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عبدالحليم حافظ في تسجيل اسطوانة نادر...خايف مرَّة أحِبّ

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الطير المسافر - نجاة 

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Farid Farjad - Shaneh

Farid Farjad was born in Tehran in 1938. Upon receiving his masters degree in classical music from the Tehran Music Conservatory in 1966, he won the First Violin Seat in the Tehran Symphony Orchestra and was appointed to serve a tenure at the conservatory to teach classical violin. Farid’s profound knowledge of Persian folk music and his gifted ability to draw on the highly advanced techniques of Western classical music has given life to an innovative style of violin performance in playing Persian music. In An Roozha albums, Farid, with his unique style, has recreated melodies which are reminiscent of sweet memories of the past. He wants to remind Persian people “those days”,that is before the Islam revolution. For that reason,he puts his all album names “Anroozha” meaning that “those days”.

بحِبَّك مِن قلبى - يا قلبى - إنت عينيَّا

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Another beautiful day in Paris ☀️

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Goodbye, my friend, goodbye My love, you are in my heart. It was preordained we should part And be reunited by and by.

Goodbye: no handshake to endure. Let’s have no sadness — furrowed brow. There’s nothing new in dying now Though living is no newer.

До свиданья, друг мой, до свиданья. Милый мой, ты у меня в груди. Предназначенное расставанье Обещает встречу впереди.

До свиданья, друг мой, без руки, без слова, Не грусти и не печаль бровей,- В этой жизни умирать не ново, Но и жить, конечно, не новей.

Есенин Сергей Александрович

Written in his own blood, and given to a friend the day before he hanged himself, or so it is assumed.

أفهكذا يكونُ المَصير؟

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Memories: a story of German love - Friedrich Max Müller

Thou poor human heart! So soon in the spring are thy leaves broken and the feathers torn from the wings! When the spring-red of life opens the hidden calyx of the soul, it perfumes our whole being with love.

We learn to stand and to walk, to speak and to read, but no one teaches us love. It is inherent in us like life, they say, and is the very deepest foundation of our existence. As the heavenly bodies incline to and attract each other, and will always cling together by the everlasting law of gravitation, so heavenly souls incline to and attract each other, and will always cling together by the everlasting law of love. A flower cannot blossom without sunshine, and man cannot live without love.

Would not the child’s heart break in despair when the first cold storm of the world sweeps over it, if the warm sunlight of love from the eyes of mother and father did not shine upon him like the soft reflection of divine light and love?

The ardent yearning, which then awakes in the child, is the purest and deepest love. It is the love which embraces the whole world; which shines resplendent wherever the eyes of men beam upon it, which exults wherever it hears the human voice. It is the old, immeasurable love, a deep well which no plummet has ever sounded; a fountain of perennial richness. Whoever knows it also knows that in love there is no More and no Less; but that he who loves can only love with the whole heart, and with the whole soul; with all his strength and with all his will.

But, alas, how little remains of this love by the time we have finished one-half of our life-journey! Soon the child learns that there are strangers, and ceases to be a child. The spring of love becomes hidden and soon filled up. Our eyes gleam no more, and heavy-hearted we pass one another in the bustling streets. We scarcely greet each other, for we know how sharply it cuts the soul when a greeting remains unanswered, and how sad it is to be sundered from those whom we have once greeted, and whose hands we have clasped. The wings of the soul lose their plumes; the leaves of the flower fast fall off and wither; and of this fountain of love there remain but a few drops. We still call these few drops love, but it is no longer the clear, fresh, all-abounding child-love.

It is love with anxiety and trouble, a consuming flame, a burning passion; love which wastes itself like rain-drops upon the hot sand; love which is a longing, not a sacrifice; love which says “Wilt thou be mine,” not love which says, “I must be thine.” It is a most selfish, vacillating love. And this is the love which poets sing and in which young men and maidens believe; a fire which burns up and down, yet does not warm, and leaves nothing behind but smoke and ashes. All of us at some period of life have believed that these rockets of sunbeams were everlasting love, but the brighter the glitter, the darker the night which follows.

And then when all around grows dark, when we feel utterly alone, when all men right and left pass us by and know us not, a forgotten feeling rises in the breast. We know not what it is, for it is neither love nor friendship. You feel like crying to him who passes you so cold and strange: “Dost thou not know me?”

Then one realizes that man is nearer to man than brother to brother, father to son, or friend to friend. How an old, holy saying rings through our souls, that strangers are nearest to us. Why must we pass them in silence? We know not, but must resign ourselves to it. When two trains are rushing by upon the iron rails and thou seest a well-known eye that would recognize thee, stretch out thy hand and try to grasp the hand of a friend, and perhaps thou wilt understand why man passes man in silence here below.

An old sage says: “I saw the fragments of a wrecked boat floating on the sea. Only a few meet and hold together a long time. Then comes a storm and drives them east and west, and here below they will never meet again. So it is with mankind. Yet no one has seen the great shipwreck.”

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قراءة فى أدب عالِمِ اللُّغوياتِ الألمانى الأشهَر: فريدريك ماكس موللر - بعضٌ مما مسَّ فؤادى من روايته: قصة حُبٍّ ألمانية

وَالوعَتاهُ عليكَ يا قلبَ الإنسان ! إنَّ أوراقكَ لتجِفُّ فى ربيعِ أيامِك، والريشُ يتساقطُ عن جناحيكَ قبل الأوان !عندما يبزغُ عبيرُ الحياةِ فى أفقِ النفس يبزغُ فيهِ عبيرُ الحُبِّ.

نحنُ نتعلمُ السيرَ والوقوفَ والقراءةَ لكنَّا لا نتعلَّمُ الحُب، لأن الحُبَّ جوهرُ الروحِ وجميعُ قوى الروحِ تناديهِ بأصواتها المختلفة. وقوة الحُبِّ أهم غرسٍ غرستهُ الطبيعةُ فى أعماق الكِيان. فكما تجذبُ الأجرلمُ السماويةُ بعضَها بعضاً بالجاذبية الأبدية، كذلك تجذبُ الأرواحُ المتآلفةُ بعضَها بعضاً وترتبطُ الواحدةُ بالأخرى برباط الحُبِّ الأبدىِّ. هيهاتَ للزهرةِ أن تعيشَ بلا شمس وللإنسانِ أن يحيا حياةً عظيمةً بلا حُب.

أليسَ إنَّ قلبَ الطفلِ يكادُ ينسحقُ انسحاقاً إذ تهبُّ عليهِ من الجفاءِ النسماتُ الباردةُ الأولى فى هذا العالمِ الزئبقى؟ ولكنَّ حُبَّ والديهِ يظلُّ لامعاً فى ألحاظِهم كأنوارٍ سماوية وأشعَّةٍ إلهية.

حنينُ الطفلِ أطهرُ أنواعِ الحُبِّ وأبعدُها غورَاً وأشملُهَا طبيعَةً لأنهُ يحتضنُ العالمَ بأسرهِ مُنسَكِباً على كلِّ نظرةٍ ودُودة، ويهتزُّ لسماعِ كلِّ نغمةٍ عذبة. هو بحرٌ عميقٌ زاخِرٌ لا قرارَ له؛ وهو ربيعُ كنوزٍ لا تقدَّر وخيراتٍ لا تُحصَى. وكلُّ مَن اختبَرَ الحُب عرفَ أنه لا يُكالُ ولا يُقاسُ ولا يُوزَن ولا زيادةَ فيهِ ولا نُقصان، وإنَّ الذى يُحبُّ صادقاً يحبُّ بكليَّةِ قلبهِ وروحِه، وبمجموعِ قواهِ وأفكارِه.

ولكن..واحسرتاه ! ما أقلَّ ما يبقى من هذا الحُبِّ بعدَ الوصولِ إلى نصفِ رحلةِ الحياة ! حينما يعلم الطفلُ أن فى العالمِ “غرباءَ” ويفهمُ من هؤلاءِ الغرباء تنتهى أيامُ طفولَته. فيختفى ينبوعُ الحُب وتسحقهُ أقدامُ الأعوامِ والاختبار. ويومَ يتلاشى لمعانُ العينِ الطاهرة فتحلُّ محلَّهُ خيالاتُ التعبِ والرِّيَب ينظرُ الإنسانُ إلى أخيهِ  نظرةَ الغريبِ إلى الغريب ويتحاشى الدُنوَّ منهُ فى الشارعِ المزدحم. يمرُّ غيرَ مُسلِّمٍ خوفاً أن لا تُرَدَّ التحِيَّة فتتوجَّعَ روحُه، لأن الإنسانَ ذاقَ مرارةَ الهجرِ من أصدقاء طالما بادلهم تحيَّةَ الرؤوس وابتسامَ الشِّفاهِ ولمسِ الأيدى. الريشُ البهِىُّ يتساقطُ عن جناحَى النفس وتجفُّ وريقاتُ الزهرةِ منها وتتمزَّق، ولا يبقى من منهلِ الحُبِّ سوى قطراتٍ قلائِل لإرواءِ غليلِ التائه فى صحراءِ الحياة. تلكَ القطراتُ نظلُّ ندعوها حُبَّاً. فأينَ هىَ من حُبِّ الطفلِ الفيَّاضِ الجواد؟ 

ليسَ ذاكَ سوى حُبٍّ مُزِجَ بالشكِّ والغُمُومِ وأنواعِ الانفعالِ المضطرِم. حُبٌّ يُفنى ذاتهُ بذاتِه كقطراتِ المطرِ على الرمالِ الحارة. حُبٌّ يطلبُ دواماً ولا يبذلُ يوماً. حُبٌّ يسأل “أتريدُ أن تكونَ لى”؟ ولا يقولُ “يجبُ أن أكونَ لك”. حُبٌّ يستغرِقُ نفسَه، ويُذِيبُ نفسَه، ويُلاشى نفسَه، وهوَ مُعذَّبٌ يائِس. هذا هو الحُبُّ الذى تترنمُ بوصفهِ الشعراء ويتوقُ إليهِ الفتيانُ والفتيات. شعلةٌ تلتهبُ ثمَّ تنطفىءُ ولا تُدفِىء، وتذهبُ تاركةً بعدها الدخانَ والرماد. نحنُ نزعمُ يوماً أن هذه الأسهمَ النارية هى آيةُ الحُبِّ الدائم، ولكن كلما استعرَت تلك النار وعظُمَ لهيبُها الموقوت قرُبَ خبوُها وحلَكَت ظُلمةُ الليلِ الذى يتبعُها.

وساعَةَ يَسوَدُّ الأفقُ ويدلَهِمَّ حولَ الواحدِ منَّا فيرى نفسهُ وحيداً شريداً بين السائرينَ يمنةً ويُسرةً دونَ أن يعيروهُ التفاتاً، إذن تنهضُ عاطفةً منسيَّة وتتمشى فى صدرهِ ذهاباً وإياباً، ولا يدرى أهى عاطفةُ حبٍّ أم عاطفةُ صداقة، ويودُ أن يصرخ لكلٍّ من هؤلاءِ الغرباء “ألا تعرفُنى” ؟

إذ ذاكَ يشعرُ بأن الغريب أدنى إلى الغريبِ من الأخِ إلى أخيه ومن الأبِ إلى ابنهِ ومن الصديقِ إلى صديقه، ويدوِّى فى طبقاتِ ذاكرته صوتٌ مجهول قائلاً: إن هؤلاء “الغرباء” أقربُ أصدقاءنا وأعزَّهم إلينا وأحبَّهم عندنا. 

إذن، لماذا نمرُّ بهم صامتين؟ ذاكَ سرٌّ لا يُدرَك وما علينا سوى الامتثال. عندما يمرُّ قطاران وأنت فى أحدهما وفى الآخرِ وجهٌ يودُّ أن يبتسمَ لك، حاول مدَّ يدكَ لمصافحةِ الصديقِ المبتعدِ عنكَ قهراً. حاول ذلك وجرِّبهُ لعلَّكَ تعلمُ لماذا يمرُّ الإنسانُ بالإنسانِ صامتاً.

قال فيسلسوفٌ قديم: رأيتُ بقايا سفينةٍ أغرقتها العاصفةُ عائمةً على صفحة البحر. يتلامسُ بعضُها ويتلاقى إلى حين. ثم تهبُّ الريحُ فتفرِّقها شرقاً وغرباً دونَ أملٍ فى اللقاء. وذاكَ مَصيرُ بنى الإنسانِ فى بحرِ الحياة، ولكن ليسَ بينهم مَن شهِدَ غرقَ السفينة.

من أراد قراءة ذات النصِّ بالإنجليزية، يجدهُ مُدوَّناً هنا والرواية بالإنجليزية - أيضاً - هنا أو هنا

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Life? — a wound in non-existence.

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry dated 7 March 1918

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نجاة الصغيرة، محمد عبد الوهاب...وكل دا كان ليه؟

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When we say that love is ineffable, as Beckett knew, what we mean is that, when we love, we don’t know what the hell we are doing. We can’t stop talking through it, trying to figure it out. We think we ought to be talking about everything, doing everything, doing anything — breaking into spontaneous rage, talking about suicide, playing games, complaining about our boots — instead of just loving. We wait and wait and wait. Inevitably, boredom creeps in, terror creeps in. When you give yourself completely to another, as Vladimir and Estragon have done with each other, and you say, “Don’t leave me, you’re my only hope,” every day is a little more and a little less frightening, every day is a little more and a little less suicidal, every day is a little more and a little less. You could, like Vladimir or Estragon, easily be talked into hanging yourself from a tree by the only one who could save you from it. We must escape. We cannot. We can’t go on. We do.

Beautiful read on love in Beckett.

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- Did I ever leave You? - You let me go!

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Did Dostoevsky ever meet Tolstoy?

According to some internet literary sources, Dostoevsky had wanted very much to meet Tolstoy, but this meeting never took place- Tolstoy does not list Dostoevsky among his literary influences; in fact, throughout Dostoevsky's life, Tolstoy professed indifference for Dostoevsky, who by contrast showed great interest in Tolstoy, both the man and his works. Dostoevsky wrote extensive reviews of Anna Karenina, and engaged Tolstoy overtly in his works. Tolstoy's tributes to Dostoevsky are much more covert. Scholars have found convincing evidence of Tolstoy reacting to Dostoevsky in his works, despite Tolstoy's possible attempts to underplay this feature. When Dostoevsky died, Tolstoy wrote the following to a mutual friend, expressing his regret: "When he died, I understood that he was such a very kindred, dear and necessary person to me. I was a man of letters, and men of letters are all vain, jealous, I at least was that kind of man of letters. But never did it enter my head to compare myself to him, never. All that he did (what he did that was good and real) was such that the more he did, the better it was for me. Art arouses envy in me, intellect does, too, but matters of the heart [arouse] only joy. I thus considered him my friend and never imagined that we wouldn't meet. And suddenly, over dinner [...] I read that he is dead. Some kind of support was taken away from under me. I fell apart, and at that point it became clear how dear he was to me and I wept and I weep still." Even though, since the meeting of the two authors never took place, we can’t point out any kind of direct mutual influences, comparative criticism of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky is a continuous dialog that has been, and continues to be, a useful means for understanding the work of both authors. The reasons for frequent comparison are numerous, but perhaps the most important factor is that these two authors present the unique condition of offering the perspectives of two monumental authors who share a physical proximity, both geographically and temporally.