Herta Müller: Nobel Prize for Literature 2009

Excerpts from The Passport (Der Mensch ist ein großer Fasan auf der Welt)

Source: http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/2009/muller-prose_en.html

THE POT HOLE

Around the war memorial are roses. They form a thicket. So overgrown that they suffocate the grass. Their blooms are white, rolled tight like paper. They rustle. Dawn is breaking. Soon it will be day.
Every morning, as he cycles alone along the road to the mill, Windisch counts the day. In front of the war memorial he counts the years. By the first poplar tree beyond it, where he always hits the same pot hole, he counts the days. And in the evening, when Windisch locks up the mill, he counts the years and the days once again.
He can see the small white roses, the war memorial and the poplar tree from far away. And when it is foggy, the white of the roses and the white of the stone is close in front of him as he rides. Windisch rides on. Windisch's face is damp, and he rides till he's there. Twice the thorns on the rose thicket were bare and the weeds underneath were rusty. Twice the poplar was so bare that its wood almost split. Twice there was snow on the paths.
Windisch counts two years by the war memorial and two hundred and twenty-one days in the pot hole by the poplar.
Every day when Windisch is jolted by the pot hole, he thinks, "The end is here." Since Windisch made the decision to emigrate, he sees the end everywhere in the village. And time standing still for those who want to stay. And Windisch sees that the night watchman will stay beyond the end.
And after Windisch has counted two hundred and twenty-one days and the pot hole has jolted him, he gets off for the first time. He leans the bicycle against the poplar tree. His steps are loud. Wild pigeons flutter out of the churchyard. They are as grey as the light. Only the noise makes them different.
Windisch crosses himself. The door latch is wet. It sticks to Windisch's hand. The church door is locked. Saint Anthony is on the other side of the wall. He is carrying a white lily and a brown book. He is locked in.
Windisch shivers. He looks down the street. Where it ends, the grass beats into the village. A man is walking at the end of the street. The man is a black thread walking into the field. The waves of grass lift him above the ground.

Edgar Allan Poe: the magic of poetry ...

EDGAR ALLAN POE
(1809-1849)

THE RAVEN

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As some one gently rapping at my chamber door.
‘ ’Tis some visitor, ’I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door—
Only this, and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the Bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; —vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
‘ ’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some later visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is, and nothing more.’

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
‘Sir’, said I, ‘orMadam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’,—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ‘Lenore!’,
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, ‘Lenore!’—
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
‘Surely,’ said I, ‘surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more.’

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
‘Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said,
[‘art sure no craven,]
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian Shore!’
Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore’.

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little re relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as ‘Nevermore’.

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered, ‘other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, ‘Nevermore’.

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
‘Doubtless’, said, ‘what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘‘Never-nevermore’’.’

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking ‘Nevermore’.

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then me thought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
‘Wretch’, I cried, ‘thy God hath lent thee—
Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore’.

‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent,or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet allundaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by horrorhaunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore’
Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore’.

‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.’
Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore’.

‘Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,’, I shrieked, upstarting—
‘Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore’.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp lighto’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!


Translation to Portuguese of “The Raven” by Fernando Pessoa

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (born on this day ,110 years ago) )

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry was a French writer and aviator who was born on the 29th June 1900 and who died on 31st July 1944 during a reconnaissance flight over the Mediterranean during World War II.

He is best remembered for his novella The Little Prince (Le Petit Prince), and for his books about aviation adventures, including Night Flight and Wind, Sand and Stars.

I read The Little Prince many years ago and I found it superb! The simplicity of life and the purity of thought are revealed through the eyes of a child, the Little Prince. His vision of the world contrasts deeply with the grown-ups' vision and he fails to understand why we are turning our magnificent world into such a mess ...

Below you have a chapter of the book which illustrates what I said before (chapter VII). I advise you to read the whole story- http://wikilivres.info/wiki/The_Little_Prince

VII
On the fifth day — again, as always, it was thanks to the sheep — the secret of the little prince's life was revealed to me. Abruptly, without anything to lead up to it, and as if the question had been born of long and silent meditation on his problem, he demanded:
"A sheep — if it eats little bushes, does it eat flowers, too?"
"A sheep," I answered, "eats anything it finds in its reach."
"Even flowers that have thorns?"
"Yes, even flowers that have thorns."
"Then the thorns — what use are they?"
I did not know. At that moment I was very busy trying to unscrew a bolt that had got stuck in my engine. I was very much worried, for it was becoming clear to me that the breakdown of my plane was extremely serious. And I had so little drinking-water left that I had to fear for the worst.
"The thorns — what use are they?"
The little prince never let go of a question, once he had asked it. As for me, I was upset over that bolt. And I answered with the first thing that came into my head:
"The thorns are of no use at all. Flowers have thorns just for spite!"
"Oh!"
There was a moment of complete silence. Then the little prince flashed back at me, with a kind of resentfulness:
"I don't believe you! Flowers are weak creatures. They are naïve. They reassure themselves as best they can. They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons..."
I did not answer. At that instant I was saying to myself: "If this bolt still won't turn, I am going to knock it out with the hammer." Again the little prince disturbed my thoughts:
"And you actually believe that the flowers — "
"Oh, no!" I cried. "No, no, no! I don't believe anything. I answered you with the first thing that came into my head. Don't you see — I am very busy with matters of consequence!"
He stared at me, thunderstruck.
"Matters of consequence!"
He looked at me there, with my hammer in my hand, my fingers black with engine-grease, bending down over an object which seemed to him extremely ugly...
"You talk just like the grown-ups!"
That made me a little ashamed. But he went on, relentlessly:
"You mix everything up together... You confuse everything..."
He was really very angry. He tossed his golden curls in the breeze.
"I know a planet where there is a certain red-faced gentleman. He has never smelled a flower. He has never looked at a star. He has never loved any one. He has never done anything in his life but add up figures. And all day he says over and over, just like you: 'I am busy with matters of consequence!' And that makes him swell up with pride. But he is not a man — he is a mushroom!"
"A what?"
"A mushroom!"
The little prince was now white with rage.
"The flowers have been growing thorns for millions of years. For millions of years the sheep have been eating them just the same. And is it not a matter of consequence to try to understand why the flowers go to so much trouble to grow thorns which are never of any use to them? Is the warfare between the sheep and the flowers not important? Is this not of more consequence than a fat red-faced gentleman's sums? And if I know — I, myself — one flower which is unique in the world, which grows nowhere but on my planet, but which one little sheep can destroy in a single bite some morning, without even noticing what he is doing — Oh! You think that is not important!"

His face turned from white to red as he continued:
"If some one loves a flower, of which just one single blossom grows in all the millions and millions of stars, it is enough to make him happy just to look at the stars. He can say to himself, 'Somewhere, my flower is there...' But if the sheep eats the flower, in one moment all his stars will be darkened... And you think that is not important!"
He could not say anything more. His words were choked by sobbing.
The night had fallen. I had let my tools drop from my hands. Of what moment now was my hammer, my bolt, or thirst, or death? On one star, one planet, my planet, the Earth, there was a little prince to be comforted. I took him in my arms, and rocked him. I said to him:
"The flower that you love is not in danger. I will draw you a muzzle for your sheep. I will draw you a railing to put around your flower. I will — "
I did not know what to say to him. I felt awkward and blundering. I did not know how I could reach him, where I could overtake him and go on hand in hand with him once more.
It is such a secret place, the land of tears.

José Saramago, the Portuguese writer who won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1998, died yesterday ...

José Saramago (1935 - 18th June 2010)

Considered by Harold Bloom as the "most gifted novelist alive in the world today" Saramago has combined in his work history of Portugal, myths and surrealistic imagination. He was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1998.

José Saramago was born in Azinhaga, a small village in the province of Ribatejo. In 1924, Saramago's family moved to Lisbon, where his father started working as a policeman. A few months later, his brother Francisco died. Although Saramago was a good student, due to financial problems, he was forced to leave school in order to earn his living. Saramago was educated as a technician, and before becoming a journalist, translator, and writer, he did a number of manual jobs.

He joined in 1969 the Communist Party of Portugal, which was forbidden during the military dictatorship, but he also criticized the party. In the 1970s Saramago supported himself mostly by translation works, and since 1979 he has devoted himself entirely to writing. The author was living on the Canary Islands when he died on 18th June 2010.

Below we can find a list of some of his works.
(Many of his works have been translated into many different languages)

Prose

Memorial do Convento: romance. Ed. Caminho, 1982, Círculo de Leitores, 1984 (English)
O ano da morte de Ricardo Reis: romance. Ed. Caminho, 1984
A jangada de pedra: romance. Ed. Caminho 1986, Círculo de Leitores, 1987 (English)
História do cerco de Lisboa: romance. Ed. Caminho, 1989
O evangelho segundo Jesus Cristo: romance. Ed. Caminho, 1991 (English)
Ensaio sobre a cegueira: romance. Ed. Caminho, 1995
Todos os nomes: romance. Ed. Caminho, 1997
Terra do Pecado : romance. 1947. 2. ed. Lisboa : Caminho, 1997
O conto da Ilha Desconhecida / desenhos: Pedro Cabrita Reis. Lisboa : Assírio & Alvim, 1997
A caverna : romance. Lisboa : Caminho, 2000
O homem duplicado : romance. Lisboa : Caminho, 2002
Ensaio sobre a Lucidez : romance. Lisboa : Caminho, 2004



Read the all article at : http://www.lisbon-guide.info/celebrities/jose-saramago