Acho que parei de sonhar.

Olhando o calendário foi há um mês, só que parece muito mais tempo, e nesse dito um mês dormir sem sonhos é uma espécie de não dormir. Imagine uma imensa fenda vazia cindindo os dias. Parece um fato que só se para de sonhar quando se pede.

Imagino que não poderia sentir assim falta de sonho. Por que eles decepcionavam, até onde me lembro, eles duplicavam meu acordar de manhã - ou no meio da noite, um acordar intensificado. Agora eu só acordo uma vez e é como se não tivesse nem pego no sono, pra começar. Sonhos para a realidade são uma fenda infinita, ou finita, e se for finita é imensa, onde tudo é etéreo, fumacento, e a realidade não desejaria essa turvação para si - ela pôde escolher e disse hoje que não quer este enlameamento - já que não são realidade e a realidade é o que consegue passar a sensação de chegada…

Só para de sonhar quando uma vez – é suficiente - perdeu-se a cabeça, perdeu-se a razão, perdeu-se a ética, não se soube sustentar o voo pelas próprias asas coladas. Flutuar assim, feito se estivesse caindo, como que sem pés no etéreo, no dúbio, não dura mais do que um tempo pequeno, tal é a natureza humana, é até bom no começo, mas não dura mais do que um tempo muito pequeno. Logo se cai.

Quando se cai, é aí que se para de sonhar, acho que são causais, nesta frase pareceram causais. E então o que era antes apenas lastro de realidade esboçando a vida torna-se império, o império da materialidade – essa preferência de realidade não inclui o sonho, como se sabe. É então que se vive, apenas, não mais do que qualquer coisa, mais do que isto e aquilo; vive-se. Viver é condensado.

Sentir-se vivendo é impossível, pois só se dá conta do fim, aspirando incessantemente à chegada. Pois sentir-se vivendo é como um sonho, é ainda algo do imaginário, o qual, não se esqueça – eu não me esqueço -, foi perdido.Viver – o objeto - é uma realização por si, contínua e lenta, ao mesmo tempo muito atropelada, e então não se percebe, não se pode perceber, ainda que se pare durante alguns segundos prestando atenção tentando perceber.

Eu vivi coisas que pedi, não sei quando, parece que há muito tempo mas pode ter sido há pouco porque ainda sinto permanências desse passado que por algum motivo não sei qual sinto que está perto. Feito um gosto salgado nos meus dedos que é o mesmo que sinto quando passo a língua pelos meus lábios. Vivi, vou explicar, porque as pedi, mas descobri que elas talvez aconteceriam ainda que não as tivesse pedido.

Vivi tudo o que desejava, tudo mesmo, eu acho; e desde a escolha já senti falta dos verbos num tempo condicional, continuei sentindo essa falta como um vazio intercalado aos dias, esse vazio que tomou o lugar do que eram as noites. Gostaria de que algum sonho voltasse essa noite, um sonho bem estranho.

image via Octogon (Design and Architecture online from Budapest)

So here it happens, the siren of Architecture called, and I heeded.

Nay, I relinquished.

Architecture, that capricious muse, finally seeps in my art chamber- yet how could I have kept it at bay?

Architecture is, indeed, frozen music.

If this building was music, what song/genre would it be?

Sir Barry says that some architects of the Baroque era literally applied to their designs harmonic ratios learned from musical intervals and harmonic relations between notes.

I always thought Baroque was the music closest to the act of creating, to perfect mathematical equations, the music of the cosmos. Fractals’ music. Baroque and its clavichords is what I am listening to right now, as I finish a 3D digital model. The model dances and takes form. Digital sculpture.

You must pardon if I wax poetic. I just finished ‘Death in Venice’ and my heart is full of poetry tonight.

If Americans have so little sense of nuances, it isn’t that they’re incapable of grasping them– after all, American reality itself is sufficiently nuanced– but that they would be troubled by them.  To accept nuance is to accept ambiguity of judgment, argument, and hesitation; such complex situations force you to think.  They want to lead their lives by geometry, not by wisdom.  Geometry is taught, whereas wisdom is discovered, and only the first offers the refreshing certainties that a conscientious person needs.  So they choose to believe in a geometric world where every right angle is set against another, like their buildings and their streets.

– Simone de Beauvoir, America Day by Day, translated by Carol Cosman, Phoenix, 1998 (originally published 1954)

Lest you assume Ms de Beauvoir turns her nose up at us all, much of her book about her travels in America describes her delight in exploring our country.  If we can still refer to it as “our” country.  The America of just after World  War II was a conservative, awkward place, still wearing its braces and still broken out with the blemishes of a somewhat wild West.  You couldn’t drink much, or late, in Los Angeles.  People didn’t want to talk too much politics with her, although they felt they understood exactly what Europe needed.  Ah, how could they not show some bravado, having just inherited a burden of power they weren’t sure they asked for?

But I digress.  Americans still do tremble at nuance.  Our pound-the- drums two-party system insists we color within the lines.  Of course, I like that about us.  We are bold.  And it kind of makes me nuts, like when we can’t set up a reasonable national health care system because we have to pretend there are only two choices: socialized medicine and slightly tweaking our slightly imperfect current system.  Yes, let’s move on to Art.

Yet at the same time his heart swelled with delight over the adventure the outside world was about to embark upon.  For passion, like crime, is antithetical to the smooth operation and prosperity of day-to-day existence, and can only welcome every loosening of the fabric of society, every upheaval and disaster in the world, since it can vaguely hope to profit thereby.  And so Aschenbach felt a morose satisfaction at the officially concealed goings-on in the dirty alleyways of Venice, that nasty secret which had merged with his own innermost secret and which he, too, was so intent on keeping: he was in love and concerned only that Tadzio might leave, and he realized not without horror that in that event he would not know what to make of his life.

–Thomas Mann, Death in Venice, translated by Michael Henry Heim, Ecco, 2005.

I think this novel (barely a novel) might be one of the most beautiful things I have ever read.  I was so enchanted by it that I read it in one day, in a handful of sittings.  Even odder, I actually underlined and later looked up the words I wasn’t sure about, so I would know exactly what Mann meant (or what Heim thought he meant).  Sirocco.  Eflluvia. Matitudinal.  Apotheosis.  I never do that.  I have a vague idea, enough to keep going, and I keep going.  For this book, my blundering wasn’t good enough.

Crime and passion wait for ice storms and snow days, that is for sure.

I sat at a bar and ate dinner on my white cloth napkin and had one glass of wine, and I thought when the book was over, my face would hold its expressions, and I would not know what to make of my life.  That last part was killer, but this is even worse (in a Michael Jackson sense of bad):

There is nothing more curious or delicate than a relationship between people who know each other only by sight, who encounter and observe each other daily– nay, hourly– yet are constrained by convention or personal caprice to keep up the pretense of being strangers, indifferent, avoiding a nod or a word.  There is a feeling of malaise and overwrought curiosity, the hysteria of an unsatisfied, unnaturally stifled need for mutual acknowledgment and communication, and above all a sort of strained esteem.  For a man loves and respects his fellow man only insofar as he is unable to assess him, and longing is a product of insufficient knowledge.

That just makes me want to hide under the bed.  Okay, one more:

The gods have many shapes.

The gods bring many things

to their accomplishment.

And what was most expected

has not been accomplished.

But god has found his way

for what no man expected.

So ends the play.

–The Bacchae by Euripides, translated by William Arrowsmith, University of Chicago Press, 1959

Like most regular people, I haven’t sat and read a lot of ancient Greek plays since college.  I did thoroughly enjoy reading all those plays in college, though.  The coolness and boldness of the language contrasts so sharply with the slung-around slyness of so much clever clever modern dialogue.  It’s pert without being snotty.  They did have the advantage of writing some of our first plays.  They weren’t so worried about sounding stale, I’m sure.

The other advantage they had was  a declining language, which freed them from having to string their sentences like a set of graduated pearls.  Ancient Greek words are hippie multicolored beads you can string to any length, shape, or pattern.  Which makes me slightly jealous, until I remember that we have more words.  So there, Euripedes.

o nuvela de thomas mann. nu cred ca am citit-o. nu-mi amintesc sa o fi citit. dar am anumite dubii. o, da, nu imi amintesc daca am citit o nenorocita de nuvela.

uneori, oamenii devin de nerecunoscut. iar cand schimbarea nu survine o data cu timpul, ci cu alte lucruri, e mai greu de acceptat. cand schimbarea vine cu oamenii, par example. alti oameni, care scot la iveala parti pe care nu le cunosti din aceia pe care ii credeai transparenti. cum e sa stai langa un om complet opac, la catva timp dupa ce l-ai vazut straveziu?

cum e sa astepti atata timp un lucru, iar atunci cand ai parte de el sa nu stii cum sa fugi mai repede? pentru ca nu e ce ai asteptat. pentru ca universul nu se muleaza pe asteptarile tale. ce trist ca universul e independent de tine, nu? dar si mai de rahat e ca totul e atat de artificial. ca frisca cu gust de plastic care se face din praf.

dezamagire e un cuvant prea mare.

candva as putea deveni un munte de frivolitate.

“te-ai simtit vreodata singur?” | “numai in preajma oamenilor”

cam la asta se rezuma totul acum.

Te-am facut plicticos, pedant, didactic, m-am lamentat si m-am tinguit, am jurat sa te pastrez pentru la pensie, m-am alintat cit am putut, facind parada de superficialitatea mea, ca sa-mi ascund, de fapt, un soi de lipsa de chef temporara si chiar idee fixa, nu stiu de unde naiba ivita, ca eu n-as fi in stare sa te citesc. Chiar si blogul s-a nascut tot din aceasta idee fixa (dar asta e un lucru, cred eu, bun…). Ei, si acum, draga domnule Mann, iata ca a venit momentul sa recunosc ca ai cistigat

Am citit “Casa Buddenbrook”  intr-o saptamina, mi-a placut la nebunie, a fost la inceput ca unul dintre acele seriale linistite si domoale de la TVR, cu domni cu mustati si favoriti, domnisoare cu bucle si umbrelute, intrigi si pasiuni mocnite, peisaje reci, nordice si, deci, melancolice, serate fastuoase care intotdeauna desteapta bovarismul din mine si ma fac sa regret ca m-am nascut prea tirziu, intr-o epoca a colantilor, cizmelor UGG si discotecilor cu muzici bubuitoare si, deci, enervante. Stiu precis ca locul meu era acolo, ah, ce rochii as fi putut sa am, ce palariute, cum as fi suspinat dupa vreun locotenent cu mustatile frezate si ce frumos as fi dansat polca si vals! Dar n-a fost sa fie, domnule Mann, m-am nascut in secolul XX, mi-am luat de curind chiar si cizme UGG (o oroare, te rog sa ma crezi!), iar cartea ta e mult mai mult decit un serial de altadata de pe TVR. E atit de umana si-atit de trista, nu e deloc didactica si pedanta (cum crezusem eu la inceput). Si, culmea, am gasit si umor pe alocuri, sint pe acolo niste personaje teribil de comice. Stiu ca de-aici si pin’ la Muntele Vrajit e cale lunga, dar, domnule Mann, cred ca acesta e inceputul unei frumoase prietenii intre noi doi…

A propos de  « The Rake’s Progress » d’Igor STRAVINSKY (1882-1971)

« Faust est absolument comparable à un miroir qui réfléchit les modifications auxquelles l’humanité a été soumise l’espace des derniers siècles. » Schnittke

S.A. Alimov, L'appartement maudit (1975)

Tel qu’il apparaît, avec sa machine à transformer les pierres en pain, Tom Rakewell représente un Faust sans envergure, stade appauvri du mythe, presque sa dégénérescence. Fuyant ses responsabilités et la perspective d’un travail honnête, le libertin de Stravinsky se laisse séduire et dévoyer en succombant au mirage de la jouissance immédiate et de l’argent facile. Certes, s’il est vrai qu’on a le diable qu’on mérite, celui de Tom Rakewell est assez pitoyable et l’issue du pacte – la folie – n’est pas moins grotesque que son enjeu. Ce Faust-là est moderne mais aussi un peu moribond. Antihéros plus ou moins charismatique, ce qu’il dénonce peut être classé sans suite. Aussi Tom Rakewell est-il autant l’incarnation contemporaine d’un mythe que dérivé d’une série de gravures de William Hogarth (peintre anglais du XVIIIème siècle). D’un point de vue strictement littéraire, la double origine de ce personnage l’alourdit considérablement. Dépouillé de toute dimension métaphysique, le mythe faustien tend à réintégrer une ligne moralisatrice qui en limite, au final, la portée. Certes, dans son travail de réécriture, le poète J. W. Auden, librettiste à cette occasion pour Stravinsky, a considérablement modernisé le tableau du libertinage, mais le canevas de l’opéra en garde dans sa structure une certaine pesanteur.

Irina Shipovskaïa, Ivan et le Maître

D’une qualité musicale assez discutable, (un style néo-classique aux antipodes du Sacre du Printemps), la valeur de The Rake’s Progress dépend principalement de l’ingéniosité de la mise en scène. L’action se déroule à Las Vegas dans les années 50, tout le reste en découle assez logiquement. Sexe, argent, débauche, détails crus et colorés, éblouissements de strass, Hollywood et téléviseurs : panoplie conforme aux fantasmes et aux jugements qui s’y reportent. Autant dire que la continuité du mythe est moins dans sa thématique que dans sa configuration. Schématiquement, le mythe faustien se développe selon deux axes : l’axe moral – The Rake’s Progress se situe de ce côté-là – et l’axe métaphysique, initié par Goethe à la fin du XVIIIème. Cette seconde orientation, plus féconde, se distingue de la première en ce qu’elle dégage la figure faustienne de la dichotomie bien/mal, pour questionner le rapport de l’homme à la connaissance. Dans la dynamique du romantisme allemand, le docteur devient le modèle de l’artiste entièrement voué à son idéal. Au commerce avec le diable correspond un désir de surpassement, destructeur, certes, mais admirable. C’est un héros aux aspirations titanesques brisé par les lois, un révolté dans le sillage de Prométhée. Cette lecture exaltée du mythe, Oswald Spengler la transpose à la culture occidentale. Dans la débâcle de la première guerre mondiale, le philosophe allemand écrit un livre fondamental, Le Déclin de l’Occident. Celui-ci exprime la rage du peuple vaincu, l’incite à se redresser fièrement, mais son originalité réside davantage dans sa pratique de l’historiosophie. Spengler produit  une lecture organique des civilisations, lesquelles, à l’instar des êtres vivants, connaissent une évolution apparentée aux cycles biologiques. Puissante et créatrice, la culture occidentale – faustienne – est dans une phase de déclin parce qu’elle a vendu son âme à la technique. Toute l’ambivalence de ce discours tient dans sa réception : l’« homme faustien », symbole de la force affirmative de la culture occidentale, est récupéré à bon compte par le nationalisme allemand, alors que simultanément, la fin de la civilisation et l’anticipation de sociétés  inhumaines dominées par la technique inspirent de sombres récits aux contre-utopistes (Huxley, Witkiewicz, Zamiatine, Orwell…).

Charlie Stone, Le chat conduit le tram

Ainsi le mythe faustien glisse-t-il peu à peu vers des problématiques très concrètes, liées aux avancées de la science, aux défis éthiques et métaphysiques qu’elle ne cesse de poser. Autant de questions et de découvertes qui investissent et pénètrent la conscience moderne. Ces inquiétudes, au cinéma, en musique, en littérature, se formulent sur plusieurs niveaux de complexité. Le plus évident : un savant dévoré par l’ambition réalise, sous l’inspiration du diable, une découverte capable de provoquer l’apocalypse. Ces narrations se font bien sûr l’écho de la peur primitive face à la nouveauté, qu’elles présentent de façon spectaculaire et cathartique. Montrer le pire pour accepter le raisonnable, et entretenir l’idée que l’humanité dans son ensemble peut toujours rattraper l’ubris de l’individu isolé. En profondeur, le questionnement métaphysique reste prégnant. Recentré sur la personne même du scientifique, il dissèque le désir de connaissance. A mesure que le savoir augmente, ses frontières reculent et l’homme se sent, en proportion, infime, dérisoire ou, au contraire, extrêmement puissant. Le désir de savoir croît avec les possibilités de réaliser, avec les nouvelles techniques. Si le périple de Tom Rakewell met certainement en cause un élément crucial de la société industrielle, le consumérisme, l’opéra n’a cependant pas l’ampleur des fresques qui envisagent, à partir d’un individu en état de crise, le devenir de l’humanité. A cet égard, les deux œuvres les plus passionnantes au XXème siècle sont Le Maître et Marguerite (1940), de l’écrivain russe Boulgakov, et le Docteur Faustus (1947) de l’Allemand Thomas Mann. Ces deux romans ont d’ailleurs été abondamment repris au cinéma, au théâtre et à l’opéra. Il s’agit véritablement de polyphonies romanesques, au travers desquelles le mythe faustien passe comme un nerf, fil conducteur donnant sa cohérence à un brassage thématique d’une étendue hallucinante. Politique, esthétique, religieux, historique, nationaliste – pas un seul aspect du monde de l’après-guerre n’est omis, fictionnalisé, décomposé, analysé, ironisé… Il est significatif que ces deux romans phares de la modernité (ou plutôt, de la transition, puisqu’il est question de la mort d’un ordre ancien) s’articulent autour du personnage de Faust. C’est dire à quel point, parmi tous les mythes fondamentaux, il est celui qui, aujourd’hui, nous parle davantage de ce que nous sommes et de ce que nous devenons.

***

Note : les illustrations de ce billet sont toutes empruntées au site Master i Margarita, consacré au chef d’œuvre de Boulgakov. Je suppose qu’il aurait été plus logique d’insérer ici quelques reproductions du libertin de Hogarth, mais ces tableaux – comment dire – ne m’inspirent pas du tout, alors suivant la technique consacrée d’un ami cher dite “technique du cheval de Troie”, je profite de The Rake’s Progress pour inciter à lire ou à relire l’inoubliable roman de Boulgakov.

***

Igor Stravinsky, The Rake’s Progress, mis en scène par Robert Lepage, dirigé par Kazushi Ono (enregistrement : 2007)

Quelques références faustiennes (liste non exhaustive) :

1. Musique

Lien 1 : Gustav MAHLER, Symphonie n°8

Lien 2 : Hector BERLIOZ, La damnation de Faust

Lien 3 : Charles GOUNOD, Faust

Lien 4 : Ferruccio BUSONI, Doktor Faust

Lien 5 : Henri POUSSEUR, Votre Faust

Lien 6 : SCHNITTKE, Historia von D. Johann Fausten

Lien 7: John ADAMS, Doctor Atomic

Lien 8 : Pascal DUSAPIN, Faustus, the last night

Lien 9 : Franz LISZT, Faust Symphonie

Lien 10 : Robert SCHUMANN, Szenen aus Goethes Faust

2. Cinéma

Lien 1: MURNAU, Faust, une légende allemande

Lien 2 : René CLAIR, La beauté du diable

Lien 3 : Taylor HACKFORD, Devil’s advocate

Lien 4 : A. PETROVIC, Le maître et Marguerite

Terry GILLIAM, L’imaginarium du docteur Parnassus

3. Littérature

Lien 1 : J. W. GOETHE, Faust

Vladimir BOULGAKOV, Le Maître et Marguerite

Thomas MANN, Docteur Faustus

von Karl-Josef Kuschel, Frido Mann und Paulo Astor Soethe
ist erschienen im Verlag Artemis & Winkler, 2009, 264 Seiten
ISBN: 978-3-538-07293-0

Über das Buch:

Die Mutter von Heinrich und Thomas Mann, Julia da Silva- Bruhns, war Brasilianerin. Zwischen Meer und Urwald verbrachte sie ihre Kindheit. Diese brasilianischen Wurzeln der Familie Mann sind in der Öffentlichkeit weitgehend ignoriert worden. Dieses Buch geht der Familiengeschichte in Brasilien nach, und zwar vorrangig der Auseinandersetzung der beiden großen Schriftsteller mit ihrem Herkunftsland Brasilien. Es enthält unveröffentlichte Dokumente von Thomas Mann, spiegelt die Wirkung der Manns in Brasilien und die Bemühungen Frido Manns um ein deutsch-brasilianisches Kulturzentrum im »Mutterhaus« in Parati.

Link zum Verlag

Presseinfo des Verlags (PDF)

Literary mash-ups are hot now, following the publication of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, and I don’t want to miss out. My modest proposal is to have Proust meet Mann: Marcel retires to a sanatorium in Davos and becomes a companion of Hans Castorp.

I can foresee a few major objections to this project, so let’s address these first.

Marcel, we know, spends a long time in a sanatorium. Most commentators identify the place as a mental health sanatorium, but the text does not say this explicitly. This idea comes, presumably, from the fact that Proust spent time in a mental sanatorium after the death of his mother. For my purposes, I choose to focus on Proust’s asthma and the need to treat it in a better climate. What better place than a resort-like setting in the Swiss Alps?

Another objection will be about the dramatic action. How do you have any when both protagonists are social mirrors? Marcel and Hans are much better at bringing out responses in others than in driving conversations and social interactions. To keep the action going we will have to introduce a few more characters who Marcel and Hans can interrogate, obsess over and come to understand and dismiss.

I would have Marcel paid a visit by Charlus and Saint-Loup and Hans paid a visit by Mynheer Peeperkorn and Mme. Clavida Chauchat. These characters will provide all the themes needed to fill a fat book.

Marcel is intrigued by Chauchat and spends long hours in conversation with her, each wrapped in blankets and sitting in the cold air on her balcony. From a few casual remarks by Clavida, Marcel learns that she has not only visited Balbec but had met Albertine. She waves off further questions about Albertine, saying she met her only once or twice. Marcel is not so sure she is telling the whole truth. He devises strategies to make her reveal more.

Meanwhile, Charlus is spending a lot of time with Peeperkorn, too much time. What transpires between them is too scandalous to even summarize here. Suffice it to say that Charlus is confirmed in his love of all things German.

Saint-Loup spars with the radical terrorist Jesuit Leo Naphta. Robert gradually loses his composure as Naphta unveils Robert’s virile homosexuality as a symbol of the decline and fall of the West. Saint-Loup shoots Naphta in a fit of rage, but the crime is covered up by Settembrini by staging a fake duel. Saint-Loup departs for Paris to prepare for the looming war.

I think I have taken this far enough for a good writer to take over and flesh out. All I ask is for an acknowledgement (and 1% of the gross from the film adaptation.)

Aquest conte llarg de Thomas Mann és d’aquells títols que poblen l’imaginari col·lectiu: a tothom li sóna, encara que sigui per la pel·lícula de Visconti, però no sé si és molt llegit.

Parla de coses trascendents: l’amor a la bellesa, la solitud, la necessitat d’afecte, i igual que fa Kazuo Ishiguro a The Remains of the Day, hi ha una reflexió sobre l’aprofitament sensorial i espiritual de la vida envers l’assoliment d’objectius materials o de cumplir determinats deures.

La palabra sólo puede celebrar la belleza, no reproducirla.

També com a la novel·la d’Ishiguro, l’ús del llenguatge és superb. Mannha aconseguit que jo apunti algunes cites que m’han agradat especialment. L’autor, a més introdueix un munt de referències a la mitologia grega, fent servir els clàssics com a paradigma de la bellesa pura i de la virtud moral.

Nada hay más extraño ni más delicado que la relación entre personas que sólo se conocen de vista, que se observan cada día, a todas horas, y, no obstante, se ven obligadas, ya sea por convencionalismo social o por capricho propio, a fingir una indiferente extrañeza y a no intercanviar saludo ni palabra alguna.

A La muerte en Venecia trobem també una reflexió sobre l’art i la creació artística. És possible ser un veritable artista si no s’ha fruit de la vida plenament sensorial, si no s’ha gaudit de la passió? Com es traspassa el llindar entre el que és assenyat i el que és extravagant o fins i tot insensat?

Para que una obra espiritual relevante pueda tener sin demora amplia y profunda admiración, ha de existir una secreta afinidad, cierta armonía incluso, entre el destino personal de su autor y el destino universal de su generación.

Thomas Mann dóna pistes d’aquestes respostes seguint un camí pel qual han caminat abans i després escriptors com E.M. Foster (A Room with a View, adaptada pel James Ivory) o cineastes com Gabriele Salvatore (Mediterraneo): al nord saben treballar millor, però al Mediterrani es viu més feliç.

M’ha agradat, però tot i que no és més que un conte llarg, m’ha costat molt de llegir perquè té un rerefons trist i amarg.

Curiosament, la Vio ha trobat a La muerte en Venecia una novel·la breu completament diferent: ella ha llegit una història sobre un pederasta que li ha transmés molt males sensacions.

Adient per a fer una bona tertúlia al voltant. Contraindicada per a relaxar l’esperit.

Salut i sort,
Ivan.

Finally, the quintessential piece of literature based in Venice, Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice.  I knew little of this novella, and when I read about the story it soon became akin to Lolita, Nabokov’s masterpiece.

Death in Venice follows Gustav von Aschenbach, a famous German author in the autumn years of his life.  After a stare down with a ginger haired man (the ginger-haired play a literal and metaphorical part in this story) in Munich, von Aschenbach decides to take a holiday in Venice. 

He takes leave at a hotel on the Lido (it’s like a touristy beach just outside of Venice, you don’t need to got there) where he sets up to relax and enjoy himself.  While waiting for dinner one night he takes site of a young boy who he falls smitten for.  Disturbing, yes, von Aschenbach becomes obsessed with the boy stalking him and his family throughout Venice.  As disease falls over Venice, von Aschenbach resigns himself to further study of the young lad. 

The novella blurs the line of appropriateness and casts Venice as the hedonistic den that it once was casinos and retreats for the very wealthy.  It is stunningly written, psychological and gives a light to Venice that is untouched by the other novels from the book club.  A must read for the pending traveler, but more so for anyone who reads.

Now I know that I said a few days ago that I wouldn’t be joining in any more challenges but rules are made for breaking aren’t they? I saw on Lizzy’s blog that she was joining in with Bibliophiles “The November Novella Challenge” and the temptation to read a selection of books I wouldn’t normally reach out for, though I have now found I have read quite a few unwittingly, seemed too great and so before I knew it I had signed up. Before I went gaily whizzing off into the internet ether or ran full blaze to the local charity shops in the hunt, which is what I would normally do, I stopped and did some research instead.

I really wanted to know how long a novella actually is and unhelpfully Wikipedia only gives you the length in words. I don’t know about you but I tend not to count the number of words in a book as it sort of distracts you from the reading of it. I decided to go with the Novellas.org definition and count a novella being between 60 – 150 pages long. I also saw they had a list of top novellas which I wrote down only to be shocked by how many I have already read, not loads but more than I thought…

I then made some big decisions. I would definitely do the challenge but there had to be some rules as I have already set myself the goal of reading books that take my fancy, no planned reading and also buying less books (though as you will see from a post later in the week this has already gone down the swanny somewhat after being up north and having a binge) so I needed rules. Well actually there were only two. First rule had to be that I wouldn’t set a goal of how many I would read or an order, I would simply dip in and out of them. The second was that I could only read novella’s I already owned, which seeing as I had read most of those listed was a bit of a pain until I discovered I actually owned quite a few in my endless TBR.

• The Visitor – Maeve Brennan
• The Skeleton in the Cupboard – Alice Thomas Ellis
• The White Castle – Orhan Pamuk
• The Girls of Slender Means – Muriel Spark
• Fire in the Blood – Irene Nemirovsky
• A Study in Scarlet – Arthur Conan Doyle
• Lady Susan – Jane Austen
• Death in Venice – Thomas Mann

I actually think I own more than this but these were the books that were to hand and I couldn’t go ferreting around forever as I would loose reading time (and as I haven’t yet started 1984 for book group tomorrow I need to be reading lots today) I may come across more as I wander through my TBR shelves and boxes who knows, but the main idea is no pressure. So let’s see how I do. I was going to try and sneakily say We Have Always Lived at the Castle by Shirley Jackson was the first November Novella but actually I read it in October.

Is anyone else joining in with this, can I tempt any of you? What have your experiences with the novella been? Have I chosen a good diverse mix? Which ones have you read in the past and loved or loathed? Do you like novellas or not? Would you much rather read a book you can get engrossed in than ones that’s concise?

Not drawn in by health problems but by my desire to let Venice reveal itself to me, I successfully entered the world of Visconti.

Not astonished by an excruciating beautiful Polish boy, but by the subsequent statue, I crossed the legal limit inside the display space.

I took the photo of the magnificent fashionable lady who has never encountered a deeper distress.

L’écrivain français qui fascine les étrangers. En tout cas fin 90

Dans un article de 1999, le journal catalan La Vanguardia (1) ne cache pas sa fascination pour l’écrivain français Houellebecq en expliquant que son nom rime avec “des ventes records, des critiques où fleurissent les comparaisons avec Aldous Huxley, Franz Kafka et Thomas Mann, mais aussi des polémiques dans lesquelles on vous traite, entre autres gentillesses, de “nazi”, “pervers”, “immature” et de “malade”. Et le journaliste, Xavi Ayén, de s’interroger ”Qui diantre est donc ce Houellebecq ? Dans un autoportrait qui l’honore, il répond : “Je corresponds au type même du nerveux : émotif, primaire, non actif. J’ai une vue parfaite. Le monde m’apparaît donc de façon très nette. Je bénéficie également d’un sens du toucher très développé. Mes capacités intellectuelles sont extrêmement variables : parfois très élevées, parfois nulles. Idem pour mon appétit sexuel. A bien des égards, je suis le parfait exemple du maniaco-dépressif.” Comme si tout cela ne suffisait pas, il se dit “communiste utopique”, trouve des vertus au stalinisme et, tout en admettant que certaines erreurs ont été commises en URSS, pense que “le bilan historique est globalement positif”, reprenant les termes de Georges Marchais, qu’il admire. Ne partez pas en courant : ce personnage est loin d’être une caricature médiatique. Plume en main, il a disséqué avec une précision rare les pathologies et les angoisses du citadin de la fin du XXe siècle.
Une chose est sûre, Houellebecq n’est pas un cynique. Il a ses idéaux, sa propre échelle de valeurs : il s’oppose à l’individualisme comme principe directeur de la société et dénonce la dérive mercantile des relations sociales et humaines. Certains l’accusent d’être contradictoire, parce qu’il est opposé à l’avortement et favorable au clonage. Mais il a ses arguments. “Je me prononce selon des fondements moraux. Tuer, c’est mal, mais reproduire en plusieurs exemplaires, je ne vois pas où est le mal.” Ses ennemis idéologiques ? Aucune hésitation. “Les libertaires et les libéraux. Les libertaires sont des libéraux en puissance. Ils sont capables d’enfanter des êtres particulièrement horribles, comme les satanistes et les écologistes radicaux.”

(1) Xavi Ayén – La Vanguardia – 28-10-99

D’autres extraits doivent être ajoutés

Ich habe dich in flagranti mit Tristan und Isolde erwischt.

“Das ist sowieso das, was die meisten clicks per minute (cpm) bringt”, sagte Bob, machte eine Kunst-Pause, die einen Doppelpunkt signalisierte, und dann: “Arschlecken! Ich glaube inzwischen, dass es absolut keinen Sinn hat, einen Blog ohne Texte übers Arschlecken zu betreiben.”
Die Australierin hob ihre Augenbrauen. Sie sagte: “Oh. Really.”
Sie sprach zwar ein bisschen deutsch, aber ich war mir nicht sicher, ob sie wirklich erfasste, wovon mein Text-Duo-Partner da sprach. “cpm” verstand sie bestimmt, aber das mit dem “Arschlecken”? Bob war beim vierten Bier angelangt, ihm war’s egal.
Ich überlegte noch, ob ich schnell “arse-licking” einflechten sollte, erklärend, aber ich konnte mich auf die Schnelle nicht entscheiden, welche Art von Lächeln dazu angebracht wäre — eher dreist? Eher freundlich? Forsch? Formell? Fordernd? Ausgefuchst? Pervers? Old-world-mäßig?
Keine Ahnung, wie sie’s aufnehmen würde, so oder so.
“Ideal ist es”, fuhr Bob unterdessen ohne jedes Lächeln fort, “wenn man noch Erwägungen über die Hypersensibilität hinzuzieht; die Hypersensibilität ist, ebenso wie das Arschlecken, ein Phänomen, das zum Nachforschen anregt, das jeder in unserem Kulturkreis auf sich beziehen möchte.”
Mittlerweile, das war jetzt klar, verstand die Dame aus Downunder nur noch Bahnhof. Bob sprudelte für ihre Ohren die Namen böhmischer Dörfer heraus, und das war alles. Sie nippte von ihrem Glas, und wenn sie auch den aufmerksamen Blick beibehielt, konnte man SPÜREN, das sie sich insgeheim mit der Frage auseinandersetzte, ob sie anderntags wirklich 38 Euro für einen Haarschnitt im Schanzenviertel ausgeben sollte.
Auch ich entspannte mich jetzt. Bert “Big” Bruder schickte mir eine Nachricht auf mein iPhone. Ob wir an der Autohaus-Sache dran seien? Wo wir steckten? Wieso er um 22 Uhr in unser Büro käme, und kein Mensch wäre da? Alles dunkel? Nur Nettie Moore, emsig strickend, in der Ecke? Was denn los sei? Ob es uns nicht gut ginge?
Ich tippte: “Alles klar, Big. Wir sind im Augenblick ein bisschen an dieser Arschlecken-Kiste dran. Keine Sorge. Erklären wir Dir morgen alles en detail. Arrivederci, Claire!”
Derweil lieferte Bob weiterhin Blogozentriker-Text ab:
“Die am Arschlecken Interessierten — das ist das Ergebnis meiner Studie, zu welcher sich ein Scherz gemausert hat — durchforsten die Blogosphäre nach für sie relevanten Informationen. Allmählich hat das Arschlecken uns so viel Aufmerksamkeit eingebracht, dass ich die peinliche Frage nicht vermeiden kann: Bin ich eventuell selbst von diesem Thema besessen? Entdeckt habe ich es auf dem Umweg über wiederholte Leseranfragen, die wissen wollten, was es mit ‘beim arschlecken schön furzen’ auf sich habe. Schon diese Suchanfrage hatte für mich — und übrigens auch für Georg — eine derbe Poesie, die uns tief berührte, fast möchte ich sagen: verstörte. Ich schrieb dazu darum sogleich so etwas leicht satirisch Getöntes, und das entfaltete eine magnetische Kraft, die uns sofort zum Dan Brown der Blog-Schreiber machte! Jeder, wirklich jeder scheint bei diesem Thema erst mal den Atem anzuhalten.”
“Wir könnten”, schlug ich vor, die Nachricht an Big abschickend, “auch noch das Thema Borderliner einbauen. Dann hätten wir im Grunde den ‘Artikel to end all Artikel’ fertig!”
“Ja, wie der ULYSSES ‘the novel to end all novels’ war”, sagte Bob begeistert.
“ULYSSES?” Die Australieren erwachte aus ihren Frisierträumen. “I love James Joyce. He is a real genius.”
“He was”, sagte ich, “the David Foster Wallace of the last century!”
“Well”, meinte Bob, “or maybe the William Gaddis of the beginning of the last century?”
“The Irish Thomas Mann”, warf Erna, die Vierte im Bunde, die ein bisschen weggedämmert gewesen war, ein.
“Bullshit! The worse Flann O’Brien”, meldete Bert “Big” Bruder per SMS.

El “Doctor Faustus”, escrito entre el 1943 y el 1947, narra los acontecimientos del músico Adrian Leverkühn, quien cierra un trato con el diablo para aguzar la propia capacidad creativa. El episodio aquí reproducido, en la traducción de Ervino Pocar, se refiere al génesis de la “Misa Solemne”.

de Thomas Mann

Kretzschmar nos contó una anécdota terrorífica que nos dio una idea pavorosa e imborrable de la personalidad de atormentado creador. Fue en 1819, en el apógeo del verano, cuando Beethoven, en su retiro de Möndling, trabajaba en la Misa, desesperado porque el tiempo necesario para arreglárselas iba a ser más largo del previsto, de modo que sería imposible terminarla dentro del plazo establecido, esto es, para el día de marzo del año siguiente en el que el archiduque Rodolfo debía ser consagrado arzobispo de Olmütz –– fue por entonces que, una tarde, dos amigos y secuaces se allegaron a casa del maestro y, apenas entraron en ella, se encontraron con una grave noticia. Esa misma mañana, su fámulas se habían marchado porque durante la noche anterior, hacia la una, había tenido lugar una escena furiosa que había interrumpido el sueño de toda la casa. Hasta bien entrada la noche, el patrón había trabajado en el Credo, en el Credo con la fuga, y no había querido saber nada de la cena que estaba preparada sobre el hogar cerca del cual, las criadas, en vana espera y vencidas por la naturaleza, se habían finalmente dormido. Cuando entre las doce y la una, vino a buscar de comer y encontró a las domésticas adormecidas y la comida reseca y carbonizada, el maestro fue preso de un ataque de cólera violenta que desahogó sin ningún miramiento por la hora nocturna, tanto más fuerte cuanto que, además, no oía el propio estrépito.
– ¿No podéis velar una hora conmigo? –– repetía con voz tronante. Pero las horas habían sido cinco, seis, y sobre el alba las pobres muchachas mortificadas se habían largado abandonando a sí mismo a aquel patrón maleducado e irascible; y así se quedó sin colación, siendo que no había tomado nada desde el mediodía del día anterior. A cambio, trabajaba en su habitación en el Credo, en el Credo con la fuga –– y a través de la puerta cerrada los discípulos oían cómo trabajaba. El sordo cantaba, gritaba, machacaba sobre aquel Credo –– y era una cosa tan conmovedora y terrible que aquellos dos sintieron que la sangre se les helaba en las venas. Pero en el momento en que atemorizados estaban apunto de marcharse, la puerta se abrió de improviso y Beethoven compareció en el umbral ¿vestido de qué modo? ¡En el más espantoso! Con sus prendas descuidadas, las facciones tan desfiguradas que causaban miedo y los ojos penetrantes, trastornados, perdidos, les miró fijamente dando la impresión de haber salido de una lucha a vida o muerte con todos los espíritus aborrecidos en su contra. Al principio balbució frases inconexas, después comenzó a lamentarse y a imprecar contra aquel mal de su casa, que hacía que todos escapasen y lo dejasen morir de hambre. Éstos intentaron calmarlo, uno lo ayudó a vestirse, otro corrió a un restaurante para hacer preparar una comida (…) La Misa sólo se acabó tres años después.
Nostros no la conocíamos, allí oímos hablar de ella por primera vez. ¿Pero quién negará que también pueda resultar instructivo sólo el ecuchar hablar de grandezas desconocidas? Cierto es que mucho depende del modo en el que se habla del tema. Volviendo a casa después de aquella reunión tuvimos la impresión de haber oído la Misa, y a esta ilusión contribuía no poco la visión grabada en nuestra mente, concebida por el maestro Kretzschmar, del maestro afamado sobre el umbral de su casa, después de una noche de vigilia.

Nota publicada el L’Osservatore Romano el 28 de octubre del 2009, Edizione quotidiana en italiano.

Teil 1:

Teil 2:

Teil 3:

Teil 4:

Teil 5:

Our son has a differently philosophy to baby life than his big sister. At nine months, he has six teeth, eats a lot of real food, scoots around, stands up, falls down, stands up, falls down, cries and cries. At nine months, his sister not really eaten even baby food yet, was getting her first tooth, had just started to push herself backwards after months of happy sitting and rarely cried.

I marvel at how different BT’s life is from his sister’s. This is the sort of comment that, if I said it at lunch at work, would draw nothing but blank stares. Duh. Obvious.

Maybe it is that NK was a baby in a Victorian house in a small town in upstate New York, and BT is a baby in a tiny apartment in Stockholm.

Maybe it is that I have been awake half the night holding him with his little legs crawling in his sleep. So I have time to think all this over, or sort of think it over, well, more like vaguely consider it before I trip over a toy in the dark.

The sleep deprivation – and a recent wave of family illness – are sneaking up on me too. I get by on shockingly little sleep now. I used to be a nine hour a night guy. Now I sail by on five or six – and choppy sleep at that, broken up by lifting toddlers to her mother, hugging squirming babies.

But I can tell. Not at work. And not with the kids, as I have controlled a slightly fraying temper (didn’t want to end up in a New York Times story on yelling …)

No, I have a different problem. I can’t read a book. This particular book. I reallly want to read it – The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann – for a lot of reasons. But there is a hitch. It is set in a tuberculosis sanitorium in the Alps. So, basically, everyone in the book has consumption, feverish, coughing, pre-antibiotic fatal consumption. And I can not get my head around it; reading each page makes my head spin and my stomach tingle. I do not want to think about TB.

I am not usually afraid of illness either, though have had these attacks a couple other times – curled up in the fetal position on a gym floor during an anorexia movie in the 9th grade, or paralyzed in a chair 14 years ago in Chicago when a roommate told us all that he had diabetes.

No, it has to be the sleep. I may just have to put the book down and start reading magazines. Just nothing medical …

Abbiamo già detto che – riducendosi freneticamente i cicli di vita di ogni “cosa”  poiché sempre più rapidamente il contesto ne determina l’obsolescenza – i cambiamenti che dovranno affrontare le organizzazioni e gli individui saranno, nell’unità di tempo, molto più numerosi.

Domanda:

Quanti capolavori hanno prodotto nella loro intera vita Michelangelo, Beethoven, Thomas Mann? Uno? Due? (stiamo parlando di capolavori, non di “esercizi” ).

E quante teorie rivoluzionarie hanno prodotto nella loro intera vita Newton o Einstein? E quante scoperte decisive hanno prodotto nella loro intera vita Pasteur o Fleming?

E quindi che cosa ci fa pensare che un imprenditore geniale, un manager sagace, un capo eccezionale possa produrre un numero talmente elevato di geniali business idea, strategie innovative, scelte organizzative da consentire ad un’azienda di procedere a tutti quei “salti” di curva cui siamo obbligati nell’Era dello Squalo Bianco?

E che cosa ci fa pensare – sì, proprio a noi, a me – di avere sempre l’idea “giusta” rispetto ad ogni contesto?

Quante soluzioni “giuste” possono avere in serbo dei singoli uomini – anche se particolarmente intelligenti –  nella loro intera vita?

Ahimè, non ci sono uomini adatti per tutte le stagioni e poiché è per altro vero  che – come si usa dire – non ci sono più le stagioni di una volta (con la loro prevedibilità, stabilità o al massimo con qualche complicatezza), un altro cambiamento culturale profondo che ci impone l’era della complessità è quello di rassegnarci alla limitatezza nostra (e degli altri) come singoli individui e imparare davvero a “giocare in squadra”.

Il capo, il padre, l’eroe che indica la via, dice agli altri che cosa fare e da cui dipende la felicità di ognuno è definitivamente morto.

Bismillahir Rahmanir Rahim

Ich glaube, ich habe schon mal erwähnt, dass ich stets einige Bücher gleichzeitig lese. Alhamdulillah komme ich damit auch nicht durcheinander. Außer religiösen und politischen Büchern und die über Marketing und Fundraising gehören da nämlich noch diese hier:

1.

Den Steppenwolf von Hermann Hesse.

Zugegeben ist dieses Buch psychologisch etwas anstrengend. Es geht darum um einen Harry Haller, der alles hasst, was für die anderen Menschen seiner Zeit bedeutend ist. Außerdem verliert er alles, was er liebt. Diese Schicksalsschläge machen ihn nämlich einsam. Mehr und mehr verirrt er sich in seine Welt. So entsteht in ihm der Steppenwolf, dessen Seite die entgegengesetzte der menschlichen ist. Dadurch steht er allen Situationen immer gespalten gegenüber und seine Seele scheint nie zu ruhen, da sie immer hin- und hergerissen ist.

Erst als er einem jungen Mädchen begegnet, lässt er es zu, dass sich etwas in ihm ändern kann …

Das ist wirklich ein spannendes Buch.

und 2.

Den Zauberberg von Thomas Mann

Darin geht es darum, dass ein junger Mann – Hans Castorp – seinen kranken Vetter in einem Sanatorium besucht. Aus dem ursprünglich dreiwöchigen Besuch werden 7 Jahre. Im Vordergrund steht dabei das Erwachsenwerden des Hans Castorps – was ich bei jedem Menschen für eine spannende Sache halte, denn das Leben und die Seele des Menschen sind sehr tiefgründig und komplex. Auch die Probleme der damaligen Zeit, es war kurz vor dem 1. Weltkrieg, werden hier detailreich erwähnt.

Zwei Bücher von zwei besonderen Menschen und genialen Schriftstellern, die sich trauten, der Welt mitzuteilen, welche Weltauffassung sie vertraten und nicht mit allem einverstanden waren. Dafür mussten sie dann im Exil leben.

Vill börja med att säga grattis till min svägerska Jennie och hennes man Nicke, som igår fick sitt andra gemensamma barn. Välkommen till världen Levis!

Nu på förmiddagen har det verkligen varit fantastiskt vackert ute, fost och dimma. Solen har precis börjat försöka att bryta igenom lite. Jag sitter vid köksbordet och förbereder mig för en ny dag av studier. Just nu står Faust I på tapeten, verkligen en tysk klassiker. Jag bävar ofta för så gamla böcker och föreställer mig svår text och jobbiga meningsuppbyggnader men hittills har jag alltid blivit positivt överraskad. Den jobbigaste var nog Thomas Manns “Tod in Venedig” (Döden i Venedig), där fick jag läsa i en annan bok om vad jag just läst för att förstå någonting!

Men nog om detta, jag ska sitta här en stund först och känna mig nöjd över att det är städat. Detta tack vare att vi hade trevligt besök igår. Det blev även en morotskaka bakad. Hittade receptet i en bok jag fått av mormor. Hon brukar ge oss religiösa böcker i julkapp som jag oftast tycker är trevliga att läsa. (Trots att jag alltid har haft väldigt svårt att känna någon övertygelse om Guds existens kan jag känna en vill längtan när det kommer till församlingsgemenskapen, det är väl ändå något avundsvärt!) Förra julen fick jag boken “Påtår – fika som räcker till många” från Libris Förlag (red. Anna Braw) som är en uppföljare till boken “Kyrkkaffe”. Boken är proppfull av recept, små anekdoter och en del bordsböner. Även om man inte ska baka är det mysigt att bara ta fram den ibland och bara sitta och bläddra i.  Jag hittade i alla fall ett recept på morotskaka, en kaka som jag älskar men aldrig bakat själv. Det blev väl inte tidernas vackraste bakverk men ganska god.

Normala morotskakan
Tove har letat sig fram till det allra bästa receptet på en av sina favoritkakor, morotskakan. “I vissa recept är det så jättemycket olja och socker. Det här känns lite mer normalt., skriver hon.

en mjuk kaka
Ugn: 175°, ca 40 minuter

2 ägg
2 dl socker
1/2 dl matolja
3 dl finrivna morötter
1 tsk bikarbonat
1 tsk kanel
1 tsk vaniljsocker
1 tsk bakpulver
2 dl vetemjöl

glasyr:
50 g philadelphiaost
25 g smör
2 dl florsocker
1 tsk vaniljsocker

garnering:
mandelspån

Vispa ägg och socker pösigt och rör ner matolja och morötter. Tillsätt sedan alla torra ingredienser. Häll smeten i en smord och bröad form och grädda i 175 grades ugnsvärme i ungefär 40 minuter. Låt kakan svalna. Blanda ingredienserna till glasyren och bred den över kakan. Strö mandelspån över.

(Citat ur “Påtår – fika som räcker till många, red. Anna Braw, Bokförlaget Libris, Italien 2008, sida 255.)

Jag hade inte bikarbonat hemma utan tog en extra tesked bakpulver i stället, vilket gick bra. Mandeln hoppade jag också över. I många fall grämer jag mig över att inte ha någon kamera hemma, här är det dock ingen förlust, så snygg blev den inte.

Piedra sobre piedra: De muchas tejas pequeñas se pueden construir grandes cosas, esto queda demostrado en la visita de las obras maestras de Lübeck. Al norte de Alemania y a orillas del río Trave, nos sorprende este lugar, ciudad natal de los escritores Heinrich y Thomas Mann.

Empezamos la excursión en La Puerta de Holsten (Holstentor). Detrás de los grandes muros del símbolo de Lübeck, se esconde la exposición “La Hanse – el poder del comercio”. El comerciante de Lübeck de la Edad Media, nos invita a entrar en el mundo del comercio de la navegación de aquellos tiempos lejanos. A finales de la Edad Media, esta puerta fue equipada con 30 cañones, que nunca fueron disparados. Además de la exposición La Hanse, también se puede visitar una pequeña sala de torturas.

 Atravesamos el río Trave detrás de los Almacenes de Sal y giramos después a la derecha por la calle “An der Obertrave”. A unos 250 m giramos a la izquierda por la calle “Kleine Petersgrube”, que nos llevará hasta el Kolk. A mano izquierda encontramos el museo de 4 plantas, de Figuras del Teatro Fey – una fascinante colección de marionetas y muñecos en todas las variedades posibles.

 Seguimos el Kolk a la derecha, hasta la calle Grobe Petersgrube, la única calle donde las fachadas originales están mantenidas completamente. En esta calle, se encuentran casas de todos los estilos arquitectónicos; gótico, renacentista, barroco y clasicismo. En el norte se alza la torre de S. Pedro (Petrikirche). Desde su punto más alto, el panorama que ofrece la ciudad es único.

 El próximo monumento de Lübeck es su Catedral (Dom), situada en uno de los rincones más tranquilos del centro, es una de las iglesias con bóvedas de ladrillo más grande del norte de Europa.

 Paseando llegamos a la calle Hüxstrasse, la calle comercial más bonita de Lübeck. Vale la pena hacer una pausa en una de sus cafeterías, para poder disfrutar y digerir todas las impresiones recogidas por el trayecto.

 Continuamos nuestro paseo hasta llegar la Casa del Escritor Günther Grass. El domicilio de un artista, es uno de los lugares de interés más reciente de Lübeck y está dedicado al multitalentoso y ganador del premio Nobel, Günther Grass.

  Al llegar de nuevo a la calle Königstrasse, a mano izquierda vemos la iglesia de Sta. Catarina donde se encuentran tres esculturas muy famosas de Ernst Barlach, y a mano derecha, dirección norte, llegamos al museo Casa Willy-Brandt de Lübeck.

 Willy-Brandt, una personalidad del siglo XX, que polarizó los ánimos como ningún otro político alemán. Para toda una generación fue todo un ídolo y un portador de esperanzas. Como Canciller Federal colocó la piedra fundamental de la posterior unidad alemana. Para esta política le valió en 1971 el Premio Nobel de la Paz.

 En la calle Mengstrasse, en el número 4, encontramos la Casa Buddenbrook – una de las casas donde vivió la familia del escritor Thomas Mann, hoy en día, museo, dedicado al arte y a la obra del escritor-.

 Frente a la Casas Buddenbrook se alza la iglesia de ladrillo más alta del mundo: Sta. María. La tercera iglesia más grande de Alemania, es el modelo de muchas otras iglesias de ladrillo góticas en la zona del Báltico, y que acoge el órgano mecánico más grande del mundo. Las campanas derrumbadas en la capilla, recuerdan el horrible bombardeo que sufrió durante la segunda guerra mundial, en el año 1942.

 Delante de Sta. María está el Ayuntamiento, con su mercado. En el Ayuntamiendo de Lübeck todavía se reune el Senado y el parlamento ciudadano.

 Enfrente del Ayuntamiento se encuentra el famoso Café de Niederegger, con su salón del mazapán, última parada en nuestro paseo por Lübeck.

Hoteles Lübeck

Vuelos

Everyone needs inspiration, but as writers, we need more than most.  We need the inspiration and encouragement to keep ourselves motivated and constantly writing. Without it, we won’t produce anything worthwhile and might actually be forced to  get a life (and for some of us, an actual job).

Here are a few quotes I’ve gathered throughout the years, that always inspire me to keep writing whenever I feel down and out.

Enjoy, and put them to good use!

1 – “There are times when quantity is at least as important as quality in learning an art.” – Lawrence Watt-Evans

2 – “He is able who thinks he is able.” – Buddha

3 – “Great ability develops and reveals itself increasingly with every new assignment.” – Baltasar Gracian

4 – “Read a lot, finding out what kind of writing turns you on, in order to develop a criterion for your own writing. And then trust it—and yourself.” – Rosemary Daniell

5 – “Start early and work hard. A writer’s apprenticeship usually involves writing a million words (which are then discarded) before he’s almost ready to begin. That takes a while.” – David Eddings

6 – “Write what you care about and understand. Writers should never try to outguess the marketplace in search of a salable idea; the simple truth is that all good books will eventually find a publisher if the writer tries hard enough, and a central secret to writing a good book is to write on that people like you will enjoy.” – Richard North Patterson

7 – “Only write from your own passion, your own truth. That’s the only thing you really know about, and anything else leads you away from the pulse.” – Marianne Williamson

8 – “To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.” – Claude M. Bristol

9 – “Nothing important was ever achieved without somebody taking a chance.” - Author Unknown

10 – “The will to keep trying is often the difference between success and failure” – Davie Sarnoff

11 – “First thought, best thought.” – Allen Ginsberg

12 – “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” – Thomas Mann

13 – “Writing can teach us the dignity of speaking the truth.” – Natalie Goldberg

14 – “Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.” – Gene Fowler

15 – “The six golden rules of writing: Read, Read, Read, and write, write, write, write.” – Ernest Gaines