21 Samstag Nov 2020
Posted in Allgemein
I’ve recently been reminded of this painting of mine, which I gave somebody as a present two years ago. It’ s very loosely based on some painting I saw on the internet.
And I even still like it at second glance, which is quite unusual for me.
17 Dienstag Nov 2020
Posted in Allgemein
She has such an unearthly, ethereal feeling about her, she seems a sylph, an air spirit. She moves around as if not submitted to any physical laws, to any gravity, to any air friction. Her eyes seem to have a life of their own. She seems an involuntary guest here, albeit getting through this world as smoothly as a knife through butter, but still an alien.
Only her genius is her castle, her drawbridge, her knight‘s armour, her sword.
„Losing isn‘t an option for her. What would be her life otherwise“, – comments Borgov.
She is not cold-hearted at all, not soulless, she is just alltogether in another dimension, on a different plane than our petty passions.
She is Lewis Carroll‘s Alice, just exactly the opposite way, she‘s got into our world from the world beyond the looking glass and brought her chessboard on her from there — the very eerie chessboard that grows downwards from the ceiling, stretching its figures towards her at her most unconsolable, uncomfortable, to draw her back inside her magic world, which she came from and belongs to.
(Netflix/Ringer illustration)
08 Sonntag Nov 2020
Posted in Allgemein
07 Samstag Nov 2020
Posted in Allgemein
06 Freitag Nov 2020
Posted in Allgemein
05 Donnerstag Nov 2020
Posted in Allgemein
Моя ноябрьская гостья. Из Роберта Фроста
Первый набросок перевода
(да, я знаю, что в первой строфе схема рифмовки не сохранена)
Заходит в гости грусть ко мне,
Она находит красоту
В осеннем, мозглом, хмуром дне,
Подстоя любит черноту,
И по сырой бродить траве.
И мне покоя не дает,
А я, и вправду, слушать рад,
Что ей по нраву птиц отлет,
Что серебро свое впрядет
Туман в ее простой наряд.
Немы пустынные леса,
Земля скудна, и свод свинцов,
Ей видится во всем краса,
Она пеняет мне, что сам
Красу я видеть не готов.
А что давно уж вид мне мил
Ноябрьских сумеречных дней,
Пока их снег не забелил,
Я от нее сокрыть решил,
Хвалой ее они милей.
My November Guest
Robert Frost
«My sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.»
