Emerson, „The Poet” (1844)

28 marca 2009

(…)

There is no man who does not anticipate a supersensual utility in the sun, and stars, earth, and water. These stand and wait to render him a peculiar service. But there is some obstruction, or some excess of phlegm in our constitution, which does not suffer them to yield the due effect. Too feeble fall the impressions of nature on us to make us artists. Every touch should thrill. Every man should be so much an artist, that he could report in conversation what had befallen him. Yet, in our experience, the rays or appulses have sufficient force to arrive at the senses, but not enough to reach the quick, and compel the reproduction of themselves in speech. The poet is the person in whom these powers are in balance, the man without impediment, who sees and handles that which others dream of, traverses the whole scale of experience, and is representative of man, in virtue of being the largest power to receive and to impart. (…)

*

For we do not speak now of men of poetical talents, or of industry and skill in metre, but of the true poet. I took part in a conversation the other day, concerning a recent writer of lyrics, a man of subtle mind, whose head appeared to be a music-box of delicate tunes and rhythms, and whose skill, and command of language, we could not sufficiently praise. But when the question arose, whether he was not only a Iyrist, but a poet, we were obliged to confess that he is plainly a contemporary, not an eternal man (…)

*

The poet has a new thought: he has a whole new experience to unfold; he will tell us how it was with him, and all men will be the richer in his fortune. For, the experience of each new age requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet. I remember, when I was young, how much I was moved one morning by tidings that genius had appeared in a youth who sat near me at table. He had left his work, and gone rambling none knew whither, and had written hundreds of lines, but could not tell whether that which was in him was therein told: he could tell nothing but that all was changed,–man, beast, heaven, earth, and sea. How gladly we listened! how credulous! Society seemed to be compromised. We sat in the aurora of a sunrise which was to put out all the stars. Boston seemed to be at twice the distance it had the night before, or was much farther than that. Rome,–what was Rome? Plutarch and Shakspeare were in the yellow leaf, and Homer no more should be heard of. It is much to know that poetry has been written this very day, under this very roof, by your side. What! that wonderful spirit has not expired! these stony moments are still sparkling and animated! I had fancied that the oracles were all silent, and nature had spent her fires, and behold! all night, from every pore, these fine auroras have been streaming. Every one has some interest in the advent of the poet, and no one knows how much it may concern him (…) [see: „The Fresh Air” by Kenneth Koch]

*

Of course, the value of genius to us is in the veracity of its report. Talent may frolic and juggle; genius realizes and adds. (…)

*

he is bound heavenward; and I being myself a novice, am slow in perceiving that he does not know the way into the heavens, and is merely bent that I should admire his skill to rise, like a fowl or a flying fish, a little way from the ground or the water; but the all-piercing, all-feeding, and ocular air of heaven, that man shall never inhabit. I tumble down again soon into my old nooks, and lead the life of exaggerations as before, and have lost some faith in the possibility of any guide who can lead me thither where I would be. (…)

*

science always goes abreast with the just elevation of the man, keeping step with religion and metaphysics; or, the state of science is an index of our self-knowledge. Since everything in nature answers to a moral power, if any phenomenon remains brute and dark, it is because the corresponding faculty in the observer is not yet active. (…)

*

Who loves nature? Who does not? Is it only poets, and men of leisure and cultivation, who live with her? No; but also hunters, farmers, grooms, and butchers, though they express their affection in their choice of life, and not in their choice of words. The writer wonders what the coachman or the hunter values in riding, in horses, and dogs. It is not superficial qualities. When you talk with him, he holds these at as slight a rate as you. His worship is sympathetic; he has no definitions, but he is commanded in nature, by the living power which he feels to be there present. No imitation, or playing of these things, would content him; he loves the earnest of the north wind, of rain, of stone, and wood, and iron. A beauty not explicable, is dearer than a beauty which we can see to the end of. It is nature the symbol, nature certifying the supernatural, body overflowed by life, which he worships, with coarse, but sincere rites. (…)

*

Some stars, lilies, leopards, a crescent, a lion, an eagle, or other figure, which came into credit God knows how, on an old rag of bunting, blowing in the wind, on a fort, at the ends of the earth, shall make the blood tingle under the rudest, or the most conventional exterior. The people fancy they hate poetry, and they are all poets and mystics!

*

Day and night, house and garden, a few books, a few actions, serve us as well as would all trades and all spectacles. We are far from having exhausted the significance of the few symbols we use. We can come to use them yet with a terrible simplicity. It does not need that a poem should be long. Every word was once a poem. Every new relation is a new word.

*

We are symbols, and inhabit symbols; workmen, work, and tools, words and things, birth and death, all are emblems, but we sympathize with the symbols, and, being infatuated with the economical uses of things, we do not know that they are thoughts. The poet, by an ulterior intellectual perception, gives them power which makes their old use forgotten, and puts eyes, and a tongue, into every dumb and inanimate object. He perceives the thought’s independence of the symbol, the stability of the thought, the accidency and fugacity of the symbol. As the eyes of Lyncaeus were said to see through the earth, so the poet turns the world to glass, and shows us all things in their right series and procession. For, through that better perception, he stands one step nearer to things, and sees the flowing or metamorphosis

*

the poet is the Namer, or Language-maker, naming things sometimes after their appearance, sometimes after their essence, and giving to every one its own name and not another’s, thereby rejoicing the intellect, which delights in detachment or boundary. The poets made all the words, and therefore language is the archives of history, and, if we must say it, a sort of tomb of the muses For, though the origin of most of our words is forgotten, each word was at a stroke of genius, and obtained currency, because for the moment it symbolizes the world to the first speaker and to the hearer. The etymologist finds the deadest word to have been once a brilliant picture. Language is fossil poetry.

*

(Nature) makes a man; and having brought him to ripe age, she will no longer run the risk of losing this wonder at a blow, but she detaches from him a new self, that the kind may be safe from accidents to which the individual is exposed.

*

As the traveller who has lost his way, throws his reins on his horse’s neck, and trusts to the instinct of the animal to find his road, so must we do with the divine animal who carries us through this world. For if in any manner we can stimulate this instinct, new passages are opened for us into nature, the mind flows into and through things hardest and highest, and the metamorphosis is possible.

*

beside his privacy of power as an individual man, there is a great public power, on which he can draw, by unlocking, at all risks, his human doors, and suffering the ethereal tides to roll and circulate through him: then he is caught up into the life of the Universe, his speech is thunder, his thought is law, and his words are universally intelligible as the plants and animals.

*

conversation, music, pictures, sculpture, dancing, theatres, travelling, war, mobs, fires, gaming, politics, or love, or science, or animal intoxication, which are several coarser or finer quasi-mechanical substitutes for the true nectar, which is the ravishment of the intellect by coming nearer to the fact. (…) Never can any advantage be taken of nature by a trick. The spirit of the world, the great calm presence of the creator, comes not forth to the sorceries of opium or of wine. The sublime vision comes to the pure and simple soul in a clean and chaste body. (…) Milton says, that the lyric poet may drink wine and live generously, but the epic poet, he who shall sing of the gods, and their descent unto men, must drink water out of a wooden bowl.

*
 We fill the hands and nurseries of our children with all manner of dolls, drums, and horses, withdrawing their eyes from the plain face and sufficing objects of nature, the sun, and moon, the animals, the water, and stones, which should be their toys. So the poet’s habit of living should be set on a key so low and plain, that the common influences should delight him. His cheerfulness should be the gift of the sunlight; the air should suffice for his inspiration, and he should be tipsy with water. That spirit which suffices quiet hearts, which seems to come forth to such from every dry knoll of sere grass, from every pine-stump, and half-imbedded stone, on which the dull March sun shines, comes forth to the poor and hungry, and such as are of simple taste. If thou fill thy brain with Boston and New York, with fashion and covetousness, and wilt stimulate thy jaded senses with wine and French coffee, thou shalt find no radiance of wisdom in the lonely waste of the pinewoods.

*

I think nothing is of any value in books, excepting the transcendental and extraordinary. If a man is inflamed and carried away by his thought, to that degree that he forgets the authors and the public, and heeds only this one dream, which holds him like an insanity, let me read his paper, and you may have all the arguments and histories and criticism.

*

The fate of the poor shepherd, who, blinded and lost in the snow-storm, perishes in a drift within a few feet of his cottage door, is an emblem of the state of man. On the brink of the waters of life and truth, we are miserably dying. The inaccessibleness of every thought but that we are in, is wonderful. What if you come near to it, –you are as remote, when you are nearest, as when you are farthest. Every thought is also a prison; every heaven is also a prison. Therefore we love the poet, the inventor, who in any form, whether in an ode, or in an action, or in looks and behavior, has yielded us a new thought. He unlocks our chains, and admits us to a new scene.

*

But the quality of the imagination is to flow, and not to freeze. The poet did not stop at the color, or the form, but read their meaning; neither may he rest in this meaning, but he makes the same objects exponents of his new thought. Here is the difference betwixt the poet and the mystic, that the last nails a symbol to one sense, which was a true sense for a moment, but soon becomes old and false. For all symbols are fluxional; all language is vehicular and transitive, and is good, as ferries and horses are, for conveyance, not as farms and houses are, for homestead. Mysticism consists in the mistake of an accidental and individual symbol for an universal one. The morning-redness happens to be the favorite meteor to the eyes of Jacob Behmen, and comes to stand to him for truth and faith; and he believes should stand for the same realities to every reader. But the first reader prefers as naturally the symbol of a mother and child, or a gardener and his bulb, or a jeweller polishing a gem. Either of these, or of a myriad more, are equally good to the person to whom they are significant. Only they must be held lightly, and be very willingly translated into the equivalent terms which others use. And the mystic must be steadily told, –All that you say is just as true without the tedious use of that symbol as with it. Let us have a little algebra, instead of this trite rhetoric, –universal signs, instead of these village symbols, –and we shall both be gainers. The history of hierarchies seems to show, that all religious error consisted in making the symbol too stark and solid, and, at last, nothing but an excess of the organ of language.

*

priests, whom he [Swedenborg] describes as conversing very learnedly together, appeared to the children, who were at some distance, like dead horses: and many the like misappearances. And instantly the mind inquires, whether these fishes under the bridge, yonder oxen in the pasture, those dogs in the yard, are immutably fishes, oxen, and dogs, or only so appear to me, and perchance to themselves appear upright men; and whether I appear as a man to all eyes.

*

Dante’s praise is, that he dared to write his autobiography in colossal cipher, or into universality. We have yet had no genius in America, with tyrannous eye, which knew the value of our incomparable materials, and saw, in the barbarism and materialism of the times, another carnival of the same gods whose picture he so much admires in Homer; then in the middle age; then in Calvinism. Banks and tariffs, the newspaper and caucus, methodism and unitarianism, are flat and dull to dull people, but rest on the same foundations of wonder as the town of Troy, and the temple of Delphos, and are as swiftly passing away. (…) Yet America is a poem in our eyes; its ample geography dazzles the imagination, and it will not wait long for metres.

*
 Art is the path of the creator to his work. The paths, or methods, are ideal and eternal, though few men ever see them, not the artist himself for years, or for a lifetime, unless he come into the conditions. The painter, the sculptor, the composer, the epic rhapsodist, the orator, all partake one desire, namely, to express themselves symmetrically and abundantly, not dwarfishly and fragmentarily. They found or put themselves in certain conditions, as, the painter and sculptor before some impressive human figures; the orator, into the assembly of the people; and the others, in such scenes as each has found exciting to his intellect; and each presently feels the new desire. He hears a voice, he sees a beckoning. Then he is apprised, with wonder, what herds of daemons hem him in. He can no more rest; he says, with the old painter, „By God, it is in me, and must go forth of me.” He pursues a beauty, half seen, which flies before him. The poet pours out verses in every solitude. Most of the things he says are conventional, no doubt; but by and by he says something which is original and beautiful. That charms him. He would say nothing else but such things. In our way of talking, we say, `That is yours, this is mine;’ but the poet knows well that it is not his; that it is as strange and beautiful to him as to you;

*

O poet! a new nobility is conferred in groves and pastures, and not in castles, or by the sword-blade, any longer. The conditions are hard, but equal. Thou shalt leave the world, and know the muse only. Thou shalt not know any longer the times, customs, graces, politics, or opinions of men, but shalt take all from the muse. For the time of towns is tolled from the world by funereal chimes, but in nature the universal hours are counted by succeeding tribes of animals and plants, and by growth of joy on joy. God wills also that thou abdicate a manifold and duplex life, and that thou be content that others speak for thee. Others shall be thy gentlemen, and shall represent all courtesy and worldly life for thee; others shall do the great and resounding actions also. Thou shalt lie close hid with nature, and canst not be afforded to the Capitol or the Exchange. The world is full of renunciations and apprenticeships, and this is thine: thou must pass for a fool and a churl for a long season.

*

Thou shalt have the whole land for thy park and manor, the sea for thy bath and navigation, without tax and without envy; the woods and the rivers thou shalt own; and thou shalt possess that wherein others are only tenants and boarders. Thou true land-lord! sea-lord! air-lord! Wherever snow falls, or water flows, or birds fly, wherever day and night meet in twilight, wherever the blue heaven is hung by clouds, or sown with stars, wherever are forms with transparent boundaries, wherever are outlets into celestial space, wherever is danger, and awe, and love, there is Beauty, plenteous as rain, shed for thee, and though thou shouldest walk the world over, thou shalt not be able to find a condition inopportune or ignoble.

***

Flaubert, Education sentimentale

4 marca 2009

Wyjechał.

Doświadczył melancholii podróży okrętem, chłodu poranków pod namiotem, oszołomienia przyrodą i ruinami, goryczy rozstań. 

Powrócił.

Bywał w świecie i miał jeszcze inne miłostki. Ale wydawały mu się czcze, zachował bowiem na zawsze w pamięci wspomnienie swej pierwszej miłości, a przy tym utracił gwałtowność pożądań, sam kwiat doznań miłosnych. Jego ambicje intelektualne zmalały również. Mijały lata, a on dźwigał brzemię bezczynności umysłu i bezwładu serca.

Dante, Divina Commedia, Par. XI

4 marca 2009

O bezrozumne zabiegi człowiecze,

Jakaż tkwi w Waszych sylogizmach wada,

że się wam skrzydło tak poziomo wlecze!

Dorris Lessing, Nobel Lecture, Dec 7, 2007

4 sierpnia 2008

„We are a jaded lot, we in our threatened world. We are good for irony and even cynicism. Some words and ideas we hardly use, so worn out have they become. But we may want to restore some words that have lost their potency.

We have a treasure-house of literature, going back to the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Romans. It is all there, this wealth of literature, to be discovered again and again by whoever is lucky enough to come upon it. A treasure. Suppose it did not exist. How impoverished, how empty we would be.

We own a legacy of languages, poems, histories, and it is not one that will ever be exhausted. It is there, always.”

The Birth of Puccini

2 sierpnia 2008

„Momentem zwrotnym w życiu Giacoma staje się dzień 11 marca 1876. W pobliskiej Pizie ma być wystawiona Aida Verdiego. 

Stanowi to ważne wydarzenie w życiu „miasta krzywej wieży” – chodzi przecież o reprezentacyjne dzieło największego ówczesnego przedstawiciela włoskiej muzyki dramatycznej, które po premierze kairskiej w 1871 roku odnosiło tryumfy we wszystkich wielkich teatrach operowych świata, ale jeszcze nie dotarło na toskańską prowincję. Giacomo nie waha się ani chwili. Postanawia udać się do Pizy. Intencja chwalebna, ale jej realizacja natrafia na znaczne przeszkody. Jazda koleją do Pizy i kupno biletu wstępu przekraczają skromne możliwości finansowe młodego organisty, a sytuacja materialna rodziny nie pozwala na tego rodzaju luksus. Na wszystko znajduje się jednak rada. Giacomo, dobrawszy sobie dwóch innych zapaleńców, kolegów ze studiów: Carlo Carignaniego i Luigi Pieriego, decyduje się iść z nimi do Pizy piechota, a myśląc o bilecie wstępu, pociesza się, że „jakoś to będzie”. Nie chodziło bynajmniej o mały spacer, lecz o dość męczącą 24-kilometrową trasę; cóż to jednak znaczy dla młodych zapaleńców?

Po całodziennym marszu trzej entuzjaści przybywają przed bramy teatru. Impresario, niejaki Francesconi, okazuje się bardziej wyrozumiały, niż można było przypuszczać: pozwala im wejść na galerię bez biletu. Giacomo, słuchając muzyki, przeżywa chwile uniesienia, jakich dotąd nigdy nie doznał w życiu. (…) Młodzieniec, zajmujący się dotąd muzyką bez szczególnego entuzjazmu i pozbawiony większych ambicji artystycznych, odnajduje swoją drogę życiową. Postanawia zostać kompozytorem operowym, nawet jeśli miałoby to kosztować wiele trudu, wysiłku i poświęceń. Rozgorączkowany wielkim przeżyciem, nie czuje zmęczenia w czasie całonocnego marszu powrotnego.

Jak za dotknięciem różdżki czarodziejskiej Giacomo zmienia się nie do poznania. Próżniak i lekkoduch znika bezpowrotnie, a rodzi się człowiek świadomy swych celów i zdecydowany walczyć do upadłego o ich osiągnięcie.”

[prof. Wiarosław Sandelewski, Mediolan, Luty 1972]

‚La Boheme’ – Puccini

2 sierpnia 2008

„Kiedy wziąłem się do kompozycji śmieci Mimi i znalazłem owe akordy, ponure i powolne, oraz zagrałem je na fortepianie, chwyciło mnie tak silne wzruszenie, że musiałem wstać i na środku pokoju, sam jeden wśród nocnej ciszy, zacząłem płakać jak dziecko. Zdawało mi się, że jestem świadkiem śmierci stworzonej przez siebie istoty.”

[Partytura La Boheme została ukończona w Torre del Lago, w Toskanii, 10 grudnia 1895 r.]

Czeslaw Milosz, Nobel Banquet Speech

1 sierpnia 2008

„I am a part of Polish literature which is relatively little known in the world as it is hardly translatable. Comparing it with other literatures, I have been able to appreciate its rich oddity. It is a kind of a secret brotherhood with its own rites of communion with the dead”

Czeslaw Milosz, Nobel Banquet Speech, December 10, 1980

Verdi – o Rigoletto

16 lipca 2008

„Aby pisać dobrze, trzeba móc pisać szybko, jakby od jednego tchnienia, zostawiając sobie na potem dostosowywanie, przyozdabianie, wyczyszczenie szkicu całości. W przeciwnym razie komponowanie opery z przerwami grozi upodobnieniem jej do mozaiki pozbawionej stylu i charakteru”

[Verdi, 1849]

Marcel Proust, Pamięć i intelekt, esej

26 kwietnia 2008

(…)

W porównaniu z ową przeszłością, intymną cząstką nas samych, prawdy intelektu wydają się mało realne. A jednak, zwłaszcza wtedy, gdy siły nasze są na wyczerpaniu, gdy tylko pragniemy ją odzyskać, zwracamy się ku temu wszystkiemu, co mogłoby nam pomóc, nawet jeśli zostaniemy źle zrozumiani przez inteligentnych ludzi, którzy nie wiedzą, że artysta jest kimś, kto żyje samotnie, kto rzeczom widzianym nie przyznaje absolutnej wartości, kto hierarchię prawdziwych wartości może odnaleźć tylko w sobie samym. Może się bowiem zdarzyć, że mierna opera wystawiona w prowincjonalnym teatrze, bal, który w oczach światowców wydałby się śmieszny, bądź to wywoła w nim wspomnienie, bądź to dopasuje się do świata jego marzeń i trosk w o wiele większym stopniu niż wspaniałe widowisko w Operze lub supereleganckie przyjęcie w Fabourg Saint-Germain. Nazwy stacji kolejowych na rozkładzie jazdy północnej kolei, gdzie w marzeniach wysiadał z wagonu w jesienny wieczór, kiedy to drzewa zgubiły już liście i mocno pachniały w ostrym powietrzu, pretensjonalna książka, pełna nazwisk, których nie słyszał od dzieciństwa, mogą być dla niego czymś znacznie ważniejszym od wszystkich wspaniałych książek filozoficzncyh i sprawić, że światowcy lub ludzie utalentowani wezmą go za pozbawionego smaku głupca.

Jesień 1774: Goethe : Werter

9 kwietnia 2008

Takiej miłości każdy młodzian czeka, tak chce być kochana każda dziewczyna..

*

Rodzaj ludzki, to rzecz nad wyraz jednostajna! Większość spędza na pracy przeważną część życia, by żyć, a owa znikoma cząstka wolności, jaka im pozostaje, napawa ich taką obawą, iż czynią, co mogą, by jej się wyzbyć jak co prędzej.

*

także dorośli wałęsają się po tej ziemi podobni dzieciom, równie jak onie nie wiedząc wcale, skąd się wzieli i dokąd zmierzają i że tak samo nie kierują swych czynów ku prawdziwym celom i tak samo podlegają rządom łakoci i łozowej rózgi. (…) najszczęśliwszymi są właśnie ci, którzy żyją z dnia na dzień, piastują swe ulubione lalki, ubierają je i rozbierają, z należytym respektem przemykają koło szuflady, gdzie mama chowa pierniczki, a gdy na koniec wpadnie im w ręce pożądany przysmak, pożerają go chciwie, wołając: jeszcze!

*

Dlaczegóż tak rzadko wzbiera rwący potok geniuszu i w podziw wprawia dusze? Oto dlatego, że po obu jego brzegach rozsiedli się możni, spokojni panowie, posiadający t swe altanki, swe grzędy tulipanów i pola kapusty, przeto chcąc je uchronić od szkody, zawczasu już starają się usunąć grożące im niebezpieczeństwo przez tamowanie i odprowadzanie wzburzonych fal.

*

Któż jest w takim razie pierwszym? Ten, wydaje mi się, kto przeniknie innych i przemocą czy chytrością umie użyć ich namiętności i sił do spełnienia swych zamierzeń.

*

Czyż nie jestem czynny? I czyż nie wychodzi na jedno, czy się liczy ziarnka grochu, czy soczewicy? Wszystko w świecie jest ostatecznie marnością, a za głupca uważam człowieka, ubiegającego się o majątek czy zaszczyty tylko ze względu na innych, jeśli nie jest to jego własną potrzebą czy namiętnością.

*

O jedno Cię tylko proszę, oto nie zasypuj piaskiem atramentu na karteczkach, jakie mi posyłasz. Dzisiaj przywarłem ustami do twego pisma i teraz zgrzyta mi piasek w zębach.

*

Kobiety są mistrzyniami w tych sprawach i mają słuszność. Jeśli uda się im utrzymać zgodę pomiędzy dwu wielbicielami, zyskują na tym same najwięcej.

*

Myślała nad tym, że oto połączona jest na zawsze z mężem, którego miłości i wierności pewną była, którego też kochała prawdziwie. Jego spokojne usposobienie i nieposzlakowany charakter stanowiły nieocenionyt dar nieba i mogła swe szczęście na nich budować każda uczciwa  i dzielna kobieta. Oceniała należycie, czym jest dla niej, jak i dla rodzeństwa. Z drugiej strony Werner stał jej się niewypowiedzianie drogim. Od pierwszej chwili znajomości z nim przejawiło się łączące ich podobieństwo duchowe, a długie obcowanie z nim i mnóstwo przeżytych wspólnie chwil wywarło na nią wpływ niezatarty i opanowało serce. Nawykła dzielić się z nim każdą ciekawszą myślą czy wrażeniem, toteż rozłąka z nim spowodować musiała niezmiernie dotkliwe uczucie pustki, której bodaj nic wypełnić nie mogło. O, czemuż nie mogła go w jednej chwili zamienić w brata? Jakże czułaby się szczęśliwą! Potem zapragnęła ożenić go z jedną ze swych przyjaciółek i naprawić stosunek jego do Alberta. Zaczęła w myśli przechodzić po kolei wszystkie swe znajome, ale w każdej odkrywała jakąc wadę i nie znalazła żadnej, której by go oddać miała odwagę. Podczas tych rozmyślań odczuła dopiero głęboko, choć niezupełnie jeszcze jasno, że całą duszą i sercem pragnie zachować go dla samej siebie (..)

***