On the Beach at Night

On the beach at night,
Stands a child with her father,
Watching the east, the autumn sky.

Up through the darkness,
While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,
Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,
Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,
Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,
And nigh at hand, only a very little above,
Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.

From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.

Weep not, child,
Weep not, my darling,
With these kisses let me remove your tears,
The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in
apparition,
Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the
Pleiades shall emerge,
They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall
shine out again,
The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they
endure,
The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall
shine again, shine.

Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?

Something there is,
(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter,
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.

Walt Whitman

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long have we tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

Edward Lear

The Illiterate

Touching your goodness, I am like a man
Who turns a letter over in his hand
And you might think this was because the hand
Was unfamiliar but, truth is, the man
Has never had a letter from anyone;
And now he is both afraid of what it means
And ashamed because he has no other means
To find out what it says than to ask someone.

His uncle could have left the farm to him,
Or his parents died before he sent them word,
Or the dark girl changed and want him for beloved.
Afraid and letter-proud, he keeps it with him.
What would you call his feeling for the words
That keep him rich and orphaned and beloved?

William Meredith

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Elements

There's antimony, arsenic, aluminum, selenium,
And hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen and rhenium,
And nickel, neodymium, neptunium, germanium,
And iron, americium, ruthenium, uranium,
Europium, zirconium, lutetium, vanadium,
And lanthanum and osmium and astatine and radium,
And gold and protactinium and indium and gallium,
And iodine and thorium and thulium and thallium.

There's yttrium, ytterbium, actinium, rubidium,
And boron, gadolinium, niobium, iridium,
And strontium and silicon and silver and samarium,
And bismuth, bromine, lithium, beryllium, and barium.

There's holmium and helium and hafnium and erbium,
And phosphorus and francium and fluorine and terbium,
And manganese and mercury, molybdenum, magnesium,
Dysprosium and scandium and cerium and cesium.
And lead, praseodymium, and platinum, plutonium,
Palladium, promethium, potassium, polonium,
And tantalum, technetium, titanium, tellurium,
And cadmium and calcium and chromium and curium.

There's sulfur, californium, and fermium, berkelium,
And also mendelevium, einsteinium, nobelium,
And argon, krypton, neon, radon, xenon, zinc, and rhodium,
And chlorine, carbon, cobalt, copper, tungsten, tin, and sodium.

These are the only ones of which the news has come to Ha'vard,
And there may be many others, but they haven't been discavard.

Tom Lehrer

¿Qué es poesía?

¿Qué es poesía?, dices mientras clavas
en mi pupila tu pupila azul.
¿Qué es poesía? ¿Y tú me lo preguntas?
Poesía... eres tú.

Bécquer

Sobre la universalitat de les opinions

Quan ens mirem aquesta qüestió, la pretesa opinió universal és l'opinió de dues o tres persones. I hauríem de convèncer-nos d'això si veiem la manera en que realment sorgeix aquesta opinió universal.

Veuríem que, en primer lloc, són dues o tres les persones que al principi van acceptar aquesta opinió, o que la van exposar i defensar; i va haver-hi gent tan bona com per pensar que ho havien realment comprovat. Després, unes altres persones, persuadides d'antuvi que els primers tenien la necessària capacitat, van acceptar l'opinió. Aquests, per la seva banda, van rebre la confiança de molts d'altres, la ganduleria dels quals els va suggerir que el millor seria creureu-s'ho d'una vegada, en lloc de prendre's la feinada de comprovar-ho per ells mateixos. I així és com va créixer dia rera dia el nombre d'aquests crèduls i ganduls partidaris, perquè tan aviat aquesta opinió va arribar a tenir un cert recolzament que els seus partidaris addicionals ho van atribuir al fet que aquesta opinió sols hagués pogut guanyar-ne tants degut a que els seus arguments eren tan convincents. La resta de la gent es va veure forçada a acceptar el que estava acceptat universalment, per a no ésser considerats com persones rebels que es resisteixen a les opinions acceptades per tot el món.

Arthur Schopenhauer

Pi!!

Atenció, si esteu en una biblioteca o a la feina, que hi ha so! Cliqueu sobre la pi! Val la pena!

Be careful if you are in a library or at work, there's sound on this! Click on pi! It's worth it!

Pi!!

Agraïments, catifa vermella, banda d'honor i mocador es deuen a Deses. :)

Thanks, red carpet, brass band and hanky are due to Deses. :)

La meva agenda de l'any passat!

Aquí teniu les frases cutres, frases profundes i demés que he escrit a la meva agenda aquest any. Preneu-vos-ho amb calma.

Here are the silly quotes, the deep quotes and all the rest that I've written in my school diary this year. Take it easy.



Haz como los peces: ¡NADA!
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.
(12th September, when school started)

An important truth about language which the fixity of print can sometimes obscure: that it is always in flux, and that its form and expression are beyond the control of school, teachers or governments.

“Ah, you philosophise,” replied Villefort, after a moment’s silence […]; “well, sir, if, like you, I had nothing else to do, I should seek a more amusing occupation.”
“Now, really, let me ask, sir, have you? — do you believe you have anything to do? or, to speak in plain terms, do you really think that what you do deserves being called any thing?”
(Dumas)

Language is neutral, passive: only the uses to which it is put make it active.

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
(Shakespeare)

Poursuis ta quête sans regarder derrière… N’attends pas que le jour se lève… Suis ton étoile, va jusqu’où ton rêve t’emporte, un jour tu le toucheras…
(Tros de lletra de Il Divo)

I’m looking for something that may not be seen
That lies in the heart of what never has been
Carried away on the wings of a moment
And all shall be well…
I’m looking for something that may not be heard
That lies in the heart of an unspoken word
Carried away on the wings of a moment
And all shall be well…
(Celtic song)

Monte-Cristo smiled.
“Really, sir,” he observed, “I see that in spite of the reputation you have acquired as a superior man, you contemplate every thing in the material and vulgar view of society, beginning with man, and ending with man — that is to say, in the most restricted, most narrow view which it is possible for human understanding to embrace.”
I el Villefort es queda a quadros!!
(Dumas)

No llora por haberle amor llagado,
que no le pena verse así afligido,
aunque en el corazón está herido;
mas llora por pensar que está olvidado.
(Tros de El pastorcico, d’autor anònim)

“Heigh ho!” said Lord Wilmore, with that tone which is only known to natives of Great Britain.
(Dumas)

Welcome, my knyght, my pees, my suffisance.
(From one of the first real English poems, I don’t remember which)

This sort of writing [half-chewed Latin] provoked Bishop Reginald Pecock to make what is, perhaps, the first proposal (in a long tradition of such proposals) to “purify” the English language. Latinate borrowings, he argued, should be purged. Instead of “impenetrable”, he proposed “ungothroughable”; instead of inconceivable, he suggested “not-to-be-thought-upon-able”. Pecock was not taken seriously…

Chantars no pot gaire valer,
si d’ins dal cor no mou lo chans;
ni chans no pot dal cor mover
si no i es fin’amors coraus.
Per so es mos chantars cabans
qu’en joi d’amor ai et enten
la boch’e-ls olhs e’l cor e’l seu.

Tal es el orgullo del hombre, que más quiere declarar en alta voz que las cosas son incomprensibles cuando no las comprende él, que confesar que el ignorarlas puede depender de su torpeza.
(Larra)

“¿Quién soy?”, gritaba, alborozado con el buen éxito de su delicada travesura. “¿Quién soy?” “Un animal”, iba a responderle; pero me acordé de repente de quién podría ser, y sustituyendo cantidades iguales: “Braulio eres”, le dije.
(Larra)

Philosophy consists, basically, in sitting for a while, deciding there is no such thing as reality, and then going off to lunch.

Quanti tasti ha il mio pianoforte,
tutti immobili come pensieri!
Il più basso la vita, il più acuto la morte;
la luce sui bianchi e la notte sui neri…
(Antonacci)

…En caballo con alas, hacia acá se encamina,
en el cinto la espada y en la mano el azor,
el feliz caballero que te adora sin verte…
(Darío)

…Como saco de sentido común es profundamente egoísta, por ser el egoísmo el sentido común moral.
(Unamuno)

Remember, remember,
The 5th of November;
Gunpowder, treason and plot!
(On the 5th of November… duh)

Qui de jove no sap fer-se castells a l’aire, de gran no pot fer-se una cabana a terra.

“Heute Nacht sind die Deutschen das glücklichste Volk in der Welt!”
(On the 9th of November, the speech of the mayor of Berlin in 1989)

Procuremos ser más padres de nuestro porvenir que hijos de nuestro pasado.
(Unamuno)

“She that finds a winter sunset
fairer than a morn of Spring”
(Tennyson)
That’s me! Me! Me! Hehe

My son, the world is dark with griefs and graves,
So dark that men cry out against the Heavens.
Who knows but that the darkness is in man?
(Tennyson)

Ars longa vita brevis.

golsong ty cowez
byz na borz mez
dyyskyn ha powes
ha zymo dus nes
(One of the earliest Cornish writings found)

Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: “It might have been!”

L’alba part umet mar atra sol,
poy pasa bigil, mira clar tenebras…
(D’un poema mossàrab, s. XIII)

No sempre és fàcil ésser sincer amb un mateix. L’esperit, com el cos, acumula defenses a l’entorn de l’espina que hi ha restat clavada. Però el cos és més lleial, puix que tot el que fa conspira, amb èxit o sense, per desallotjar l’espina; mentre que l’esperit, moltes vegades, crea miratges consoladors, anestesia les zones adolorides, però no lluita pas per a extirpar la causa del dolor.
(Soldevila)

Mentira todo, fantasmas vanos que formamos en nuestra imaginación y vestimos a nuestro antojo, y los amamos y corremos tras ellos, ¿para qué?, ¿para qué? Para encontrar un rayo de luna.
(Bécquer)

I will go down with this ship, I won’t put my hands up and surrender…
(Tros de lletra de Dido)

Auriá benlèu pogut me faire autrament mas pensi qu’aquò èra pas de son poder; èrem totes presonièrs d’un sistema.
(Laus)

Quan lo rei tocava la noia ballava
i els ulls brillaven baixant pel camí.
Quan lo rei tocava la noia cantava
tota enamorada d’aquell violí.

Non voilh voler volatge
que’m volv e’m vir mes voluntatz
mas lai on mos vols es volatz.
(Rudel)

La Inquisición y la Sociedad, los dos azotes de la verdad.
(Pascal, qui si no!)

Consolaos: no es de vosotros de quienes debéis esperarlo; pero, al contrario, no esperando nada de vosotros, debéis esperarlo.
(Pascal)

A passage perillus maketh a port pleasant.
(Arthur Poole, inscription on the (inner) walls of the Tower of London)

The great and frequent tragedy of science is a beautiful hypothesis killed by an ugly fact.
(Huxley)

Laissant en arrière les étoiles,
aussi oubliant les fleurs,
je suive, toujours sans peur,
vers ce qu’il y a au devant…

Veritas liberabit vos.

Non c’è più tempo per guardare una stella sopra noi…
(Smith)

A mis soledades voy,
De mis soledades vengo,
Porque para andar conmigo
Me bastan mis pensamientos.
(Lope de Vega)

…For nothing worthy proving can be proven,
Nor yet disproven: wherefore thou be wise,
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt,
And cling to Faith beyond the forms of Faith!
(Tennyson)

“This hour is thine:
Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree
Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath,
So in the light of great eternity
Life eminent creates the shade of death.
The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall,
But I shall reign for ever over all.”
(Tennyson)

Ama me fideliter,
Fidem meam noto;
De corde totalibur,
Et ex mente tota,
Sum presentialiter,
Absens in remota.

I entre glop i glop de cafè encara em va dir que la història més valia llegir-la en els llibres que no pas escriure-la a canonades.
(Rodoreda)

Scio cui credidi.
(“Conec a qui he cregut”, gravat sobre la làpida de Pascal)

És necessari que en tot diàleg o discurs que es pugui dir als que s’ofenen: “de què us queixeu?”
(Pascal)

Es una cosa monstruosa ver en un mismo corazón, y a un mismo tiempo, esta susceptibilidad ante las menores cosas y esta extraña impasibilidad ante las más grandes.
(Pascal)

Cuando todo se mueve igualmente, nada se mueve en apariencia, como acontece en un navío. Cuando todos van hacia el desorden, no parece que nadie vaya a él. Sólo el que se detiene puede hacer notar la marcha de los otros, como un punto fijo.
(Pascal)

No tienes que me dar porque te quiera;
pues aunque cuanto espero no esperara,
lo mismo que te quiero te quisiera.
(Anónimo)

When I was young and had nae sense,
I bought a fiddle for eitghteen pence;
But the only tune that I could play
Was LA GATETA ALUYA!!!
(On the 18th of march, my violin’s birthday! “La gateta Aluya” is “Over the hills and far away” in the original. :P)

Comme le bleu du ciel m’illumine,
Comme le vert du printemps m’emblouit,
Comme le monde chante sa vie au soleil,
Moi aussi j’ai besoin de joie!
(On the 21st of March)

Che sono grande da poco
E guardo ancora cogli occhi
Di chi s’aspetta un po di tutto…
(Antonacci)

Le cose che avanti sembravano banale,
Vissute da lontano sembrano più belle…
(Antonacci)

Sólo el que sabe es libre, y más libre el que más sabe… Sólo la cultura da libertad… No proclaméis la libertad de volar, sino dad alas; no la de pensar, sino dad pensamiento. La libertad que hay que dar al pueblo es la cultura.
(El 23 d’abril, Unamuno)

Mean what you say, say what you mean.

Vois-tu bien,
Les larmes, il n’est rien de plus sublime, rien…
(Rostand)

…Un serment fait d’un peu plus près, une promesse
Plus précise, un aveu qui veut se confirmer…
(Més tard, no sé qui (Gilbert O'Sullivan, potser?) en faria una versió sota el nom de “What’s in a kiss… have you ever wondered just what it is…?" etc etc. :P Rostand)

Lanquand li jorn son lonc en mai
M’es bels douz chans d’auzels de loing,
E qand me sui partitz de lai
Remembra’n d’un amor de loing.
(L’1 de maig, Rudel)

Linda rossa, flor de abril,
muy süave, doñeguil,
vuestra presencia gentil
adoro e adoraré;
aunque sufra penas mil,
otra nunca serviré.
(That’s the spirit! That’s my boy! xD Villasandino)

Vex not thou the poet’s mind
With thy shallow wit!
(Tennyson)

…a mi, que no tinc ossos que sóc un sospir que no arribo a ser ni la ploma que bufaré per espantar-vos.
(Rodoreda)

Tot i essent tan petitona…
–una roseta de maig
tu eres–, quan et veierem
per dar-te el primer esguard.
(El 25 de maig…)

Vous êtes jeune, vous, répondit Athos, et vos souvenirs amers ont le temps de se changer en doux souvenirs!
(Dumas)

Quod humana ratio non invenit, fides capit.
(What human reasoning can’t embrace, fath understands.)

Strings in the earth and air
Make music sweet; […]
All softly playing,
With head to music bent,
And fingers straying
Upon an instrument.
(Joyce)

Study like you are going to live forever, live like you are going to die tomorrow.

Respect bacteria! They’re the only culture some people have!

The most pleasing memories are when you look back and remember that, even though it was hard, you did the right thing.

Et voilà.

El cielo y el infierno

De la virtud burlándose un ateo,
dijo: “Mira que lo veo y no lo creo;
orar y meditar todos los días,
vaya, vaya, ¡hay que ver qué tonterías!
Estudiar, creer en Dios, ir a la iglesia,
un hombre como yo, ¡vaya ocurrencia!
Leer la Biblia con devoción todos los días,
todo pura ilusión, todo manías;
vivir entre temores y suplicios
y conquistar un cielo a sacrificios;
¡mentiras, ilusión, puro camelo!
¿Y si después resulta que no hay cielo?”

Esto oyendo con humor un erudito,
dijo al ateo: “Ven aquí, te invito,
pues a tu interrogante estrafalario
yo le voy a oponer otro contrario.
La agudeza que presumes no es muy aguda;
¿estás muy, muy seguro de que dudas?,
¿estás seguro y plenamente convencido
de ser en tu conciencia un descreído?
Debes saber que de incrédulos hay pocos,
y muchos que lo son, más bien son locos;
¿Por qué este empeño en despreciar lo eterno?
¿Y si después resulta que hay infierno?

Paraules maques i paraules lletges / Pretty Words and Ugly Words

Després de l’article aquell sobre paraules lletges i paraules boniques, posaré les meves, en diverses llengües:

After that article about beautiful and not so beautiful words, I will post mine, in different languages:

PARAULES MAQUES / PRETTY WORDS:
Català: histèria, faristol, estel
Anglès: twilight, tryst
Espanyol: azahar, sol
Italià: tramonto, primavera, così
Francès: sourire, belle, violette
Alemany: eigentlich

PARAULES LLETGES / UGLY WORDS:
Català: crepuscle, coàgul
Anglès: lobby
Espanyol: buñuelo, miércoles
Italià: labbra
Francès: poumon
Alemany: Kugel, krum

Pengeu les vostres també, si voleu!

Post yours too, if you like!

Una ampolla de conyac i un quilo de farina o per què hi ha tantes guerres

Ahir, en una capital de comarca com tantes altres, amb cotxes i persones i edificis per tot arreu, i un cel una mica gris, hi havia caminant pel carrer un senyor molt gran, petit i encorvat, que coixejava mentre arrossegava un carretó de compra ple d’ampolles buides. Anava tot brut i malgirbat, i evidentment el pagaven per recollir les ampolles de les papereres del carrer.

Just quan es disposava a travessar el carrer, se li va tombar una mica el carro i una ampolla va rodolar uns metres.

Aquí va començar una estona molt desagradable pel vellet.

Si anava a collir l’ampolla, se li bolcava tot el carretó sense remei. Si creuava, perdria la seva preciosa ampolla per sempre més. I mentre meditava sobre el dilema mentre es fregava la barbeta mal afaitada, el semàfor va canviar i van començar a passar cotxes i camions immensos que amenaçaven de menjar-se el pobre home a qualsevol moment.

A més de cotxes i camions, passava la gent que veia tot això i no movia un dit per alleujar el patiment del senyor. Una colla d’ulls que van veure, que segurament tenien massa pressa per recollir una ampolla i que van seguir endavant ignorant el que veien. Per mi i pels que llegiu, una ampolla no té cap importància; però per un vellet desvalgut, coix, pobre i desorientat, evidentment significava bastant.

Al final, una noia que ho estava observant tot, asseguda en un racó, es va aixecar i li va rescatar l’ampolla al vellet. El vellet la va mirar com si li acabés de tornar la vida, va somriure i donar les gràcies, va travessar el carrer (el semàfor feia estona que havia tornat a canviar), va buscar dins una altra paperera que es va topar sense trobar res i va desaparèixer.

Una professora meva em va explicar una altra història. Vivia en una ciutat del litoral –relativament–, clima mediterrani i bon temps tot l’any.

Resulta que un dia va veure unes volves de neu caure per la finestra i li van entrar ganes de fer un pastís. Va dir, “Vinga, Mama, anem a fer un pastís!”. Però la seva mare s’havia quedat sense farina, i van haver de baixar al supermercat.

Allà van trobar deu o dotze quilos de farina i una senyora que els estava arreplegant tots en un carro. La meva professora li va demanar amablement si els podia deixar un quilo per fer un pastís, i ella es podia quedar els altres onze. Llavors, la senyora va amollar sense miraments “I ara! No! I si ens quedem incomunicats?” Segurament, tenia moltes probabilitats de quedar-se incomunicada a Cornellà de Llobregat després de veure caure unes volves de neu perdudes i mig mortes de riure.

Després d’aquestes demostracions de MALA SOMBRA en la vida quotidiana en un país on tothom té de tot i més, fa falta preguntar-se per què passen tantes desgràcies al món?

OP. 3 No. 9, Andante, Vivaldi

I don’t know why I use a chair at all. I always sit at the very edge, leaving three quarters of it free, which is a waste of space. Then I prop my violin under my chin, squirm a bit to make it more confortable, invariably without success, tense the bow and check the tuning. This is one of the most difficult bits of all. If I begin wrong, it’s like tripping on a stone: once I’ve stumbled for the first time, I spend a good while at it. So it’s important to take a deep breath and begin with a clear head, difficult as this last thing may seem… Now comes the first contact. Finger on string one end, bow and string the other end and slide through the first quadruplet gracefully. Then a little pause as if deciding whether to go on or not… The second group of notes has a bit more strength –I obviously decided to go on– and a rich and wide vibrato on the two beautiful quavers that end the phrase. After that, the second phrase ventures forth, leading to a staircase of quadruplet steps, to be walked upon very slowly and very carefully, savouring every note and every colour, and then the end and its trill with its charm and its expectancy. Once the next shy and sweet bit is over, I let my violin play on his own while I listen to the beautiful progression in a tender crescendo fill the room, fuses, trills, bowings, demisemiquavers all together in this thing that says without words what I have inside; it’s a bit like what I my life is: a small beginning and a rush of hope and dreams which will end in a climax of exultant joy and fullness… then a quietening down back to first position, serene, with the same joy, but more tranquil, like a calm autumn evening. I close my eyes but the darkness I see is replaced by the light and sound that comes out of my fingers. Then again the short coda to make sure I’ve said it all right. I have. The last note rings long and true, and I’ve been holding my breath without realising… It is a great responsibility and a greater privilege to be allowed to express such feelings and such beauty. I had never got a sound out of my violin like I have now. I’ve had a faint glimpse of something superior. I’m alone in the world, and it’s hard to come back to reality, but I’ve had a thrilling moment that I will treasure for ever! I will tell my teacher about it, and he’ll smile and understand… He’ll say he’s gone through it too, and that I need a few more years' playing to get hold of it forever. I’m ready… One day, I will play so well that I will be able to let other people share what I have, now only for myself.

Break, Break, Break

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Tennyson

Deures per vosaltres! xD

Apa, a fer feina:

Comentari sobre la frase: "Els límits de la meva llengua són els límits del meu món." (Wittgenstein)

Essay on the sentence: "The limits of my language are the limits of my world." (Wittgenstein)

A veure si té èxit…


(Podeu deixar-ho als comentaris, o si voleu m'envieu un email i ho publico, en el vostre nom, clar!)

(You can leave it in the comments, or if you like you can send me an email and I'll publish it, under your name, of course!)

La fille et la mer

M’agrada quan està serè i tranquil, i es guarda per ell mateix tots els seus secrets i la seva saviesa, i només parla quan estic una bona estona atenta, sense dir res, esperant. Llavors, la meva vista s’estén cap a l’horitzó, d’on ell ve i on jo no arribaré mai, i penso que m’agradaria ser-hi, voltada d’immensitat en comptes d’estar-ne al límit, on estrips d’escuma, que deuen venir de l’altra banda i que abans segurament devien haver estat pensaments i sospirs, em vénen a morir als peus cada segon. Perquè seria allà on estaria sola, sola de veritat. Als altres llocs hi ha ulls que em miren, i cases, i arbres, i pedres. Allà no hi ha res, només l’aigua gran, amb un terrible poder amagat sota la seva superfície deserta i amable, però hi estaria segura, sota una claror que no intimida, entre dues esferes infinites de dos blaus diferents. Però encara no pot ser, i em quedo on estic, i em recullo la faldilla i se’m mulla igualment, d’aquesta aigua profunda de distàncies, de promeses, de desgràcies, de somnis, d’esperances, de sempre. I l’olor de la sal i la música de les onades se m’enganxa a la pell i al vestit. I quan es fa de nit i no es veu res més, parla amb la Lluna amb reflexos d’or i de foc, que pinten el camí cap on no es pot arribar i que jo voldria poder seguir, i em quedo mirant una estona, i després marxo.

Near Dover, September 1802

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood;
And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,
The coast of France--the coast of France how near!
Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.
I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood
Was like a lake, or river bright and fair,
A span of waters; yet what power is there!
What mightiness for evil and for good!
Even so doth God protect us if we be
Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll,
Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity;
Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree
Spake laws to 'them', and said that by the soul
Only, the Nations shall be great and free.

William Wordsworth