Tess of the d'Urbervilles. Thomas Hardy. Country Walks of a Naturalist with his Children, W. Burnett, M.
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born Wisniowczyk (Galicia), June 19, 1868; died Vienna, January 14, 1935
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San Francisco Call 18 December — California Digital Newspaper Collection
Limited Edition. Vintage Paperback. Topic see all. Christianity, Bibles. Mystery, Thriller. And as for those who expect to have honest dealings with people who were born wicked and whose characters are vile and abject, are they being wise? Everything has to be paid for in this world. There are two public prosecutors, and one of them is at your door, punishing crimes against society; the other is nature herself.
She is familiar with all those vices that escape the law. The easiest thing to do is to resign yourself to the fairness of these judgements, say to yourself, fair enough; shake yourself down and mend your ways, or stay as you are, albeit in accordance with the aforementioned conditions. Everyone rushes in to help. We had a lot of trouble getting him out from underneath.
Exiles from Nazi Germany
What possessed such a little hammer to place itself beneath such a heavy anvil? I more usually congratulate myself on my vices than blame myself for them. You are more consistent in your contempt.
We value unity of character in all things. I think you yourself waver from time to time with respect to your principles. It is unclear whether you were born naturally wicked or whether you learnt it, and indeed, whether your learning has taken you as far as it might. Have I not had the modesty to acknowledge that there are beings more perfect than myself?
Bouret is, to my mind, the most admirable man in the world. This one lived with a good and honest man, one of the descendants of Abraham, father of the faithful, whose seed was promised to him numberless as the stars. How can you possibly expect there not to be lots of ungrateful scroungers when the temptation is there and they can get away with it? He confided in the Renegade that his conscience would not let him eat pork. You will soon see what an inventive mind did with a confession like this.
A few months went by in which our Renegade became increasingly affectionate.
Once he believed his attentions had so thoroughly moved, ensnared, and convinced his Jew that he had no better friend in all the tribes of Israel, then Admire the lengths the man went to. He lets the pear ripen before shaking the branch. The point is that, ordinarily, greatness of character is the natural result of two or more opposing qualities balancing each other out.
There are some days when I have to muse. A traitor has reported us to the Holy Inquisition, you as a Jew and me as a renegade, a vile renegade. It takes more courage than you might think to say out loud what you really are. You have no idea how hard it is to do that. But what about this vile Renegade?
The Jew takes fright, tears his beard, flings himself to the ground, sees the guards already at the door and himself in a sanbenito with his sacrificial pyre ready and waiting. Go out in public, pretend not to have a care in the world, behave as if nothing was wrong. We must make use of this time to sell up. The crucial thing, given our perilous situation, is not to do anything rash. The ship is hired and stocked with provisions and sailors. Tomorrow, they escape their persecutors. During the night, the Renegade gets up, relieves the Jew of his wallet, purse, and jewels, boards the ship, and off he goes.
So far, the Renegade is nothing more than that. The Holy Inquisition came for the Jew the next morning, and put him on a nice, big bonfire a few days later. I wanted you to know how brilliant I am at my art, to compel you to admit that at least I have an original way of degrading myself, to make you think of me as the latest in a long line of glorious good-for-nothings, and proclaim: Come on, Mister Philosopher, make it joyful, all together now: Vivat Mascarillus, fourbum imperator.
At times, the melody was serious and full of majesty, at others, light and playful; one moment, he was imitating the bass, the next, the top parts; he would stretch out his arm and neck to show when to hold a note, performing and composing his own triumphal march, and showing he knew more about good music than good morals. I stayed, with the aim of bringing the conversation round to some subject that would clear my soul of the horror that was overwhelming it. I was beginning to find it hard to bear the presence of a man who could talk about a horrendous deed, a hideous crime in the same way as a connoisseur of painting or poetry would examine the beauties of a work of art, or as a moralist or a historian would bring out and highlight the details of a heroic deed.
I became sombre despite myself. He noticed, and said: Are you feeling ill? To get him to talk about his talent again, I said: What are you working on at the moment? By God, I can, I swear. You should hear how they sing the words! How true it feels! What model does the musician choose when he writes a song? And so it is for all of us. We have nothing in our memory but words, which we think we understand because we use them frequently and sometimes even accurately; and nothing in our minds but vague notions.
Declamation, if the model is living and thinking; noise, if the model is inanimate. We should consider declamation as one line, and song as another line, winding its serpentine way around the first. The more confident and true the declamation, which in itself is a type of song, the more frequently the song line following it will cross back and forth: In these works, there are all sorts of characters, infinite varieties of declamation.
This is sublime, I assure you, and I should know. You must go and hear the piece in which the young man feeling his life slipping away, cries out: This tells you how difficult and how important it is to know how to do recitative well. There was no end to the performances of a piece like Armide. Every age has its own apostle. They were convinced that after having cried along with a mother grieving for her son, and trembled at a tyrant ordering a murder, they would not be bored by all their whimsical fairyland, their insipid mythology, their sickly little madrigals which are as much a mark of the bad taste of the poet as they are of the poverty of the art which finds them acceptable.
JEAN-PHILIPPE RAMEAU. Hippolyte et Aricie
The true, the good, and the beautiful will always have their way. Yawn away, gentlemen, yawn away at your leisure. Nature and my Trinity are quietly establishing their empire, and the gates of hell will never be strong enough to withstand my Trinity: The foreign god humbly goes to sit down next to the local idol on the altar; bit by bit, he grows stronger; and one fine day, he gives his companion a little shove, and booboom, down the idol falls.
And the Jansenists can say what they like, but this way of doing politics, which achieves its goal without making a stir, without any bloodletting, without creating martyrs, without so much as a tuft of hair being pulled out, seems the best to me. I just say whatever comes to me. How can you have two ears on your head and ask such a question? He started getting all impassioned and singing softly. He got louder the more impassioned he became; next came the gestures, the grimaces, and the bodily contortions; and I said: Monseigneur, monseigneur, laissez-moi partir [Your Lordship, Sir, please let me leave] A Zerbina penserete [Zerbina always on your mind] Sempre in contrasti con te si sta [I never know where I am with you].
He calms down, he is sorry, he complains, he laughs; never a false note, never out of time, always capturing the meaning of the words and the character of the music. All the pawn-pushers had left their chessboards and gathered round him. The laughter was loud enough to bring the ceiling down.
It had everything, exquisite singing, powerful expression, and great sorrow.
He emphasised those places where the composer had displayed particular mastery; if he abandoned the sung part, it was so as to pick up the instrumental line, which he would then suddenly drop to go back to the voice, weaving the two together in such a way as to respect the relation between each of the parts as well as the unity of the whole; capturing our souls and keeping them suspended in the strangest state I have ever experienced Yes, I was, but these feelings were tinged with ridicule, and it transformed their nature.
The horns and bassoons, he did puffing his cheeks up like balloons, and making hoarse, low sounds; he made a piercing, nasal noise for the oboes; his voice catapulting up and down at incredible speed, he did as close an imitation of the strings as he could; he whistled the piccolos and cooed the flutes; shouting, singing, charging about like a madman, single-handedly doing the dancers, both male and female, the singers, both male and female, a whole orchestra, a whole opera company, dividing himself between twenty different roles; running around, suddenly stopping and looking like a man possessed, his eyes blazing, foaming at the mouth.
It was boiling hot in there, and the sweat running along the furrows in his brow and down his cheeks got some hair powder mixed in with it, and streamed down and streaked the top of his coat. What did I not see him do? He wept, he laughed, he sighed; he gazed tenderly or serenely or intensely; he was a woman, overcome with sorrow; he was an unfortunate man, giving in to despair; he was a temple going up; birds falling silent at sunset; water burbling in a cool and solitary grove, or gushing forth in torrents from the mountain tops; a storm, a tempest, the cries of those about to perish, together with the howling of the wind and the crashing of the thunder; he was night in all its darkness, he was shadow and silence, for even silence can be painted in sound.