Antschel

Another pilgrimage to a poet’s home. Paul Celan (1920-1970), a Jewish Romanian German-speaking poet, was born in Czernowitz, or rather Cernăuați. (For the most part of the 19^th century, the city belonged to the Habsburg Empire; after WWI it was given to Romania, and then passed on to the USSR). It was nice to find a commemorative plaque by the poet’s house at 5 Saksahanskoho st. (or what used to be ‘Wassilkogasse').

At a pub met a group of students (from the local College of Arts) who were quite surprised to learn that I was there partly for the poet they had never heard of.

Corona

Aus der Hand frißt der Herbst mir sein Blatt: wir sind Freunde.
Wir schälen die Zeit aus den Nüssen und lehren sie gehn:
die Zeit kehrt zurück in die Schale.

Im Spiegel ist Sonntag,
im Traum wird geschlafen,
der Mund redet wahr.

Mein Aug steigt hinab zum Geschlecht der Geliebten:
wir sehen uns an,
wir sagen uns Dunkles,
wir lieben einander wie Mohn und Gedächtnis,
wir schlafen wie Wein in den Muscheln,
wie das Meer im Blutstrahl des Mondes.

Wir stehen umschlungen im Fenster, sie sehen uns zu von der Straße:
es ist Zeit, daß man weiß!
Es ist Zeit, daß der Stein sich zu blühen bequemt,
daß der Unrast ein Herz schlägt.
Es ist Zeit, daß es Zeit wird.

Es ist Zeit.

Corona
Autumn eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends.
From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to walk:
then time returns to the shell.

In the mirror it’s Sunday,
in dream there is room for sleeping,
our mouths speak the truth.

My eye moves down to the sex of my loved one:
we look at each other,
we exchange dark words,
we love each other like poppy and recollection,
we sleep like wine in the conches,
like the sea in the moon’s blood ray.

We stand by the window embracing, and people
look up from the street:
it is time they knew!
It is time the stone made an effort to flower,
time unrest had a beating heart.
It is time it were time.

It is time.

Translated by Michael Hamburger

Along the Street of Crocodiles

Finally managed to visit Drohobych, where Bruno Schulz (1892-1942) lived, wrote, and was shot.

"I'm simply calling it The Book without epithets or qualifications, and in this sobriety there is a shade of helplessness, a silent capitulation before the vastness of the transcendental, for no word, no allusion, can adequately suggest the shiver of fear, the presentiment of a thing without a name that exceeds all our capacity to wonder. How could an accumulation of adjectives or a richness of epithets help when one is faced with that splendiferous thing? Besides, any true reader - and this story is only addressed to him - will understand me anyway when I look him straight in the eye and try to communicate my meaning. A short sharp look or a light clasp of his hand will stir him into awareness, and he will blink in rapture of the brilliance of The Book. For, under the imaginary table that separates me from my readers, don't we secretly clasp each other's hands?"

-- From "The Book," in Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass.

Fallowing

The fall is extravagant in the City of K. The guelder rose, the chestnut, and the smurky weather.

Old and New

Was talking to my students about recycling. Water, plastic, paper, etc. (The city of L. has yet to build at least one recycling facility. Most things just get dumped -- and not necessarily at the dumpster). Somehow we ended up talking about reusing things (thrift stores, donations, Salvation Army, etc). The interesting thing is that, when asked if they would wear/use something used/worn, 90% of the group pulled a quick 'no, never' at me. This was hardly a revelation but a confirmation. The cult of the (brand-) New has been obvious to me from day one. But the reasoning behind all this is still pretty unclear.

Be as it may, what bothers me most is that this place is losing a sense of history... I mean older things get mercilessly discarded (especially material culture). Grandmas and grandpas, those in their 70s, with their maniacal attachment to material possessions (mostly because they can't afford new things) are the only depositories of Soviet relics. The Soviets seemed to work hard to obliterate everything pre-Soviet. Younger people now seem like they were born with their iPhone, Nokia, IKEA, and Chinese Dolce&Gabbana. And the rate at which we now move through things is quite amazing. This kind of attitude is very similar to the attitude to computers and software. After all, why would you use Firefox 3.6.10 if the 3.6.11 is already out?

Piazzolla in the City of L.

Yet another happening that added some spice to the musical diet of the city of L. The symphonic orchestra opened the season with a medley of Piazzolla's pieces "Invierno porteño," "Adios Nonino," "Oblivion," the bandoneon concerto (Aconcagua), and "Libertango" as an encore. It was great to see some people leaving the concert hall humming tangos and skipping around the bus stop. Another group of people were trying to come up with mnemonics to remember the word 'bandoneon.' Piazzolla left everyone with something to do!

Do you know what 'Bach' means in German?

Great performance of Giya Kancheli's Seventh Symphony by the local philharmonic orchestra. Bach's f-minor piano concerto, though, was a bit of a disappointment: very shy, almost dormant.

I don't know whose idea it was to place two huge speakers in the corners above the stage to amplify the sound. It confused the heck out of me when I clearly heard the music come not from the piano but from the Bose box in the left corner. A few feet below the speakers there were large flat-screen TVs that showed a medley of wallpaper-esque landscapes: German - for Bach and Georgian - for Kancheli.

Yet another strange move is a traditional lecture before each piece. An exalted musicologist comes out on stage before the orchestra and narrates for 10 minutes about the composer, the work, symbolism, etc. etc. "Do you know what 'Bach' means in German?" "The opening part comes through as a bit forceful, but do not be distressed..." Why not print it in the program? What if I want to be distressed? Moreover, that's the reason why Kancheli wrote it. Do you know what 'Boese' means in German?

Life in/ with a cell

From an essay by a student: "[...] My lovely cell phone (as I call it) always lives in my bag with my powder, lipstick, mascara, and pencil for eyes. But most of all, it likes to lie on the kitchen table. In addition, it usually sleeps under my pillow at night. Second of all, I like to spend a lot of time with my phone. [...] Besides, we like to watch TV, cook, and read together."