Like an object, it wears out, consumes itself like something used on a daily basis. When one has long awaited a letter that does not arrive, first the pain of disappointment becomes greater each day, until, after an unforeseeable length of time, it begins to wane. One seldom speaks or writes about the things one thinks of most often: death and love. Schumann’s wonderful Scenes from Goethe’s Faust.
Every day, from the sky, it streams to every creature, through house and garden and soul.-Think about the connections between light and music. Merely to write about light is an infinite adventure. Whoever searches for me should search in it for me. When I die, it remains behind as my earthly part. One has grown up with its trees, the child has walked along these paths as the wayside grass reached up to her mouth.-Its phenomena keep memory alive quicken it tire the landscape contains one together with everything one has experienced with it, in it, through it, including the suffering over and for it throughout this century of destruction. On landscape 11 / beloved l.Ī beloved landscape is Heaven on Earth. When something “rushes” in Hölderlin, whether it’s a coach driving away in the night, a tree in the light of dawn, a fountain at midnight, a distant river, the paths of the stars, this rushing has such a unique sound that one listens for it one’s whole life long. That they have enough room in there, the woods, the cities dreams conjure up in order to reanimate them, to transform and blend them! The city becomes woodland, and woodland city, and in both places you encounter, also with transposed or transformed faces, the people you knew, know, thought you knew, all of whom you ultimately do not know, stranger. Most of those in the house with you are no longer alive, they’ve died, or were lost without a trace.-The landscapes, the gardens, the fields you walked through remain, a map in the brain, your personal geography and topography. You can see in through the strange windows, see yourself in action, sleeping, walking back and forth, as a child, as a woman.
#Soldatenlieder erika translation windows
Until they die out into a shapeless, sallow cloud.-Others have a hidden hearth where they continue to burn, or merely to smolder, giving off a charred smell and a blackish smoke.-And then there are also the images one gazes at as though through the windows of a stranger’s house. How true: they “pale,” lose color and contour, like old photographs. A person walks up, sits down next to me, and says a few kind words that reach to very the bottom of my heart. The evening seeps in as a clear, cloudless gloaming. Epitome 22 / of securityįantasy, back then: I am sitting in the grass or heather, my arms wrapped around my knees. One’s own heartbeat is the echo of a great, tremendously inaudible sound. Finally, the white stillness the acoustics of absolute silence. Quieter and quieter, more and more distant, pallid.
A world without secrecy is an empty nutshell. Our lives are borne and nourished by the fact that this mystery perennates indestructibly. All the secrets and mysteries of our existence converge in the mystery of God. Later, agitation arrives with the mysteries of love, the metamorphoses the lover undergoes- La vita nova. These manifest early in the secretiveness of a child who guards his hidden “treasures,” who has his secret language and secret writing, who communicates in signs and drawings. Human beings cannot live without secrets. If you take this away from him, his integrity is ruined. Existence 11 / life secretĮvery person is his secret. Prayer.-Who prays nowadays, and why? It’s frightening, the idea that people, collectively, could no longer pray one day, which would be tantamount to losing a dimension that cannot be substituted by anything else, whether it be skill or knowledge. Translated by contributing editor Andrea Scrima from the original German edition Am Fenster, wo die Nacht einbricht: Aufzeichnungen ( At the window, where night breaks: Notations) , Limmat Verlag, Zurich, Switzerland 2013 Transcendence 14 / humans without prayer Erika Burkart
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