December 20, 2008

Midnight Pages (The Solstice Blog)

I took a walk into the woods this morning, with my daughter against my heart in her ergo baby carrier, looking down at the remains of what formerly had been foliage, pondering about the volatileness of time and things. Suddenly, something very strange happened: I saw a timid little hedgehog that, instead of hibernating, had obviously but unexpectedly woken up and was now cautiously peeking out from under the bushes, gazing at me. I paused for a moment in order to hide my surprise and take a second look at it, but there was no doubt about it: the hedgehog was looking at me, suggesting a smiling! Although I had made my own painful experiences with that species some time ago, which had taught me to be very cautious, I couldn´t help but trust my instincs... so I plucked up my courage and smiled back. A few precious moments we shared, during which time stood still, and then the moment passed by and we went separate ways again. But when I stepped out of the deep woods to go home to my daily duties, I realized that something had changed: Finally, days are getting longer and brighter again!

Hedgehog by phitar/ Source:

It almost seemed to me as if spring had sent a herald of warmth. I noticed that after all, the world around me was pretty green and shiny in december. Not due to the fir trees and the light decorations all around; simply the nature by itself. Evergreen bushes braved the cold, small water crystals reflected the soft winter light. Somewhere, a blackbird chirped. It even seemed to me that a crocus had grown on the clearing nearby (in fact in was just a little piece of violet bin liner – I suppose I should have taken my glasses along with me! Anyway…) I breathed in the clear icy air and felt more alive and comfortable with myself than I had been feeling in donkey´s years. A thought crossed my mind: What if I chose to enjoy the rest of the winter? Christmas time, New Year´s Eve, my birthday in January, Carnival in February, all that remaining time until the first crocuses would peek out for real and I might meet that little hedgehog again, in thoughts or for real, whatever way?

Metaphorically speaking: Why not replace determinism by libertarianism or –for a lighter start! - compatibilism ?

Well, that´s how my personal winter solstice passed by, this year. After all, black and white are quite close to each other, just as love and hate (and this not only on Eddie´s aka Meat Loaf´s fingers!)…. I learned that a change of heart can occur when you least expect it, and that it is true that the owls are not what they seem. So don´t you ever again claim that those daily additional seconds of brumous winter daylight that are heralded by the winter solstice are of no consequence!

x Alice

Hedgehog Mosaic by kathrynnivy
Find out more about the solstices here

December 02, 2008

Evening Pages (The Gossip Blog)

Cologne at dusk by AdamJL

I´m pretty sure that Julia Cameron had no kids when she stated `Never ever departure from rule no. 1 that is: write daily morning pages!´ At least not two kids under 6! Otherwise, she would have ruled something like `Write as often as you can, whenever you get a second...´

Anyway. These next pages where started on december 2nd in the morning, and will probably be finished tomorrow the 10th in the evenig.... therefore, they are not even supposed to be very coherent.... ahh, what the hell!:-)


I´ve come to the conclusion that English husbands are gentlemen! At least in comparison to French or German husbands. Take Blake (Amy´s ex), or Guy (Ritchie): Not only do they praise their famous (ex-)wives to the skies, they are also taking all the guilt! Blake says`It´s all my fault that Amy got addicted to drugs!´ Aha. And at Madonna´s 50th Birthday, Guy calls out `My wife is the most amazing person I´ve ever met; I´m so proud of her!´(That was three weeks before their official split up). Look, he could have told us - the global public - that she sleeps under cellophane to stay fresh, or that he was forced to eat lemongrass with Kabbalah mushrooms every day or the like to justify himself. But he didn´t (unlike a few of his buddies who spread the rumours instead...) What did he do instead? He said he would do without any monetary dispense (as long as he could see the kids). That he wished her all the best,`Good luck and have fun with your baseballer!´, and didn´t seem offended at all regarding her taking 2/3 of the kids away to the U.S.!

Or look at Blake (Our Blake, now out of jail). Not only did he prefer to stay for a second round in prison, he deliberately chose to stay away from Amy for good in order to protect her, so that she can finally say `Yes, yes, yes!´ to rehab´. Of course, he doesn´t want any of her money either! Poor Amy, she lost a gemstone!

And now picture a German or French husband, in the same situation: Let me tell you that the German would put the blame on his ex and squeeze out as much money as possible. The French one would have already spent the bigger part of his wife´s money for his mistress anyway. But not the English husband, who is loyal to the bitter end. Very honorable, that is. This being said, there remains a faint doubt... could they be veiling something to us? Maybe it´s just their way to say ´I´m up to whatever she asks me, as long as I get rid of that b****´... ??
The problem is: They might be able to get rid of their ex-wives this way, and leave in proper style, but how will they get rid of their I love Amy or Madonna is ma Donna-Tatoos? You don´t think they have a tatoo? Of course they have! Almost all British men have one (except William and Harry, maybe, but who knows....) ! They all love tatoos!! You can eyeball them at Spanish and Greek beaches, containing all sorts of precious statements, ranking from `I love mum´ to `Harley forever´. I pity those guys when comes the time their passion is running dry and they have to remove them. Outch! Love hurts, for sure!

Except for Ronnie. The rolling one. The one who rolls around with that Russian model (or was she working as a waitress before she met him?). He´s sincere to the bitter end (to himself, not to his wife), stating that in the end, he got bored at home from 5 pm. Poor Ronnie, I´m so sorry for him! He´s invited to come to my house for some action if he doesn´t know what to busy himself with. I´m a quarter Russian too! And I used to work as a half-model-half-waitress as well, in ancient times. What a coincidence! But I suppose that´s not exactly what he is looking for. I´m 37, I´m too old for him! Too old for a pair new kids... But he´s a Rolling Stone, I´ll always love him, whatever he´s doing. After all, he has a lot to tell the truth and be what he thinks is true to himself. Even against Mick´s paternal advice (HAHAHA, Mick is advising him... hm! I see! Really!) Ronnie, I wish you & Ekaterina good luck! You´ll need it.


What else? Oh well, this morning at 6 a.m., my 5 year-old son woke me up and said: `Mum, just 1.375 more days and I´ll be 9 years old!´ It took me an hour and a an online-calculator to find out that he was right.

x Alice


P.S. December 14th: Today, I read that Blake (our Blake, finally out of prison....) claimed 1,4 pounds from Amy! So he´s a half Scotsman, or what???

December 01, 2008

Morning Pages (The Blogit! Blog)

Photo by Alice McDuff

Yesterday, a friend called to lift me up. I needed some uplifting, because I have a tendancy to feel downcast when the days get shorter and the nights get long. Which is the case right now. Not exactly in the sense of the Stones song where this line was stolen from, but in the truest sense of the word: In my world, the sun starts to sink at 4.30 p.m. It only rises at 8.15 a.m. In between, I have two little kids who want to have fun and don´t want to sleep - at least not simultaneously. This doesn´t need more explanation, does it?

So my friend who was calling from Munich asked: "How are things with your writing"? "My writing?" "Yes, your writing! Your poetry and all that?" "Oh, that... I barely ever find the time to write properly. Kids keep me busy. My head is empty, or too full with words. I am prone to autumn depression. All I manage to write are dreary poems about cemetaries." (I pass a lot of time at the huge local cemetary around the corner, because this is where my little daughter sleeps best in her pushchair. At least this gives me time and room to think, somehow. Virginia Woolf once stated that in order to be able to write, a woman needs money and a room of her own. Well for the money thing I don´t know whether she´s right (J.K. Rowland has proven us that black is white, if we may believe the myth of her success), but as for the own room concept, I totally agree. The problem is that my daughter still sleeps in our bedroom at night, and that we have banned the tv up to the upper maisonette room. So I have to get by with the cemetary to form my creative thoughts. And after all, Virgina chose to go into the water, despite her money and room of her own. I have neither, nor, but at least this can´t happen to me at the cemetary, there´s no water in miles around. Admittedly, she left us some precious literary artworks. Which, in all likelihood, I will not. Which proves that in any way, Life is unjust! Everything in life has its price! Talent and madness go together like night and day! or something like that... ha!)

"Why don´t you try to write something lighter than this melancholic poetry stuff?", my Munich friend suggested. "Something that helps you to discharge your every day life thoughts."
"But who wants to read everyday life stuff?", was I about to retorte, but then her little son woke up and she could add before hanging up was "Why don´t you open a blog?"

A blog??? Does she mean this modern thing that is keeping a diary on the web? Ten years ago, people would have been staring at you disapprovingly if you had told them "Hello, my name is Alice, I´m 37 and keeping a diary." Aha, and she´s probably still sleeping with her stuffed animals.

Nowadays, everybody has a blog. My ten year old godchild Theresia has one, and my 75 year old uncle Luis too. He lives on the island of Menorca, in a turn of the century villa. One year ago, he didn´t even have a pc. He used to type his columns and articles (the ones he writes for a local newspaper - mostly torrents of hatred agains the German and British polluting his island) on an old Remington typewriter. Well maybe I´m overdoing it, and it wasn´t a Remington. It was probably an IBM Executive. Anyway, everytime I told him that he should defenitely buy and install a PC, he used to blow a rasperry and reply: "Only over my dead body!"
You can image how surprised I was when I received an email from him lately, saying: "Hello Alice, how are you, I´m fine but have no time for further rambling, if you want to keep yourself updated, just visit my blogsite at" "OK", I told myself, "after all, I too have a blog". But I´m not blogging. I´m posting poetry and pictures on a blogspot. That´s different. But it might be the same as well. Nobody (except a handful of loyal strangers I met on the poetry side where I usually post my english poems) is reading or mentioning anyway. So why not *blog* for a little while. All is better than autumn depression.

Therefore, it fits snugly that I got hold of a book again that someone gave to me a few years ago, a book called The Artist´s Way - A Course in Discovering and Recovering your Creative Self by Julia Cameron. I had never managed to peruse that book so far, because in the past, I have obstinately rejected the thought that creativity could be taught. I prefered to believe in the illusion of genuine talent (although being perfectly aware that the word artist derives from artisanry, but what you know and what you want to believe are two different pair of shoes sometimes).

In the book, Julia tells us that we´re all creative, that we are all channels for creative output and she will teach us how to free our creativity and that rule no. 1 is that a creative person should write the so-called morning pages every early morning before dawn. Three pages of longhand writing, strictly stream-of-consciousness. And she insists that this has to be done in the morning! In the morning, before dawn?? I´m trying to get some sleep at dawn, then I´m busy with the kids in the early morning, and then... Darn! I´m not a morning person anyways... Though it all depends on the definition of the word morning person. Are you a morning person when your best creativity time slot is between 0.30 a.m. and 2.00 a.m.? This is in the morning too, after all? I decided to be rather flexible regarding this point, and not to worry any more.

So here they are, my first blogged morning pages. I already have some for tomorrow in my head. Some about Blake and Amy, Guy and Madonna and the bounteousness and decency of british husbands in general and particular..


x Alice

October 17, 2008

Auf dem Herbstfriedhof

Inspiriert vom Leben der Marianne Wirtz,
*1876 +1956

4. Entwurf

Ich wandele manchmal bei den Toten,
oder zumindest dort, wo Ihre Gräber steh´n.
Ich lese in den Zahlen ihres Lebens
und suche diesen hin und wieder einen neuen Sinn.

Denn wie blickt eine Frau nach achtzig Jahren,
mit Glück auf ihre Lebenszeit zurück,
nachdem sie, ohne Hilfe oder Trost,
den Mann, das Kind und den Soldatensohn begrub?

Und doch: Viellecht hat Sie mit ihrer Mutterbrust,
oder vielleicht mit ihren bloßen Händen,
ihr Baby vor der Hungerkälte abgeschirmt?
Gekämpft und hat gerufen: Bleibe bei mir, kleines Kind?

Hat sie in Vaterlandes Morgengrauen
die Listen der für´s Reich Gefallenen studiert?
Der hoffnungsjungen Söhne dieser Zeit,
die für drei Meter Erdenmatsch ihr Leben ließen?

Oder hat sie im Glauben an des Himmels Schutz
darauf gehofft, dass weder Mann noch Kinder
sich unter namenlosen Steine legen müssten?
Hat sie geglaubt, dies alles hätte einen Sinn?

Und wie hat diese Frau noch vierzig Male
nach Winterkälte Krokusblüten ausgehalten?
Hat sie gewagt, den Sommerabend einzuatmen,
oder im Herbst im Blätterwind zu tanzen?

Ich suche in den Augen meiner Kinder,
sie strahlen Liebe, Glaube, Hoffnung aus.
Sie tobend lachend zwischen Steingemäuern
und laufen glücklich und erschöpft nach Hause.


Alice McDuff ~ 19. Oktober 2008

Source of all photos:
(name of photographers will be added soon)

September 26, 2008

Bold and Beautiful

Sea, old sea,
Please hear my plea,
Wash over me, all over me.

Sea, bold sea,
Come speak to me
And tell me of your mystery.

Sea, deep sea,
Take back that key
And make a clean sweep of me.

Sea, green sea,

Unleash your gleam
Roll over and enrapture me.

Alice McDuff ~ 2008


Work in progress

Tausend Tage
Tausend Fragen
Tausendmal lieben
Tausendmal Stille ertragen
Tausendfach darüber nachdenken
Tausendfach ein Lächeln verschenken.

Tausend Tage
Tausend Gedanken
Tausendmal wünschen
Tausendmal leise wanken
Tausendfach das Herz befragen
Tausendfach ins Träumen geraten.

Tausend Tage
Tausend Visionen
Tausendmal leben
Tausendmal Illusionen
Tausendfach nach Glück streben
Tausendfach dem Schicksal begegnen.

Alice McDuff ~ 26. September 2008

Calendar page - Deceleration von Multiple Personalities
Calendario Septiembre 2007 / September 2007 Wallpaper Calendar von ton3vita

"The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death" (Oscar Wilde ~ Salome ~ 1905)

September 25, 2008

Most Of The Time

by Bob Dylan

Most of the time
I'm clear focused all around,
Most of the time
I can keep both feet on the ground,
I can follow the path, I can read the signs,
Stay right with it, when the road unwinds,
I can handle whatever I stumble upon,
I don't even notice she's gone,
Most of the time.

Most of the time
It's well understood,
Most of the time
I wouldn't change it if I could,
I can't make it all match up, I can hold my own,
I can deal with the situation right down to the bone,
I can survive, I can endure
And I don't even think about her
Most of the time.

Most of the time
My head is on straight,
Most of the time
I'm strong enough not to hate.
I don't build up illusion 'till it makes me sick,
I ain't afraid of confusion no matter how thick
I can smile in the face of mankind.
Don't even remember what her lips felt like on mine
Most of the time.

Most of the time
She ain't even in my mind,
I wouldn't know her if I saw her
She's that far behind.
Most of the time
I can't even be sure
If she was ever with me
Or if I was with her.

Most of the time
I'm halfway content,
Most of the time
I know exactly where I went,
I don't cheat on myself, I don't run and hide,
Hide from the feelings, that are buried inside,
I don't compromise and I don't pretend,
I don't even care if I ever see her again
Most of the time.


My all-time favourite track by Bob Dylan. Always a source of inspiration.

Silence Reveals Where We Are by T1855
Sea Birds Sky by Pesi

August 16, 2008


Dieses Dorf, dieses Dorf--

So begrenzt,
so schräg in den Berg gekeilt,
dass einzig der Glockenschlag
den Tag zerteilt,

wo man Hunde begräbt,
weil die Zeit verweilt,
und die Toten sich drehen
vor Unzufriedenheit.

Dieses Dorf, dieses Dorf--

So vertraut,
so sanft an den Hang gelegt,
dass die Stille Tagträume
aus Blüten webt,

wo die Steine atmen,
wenn die Sonne sich regt,
und die Lebenden hören,
wie das Herz Ihnen schlägt.


Alice McDuff – 5 August 2008


August 11, 2008

Wer bist Du ?

Für meine Tochter

Wer bist Du, mein Mädchen?

braun und seidig
in mein Herz
und hast es aufgedeckt,

locktest die Liebe raus
aus ihrem wohlgehüteten Versteck
und brachtest unverfälschte Freude im Gepäck.

Wer bist Du, mein Mädchen?

Flaumig zart,
mit kleiner Faust,

Dein Engelslächeln
hat die Kälte aufgetaut
und alle Zweifel in mir abgebaut.

Wer bist Du, mein Mädchen?

ein süßer Schmetterling,

Du trägst das Leben
als kostbaren Zauberring
und schenkst durch bloßes Dasein allem neuen Sinn.


Alice McDuff ~ 5 August 2008

June 16, 2008

Sylvia Plath ~ Three Women (extracts)

First Voice

I am slow as the world. I am very patient,
Turning through my time, the suns and stars
Regarding me with attention.
The moon´s concern is more personal:
She passes and repasses, luminous as a nurse.
Is she sorry for what will happen? I do not think so.
She is simply astonished at fertility.


What did my fingers do before they held him
What did my heart do, with its love?
I have never seen a thing so clear.
His lids are like the lilac-flower
And soft as a moth, his breath.
I shall not let go.
There is no guile or warp in him. May he keep so.


What is it that flings these innocent souls at us?
Look, they are so exhausted, they are all flat out
In their canvas-sided cots, names tied to their wrists,
The little silver trophies they´ve come so far for.
There are some with thick black hair, there are some bald.
Their skin tints are pink or sallow, brown or red;
They are beginning to remember their differences.


I think they are made of water; they have no expression.
Their features are sleeping, like light or quiet water.
Thes are the real monks and nuns in their identical garments.
I see them showering like stars on to the world -
On India, Africa, America, these miraculous ones,
These pure, small images. They smell of milk,
Their footsoles are untouched. They are walkers of air.


Can nothingness be so prodigal?
Here is my son.
His wide eye is that general, flat blue.
He is turning to me like a little, blind, bright plant.
One cry: It is the hook I hang on.
And I am a river of milk,
I am a warm hill.


How long can I be a wall, keeping the wind off?
How long can I be
Gentling the sun with the shade of my hand,
Intercepting the blue bolts of a cold moon?
The voices of loneliness, the voices of sorrow
Lap at my back ineluctably.
How shall it soften them, this little lullaby?

How long can I be a wall around my green property?
How long can my hands
Be a bandage to his hurt, and my words
Bright birds in the sky, consoling, consoling?
It is a terrible thing
To be so open: it is as if my heart
Put on a face and walked into the world.


I shall meditate upon normality.
I shall meditate upon my little son.
He does not walk. He does not speak a word.
He is still swaddled in white bands.
But he is pink and perfect. He smiles so frequently.
I have papered his room with big roses,
I have painted little hearts on everything.

I do not will him to be exceptional.
It is the exception that interests the devil.
It is the exceptilon that climbs the sorrowful hill
Or sits in the desert and hurts his mother´s heart.
I will him to be common.
To love me as I love him.
And to marry what he wants and where he will.


Third Voice

The swans are gone. Still the river
Remembers how white they were.
It strives after them with its lights.
It finds their shapes in a cloud.
What is that bird that cries
With such sorrow in its voice?
I am young as ever, it says. What is it I miss?

These verses are taken from Sylvia Plath´s poem "Three women ~ A Poem for Three Voices", written 1960

April 02, 2008


(4. Fassung)

Ich treibe auf dem Fluss der Zeit,
nach Osten und nach Westen,
ich suche Halt im Bachgestein,
greif´nach des Ufers Ästen.

Und wenn des Tags das Farn sich wiegt
erzählt es mir vom Glück,
vom Glück das uns erzittern ließ
im kurzen Augenblick.

In Strudeln lasse ich mich los,
gebannt von ihren Klängen.
Mir ist, als flüsterten sie Trost,
in rauschenden Gesängen.

Und wenn des Nachts der Wind sich hebt,
dann bringt er mir ein Stück,
ein Stück von dem, was Du mir warst
von Dir zu mir zurück.
Die Kraft des Stroms trägt mich ans Licht,
mein Atem schwingt im Wind,
das Leben schreit mir ins Gesicht,
tief in mir tanzt mein Kind.

Und wenn im Traum mein Herz zerspringt,
dann öffnet sich mein Blick,
für das, was man die Liebe nennt -
sie trotzt dem Ungeschick!


Alice McDuff ~ 2. April 2008

Inspiriert von Joyce Carol Oates´ wunderbarer Novelle “Ich schließe mich selbst ein“ (Die Originalausgabe erschien 1990 unter dem Titel „I Lock My Door Upon My Self“)

Foto: River Typewriter, No. 2 by f/1.4; Quelle:

moon river

Photo: vera_bing

March 15, 2008

Emmeline; Chapter V, part 2

Alfred de Musset ~ Emmeline
Voici donc la suite du chapitre V (pour le début de la nouvelle, voir plus bas s.v.p.)

Merci pour vôtre patience - en tant que maman active, juriste, poétesse amatrice, enceinte par-dessus le marché, je suis en combât permanent pour un peu de temps libre à faire don à mes propres loisirs futiles:-)
x Alice
(...) Madame de Marsan revint au bout de la semaine. Gilbert arriva un soir chez elle de très bonne heure. La chaleur était accablante. Il la trouva seule au fond de son boudoir, étendue sur un canapé. Elle était vêtue de mousseline, les bras et le col nus. Deux jardinière pleines de fleur embaumaient la chambre ; une porte ouverte sur le jardin laissait entrer un air tiède et suave- Tout disposait à la mollesse. Cependant une taquinerie étrange, inaccoutumée, vint traverser leur entretien. Je vous ait dit qu´il leur arrivait continuellement d´exprimer en même temps, et dans les mêmes termes, leurs pensées, leur sensations ; ce soir-là ils n´étaient d´accord sur rien, et par conséquent tous deux de mauvaise foi. Emmeline passait en revue certaines femmes de sa connaissance. Gilbert en parla avec enthousiasme, et elle en disait du mal à proportion. L´obscurité vint ; il se fit un silence. Un domestique entra, apportant une lampe ; madame de Marsan dit qu´ellle n´en voulait pas, et qu´on la mît dans le salon. À peine cet ordre donné, elle parut s´en repentir, et, s´étant levée avec quelque embarras, elle se dirigea vers son piano. «Venez voir, dit-elle à Gilbert, le petit tabouret de ma loge, que je viens de faire monter autrement ; il me sert maintenant pour m´asseoir là ; on vient de me l´apporter tout à l´heure, et je vais vous faire un peu de musique, pour que vous en ayez l´étrenne.»

Elle préludait doucement par de vagues mélodies, et Gilbert reconnut bientôt son air favori, le Désir de Beethoven. S´ oubliant peu à peu, Emmeline répandit dans son exécution l´expression la plus passionée, pressant le mouvement à faire battre le cœur, puis s´arrêtant tout à coup comme si la respiration lui eût manqué, forcant le son et le laissant s´éteindre. Nulles paroles n´égaleront jamais la tendresse d´un pareil langage. Gilbert était debout, et de temps en temps les beaux yeux se levaient our le consulter. Il s´appuya sur l´angle du piano, tous deux luttaient contre le trouble, quand un accident presque ridicule vint les tirer de leur rêverie.
Le tabouret cassa tout à coup, et Emmeline tomba aux pieds de Gilbert. Il s´élanca our lui tendre la main, elle la prit et se releva en riant ; il était pâle comme un mort, craingant qu´elle ne fût blessée. « C´est bon, dit-elle, donnez-moi une chaise ; ne dirait-on pas que je suis tombée d´un cinquième ? »
Elle se mit à jouer une contredanse et, tout en jouant, à le plaisanter sur la peur qu´il avait eue.
« - N´est-il pas tout simple, lui dit-il, que je m´effraye de vous voir tomber ? – Bah ! répondit-elle, c´est un effet nerveux ; ne croyez-vous pas que j´en suis reconnaissante ? je conviens que ma chute est ridicule ; mais je trouve, ajouta-t-elle assez sèchement, je trouve que votre peur l´est davantage. »
Gilbert fit quelques tours de chambre, et la contredanse d´Emmeline devenait moins gaie d´ instant en instant. Elle sentait qu´en voulant le railler, elle l´avait blessé. Il était trop ému pour pouvoir parler. Il revint s´appuyer au même endroit, devant elle ; ses yeux gonflés ne purent retenir quelques larmes ; Emmeline se leva aussitôt et fut s´asseoir au fond de la chambre, dans un coin obscur. Il s´approcha d´elle et lui reprocha sa dureté. C´était le tour de la comtesse à ne pouvoir répondre. Elle restait muette et dans un état d´agitation impossible à peindre ; il prit son chapeau pour sortir, et, ne pouvant s´y décider, s´assit près d´elle ; elle se détourna et étendit le bras comme pour lui faire signe de partir, il la saisit et la serra sur son cœur. Au même instant on sonna à la porte, et Emmeline se jeta dans un cabinet.
Le pauvre garcon ne s´appercut le lendemain qu´il allait chez madame de Marsant qu´au moment où il y arrivait. L´expérience lui faisait craindre de la trouver sévère et offensée de ce qui s´était passé. Il se trompait, il la trouva calme et indulgente, et le premier mot de la comtesse fut qu´elle l´attendait. Mais elle lui annonca fermement qu´il leur fallait cesser de se voir. « Je ne me repens pas, lui dit-elle, de la faute que j´ai commise, et je ne cherche à m´abuser sur rien. Mais quoi que je puisse vous faire souffrir et souffrir moi-même, M. de Marsan est entre nous ; je ne puis mentir, oubliez-moi. »
Gilbert fut atterré par cette franchise, dont l´accent persuasif ne permettait aucun doute. Il dédaignait les phrases vulgaires et les vaines menaces de mort qui arrivent toujours en pareil cas, il tenta d´être aussi courageux que la comtesse, et de lui prouver au moins par là quelle estime il avait pour elle. Il lui répondit qu´il obéirait et qu´il quitterait Paris pour quelque temps ; elle lui demanda où il comptait aller, et lui promit de lui écrire. Elle voulut qu´il la connût tout entière, et lui raconta en quelques mots l´histoire de sa vie, lui peignit sa position, l´état de son cœur, et ne se fit pas plus heureuse qu´elle n´était. Elle lui rendit ses vers, et le sans remercia de lui avoir donné un moment de bonheur. « - Je m´y suis livrée, lui dit-elle, sans vouloir réfléchir ; j´étais sûre que l´impossible m´arrêterait ; mais je n´ai pu résister à ce qui était possible. J´espère que vous ne verrez pas dams ma conduite une coquetterie que je n´y ai pas mise. J´aurais dû songer d´avantage à vous ; mais je ne vous crois pas assez d´amour pur que vous n´en guérissiez bientôt.
-Je serai assez franc, répondit Gilbert, pour vous dire que je n´en sais rien, mais je ne crois pas en guérir. Votre beauté m´a moins touché que votre esprit et votre caractère, et, si l´image d´un beau visage peut s´effacer par l´absence ou par les années, la perte d´un tel être tel que vous est à jamais irréparable. Sans doute, je guérirai en apparence, et il est presque certain que dans quelque temps je reprendrai mon existence habituelle ; mais ma raison même dira toujours que vous eussiez fait le bonheur de ma vie. Ces vers que vous me rendez on été écrits comme par hasard, un instand d´ivressse les a insporés ; mais le sentiment qu´ils expriment est en mois depuis que je vous connais, et je n´ai eu la force de le cacher que par cela même qu´il est juste et durable. Nous ne serons donc heureux ni l´un ni l´autre, et nous ferons au monde un sacrifice que rien ne pourra compenser.
-Ce n´est pas au monde que nous le ferons, dit Emmeline, mais à nous-mêmes, ou plutôt c´est à moi que vous le ferez. Le mensonge m´est insupportable, et hier soir, après votre départ, j´ai failli tout dire à M. de Marsan. Allons, ajouta-t-elle gaiement, allons, mon ami, tâchons de vivre.
Gilbert lui baisa la main respectueusement, et il se séparèrent.
(A suivre bientôt, le chapitre VI est déjà en travail !)

January 03, 2008

Happily Pregnant at 37:-)

Rainer Maria Rilke ~ Ich lebe mein Leben

Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen,
die sich über die Dinge ziehn.
Ich werde den letzten vielleicht nicht vollbringen,
aber versuchen will ich ihn.

Ich kreise um Gott, um den uralten Turm,
und ich kreise jahrtausendelang;
und ich weiß noch nicht: bin ich ein Falke, ein Sturm
oder ein großer Gesang.


January 02, 2008

Nicht fertig werden

Rose Ausländer ~ Nicht fertig werden

Die Herzschläge nicht zählen
Delphine tanzen lassen
Ländern aufstöbern
Aus Worten Welten rufen
horchen was Bach
zu sagen hat
Tolstoi bewundern
sich freuen
höher leben
tiefer leben
noch und noch

Nicht fertig werden

Hermann Hesse ~ Stufen

Wie jede Blüte welkt und jede Jugend
Dem Alter weicht, blüht jede Lebensstufe,
Blüht jede Weisheit auch und jede Tugend
Zu ihrer Zeit und darf nicht ewig dauern.
Es muß das Herz bei jedem Lebensrufe
Bereit zum Abschied sein und Neubeginne,
Um sich in Tapferkeit und ohne Trauern
In andre, neue Bindungen zu geben.
Und jedem Anfang wohnt ein Zauber inne,
Der uns beschützt und der uns hilft, zu leben.

Wir sollen heiter Raum um Raum durchschreiten,
An keinem wie an einer Heimat hängen,
Der Weltgeist will nicht fesseln uns und engen,
Er will uns Stuf´um Stufe heben, weiten.
Kaum sind wir heimisch einem Lebenskreise
Und traulich eingewohnt, so droht Erschlaffen;
Nur wer bereit zu Aufbruch ist und Reise,
Mag lähmender Gewöhnung sich entraffen.

Es wird vielleicht auch noch die Todesstunde
Uns neuen Räumen jung entgegen senden,
Des Lebens Ruf an uns wird niemals enden...
Wohlan denn, Herz, nimm Abschied und gesunde!