2011

14-05-2011


ELEGY

About a year has passed. I've returned to the place of the battle,
to its birds that have learned their unfolding of wings
from a subtle
lift of a surprised eyebrow, or perhaps from a razor blade
- wings, now the shade of early twilight, now of state
bad blood.
Now the place is abuzz with trading
in your ankles's remnants, bronzes
of sunburnt breastplates, dying laughter, bruises,
rumors of fresh reserves, memories of high treason,
laundered banners with imprints of the many
who since have risen.
All's overgrown with people. A ruin's a rather stubborn
architectural style. And the hearts's distinction
from a pitch-black cavern
isn't that great; not great enough to fear
that we may collide again like blind eggs somewhere.
At sunrise, when nobody stares at one's face, I often,
set out on foot to a monument cast in molten
lengthy bad dreams. And it says on the plinth "commander
in chief." But it reads "in grief," or "in brief,"
or "in going under."
—Joseph Brodsky

15-05-2011


Necesidades (en Relaciones, 1973)

el individuo que difiere de sus pares
que perturba o escandaliza a su familia o sociedad
suele ser calificado de insano acusado de enfermedad mental y
perseguido como enfermo
este acto de psiquiatría llena necesidades importantes
el individuo que ve piernas azules de mujer volar
arbolitos cantar el mundo heder
es encerrado golpeado con electricidad insulina médicos
este acto de psiquiatría llena necesidades importantes
¿necesidades del volar o cantar?
¿necesidades del individuo que difiere de sus pares
que perturba o escandaliza a su familia o sociedad y es
calificado de insano acusado de enfermedad mental y perseguido como
enfermo?
¿otras necesidades?
¿necesidades del individuo que no difiere de sus pares
que no perturba o escandaliza a su familia o sociedad
que no es calificado de insano acusado de enfermedad mental ni
perseguido como enfermo?
¿piernas azules de mujer volar no?
¿ni arbolitos cantar ni mundo heder?
este acto de psiquiatría llena necesidades importantes
los jabalíes de oro se están comiendo a yvonne
—Juan Gelman

17-05-2011

País

¿El universo? Claro. ¿El infinito? Además.
¿La carne? Desde luego. Carne celeste
o con un cielo arriba que se nubla cuando tocás
el odio y chocan furias y llueve
un agua triste.
Una vaca pace en el hueso que voy a recordar.
¿Y los que olvidan? ¿Se tapan como indios las vergüenzas?
País
desaparecido en una gorra militar.
¿estás en lo que venga?
Lo que vino es cobardía y desprecio.
Se avisa a Paul Celan: tumbas cavadas en el agua.
Brilla el día.
Me recuerda que no soy árbol y que no tengo raíces /de pájaro.
Vivo vagamente
y nadie me ve entrar
—Juan Gelman


Für dieses Gedicht habe ich eine deutsche Übersetzung gefunden:

Land

Das Universum? Klar. Das Unendliche? Dazu.
Das Fleisch? Selbstverständlich. Hellblaues Fleisch
oder mit einem Himmel oben, der sich bewölkt, wenn du
den Hass berührst und ein trauriges Wasser regnet.
Eine Kuh weidet am Knochen, an den du dich erinnern wirst.
Und jene, die vergessen?
Bedecken sie sich, wie Indios, die Scham?
Land, in einer Militärmütze verschwunden,
bist du in dem, was kommt?
Was kam, ist Feigheit und Abscheu.
Ins Wasser geschaufelte Gräber, Paul Celan.
Der Tag erinnert mich, dass ich kein Baum bin und keine Vogelwurzeln habe.
Ich lebe vage
und niemand sieht mich hineinkommen.




Joseph Brodsky

Cuando un poeta se posa sobre el mundo lo desplaza.
Cuando el pájaro muere, ¿qué pasa?
A lo mejor le falló el corazón por instalar su levedad en su suelo.
0 tenía la memoria cargada con cada vuelo que voló.
En el café Colón de Malabia y Corrientes
los parroquianos conocen la lentitud del tiempo,
el dolor del cariño, la ficción de ser otra cosa, la mesa
donde Joseph Brodsky se para y dice que el exilio fue hoy,
que no hay espanto mayor que el de animal recorriendo su cueva,
que pesan hoscamente los que cayeron combatiendo y que
no hay heridas, sino una gran herida que nadie puede /cerrar.
¡Habráse visto!
¡Como si el pájaro no recoriera las cortinas del cuarto
para que entrase el sol!
¡El sol de nada, la huella infinita de la piedra
en cada pobre amor!
Tendrías que haberte quedado más, aquí,
Joseph o cosmos descuidado,
a la intemperie de costumbre.
No se arrancó del país y yace
lleno de entender todo.
—Juan Gelman


La vida es difícil. Para estar en paz con uno mismo hay que decir la verdad. Para estar en paz con el prójimo hay que mentir.
—Adolfo Bioy Casares

Übersetzung von ollie aus dem Works:

Life is difficult. To be at peace with yourself you have to speak the truth. To be at peace with your fellow men you have to lie.

28-05-2011

Mi palacio de invierno

En casa había belladona
nuez vómica y pulsatilla;
en forma de varilla
conteníalas una redoma.
Y esa manzana poma
había sido elogiada en la gacetilla
de un diario. Y la gente sencilla
reíase de esa pueril poma.
Los enfermos, sin embargo, con esa débil sonrisa
en que su voz de haber sido se exterioriza
como una melancolía que alcanza a ser plegaria,
saben el secreto de la larga vigilia solitaria,
en que el recuerdo de un largo contacto de rodilla
vale menos que una !eve toma de pulsatilla .
—Horacio Quiroga


Übeersetzung von ollie aus dem Works:

My Winter Palace

At home there was belladonna
poison nut and pulsatilla;
in the shape of sticks
a flask contained them.

And that apple pomander
had been praised in the society section
of a paper. And the simple people
laughed at that puerile pomander.

But the sick, with that weak smile
in which their has-been voice reveals itself
as a melancholy that manages to be a prayer,
they know the secret of the long solitary wakefulness,
where the memory of a lingering contact with a knee
its worth less than a light dose of pulsatilla.


La novela y el cuento se dejan comparar analógicamente con el cine y la fotografía, en la medida en que una película es en principio un "orden abierto", novelesco, mientras que una fotografía lograda presupone una ceñida limitación previa, impuesta en parte por el reducido campo que abarca la cámara y por la forma en que el fotógrafo utiliza estéticamente esa limitación.
—Julio Cortázar


Übersetzung von ollie aus dem Works:

The novel and the tale let themselves to be analogically compared to cinema and photography, insofar as a film is on principle an “open order”, something out of a novel, while a successful photograph presupposes a previous tight limitation, imposed in part by the reduced field the camera covers and by the way the photographer aesthetically uses this limitation.

02-06-2011

Muertas las ideologías, el mundo quedó en manos de gente práctica que anula cerebros bajo montañas de nada.
—Jorge Valdano


Y después de hacer todo lo que hacen, se levantan, se bañan, se entalcan, se perfuman, se peinan, se visten, y así progresivamente van volviendo a ser lo que no son.
—Julio Cortázar


Übersetzung von Zoe aus dem Works:

And after doing all they do, they get up, take a bath, put talcum powder on, perfume, get dressed, and in this way they gradually become again what they are not.

03-06-2011

"I sit watching the brown oceanic waves of dry country rising into the foothills and I weep monotonously, seasickly. Life is not like the dim ironic stories I like to read, it is like a daytime serial on television. The banality will make you weep as much as anything else."
— Alice Munro

09-06-2011


No hablaríamos tanto en sociedad si nos diéramos cuenta del poco caso que hacemos de los otros cuando hablan.
—Noel Clarasó


Übersetzung von ollie aus dem Works:

We wouldn´t speak so much in society if we realised how little attention we pay to others when they speak.

12-06-2011

Todos los pesimismos son vanos. Tanto los que se fundan en la razón que los que parten de la experiencia.
—José Enrique Rodó

Übersetzung von ollie aus dem Works:

All the pessimisms are vain. Whether they are based on reason or come from experience.



No somos perfectos, pero somos capaces de concebir lo que es la perfección. La acción es preferible a la inacción y el compromiso con la vida es preferible a la indiferencia apática.
—Delia Steinberg Guzmán

Übersetzung von ollie aus dem Works:

We are not perfect, but we are capable of conceiving what perfection is. Action is preferable to inaction, and commitment to life is preferable to apathetic indifference.



Observa tus pensamientos, se convertirán en tus palabras. Observa tus palabras, se convertirán en tus acciones. Observa tus acciones, se convertirán en tus hábitos. Observa tus hábitos, se convertirán en tu carácter. Observa tu carácter. se convertirá en tu destino.
— Gandhi

Übersetzung von ollie aus dem Works:

Watch your thoughts, they will become your words. Watch your words, they will become your actions. Watch your actions, they will become your habits. Watch your habits, they will become your character. Watch your character, it will become your destiny.

18-06-2011


The Fish

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled and barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
—Elizabeth Bishop

19-06-2011

Valley Song

Dandelions, a dazzling mass!
Dimpled berries in the meadow!
Ditches deep in cotton grass!
Dandelions, a golden mass!
In your midst I ache to pass
all my years of sun and shadow!
Dandelions, a dazzling mass!
Dimpled berries in the meadow!
Dashing waters, faithful friends,
foaming over stony ledges
deep in dark sequestered glens!
Dashing waters, ancient friends!
Gushing gulleys! elfin dens,
girt with rock along the edges!
Dashing waters, faithful friends,
foaming over stony ledges!
Cloudy river, brisk and bright,
brawling down from mountain passes,
currents crinkling in the light!
Cloudy river, green and bright!
Here contentment nears its height,
here among your flowers and grasses!
Cloudy river, brisk and bright,
brawling down from mountain passes!
Crested summits crowned with snow!
Cliffs that hug the mountain's shoulder!
Keep the country safe below,
crested summits white with snow,
guarding it from gales that blow
grimly as the year turns colder!
Crested summits crowned with snow!
Cliffs that hug the mountain's shoulder!
Summer valley, blissful, blest,
brimmed with sunlight now and ever,
slowly sweeping east to west!
Summer valley, gorgeous, blest!
Childhood's idyll, age's rest
after years of long endeavor!
Summer valley, blissful, blest,
brimmed with sunlight now and ever!
—Jónas Hallgrímsson, 1844
(English translation by Dick Ringler, 2002)

29-06-2011


Un plástico transparente

Abrí la puerta y te estabas bañando.
Los vidrios empañados, el ruido del agua
detrás de las cortinas,
las cosas esenciales instaladas
fuera de la razón.
Me llamaste, acercaste la cara
y nos besamos a través del plástico
transparente: fue un instante.
Las parejas y las revistas literarias
duran casi siempre dos números.
Sin embargo, de a poco,
le fuimos ganando terreno al río:
días interminables en los que el caos
tomaba tu forma para envolverme mejor.
—Fabián Casas

Übersetzung ollie + RIO aus dem Works:

A transparent plastic

I opened the door and you were having a bath.
The steamed up glass, the sound of water
behind the curtain,
the essential things placed
out of reason.
You called me, moved your face near
and we kissed through the transparent
plastic: it was an instant.
Couples and literary magazines
last almost always two issues.
However, little by little,
we reclaimed land from the river:
endless days in which chaos
would take your shape to surround me better.





Una carta de amor
Todo lo que de vos quisiera
es tan poco en el fondo
porque en el fondo es todo,
como un perro que pasa, una colina,
esas cosas de nada, cotidianas,
espiga y cabellera y dos terrones,
el olor de tu cuerpo,
lo que decís de cualquier cosa,
conmigo o contra mía,
todo eso es tan poco,
yo lo quiero de vos porque te quiero.
Que mires más allá de mí,
que me ames con violenta prescindencia
del mañana, que el grito
de tu entrega se estrelle
en la cara de un jefe de oficina,
y que el placer que juntos inventamos
sea otro signo de la libertad.
—Julio Cortázar

Übersetzung ollie + RIO aus dem Works:

A love letter
Deep down all I would like from you
it’s so little
because deep down it’s everything

like a dog who is passing, a hill,
those daily non-important things,
stalk of wheat and mane and two sugar cubes,
the smell of your body,
what you say about anything,
with me or against me,

all that is so little,
I want it from you because I love you.

That you should look beyond me,
that you should love me with violent disregard
for tomorrow, that the shout
of your deliverance should clash
on the face of an office boss,

and the pleasure we both invented
be another sign of freedom.

03-07-2011

"El humor y la curiosidad son la más pura forma de inteligencia"
—Roberto Bolaño


"Humor und Neugier sind die reinste Form von Intelligenz"

07-07-2011

LOSING TRACK

Long after you have swung back
away from me
I think you are still with me:

you come in close to the shore
on the tide
and nudge me awake the way

a boat adrift nudges the pier:
am I a pier
half-in half-out of the water?

and in the pleasure of that communion
I lose track,
the moon I watch goes down, the

tide swings you away before
I know I'm
alone again long since,

mud sucking at gray and black
timbers of me,
a light growth of green dreams drying.
—Denise Levertov

10-07-2011

Aus eher traurigem Anlasse diese 3 Zitate.
Facundo Cabral wurde am Samstag in Guatemala erschossen.


Y que no te confundan unos pocos homicidas y suicidas, el bien es mayoría pero no se nota porque es silencioso, una bomba hace más ruido que una caricia, pero por cada bomba que le destruya hay millones de caricias que alimenta a la vida.
—Facundo Cabral

Übersetzung ollie aus dem Works:
Don´t be confused by a few suicidal and murderers, goodness is majority but it doesn´t show because is silent. A bomb is noisier than a caress, but for each bomb destroying it there are millions of caresses feeding life.


No perdiste a nadie, el que murió, simplemente se nos adelantó, porque para allá vamos todos. Además lo mejor de él, el amor, sigue en tu corazón.
—Facundo Cabral

Übersetzung ollie aus dem Works:
You didn´t lose anybody, the one who died simply went ahead. Because we are all going there. Besides, love, the best of him, is still in your heart.


Borra el pasado para no repetirlo, para no tratarte como te trataron ellos; pero no los culpes, porque nadie puede enseñar lo que no sabe, perdónalos y te liberarás de esas cadenas.
—Facundo Cabral

Übersetzung ollie aus dem Works:
Erase the past so you won´t repeat it, so you won´t treat yourself as they treated you; but don´t blame them, because nobody can teach what they don´t know. Forgive them and you’ll be free from those chains.

22-07-2011

CORRUPTION

Sure it was so. Man in those early days
Was not all stone and earth;
He shined a little, and by those weak rays
Had some glimpse of his birth.
He saw Heaven o'er his head, and knew from whence
He came, condemned hither;
And, as first love draws strongest, so from hence
His mind sure progressed thither.
Things here were strange unto him: sweat and till,
All was a thorn or weed:
Nor did those last, but - like himself - died still
As soon as they did seed.
They seemed to quarrel with him, for that act
That felled him foiled them all:
He drew the curse upon the world, and cracked
The whole frame with his fall.
This made him long for home, as loth to stay
With murmurers and foes;
He sighed for Eden, and would often say,
'Ah! what bright days were those!'
Nor was Heaven cold unto him; for each day
The valley or the mountain
Afforded visits, and still paradise lay
In some green shade or fountain.
Angels lay lieger here; each bush and cell,
Each oak and highway knew them;
Walk but the fields, or sit down at some well,
And he was sure to view them.
Almighty Love! where art Thou now? Mad man
Sits down and freezeth on;
HE raves, and swears to stir nor fire, nor fan,
But bids the thread be spun.
I see, Thy curtains are close-drawn; Thy bow
Sin triumphs still, and man is sunk below
The center, and his shroud.
All's in deep sleep and night: thick darkness lies
And hatcheth o'er Thy people -
But hark! what trumpet's that? what angel cries,
'Arise! thrust in Thy sickle'?
—Henry Vaughan

24-07-2011

Dieses Gedicht hat Viggo schon mal am 24-06-2007 gepostet

Guardian Angel

I am the bird that knocks at your window in the morning
and your companion, whom you cannot know,
the blossoms that light up for the blind.

I am the glacier’s crest above the forests, the dazzling one
and the brass voices from cathedral towers.
The thought that suddenly comes over you at midday
and fills you with a singular happiness.

I am one you have loved long ago.
I walk alongside you by day and look intently at you
and put my mouth on your heart
but you don’t know it.

I am your third arm and your second
shadow, the white one,
whom you don’t have the heart for
and who cannot ever forget you.
—Rolf Jacobsen
(translated from the Norwegian by Roger Greenwald)

27-07-2011

The world perishes not from bandits and fires, but from hatred, hostility, and all these petty squabbles.
—Anton Chekhov

30-07-2011


Una oportunidad

Caminás con las manos en los bolsillos,
por la rambla, rodeando el mar.
Te acordás de otro tiempo, aquí mismo,
estabas enfermo de la cabeza
y no podías sostenerte de pie,
con elegancia. Sin embargo,
pudiste salir.
Hubo una oportunidad en aquella época.
Ahora mirás el mar, pero no decís nada.
Ya se han dicho muchas cosas
sobre ese montón de agua.
—Fabián Casas


Übersetzung von ollie aus dem Works:

An Opportunity
You walk with your hands in the pockets,
by the promenade, bordering the sea.
You remember another time, right here,
you were mentally sick
and could not stand up
with poise. Nevertheless,
you were able to come out of it.
There was an opportunity in that time,
Now you look at the sea, but say nothing.
Many things have already gone
over that load of water.

07-08-2011

Chaque être est détruit quand nous cessons de le voir; puis son apparition suivante est une création nouvelle, différente de celle qui l'a immédiatement précédée, sinon de toutes.
—Marcel Proust


Übersetzung von Dom aus dem Works:
Every being is destroyed when we cease to see him; then his next appearance is a new creation, different from the one immediately preceding, if not all.


Car l'optimisme est la philosophie du passé. Les événements qui ont eu lieu étant, entre tous ceux qui étaient possibles, les seuls que nous connaissions, le mal qu'ils nous ont causé nous semble inévitable, et le peu de bien qu'ils n'ont pas pu ne pas amener avec eux, c'est à eux que nous en faisons honneur, et nous nous imaginons que sans eux il ne se fût pas produit.
—Marcel Proust


Übersetzung von Dom aus dem Works:
Because optimism is the philosophy of the past. The events that happened being, among all that were possible, the only ones we knew, the harm they have caused us seems to us inevitable, and the little good they could not bring with them, we do them credit and we imagine that without them it would not have happened.


Come gli occhi della nottola sono abbagliati dalla luce del sole che non riescono a vedere, ma vedono bene le cose poco illuminate, così si comporta l'intelletto umano di fronte ai primi principi, che sono tra tutte le cose, per natura, le più manifeste.
—Tommaso d'Aquino

23-08-2011


Man merkt die Promo rückt näher ;)


Everywhere I go I find that a poet has been there before me.
—Sigmund Freud


A man should not strive to eliminate his complexes but to get into accord with them: they are legitimately what directs his conduct in the world.
—Sigmund Freud

27-08-2011

When they are preparing for war, those who rule by force speak most copiously about peace until they have completed the mobilization process.
—Stefan Zweig

29-08-2011


The Dancer Steps Forward

The dancer stays home
digging in his earth,
looking for the bone that will
sing to him.
His friends have run off to Europe.
They groan, pull their hair, wail,
America is a paltry place for the imagination.
They hit the walls, deny their past.
They become good Europeans.
The dancer shrugs in his New Jersey afternoon,
begins to dance
around the circumference of his native ground.
I've got to learn the language, he says.
I've got to follow through on the syntax.
There is a music here. Don't be so quick to deny it.
He steps out onto the American earth.
People come to him, ask,
do you know what they are doing across the sea?
They are writing epics!
They are tearing up the linear fabric.
Let me do my digging, he says
and the music that is alive there
begins to attach itself to his skin
in that hard working New Jersey afternoon.
His patients come, his patients go.
The good doctor knows there is a music
here.
One of his good friends,
an old schoolboy pal
who will later do time for mixing aesthetics and politics,
keeps haranguing him to come to Europe.
I'm too busy digging, he says,
there is a music here, I tell you,
and my job is to find it,
learn it,
sing it.
You can have your poets of Provence,
you can have Confucius.
I'm hunting a different game altogether.
The sun grows hot.
He begins to sweat there in the yard,
digging.
He takes a drink of water.
We leave him at his work
as night quietly shows up.
Later he steps onto the front porch.
He will begin naming the new rhythm,
the kind of rhythm that you recognize
on the street, maybe.
Not some secret arcane language,
not some language you need a dictionary to understand,
the kind of rhythm
you can maybe
figure out all by yourself
as you roll it around in your mouth,
as you begin to say it and it begins to sing you.
There is a music in the American idiom,
he says
and wipes his face for the last time,
and begins to think about going up to bed.
Tomorrow is another song.
Tomorrow will be other patients and
words to discover and stories behind such words
that illuminate.
The game, after all
is one of discovery.
The day you stop finding out things
is the day
you might as well
turn yourself in for good.
He slowly makes his way upstairs to
his beloved Flossie.
There is a music here.
All you have to do is believe,
and the rest
is just
some history of
song
and love.
—Scott Wannberg, from TOMORROW IS ANOTHER SONG

09-09-2011


Study in Orange and White

I knew that James Whistler was part of the Paris scene,
but I was still surprised when I found the painting
of his mother at the Musée d'Orsay
among all the colored dots and mobile brushstrokes
of the French Impressionists.
And I was surprised to notice
after a few minutes of benign staring,
how that woman, stark in profile
and fixed forever in her chair,
began to resemble my own ancient mother
who was now fixed forever in the stars, the air, the earth.
You can understand why he titled the painting
"Arrangement in Gray and Black"
instead of what everyone naturally calls it,
but afterward, as I walked along the river bank,
I imagined how it might have broken
the woman's heart to be demoted from mother
to a mere composition, a study in colorlessness.
As the summer couples leaned into each other
along the quay and the wide, low-slung boats
full of spectators slid up and down the Seine
between the carved stone bridges
and their watery reflections,
I thought: how ridiculous, how off-base.
It would be like Botticelli calling "The Birth of Venus"
"Composition in Blue, Ochre, Green, and Pink,"
or the other way around
like Rothko titling one of his sandwiches of color
"Fishing Boats Leaving Falmouth Harbor at Dawn."
Or, as I scanned the menu at the cafe
where I now had come to rest,
it would be like painting something laughable,
like a chef turning on a spit
over a blazing fire in front of an audience of ducks
and calling it "Study in Orange and White."
But by that time, a waiter had appeared
with my glass of Pernod and a clear pitcher of water,
and I sat there thinking of nothing
but the women and men passing by--
mothers and sons walking their small fragile dogs--
and about myself,
a kind of composition in blue and khaki,
and, now that I had poured
some water into the glass, milky-green.
—Billy Collins



Difficult times have helped me to understand better than before how infinitely rich and beautiful life is in every way, and that so many things that one goes worrying about are of no importance whatsoever.
—Karen Blixen

12-09-2011


Time spent with cats is never wasted.

The voice of the intellect is a soft one, but it does not rest until it has gained a hearing.

Illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow us to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore accept it without complaint when they sometimes collide with a bit of reality against which they are dashed to pieces.

Every normal person, in fact, is only normal on the average. His ego approximates to that of the psychotic in some part or other and to a greater or lesser extent.
—Sigmund Freud

14-09-2011


Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you.
—Carl Jung


You can't legislate against rumour.

All the world complains about the bad weather, and no one does anything about it.
—Johann Nestroy