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He is there, with his parents. Yet he is mine, only mine. The child who was taken from me, secretly, unexpectedly. He was taken from me in a moment of pain, when I discovered that my wonderful, unrestrained fantasy of a child was in fact based on him. I did not go again to the house with the blue fence. The footsteps of him who usually came at that time were not to be heard. I feel as though I have already wavered in my decision to abduct him. What is happening to me? Perhaps the moonlight, still full of shadows and phantoms, is affecting me?
Now I can see where my hesitation lies. I no longer believe in the power of those magic words with which I was to bewitch the child and carry him off. They are feeble. I seek some other unheard of, unseen skill. As we returned from our walk in the evening, I was deeply moved.
They cannot guess that they are entrusting him to the person whom they will shortly call a wicked abductor. What is wrong with that? I will gladly forgive them, for they do not know, and never will know the secret of my heart. I am still thinking about our walk yesterday. Then I was overtaken by a strange fear.
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I noticed that the moon was dissolving the veiled clouds and threatening to pour waterfalls of cold light upon me, turning me into a fiend. As I reached the threshold the idea of toys hit me. My secretive apartment has suddenly changed. It has become a secret workshop. Lean, agile tools shine and sparkle on the walls, table and floor. O stranger, bend your ear to the dark blinds of my window, late at night!
The heavy blinds, between which the bright shafts of my waking lamp shine. You will hear the toothy sound of the saw. The dry hissing of the plane. Knocking, tapping and many other sounds belonging to mysterious, inexplicable, alert gadgets of which you have no knowledge. What kind of work is this? For what do I remain awake? I am inventing and making ever more amazing toys.
Ever more alluring. Ever more addictive. Already in the secret workplace here and there I hear a toy come to life. Some of them came to me in the strangest dreams and I am now creating them with my own hands. And so quickly, that it seems as though a divine or hellish skill quickens my fingers. A sombre, foggy day.
Wanderings of mind, body and soul
The extinguished paths lead into dark greyness, then darker greyness. Somewhere I sense the presence of the new moon. It barely shines. Perhaps it will go out before it waxes full. I have been standing for a long time in front of the little house with the blue fence, now black with the dampness. Finally I have succeeded. The last toy is finished. Its heart has started beating. Today I spent the whole day looking at toys in shop windows. I wanted to see if there was anything more beautiful or wonderful than mine.
I came home calm and satisfied. If you press them, they make an awkward, squeaky noise, more frightening than funny. Tonight is an unusual night. A warm, autumn night. A feeble breeze blows from the valley. I think it is the breeze which makes the first snowdrops push through the cracks of compacted snow. This is a strange night. This is a night when Spring has wandered astray. But my heart is seized by coldness and blizzards.
By the whistling of bending whiteness, blowing diagonally in fans and drizzling like needles. And after it the white, wavy wasteland shatters like a tomb. This is what I think of, while the warm wind rustles the dry leaves and the darkened almond pods rattle There is no more hesitation. The days are passing. But the moon is still floating with a dry, yellow glow. You will have it, as soon as we reach home. Just calm down. Calm down. O Inspiration, which has to deftly guided my fingers, so that inert matter came alive beneath them, walked, talked, and was moulded into forms more beautiful than dreams themselves.
Do not abandon me now. Whisper to me, tell me how to best place my toys so that they will be the sweetest bait to my unexpected, undreamed-of child. I have thought of everything with a devilish cunning. All will be well. I just need to find a cart in which to carry my toys tomorrow to the appointed place.
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It has clouded over. It is starting to drizzle. A dark foggy veil, woven of droplets, falls unceasingly. What a good job I had not already moved my toys into place! They would all be sodden, blackened and hoarse.
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Now I will take out my wonderful toys, each wrapped up. The quick, agile pony will take them to the place ordained for ambush. Each will play its part deftly and worthily. All is ready. The toys are in place. Each in its ambush position. They are waiting. They are preying. How I trembled all over with fear, as I arranged them this morning along the path, all the way to the roadside crucifix, where the silence is filled with deep moss.
And beneath the crucifix, at the foot of a steep slope, the path is white, bending away into the distance, a faraway world I am talking about smoke. About the wonderful, fateful shapes whose soothing is only in evanescence. I am talking about the bright and dark moments in which they appear, about their aromas and colours, the final expressions of consumed creations and things. I am talking about the sounds which do not precede them, which suppressedly roll around together with the smoke or arrive after it, in cries, moans, or joyful shouts.
Firstly there is the sort which pours up to the windows of heaven through mouths built of bricks, through mouths called chimneys. These chimneys rise up from human habitations. From castles, houses and cottages. We see them every day and they are normal to our dulled sight. Yet there is a secret within them.
Smoke which blows from castles falls down grey and helpless as soon as it leaves the chimney. That is why castles are always surrounded by dark prospects and the glow of riches shines weakly through their wide, crystal windows. Smoke which blows from humble houses and cottages gambols out of the chimney in blue flutters, like the quivering of angel down, when the presence of God wafts upon it. These fronds of smoke arise from pure embers in plain hearths of earth. Tapering into an invisible thread they wind up to heaven.
They pass through the keyhole of paradise, filling heaven with the aroma of savoury cakes baked in the poorest of cottages. At twilight, these fronds of smoke are that blue meandering seen while the Angelus rings out to Our Lady, causing bright tools to quieten and be silenced. It is time for gentle conversation. It is time to dream. There is smoke which is not.
So invisible and impossible to sense. The smoke of evildoers, concealing destructive fire and deadening its explosive crackling. It makes a stifled fire suddenly burst out again. There is smoke which evaporates out of things. It is the breath of these things. It floats around them, wrapping them in a net and revealing their original shapes to us.
Then everyday things change. A cupboard is no longer a cupboard, a bench is no longer a bench. Nothing is what it usually is. Evanescence shimmers around them, which is their soul. The moments when mysterious smoke reveals the life of things are rare. Once, happily, I experienced this wonder:. Once at daybreak I noticed that the ewer by the door blinked twice or thrice in the sunlight and its contours filled out.
Did it have eyes? Had it just woken up? Did it widen its hips to take in more of the spring whose sharp stream babbled nearby, smothered by the softness of the moss? There is smoke which appears in clear places. Somewhere in solitary clearings, which no one has disturbed and through which the slenderness of deer has only once rushed. This smoke is always as white as wool. Its edges shine with the gilding of the invisible sun and it smells of burnt down.
It hovers eternally in the heights above unextinguished fires, which can be divined by the crackling of invisible sparks. Angels warmed themselves around these fires, when they walked on earth, to knock. To awaken. To give warning of coming danger. There is smoke of which man is the sombre creator. This smoke appears in seductive colours. Many-coloured, somnolent and intoxicating, it creeps close, concealing within its lazy meanderings sweet poison, bitter intoxication and — death. When it floats nearby, it unexpectedly turns into pictures of marble castles, the land of dreams and stories. There is smoke which stealthily blackens on the edge of sight.
Swirled into threatening shapes, it glares down on the surroundings and is lost to sight. It is bad for those who never notice it. It is even worse for those who notice it and think it has dispersed for ever. Creeping fatefully along the edge of sight, it leaps up again on the opposite side, close at hand. The whole area flinches. The wheat rustles eerily from valley to valley. Poor wheat! There is smoke which has wandered in from space. It is usually light blue, sprayed with the sparkling droplets of extinguished stars.
At dawn it hangs above wells, on the ground which shimmers in icy silence, frozen in green transparency. There is smoke which only hovers in ruins. Where it comes from is a secret. It is hard to glimpse by day. Although I have spent many days and nights in solitary walks, listening everywhere carefully and divining, even I have never seen it by day. Just once, during a moonlit night which rang with the chirping of crickets, did I spot it, lying among ruins overgrown with moss.
Later it played around the abandoned windows of the tower, disturbed by the strong jets of moonlight. There is smoke which only moves along forgotten paths and alleys. It is greeny-brown and easily changes into newer and yet newer shapes. It can transform itself in an instant, now into an old travelling costume and walking stick.
Now into a dusty hat and pouch. It usually hangs around for ages at crossroads. Or, perhaps, leans on the fence of some garden and gazes into the distance. There is smoke which floats in grey nuances and winds itself into shapes which are the deceptive realisation of solitary longings.
Solitary travellers know the secret. They know why they sit for hours on blue mountain sides, on craggy peaks, on the edges of abysses and the floors of valleys. Such smoke passes in a given moment. It steals up unawares. It overpowers the watcher and possesses him:. An enchanted, dear form appears. The echoes of long-ago words return. They are here. They ring. They coo. And the smoke winds around. Its windings intertwine ever faster. Circles move and mesh.
Our hearing leads us in search of it to the highest peaks, where we almost float. Here the mountain ewers spill over with a silver horror, filled with compressed silence, which settles in them from heavenly azure regions and earthly depths. Should a smoky wisp of thick silence wander out of them, endless, inexpressible hush prevails there where the wisp catches and falls.
Then a mysterious rumbling begins, with the tiny, delicate chime of invisible bells. There is smoke which only tangles and weaves around holy pictures. It usually appears in endless emptiness and wastelands, when a devout worshipper is overtaken by indecision and exhaustion. This smoke has a wonderful, simple colour, impossible to express in terms of other colours. Such colour is not found even in the rainbow made of all rainbows. Perhaps the colour of this smoke is like that which flickers when heaven gazes on a momentary fissure of blueness.
There is smoke which appears on spreading plains in the shape of countless herds, clearly illuminated on one side, covered obscurely on the other. While it plods lazily, the wind catches it unexpectedly and whips it into massive pillars, which sail away into the misty distance in a magnificent procession.
I will never forget one secret moment, when I leaped out of bed, honoured by just such an unanticipated sight: those tall pillars of smoke were passing by my window, wide open to the rosy dawn. Powerful, silent, lit up. A voice whispered to me to join them, but I remained by the window.
Too happy and too sated with wonder. It glimmers, unextinguishable, and radiates in the darkness of tiny, tumbledown houses, in which live those who carry this world on their shoulders. Such smoke only appears at midnight and before dawn, dark around midnight and rosy around daybreak. I have long wondered why it looks like a beak. And I have discovered the secret. It issues from the beaks of roosters and that is why it has this shape. Powerful, stirring screeches. Exultant awakening.
Mysterious calling. This smoke is the covering which rings and shakes on the severed heads of roosters. Above their dead eyes, veiled by a fallen, darkened crest. Ah, now I know why my people tremble, why they awaken from hard bolsters, when they sees the glittering of that mysterious dew on their unlit windows. There is smoke which is called Maelstrom. It unceasingly tangles and unravels in wonderful circles above his head, changing colour and flickering.
Then the sun itself cannot brighten it. In moments like these lightning flashes through it. There is smoke, woven of colours distilled from heavenly rainbows. These divine colours have floated through the sleep of holy painters, dreaming of painting the Presence of God. But whenever they drew the brush across the canvas, each colour would evaporate into smoke. These wisps of smoke are now wandering, separated, looking for each other. Somewhere far away, high up in the clearness, where the springs of brightness ring like crystal, they sometimes find each other. Then in their interweaving they blossom, shine and burst into the most wonderful flower, which conjures the Presence of God by shaking its petals.
From his evening window, where he watched every night because of the stars, aghast at the inconceivable, endless dread and having no-one to help him bear the horror of his discovery, the seer stood motionless at the window:. The thought disturbed him. It meant that Arcturus had passed, in all his enormity, without being heard or seen, because of the speed which made him but a momentary apparition.
They have calculated how long it takes him to reach us. Yet will he not then, as now, rush past us, like the glow left after an extinguishing act. We are not conscious, we have never thought about how part of the universe is merely an illusion, formed from countless orbits and refractions:. The thought was a great comfort to him at that moment. So he remained calmly by the window. Especially when gazing ever further into the heights, he felt a quivering shimmer. It seemed then to the seer that the universe was drawing in from above, like something which only then began to surround us from all sides.
All this is clear to us, for we are used to visions, which come to us at the same intervals, on this our unmoving, earthly stage. But we will not be afraid of new things. Of the truth that in space, everything is finished, completed, done. We are not called upon to create anything, but only inspiredly to reveal, discover, for, whatever we may think, reality already exists, though invisible and divided, scattered into pieces which will come to life again as originally intended, when we re-assemble the pieces creatively.
All this is a warning that the decline of classic space, to which we have long been accustomed, is coming:. Classic space is static, unmoving, divided into appropriate parts, which are filled with various daily business. This space extends as far as the things we need extend. If the boundary is crossed, a lack of resourcefulness, wandering and aimlessness result. Things disappear unnoticed, things which a person in a familiar space keeps close to hand and which enable him to move around at ease.
We live in times when mankind has succeeded in crossing that boundary, yet still he measures things in terms of former references, still unprepared in reality to master the revelations of imagined spaces. Relying on those old references man is trying to reach out as far as possible into so-called space with the help of cosmic ballistics, but in fact he is only reaching the first antechamber.
Far away, even from the slightest astrophysiological adjustments, he dares not peer into space even for a moment briefly, through the opened window of his cosmic tube. He is satisfied with the possibility of going as high as he can, crouching behind the glass cover, breathing through artificial lungs, in an artificial Earth atmosphere, like a person training in an aquarium to swim across the ocean. But for now, his greatest goal is to go as far as possible successfully and arrive back safe and sound.
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That will be his finest hour, regardless of the fact that he will have to keep on answering, to the point of insanity, curious humankind:. There will be plenty of sombre meditation about that, if it is not understood that it was all only cosmic ballistics. However great the triumph and effort to travel as far as possible and back again, each such return will in fact be a failure. Then, adjustment to new conditions will begin and continue until that final transformation, which will enable the colonisation of space. Then suddenly, these words will rupture the regions of Lower Earth:.
After failure, ruin, useless, empty return journeys, he has stayed somewhere up there, in full swing. The seer would speak the first words of the universe to such a first newcomer. If he could see that newcomer well, or at least glimpse him, he would be prominent above all others. I sense you always when it is late, when the light has been extinguished from my mirror. When all the shadows flee in fright, and only the glow remains.
Here you are, maiden of mystery, inaccessible. Here you are, the ash of my dark shadow falls from me, burned up in your bright closeness. Or are you perhaps that young girl for whom my lonely steps grow still in the twilight with the quiet of wool. Are you that humble girl, eyes hidden under those dazzling glasses, which lead you through the clamour of this world?
Silently you overshadow passers-by and drift off unknown. Where are you hurrying to? To what secret meeting in the heights? Will you in the end leave your glasses at the end of the town, in which the murky reflections of this world are extinguished? When do you arrive at your sacred cottage, rocking in the blueness?
Inside things are not betrayed by their sound. The shadows of twilight do not creep out from under them. All is transparent. Why do the quiet doorways tell of your return so late? With the last gleam of moonlight you come like a wave to your gentle threshold, all fresh and wet from the stars. And then your bright vigil shines out from behind the peepholes. Here is a mystery. You open it and sheaves of light burst out. All trembling and flooded with light you look with wonder into the box.
Your little house in the blue burns with the radiance. And the melted peephole drips down the night. O modest Veronica, o maiden, walking sublime. What is this vigil, how many nights have you spent bent over your box? Motionless, in awe, you still gaze inside from where the brightness blazes. Is the beauty in it not sufficient to roll down your body, O Veronica? Be still, hush, at last.
The poems of John Keats
And sleep, for from all this sleeplessness the lock of grey hair gleams silver. What is this? From your tears flashes brightness. You open the door to them. Only to them. You know the night visitors by the tiny, grassy touch of the needles which invisible, needle sharp, crackle between their quivering fingers.
The ruddy mountain needlewomen. For them the stars burn, until they burn out. And the Moon gives them his last drop. You allow only them to come close to the secret. To come with eyes closed, or they would be blinded. Already blanched and transparent from the glowing closeness of your holy box, they place before you their magical gifts.
Just rich cloth. All snow white, woven with the thread of dreams. With the dream of rainbows. The dream of the charm of colour seen only by the blind old women. When you are left trembling and alone, what do you do, Veronica? Do you then put down these unseen gifts into the depths of your box, into the brightness? Still in your hand they evaporate into golden dust. And you will be burned. Come to the threshold and be refreshed in the cold North Star in the blueness. Above all abysses, above all peaks, all the threads are broken.
How did you come to fall on my doorstep? Tired from the peaks I came down to the lowland, down the hum of the spindle. The door was locked. I waited long and finally fell asleep on the doorstep. Someone was there in my hearing all night long. Sleep revealed the mystery. A miracle beyond all dreams.
At the bottom of the box a veil shines and on it printed a sacred and wonderful face. Istria exerts a special magnetic pull with its rolling, green Tuscanesque hills, stunning historical towns, not to mention excellent seafood and local cuisine washed down with Malvazija wine, numerous blue flag beaches with crystal clear water and of course proximity to Zagreb. Jonathon Bousfield as usual takes a look at Istria with a touch more depth and sophistication than the average visitor, inviting readers to observe it through the immortal words of famous writers who have some kind of connection to the peninsula.
One of Croatia's brightest literary stars who sadly passed away last year left a trove of brilliant writing as her legacy. So you're visiting Zagreb and are curious about it's underground art scene? Check out this guide to Zagreb's street art and explore all the best graffiti artists' work for yourself on your next walk through the city.
Check out a quirky list of untranslatable Croatian phrases from Croatian cultural guide extraordinaire, Andrea Pisac, in the link below:. Just got out of a serious relationship and don't know what to do with all those keepsakes and mementos of your former loved one? The very popular and probably most unique museum in Zagreb, the Museum of Broken Relationships, dedicated to preserving keepsakes alongside the diverse stories of relationships gone wrong, will gladly take them.
Find out how the museum got started and take an in-depth look at some of its quirkiest pieces in the link below. Find out how the s, which saw the pinnacle of the domestic music scene, uncertain and rapidly changing political circumstances, and a more open and critical media, shaped the soul of modern-day Zagreb. Jonathan Bousfield contends that history only gives us a partial answer. Cities have served as sources of inspiration, frustration, and discovery for millennia. The subject of sonnets, stories, plays, the power centers of entire cultures, hotbeds of innovation, and the cause of wars, cities are mainstays of the present and the future with millions more people flocking to them every year.
Walk the streets conjured by his graceful words and take in the gentle beauty of the Zagreb of his childhood memories and present day observation. Going to a cemetery may not be the first idea that pops into your mind when visiting a new city. But the stunning Mirogoj cemetery in Zagreb, which was designed by the renowned Austrian architect, Herman Bolle, is definitely worth a bit of your time. Read more below to find out why. Dolac, the main city market, is a Zagreb institution.
Selling all the fresh ingredients you need to whip up a fabulous dinner, from fruits and vegetables to fish, meat and homemade cheese and sausages, the sellers come from all over Croatia. Positioned right above the main square, the colorful market is a beacon of a simpler way of life and is just as bustling as it was a century ago. Do you find phrases and sayings give personality and flair to a language? Have you ever pondered how the culture and history of a place shape the common phrases?
Check out some common sayings in Croatian with their literal translations and actual meanings below. Hollywood seems to have discovered Dubrovnik. Parts of The Last Jedi, the eighth episode in the Star Wars saga, also take place in the fortress town. The 25th James Bond film is reported to begin shooting in the city in January But not everyone appreciates all the attention. Numerous festivals, shows and exhibitions are held annually in Zagreb. To one who has been long in city pent To one who has been long in city pent,. Happy is England! I could be content Happy is England!
I could be content. To Charles Cowden Clarke Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,. How many bards gild the lapses of time How many bards gild the lapses of time! Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there. To My Brothers Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,.
Addressed to Haydon Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,. Addressed to the Same Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;. Nymph of the downward smile, and sidelong glance,. To Kosciusko Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone. Sleep and Poetry What is more gentle than a wind in summer? I stood tip-toe upon a little hill I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,. Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition The church bells toll a melancholy round,. On the Grasshopper and Cricket The poetry of earth is never dead. After dark vapours have opressed our plains After dark vapours have oppress'd our plains. God of the golden bow God of the golden bow,.
This pleasant tale is like a little copse This pleasant tale is like a little copse. To Leigh Hunt, Esq. Glory and loveliness have passed away;. On Seeing the Elgin Marbles My spirit is too weak — mortality. On The Story of Rimini Who loves to peer up at the morning sun,. On the sea It keeps eternal whisperings around. Unfelt, unheard, unseen Unfelt, unheard, unseen,. Hither, hither, love Hither, hither, love —.
You say you love; but with a voice You say you love; but with a voice. The Gothic looks solemn The Gothic looks solemn,. Think not of it, sweet one, so Think not of it, sweet one, so; —. O grief! O balm! Apollo to the Graces Apol. Which of the fairest three. To Mrs. Reynolds's Cat Cat! O blush not so! O blush not so O blush not so! Hence burgendy, claret, and port Hence burgundy, claret, and port,. God of the Meridian God of the meridian,. Robin Hood No! Lines on the Mermaid Tavern Souls of poets dead and gone,. Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb;.
To the Nile Son of the old moon-mountains African! Spenser, a jealous honorer of thine Spenser! O thou whose face hath felt the winter's wind O thou whose face hath felt the winter's wind,. Extracts from an Opera O! O, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts Oh, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts!
Song The stranger lighted from his steed,. O sleep a little while white pearl Asleep! Four seasons fill the measure of the year Four seasons fill the measure of the year;. Where be ye going, you Devon maid Where be ye going, you Devon maid? Over the hill and over the dale Over the hill and over the dale,.
O that a week could be an age, and we. Mother of Hermes! To Homer Standing aloof in giant ignorance,. Give me your patience sister while I frame. Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes,. On Visiting the Tomb of Burns The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun,. Old Meg she was a gipsey Old Meg she was a gipsey,. There was a naughty bay There was a naughty boy,. To Ailsa Rock Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid! This mortal body of a thousand days This mortal body of a thousand days.
All gentle folks who owe a grudge All gentle folk who owe a grudge. Of late two dainties were before me plac'd Of late two dainties were before me plac'd. There is a joy in footing slow across a silent plain There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,. Not Aladdin magian Not Aladdin magian. Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud. Upon my life, Sir Nevis,I am piqu'd Mrs.
Upon my life Sir Nevis I am pique'd. Fragment of a Castle-builder Nature withheld cassandra in the skies,. And what is Love? Where's the Poet? Show him! Fancy Ever let the Fancy roam,.
Aspects of Philosophy
Bards of passion and of mirth Bards of passion and of mirth,. Spirit here that reignest Spirit here that reignest! I had a dove, and the sweet dove died I had a dove and the sweet dove died;. The Eve of St. Agnes St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! Mark Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;. Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell Why did I laugh to-night? No voice will tell. When they were come unto the Faery's court When they were come into the Faery's court. Character of C. He is to weet a melancholy carle.
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art Bright star! Hyperion: A Fragment. Book I Deep in the shady sadness of a vale. Happy, happy glowing fire! Sonnet to Sleep O soft embalmer of the still midnight,.