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It was dark by the time I reached Bonn, and I forced myself not to succumb to the series of mechanical actions which had taken hold of me in five years of traveling back and forth: down the station steps, up the station steps, put down my suitcase, take my ticket out of my coat pocket, pick up my suitcase, hand in my ticket, cross over to the newsstand, buy the evening papers, go outside, and signal for a taxi. Heinrich Boll, "The Clown"
What it all seemed to come down to, in those early days when everything looked as clear as the sea at sunrise, was the question of exactly where, how and when the train had been 'made up'. Michael Dibdin, "Blood Rain"
Unfortunate children! I have punished you and driven you from the Garden of Eden. Now you enter a world of sorrow and trouble that staggers imagination. I want you to know that My love for you will never end. You will meet with tribulation that will embitter you. Out of My heavenly treasure, I give a priceless pearl. A tear! When grief overtakes you, when your heart aches, and great anguish grips your soul, then there will fall from your eyes tears.
1, 2, 3: Jewish legends. 4: St Augustine Confessions. 5: Deuteronomy Hear, Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. 6: Hesse Siddhartha 7, 8, 9: Dostoevsky Crime & Punishment-4 clips. 10, 11: Homer Iliad-2 clips. 12, 13, 14: McMurtry western-3 clips. 15: Old Testament King David being insulted. 16: Umberto Eco Baudolino. 17: Homer Odyssey.
Taken from a website, the following note highlights a recent wonderful reading experience: Rodger Kamenetz's "Burnt Books: Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav and Franz Kafka"
Rodger Kamenetz has long been engaged in the study and practice of Jewish spirituality. For many years, he taught in Prague on Franz Kafka. The more he learned about the life and work of Rabbi Nachman (great-grandson of the Baal Shem Tov, founder of Hasidism), the more aware he became of a connection to Kafka. Both men died young of tuberculosis. Both gained posthumous prominence for their writing. Both left strict instructions that their unpublished writings were to be burned after they died.
Browsing 'A Treasury of Jewish Folklore', edited by Nathan Ausubel, I read of Bontshe the Silent, written by IL Peretz (1851-1915). Exiled to ghettos in modern nations, the Jews were forced into poverty. Their folktales, embracing humor, defined downtrodden characters. "A schlemihl is a man who spills a bowl of soup upon a schlimazel." Bontshe is a saint amongst such men. Never complaining, silent and heavenly judged, salvation is his gain.
A pear tree near our vineyard, laden with fruit. To shake and rob this pear tree, we took huge booty, not for eating, but flinging to hogs, tasting and spitting. Only to do what we willed. Behold my heart. O God, see me, have pity. Now, let my heart speak, tell what it sought. It was foul, and I loved it. I loved to perish. I loved mine own fault, not that for which I was faulty, but my fault itself. Foul soul, falling from Thy firmament to utter destruction.
Listen, Israel: Yahweh, our God, is One Yahweh. And you shall love Yahweh, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your strength. Engrave on your heart the commandments that I pass on to you today. Repeat them over and over to your children, speak of them when you are at home and when you travel, when you lie down and when you rise. Brand them on your hand as a sign, and keep them always before your eyes. Engrave them on your doorposts and on your city gates.
When he had finished talking, Vasudeva turned his friendly eyes, which had grown slightly weak, at him, said nothing, let his silent love and cheerfulness, understanding and knowledge, shine at him. He took Siddhartha's hand, led him to the seat by the bank, sat down with him, smiled at the river.
But that is the beginning of a new story--the story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is ended.
Timidly a young girl made her way through the crowd. Strange was her appearance, in the midst of death and despair. She was in rags, gutter finery. Sonia stopped in the doorway. She forgot her gaudy silk dress, her immense crinoline, her bright shoes, the parasol, and the absurd straw hat with its flaring feather. Under the hat was a pale, frightened little face with lips parted and eyes staring in terror. Sonia was a small thin girl of eighteen, fair hair, rather pretty, wonderful blue eyes.
"And what if I am wrong," he cried suddenly after a moment's thought.
"What if man is not really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the
whole race of mankind--then all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial
terrors and there are no barriers and it's all as it should be."
The first prize he offered was for the chariot races--a woman skilled in all useful arts, and a three-legged cauldron that had ears for handles, holding twenty-two measures. This was for the man who came in first. For second a six-year old mare, unbroken, and in foal to a he-ass; the third was to have a goodly cauldron never yet seen fire; it was still bright, holding four measures. The fourth prize two talents of gold, and the fifth a two-handled urn as yet unsoiled by smoke.
...but the dogs came not about the body of Hector, for Jove's daughter Venus kept them off him night and day, and anointed him with ambrosial oil of roses that his flesh might not be torn when Achilles was dragging him about. Phoebus Apollo moreover sent a dark cloud from heaven to earth, which gave shade to the whole place where Hector lay, that the heat of the sun might not parch his body.
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