rilke’s dreamy thoughts is not only a perfect stress-relief but also a chance to reminisce about the most beautiful moments of this autumn.

Rainer Maria Rilke – Autumn Day

“Lord: it is time. Great was the summer’s feast.
Now lay upon the sun-dials your shadow
And on the meadows have the winds released

Command the last fruits to round their shapes;
Grant two more days of south for vines to carry,
to their perfection thrust them on, and harry
the final sweetness into heavy grapes.

Who has not built his house, will not start now.
Who is now by himself will long be so,
Be wakeful, read, write lengthy letters, go
In vague disquiet pacing up and down
Denuded lanes, with leaves adrift below.”

 

I wish you all a pleasant Sunday.

Sunday Poetry: Arthur Schnitzler’s “Dream Story”

Schnitzler’s Masterpiece “Dream Story” for sure is a contender for the best-written dialogues and endings in the history of literature. Nobody manages it to merge dream and reality in such a sophisticated yet subtle way as Schnitzler.

And if you are a cinematic enthusiast, Stanley Kubrick’s filming of the novel called “Eyes Wide Shut” is well worth a glimpse.

The grey dawn was creeping in through the curtains when Fridolin finished. Albertina hadn’t once interrupted him with a curious or impatient question. She probably felt that he could not, and would not, keep anything from her. She lay there quietly, with her arms folded under her head and remained silent long after Fridolin had finished. He was lying by her side and finally bent over her, and looking into her immobile face with the large, bright eyes in which morning seemed to have dawned, he asked, in a voice of both doubt and hope: “What shall we do now, Albertina?”

She smiled, and after a minute, replied: “I think we ought to be grateful that we have come unharmed out of all our adventures, whether they were real or only a dream.” (My emphasis.)

“Are you quite sure of that?” he asked.

“Just as sure as I am that the reality of one night, let alone that of a whole lifetime, is not the whole truth.”

“And no dream,” he said with a slight sigh, “is entirely a dream.”

She took his head and pillowed it on her breast.

“Now I suppose we are awake,” she said, —” for a long time to come.” He was on the point of saying, “Forever,” but before he could speak, she laid her finger on his lips and whispered, as if to herself: “Never inquire into the future.” So they lay silently, dozing a little, dreamlessly, close to one another—until, as on every morning at seven, there was a knock on the door; and, with the usual noises from the street, a victorious ray of light. Through the opening of the curtain, and the clear laughter of a child through the door, the new day began.

As always, I wish you all a pleasant Sunday.

Sunday Poetry: Stefan Zweig’s “Royal Game”

A Sunday is perfect for me to cure hangovers, slurp coffee in bed, and most vital, for a couple rounds of chess. The miraculous yet material nature of chess could not have been better described than by Stefan Zweig in his “Royal Game“:

“I was well aware from my own experience of the mysterious attraction of the royal game, which among all games contrived by man rises superior to the tyranny of chance and bestows its palm only on mental attainment, or rather on a definite form of mental endowment. But is it not an offensively narrow construction to call chess a game? Is it not a science, a technique, an art, that sways among these categories as Mahomet’s coffin does between heaven and earth, at once a union of all contradictory concepts: primeval yet ever new; mechanical in operation yet effective only through the imagination; bounded in geometric space though boundless in its combinations; ever-developing yet sterile; thought that leads to nothing; mathematics that produce no result; art without works; architecture without substance, and nevertheless, as proved by evidence, more lasting in its being and presence than all books and achievements; the only game that belongs to all peoples and all ages; of which none knows the divinity that bestowed it on the world, to slay boredom, to sharpen the senses, to exhilarate the spirit?”

I wish you all a pleasant Sunday.

Mending Wall

Robert Frost’s lovely poem, “Mending Wall,” says something profound about the importance of the institution of property. The poem is about Frost and his neighbor meeting together to piece together a crumbling wall between their two properties. Frost pokes fun at the tradition; without a wall, will Frost’s apple trees sneak across the property line and gobble up the cones piled up beneath the neighbors’ pines? As the two walk the line, replacing a stone here and a stone there, the neighbor, in an almost ritualistic mantra, responds to Frost’s skepticism with the well-worn line, “Good fences make good neighbours.”

Some can and have interpreted Frost’s poem as a gentle argument against erecting barriers that separate us. I think that’s a mistake. Of course, I admit to overlaying my own political and philosophical views atop his writing. But with that in mind, the poem tells me to that clear property lines do indeed make good neighbors. In fact, this wall is what draws Frost and his neighbor together in a valuable social ritual. Even in the absence of an obvious need for the wall, the tradition stokes good will.

In a broader and more directly political sense, property does indeed make good neighbors. Where property rules are unclear or have not been established, social strife and distrust tend to proliferate. Where they are established by law or custom, parties have a neutral arbiter whose presence alone allows them to avoid dispute and uncertainty.

This seems to hold true on small and large scales. Parents of young children have all learned that allowing kids common ownership of toys is a recipe for constant conflict. If parents establish clear ownership of childrens’ possessions, then order settles in and kids can learn important social values like sharing–a virtue that will never arise if property rules are unclear or non-existent. Truly, in a home of common ownership, children only learn to cling desperately to everything and not give an inch.

The same appears true for communities and nations. Where countries do not have established customs and laws governing property, strife, distrust, and corruption fester (Russia is, unfortunately, a prime example of this problem). A similar phenomenon seems to have played its role in the rapid demise of the various utopian communal arrangements that cropped up during the Second Great Awakening in 19th century America.

Frost’s repeated refrain throughout his poem is: “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.” I think Frost’s neighbor had the right of it–communities survive and thrive thanks to walls. We should take time to mend them.

Nightcap

  1. Czeslaw Milosz: A Worker in the Vineyard Andrew Motion, Hudson Review
  2. When Americans Despised the Irish Christopher Klein, History
  3. How Brexit Has Reopened Old Irish Wounds Tony Connelly, New Statesman
  4. Quantum Mechanics? Try Entangled Time Instead! Elise Crull, Aeon