Ein sterbender Traum: Dying Dream (German Edition)

Free download. Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device. You can download and read online Ein sterbender Traum: Dying Dream (German Edition) file PDF Book only if you are registered here. And also you can download or read online all Book PDF file that related with Ein sterbender Traum: Dying Dream (German Edition) book. Happy reading Ein sterbender Traum: Dying Dream (German Edition) Bookeveryone. Download file Free Book PDF Ein sterbender Traum: Dying Dream (German Edition) at Complete PDF Library. This Book have some digital formats such us :paperbook, ebook, kindle, epub, fb2 and another formats. Here is The CompletePDF Book Library. It's free to register here to get Book file PDF Ein sterbender Traum: Dying Dream (German Edition) Pocket Guide.

Institutional Login. Log in to Wiley Online Library. Purchase Instant Access. View Preview. Learn more Check out. Abstract Books reviewed in this issue. Carl Hagenbeck's Empire of Entertainments. Saul, Nicholas, ed. The Cambridge Companion to German Romanticism. Zukunft in der Vergangenheit. Auf Ernst Blochs Spuren. Braun, Rebecca. Kafka, Franz. Amerika: The Missing Person. Mark Harman. Labroisse, Gerd. Webber, Andrew J. Calico, Joy H. Brecht at the Opera. Stratigakos, Despina. Volume 83 , Issue 3 Summer Pages Related Information.

Close Figure Viewer. Browse All Figures Return to Figure. In Derrida's Babel- reading, God, the God who is capable of jealousy and resentment, a baby God, declares war on the hegemony-craving people of the Name, wins, and imposes another name, Confusion Babel, babble, baby or barbaric talk on the interrupted edifice, the tower that was supposed to make a name for the bearers of the name!

God, says Derrida, is the deconstructor of the Tower of Babel, of every fantastic edifice of hegemonic rule, which of necessity violates, by abandoning, the maternal home, and he deconstructs it with the same tools and hands that were used to build it. Beyond the materiality of the text, beyond the death of the author or signatory, the text survives. The very structure of the original text, according to Derrida, is the structure of survival. The survival of the original, argues Benjamin, depends on translation. Unfortunately Benjamin did not pair translation with a complementary and supplementary term in this essay, which makes it difficult to glean and sustain some of the important distinctions within translation that he outlines.

Benjamin and Derrida argue that the survival of languages, and not only of works, depends on translations, that is, on one household god's conquest of another family, where the mill of substitution stops. Benjamin is clear on one point: translations are not in turn translatable. In the service of an original, the translation perishes as it carves out the space for the original within its own language.

In its own way every text, insofar as Benjamin, Walter. The Task of the Translator. Harry 51 Zohn. New York: Schocken, The law governing translation, writes Benjamin, is the translatability of the original. The original text is absolutely original, must remain so, and every translation owes its existence to the original. The consideration of indebtedness is an essential pivot of Benjamin's essay. He deals with the question with infinite subtlety. The reader he envisions for texts that demand that they be translated mirrors an incorporated, internal addressee, who will shape, imprint, and inscribe the future generations of readers.

It seems that such an internal addressee would resist substitution, the province of translations, let alone demand it. It is not a rhetorical question, whose answer is contained in the formulation. It does not prepare the advancement of a sophisticated theory of translation, which will do away with and rise above considerations of reader reception. Nor does it simply comment on the discrepancy between the two modes of text-production, literary works and works of translation, the first addressed to anything other than the reader and the second specifically written in the service of a!

Not every work of literature has that quality, but only those that have a history of their own and are not mere background for history. The original work is subject to the function of the proper name, according to Derrida, which is, on the one hand, a name of death, a dead man's name, which acquires a history, and on the other, it safeguards survival, the living feminine fated to eternal returns. When Derrida insists that nothing returns to the living, that only the name is a point of return, he affirms that the living is what returns to the name. The dear reader, not readers, who is also the original addressee and that which returns, remains the irreducibly foreign, nameless, silent co-signatory from the future.

With every return the addressee is invited to mourn the passing of the name-bearer. To have a history is to be mournable, and the original, insists Benjamin, acquires a history in translation. Bound to the nameless future, to the dear reader who will once again mourn the passing of the name-bearing corpus, the original text survives only on the condition that its living secret addressee is a dead man.

A dead man has no need, nor ability to comprehend the original, which is to be served by translations. The translator is bound to the addressee of the original and that makes him a dead man too. One can say that translation is inherent in language, that the reader is always already a translator, even when he reads in what is supposed to be his native language, but translations demand an effort and a sacrifice, the frozen, static image! Translation is a verdict. It damns and subjects experience to death. Something else accompanies translations.

Benjamin fixed his mind on the non-metaphorical, non- transferable material which survives the verdict and its own history and which consumes the translator he envisions completely. The translator's task is not the task of translation alone, interlinear reading and mourning. The translator is preserved intact insofar as he doubles the interior of the original and is hence eternally the future addressee of the original. The occasion for composing the piece on the task of the translator was the publication of Benjamin's translation of Baudelaire, a remarkable translator in his own right.

The task of the translator is more specific than the general claim that translation indwells language. This specificity imposes limits that can in turn tell us something about the more general concept of translation. The translator does not address himself to the reader, but to the original, to which he is indebted, and whose survival and growth he is duty-bound to promote.

In its everyday sense translation is mere facilitation, an instrument or vessel that ferries meaning across the gap between languages. The gap is where Benjamin positions himself as translator. The gap binds as it separates. The fantasy of bridging the gap with translations is doomed to collapse every time. Yet, the collapse is not instant. Translations appear at particular junctions in history and are raised on mournable paternal corpses produced by the work of philosophy, theory, and speculation.

Translations are fated to catch fire on their effective facilitation and! It invokes the phoenix motif. One buries or burns what is already dead so that life, the living feminine, will be reborn and regenerated from these ashes. What they preserve is the return of the original. Only in that function do they survive.

In this sense, they do not possess a life of their own, but are an extension of the original and belong to its afterlife. On a universal plane and hence in essence, argues Derrida, every translation repeats the story of Babel: the original is imposed on the kernel-fantasy of the construction of the tower; sacred text is not the original tower, but what comes in its place to mark its partitions and demand that the tower be split into the multitudes of tongues and that its translation inhabit every broken piece of it. Benjamin tries to show us the kinship of languages that is revealed in translations.

The very notion of kinship gets destabilized in the process. Kinship traditionally marks a relationship that is outside the immediate family, yet reflects its structure. The relationship is based on a preceding family unit that much like the name imposed on the tower is both preserved and taken apart in the branches that bind the nuclear families. Yet, 52 Derrida 26!

The transmission of the kernel, the original phantasm and the phantasm of origin, takes place in every language and between languages. We can follow the partitions, the walls, but the kernel remains on the other side. Translations, writes Benjamin, must come to terms with the foreignness of languages; they must point to the kernel without representing it.

Tarrying with the concept of kinship Benjamin writes that only in the original do language and content represent a tight fit, like skin to fruit, like shell to kernel, or in the Babel setting like the name God to the edifice of the tower. Kinship is not represented in the original, because kinship, like the name, is honored in translation. Translations are sooner loosely fitting and abundantly flowing garments, or royal robes as Benjamin calls them.

He resorts to yet another figure to represent the kinship relations between languages, but also between the shell and the kernel. This time he introduces the figure of the amphora, which unlike the figure of fruit and skin, which represented the original, has no kernel, but also does not envelop anything. The amphora is created ex nihilo. It represents language, the greater language, pure language as medium referring to nothing outside itself.

The original and translations must be recognizable as fragments of this greater language, this amphora of pure language. On the one hand Benjamin wants to think of this! The broken pieces belong to different languages. They do not correspond to one another. For Benjamin the kinship of languages can only be represented by pure language, which lies at the messianic end of history. The purity and wholeness of the creatio ex nihilo of language is at the beginning and waits at the end. Translations are the bridge between these identical poles. Yet this would make even sacred text a translation, because pure language is put off limits, and all translation would be hurled into the abyss in which Hoelderlin's Sophocles disappears.

The amphora-analogy to pure language is not a definitive figure in the essay. It is transitional as it reduces original and translation to the nothingness out of which their material base emerged and is destined to disappear. Perhaps it was the need to reconcile his discovery of the structure of survival of originals with the messianic view of history that prompted Benjamin to invent the amphora of pure language and then tell us that we only know its broken pieces.

The amphora sums up the world in language, in one word or phrase or sentence. The prohibition to know the messianic end also prohibits knowledge of pure language and of that which can hold an entire world in a word. There must be a stop to the abysmal fall of translation, to the breakdown of! The break is posited by sacred text, by the original.

In brief, Benjamin's argument runs thus: translation is a mode of writing distinctive from the writing of original linguistic creations, because translations are secondary and indebted to the original; translation does not transmit content nor is it addressed to a reader who does not comprehend the language of the original; it is an active transformative force in the life and history of languages: hence, translations do not obey the law of meaning in either of the two languages, the language of the original and that of the translator; the translator is indebted to the original and is duty-bound to promote the growth of languages; yet, if translation is to be unfettered from the demands of meaning, it would cease to transmit anything; Hoelderlin's translations of Sophocles represent an extreme example of this type of hands-off-fidelity to the life of language; the interlineal translation of sacred text is the model for all translations.

Thus Benjamin. Since Benjamin is in the habit of omitting citation of his sources, his reader has plenty of guess- and guest-work to do between the lines. Benjamin's text on translation takes part in and takes apart the German tradition of translation. It still ends up affirming interlinear reading, which borders on hallucination between intense moments of reading concentration. In the passage quoted earlier from! Paradoxically this containment is a residue of translation, a remainder, rather than central substance.

Pure, complete content thus comes to represent peaceful remains. Goethe does not wish to overthrow the mandate of form, the externality of the letter; to the contrary, it is in the process of translation and hence, after a rigorous submission to form, that content emerges as a remainder. Brilliant external form can only simulate missing content or conceal a present one, writes Goethe. The dazzling, but strange and unfathomable literary masterpiece retains its value, but Goethe seems to be interested in the shadows that make it visible. Benjamin's opening statement that no work of art is ever created for the receiver, seems to be contradicting Goethe's dictum, namely that the effect of the works on the uninitiated, on the non-specialist middlebrow masses, is what drives the German translation machine and gives German letters the edge.

The old scribe was not a receiver, his task being the transmission and preservation of books without consumption and! The question of readership could not be raised in the setting of the old regime. Benjamin is posing a modern question, whose answer cannot be held in a reactionary regression to the republic of scholars.

The very question of translation has changed its parameters; it has become a peculiar mode of writing that is neither literary creation nor theory, nor simple transmission of information.

  1. Dream Bibliographies - Michael Schredl's Traum Literature!
  2. The Modern Book of Feng Shui.
  3. Something Dirty: Taboo Erotica by Erica Dumas.
  5. The Constitution of the United States of America The Declaration of Independence and Articles of Confederation (Extra: The Constitutional Dictionary).

Insofar as it is a repetition of the original, it is not written for the reader, just as the work of art is not meant for its public. Benjamin wants to think of translation as a form of writing that does not merely serve the need to transmit information and that includes the untranslatable as a concept within its law. The law of translation, says Benjamin, is locked in the original, and that also means that its limit is held within the original. The analogy to memory, to the existence of formations in memory that no living human may actively remember, serves to gloss the practice of translation Benjamin envisions as something that does not endure in its form, but actively shapes that which endures.

This is where Benjamin remains compatible with Goethe. By translatability of the original Benjamin understands a particular quality of the original that is expressed in translation alone. Like a portrait, or a mirror image, translation is not necessary to the original as an external addition or copy in a different format, but is one of its qualities and is internal to it. Translation sheds light on a certain meaning that dwells in the original.

This meaning, however, means nothing to the original. Translation defines the original, but does not disturb it. It is that which has a history. Life is determined by history, argues Benjamin, not by nature, sensations, or the soul.

Life is what history is about. The task of the philosopher is to determine natural life from the perspective of the larger life of history, because the survival or afterlife of the works is much easier to grasp than that of the created world, i. History falls within the derivative domain of philosophy, the created world within the domain of art. Translation mediates between the two.

It is derivative like philosophy and creative like art. The history of the great works knows its descent from the springs of history, but their survival, their ongoing afterlife takes place with the succeeding generations, with its future returns. The ever richer and wide reaching unfolding of the work is carried forth by translations.

German Expressionism

This unfolding has life and purposiveness. The purpose of the works is the expression of life, the meaning of life, which is to be sought not in its own sphere but in a higher one, in philosophy for example. What Benjamin wants to foreground, even as it remains a formless nuance in the shadows, is his notion of pure language. Far from resorting to a metaphysical concept, Benjamin advances a most fruitful notion of linguistic life.

Pure language, per his definition, is something that no single language is able to achieve, but that dwells in the totality of all languages supplementing each other in their intentions. The logic of pure language is the logic of the supplement and it requires, like the supplement that is never singular and fixed, the multiplicity of languages.

The concept is ueber-historical and that also means that the kind of translation Benjamin is talking about here cannot be exemplified by any single particular translation written, signed, and dated by a single translator in the history of letters.

She Sings For Her Dying Dad... Don't Cry :(

Benjamin reads it as belonging to the higher realm of religions, the place from which revelations come. Translation, writes Benjamin, is a way of coming to terms with the foreignness in language and between languages. It can never solve or dissolve this foreignness, but it works toward conciliation. Man is not granted an immediate solution to foreignness. Religions, argues Benjamin, intervene between man and this foreign realm.

Although translation cannot claim permanence of its products, as art can, it charts the way to a final, decisive, and all-encompassing stage of linguistic conciliation, the unimaginable stage of the messianic end of history. Since the messianic end, argues Benjamin, is off limits to human grasp and must remain so, translation must fail in its task. It is impossible to reconcile this argument with his concept of survival of the works as sacred text.

Translations do not reach their aim and end at the moment the Messiah steps in; they are spent in the process of mourning they initiate. They put the linear progression of history as we know it to rest, so that life may rise once again from the remains, or as Benjamin puts it elsewhere, so that a moment can be blasted out of history and into the future. In this lecture, de Man singles out translation, as he understood it from Benjamin's text, as the privileged working mode of literary criticism that is operative only as impossibility.

Gadamer, the spokesman for the modern thought that grew out of and supplanted German idealism, is the chosen polemic adversary. His position on translation is inferred from his general view of language and historicity. Regarding the modern philosophical concern with the subject, Gadamer inquires whether modern philosophy is not simply repeating what German idealism had already accomplished. He concludes that modern philosophers are ahead of their predecessors. They have surmounted the naivety of German idealism, which posited a subject who is master of his own discourse.

Modern philosophy knows better and draws understanding from the historical process: the subject may be blind to his own utterances, but can recover a certain amount of control over the text by means of a particular hermeneutic pattern that traces the historicity of this blindness. This historicity of understanding, of what passes between the text and the reader, which includes the domain of translation, and the accompanying awareness that the subject is not master 53 de Man, Paul.

The Resistance to Theory. Minnesota: Minnesota UP, , 76! De Man champions difference and declares war on the production of meaning, which for him amounts to Spirit, Geist. The materiality of language is sacred and he denies it passage to meaning. De Man observes the seductive nature of the marriage of history and the sacred that Benjamin proposes.

History is production of meaning, which is carried forth by texts, but the text itself is sacred, untouchable. The seductive marriage of the two lets the critic and historian have their cake and eat it too: the nihilistic rigor of the critical perception is coupled with messianic hope. So, poetry for Benjamin is messianic, not concerned with the reader or audience. Hence, de Man argues, the translator must give up his task, give up the ghost or Geist, and refuse the marriage contract between history and the sacred.

There is a disjuncture, de Man argues further, between the original, messianic, sacred moment of poetry and the derivative, doomed-to-failure task of the translator. The poet, he writes, has some relationship to meaning, Spirit or Geist, not to language necessarily. The translator, on the other hand, relates to an original, and hence the relationship is one! Yet, this would place the translator under the protection of the name, the original work functioning as a proper name. That would make translations equally off-limits, unreadable, and as devoid of the slightest touch of meaning as the original.

Gadamer, on the other hand, had proposed the contrary, the readability of the historicity of understanding, its dialectical evolution as the continuous march of spirit's triumph. The missing link between history and the sacred, discontinuity, which, according to Benjamin, is what calls the echo of the foreign work into the language of the translator, is relegated to the debris of history in Gadamer's view and remains as unaccountable as it is in de Man.

The latter reduces the spirit of history and its debris to nothing and conceives of poetry as creation out of negation. The extra-linguistic realm amounts to the sacred and unknowable. Translation, de Man writes, does not refer to extra-linguistic meaning as poetry does. It resembles other derivative, secondary discursive practices, like criticism and philosophy.

The latter's relationship to the world is not imitative and philosophy since Kant has been critical of a notion of art as imitation. Like philosophy and literary criticism, as the latter was conceived by Friedrich Schlegel and the Jena romantics, translation is ironic, says de Man. It canonizes and decanonizes the original.

The original is unstable, does not possess canonical authority on its own and that is why it needs translation. But translation, as de Man understands it, does not rest on tropological totality, does not paraphrase, imitate,! It is a fragment of a fragment that displaces and alienates the original while pointing to the displacement and alienation in one's own language. De Man reads his own doctrine of no-transfer into Benjamin's text. Poetry is messianic, history is not. De Man begins his lecture by situating Benjamin's thought within this intersection of twentieth century philosophy and by denying Benjamin the right of passage.

Benjamin, de Man argues, is not concerned with ordinary language; he brings the poetic back to the sacred in order then ironically to wrench it away once and for all. Since history is nothing other than the poetical structure of language, de Man concludes, it represents a radical break with the sacred.

What emerges here without a doubt is that pure or sacred language is eons apart from ordinary language, and poetic language has no relation to the ordinary. The only relation poetic language is allowed is a negative one to the sacred. The separation of the sacred and the poetical, which de Man writes constitutes history, takes place in translations and not only in the negative relation of the poetic to the sacred.

Translations, insists Benjamin, are different from poetical works and between the sacred and the poetical, both and neither. Understood thus history would be not only incapable of reaching the Kingdom of God, but insofar as it is the poetical structure of language, which we 55 de Man 93! The lecture concludes with the exclusion of profane, ordinary language from the legitimate ground on which men of letters can operate. Ordinary language for de Man amounts to the transgressive gesture of translating the word into deed, of routing the material signifier through the sacred heart of honest experience, which is the turf on which translation and the transference operate.

Gerhard Richter. De Man, on the other hand, is an example of what happens if you skip the middlebrowbeat of journalism. Given time, writes Rickels, and attention to the transference, it can be translated and contained. That is what happens between Goethe's Werther and Wilhelm Meister. The later novel, which also doubles as a translation of Shakespeare's Hamlet, contains the suicidal ideation of the earlier novel, whose disastrous impact on many young readers is well known, by providing the transferential ground of an apprenticeship in the theater.

We have only begun to read Goethe. De Man tells us that the original is thus desacralized, decanonized, destabilized, stripped of its laurels; it becomes history. Goethe prized what remains of the poet when he is translated into prose as the most essential 57 Rickels ! This may well be responsible for the transfer of original text into the realm of the sacred.

This prose language, this pure substance is also what Benjamin calls pure language. Reine Sprache, says de Man, is language devoid of meaning, language in which the slightest trace of semantics has been erased, language that no longer refers to the human, language that is independent of human desire, manipulation, and interest. De Man insists on the impossibility of pure language, on its sacred non-human quality. Since translation aims at and finds its end in pure language, it is impossible. Prose translations, not brilliant formal translations intended for scholarly pleasure, are capable of exerting an effect on a mass of readers.

Goethe wanted the impact of prose translation, which at a first glance and in de Man's reading would appear to run contrary to some tenets in Benjamin's text. Aura is thus neither created nor incorporated; it is destroyed and then, by! Benjamin begins the discussion of translation by reminding us that we are concerned with the translation of works of literature. The radical lack of communication in the mode of writing literary works gestures toward the intransient and even psychotic moment that goes down in the making of these works.

Hence, translation is not only possible, but unconditionally mandatory. The Freud-Jones Hamlet and the Immaculate Conception In the text that announces and elaborates the fundamentals of psychoanalytic hermeneutics, The Interpretation of Dreams, Freud introduces a crucial distinction by coupling two dramatic works, Sophocles' Oedipus Rex and Shakespeare's Hamlet. The latent content of these dreams and symbols is immediately available to the analyst and does not require the work of free association. In other words, there is nothing typical or symbolic in the case of Hamlet other than the underlying Oedipal scenario, which Freud interpreted for the first time in order to open or seal the case of Hamlet's analysis.

The footnotes, expanded paragraphs, and new sections Freud adds for the later publications point out that typical dreams and common symbolism, albeit a necessary part of the work, actually interfere with free association and posit a considerable difficulty for the analyst. VI, 61 Freud, Interpretation of Dreams ! The inclusion of Hamlet in the main part of the text makes his case typical, not only in terms of its oedipal elements, but in terms of its relation to them. The work of the analyst begins with Hamlet, not Oedipus.

The analysis proceeds after the common scenario is identified as resistance to the work, as a limit against which aberrant forms take shape. In the tragedy of Oedipus, analytic work gradually leads up to the identification of the criminal death wish fulfillment. In Hamlet the end is the beginning. The model for Hamlet's analysis is the work of mourning, which may begin, not conclude, as in the interpretation of Oedipus' tragedy, with the acknowledgement of the death wish against the always already dead father.

This gives Lacan grounds to argue that Hamlet is the tragedy of tragedy, the death of mourning. The crime, however, is of the order of fate and is guaranteed by the higher powers of Olympus. Guilt and self- punishment ensue in the tragedy, but there is no doubt that the gods willed it thus. Conciliation between divine omnipotence and human responsibility is impossible. The death wish against a sibling, for example, is not guaranteed by a higher power, does not carry a death- sentence with it, and is not of the order of fate. The only omnipotent power there is in this case is the wish that brother or sister be gone.

Freud makes a distinction between the pre-oedipal child's conception of the dead and the Oedipal, adult attitude to death. To the child, says Freud, the dead are simply gone, no longer bothering the living. The notions of corruption and decay, of breeding worms in dead carrion, handling the remains, are absent in the child's attitude to death.

The cancerous mole that burrows through to the surface, but remains embedded in it, carries the impossible death wish. Insofar as the loss is denied recognition, it cannot be submitted to the proper mourning that is due to the father. Art thou there, truepenny? Come on, you hear this fellow in the cellarage… Well said, old mole.

Canst work i'th' earth so fast? A worthy pioner… And therefore as a stranger give it 63 Freud, Interpretation of Dreams ! The mole represents a tragic flaw, a negative national character trait that Hamlet is unable to identify with, abhors, and denounces sanctimoniously. Numerous interpretations of the play, including that of Laurence Olivier, adopt this explanation of Hamlet's malady, which hinges on a negative identification with the father. Before the ghost's appearance the mole functions very much like the bonded feet of Oedipus.

After the ghost's appearance, however, the mole is made on the one hand, benign and digestible, as Hamlet's verbal doodling suggests, and on the other is banned from representation. Immediately after the secret oath, Hamlet beseeches his companions once more, never to speak of him, Hamlet, the ghost, the old mole, and the prince who will never be king. He bans every representation of the ghost, down to the slightest jest that may as much as suggest his existence. Yet, the mole signifies, represents, negatively and obliquely, as Hamlet finds out. It produces the chameleon's dish and the Mall.

Hamlet identifies with the ghost who bears his name. Like a genetic defect, the mole carries 64 Hamlet I. Whereas father and uncle are destroyed by fratricide, the nephew, who links and separates them, is also the bond between weapon and wound. Hamlet experiences the parricidal wish by proxy, via his relationship to Claudius. The ghost is lodged in Hamlet as the weapon he is to use to strike his uncle.

The weapon that produced the ghost, according to the ghost's confession, is poison ingestible through the ear. Hamlet, who is also poisoned through the ear by the ghost's confession, does kill Claudius eventually, yet himself mortally wounded has but a short time to mourn. He is given enough time to bequeath his life-story. The play ends where it begins and performs a funeral, Hamlet's funeral.

The mole, the genetic defect is also transmitted unscathed. Mourning takes place and fails simultaneously. Hamlet's oracular utterances are among Freud's favorite props throughout the book. Deprived of access to traditional forms of expression and speech, Hamlet, the hysteric, speaks in a mysterious, private tongue. Freud discovers in the mysterious tongue murder, or rather, improper burial. In Totem and Taboo Freud notes that, as they appeared to primitive man, all the dead are murder victims, likely to return to take vengeance on the living for the bad half of their ambivalent feelings.

Parricidal wishes in Hamlet, argues Freud, have remained hidden and repressed. It allowed him to build a safe space in which he could face his frightening desires, demons, and aberrant sensations. Not only was he thus allowed to play for keeps, but also to grieve for his losses, as the gods' sentence was irreversible. The It Was of Time was safe from resentment. Cronos was allowed to eat his children and Zeus to supplant his father.

The secular advance of repression left man to race alone against his murderous wishes and lose out to guilt and resentment. Freud inherits this particular temporal trope, the division of the two epochs of civilization into the golden past of antiquity and the fallen present of the modern, from the nineteenth century German intellectual tradition. In the previous chapter we read Nancy and Lacoue-Labarthe's thesis that antiquity in Europe of the Enlightenment was largely transmitted by French neoclassicism. Instead of translating from the French, German thinkers opted for a direct translation from the Greek, discovered an affinity, however delusional, between German and Greek, and invented the opposition between the classical and the orgiastic Greek with the specific intent to harness orgiastic energy and drink straight from the fountain of nature.

This is the sum of the Schlegel brothers' ambition. Nietzsche works with this Schlegelean opposition in The Birth of Tragedy. It 65 Freud, Interpretation of Dreams ! He had to retract this statement after the fall out with Wagner and affirm the eternal return of the same instead. What he discovered on the way was the painful requirement of nausea that follows on the heels of revelry. Nietzsche locates creative power not in the orgiastic, as Schlegel and Claudius would have it, 66 but in the mo u rning after.

The requirement that modern man remain one step behind the It Was of Time remains with Nietzsche as he gives us the fateful switch in the system of values, which divides time into the two epochs Freud invokes to mark the difference between Oedipus and Hamlet. The noble system of values, which belonged to the Olympians and to the ancient Greeks, was overturned by the vengeance of the resentful slave. This ongoing revolution installs guilt in man's pursuit of pleasure. Part of the pleasure Hamlet enjoys is the guilty identification with Claudius, who is the locus of Oedipal desire in the play.

Ernest Jones presents the complete case of Oedipal desire in Hamlet. Paradoxically, it begins with the after-effects, with disgust, with Hamlet's refusal to digest the task conferred on him by his father's ghost, the just murder and punishment of Claudius. According to Jones, the conflict between this unconscious repugnance and the urge to fulfill his task produced the malaise of his hesitation.

The spectator, argues Jones, is unaware of the inner cause of the conflict that stirs him. The character and the spectator share this ignorance and are prey to an inexplicable but powerful emotional stir. The Oedipal seal guarantees this communion presided over by one spirit that rules all portals of projection, identification, and other traffic. Hysterical paralysis, writes Jones, consists in the inability to will, not the inability to act. The localization of his deficient will power on the task to kill his uncle points to the unconscious repulsion toward an act that cannot be performed.

Hamlet's procrastination consists of a number of distractions and excuses he invents to avoid the task, the most 67 Jones, Earnest. Hamlet and Oedipus. Kaum Duft. Eine Fettleibigkeit trippelt hinterher. The flute belches throughout three beats: his tasty supper. The drum reads his crime thriller to the end. Green teeth, pimples on his face, waves to infected eye. Greasy hair talks to open mouth with swollen tonsils: Faith Hope Charity around his neck. Young goitre has the hots for saddle nose: he shouts her three beers.

B minor: sonata opus Hey, Gigi! Scorched desert. Canaanite brown. Open to the full. A fragrance comes with her. Hardly a fragrance. More a sweet protuberance of air, against my brain. A paunched obesity slouches behind her. Es wird nirgends so viel geschrien. Es wird nirgends Schmerzen und Leid so ganz und garnicht wie hier beachtet, weil hier eben immer was schreit. Verstehen Sie, ja? Sie sind nicht da, um auszuruhn. Es kommt nicht selbst. Urin und Stuhlgang salben es ein.

Nur aus zwei Augen bricht ein Chor von Jubilaten zum Himmel empor. Maternity Ward The poorest women of Berlin — thirteen children in one and a half rooms, whores, criminals, the outcast — writhe here in their bodies and whimper. Nowhere else is there so much wailing.

Nowhere else is so much pain and sorrow so completely ignored by all, because here something is always screaming. Do you understand? You are not here to have fun. Even if shit also comes out when you push! You are not here to have a rest. You must do your bit! Urine and excrement anoint it. From eleven beds of tears and blood a whimpering salutes its arrival. From two eyes only arises a chorus of cries of Jubilate to the Heavens above. Through this meagre piece of flesh everything will go: misery and happiness.

And should it some day die spluttering and in torment, twelve others will still be lying in this ward. The poems that he wrote between and experiment with a variety of styles. Das ich jetzt dich frage: Liebst du mich? Frau: Ja, ich will an Dir vergehn. Ja, du warst es gar nicht, An dessen Fleisch ich fasste. Es ist anders. Frau: Dann will ich vor die tanzen. So hebe ich die Schenkel aus dem Sand Und so die Brust. Was hat das denn mit dir und mir zu tun?

Was liegst du nun im Sand, du weisses Fleisch, Was rinnst du nicht und sickerst in das Meer? Halt deine Falten still! Man Beach by the sea Now, however, this has all been put in place. Closed like a stone and inescapable. You and me. I am pushed down, and I myself beat myself raw, When I just think of you. For you are a wild thing, Watered by animals, and as in the skin of an animal, And yet relaxed in all your limbs, Full of the play of dreams and more liberated Than I as man can be.

There is only one thing that would requite this all, That would bring peace. That I now should ask you: Do you love me? Woman: Yes, I want to expire on you. Take hold of my hair. Kiss my knees. You should have the brown hand of a gardener, which in autumn feels the warm fruit. Man: When I was grasping your limbs in play, Or as we were rowing, you were even more distant And far more enraptured. Yes, you were not that person At all, whose flesh I grasped. It is different now. Woman: Then, I will dance before you. Every limb Shall be a hall of tepid red, Which is awaiting you.

So I lift my legs out of the sand And my breast likewise. My dress, away from my hips. Dances Man: … You soul, soul deeply bending towards you over the sacrifices of my blood — You, soft hand, you lilac, still garden of my outcast blood. So sang my dream — Woman dancing : … The flowerbeds bleed as if from broad wounds Their scarlet around my knees.

There is a rattling From the sea and around my hips. In the clouds The curls in my hair turn to dust — Man: Now the storm bends the bushes apart and all the nests that are there for sleep and breeding — Woman: — In tones drawn out the light sings As it passes me by. Oh, sun, You mother of roses — come, you. Let us go Down again onto this warm sand made fertile by the sea. Man: What is this hairy breast, hairy thigh On skin covered with sweat and fat, a blood flowing womb? What has this to do with you and me? Why do you now lie in the sand, you white flesh, Why do you not run and trickle into the sea?

Why do there not come birds above you As they do above other flesh? Keep your folding still! Homeword bound! I now greet you, chewed away stones, And you, my blood, thrown down by the corpses of all the seas, you riveted land without fruit, that staggering, Stands on the edge of the earth. Ihr Freund arbeitet in der Hosentasche. Vielleicht handelt es sich um einen ausgetretenen Bruch. Er ist der Pionier der guten Sache.

Er weidet ihre Lippen ab. Lower down her arm, her thumbs, Balls of fat, are busy moving back and forth. She has brown skin, is motherly-looking and wants to kiss him. I like it, because this woman is completely unknown to me. Her boyfriend is fiddling in his trouser pockets. Perhaps they have just started to break up.

The manager make sure that very one pays their way. He is a pioneer of the good cause. His oversized toes make an attempt along with his ankles to escape from his boots. People are guzzling at the next table. I have never actually found one who has understood What makes makes wind mills turn. I record that as a statistic. He nibbles at her lips. Their bodies are playing together Unheard melodies.

Sauve qui peut. D-Zug Braun wie Kognak. Braun wie Laub. Reif gesenkt. In Sichel-Sehnsucht: wie weit der Sommer ist! Vorletzter Tag des neunten Monats schon! Und dann wieder dies Bei-sich-selbst-sein! Diese Stummheiten. Dies Getriebenwerden! Eine Frau ist etwas mit Geruch. Stirb hin. Du, ich falle! Brown as leaves. Malayan yellow. The Express train Berlin — Trelleborg and the Baltic sea resorts. Flesh that went naked, and tanned to the lips by the sea. Fully ripe. For Grecian pleasure. And yearning for the scythe: a never-ending summer! And already almost the last day of the ninth month!

Stubble and the last shocks of hay thirst in us. Unfoldings, the blood, the weariness. The presence of dahlias clouds the mind. Sun-browned manhood hurries onto sun-browned womanhood. A woman is something for a night. And if it was good, perhaps for a second! But then, oh, again this being by oneself!

These silences! This incessant propulsion! A woman is something with a smell. Die away. She contains the South, the shepherd and the sea. On each slope a pleasure lies. Lightly-tanned woman swoons onto darkly-tanned male. Hold me, you! I am falling. In my head, I am so weary.

Oh, this feverish sweet final smell from the gardens. Kasino Menge war schon auf Kriegsschule ein Idiot. Ha, ha, ha. Ganz geteilte Auffassungen. Ne, Sie? Na Prost, Onkel Doktor! Heut Nacht! Ein Blutweib! Sagt: Arm kann er sein und dumm kann er sein; Aber jung und frisch gebadet. Auf dieser Basis fanden wir uns. Lachen einigt alles. Although there are different opinions on this. You, the Junker, you can gee up with me when I ride. The still before the storm: Arnim, my dear fellow. You are quite incorrigible!

Well, have you? It must be pretty interesting. The seats are supposed to be really small. A full-bodied wench! Rather less morality And a bit more of a fine leg. What sort of figures have you built on this common ground? Everyone saw the joke. Herbst Todstumme Felder an mein Dorf gelehnt. Nirgend mehr Purpur oder junge Glut. Nur in der Georginen Sehnsuchtsaugen brennt noch des Sommers wundervolles Blut. Bald wird auch dies die Erde in sich saugen. The scattered chicory and scabiosa offer a little consolation. While the rangy twigs of a rose bush spread themselves, devoid of bloom, along a fence.

No more purple or fresh glowing. Only in the yearning eyes of the Georgia does the summer still burn full of wonder. But soon also this will be sucked up by the earth into itself. Morgue II I. Mit uns wird Schindluder getrieben. Soll ich damit atmen? Soll da vielleicht der kleine Kreislauf durchgehn? Alles was recht ist! Das geht zu weit! Na, und ich?

Wie bin ich hergekommen? Wie aus dem Ei gepellt! Und jetzt?? Und das rechte Herzohr brauchte auch nicht grade aus meinem After rauszusehn!

The Cambridge History of German Literature.pdf

Des Landes Lippe nagt: die Wand reisst ein. Das Fleisch verfliesst. Wo sass deine Kotfistel, fragt man sich? Vereinfachter Mechanismus. Ich bin aufgestiegen wie ein junger Adler. So stand ich: nackt, vom kalten Sternenlicht Umbrandet Stirn und Blut. They are treating us like rubbish. Who, for example, has thrown my brain into my breast cavity? Am I supposed to breath through this? Is my faint blood circulation supposed to flow through it? By all that is right and fair! This is going too far! How did I get here? As if peeled from an egg!!

And now?? And my heart valve on the right side does not need to be poking out of my arse! That looks like I have got hemeroids. The lips of the land gnaw: the wind roars in. Flesh dissolves. And in the dark towers of the limbs Eternal earth cries out with joy. Freed from my tear-drenched Cage. Freed from hunger and the sword. And as the seagulls flee in winter Over the sweet water: therefore: returned home. Where does my stomach start? Where can we find your excrement fistula, someone asks? A completely different constitution.

The navel has been thrown overboard. A simplified mechanism. Back to nature seems the best way to go. Men, hairy and randy. Women, cowardly and deceitful, Driven out of your shit-lives, Whined around by human beasts. I have ascended like a youg eagle. And stand there: naked, brow and blood Lit around by cold star light. Ich will ein ausgeschlenkertes Meer sein, du Affe! I want to push you in your shoulders.

I want to spead myself over you. I want to be a sea at high tide, you idiot! Komm man mit. They are soft, white, large, As if from the flesh of the womb.

Translated Martin Travers

But you are wearing a good English suit. You can come with me. But, of course, bring a solid gold coin. Europe, this piece of snot Europe, this piece of snot Out of the nose of a confirmation pupil. Wir gerieten in ein Mohnfeld Wir gerieten in ein Mohnfeld. Everywhere bricks screamed around. Encase us in the tower of flames With everything that kneels before the gods. Ten naked redskin heathens danced around the edifice and bleated An ape-song to death: You are simply spraying around the dirt from a puddle And are squashing underfoot a mound of worms when You crush us, We are and do not want to be anything more than filth.

They have lied to us and deceived us With talk of God, purpose and meaning And gave you as a payment our sins. For us you are the enticing rainbow Stretched over the peaks of joy. Einer sang: … Einer sang: Ich liebe eine Hure, sie heisst To. Ihr Gang sticht durch mein Blut. Sie ist ein Abgrund wilder, dunkler Blumen.

Kein Engel ist so rein. Mit Mutteraugen. Ich liebe eine Hure. Sie heisst To. Yes, as if made from a vessel All through summer. Her step cuts through my blood. She is an abyss of wild, dark flowers. No angel is so pure. With mothering eyes. I love a whore. Feuchtigkeiten ein lauter Rausch. Ein Kind! O ja, ein Kind! Moistness, a pure intoxication.

A child! Oh yes, a child! But how to get one and not — feel ashamed. I dreamt once that a young birch-tree Had given me a son. A violet song from the heavens Sung to the buds of young roses. Oh, through the nights there sobs unto the stars My male blood. Da lobe ich mir den tiefen Alt des Mohns. Da denkt man an Blutfaden und Menstruation. I prefer the deep alto of the poppy. It reminds me of patches of blood and menstruation. Die weiche Bucht. Alles ist Ufer.

Ewig ruft das Meer. Life and death, sex and procreation Would slide from our dumb seed. A piece of algae or a dune of sand: Formed by the wind and heavy at its base. Even the head of a dragonfly or the wing of a gull Would be too much, and would suffer too deeply. II Despicable are the lovers, the mockers, Despair of all longing, and those who hope. We are such sickly corrupted gods. The gentle bay. The dark dreams of the woods. The stars, huge as blossoming snowballs and heavy. The panthers spring soundlessly through the trees.

Everything is shoreline. Eternally calls the sea —. Get in there, into that stale Thermopylae! Drohungen Aber wisse: Ich lebe Tiertage. Ich bin eine Wasserstunde. Wir wollen helle Haut sein.

Book Reviews

Meine Vorderflossen sind schon lang und haarig. In der ersten Nacht ist alles entschieden. Selbst so segelhaft. Du machst mir Liebe: blutigelhaft: Ich will von dir. Sieh: Ich. I am a water-hour. In the evening my eyelids drowse off towards forest and sky. My love knows few words. It is so beautiful by your blood. My queenly vessel! My roaming hyena!

Come into my burrow. Let us be bright flesh. Until the shadows of the cedars rear over the little lizard: You! Roses bloom in my hair.

  • DELIRIO (Spanish Edition)?
  • Hill, Melanie 1962-.
  • Theft of The Rare Books (A Jane Jillson Mystery).
  • Essence of Sage and Blackberry (Winter Foster Book 1).
  • Kids Maths 13 : Kindergarten Math for Kids (Subtraction Worksheets)!
  • Love Under Two Masters [Lusty, Texas] (Siren Publishing Menage Everlasting) (The Lusty, Texas Series)!
  • His Holiness The Dalai Lama: A Message of Spiritual Wisdom!
  • My front paws are long and hairy. Longing for the boughs of trees. From strong thumbs you can hang down the whole day long. All is decided on the first night. I grip with my teeth the thing that I desire. Hyenas, tigers, vultures are my emblems. You are now crossing the water.

    (PDF) fyvowojo.ml | Viola Timm - fyvowojo.ml

    So like a sail yourself. Fair skinned. Cool in play. And yet bitter red, the blood inside is dead, The mouth is a crevice full of screams. You, let us not land on a shore! You make love to me like a leech: I want something from you. You have cornstalks on your hat.

    Your back is brown from your Maccabee blood. Your forehead flows: you spent so long Looking over the stubs of hay for Boaz. You hold it like a sea, so that nothing spilt in play Should moisten the earth. Now, look through your eyelids and steel yourself: See: the precipice approaching from a thousand stars away. See: the jaws into which you must pour all. See: me. Ich bin Gestank. Vom Rand der Erde komm ich her. Weil meine Mutter weint? Weil meinem Vater das Haar vergreist? Ich schreie: Ihr grauer Schlaf! Ihr ausgeborenen Schluchten!

    Mir aber rauscht die Stirn wie Wolken Flug. Wisch ihm eins! The Robbers-Schiller I bring plague. I am stench. From the edge of the world I come here. At times, there is something that runs together in my mouth: If I were to spit it out, the stars would hiss, And the entire cowardly boozy lot and the blood of Abel would go under. Because my mother cries? I cry out: You grey somniac! You now impotent gorges! Pretty soon a few handfuls of earth Will be fertilising you. In me, however, the brain rages like a flight of clouds. And that touch of infection that trickled into my blood from the slime of a whore?

    A crumb of death is forever stinking in the corner — Sod it! Give it one! Who cares? Das Affenlied Ihr Spiel Gottes! Du liebes Blut! Von meinem kaum getrennt! Durchrausche mich noch einen Tag! Ape song You jest from God! Heavens are the shadows Of the great forests around your fur. Sleeping, feeding, breeding quietly ripens on the Summer land of your blood. Your holy reapings! You, dear blood! From mine barely different!