Hölderlin // Die Heimat

[...]

Denn sie, die uns das himmlische Feuer leihn,
     Die Götter. schenken heiliges Leid uns auch.
          Drum bleibe dies. Ein Sohn der Erde
               Schein ich: zu lieben gemacht, zu leiden.

FH. Die Heimat.

Bruderschaft // um poema da Ingeborg Bachmann

Alles is Wundenschlagen
und keiner hat keinem verziehn.
Verletzt wie du und verletzend,
lebte ich auf dich hin.

Die reine, die Geistberührung,
um jede Berührung vermehrt,
wir erfahren sie alternd,
ins kälteste Schweigen gekehrt.

The Ashes of Orestes // a tribute poem to Constantine Cavafy

I want you to send in
your heart
into the promise.

Touching its tip,
roll up its long sleeve
pause the film of the circuit.

Avoid self-flattery.
Eavesdrop the prophets.
Be somber Alexander waiting,
The Alexander who stops
And knows not conquest.

Deep in questions and in answers
you know whom it was promised to.

I once was a baffled horse.
I felt my teeth gripping the light.
The close God locked itself
In my uncertain steps.

And when I threw him down,
the fall persuaded him
that God was near.

O, be the Alexander dazzled
by countries and languages,
Be the fake gems on the fake crown,
Be the horse and the rider and the horse
Who drowned in the speechless God.

For there is a season to ride
And a season to convert.
A season to preach,
And a season to blaspheme
A season to man up
And a season to man down
A season to shoot
And a season to hit
A season for God
And a season for doubt
And a gilded season
For the horsemanship of heresy -

To thank and to think is to tell them apart
The cloudy from the misty from the foggy
From the nebulous mind of the Knowers.

You adjust your sight
To horizon and mirage
And to the urging bolt,
Reluctant and jealous of thunder.

Know then your hopes and learn
Of the people of the steppes
Who are saddle and rider and horse
Who are arrow and khan and apostle
Who know the waiting
And who know the waiter
Who will arrive after time itself has waited.

And when you think of them,
Think of the empty desert.
Think of islands of loam and
Think also of mountains
Rising on the unseen side of the earth,
Think of the overheard muttering of seers after prophecy,
Uncertain, God-shaken,
High on fumes and gift,
Their voices selfsame to yours
Their words just as afraid as you
That secretely they might be true.

They will not come until you've settled,
Until you've become their foe,
And inhabit the Sumerian cities
That the soul puts together in dream.

You will till the land
Your daughters and your sons
Will till the land.
You will sacrifice oxen
And your daughters and your sons.

Until the furrows of your brain
Are the sand dunes of your waiting,
You will see no horse and you will see no rider.

Still you may wait and tell of your waiting.

Geoffrey Hill in memoriam // a poem

Days and times of days have gone,
You interrogate, interrogate,
Then curl your fingers down the locks
Of power, of recited words, of force.

Your voice, your ring, your link,
To me. When you speak you string
The chords and cuts of Gungnir, you string
Them up. You hallow torts and twist Andenken.

Yet we pray for princes, we praise
All prayer, and we protest and burn.
You want it back? You want Saturn's
Golden scythe guillotining optimates?

Good luck. Good speech! Good Lord,
If I have to hear another word,
I swear I will just do it all myself,
I swear I will just say it all myself —

The fruit of mercy rolls unsteady
Down the tongue, rashing
Regret, down by Amnon's
Known outrage — We are ready,

So let us sit. And let us now break bread,
Slice it cuneiform. I know you want to say,
If peace is at all possible, then we must engage,
Win and lose at once. If only I could get a gett

From all the tripe of Jewish Christianity.
Yet God is the husband,
And we'd be husbandry. Grab him by the wrists.
Fight him again. Get your damn name back — Hinneni.

contra tyrannos

Of the personality as a mask;
of character as self-founded, self-founding;
and of the sacredness of the person.

Of licence and exorbitance, of scheme
and fidelity; of custom and want of custom;
of dissimulation; of envy

and detraction. Of bare preservation,
of obligation to mutual love;
and of our covenants with language

contra tyrannos.


Sobre a personalidade como uma máscara;
sobre o carácter como auto-fundado, auto-fundador;
e sobre a sacralidade da pessoa.

Sobre a licença e a exorbitância, sobre esquema
e fidelidade; sobre hábito e falta de hábito;
sobre a dissimulação; sobre a inveja

e a detracção. Sobre a nua preservação,
sobre a obrigação ao amor mútuo;
e sobre as nossas alianças com a linguagem

contra tyrannos.


Geoffrey Hill. Scenes from Comus. Penguin: 2005. (Tradução minha.)

Neste texto, verossimilmente a abertura mais arriscada e exposta dum livro de poesia que jamais li, voltamos ao modo épico - frontalmente opondo-se ao coro demótico de Speech! Speech! que denunciava "heroic verse a non-starter, says PEOPLE". (Haverá invocação? Numa República que se queira de seres humanos a esperança posta em deuses é a maior das traições, é a farça na tragédia.) O propósito é o mesmo, porém, que em Speech! Speech!, como aliás talvez seja sempre o propósito em toda a poesia do Geoffrey Hill, principalmente naquela que achamos após a 'derrocada' que lhe cinde a obra em dois: Denunciar todo o falar rendido, traidor, através da honestidade cáustica que é o direito e a licença da poesia, comburir as simplificações e lugares comuns que que faz a própria voz pública metamorfosear-se em tyrannia cíclica ("language / is the energy of decaying sense; / that sense in this sense means sensus communis"), isto é, o new-speech que nos ocupa refolgadamente e que nos rouba da aliança entre dignidade humana e palavra, desolando ambas uno ictu. A rememoração do Auden, que em September 1939 assume a mesma missão ("All I have is a voice / to undo the folded lie, / The romantic lie in the brain / Of the sensual man in the street"), rememoração essa do famoso verso famosamente mudado ("We most love one another or die", aqui mudado em "obligation to mutal love"), revela que o Hill seguirá os vestígios desse outro guerrilheiro da honestidade incondicional. Auden creu naqueles instantes em que "o justos trocam as suas mensagens". O Hill acredita também que nem toda a palavra está já podre. "Common sense bids me add: not / all language", ousará ele poucos poemas adelante.

Mas condenara esse exacto senso comum linha apenas uma acima: Será esta expectativa assente apenas em mais uma mentira, uma esperança plantada, uma distração? Será a poesia um isco para poetas e seus leitores se iludirem, como acontece com a personagem de 1984, pensando que estão a lutar e a fazer a revolução? Há versos como "That this is no reason for us to despair. The tragedy of things is not conclusive; rather, one by which the spirit moves. That it moves in circles need not detain us." que nos trespassam da convicção de que todo o cerco montado a esta estirpe de prophecia - que é a mesma da de Amós, da de Jeremias -, não fará outra coisa que torná-la mais perigosa por isso. Esta é a arma, a única talvez que não seja devorada ou contagiável, para restituir a rem publicam: ope vocis, contra tyrannos.

Marvel at our contrary orbits. Mine
salutes yours, whenever we pass or corss,

which may be now, might very well be now.


(texto de 2012)

Mahmoud Darwish & Paul Celan

أأنا أنا؟
أأنا هنالك ... أنا هنا؟
في كل "أنت" أنا,
أنا أنت المخاطب, ليس منفى
أن أكونك. ليس منفى
أن تكون أناي أنت. وليس منفى
أن يكون البحر والصحراء
أغنية المسافر للمسافر:
لن أعود, كما ذهبت,
ولن أعود ... ولو لماما

Mahmoud Darwish
(do poema قال الُسافر للمسافر - لن تعود كما, "Um viajante disse a outro: Não regressaremos como...")

Am I me?

Am I there . . . or here?

In each "You" — I.

I am you, the second person. It is no exile

for me to be you. It is no exile

for my I to be you. And it is no exile

If the sea and the desert

are a song from traveller to traveller.

I will not return as I went.

I will not return, no, not even in secret.

Schwärzer im Schwarz, bin ich nackter.
Abtrünnig erst bin ich treu.
Ich bin du, wenn ich ich bin.

Paul Celan
(do poema Lob der Ferne, "Elogio da Distância")

Blacker in black, I am more naked.

In betrayal alone can I keep faith.

I am you when I am I.

Traduções minhas.

بيعلى صوت الشبابة

Moral Letters to Lucilius // a poem

A translation of a poem of mine.


My dear Lucilius.
Once again I encourage you to ponder
The virtues of temperance
And tranquillity.
My dear Lucilius.
Long have I written to you incessantly,
And told you tales of brave souls
That you might copy them.
We are both making great progress.
My dear Lucilius.
Our friends tell me
That in your party nights you pass by my house
And sing just a bit lower
So as not to wake me up.
I have indeed a light sleep,
Though not from cares,
But from the light electric the gods
Planted inside me,
In my spirit,
And that keeps me up at night
While I write to you.
My dear Lucilius.
Tell me news. Some say
That every night you sing
Until your lips stiffen and numb.
I have trouble believing this.
You do not sing, you pray.
Always have you kept the two apart.
And be that as it may I do not think you could sing
Without me there to give you the tone.
This is true,
Is it not?
My dear Lucilius.
Once again I ask that you direct your body
To just deeds, that you conform your soul
To the super-celestial gods.
If I repeat myself, if I search for you,
If I insist and see myself in you,
That is because I know that God that spins everything
Spins us both in unison,
If I take your hand He
Takes mine in turn,
And with the other He takes yours.
My dear Lucilius.
Try to dull your love.
Dull it and smoothen it,
The love for people,
The love for the beautiful statues in your palaces,
Dull the love for philosophy,
The love for music,
The love for the gods of Love and the others.
Love instead the dulling itself.
But even that in a way that's tame and faint.
Let it dry and gather it once more the following Summer.
Thin it until it fits,
Like a papyrus sheet,
Between the closed beak of an ibis.
My dear Lucilius.
Once again I encourage you to ponder
The virtues of temperance and resignation.

Imagem: Jusepe de Ribera. Seneca (?), 1625-1650 @ Londres.

A Kiss With a Fist

Some people exercise patience. I exercise my wrath. As the docile person that I am (by long training, let it be said, not quite by temperament), living in Israel has provided me ample opportunity to insert in my diet a daily supplement of ire. Two things have factored into this equation, the first thereof being my by now famous through lamentation incessant lost of luggage. Vueling, the brave Aragonians, decided to place the luggage of everyone who was in the plane in another plane. When trying to describe such an enlightened feat, words fail me mystically —for surely we must acknowledge the sheer genius that must go into the avant-garde and non-chalant disregard for little England convention that consists in refusing to let the bags of an entire crowd fly to the same destination of the owners thereof. An insightful choice, an artist's hand can here be spotted.

Still, years of adhering austerely to the precepts of Roman Stoicism have made ill-fitted to react. I let it pass the first days, faithful in my disbelief of human nature, and even when three or four sunrises had tanned my back it still took me a significant effort to muster the appropriate tone of voice with which to jolt the guiltless call-center operator on the other side of the line, only to regret it and inescapably apologize and confess that I was indeed aware that the fault lie in something bigger, something bigger than either of us.

The weeks thence passed, and I have seen Seneca's words fly away from ears and heart. Israel has taught me rage. I am grateful, being as I am a believer that we should drink life to the lees, and moreover that a sin it is, if we should die still unknown to anything that is human. Beam me up, Achilles.

But something else, more insiduous yet meeker and tamer, gentler and fuckeduper, has branded my days with its flower. Let queuing be the subject of the following chapter. I will be forgiven for the affectation of British poshness involved in the use of this vocab. The British do, after all, use a different word. But being as I am in soul and substance closer to that North American exceptionalism than I am to the British, it would not beseem me their word to employ, for what happens here in Israel will scantly suffer to be called queue anyway.

Whatever. Consider the following proposition. You, hypocrite lecteur, stand. Yet not in vain you stay. Futile is not your wait. You hold your ground, because there resides in your id's desire a command that you buy coffee. Or toothpaste — nay!, even a pen (* "The following film is based on true events"). But how could you be mistaken thus, ever to believe that such a milquetoast thing as your unassuming heart could ever stand in the way of the minotaur élan and valiant heart of the Israeli? Who will clash against you, not human against mere human, but ensouled body against ensouled body, a live prefiguration of Holy Ragnarök, when shields and ailes galore shall be cloven, ere sink the shops and supermarkets of this mortal earth?

"Cloven" stands here to wit in the typological schema of course in place of the old lady's who has just arrived foot placed with a courage as grandiose as strategic in front of yours, that she may burst her loaf of bread before you dare set down your milk. The old lady, with Iliadic force, will be, whatever it takes, the best. She will be superior to all.

A heroic age for a heroic people, whose values perish not with them. The crone is the sacred relay of her own valour, a dragon's step in the tradition that's passed over to the young man, who proudly treads the footsteps of his elder. And who in turn shall lovingly teach the daughter how sweet it is, to forge your own fate, to cut the line, in the souq as in life.

As a great Greek poet once wrote,

«And we who have nothing shall teach them rage.»

("ἐμεῖς ποὺ τίποτε δὲν εἴχαμε θὰ τοὺς διδάξουμε τὴ γαλήνη.")

Jerusalem // a poem

This is not the place where hope
caves in to time. It races. It flees
from piety, from Justice
and caprice. Where each mitzvah
has leases on that great commandment.
Whose word you breathe in.
And choke out
so it roughens your throat
til it's sour from sorrow. How you miss
when it was bloody from glee! God has crushed
Love into souls. And God will grant, provide.
You will not hang
from either horn of the Crescent.
As for the land,
let it swing wide round your neck,
hushed like
eloquence. The Lord
has promised. There is only one
who may regret that now.

das dämmerige Tal der Menschen

Damals trugst du deine Asche zu Berge:
willst du heute dein Feuer in die Täler tragen?

- N

ad juga cur faciles populi?

Lucani Pharsalia Libri II 284-325

                                      sic fatur; at illi
arcano sacras reddit Cato pectore voces.
'summum, Brute, nefas civilia bella fatemur,
sed quo fata trahunt virtus secura sequetur.
crimen erit superis et me fecisse nocentem.
sidera quis mundumque velit spectare cadentem
expers ipse metus? quis, cum ruat arduus aether,
terra labet mixto coeuntis pondere mundi,
complossas tenuisse manus? gentesne furorem
Hesperium ignotæ Romanaque bella sequentur
diductique fretis alio sub sidere reges,
otia solus agam? procul hunc arcete furorem,
o superi, motura Dahas ut clade Getasque
securo me Roma cadat. ceu morte parentem
natorum orbatum longum producere funus
ad tumulos jubet ipse dolor, juvat ignibus atris
inseruisse manus constructoque aggere busti
ipsum atras tenuisse faces, non ante revellar
exanimem quam te conplectar, Roma; tuumque
nomen, Libertas, et inanem persequar umbram.
sic eat: inmites Romana piacula divi
plena ferant, nullo fraudemus sanguine bellum.
o utinam cælique deis Erebique liceret
hoc caput in cunctas damnatum exponere pœnas!
devotum hostiles Decium pressere cateruæ:
me geminæ figant acies, me barbara telis
Rheni turba petat, cunctis ego pervius hastis
excipiam medius totius volnera belli.
hic redimat sanguis populos, hac cæde luatur
quidquid Romani meruerunt pendere mores.
ad juga cur faciles populi, cur sæua volentes
regna pati pereunt? me solum invadite ferro,
me frustra leges et inania jura tuentem.
hic dabit hic pacem jugulus finemque malorum
gentibus Hesperiis: post me regnare volenti
non opus est bello. quin publica signa ducemque
Pompeium sequimur? nec, si fortuna favebit,
hunc quoque totius sibi jus promittere mundi
non bene conpertum est: ideo me milite vincat
ne sibi se vicisse putet.' sic fatur, et acris
irarum movit stimulos juvenisque calorem
excitat in nimios belli civilis amores. 

La casa de Asterión [Latine]

DOMUS ASTERIONIS
(Georgio Ludovico Borges auctore)

ἡ δὲ [βασίλιεια] Ἀστέριον ἐγέννησε.

at [regina] Asterionem genuit

 APOLODORI Bibliotheca, III, 11

Scio me accusari superbiæ, fortasse misanthropiæ, vel etiam quis scit dementiæ. Omnes accusationes tales, quas opportune castigabo, cassæ omnino sunt. Verum est, me domo non exire, nec tamen minus verum januas domus, quarum numerus infinitus est, patere semper, et noctu et interdiu, et non modo hominibus, sed etiam animalibus. Cuique venia datur ingrediendi. Pompæ muliebres non hic invenientur, nec magnificentia palatiorum, sed quies dumtaxat solitudoque. Nihilo setius invenietur domus talis, qualis nulla alia exstat in toto orbe terrarum. (Dicunt quidam in Ægypto quandam similem sitam esse, mentiti.) Vel ii qui me accusant fatentur ‘tantum unum armarium in tota domo inveniri.’ Ecce aliud ridiculum, quod proferunt, ‘me, Asterionem, esse captivum.’ Num rursus dicam ‘nullam januam clausam esse’, num addam ‘neminem clave includi’? Ceterum, vesperi interdum exiens ambulo per vias; si ante noctem reversus sum, id fuit ob timorem vultuum hominum in turba faciem gerentium sine colore nec notis peculiaribus, faciem sicut manum apertam. Quamquam sol jam occiderat, debilis planctus puerilis et rudes preces plebis plane fecerunt ‘me ab eis agnitum esse’. Orabatur, fugiebatur, prosternebatur. Erant qui scanderent stilobatum Templi Securum, erant qui lapides colligerent. Etiam fuit homo, qui sese occultavit prope litus maritimum. Non frustra habui matrem reginam; non potui confundi cum vulgo, etsi propter modestiam id prorsus fuerat quod volebam.

Negare non possum me esse unicum. Non credo doctrinam posse tradi ceteris hominibus. Sicut philosophus ille, arbitror ‘nihil posse communicari scripturâ.’ Laudes turpes, et minutiæ triviales sedem non obtinent in animo meo, qui modo grandibus aptatur; nunquam valui servare discrimen inter aliquam litteram et aliam. Propter quandam impatientam magnificam, nunquam legere didici. Interdum id me pænitet, sunt enim et noctes diesque longinquæ.

Certe, otia non mihi desunt. Per porticus lapideas curro usque ad solis occasum arieti similis arietanti, idque donec vertiginem patior. Sub umbra cisternæ genua flecto et mihi ludum propono, in quo aliquis me quærit. Sunt etiam tecta, de quibus me projicio donec sanguis effluit. Quandocumque volo, licet mihi ludere “Dormiendo,” claudens oculos et fortiter animum ducens. (Interdum vere dormio, interdum, quum occulos aperio, jam dies in noctem mutatus est.) Ex tot tamen ludis, mihi dilectissimus apparet “Alterius Asterionis”. Fingo mente me ab eo visitari, et ei domum meam a me monstrari. Magna cum religione, Nunc, inquam, revertimur ad præteritum trivium, sive etiam, Nunc ducimur ad aliam plateam, aut, Sciebam fore ut tibi dispositio domus placeret, aut, Nunc cisternam videbis arena plenam, sive quoque, Videbis quemadmodum hypogæum dividatur. Nonnumquam ipse fallor, et uterque nostri ridet abunde.

Non tantum hos ludos excogitavi, sed etiam domum ipsam consideravi. Omnes partes ejus plus semel inveniuntur, omnis locus est alius locus. Non est una cisterna, una platea, unus alveolus, unum præsepium; sunt quattuordecim (sunt infinita) præsepia, alveoli, plateæ, cisternæ, domus ipsa est tanta quantus totus orbis terrarum; dico melius: ipsa domus est totus orbis terrarum. Tamen, postquam tot plateas, cisternas, et pulvere oppertas cinereo colore porticus funditus exploravi, viam tandem consecutus sum, et conspectum habui Templi Securum, marisque. Hæc non intellexeram, donec visio nocturna mihi ostendit quattordecim etiam esse (infinita sunt) maria et templa. Omnia apparent multipliciter, quattordecim vicibus, tamen duo exstant in mundo, quæ videntur semel modo exstare: supra, inexplicabilis sol; infra, Asterion. Fortasse ipse fui, qui astra et solem et hanc ingentem domum creavi, sed non jam recordor.

Nonno quoque anno, novem homines intrant domum meam, quia volunt me eos ab omni malo liberare. Voces eorum exaudio gradusque per porticus lapideas et lætus eos quæsitum curro. Ritus ipse paulisper tantum durat. Cadunt ordinatim, neque opus est mihi cruore sordescere manus. Manent ibi, ubi ceciderunt, et cadavera fiunt signa, quibus alias porticus ab aliis distinguo. Qui illi sint ignoro, modo scio unum ex eis vaticinatum esse ‘olim redemptorem meum venturum.’ Ab eo tempore, solitudo non jam me lædit, scio enim quod redemptor meus vivat et in novissimo de terra surrecturus sit. Si auditus meus perveniret ad sonos orbis terrarum, ego gradus ejus perciperem. Utinam ducat me ad locum paucarum porticuum et paucarum januarum. Qualis erit redemptor meus?, interrogo me ipsum. Num taurus erit an homo? Forsitan taurus vultu hominis? Aut erit sicut ego?

Æneus fulsit matutino gladius sole. Jam nullum vestigium sanguinis erat videre.

—Potestne credere, Ariadna?, inquit Theseus, Minotaurus vix se defendit.

Gratias ago Ludovico, qui in textu erudiendo mihi opem tulit.

in magnis et voluisse sat est

Herman Melville. Moby Dick, or the Whale. Capítulo 104 - The Fossil Whale.

One often hears of writers that rise and swell with their subject, though it may seem but an ordinary one. How, then, with me, writing of the Leviathan? Unconsciously my chirography expands into placard capitals. Give me a condor's quill! Give me Vesuvius' crater for an inkstand! Friends, hold my arms! For in the mere act of penning my thoughts of this Leviathan, they weary me, and make me faint with their outreaching comprehensiveness of sweep, as if to include the whole circle of the sciences, and all the generations of whales, and men, and mastodons, past, present, and to come, with all the revolving panoramas of empire on earth, and throughout the whole universe, not excluding its suburbs. Such, and so magnifying, is the virtue of a large and liberal theme! We expand to its bulk. To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be written on the flea, though many there be who have tried it.

Werner Jaeger

William M. Calder III. Preface in Werner Jaeger Reconsidered. Illinois Classical Studies (1992)

Werner Jaeger (1888-1961) held the chairs of Friedrich Nietzsche, Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, and Paul Shorey. A University Professorship, above all departments and requiring small teaching and no administrative obligations, was created for him at Harvard University. He enjoyed the finest education available in the history of classical studies. He founded two journals and what Eduard Spraigner first called "The Third Humanism." He published widely in the fields of Greek education and philosophy and the Greek church fathers. He stressed Christianity as the continuation of Hellenism rather than its destroyer. His students included men of the rank of Richard Harder, Viktor Pöschl, and Wolfgang Schadewaldt. Today what was acclaimed as his most famous work is read only by dilettantes too naive to perceive its defects. The Third Humanism has become a passing fashion, an aberration of the dying Weimar Republic, of as little abiding influence as its rival the George Circle. His name is rarely cited in the footnotes of the learned. Modern students of his own subject no longer recognize his name.

[...] C. H. Kahn remarked at the end of the conference, "I came admiring him; I departed pitying him." This was the feeling of most of us. Similar reactions were evoked at the Eduard Norden conference held in Bad Homburg in June 1991. The gulf between the ideals professed by Jaeger as the prophet of the Third Humanism and the petty compromises and betrayals that his Sitz im Lebel elicited from him caused difficulties for some. Ten years ago when I published with her permission Wilamowitz' Latin Autobiography, the nonagenarian Schwester Hildegard von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff with great wisdom said to me, "Wilamowitz was my father; for you he is a Forschungsobjekt. I understand that." Many do not, alas, understand the difference between funeral panegyric or a disciple's pietas and scholarship. Those who do not should deal with the long dead, Homer, Plato, or Aristotle. Jaeger, like his teacher Wilamowitz, is great enough to survive his indiscretions, and, indeed, becomes more interesting because of them.

τὴν δὲ τῶν βιβλίων δίψαν ῥῖψον

Numa livraria online apareceu-me este livro, que já há muito considero das melhores capas que um livro já teve a graça de ter. Lembrei-me de ir procurar a passagem, embora um erro de memória (lembrava-me de σαρκίδιον, também frequentemente atestado no Marco Aurélio, em vez de σαρκία, o termo do texto) me ter desviado do percurso. Seja como for. É dos poucos livros do mundo que só se pára porque se tem de parar.

Marco Aurélio, Meditações. II. 2-3

Ὅ τί ποτε τοῦτό εἰμι, σαρκία ἐστὶ καὶ πνευμάτιον καὶ τὸ ἡγεμονικόν. ἄφες τὰ βιβλία· μηκέτι σπῶ· οὐ δέδονται. ἀλλ᾽ ὡς ἤδη ἀποθνήισκων τῶν μὲν σαρκίων καταφρόνησον· λύθρος καὶ ὀστάρια καὶ κροκύφαντος, ἐκ νεύρων, φλεβίων, ἀρτηριῶν πλεγμάτιον. θέασαι δὲ καὶ τὸ πνεῦμα ὁποῖόν τί ἐστιν· ἄνεμος, οὐδὲ ἀεὶ τὸ αὐτό, ἀλλὰ πάσης ὥρας ἐξεμούμενον καὶ πάλιν ῥοφούμενον. τρίτον οὖν ἐστι τὸ ἡγεμονικόν. ὧδε ἐπινοήθητι· γέρων εἶ· μηκέτι τοῦτο ἐάσηις δουλεῦσαι, μηκέτι καθ᾽ ὁρμὴν ἀκοινώνητον νευροσπαστηθῆναι, μηκέτι τὸ εἱμαρμένον ἢ παρὸν δυσχερᾶναι ἢ μέλλον ὑπιδέσθαι. 

Τὰ τῶν θεῶν προνοίας μεστά, τὰ τῆς τύχης οὐκ ἄνευ φύσεως ἢ συγκλώσεως καὶ ἐπιπλοκῆς τῶν προνοίαι διοικουμένων. πάντα ἐκεῖθεν ῥεῖ· πρόσεστι δὲ τὸ ἀναγκαῖον καὶ τὸ τῶι ὅλωι κόσμωι συμφέρον, οὗ μέρος εἶ. παντὶ δὲ φύσεως μέρει ἀγαθόν, ὃ φέρει ἡ τοῦ ὅλου φύσις καὶ ὃ ἐκείνης ἐστὶ σωστικόν. σώιζουσι δὲ κόσμον, ὥσπερ αἱ τῶν στοιχείων, οὕτως καὶ αἱ τῶν συγκριμάτων μεταβολαί.ταῦτά σοι ἀρκείτω· ἀεὶ δόγματα ἔστω. τὴν δὲ τῶν βιβλίων δίψαν ῥῖψον, ἵνα μὴ γογγύζων ἀποθάνηις, ἀλλὰ ἵλεως ἀληθῶς καὶ ἀπὸ καρδίας εὐχάριστος τοῖς θεοῖς.

Em suma

Trivium

Randolph Starn. Who's Afraid of the Renaissance? in The Past and Future of Medieval Studies (John van Engen ed.) University of Notre Dame Press (1994).

There is some risk that histories of "Old Europe" would become merely accumulative, antiquarian, and annalistic, or like the new ethnic republics, fiercely separatist and partisan. Histories post-modern style, where everything wrought in the past is at once indiscriminately and historical and available in the present, have no anachronisms, and this would put historians out of work. Then too, the absence of overarching narratives promotes a kind of historiographical horror vacui and the proliferation of any number of particular tales. I don't know which prospect is more alarming: that historians will run out of new topics or that they will come up with ever more trivial ones.

the great tradition of medievalism

Randolph Starn. Who's Afraid of the Renaissance? in The Past and Future of Medieval Studies (John van Engen ed.) University of Notre Dame Press (1994).

Both medieval and Renaissance studies and their specialized constituencies have more or less distinct traditions, institutions, canonical texts, pedagogical styles, and so forth. I suspect that many scholars would gladly bid good riddance to some of these, though we would probably not agree about which were expendable. We sometimes take on the attributes of the people we study (and vice versa); the fact is that the stock medieval roles do not appeal to me very much, and I can imagine that, say, the persona of the Renaissance prince has limited attractions. Whether or not this is a liability or a virtue, Renaissance studies has fewer technical requirements, supposing that medievalists still do train in the languages, paleography, diplomatic, codicology, and other "auxiliary sciences" of the great tradition of medievalism. Many Renaissance scholars are like medievalists with insufficient training, but medievalists for their part, owe some of their impressive scholarly discipline to the fact that they have so little material to work with.

Mediævalia

Lee Patterson. The Return to Philology in The Past and Future of Medieval Studies (John van Engen ed.) University of Notre Dame Press (1994).

I want to suggest, in other words, that the uselessness of philology  —its indefensible unjustifiability— scandalizes contemporary literary studies because it represents its own greatest fear: that the whole enterprise cannot be justified in terms of social effectiveness. If social transformation is our goal, then is teaching Toni Morrison really more effective than teaching Chaucer, especially when compared with a direct involvement with social problems? It is my own hunch that direct social activism is probably of more importance than most of the things we do in our classrooms and certainly than all of the things we do in our studies. Is it not possible, in other words, that the institutional neglect of medieval studies derives in some measure from a guilty conscience? That the medievalist is an awkward reminder that the social changes so many support and desire will require something other than intellectual work?

If these are unpersuasive words coming from a medievalist, let me cite a more acceptable source. "As writers, teachers, or intellectuals, " writes Henry Louis Gates,

Most of us would like to claim greater efficacy for our labors than we're entitled to. These days, literary criticism likes to think of itself as "war by other means." But it should start to wonder: Have its victories come too easily? The recent turn toward politics and history in literary studies has turned the analysis of texts into a marionette theater of the political, to which we bring all the passions of our real-word commitments. And that's why it is sometimes necessary to remind ourselves of the distance from the classroom to the streets. Academic critics write essays, "readings" of literary, where the bad guys (for example, racism or patriarchy) lose, where the forces of oppression are subverted by the boundless powers of irony and allegory that no prison can contain, and we glow with hard-won triumph. We pay homage to the marginalized and demonized, and it feels almost like we've righted a real-world injustice. I always think about the folktale about the fellow who killed seven with one blow.