French author (1866-1944)
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Be reverent before the dawning day. Do not think of what will be in a year, or in ten years. Think of to-day. Leave your theories. All theories, you see, even those of virtue, are bad, foolish, mischievous. Do not abuse life. Live in to-day. Be reverent towards each day. Love it, respect it, do not sully it, do not hinder it from coming to flower. Love it even when it is gray and sad like to-day. Do not be anxious. See. It is winter now. Everything is asleep. The good earth will awake again. You have only to be good and patient like the earth. Be reverent. Wait. If you are good, all will go well. If you are not, if you are weak, if you do not succeed, well, you must be happy in that. No doubt it is the best you can do. So, then, why will? Why be angry because of what you cannot do? We all have to do what we can. . . . Als ich kann."
از دست دادن ایمان نیز مانند خود ایمان غالبا بر اثر جوشش الهام و یک فروغ ناگهانی است. عقل در این کار دستی ندارد؛ اندک چیزی کفایت میکند: مثلا یک حرف، یک سکوت، یا یک بانگ ناقوس. شخص راه میرود و با خیال خود دمساز است و هیچ انتظاری ندارد. ناگهان همهچیز فرو میریزد. انسان خود را میان ویرانهها محصور میبیند. تنها است. دیگر ایمان ندارد.
The slaughter accomplished by man is so small a thing of itself in the carnage of the universe! The animals devour each other. The peaceful plants, the silent trees, are ferocious beasts one to another. The serenity of the forests is only a commonplace of easy rhetoric for the literary men who only know Nature through their books! ... In the forest hard by, a few yards away from the house, there were frightful struggles always toward. The murderous beeches flung themselves upon the pines with their lovely pinkish stems, hemmed in their slenderness with antique columns, and stifled them. They rushed down upon the oaks and smashed them, and made themselves crutches of them. The beeches were like Briareus with his hundred arms, ten trees in one tree! They dealt death all about them. And when, failing foes, they came together, they became entangled, piercing, cleaving, twining round each other like antediluvian monsters. Lower down, in the forest, the acacias had left the outskirts and plunged into the thick of it and, attacked the pinewoods, strangling and tearing up the roots of their foes, poisoning them with their secretions. It was a struggle to the death in which the victors at once took possession of the room and the spoils of the vanquished. Then the smaller monsters would finish the work of the great. Fungi, growing between the roots, would suck at the sick tree, and gradually empty it of its vitality. Black ants would grind exceeding small the rotting wood. Millions of invisible insects were gnawing, boring, reducing to dust what had once been life.... And the silence of the struggle! ... Oh! the peace of Nature, the tragic mask that covers the sorrowful and cruel face of Life!
من نه آنچه را که او گفته بود بل آنچه را که خودم می خواستم بگویم می خواندم،-واژه هایی را می خواندم که اندیشه کودکانه خودم شکسته بسته می کوشید تا هجی کند. کتاب را هرگز کسی نمی خواند. در خلال کتابها ما خود را می خوانیم، خواه برای کشف و خواه برای بررسی خود. و آنان که دید عینی تری دارند بیشتر دچار پندارند. بزرگترین کتاب آن نیست که پیامش بسان تلگرامی روی نوار کاغذ، در مغز نقش می بندد، بل آنکه ضربه جانبخش وی زندگی های دیگری را بیدار کند و آتش خود را که از همه گون درخت مایه می گیرد از یکی به دیگری سرایت دهد و، پس از آنکه آتش سوزی درگرفت، از جنگلی به جنگل دیگر خیز بردارد.
Porque, al descubrir un alma, es necesario distinguir primero la hora en que se la sorprende: nadie sigue siendo el mismo durante el curso de toda una vida, y menos que nadie una mujer como Bettina, entregada por completo a su tierno y loco corazón. Más tarde, los rasgos se modifican, la edad los pliega y convierte en mueca la sonrisa juvenil. No la vieron con idéntico favor los ojos de Goethe en 1825 y en 1807. Mas aquí debemos hablar de la pequeña Mignon de veinte a veinticinco años”
Pasaje de
Goethe y Beethoven - Miguel Ángel
Romain Rolland
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