#foreign writers

By Michael Hamburger The ploughman ploughs, the fisherman dreams of fish; Aloft, the sailor, through a world of ropes Guides tangled meditations, feverish With memories of girls forsaken, hopes Of brief reunions, new discoveries, Past rum consumed, rum promised, rum potential. Sheep crop the grass, lift up their heads and gaze Into a sheepish present: the essential, Illimitable juiciness of things, Greens, yellows, browns are what they see. Churlish and slow, the shepherd, hearing wings — Perhaps an eagle’s–gapes uncertainly;

When I first saw this book discussed on TV, my notes about it were: “Yes, because no”. Basically, the first instinct was: a book from the perspective of a terrorist? Not what we need right now. Then I thought: I should read it precisely because I think it has nothing to relate to and will be completely brutal. 

Turns out it was on the whole overrated and far from a “literary master piece”. This is the story of a terrorist in the resistance in Russia. That is the first thing: for Sawinkow, to write this was rebellion, but for us to read it means identifying with the protagonist, the good guy from our perspective because of his work against the socialist regime. Rather than being disgusted by his thoughts and morals, like I thought I would be, I actually wanted his bomb to go off. 

The chapters were fairly short, like a diary. There is romance involved, though the characters are at best sketches and not really flashed out. The religious element brought forward some interesting moral questions about killing, but was far too deep for my taste. 

Fernand Khnopff - Who Shall Deliver Me? (1891) Christina G. Rossetti - Who Shall Deliver Me? (1876):

God strengthen me to bear myself; That heaviest weight of all to bear, Inalienable weight of care.

All others are outside myself; I lock my door and bar them out The turmoil, tedium, gad-about.

I lock my door upon myself, And bar them out; but who shall wall Self from myself, most loathed of all?

If I could once lay down myself, And start self-purged upon the race That all must run ! Death runs apace.

If I could set aside myself, And start with lightened heart upon The road by all men overgone!

God harden me against myself, This coward with pathetic voice Who craves for ease and rest and joys

Myself, arch-traitor to myself ; My hollowest friend, my deadliest foe, My clog whatever road I go.