Sunday, 21 June 2009
Just because
Márai Sándor: Funeral Oration
‘With your very eyes, my brethren, see what in truth we are:
We are but dust and ashes.’
Like pieces of old cloth our memories fall apart.
Do you still have St Margaret’s Isle by heart?
It is all odds and ends now, splinters, fusty lumber.
The dead man’s beard has grown, your name is just a number.
Our language, torn, frays too; the loved words we so trust
Under the roof of the mouth dry out, turn to dust.
‘Butterfly’, ‘pearl’ and ‘heart’ are not what they used to be
When the poet drew his language from his near family,
And his song was understood as the nurse’s lullaby
Is by the drowsy child, who’s fractious, ready to cry.
The heartbeat’s a secret speech, dreams go the thieves’ way,
You read Toldi to your child, who then responds: ‘OK.’
And the priest will mumble in Spanish over your bier:
‘These are the torments of death, and they surround me here!’
In the Ohio mine your hand slips, the pickaxe
Thuds down and your name loses its diacritical marks.
The Tyrrhenian Sea roars, we hear Babits’ word and, hark,
That’s Krudy’s harp that twangs in the Australasian dark.
They still communicate in astral voices, live
In your body’s memory like distant relatives.
You exclaim: It cannot be that consecrated will…
But it can: you know it now… You get no mail
In the iron-mines of Thuringia. To write they are afraid.
With no katorgas marked, you cannot mourn the dead.
The Consul’s chewing gum. Fed up, he wipes his glasses.
You can see that he’s quite bored with papers, stamps and passes.
He gets a car and a thousand bucks a month. His child and wife
Are photos on his desk. What’s Ady in his life?
What’s a nation? A millennium? The arts that we inherit?
Rippl’s colours? Arany’s words? Bartók’s restless spirit?
It can’t be that so many hearts in vain… Be quiet. It can.
The great powers at great length talk on and on.
Be silent and keep watching. The jackal is alive
Whose ten small claws will scratch you from your African grave.
In Mexico there’s already a cactus growing too
That will cover your tombstone, so none can look for you.
You think you’re alive? Have you somewhere to live? If nowhere,
In your brethren’s hearts…? Oh no, it is all just a nightmare.
You still hear the hoarse complaint: Brother has sold brother.
A faint voice interrupts: Keep your lips sealed together.
A third voice sighs: Lest those who lament us far away…
And a fourth rattles: …are forced to despise us day by day.
So: Keep on smiling. Don’t seek reasons. Do not ask, ‘Was I
Worse than the others.’ You were a Magyar, that is why.
And Estonian, Lithuanian, Romanian. Now keep silent and pay.
The Aztecs have gone as well. Let come what come may.
A scholar will dig your body out of the ground some day
Like an Avarian horse-skull. Nuclear ash will have buried all.
There you’re no longer human: ‘class-alien’ you’re called.
Here you’re no longer human: a number in an equation.
Endure these things as God does; no wild conflagration
Is struck from the stormy firmament. Wisdom has its uses.
Smile when the gaoler tears your tongue out. Smile and be gracious:
Thankful, even in your coffin, that there’s someone to bury you.
Desperately guard your dreams and your adjectives: keep them few.
Don’t squeak when the boss counts your teeth like a horse’s.
Hold on to your rags, your bundle, your wretched memories –
A lock of hair, a photograph, a poem –
For nothing else is left. You can still count the chestnut trees
On Mikó Street – like a miser, you grasp all seven of them.
And Jenö never brought me back the Shelley I had lent him.
And there is no one left to buy the hangman’s rope,
And our nerves, blood and brains are all of them dried up.
With your very eyes, my brethren, see what in truth we are,
We are but dust and ashes.
Trans:George Gömöri & Clime Wilmer
‘With your very eyes, my brethren, see what in truth we are:
We are but dust and ashes.’
Like pieces of old cloth our memories fall apart.
Do you still have St Margaret’s Isle by heart?
It is all odds and ends now, splinters, fusty lumber.
The dead man’s beard has grown, your name is just a number.
Our language, torn, frays too; the loved words we so trust
Under the roof of the mouth dry out, turn to dust.
‘Butterfly’, ‘pearl’ and ‘heart’ are not what they used to be
When the poet drew his language from his near family,
And his song was understood as the nurse’s lullaby
Is by the drowsy child, who’s fractious, ready to cry.
The heartbeat’s a secret speech, dreams go the thieves’ way,
You read Toldi to your child, who then responds: ‘OK.’
And the priest will mumble in Spanish over your bier:
‘These are the torments of death, and they surround me here!’
In the Ohio mine your hand slips, the pickaxe
Thuds down and your name loses its diacritical marks.
The Tyrrhenian Sea roars, we hear Babits’ word and, hark,
That’s Krudy’s harp that twangs in the Australasian dark.
They still communicate in astral voices, live
In your body’s memory like distant relatives.
You exclaim: It cannot be that consecrated will…
But it can: you know it now… You get no mail
In the iron-mines of Thuringia. To write they are afraid.
With no katorgas marked, you cannot mourn the dead.
The Consul’s chewing gum. Fed up, he wipes his glasses.
You can see that he’s quite bored with papers, stamps and passes.
He gets a car and a thousand bucks a month. His child and wife
Are photos on his desk. What’s Ady in his life?
What’s a nation? A millennium? The arts that we inherit?
Rippl’s colours? Arany’s words? Bartók’s restless spirit?
It can’t be that so many hearts in vain… Be quiet. It can.
The great powers at great length talk on and on.
Be silent and keep watching. The jackal is alive
Whose ten small claws will scratch you from your African grave.
In Mexico there’s already a cactus growing too
That will cover your tombstone, so none can look for you.
You think you’re alive? Have you somewhere to live? If nowhere,
In your brethren’s hearts…? Oh no, it is all just a nightmare.
You still hear the hoarse complaint: Brother has sold brother.
A faint voice interrupts: Keep your lips sealed together.
A third voice sighs: Lest those who lament us far away…
And a fourth rattles: …are forced to despise us day by day.
So: Keep on smiling. Don’t seek reasons. Do not ask, ‘Was I
Worse than the others.’ You were a Magyar, that is why.
And Estonian, Lithuanian, Romanian. Now keep silent and pay.
The Aztecs have gone as well. Let come what come may.
A scholar will dig your body out of the ground some day
Like an Avarian horse-skull. Nuclear ash will have buried all.
There you’re no longer human: ‘class-alien’ you’re called.
Here you’re no longer human: a number in an equation.
Endure these things as God does; no wild conflagration
Is struck from the stormy firmament. Wisdom has its uses.
Smile when the gaoler tears your tongue out. Smile and be gracious:
Thankful, even in your coffin, that there’s someone to bury you.
Desperately guard your dreams and your adjectives: keep them few.
Don’t squeak when the boss counts your teeth like a horse’s.
Hold on to your rags, your bundle, your wretched memories –
A lock of hair, a photograph, a poem –
For nothing else is left. You can still count the chestnut trees
On Mikó Street – like a miser, you grasp all seven of them.
And Jenö never brought me back the Shelley I had lent him.
And there is no one left to buy the hangman’s rope,
And our nerves, blood and brains are all of them dried up.
With your very eyes, my brethren, see what in truth we are,
We are but dust and ashes.
Trans:George Gömöri & Clime Wilmer
Thursday, 7 May 2009
Spring?
Even though May is said to be the most beautiful month in Ireland, this year this hasn't been proven by the weather so far. Wind, rain, drizzle, whatever you want (or not).
My heart is aching a little bit to hear that in Central Europe the open-air swimming pools are open from the 1st of May and that at the weekend it might be 30 Celsius in my homecountry...
As regards weather, winter was definitely better here, than at home, but what about summer? Is it possible that for the first time in my life I will have homesickness? And is it possible that due to the poor weather conditions?
OMG. I haven't thought I am so superficial. Sorry.
My heart is aching a little bit to hear that in Central Europe the open-air swimming pools are open from the 1st of May and that at the weekend it might be 30 Celsius in my homecountry...
As regards weather, winter was definitely better here, than at home, but what about summer? Is it possible that for the first time in my life I will have homesickness? And is it possible that due to the poor weather conditions?
OMG. I haven't thought I am so superficial. Sorry.
Saturday, 18 April 2009
Brands
Just a usual quick remark.
As far as brand names are concerned, at first I was a little bit confused to notice that there are some grand international brand names that for some reasons change when they appear in the shelves of this island's shops.
However, just to prove how adaptable one can be, I must confess that nowadays I refer to the well-known brands by their "Irish" names, so instead of Axe, Rexona, Brise I say Lynx, Sure, Glade separately...
As far as brand names are concerned, at first I was a little bit confused to notice that there are some grand international brand names that for some reasons change when they appear in the shelves of this island's shops.
However, just to prove how adaptable one can be, I must confess that nowadays I refer to the well-known brands by their "Irish" names, so instead of Axe, Rexona, Brise I say Lynx, Sure, Glade separately...
Equality
A few weeks ago I mentioned that in Ireland it is not unique at all to have three, four or five, six childen in a family. Since then I realised how this is possible... Although I have no idea how it goes at home (so it might be a kind of hypocrisy as well, however, I doubt it), so, what is rather striking to me is that in Ireland the streets are full of fathers walking with small children... Unfortunately, I think we need to learn a lot from the Irish...
Plagiarism
I have just read three basic facts about the Irish and the drive to share them with the whole world is so strong that I cannot resist the temptation to post them here...
So, how do you know that you are Irish?
1: If the temperature is beyond +5 Celsius, you wear a T-shirt.
2: You do not use racks. Never.
3: You flush the toilet with a doorhandle.
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So, how do you know that you are Irish?
1: If the temperature is beyond +5 Celsius, you wear a T-shirt.
2: You do not use racks. Never.
3: You flush the toilet with a doorhandle.
_8599.jpg)
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Weather
With a bit of exaggeration I can say that all I had heard about Dublin before I actually came here was that its weather is unbearable... Rainy, windy, foggy, misty, clammy, disgusting, awful, intolerable and full stop. That's it.
However, maybe as I was expecting to move to a wet hell, I must confess, I AM disappointed. And not only a little bit. Very much. 'Cos the dreaded weather has not been at all as dreaded as its reputation so far...
OK, OK Dublin is a little bit windy, which in practice means that you can forget about any type of fancy hairstyle you got used to anywhere else, but if you still have a part in your soul that remained a little bit childish, you can really enjoy the playful Irish wind that is generally extremely strong and does not really follow only one specific direction to say the least...
Then. As regards the rain, I expected Ireland to be much-much more rainy, than it is actually. Of course it is not a dry country, but as far as I remember, the wettest week so far has been the one, when once in January it was raining on 4 days out of 7 - it is not at all bad, is it. Moreover, Irish rain is not like normal European rain - its drops are usually much smaller and much lighter in a way, so when you walk in the rain here, sometimes you have the feeling that you are actually strolling in dense fog... Besides being much smaller and lighter, Irish rain has the tendecy to be cheerful and tricky as well, which means that even though the sun shines in the first moment, you cannot take it for granted that it will still shine in the second one... Rain can appear literally out of the blue within a single moment, but in return it is usually generous enough to disappear after a few light drops, so as to be able to stike back again in a few moments before the sun appears again...
All in all, Ireland's weather is not at all as horrible as you might suppose... It is windy, rainy, unpredictable and capricous - but at least it is mild: In winter, the temperature rarely falls below zero, whereas in summer it is usually not warmer than 25 degree Celsius. (For those, who are interested in statistics, HERE is an appealing table.)
Although I am aware of the fact that so far I have been very forgiving, I must admit that there is one thing I have not spoken about yet... Although I still claim that both the rain and the wind are bearable, well, to be honest, the combination of these two might be a little bit annoying - especially if you are not get used to it...
However, maybe as I was expecting to move to a wet hell, I must confess, I AM disappointed. And not only a little bit. Very much. 'Cos the dreaded weather has not been at all as dreaded as its reputation so far...
OK, OK Dublin is a little bit windy, which in practice means that you can forget about any type of fancy hairstyle you got used to anywhere else, but if you still have a part in your soul that remained a little bit childish, you can really enjoy the playful Irish wind that is generally extremely strong and does not really follow only one specific direction to say the least...
Then. As regards the rain, I expected Ireland to be much-much more rainy, than it is actually. Of course it is not a dry country, but as far as I remember, the wettest week so far has been the one, when once in January it was raining on 4 days out of 7 - it is not at all bad, is it. Moreover, Irish rain is not like normal European rain - its drops are usually much smaller and much lighter in a way, so when you walk in the rain here, sometimes you have the feeling that you are actually strolling in dense fog... Besides being much smaller and lighter, Irish rain has the tendecy to be cheerful and tricky as well, which means that even though the sun shines in the first moment, you cannot take it for granted that it will still shine in the second one... Rain can appear literally out of the blue within a single moment, but in return it is usually generous enough to disappear after a few light drops, so as to be able to stike back again in a few moments before the sun appears again...
All in all, Ireland's weather is not at all as horrible as you might suppose... It is windy, rainy, unpredictable and capricous - but at least it is mild: In winter, the temperature rarely falls below zero, whereas in summer it is usually not warmer than 25 degree Celsius. (For those, who are interested in statistics, HERE is an appealing table.)
Although I am aware of the fact that so far I have been very forgiving, I must admit that there is one thing I have not spoken about yet... Although I still claim that both the rain and the wind are bearable, well, to be honest, the combination of these two might be a little bit annoying - especially if you are not get used to it...
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