Archiv der Kategorie: GIACOMO.JOYCE

Schulze und ich haben es bewußt „Aneignungen“ genannt:>>>> Bestellen (dort – auch – als eBuch).

Radenbeck (GF), Juli 2013 >>>> Parallalie. Giacomo Joyce 55 <<<<

(Zur Erläuterung >>>>lies diesen Kommentar.) >>>> Giacomo Joyce 56 Giacomo Joyce 54 <<<<

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in the beauty’s field, Thy youth’s proud livery so gazed on now, Will be a tattered weed of small worth held: Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies, … Weiterlesen →

(…) Übrigens, Klaus, haben mein in Italien lebender Übersetzerfreund >>>> Helmut Schulze und ich uns an einer neuen Übersetzung des Giacomo Joyce versucht und versuchen sie auch, im Netz öffentlich diskutierbar, weiter. Dabei sind bislang zwei Versionen entstanden, die wir, … Weiterlesen →

So liegt er denn vor, der „Rohling“ unserer >>>> Übertragungen in Einzelstücken. Um den auch persönlich höchstmöglichen Ausdruck zu erreichen, habe ich folgenden Vorschlag: Jeder von uns nimmt sich jetzt den gesamten Text noch einmal vor, aber ohne das Original, … Weiterlesen →

Unreadiness. A bare apartment. Torbid daylight. A long black piano: coffin of music. Poised on its edge a woman‘s hat, red flowered, and umbrella, furled. Her arms: a casque, gules, and blunt spear on a field, sable. Envoy: Love me, … Weiterlesen →

„Why?“ „Because otherwise I could not see you.“ Sliding – space – ages – foliage of stars – and waning heaven – stillness – and stillness deeper – stillness of annihilation – and her voice. Non hunc sed Barabbam! >>>> … Weiterlesen →

Jan Pieters Sweelink. The quaint name of the old Dutch musician makes all beauty seem quaint and far. I hear this veriations for the clavichord on an old air: Youth has an end. In the vague mist of old sounds … Weiterlesen →

– I am not convinced that such activities of the mind or body can be called unhealthy – She speaks. A weak voice from beyond the cold stars. Voice of wisdom. Say on! O, say again, making me wise! The … Weiterlesen →

A soft crumbled peagreen cover drapes the lounge. A narrow Parisian room. The hairdresser lay here but now. I kissed her stocking and the hem of her rustblack dusty skirt. It is the other. She. Gogarty came yesterday to be … Weiterlesen →

The spread under my feet carpets for the son of man, They await my passing. She stands in the yellow shadow of the hall, a plaid cloak shielding from chills her sinking shoulders; and as I halt in wonder and … Weiterlesen →

As I come out of Ralli‘s house I come upon her suddenly as we both are giving alms to a blind beggar. She answers my sudden greeting by turning and averting her black basilisk eyes. E col suo vedere attosca … Weiterlesen →

My voice, dying in the echoes of its words, dies like the wisdom-wearied voice of the Eternal calling on Abraham through echoing hills. She leans back against the pillowed wall: odalisque-featured in the luxurious obscurity. Her eyes have drunk my … Weiterlesen →