#Rober Walser

[hushhush-m]

«Não esforço particularmente a cabeça, deixo isso às outras pessoas. Quem esforça a cabeça torna-se odiado. Quem pensa muito tem fama de ser incómodo. Já Júlio César apontava o dedo grosso ao Cássio, esquelético e de olhos encovados, a quem temia porque suspeitava que ele tinha ideias na cabeça. Um bom cidadão não pode inspirar medo e suspeita. Pensar muito não é o seu ofício. Quem pensa muito torna-se mal amado e é inteiramente desnecessário ser mal amado. Ressonar e dormir é melhor do que ser poeta ou pensar. Vim ao mundo a tantos de tal, fui à escola em tal sítio, leio ocasionalmente o jornal, tenho a profissão tal e tal, tento tantos e tantos anos, pareço ser um bom cidadão e gostar de comer bem.

Robert Walser, Basta in O Passeio e Outras Histórias (trad. Fernanda Gil Costa), Granito – Editores e Livreiros, 2001

#Rober Walser

[papier-ist-ungeduldig]

Robert Seethaler - Der Trafikant

In diesem Roman lässt Rober Seethaler Sigmund Freud auferstehen, zum Glück nicht als Hauptfigur, das wäre wohl arg plakativ geraten, sondern als Begleiter und Idol des jungen Trafikanten vom Land, der sowohl der Großstadt Wien als auf der immer bedrohlicher werdenden politischen Lage der 1930er Jahre ausgeliefert ist. Martin Walsers Goethe-Wiederbelebung in Ein liebender Mann fand ich unerträglich zu lesen und wäre vor Fremdscham beinah im Boden versunken, mit Seethalers Freud-Interpretation hingegen würde ich auch gern auf einer Bank sitzen und Zigarren rauchen. Das Buch an sich ist trotz seiner düsteren und schweren Momente angenehm zu lesen. Es bedrückt dort, wo es bedrücken muss, ist brutal, ohne sensationsheischend zu werden, schildert anschaulich Hitlers Machtergreifung und die Stimmung in Österreich, ohne belehrend zu sein. Zartes und Schweres ist untrennbar miteinander verknüpft. Und der Leser ist eingebunden, Teilhaber, baut Beziehungen zu den Figuren auf. Zwei Pläne für die Zukunft: 1. Seethaler vormerken und mehr von ihm lesen; 2. Endlich mal nach Wien reisen. 9/10 Weiterschenken? Sogar ein klassisches Weiterschenk-Buch, für historisch Interessierte, für literarisch Interessierte, und in der Taschenbuchausgabe von Kein & Aber, die ich (geschenkt bekommen) habe, auch noch sehr, sehr schön anzuschauen. Das perfekte Gastgeschenk für Leute, die man vielleicht noch nicht so gut kennt, bei denen man aber einen guten Eindruck hinterlassen möchte.

[moriras-lejos]

Como siempre

La lámpara aún sigue ahí la mesa también sigue ahí y yo sigo en la habitación y mi Anhelo, ah, como siempre, aún suspira. Cobardía, ¿sigues ahí? y Mentira, ¿también tú? escucho un lejano sí: la infelicidad aún está ahí y en la habitación hoy, como siempre, estoy.

Robert Walser

#Rober Walser #Walser #poema #poesia

[yannicvomkanal]

Ich lag allein im Grase unter einer hundertjährigen Tanne und träumte. Die Sonne warf ihre Gluten über mich und über die Weide. Von der Ebene drang Geklingel und Eisenbahnlärm herauf. Ich dünkte mich so fern von aller Welt. Ich betrachtete nichts, ich ließ mich so betrachten. Ein Eichhörnchen wenigstens tat es lange. Es guckte verdutzt und ängstlich zu mir hinunter. Ich ließ es machen. Spitzmäuse sprangen zwischen dem Gestein, die Sonne sank, und die Weide glänzte im schwarzen durchsichtigen Schatten. O wie ich mich gesehnt habe. Wenn ich nur noch wüßte, wonach.

Robert Walser, Fritz Kochers Aufsätze

#literatur #zitat #rober walser #fritz kochers aufsätze #natur #berg

[focussound]

#Rober Walser #Microgramme

[maximiliani]

We're supposed to write something from our imagination. My imagination likes brightly colored things, like fairy tales. I don't like dreaming about chores and homework. What's all around you is for thinking, what's far away is for dreaming. 

On the lake whose waves beat against the outermost houses in our city, a noble lady and a noble lad are floating in a small rowboat. The lady is dressed in extremely luxurious and valuable clothing, the boy more humbly. He is her page. He rows, then he lifts up the oars and lets drops of water fall like pearls into the great recumbent water. It is quiet, wonderfully quiet. The large lake lies there as still as a puddle of oil. The sky is in the lake, and the lake looks like a watery, deep sky. Both of them, the lake and the sky, are a softly dreaming blue, a blue. Both of them, the noble lady and the noble lad, are dreaming. Now the boy calmly rows a bit further out, but as quietly, as slowly, as if he were afraid to move any farther. It's more like floating than gliding, and it's more like being quiet and not moving than gliding. The lady is smiling at the boy the whole time. She must like him very much. The boy smiles under her smile. It is morning, one of those lake mornings with a kiss of sunshine. The sun blazes down on the lake, the rowboat, both people, onto their happiness, onto everything. Everything is happy. Even the colors on the beautiful lady's clothes are happy. Colors must have feelings too. Colors are lovely and they go well with happiness. The lady is from the castle rising up from the right-hand shore of the lake, its towers glistening. She is a countess. At her behest the boy has untied the little boat and rowed out to where they are now: almost in the middle of the lake. The lady holds her white hand in the greenish, bluish water. The water is warm. It kisses the offered hand. It has a real wet mouth for kissing. The white walls of the scattered country houses shimmer toward them from the shore. The brown vineyards are beautifully reflected in the water, the country houses too. Obviously! The one has to be reflected just as much as the other. Nothing gets special treatment. Everything that makes the shoreline lively with shape and color is subject to the lake, which does with it whatever it wants. It mirrors it. It, the lake, is a magician, the lord, the fairy tale, the picture.

The rowboat glides across this deep, watery, undulating picture. Always the same calm floating.We have already described it, even if we had not said enough. We? Good grief, am I speaking in plural? That's a habit authors have, and whenever I write essays I always feel like a real author. But the lake, the boat, the waves, the lady, the boy, and the oar can't fade away quite yet. I want to look at them one more time. The lady is sweet and beautiful. I don't know any ladies who aren't sweet or beautiful. This one though, in such charmingly sweet surroundings transfigured with sun and colors, is especially so. Plus of course she's also a distinguished countess from bygone times. The boy is a figure from an earlier century too. There aren't pages anymore. Our era no longer needs them. The lake on the other hand, is the very same lake. The same blurry distances and colors as back then shine across it now, and the same sun. The castle still stands too, but it's empty.

Robert Walser - 'Aus der Phantasie' ['From the Imagination'] from Fritz Kochers Aufsätze [Fritz Kocher's Essays] (1904) translated by Damion Searls.

Illustration by Karl Walser.

#Rober Walser #Karl Walser #prose #illustration #;-;