snow and shelter

Wenn der Schnee ans Fenster fällt,
Lang die Abendglocke läutet,
Vielen ist der Tisch bereitet
Und das Haus ist wohlbestellt.

Mancher auf der Wanderschaft
Kommt ans Tor auf dunklen Pfaden.
Golden blüht der Baum der Gnaden
Aus der Erde kühlem Saft.

Wanderer tritt still herein;
Schmerz versteinerte die Schwelle.
Da erglänzt in reiner Helle
Auf dem Tische Brot und Wein.


Georg Trakl
(Ein Winterabend)

When the snow falls against the window,

The evening bell rings long,

The table is prepared for many,

And the house is well cultivated.

Some in their wanderings

Come to the gate on dark paths.

The tree of grace blooms golden

From the earth's cool sap.

Wanderer, step silently inside;

Pain has petrified the threshold.

There in pure radiance

Bread and wine glow on the table.

(Winter Evening,

tr. by Jim Doss and Werner Schmitt)

Quand la neige tombe aux fenêtres,
Que longtemps sonne l'angélus,
La table est mise pour beaucoup
Et rien ne manque à la maison.

Tel qui s’en va pérégrinant,
D’obscurs sentiers le mènent là.
Son or en fleurs, l'arbre des grâces
Le prend au suc froid de la terre.


Le pérégrin tout doux pénètre ;
Ce seuil, des maux l'ont fait de pierre.
De clarté pure alors s'allument
Sur la table le pain, le vin.


Georg Trakl
(Un soir d'hiver, tr. Robert Rovini)

through the waters of the blind

they say that history repeats itself:
what should we do
with the old communist buildings
which we have grown to call
home?


---


and if we had wanted to burn
them down in the rage
of our late autumn
and if we had wished for
the knife of day
to cut through them
like a seed tearing
through the flesh of time...

yet we stood there, weary
not even holding hands
and no one from the angelic orders
forced our mouths to open
and our flowers to turn silent
against the sun
we who got drunk on waiting
that darkened within us like wine
we who couldn't even remember
why our limbs were numb
and why we cried for words
like ripples through
the waters of the blind

yet we stood there, bewildered,
and failing to notice
that our mirrors, stubbornly
buried in the wormwood of memory
had started to outgrow
the shabby contours of living
that a forest had begun to move
towards the barren centre of our sleep
that we ourselves had come to hang
like giant globes of light
from within the dead body of time.

reading Kafka, a not-so-hermetic screenplay for autumn nights

inspired by Prospero's last comment
(and secretely dedicated to him, the music-omniscient one)

(please excuse the poor quality of the compression - alas, what can i do, unfortunately the Bridge, albeit miraculously still floating, is not enhanced with such awesome technical abilities)


update:
it seems that for some readers the screenplay was indeed hermetic, in spite of my intentions, because the clip didn't work. if you cannot watch the slideshow, but you are keen on seeing it anyway (completely futile for the ones who have already reached satori while contemplating the white rectangle :-), try going here

i die alone, my dream

- Und' vă duce, domnule ?
- În grădină, somnule.
- Ce să faceţi, domnule ?
- Să mă-mpuşte, somnule.
- Că au gloanţe, domnule ?
- Că au vreme, somnule.
- Und vă-ngroapă, domnule ?
- Sub zăpadă, somnule.
- Vă e frică, domnule ?
- Îmi e scîrbă, somnule.
- Cui să spunem, domnule ?
- Iadurilor, somnule.
- Va fi bine, domnule ?
- Va fi seară, somnule.
- Aveţi rude, domnule ?
- Am pe nimeni, somnule.
- Vreţi o cupă, domnule ?
- Cît mă costă, somnule ?
- N-are-a face, domnule.
- De otrăvuri, somnule...
- Nu vreţi cupa, domnule ?
- Sparge-o-n ţăndări, somnule !
- Să vă plîngem, domnule ?
- N-are-a face, somnule.
- Noapte bună, domnule !
- Dormi cu mine, somnule !
- Eu dorm singur, domnule.
- Eu mor singur, somnule.
- Moarte bună, domnule.
- Noapte bună, somnule !


Ion Caraion
(Am pe nimeni)


























Where are they taking you, sir?
To the garden, my dream.
Why do they take you there, sir?
To shoot me, my dream.
Because they have bullets, sir?
Because they have time to, my dream.
Where shall they bury you, sir?
Under the snow, my dream.
Are you afraid, sir?
I find it revolting, my dream.
Whom shall we tell all this, sir?
Tell the fires of hell, my dream.
Will you be alright, sir?
Night will have come, my dream.
Who is your next of kin, sir?
I am alone in the world, my dream.
Would you care for a drink, sir?
What will it cost me, my dream?
The cost does not matter, sir.
Is the chalice poisoned, my dream?
You seem not want it, sir?
Smash it to pieces, my dream!
Should we mourn you, sir?
That would change nothing, my dream.
Good night to you, sir.
Let us sleep together, my dream.
Sir, I sleep alone.
I die alone, my dream.
Good death to you, sir!
Good night to you, my dream!

Alone in the World, by Ion Caraion

(tr. Constantin Roman)

dedicated to S.M., who loves Romanian Dracula-style castles :-) This pictures were taken at the Râşnov fortress in Transylvania, on a particular foggy (for tourists, read: Dracula-style) day :-)


Note: the English translation didn't include the last three lines of the poem, I don't know why. I added them in my own translation. Also, in Romanian the dialogue takes place between the 'I' and 'my sleep', not 'my dream', as C. Roman chose to translate. Thus the word play is more striking: 'Let us sleep together, my sleep! Sir, I sleep alone!'. Here is a French version of the poem, translated by the same C. Roman:

Seul au monde

- Où vous emmènnent-ils, Monsieur?
- Dans le jardin, mon rêve.
- Pour quoi faire, Monsieur?
- Pour me fusiller, mon rêve.
- Parce qu’ils ont des balles, Monsieur?
- Parce qu’ils ont le temps, mon rêve.
- Où vous enterreront-ils, Monsieur?
- Sous la neige, mon rêve.
- Avez-vous peur, Monsieur?
- Je trouve ça révoltant, mon rêve.
- Qui doit-on prévenir, Monsieur?
- Les feux de l’enfer, mon rêve.
- Ça va aller quand même, Monsieur?
- Il fera nuit, mon rêve.
- Qui est votre plus proche parent, Monsieur?
- Je suis seul au monde, mon rêve.
- Voulez-vous boire un verre, Monsieur?
- Qu’est-ce que ça va me coûter, mon rêve?
- Peu importe le prix, Monsieur.
- Le calice est-il empoisonné, mon rêve?
- Vous n’en voulez pas, Monsieur?
- Casse-le en mille morceaux, mon rêve!
- Doit-on vous pleurer, Monsieur?
- Inutile, mon rêve.
- Bonne nuit, Monsieur.
- Dormons ensemble, mon rêve!
- Je dors seul, Monsieur.

monk in the lonely hut

What are your thoughts tonight, my monk sheltering the world in your lonely hut?


The Monk Daichi-zenji answers:

1.
I have lived alone
in this hut
For twenty years,

Never going
to the village below
with begging bowl.

Carrying a basket,
I picked ripened fruit
from a thousand trees

And after eating,
sleep on a stone pillow
by the mountain creek.

2.
I burn incense
and sit alone in zazen
under a tall pine tree.

Wind blows cold dew
and wets my robe.

In the fifth watch,
I get up, go down
to the two ravines,

And bring back a pitcher
containing the moon.

3.
Far and near,
mountains wreathed
by haze,

Unfolding
like a sumi-e painting
in subtle shades.

Above and beyond,
mind is calm
and clear

So difficult to express
to those not seeking
the Way.

The Monk Henjo answers:

Let the winds of heaven
Blow through the paths among the clouds
And close their gates.
Then for a while
I could detain
These messengers in maiden form.

Can it be that they are one and the same?

vision and wire circle or: in a strange confessive mood

i am closing my right eye, and staring for many minutes at the tip of my nose, then at my hand, that i keep close to my face, in a vertical position. i am slowly opening my right eye, and closing the left one instead. i am doing this again and again, for hours. i don't know what to make of the wonder i have just discovered, that the image forming in front of me changes if looked at with one eye or another. i am shattered. the world is no longer the world. my hand will never be whole again. doubt has seized my heart. i am closing my right eye, carefully, hoping each time that i am proven wrong, that this was only a momentary delusion. that there is still a way to make the being stable and right.

when i was about 10 years old, i noticed that my eyes got gradually weaker. one day, however, i stumbled upon another groundbreaking discovery: if one uses the fingers to pull at the corner of the eye towards the temples, until the eyes change into an almond shape and then into one thin line narrowing the horizon, the bright clear vision is restored. not for long, eventually tears come and blur the view, but long enough.

by then my conviction that the world is deeply flawed had only become deeper. and I was of the firm belief that nobody would ever like me if i wore glasses. as it happened, i still harboured a somewhat incomprehensible optimism which made me gather all the patient virtues of the little pragmatist who was still alive in me back than (however feebly breathing, i should add). i came up with a brilliant emergency plan: i would employ my new eye-pulling tactics as often as needed to save face in dangerous situations, as implied, for example, by the necessity of jotting down what the teacher was writing on the blackboard. and at the same time i would spend 20 minutes daily (i have no recollection as to why i settled for this precise duration) to exercise wearing my mother's glasses at home and thus correcting my view.

four years afterwards, the result was a complete disaster. i lived surrounded by a perpetual vapour in which all things had lost their natural contours. one day, the flawed world collapsed. my schoolmate betrayed me. intrigued by the sudden and repeated change of the girl he shared the bank with into an implausible chinese doll with misty eyes, he had eventually managed to pull out my secret, which landed in my teacher's ear. and from there in my mother's ear, who, with a puzzled look on her face, took off her glasses and looked at them as if she had seen them for the first time in her life.

i look at the cottage in front of me. then i discover it. i look at the wire circle, wondering about its hidden meaning, and i want to look still closer. step by step, i approach it. i change the place.

suddenly, the time stands still. at the centre of the wire circle the cottage rests in its fullness. shapes have mutated in front of my blinded eyes, and a mandala has emerged. right through the heart of the cottage, there flows another time, unknown to the world. i am roundness myself, sacred in a new body.

and then it happens. slowly, against my desperate wish to resist, my left eye closes. i want to hang onto the cottage walls, to fasten myself to its bricks, the quiet roof. to stop it from gently sliding to the right, breaking through the circle of perfection.

i fail. a bird shrieks in the bush. i turn around.
there is a flutter of wings somewhere, and I am still.

more or less anonymous walls, windows and doors, even if windows and doors are said to be no good in winter

ogives of Horezu monastery, built around 1690







old house on my street, surrounded by tall grass whose name I don't know, 2008







Bran Castle (now said to be Dracula's), built between 1377 and 1395






defence wall of the fortress-church in Prejmer, near Brasov, first mentioned in 1240







doors to the monks' chambers, fortress-church in Prejmer, near Brasov, first mentioned in 1240






walls of a communist building, left unattended after 1989 and conquered by the mountain meadow






wall of Horezu monastery, built around 1690, in front of which a nun hesitates in the rain, 2007