Gli anni al contrario

"Bisognava solo che quelle stupidaggini passassero: tutto passava, specialmente la gioventù."

Gli anni al contrario di Nadia Terranova è la prova che per trovare il cuore di una storia e dei suoi protagonisti non occorre macerare la lunghezza di un tomo con fiumi d'inchiostro e scegliere una prosa forbita: figli di due padri agli antipodi per idee ed estrazione ma entrambi vittime in un modo o nell'altro di quella forza irresistibile che porta i genitori a condizionare le scelte di vita del loro stesso sangue, Aurora e Giovanni si conoscono e si innamorano all'Università sognando che lo studio regali loro l'emancipazione dalle famiglie e l'opportunità di fare davvero la differenza; la loro danza è un Valzer instabile che si consuma in fretta, passando dall'azzurrino dell'innamoramento e degli ideali pieni di speranza(mai copertina fu poeticamente più azzeccata) al bianco del matrimonio e al rosa della nascita, con una bambina frutto di un' incoscienza giovanile pronta a farsi guidare dagli imprevisti perché ogni cambiamento ha il sapore dell'ignoto da esplorare e per fare gli adulti ci sarà sempre tempo.

Purtroppo, tutto passa, specialmente la gioventù: il ritmo della danza si fa frenetico e i passi pesanti, come l'amarezza dell'esistenza che tradisce le aspettative e domanda qualcosa che nessun' anima di bambino potrebbe mai accettare per sé stessa, gli anni corrono via uno dietro l'altro annebbiando il sentimento di insoddisfazione e impotenza, mentre Aurora e Giovanni tentano di seguire il ritmo forsennato del tempo finendo per perdere l'equilibrio e cadere, senza trovare mai del tutto la forza di rialzarsi e ripartire.

Poet's Corner No. 29

When weary with the long day's care,

And earthly change from pain to pain,

And lost, and ready to despair,

Thy kind voice calls me back again:

Oh, my true friend! I am not lone,

While then canst speak with such a tone!

So hopeless is the world without;

The world within I doubly prize;

Thy world, where guile, and hate, and doubt,

And cold suspicion never rise;

Where thou, and I, and Liberty,

Have undisputed sovereignty.

What matters it, that all around

Danger, and guilt, and darkness lie,

If but within our bosom's bound

We hold a bright, untroubled sky,

Warm with ten thousand mingled rays

Of suns that know no winter days?

Reason, indeed, may oft complain

For Nature's sad reality,

And tell the suffering heart how vain

Its cherished dreams must always be;

And Truth may rudely trample down

The flowers of Fancy, newly-blown:

But thou art ever there, to bring

The hovering vision back, and breathe

New glories o'er the blighted spring,

And call a lovelier Life from Death.

And whisper, with a voice divine,

Of real worlds, as bright as thine.

I trust not to thy phantom bliss,

Yet, still, in evening's quiet hour,

With never-failing thankfulness,

I welcome thee, Benignant Power;

Sure solacer of human cares,

And sweeter hope, when hope despairs!

To Imagination

Emily Brontë

Poet's Corner No. 28

Dans le vieux parc solitaire et glacé

Deux formes ont tout à l'heure passé.

Leurs yeux sont morts et leurs lèvres sont molles,

Et l'on entend à peine leurs paroles.

Dans le vieux parc solitaire et glacé

Deux spectres ont évoqué le passé.

- Te souvient-il de notre extase ancienne ?

- Pourquoi voulez-vous donc qu'il m'en souvienne ?

- Ton coeur bat-il toujours à mon seul nom ?

Toujours vois-tu mon âme en rêve? - Non.

Ah ! les beaux jours de bonheur indicible

Où nous joignions nos bouches ! - C'est possible.

- Qu'il était bleu, le ciel, et grand, l'espoir !

- L'espoir a fui, vaincu, vers le ciel noir.

Tels ils marchaient dans les avoines folles,

Et la nuit seule entendit leurs paroles.

§§§

Nel vecchio parco solitario e ghiacciato

due figure poco fa sono passate.

Spenti hanno gli occhi, le labbra senza lena

e le loro parole s'odono appena.

Nel vecchio parco solitario e ghiacciato

due fantasmi hanno evocato il passato.

- Ricordi la nostra estasi d'un tempo?

- Perché mai volete che mi torni in mente?

- Ti batte ancora il cuore al solo mio nome?

Vedi ancora in sogno la mia anima? - No.

Ah! i bei giorni di felicità indicibile

che univamo le nostre bocche! - È possibile.

- Che cielo azzurro, che speranza infinita!

- Sconfitta, verso il cielo nero è fuggita.

Così andavano per le avene incolte,

le loro parole udì solo la notte.

Paul Verlaine

Colloque sentimental

Poet's corner No. 27

'Tis " the witching time of night", 

Orbed is the moon and bright, 

And the stars they glisten, glisten, 

Seeming with bright eyes to listen — 

For what listen they? 

For a song and for a charm, 

See they glisten in alarm, 

And the moon is waxing warm 

To hear what I shall say. 

Moon! keep wide thy golden ears — 

Hearken, stars! and hearken, spheres! 

Hearken, thou eternal sky! 

I sing an infant's lullaby, 

A pretty lullaby. 

Listen, listen, listen, listen, 

Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, 

And hear my lullaby! 

Though the rushes that will make 

Its cradle still are in the lake; 

Though the linen then that will be 

Its swathe, is on the cotton tree; 

Though the woollen that will keep 

It warm is on the silly sheep — 

Listen, stars' light, listen, listen, 

Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, 

And hear my lullaby! 

Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee 

Midst of the quiet all around thee! 

Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee! 

And thy mother sweet is nigh thee! 

Child, I know thee! Child no more, 

But a Poet evermore! 

See, see, the lyre, the lyre, 

In a flame of fire, 

Upon the little cradle's top 

Flaring, flaring, flaring, 

Past the eyesight's bearing. 

Awake it from its sleep, 

And see if it can keep 

Its eyes upon the blaze — 

Amaze, amaze! 

It stares, it stares, it stares, 

It dares what no one dares! 

It lifts its little hand into the flame 

Unharmed, and on the strings 

Paddles a little tune, and sings, 

With dumb endeavour sweetly — 

Bard art thou completely! 

Little child 

O' th' western wild, 

Bard art thou completely! 

Sweetly with dumb endeavour, 

A Poet now or never, 

Little child 

O' the western wild, 

A Poet now or never!

John Keats 

'Tis the Witching Time of Night

Poet's corner No. 26

Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit.

                                     RACINE

There is a panther stalks me down:

One day I'll have my death of him;

His greed has set the woods aflame,

He prowls more lordly than the sun.

Most soft, most suavely glides that step,

Advancing always at my back;

From gaunt hemlock, rooks croak havoc:

The hunt is on, and sprung the trap.

Flayed by thorns I trek the rocks,

Haggard through the hot white noon.

Along red network of his veins

What fires run, what craving wakes?

Insatiate, he ransacks the land

Condemned by our ancestral fault,

Crying:  blood, let blood be spilt;

Meat must glut his mouth's raw wound.

Keen the rending teeth and sweet

The singeing fury of his fur;

His kisses parch, each paw's a briar,

Doom consummates that appetite.

In the wake of this fierce cat,

Kindled like torches for his joy,

Charred and ravened women lie,

Become his starving body's bait.

Now hills hatch menace, spawning shade;

Midnight cloaks the sultry grove;

The black marauder, hauled by love

On fluent haunches, keeps my speed.

Behind snarled thickets of my eyes

Lurks the lithe one; in dreams' ambush

Bright those claws that mar the flesh

And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.

His ardor snares me, lights the trees,

And I run flaring in my skin;

What lull, what cool can lap me in

When burns and brands that yellow gaze?

I hurl my heart to halt his pace,

To quench his thirst I squander blook;

He eats, and still his need seeks food,

Compels a total sacrifice.

His voice waylays me, spells a trance,

The gutted forest falls to ash;

Appalled by secret want, I rush

From such assault of radiance.

Entering the tower of my fears,

I shut my doors on that dark guilt,

I bolt the door, each door I bolt.

Blood quickens, gonging in my ears:

The panther's tread is on the stairs,

Coming up and up the stairs.

Sylvia Plath

Pursuit

Poet's corner No. 23

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas

Poet's corner No. 22

O what can ail thee, knight at arms,

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.

O What can ail thee, knight at arms,

So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful, a fairy's child;

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She look'd at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A fairy's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

And honey wild, and manna dew,

And sure in language strange she said—

I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,

And there I dream'd—Ah! woe betide!

The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,

Pale warriors, death pale were they all;

They cried—"La belle dame sans merci

Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam

With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here

On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.

John Keats

La Belle Dame Sans Merci 

Happy Birthday John.

Poet's corner No. 21

Absence, hear thou my protestation

         Against thy strength,

         Distance and length:

Do what thou canst for alteration,

         For hearts of truest mettle

         Absence doth join and Time doth settle.

Who loves a mistress of such quality,

         His mind hath found

         Affection's ground

Beyond time, place, and all mortality.

         To hearts that cannot vary

         Absence is present, Time doth tarry.

My senses want their outward motion

         Which now within

         Reason doth win,

Redoubled by her secret notion:

         Like rich men that take pleasure

         In hiding more than handling treasure.

By Absence this good means I gain,

         That I can catch her

         Where none can watch her,

In some close corner of my brain:

         There I embrace and kiss her,

         And so enjoy her and none miss her.

That Time and Absence proves Rather helps than hurts to loves

John Donne

My Summer of No Discontent: Richard III, Trafalgar Studios

My Kingdom for a Ticket

Il 22 agosto 1485 la battaglia di Bosworth Field segnava la fine della Guerra delle due Rose e l'inizio della dinastia Tudor: la vittoria ha comprato la pace consegnando l'ultimo sovrano degli York Riccardo III alla memoria di un ritratto infedele e artefatto, ingiustamente eppur magnificamente pennellato da Shakespeare come il prototipo di una malvagità mascherata, machiavellica e codarda all'occorrenza.

Biasimare il Bardo per l'increscioso equivoco non sarebbe corretto: la leggenda dell'indole e della fisicità mostruose di Riccardo (beffato fino alla fine da un'indecorosa sepoltura sotto un parcheggio a Leicester) erano già parte del folclore molto prima che Shakespeare nascesse e la cara Regina Elisabetta I, diretta discendente dell'ultimo Erede dei Lancaster, non avrebbe potuto godere di una versione della storia più gradita alla sua Casata.

Ciononostante, fare pace con un ritratto propagandistico come quello offertoci dal Richard III e proteggere le mie simpatie per il personaggio storico dalla devastante villania del suo gemello letterario è stato più difficile del previsto. Quale miglior occasione per fare ammenda di un'esperienza unica in teatro con uno dei miei attori preferiti?

MY SUMMER OF NO DISCONTENT

My Summer of No Discontent: Richard III, Trafalgar Studios

My Kingdom for a Ticket

Il 22 agosto 1485 la battaglia di Bosworth Field segnava la fine della Guerra delle due Rose e l'inizio della dinastia Tudor: la vittoria ha comprato la pace consegnando l'ultimo sovrano degli York Riccardo III alla memoria di un ritratto infedele e artefatto, ingiustamente eppur magnificamente pennellato da Shakespeare come il prototipo di una malvagità mascherata, machiavellica e codarda all'occorrenza.

Biasimare il Bardo per l'increscioso equivoco non sarebbe corretto: la leggenda dell'indole e della fisicità mostruose di Riccardo (beffato fino alla fine da un'indecorosa sepoltura sotto un parcheggio a Leicester) erano già parte del folclore molto prima che Shakespeare nascesse e la cara Regina Elisabetta I, diretta discendente dell'ultimo Erede dei Lancaster, non avrebbe potuto godere di una versione della storia più gradita alla sua Casata.

Ciononostante, fare pace con un ritratto propagandistico come quello offertoci dal Richard III e proteggere le mie simpatie per il personaggio storico dalla devastante villania del suo gemello letterario è stato più difficile del previsto. Quale miglior occasione per fare ammenda di un'esperienza unica in teatro con uno dei miei attori preferiti?

MY SUMMER OF NO DISCONTENT

Becoming Jane, a journey

"My characters will have, after a little bit of trouble, all that they desire"

Alcuni film ti aspettano al varco al momento giusto: non occorre che siano dei capolavori, che il regista sia Stanley Kubrick o François Truffaut, che sia stato adorato dalla critica o benedetto da una pioggia di Oscar, l'importante è che sia lì quando tu hai bisogno di lui, quando ti senti perso e non sai da che parte andare, quando stai passando un brutto periodo e sei in cerca di una luce che ti mostri la via, o magari hai soltanto un disperato bisogno di qualcosa che ti faccia sentire meglio, aprendoti la porta di un mondo sconosciuto.

Per una serie di circostanze l'anno della discordia ad oggi imbattuto per la sottoscritta continua ad essere il 2007: tutti ti dicono di dimenticare la brutta avventura e di smettere di pensare, ma per quanto sia ricco il ventaglio di parole di incoraggiamento che ti possano offrire quella contro le proprie paure è una battaglia che si combatte da soli, in quelle notti in cui non riesci a trovare il coraggio di spegnere la luce prima di addormentarti.

Così, mentre osservavo le lancette dell'orologio ticchettare nell'attesa che il tempo facesse il suo corso, mi sono imbattuta per caso in quella che da brava cinefila ritengo sia stata un'ottima e raccomandabile terapia: no, non si tratta di Quarto Potere, solo di un piccolo film dedicato a Jane Austen e intitolato Becoming Jane, diretto da un Julian Jarrold all'epoca praticamente esordiente sul grande schermo dopo alcune miniserie della BBC.

Made glorious summer by this sun of York

"Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;

And now, instead of mounting barded steeds

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;

Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun

And descant on mine own deformity:

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,

To entertain these fair well-spoken days,

I am determined to prove a villain

And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,

By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,

To set my brother Clarence and the king

In deadly hate the one against the other:

And if King Edward be as true and just

As I am subtle, false and treacherous,

This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up,

About a prophecy, which says that 'G'

Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be."

William Shakespeare
Richard III, Act I. Scene I.

Well...I'M GOING ON AN ADVENTURE! Wish me luck :)

The Invisible Woman

"This is a tale of woe, this is a tale of sorrow, a love denied, a love restored to live beyond tomorrow. Lest we think silence is the place to hide a heavy heart, remember to love and be loved is life itself, without which we are naught."

Cammina a passo svelto e nervoso, senza mai voltarsi indietro, sulla spiaggia deserta dove le onde spezzano il silenzio, instancabili; Ellen Robinson fa quel percorso ogni mattina, non curante degli impegni lasciati in sospeso o del fatto che il marito possa preoccuparsi per la sua assenza, inseguita dall'ombra che non può smettere di perseguitarla e di darle conforto per tutto ciò che ha ormai perduto: una volta si chiamava Nelly Ternan, aveva solo 18 anni e una carriera d'attrice da condividere con la madre e le due sorelle, tutte educate alla libertà e all'indipendenza di una vita da palcoscenico. Il destino aveva però in serbo per Nelly un futuro ben diverso: incrociata per caso la strada di Charles Dickens, all'epoca all'apice della sua fama letteraria e ricercato dagli ammiratori come una vera e propria celebrità, la ragazza accettò di rinunciare a tutto, sparendo letteralmente dall'occhio indiscreto della società e consacrando la sua esistenza ad essere l'anima affine di cui lo scrittore aveva sempre sentito la mancanza.

Al mistero di Nelly, debitamente nascosta dell'amante al punto di divenire malapena un riflesso della donna che avrebbe potuto essere è dedicato The Invisible Woman, seconda regia di un Ralph Fiennes che sceglie di ritagliare per sé stesso anche l'imponente ruolo di Charles Dickens.

Poet's corner No. 20

O FOR a voice like thunder, and a tongue

To drown the throat of war! When the senses

Are shaken, and the soul is driven to madness,

Who can stand? When the souls of the oppressèd

Fight in the troubled air that rages, who can stand?       

When the whirlwind of fury comes from the

Throne of God, when the frowns of his countenance

Drive the nations together, who can stand?

When Sin claps his broad wings over the battle,

And sails rejoicing in the flood of Death;         

When souls are torn to everlasting fire,

And fiends of Hell rejoice upon the slain,

O who can stand? O who hath causèd this?

O who can answer at the throne of God?

The Kings and Nobles of the Land have done it!

Hear it not, Heaven, thy Ministers have done it!

William Blake

Poetical Sketches

Prologue, intended for a Dramatic Piece of King Edward the Fourth

Poet's corner No.17

"There is a lady sweet and kind,

Was never face so pleas’d my mind;

I did but see her passing by,

And yet I love her till I die.

Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,

Her wit, her voice, my heart beguiles,

Beguiles my heart, I know not why,

And yet I love her till I die.

Her free behaviour, winning looks,

Will make a lawyer burn his books;

I touch’d her not, alas! not I,

And yet I love her till I die.

Had I her fast betwixt mine arms,

Judge you that think such sports were harms,

Were’t any harm? no, no, fie, fie,

For I will love her till I die.

Should I remain confined there

So long as Ph{oe}bus in his sphere,

I to request, she to deny,

Yet would I love her till I die.

Cupid is winged and doth range,

Her country so my love doth change:

But change she earth, or change she sky,

Yet will I love her till I die."

There is a Lady sweet and kind

Thomas Ford's Music of Sundry Kinds

Poet's corner No.16

"Physician Nature! let my spirit blood! 

O ease my heart of verse and let me rest; 

Throw me upon thy tripod, till the flood 

Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.

A theme! a theme! Great Nature! give a theme;

Let me begin my dream. 

I come—I see thee, as thou standest there, 

Beckon me out into the wintry air. 

Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears

And hopes and joys and panting miseries,— 

To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears

A smile of such delight, As brilliant and as bright, 

As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes, 

Lost in a soft amaze, I gaze, I gaze! 

Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast?

What stare outfaces now my silver moon! 

Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least; 

Let, let the amorous burn—

 But, prithee, do not turn

 The current of your heart from me so soon: 

O save, in charity, 

The quickest pulse for me. 

Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe 

Voluptuous visions into the warm air, 

Though swimming through the dance’s dangerous wreath, 

Be like an April day,

 Smiling and cold and gay,

 A temperate lily, temperate as fair; 

Then, heaven! there will be 

A warmer June for me. 

Why this, you’ll say—my Fanny!—is not true;

 Put your soft hand upon your snowy side, 

Where the heart beats: confess—'tis nothing new - 

Must not a woman be

A feather on the sea, 

Swayed to and fro by every wind and tide? 

Of as uncertain speed As blow-ball from the mead?

I know it—and to know it is despair

To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny, 

Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where,

Nor when away you roam,

Dare keep its wretched home: 

Love, love alone, has pains severe and many; 

Then, loveliest! keep me free 

From torturing jealousy. 

Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above 

The poor, the fading, brief pride of an hour:

 Let none profane my Holy See of Love, 

Or with a rude hand break 

The sacramental cake: 

Let none else touch the just new-budded flower;

 If not—may my eyes close, 

Love, on their last repose!"

John Keats

To Fanny

A very Hobbit Christmas

A Very Hobbit Christmas to all of you!
For your eyes and ears only, A Visit from Saint Nicholas, read by Smaug The Stupendous!

§

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar plums danc'd in their heads,

And Mama in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap —

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below;

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a minature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd them by name:

"Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer and Vixen,

On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blixem;

To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of toys — and St. Nicholas too:

And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound:

He was dress'd all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnish'd with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys was flung on his back,

And he look'd like a peddler just opening his pack:

His eyes — how they twinkled! His dimples: how merry,

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face, and a little round belly

That shook when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly:

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laugh'd when I saw him in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And fill'd all the stockings; then turn'd with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle:

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight —

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night".

§

Because Hamlet means the World to me

To be, or not to be--that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles

And by opposing end them. To die, to sleep--

No more--and by a sleep to say we end

The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to. 'Tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep--

To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. There's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th' unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprise of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action. 

Happy Birthday Sir Kenneth.

Because Hamlet means the World to me and I owe you so much.

My dear Watson

"I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand. "My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected." I gripped him by the arms. "Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss?"

"Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that you are really fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."

"I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes. Good heavens! to think that you -- you of all men -- should be standing in my study." Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. "Well, you're not a spirit anyhow," said I. "My dear chap, I'm overjoyed to see you. Sit down, and tell me how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm."

He sat opposite to me, and lit a cigarette in his old, nonchalant manner.[...] Holmes looked even thinner and keener than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in his aquiline face which told me that his life recently had not been a healthy one."

Arthur Conan Doyle

The Adventure of The Empty House

Poet's corner No.15

 "Ample make this bed.

 Make this bed with awe;

 In it wait till judgment break

 Excellent and fair.

 Be its mattress straight,

 Be its pillow round;

 Let no sunrise' yellow noise

 Interrupt this ground."

Emily Dickinson

Ample Make This Bed