Noch erging sie’s leicht im Anbeginne, doch im Steigen manchmal ward sie schon ihres wunderbaren Leibes inne, – und dann stand sie, atmend, auf den hohn
Judenbergen. Aber nicht das Land, ihre Fülle war um sie gebreitet; gehend fühlte sie: man überschreitet nie die Größe, die sie jetzt empfand.
Und es drängte sie, die Hand zu legen auf den andern Leib, der weiter war. Und die Frauen schwankten sich entgegen und berührten sich Gewand und Haar.
Jede, voll von ihrem Heiligtume, schützte sich mit der Gevatterin. Ach der Heiland in ihr war noch Blume, doch den Täufer in dem Schooß der Muhme riß die Freude schon zum Hüpfen hin.
Rainer Maria Rilke (4 december 1875 – 29 december 1926) Rilke werd geboren in Praag (Hier de Staroměstské náměsti en Nicolaaskerk)
Uit:The Watermelon Eaters (Vertaald door Albert Tezla)
“A face was ascending the stairs, a face so long and stony it seemed to be borne on a platter. Its eyes closed, its mouth a straight, hard line. On this blinded face was visible the restaurant with its cold mirrors, tiny tables, and guests who failed to notice the face. The outstretched, dead hand then rose into view, trailing an invisible veil. A blue-gray greatcoat, closed at the neck, held the entire man together like a sack. He passed by the boxes and stopped in the middle under a chandelier. He raised his head in the glittering light; his face and hands glistened, but his tunic remained dark. He stood there wordless, motionless, his face flung open to the light, his hands thrust out. Slowly, slowly, as if searching for someone, he turned to one of the boxes. Three persons were sitting in the box: two women with a pimply-faced youth. The woman with gray hair lifted her fork, then put it down, and said: “Poor thing.” The girl ate and didn’t look up from her plate. She had thick blonde hair, her arms were firm and darkly tanned as if she were sitting on the edge of a swimming pool. The boy groped in his pocket. The girl looked up. “I will!” The blind man caught the coin with a sweep of one hand, but by then he was being held by the arms. A waiter with a trimmed mustache was standing behind him; he pushed him forward slowly. The blind man opened his mouth wide, he became an astonished black hole. “You know that’s not permitted,” and the waiter shoved him down the stairs. The beggar tripped and his hand banged against the banister. He remained there hanging on to it, his head slumped forward lifelessly. The waiter grabbed his shoulders and stood him up on his feet like a rag doll. “Don’t be such an ass!” Half risen, Károly, the pimply-faced boy, was observing him. His head slumped forward again, and meantime his dark, gaping mouth seemed to sneer. His sister touched his hand. “Why are you staring?” Ágnes’s taut, impassive face, with two blue earrings, shut out everything in front of her. She lit a cigarette with lazy, prolonged movements. Singing sounded from below. The blind man was already halfway out on the street; he was singing, meanwhile turning around.”
Uit: What is a Classic? (Vertaald doorFrancis Steegmuller en Norbert Guterman)
“A delicate question, to which somewhat diverse solutions might be given according to times and seasons. An intelligent man suggests it to me, and I intend to try, if not to solve it, at least to examine and discuss it face to face with my readers, were it only to persuade them to answer it for themselves, and, if I can, to make their opinion and mine on the point clear. And why, in criticism, should we not, from time to time, venture to treat some of those subjects which are not personal, in which we no longer speak of some one but of some thing? Our neighbours, the English, have well succeeded in making of it a special division of literature under the modest title of “Essays.” It is true that in writing of such subjects, always slightly abstract and moral, it is advisable to speak of them in a season of quiet, to make sure of our own attention and of that of others, to seize one of those moments of calm moderation and leisure seldom granted our amiable France; even when she is desirous of being wise and is not making revolutions, her brilliant genius can scarcely tolerate them.
A classic, according to the usual definition, is an old author canonised by admiration, and an authority in his particular style. The word classic was first used in this sense by the Romans. With them not all the citizens of the different classes were properly called classici, but only those of the chief class, those who possessed an income of a certain fixed sum.”
Charles Sainte-Beuve (23 december 1804 – 13 oktober 1869) Katikatuur door David Levine, 1996
