Abū Tammām (d. 231/845)
He is the sea
Whencesoever you come to him
Beneficence is his depth
And liberality his shore
Translation by Mansour Ajami
Pouring Water on Time, Gerlach Press, Berlin, 2016.
Walter Bonatti
… Sono stordito dall’emozione e dal profondo silenzio che avvolge la montagna nell’ora del tramonto. Mi guardo attorno e vedo un mondo vuoto e spento, che respinge l’uomo e la vita. Ogni cosa, stranamente, appare come sospesa. La roccia, il ghiaccio, la neve, la stessa montagna, tutto è lì in equilibrio tra realtà e immaginazione. Per non cadere nello sgomento mi impongo di non pensare più a nulla, e proseguo come un automa verso la base della parete. Supero il grande seracco. Sul plateau soprastante ritrovo sulla neve qualche traccia delle nostre vecchie orme, ormai indurite e corrose dal vento. La scoperta non mi dà né sollievo né conforto … (p. 265) … Ogni sera, cessando l’azione, mi aggrediscono i pensieri e mille ricordi prendono vita. Sono i fantasmi che sempre accompagnano nelle imprese solitarie. Davanti a me, oltre gli strapiombi sovrastanti dove ancora non può giungere il mio sguardo, c’è l’incognita; ma c’è anche la certezza di non poter più retrocedere. A rendere impossibile un eventuale ripiegamento sono le stesse rocce che si elevano da qui, strapiombanti ed elicoidali, nel loro andamento obliquo verso sinistra. Strutture che richiederebbero una serie di corde-doppie seguite da impossibili pendolate… (p. 268) … Il mattino, lungo gli strapiombi, fatico molto per il gran peso dello zaino. Decido allora di eliminare tutto ciò che non ritengo strettamente indispensabile. Prendo un pezzo di formaggio e lo getto nel vuoto, poi è la volta di due bombolette di gas. Fanno la stessa fine alcuni cubetti di marmellata, la pancetta, i biscotti, la carne secca, le minestrone in polvere, e, in parte, lo zucchero e il latte condensato … (p. 269) … So di muovermi ai limiti del possibile, sono conscio di trovarmi talmente fuori dal mondo che se penso a qualcosa di vivo, alla normalità, mi afferra l’emozione. La parete qui è più che mai incrostata di ghiaccio, è persino deforme in prospettiva; ecco, sembra l’incavo di un’enorme conchiglia al cui centro sto io nell’atto di arrampicare. Se alzo gli occhi non scorgo la vetta, se li abbasso non vedo Zermatt. Mosse dal vento, alcune pietre trafiggono l’aria sibilando e si perdono nel vuoto … (p. 270) … Il cielo ingrigisce, albeggia. I lumi di Zermatt svaniscono a uno a uno nel candore del giorno. Poi è tutta un’immensità azzurra, purissima, senza orizzonte, priva di gravità. Ancora assetato di vedere e di assorbire l’universo indugio davanti a quello spettacolo sconfinato. Ebbro di silenzi e di estremi limiti, il mio spirito vibra e si esalta … (p. 271) … Sono sempre solo con la mia fatica. Gli sforzi di tutti quei giorni, e l’aria sempre più rarefatta, appesantiscono i miei movimenti. Mi sembra quasi di impersonare un personaggio biblico condannato a salire eternamente. Verso le tre del pomeriggio, quando mi trovo a soli cinquanta metri dalla vetta, improvvisa a splendente appare la croce metallica fissata alla sommità. Il sole che la illumina da sud la fa apparire come incandescente. Sono quasi abbagliato dai suoi contorni luminosi. Gli aerei, ormai numerosi e che nell’ultima ora mi hanno assordato con il loro rombo, sembrano intuire la solennità del momento. Forse per discrezione si allontanano un po’, lasciandomi percorrere gli ultimi metri in silenzio. Come ipnotizzato, stendo le braccia a quella croce fino a stringerla al petto. (p. 272).
“Nord Cervino: d’inverno e da solo” (1965) in Montagne di una vita. Baldini e Castoldi: Milano, 2013
… I was confused by emotion and by the silence enveloping the mountain in the hour of sunset. I looked around and saw an empty and lifeless world that rejected man and even life itself. Everything seemed strangely suspended: the rocks, the ice, the snow, the mountain itself, everything was in limbo between reality and imagination. To overcome my fears I forced myself to think of nothing and carried on toward the base of the wall like an automaton. I overcame a great serac, and here and there on the plateau above I discovered in the snow traces of our old tracks, hardened by now and swept by the wind. The discovery gave neither solace nor comfort … (p. 295-296) … As on every such evening, a thousand thoughts and memories assailed me when the action ceased. They were fantasies that always accompany solitary exploits. In front of me, immediately on the other side of the overhangs above, was the unknown, and the certainty I would no longer be able to turn back because the twisting and overhanging rocks above me would necessitate a series of abseils followed by an impossible pendulum in space … (p. 298) … In the morning, as I climbed the overhangs, the sack felt so heavy that I eliminated everything not absolutely indispensable. I took a piece of cheese and threw it into the void. Then it was the turn of two gas cylinders. Then some packets of jam, the bacon, biscuits, dried meat, and soup powders. Some of the sugar and condensed milk followed the same fate … (p. 299) … I was reaching the limits of the possible. I felt detached from the world, and when I thought of something beautiful or human, I was in turmoil. Here the face was more ice-coated than ever; it had lost all perspective and seemed to me like the concavity of an enormous shell, the center of which I was climbing. If I lifted my eyes I could not see the summit; if I looked down I could not see Zermatt. Dislodged by the wind, a few stones hissed through the air and were lost in the void … (p. 301) … The sky became gray: dawn broke. The lights of Zermatt vanished one by one in the whiteness of day. Then it was all a blue, very pure immensity, limitless and weightless. I lingered in front of these infinite spaces, still thirsty to see and to absorb the universe. Intoxicated by silence and freed from the limitations of thought and action, my spirit exulted… (p. 302) … I was still alone with my fatigue. The trials of all these days and the ever more rarefied air weighed down my movements. I seemed to have become a mythical character, condemned for his sins to climb eternally. Toward three in the afternoon, when I was only 200 feet from the top, the summit cross appeared suddenly, shining in the sun, which illuminated it from the south and made it incandescent. I was dazzled by its shining outline. The numerous airplanes, which until now had deafened me with their noise, seemed to understand the solemnity of the moment. Perhaps through discretion, they went away for awhile and left me to climb the last few feet in silence, completely alone. As if hypnotized, I stretched out my arms toward the cross, until I finally clasped it to my chest: my knees buckled and I wept. (p. 303).
Translation by Robert Marshall
“The North Face of the Matterhorn: Solo and in Winter” (1965) in The Mountains of my Life. New York: Penguin Books, 2001
Karin Boye
Portarna
Jag älskar de vita bergen, de marmorvita/ med pannan sköljd av/ himlarnas högblåa vila/ och salthavs stormande glitter/ och doriska tempel, och tankens svala kristall./ Men dröjt har jag också vid gläntande portar/ och sett dit in i tonande skymningsdjup,/ där altarljusens skimmer stilla jublade/ mot bävande tid, advent,/ medan vintermorgonen stirrade mörk genom välvda fönster./ De ljusa helgon, de som övervunnit,/ anandes saliga bortom mörkret,/ och Guds längtare/ böjde till bön sina knän, ensamma i skarorna,/ och sågo med slutna ögon den Endes glans,/ själens innersta världar,/ och mystiska sanningar lärde de lyssnande./ Om du en gång har lyssnat vid brinnande altarljus,/ aldrig glömmer du då Guds tysta blommande örtagårdar –/ du kysser portvalvets sten och vänder dig bort./ Ni vita berg, ni marmorvita i bländande sol,
ni älskade fjärransedda, ni mitt hem i aningen,/ jag kommer till er!/ Liv, det är skära och bryta, att något må växa./ Var och en är så många,/ men mer än en väg går ingen.
From Moln 1922 in Samlade Dikter. Albert Bonniers Förlag, 2004
The Doors
I love those white mountains, the marble white/ with foreheads rinsed by the heavens’ high blue repose,/ and the storming glitter of the salt sea,/ and Doric temples, and thought’s cool crystal./ But I have also lingered by doors left ajar/ and seen inside, into/ sounding twilight depths,/ where the shimmer of altar candles/ quietly rejoiced/ in the face of trembling time, Advent,/ while the winter morning stared dark through vaulted windows./ Those radiant saints, those who overcame,/ could be sensed, blessed, beyond the darkness,/ and God’s yearners/ bent their knees in prayer, lonely in their hosts,/ and saw with closed eyes the Only One’s brilliance,/ soul’s innermost worlds,/ and mystical truths they learned listening./ If you have ever listened near burning altar candles,/ then you will never forget God’s silent, blossoming gardens -/ you will kiss the stone of the gate-arch and turn away./ White mountains, marble white in dazzling sun,/ beloved, distantly-seen, my home in presentiment,/ I come to you!/ Life is to cut and to break so that something may grow./ Everyone is so many people,/ but more than one road no one goes.
Translation by David McDuff
Per Anders Fogelström
I begynnelsen fick staden sitt sigill och märke: murar och torn intill vatten. /kyddande sten restes mot allt som fanns utanför, mot fienden och vinden, mot kölden och mörkret. En gång hade staden legat hoprullad som en igelkott i en bergsskreva… Några av dessa som kom skulle sedan alltid längta ut, bort från staden, tillbaka till livet utanför stenmurarna. Ändå stannade de, fanns alltid något som hindrade. Och deras barn och barnbarn blev stadens och älskade stenarna, när de sa att sommaren nalkades hade de känt stenens värme och inte blommans doft …
Mina drömmars stad. Stockholm: Bokförlaget Aldus, 1975; p. 7
In the beginning the city was given its mark and seal: walls and towers along the water./ Protective stone was raised against everything that lay outside, against the enemy and the wind, against the cold and the dark. At one time the city had lain tightly curled like a hedgehog in a crevice in a hill./ … Some of those who came would always long to get out, away from the city, back to life outside the stone walls. Yet they stayed. There was always something that prevented them from leaving, and their children and grandchildren became the city’s, and loved the stones. When they said that summer was approaching, they meant they had noticed the heat of the stones and not the scent of the flowers …
Translation by Jennifer Brown Bäverstam
City of My Dreams. Iowa City: Penfield Press, 2000.
Hermann Hesse
Si guardò attorno come se vedesse per la prima volta il mondo. Bello era il mondo, variopinto, raro e misterioso era il mondo! Qui era azzuro, là giallo, più oltre verde, il cielo pareva fluire lentamente come i fiumi, immobili stavano il bosco e la montagna, tutto bello, tutto enigmatico e magico, e in mezzo v’era lui, Siddharta, il risvegliato, sulla strada che conduce a se stesso. Tutto ciò, tutto questo giallo e azzurro, fiume e bosco penetrava per la prima volta attraverso la vista in Siddharta, non era più l’incantesimo di Mara, non era più il velo di Maya, non era più insensata e accidentale molteplicità del mondo delle apparenze, spregevole agli occhi del Brahmino, che, tutto dedito ai suoi profondi pensieri, scarta la molteplicità e solo dell’unità va in cerca. L’azzurro era azzurro, il fiume era fiume, e anche se nell’azzurro e nel fiume vivevan nascosti come in Siddharta l’uno e il divino, tale era appunto la natura e il senso del divino, d’esser qui giallo, là azzurro, là cielo, là bosco e qui Siddharta. Il senso e l’essenza delle cose erano non in qualche cosa oltre e dietro loro, ma nelle cose stesse, in tutto.
Translation by Massimo Mila
Siddharta, Milano: Adelphi Edizioni, 1973; pp. 75-76
Han såg sig omkring som om han nu hade upptäckt världen för första gången. Världen var skön, världen var grann, världen var sällsam och gåtfull! Här var det blått, här var det gult, här var det grönt; himlen välvde sig och floden flöt, skogen och bergen stod tysta och stora, allt var skönt, allt var gåtfullt och mystiskt, och mitt i alltsammans var han, Siddhartha, den uppvaknande, på väg till sig själv. Allt detta, allt det gula och blå, floden och skogen, fastnade för första gången i Siddharthas ögon, det var icke längre något Maras underverk, det var inte längre ett meningslöst och tillfälligt mångfaldigande av sinnevärlden, som endast var värd förakt av den djuptänkte bramanen som försmår all mångfald och söker enheten. Blått var blått, flod var flod, och även om det enda och gudomliga för Siddhartha doldes även i färgen och floden, så låg det just i det gudomligas natur att uppträda än som blått eller gult, än som himmel eller skog, än som Siddhartha. Mening och väsen var inte något som låg någonstans bakom tingen, det var i dem, i allt.
Translation by Nils Holmberg
Siddhartha, Viborg: Albert Bonniers Forlag, 2004; 34-35
He looked around as if seeing the world for the first time. How beautiful it was, how colorful, how strange and mysterious! Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green; sky and river were flowing; forests and mountains stood fixed: Everything was beautiful, everything mysterious and magical, and in the midst of all this was he, Siddhartha, in the moment of his awakening, on the path to himself. All these things, all this yellow and blue, river and forest, passed through Siddhartha’s eye and entered him for the first time; they were no longer the illusion of Mara, no longer the veil of Maya, no longer the meaningless random multiplicity of the world of appearances, contemptible to any deep thinker among Brahmins, any thinker who scoffed at multiplicity and sought oneness. Blue was blue, river was river, and even if the One, the Divine, lay hidden in the blue and the river within Siddhartha, it was still the nature and intention of the Divine to be yellow here, blue here, sky over there, forest there, and here Siddhartha. Meaning and being did not lie somewhere behind things; they lay within them, within everything.
Translation by Susan Bernofsky
Siddhartha: An Indian Poem, New York: The Modern Library, 2006.
Giacomo Leopardi
L’infinito
Sempre caro mi fu quest’ermo colle,/ e questa siepe, che da tanta parte/ dell’ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude./ Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati/ spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani/ silenzi, e profondissima quiete/ io nel pensier mi fingo; ove per poco il cor non si spaura. E come il vento/ odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello/ infinito silenzio a questa voce/ vo comparando: e mi sovvien l’eterno,/ e le morte stagioni, e la presente/ e viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa/ immensità s’annega il pensier mio: e il naufragar m’è dolce in questo mare.
Canti. Oscar Mondadori: Milano, 1987, p. 112.
This lonely hill was always dear to me,/ and this hedgerow, which cuts off the view/ of so much of the last horizon./ But sitting here and gazing, I can see/ beyond, in my mind’s eye, unending spaces,/ and superhuman silences, and depthless calm,/ till what I feel is almost fear. And when I hear/ the wind stir in these branches, I begin/ comparing that endless stillness with this noise:/ and the eternal comes to mind,/ and the dead seasons, and the present/ living one, and how it sounds./ So my mind sinks in this immensity: and foundering is sweet in such a sea.
Translation by Jonathan Galassi
Canti. New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 2010
Eugenio Montale
Portami il girasole
Portami il girasole ch’io lo trapianti/ nel mio terreno bruciato dal salino,/ e mostri tutto il giorno agli azzurri specchianti/ del cielo l’ansietà del suo volto giallino./ Tendono alla chiarità le cose oscure,/ si esauriscono i corpi in un fluire/ di tinte: queste in musiche. Svanire/ è dunque la ventura delle venture./ Portami tu la pianta che conduce/ dove sorgono bionde trasparenze/ e vapora la vita quale essenza;/ portami il girasole impazzito di luce.
Ossi di sepia. Arnoldo Mondadori Editore: Milano, 1984.
The Sunflower
Bring me the sunflower here and let me set it/ in the parched briny soil of my own place/ to turn all day to the heavens that reflect it / the broad gaze of its yellow yearning face./ Things of the dark aspire to all that’s bright,/ their forms dissolving into a cascade of tints merging in music. Simply to fade/ from view is the great adventure, lost in light./ Bring me the plant that points us to the height/ where there’s a clearness tinged with the sun’s rays/ and life itself is thinning to a haze./ Bring me that flower delirious with light.
Translation by Patricia Hann http://www.stephen-spender.org/2012_prize/2012_open_2nd_PH.html
Natanael Beskow
No. 508
Nu kommer kväll med vilans bud,/ och bördan lägges av./ Nu vill jag tacka dig, min Gud,/ för allt vad du mig gav:/ för hus och hem och dagligt bröd,/ för jordelivets id,/ för tröst i nöd, för liv i död, för himmelrikets frid./ Och gryr för mig en morgondag,/ så är den dagen din;/ så är din vilja all min lag,/ och all din kärlek min./ Så står jag här i Jesu namn./ Jag lever på ditt bud;/ Jag går emot din öppna famn,/ min Fader och min Gud.
Den Svenska Psalmboken. Verbum Förlag: Jongbloed, Netherlands (music: A Krieger 1656), 2008.
Now night comes with the offer of rest,/ and the burden is put aside./ Now I thank You, my God,/ for all You have given me:/ for house and home and daily bread/ for earthly life,/ for life in death, for the glory of heaven./ And dawns for me a new tomorrow,/ so is the day Yours,/ so is Your will, my law,/ and all Your love, mine./ So I am here in the name of Jesus./ I live by Your command;/ I walk in Your embrace,/ My father and my God.
Translation by Laura Dolp
Photographs
Franz Dolp. Photographs 1964-1965. “Abbas,” Cairo; “American University,” Cairo; “View from the Pyramid,” Giza 1964; “Roberta,” Nile Delta; “Arrival,” Nile Delta; “Felucca.”
Maps
Ales Stenar, Sweden
Briones Reservoir, California
Edler cello (1877)
Gotland, Sweden
Hands (1 and 2)
Lake Como, Italy
Buddapada, British Museum
Chartres Cathedral, France
Steinway O (1916)
San Juan Islands, Washington
Lake Winnipesauke, New Hampshire
Friends Meeting House at Cambridge, Massachusetts
San Maurizio al Monastero Maggiore, Italy
Uluru, Australia
Music
J.S. Bach. Sei solo a violino senza basso accompagnato: BWV 1001-1006: Faksimile der autographen Handschrift in der Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin – Preussischer Kulturbesitz / Johann Sebastian Bach; mit einem Geleitwort von Julia Fischer; herausgegeben und mit einer Einführung von Sven Hiemke. Laaber: Laaber-Verlag, 2006
J.S. Bach. Das wohltemperierte Klavier : part I = Teil I : BWV 846-869 : Autograph Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin Preussischer Kulturbesitz / Johann Sebastian Bach ; Kommentar von Christoph Wolff, Martina Rebmann. Kassel: Bärenreiter, 2015
Edward Elgar. Concerto for violoncello and orchestra in E minor, op. 85 = in e: Royal College of Music London MS 402 facsimile / Edward Elgar; introduction by Jonathan Del Mar; foreword by Steven Isserlis. Kassel; New York: Bärenreiter, 2007
Ludwig van Beethoven. Quartett für zwei Violinen, Viola und Violoncello (F-Dur) op. 135, Stimmen, Autograph. Beethoven-Haus Bonn, Sammlung H. C. Bodmer, HCB BMh 6/46
Franz Schubert. Winterreise: (D 911): Faksimile nach dem Autograph der Morgan Library & Museum, New York / Franz Schubert; mit einem Geleitwort von Brigitte Fassbaender und einer Einführung von Michael Kube. Laaber: Laaber-Verlag, 2015
Johannes Brahms. Quintet in F minor for two violins, viola, violoncello, and piano, op. 34. Autographs: facsimiles of eight manuscripts in the Library of Congress / introduction by James Webster; notes about the manuscripts by George S. Bozarth. New York: Garland Publishing, 1983
Johannes Brahms. Variationen und Fuge über ein Thema von Händel für Klavier, B-Dur, Opus 24: Faksimile nach dem Autograph aus den Sammlungen der Musikabteilung der Library of Congress, Washington / von Johannes Brahms; in Zusammenarbeit mit der Library of Congress, Washington; mit einem Geleitwort von Christoph Eschenbach und einer Einführung von Frederic Döhl.
Gustav Mahler. Das Lied von der Erde: Der Abschied: Clavierauszug, manuscript, facsimile / Gustav Mahler. The Hague: Editor Stichtung “Rondom Mahler”, 2002
Robert Schumann. Dichterliebe: opus 48: Liederkreis aus Heinrich Heines Buch der Liede: Faksimile nach dem Autograph in der Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin Preussischer Kulturbesitz / Robert Schumann; mit einem Geleitwort von Brigitte Fassbaender; herausgegeben und mit einer Einführung von Elisabeth Schmierer. Laaber: Laaber-Verlag, 2006
Arvo Pärt. Tabula rasa facsimile. ECM Records: Munich, 2010, p. 37
Illustrations
Garth Williams, in Laura Ingalls Wilder. Little House in the Big Woods. Harper & Row: New York, 1953
Garth Williams, in Laura Ingalls Wilder. Little House on the Prairie. Harper Trophy: New York, 1971