German school, An Open book, early 16th century

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German school, An Open book, early 16th century
The Trees by Philip Larkin
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
Mariátegui, lo explicó lúcidamente Alberto Flores Galindo, tuvo que imaginar el proyecto socialista en un país con una población mayoritariamente indígena y campesina. Observó el Amauta, a partir de estudios como el de Hildebrando Castro Pozo, que en las comunidades andinas se recreaba un colectivismo que podía convertirse en la base de la futura sociedad socialista. Estos “elementos de socialismo práctico”, así como las revueltas campesinas del sur andino, particularmente en Puno y Cusco, le permitieron plantear la posibilidad de convertir a los indios, dada la incipiente industria y lo poco numeroso del proletariado, en “sujetos revolucionarios”, en los protagonistas de la revolución socialista. En el “Informe de las razas”, señala Mariátegui que si bien la consciencia revolucionaria indígena podía tardar en surgir, “una vez que el indio haya hecho suya la idea socialista, la servirá con una disciplina, una tenacidad y una fuerza, en la que pocos proletarios de otros medios podrían aventajarlos”. Si Valcárcel colocó al indio como productor de cultura, Mariátegui lo elevó a actor revolucionario y sujeto clave en la construcción del socialismo peruano. Si Valcárcel canceló la idea liberal del indio inculto al que había que emancipar mediante la educación, Mariátegui reemplazó la idea liberal de la nación como una comunidad de derechos civiles y políticos por una nación basada en la igualdad socioeconómica.
La república imaginada. Representaciones culturales y recursos políticos en la época de independencia. Rolando Rojas.
Por cierto, las denuncias sobre los abusos a que eran sometidos los indios fueron también difundidas en la prensa y debatidas por la opinión pública. Debemos a la Sociedad Amiga de los Indios (1867-1871) la publicación de numerosos informes, noticias y cartas sobre la situación de los indios de Huancané a propósito de la rebelión de las comunidades contra la restauración del tributo. En estas publicaciones la Sociedad presentó uno de los cuadros más completos del despojo de tierras y de los trabajos gratuitos que realizaban los indios para los terratenientes y las autoridades locales. Los miembros de la Sociedad, entre quienes figuraban militares, prefectos, periodistas, intelectuales y políticos, desarrollaron una intensa campaña de defensa del derecho a la propiedad y de la libertad de trabajo a favor de los indios. Para la Sociedad, el Estado debía intervenir con el fin de garantizar los derechos constitucionales de los indios. No obstante, la percepción de la Sociedad sobre la cultura indígena no se libraba de los prejuicios de la época. En efecto, la vida social de las comunidades se presenta dominada por las fiestas, el licor y la coca, aspectos que debían eliminarse para reorientar a los indios hacia la educación y el ahorro. Asimismo, la Sociedad percibió el quechua como un obstáculo para el aprendizaje de sus derechos y su integración a la vida nacional. El mensaje que dio fue de asimilación cultural según los patrones de la cultura urbana-occidental. En la “Carta abierta a los indios” la Sociedad proclamaba:
Que siendo el castellano la lengua oficial de la república, debéis procurar instruiros e instruir en ella a vuestros hijos, para que puedan leer y saber las leyes, escribir, estudiar las artes y las ciencias cultivando así su espíritu y preparándose a ser maestros de escuelas, curas, artesanos, alcaldes, gobernadores, subprefectos, profesores, diputados y en fin ejercer los más altos cargos de la república, para lo que tenéis tanto derecho como cualquier blanco o mestizo; todo lo que conseguiréis enviando a vuestros hijos a las escuelas.
En todo caso, la “manera criolla-liberal” de pensar la “cuestión indígena” empezó a cambiar luego de la Guerra del Pacífico. Los historiadores todavía no hemos ponderado las consecuencias que tuvo la derrota ante Chile en la esfera de la cultura. Para empezar, se desplomó la imagen que las élites tenían de sí mismas y del país. La ocupación de Lima expuso la endeblez de la sociedad peruana y la necesidad de construir una nación vigorosa. Em consecuencia, se produjo un “giro nacionalista” en el que desempeñó un papel clave Manuel González Prada, quien replanteó la forma de pensar lo indígena en dos sentidos. Por un lado, señaló que el problema del indio “más que pedagógica, es económica, es social”. Con ello se refería a la cuestión de la tierra y de empoderar a los indios ante el avance de los latifundios. Más adelante, el indigenismo, y particularmente Mariátegui, desarrollará esta idea planteando una reforma agraria. De otro lado, González Prada señaló que: “No forman el verdadero Perú las agrupaciones de criollos y extranjeros que habitan la faja de tierra situada entre el Pacífico y los Andes; la nación está formada por las muchedumbres de indios diseminadas por la banda oriental de la cordillera”. González Prada no llegó a formular explícitamente que el indio era capaz de producir cultura y que esta era parte de la nacionalidad, pero al colocar al indio como centro de la nacionalidad, abrió esa posibilidad y marcó un drástico cambio en la reflexión sobre lo indígena. De hecho, tanto el indigenismo de Luis E. Valcárcel como el “socialismo indigenista” de Mariátegui, que sentaron las bases de un nuevo enfoque sobre lo indígena para el siglo XX, se reivindicaron como herederos de González Prada.
Le correspondió a Valcárcel elevar lo indígena a la cultura nacional. Desde sus iniciales investigaciones históricas, Del ayllu al imperio (1916) y De la vida incaica (1925), Valcárcel fue instalando en el imaginario nacional la idea de una civilización andina, a la que le otorgó una categoría “superior” en oposición a la idea de la “decadencia de Occidente” que obsesionaba a la intelectualidad de la posguerra. En Tempestad en los Andes (1927), propone la imagen de una revolución indígena, de un cataclismo social que descendiendo de la sierra refundaría el Perú sobre bases autóctonas. Dice Valcárcel: “De los Andes irradiará otra vez la cultura”; sentencia que: “De los Andes tienen que nacer, como nacen los ríos, las corrientes de renovación que transformen al Perú”. A diferencia de González Prada, Valcárcel es parte de una generación que vivió el llamado “resurgimiento andino”: los hallazgos arqueológicos de Julio C. Tello, el “descubrimiento” y difusión de Machu Picchu por Hiram Bingham, el ascenso del arte indigenista de Sabogal, la recolección y difusión de tradiciones orales y del arte popular andino, el florecimiento del teatro quechua, etc. Aquí es conveniente señalar que dicho “resurgimiento andino” ocurrió paralelamente a un ciclo de rebelión campesina ante el avance del latifundio, particularmente en el altiplano. De similar importancia fue la acción del “indigenismo social” de la Asociación Pro Derecho Indígena, que desarrolló una defensa legal y periodística de las comunidades indígenas que se veían invadidas por los terratenientes.
La república imaginada. Representaciones culturales y recursos políticos en la época de independencia. Rolando Rojas.
The resourcefulness and restoration of the pig were celebrated, but not his inevitable fate, in these hard days.
A.S. Byatt. The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye.
They went also on an excursion to Ephesus. This is a white city risen, in part, from the dead: you can walk along a marble street where Saint Paul must have walked; columns and porticoes, the shell of an elegant library, temples and caryatids are again upright in the spring sun. The young Attila frowned as they paced past the temple façades and said they made him shiver: Gillian thought he was thinking of the death of nations, but it turned out that he was thinking of something more primitive and more immediate, of earthquakes. And when he said that, Gillian looked at the broken stones with fear too.
A.S. Byatt. The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye.
In those days she had been taught to explain ‘floating redundant’ as one of Milton’s magical fusings of two languages– ‘floating’, which was Teutonic and to do with floods, and ‘redundant’, which was involved and Latinate, and to do with overflowings. Now she brought to it her own wit, a knowledge of the modern sense of ‘redundant’, which was to say, superfluous, unwanted, unnecessary, let go. ‘I’m afraid we shall have to let you go,’ employers said, everywhere, offering freedom to reluctant Ariels, as though the employees were captive sprites, only too anxious to rush uncontrolled into the elements.
She knew she was lucky. Her ancestresses, about whom she thought increasingly often, would probably have been dead by the age she had reached. Dead in childbed, dead of influenza, or tuberculosis, or puerperal fever, or simple exhaustion, dead, as she travelled back in time, from worn-out unavailing teeth, from cracked kneecaps, from hunger, from lions, tigers, sabre-toothed tigers, invading aliens, floods, fires, religious persecution, human sacrifice, why not? Certain female narratologists talked with pleasurable awe about wise Crones but she was no crone, she was an unprecedented being, a woman with porcelain-crowned teeth, laser-corrected vision, her own store of money, her own life and field of power, who flew, who slept in luxurious sheets around the world, who gazed out at the white fields under the sun by day and the brightly turning stars by night as she floated redundant.
A.S. Byatt. The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye.
It is always so. Some are looked at, and some may whistle for an admiring glance till the devil pounces on them, for so the Holy Spirit makes, crooked or straight, and naught to be done about it.
A.S. Byatt. The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye.
“The Journey” by Tomas Tranströmer, trans. Robin Fulton
In the underground station. A crowding among placards in a staring dead light.
The train arrived and collected faces and portfolios.
Darkness next. We sat in the carriages like statues, hauled through the caverns. Restraint, dreams, restraint.
In stations under sea level they sold the news of the dark. People in motion sadly silently under the clock dials.
The train carried outer garments and souls.
Glances in all directions on the journey through the mountain. Still no change.
But nearer the surface a murmuring of bees began—freedom. We stepped out of the earth.
The land beat its wings once and became still under us, widespread and green.
Ears of corn blew in over the platforms.
Terminus—I followed on, further.
How many were with me? Four, five, hardly more.
Houses, roads, skies, blue inlets, mountains opened their windows.
“The Palace” by Tomas Tranströmer, trans. Robin Fulton
We stepped in. A single vast hall, silent and empty, where the surface of the floor lay like an abandoned skating rink. All doors shut. The air grey.
Paintings on the walls. We saw pictures throng lifelessly: shields, scale- pans, fishes, struggling figures in a deaf-and-dumb world on the other side.
A sculpture was set out in the void: in the middle of the hall alone a horse stood but at first when we were absorbed by all the emptiness we did not notice him.
Fainter than the breathing in a shell sounds and voices from the town circling in this desolate space murmuring and seeking power.
Also something else. Something darkly set itself at our senses’ five thresholds without stepping over them. Sand ran in every silent glass.
It was time to move. We walked over to the horse. He was gigantic, dark as iron. An image of power itself abandoned when the princes left.
The horse spoke: “I am The Only One. The emptiness that rode me I have thrown. This is my stable. I am growing quietly. And I eat the silence that’s in here.”
“Noon Thaw” by Tomas Tranströmer, trans. Robin Fulton
The morning air delivered its letters with stamps that glowed. The snow shone and all burdens lightened—a kilo weighed just 700 grams.
The sun was high over the ice hovering on the spot both warm and cold. The wind came out gently as if it were pushing a pram.
Families came out, they saw open sky for the first time in ages. We found ourselves in the first chapter of a very gripping story.
The sunshine stuck to all the fur caps like pollen on bees and the sunshine stuck to the name WINTER and stayed there till winter was over.
A still life of logs on the snow made me thoughtful. I asked them: “Are you coming along to my childhood?” They answered “Yes.”
In among the copses there was a murmuring of words in a new language: the vowels were blue sky and the consonants were black twigs and the speech was soft over the snow.
But the jet plane curtsying in its skirts of noise made the silence on earth even stronger.
Links for Russian/English Parallel Texts
Here are some links for Russian and English Parallel texts with audio. This includes 2 novels.
Ana Karenina by Tolstoy
Notes from Underground by Dostoyevsky
Other Informative Articles with Audio
"King Popiel." Czesław Miłosz.
“A Task” by Czeslaw Milosz
In fear and trembling, I think I would fulfill my life Only if I brought myself to make a public confession Revealing a sham, my own and of my epoch: We were permitted to shriek in the tongue of dwarfs and demons But pure and generous words were forbidden Under so stiff a penalty that whoever dared to pronounce one Considered himself as a lost man.
It is worth noting that, while the commissioners of the book are named, the laborer is not. In the image, he is indicated by the curious titulus over the left-hand figure’s head: ILLE, literally HE who made it. His name might not matter, but his activity does: this is the one “who suffered this for your name.” He is identified not by a name but by the pointed finger of a pronoun and the noun scriptor. The associated verb is patior, to suffer. It was not easy to make a book. “Ille” is only a pronoun and an occupation. His brothers and sisters studied in this book are freer with their names. They are the monastic book-makers of tenth-century northern Iberia, and they are generous with information. They tell us where they worked, for whom, and how they felt about it. They name themselves and date their activity. They know they will be read, too, and speak directly to those who will hold and use the books they made. They are insistent in their reminders that reading is not just an encounter with “text,” nor even with a book, but also and essentially a relationship with the work of someone’s hands. This is for you, they say; keep me and my labor in mind. This book wants to remember the labor of “Ille” and of many other book-workers like him. It began in response to an invitation extended from a monastery in what is now north-central Spain. At 6 A.M. on Friday, April 11 of the year 945 CE a monastic named Florentius wrote a colophon into what would be the last gathering of the book he was finishing. “If you want to know,” he wrote, “I will explain to you in detail how heavy is the burden of writing” [si uelis scire singulatim nuntio tibi quam grabe est scribturae pondus]. Without waiting for an answer, Florentius laid it out: writing “mists the eyes. It twists the back. It breaks the ribs and belly. It makes the kidneys ache and fills the whole body with every kind of annoyance” [oculis caliginem facit. dorsum incurbat. Costas et uentrem frangit. Renibus dolorem inmittit et omne corpus fastidium nutrit]. Invitation: come feel what it’s like to make a book by hand.
Catherine Brown. Remember the Hand: Manuscription in Early Medieval Iberia.
Emphasis mine.
writing tip #3590:
the exact length of time you should spend editing your novel is however long it's taking me to edit this one (tbc)
Imagine, if you can, the surprise of a wolf-spider who, in running through the grass, should stumble over his own outgrown skeleton, so like his former self in all its details that he could scarcely fail to recognize it as his own; for even the transparent cornea of the eye is a part of this outer skeleton and is shed with it, as well as the jaws, sensitive spines, and hairs.
Marian and David Fairchild. Book of Monsters.