Academic literature on the topic 'German poetry Joy and sorrow'

Italian humanists’ discoveries of ancient texts and printed editions of such ancient works as Lucretius’ De rerum natura, Plato’s Symposium or Apicius’ De re coquinaria strongly influenced the renewal of the Epicurean category of pleasure (voluptas) and created a new approach to eating. Many Italian humanists began emphasizing bodily needs and stressed their importance. We can find these ideas in the works of Lorenzo Valla (De voluptate, 1431), Marsilio Ficino (De voluptate, 1457) or Bartolomeo Platina (the author of the first printed cookbook De honesta voluptate et valetudine, ca. 1465-68) who recognized that food could be also consumed for pleasure. The phenomenon of the philosophical and literary banquet became common practice among Italian, and later also Polish, humanists. Such associations as the Roman Academy, Florentine Academy, or Polish Sodalitas litteraria Vistulana were the place of humanistic discussion, which was valued more than luxurious food. It is reflected in 16th-century Polish poetry (Filippo Buonaccorsi „Callimachus”, Conrad Celtis; Paweł z Krosna; Jan Dantyszek „Dantiscus” and others) and philosophical treaties such as Mikołaj Rej’s Wizerunek własny, 1558, inspired by Palingenius’ Zodiacus vitae, or Łukasz Górnicki’s Dworzanin polski, 1566, inspired by Baldassare Castiglione’s Il corteggiano. The quoted authors recommend moderation in drinking and criticize Polish and German drunkenness. Dining with friends could also serve as remedy for vanitas or all kinds of sorrow, according to the tradition of Anacreontic and Horatian poetry. We can see it clearly in Foricoenia of Jan Kochanowski (1584), where the joy of drinking wine and singing at the table interweaves with reflection on the human condition and vanishing.

Decimus Ausonius Magnus (ca 310-394) was a rhetorician, a teacher, a tutor of young Gratian and a highly-ranked, influential official, as well as one of the most famous poets of the late Roman Empire. In his poems, he frequently described the small world he belonged to, the daily routine of his own, of his relatives, professional colleagues and friends. As the poet reached his old age, he made it a subject of his poetry. Ausonius considers old age to be a blessing, a time which permits a wise, generous person to gather fruit of his good deeds and fulfilled duties, to watch children and grandchildren grow and achieve successes, to share one’s wisdom with younger persons. Ausonius shows his grandfather and his grand­mother, his aunts, but first of all his father, Ausonius senior, as the examples of happy old persons, loving and loved, respected and needed by the people who surrounded them. He notices that old persons can be joyful, healthy and beautiful. Writing about old age, he mentions illness only once, while expressing his joy of having recovered and being able to send greetings to the grandson who celebrates his birthday. In spite of his age, Ausonius still loves his wife Sabina, who died many years before, the same way as he loved her when he was a young husband. He is deeply attached to Bissula, the charming German girl cap­tured and given to him by the Emperor Valentinian I probably circa 368. Besides, he really enjoys spending time with his friends and with the Muses. In his epigrams, most of which don’t have personal, but rather literary character, the poet translates, quotes, paraphrases and imitates Greek and Latin epigrams which deal with the theme of old age. Although in Ausonius’ poems exists an obvious resemblance to their models, he grants himself much freedom in his remouldings. Not only he alters circumstantial details, expands or abbrevi­ates the original, bur also uses them as mere starting points of his reflexion. It becomes more important for him to ponder over quickly passing youth or over a lover’s feelings towards a woman who rejected him when she was young, but whom he still admires, than to play a literary game. Ausonius never parodies nor even portrays women trying to attire men in their old age, even though he may mock old men pretending to look younger than they are. Neither he complains about pains and sorrows of old age. In all that, he remains a true Roman and a true gentleman.

Abstract This study tested the hypothesis that features of linguistically non-mandatory phonological recurrence (rhyme, alliteration, assonance, and consonance), parameters of word positioning (position within a line and line position) and dominant stress peaks are related to readers’ identification of distinctively joyful and sad words in poetry. To this end, forty-eight participants read eight German poems, completed an underlining task, and filled out a brief questionnaire. Results show that these target features are clearly of importance for readers’ perception of pronounced levels of joy and sadness. Words featuring alliteration, assonance or consonance were significantly more often underlined as distinctively joyful than were words that lack these features. Our study shows also that words that feature a dominant stress peak and are placed in more advanced positions within the poems were more likely to be identified as emotional (distinctively joyful and sad) when compared to words in earlier and unstressed positions.

When Carlyle praises “wondrous Dualism” in Past and Present, he invokes a model for conceptualizing man's role in the world that held widespread, even hegemonic currency in mid-Victorian culture. The centrality of dualist discourse during the mid-Victorian period, thanks in part to Carlyle's translations of German literature and philosophy in the 1830s, cannot be overstated. Carlyle argues that dualism transhistorically frames all human activity: “In wondrous Dualism, then [in the year 1200] as now, lived nations of breathing men; alternating, in all ways, between Light and Dark; between joy and sorrow, between rest and toil” (50; bk. 2, ch. 1). The subject “man” – I use the masculine advisedly – endlessly oscillates between the opposing elements that constitute the universe. This, for Carlyle, is the position of all men. To be heroic, however, one must recognize and negotiate the most wondrous dualism of all, time and eternity: “this Earthly life, and its riches and possessions, and good and evil hap, are not intrinsically a reality at all, but are a shadow of realities eternal, infinite; that this Time-world, as an air-image, fearfully emblematic, plays and flickers in the grand still mirror of Eternity; and man's little Life has Duties that are great, that are alone great, and go up to Heaven and down to Hell” (72; bk. 2, ch. 6). Minor dualisms are subsumed in the opposition between “Time-world” and “Eternity,” and in the “mirror” of the latter, man discerns himself: his ultimate insignificance, yet the greatness of his “Duties.” Carlyle emphasizes that these duties demand the payment of obedience to one's temporal and eternal superiors – heroic ancestors, captains of industry, colonial governors, and God. Only then can heroic men once again be born, like the laboring Hercules or the humble Christ, from temporal-eternal intercourse.

The article is devoted to the analysis of individual and author’s features of the use of color names in Anatolii Moisiienko’s poetic idiolect. The color category is one of the basic components of ethnoculture, since it’s closely connected with the individuals’ ideas about the original cause of the universe, good and evil, joy and sorrow. Color is a psychic and physiological phenomenon, a means of influencing the personality and social consciousness. Each culture has its own color dominants, which are special universal elements of the world picture. Color nominations are effective markers that can be used to study national and individual characteristics, since fantasy and feelings produce the emergence of individual images that reflect the character of the nation. The color designations receive additional associative-connotative semantics in the poetic text. They take part in the creation of bright poetic images, in the transfer of the inner state of the lyrical hero by the author, in the depiction of a particular artistic space. These nominations reflect the conceptual picture of the world of the lyric hero through the linguistic picture of the world. The conducted research has shown that the conceptual picture of the world of the Anatolii Moisiienko’s lyric hero has a bipolar character, which is represented by words denoting bright and dark colors. These colors represent the universal notions of the world of good and evil, white and black. But the author’s feature is that the world of the lyrical hero is represented not only in black or white. In poetry, the author uses the names blue, blue, golden and black. The words that denote the first three colors have a positive or neutral connotation. Poetic contexts with the component “black” help the poet to convey the inner state of the lyric hero (fatigue, apathy) or negative developments. Author’s neologisms with the above component also take part in creating poetic image of time. Using the above words helps the author create a special artistic world, full of bright colors and expression.

Statement of the problem. There are a lot of works in the national musicology focusing on the study of vocal chamber music for voice and piano by Ukrainian composers of the 20th century. Researchers cover quite a wide range of issues regarding vocal pieces and touch upon the problems of cyclocreation, dramaturgy, features of musical and linguistic means, etc. However, they rarely pay attention to translation, though there are many vocal opuses, in which composers use foreign poetry. In this case, the specifi c choice of the translated sample helps to determine the principles of the composer’s approach to the embodiment of the poetic text, especially in comparison with other works based on the same sources. Hence separate songs from D. Klebanov’s vocal cycle on the poems of H. Heine did not become an exception, thereby confi rming the relevance of the proposed topic. The purpose of the article is to determine specifi c features of the embodiment of H. Heine’s poetry translations in the vocal cycle of D. Klebanov on the basis of two romances – “In a grove, on a wild path”, “My love, lay your hand on my heart”, as compared to the works of other composers of the twentieth century . To achieve the research objectives the following methods were used: historical, structural-functional, genre-style and comparative. Results. Under consideration are peculiarities of the embodiment of H. Heine’s poetry translations in the vocal cycle of D. Klebanov, one of the founders of Kharkiv composition school. For this work the author took eight verses from the fi rst two cycles of the “Book of Songs” by the German poet. They were based on the motives of love poems with vivid images of nature; sometimes the poems are full of sadness, a sense of loneliness. When D. Klebanov was choosing certain samples from different poetic cycles, he tried to stick to the plot of the “Book of Songs”, since he ordered the poems in the same way they were written in the collection. Another indicator of the composer’s relation to Heiner’s texts is the choice of poetic works which are given in the cycle in Ukrainian and Russian languages. The composer’s individual vision of Heine’s lyric poetry is clearly seen when compared to the vocal works of other composers of the twentieth century, M. Medtner and E. Denisov, written on the same poetic texts. In cross-romances, similar musical-linguistic means are used, including the metrical principle of vocalization of the poetic text, homophonic-harmonic structure, harmony of classical-romantic type. However, each of the composers renders the fi gurative and semantic implications of the poems in their own way. M. Medtner builds his romance “My love, lay your hand on my heart” according to the crescendo principle. Beginning with a quieter dynamics, the composer gradually increases the volume of the sound, which at the end leads to a general climax that moves from the point of the golden section. D. Klebanov chose a different way – to reinforce the dramatism of the poem. This was possible thanks to various musical and linguistic means: a strict, intense melody in the bass doubled in the sixth with a chromatic motion and semiquavers at the end of each bar in the last line of the fi rst stanza, designation Meno mosso, chromaticized vocal melody. The composers’ choice of poetic translations depends on the place and role of the romance in the general structure of the cycle. The eight-part composition of D. Klebanov is based on the wave principle of the plot development. The original four romances pave the way to the fi rst climax – unrequited love in the fi rst romance (“Every morning I awake and ask”), painful memories in the second one (“In a grove, on a wild path”), a tragic image in the third one (“My love, lay your hand on my heart “), and an attempt to overcome the pain in the fourth romance (“First I was afraid of darkness”). Further on, the development is based on contrast: the image of death in the fi fth romance (“Your lovely face, so fair and dear”), a subtle feeling of love in the sixth one (“Oh, let me plunge my heart”), worries because of the marriage of a loved one to another guy in the seventh romance (“I hear the fl ute and the fi ddle”) and disappointment in her spiritual values in the last one (“The violets blue”). Such a location of the third romance justifi es the choice of translation, where the colours are thickening and the content becomes even darker. Such kind of a fi gurative and semantic plot resembles the tradition of a romantic vocal cycle, in which the emotional state of the lyrical character, his emotional collisions сome to the fore. In this perspective, “ 3 Poems of H. Heine” by D. Medtner demonstrate another relationship between the romances of the cycle. All of them have feelings of sorrow, despair circle, a no-go. At the same time, distancing from the immediate events is felt, as if it is a look at someone else’s life, which is evidenced by the storytelling from the third person in the second and third romances. Therefore, the fi rst romance, based on the poem “My love, lay your hand on my heart”, is a kind of “preface” to the cycle, which involves some personal detachment. This leads to the selection of softened content in the translated version of the poem. The second romance, “In a grove, on a wild path”, has a similar function in the vocal cycle of D. Klebanov as it became the preparation for the climax of the third one. The semantic line of his poem is based on two storylines: the external one is the “theme of the journey” that is refl ected in the image of nature, and the internal one is the “theme of sadness”, which focuses on the feelings of the lyrical hero. The composer here, like Анна in the third romance, deepens the line of inner experiences. This became possible thanks to the Tranquillo tempo, fl at minor tonality, massive discordant accompaniment chords, variable measure, melody of the recitative-oratorial type. H. Heine’s poem, presented in the work of D. Klebanov, became the basis of the fi fth romance of E. Denisov’s vocal opus. Like the Ukrainian master, E. Denisov builds his cycle in the spirit of the romantic tradition, but in revealing the fi gurative structure of the poem he goes a different way. He makes a clear distinction between two fi gurativesemantic lines. This is refl ected in the form of a romance that has the features of binarity and variability, the embodiment of the metro-rhythmic structure of the verse based on two opposing principles - metric and cantilena, as well as other means of musical expression. Thus, choosing the same poem by H. Heine, D. Klebanov and E. Denisov represent their own vision of its content. Conclusions The comparative analysis of the embodiment of Heine’s texts by D. Klebanov and other composers of the twentieth century helps to highlight the individual approach of the Ukrainian artist. Despite the fact that the composer chooses similar means of musical expression, he fi nds his own way of refl ecting the semantics of the poetic source. In the above mentioned romances – “In a grove, on a wild path” and “My love, lay your hand on my heart” – the author focuses on the inner confl icts of the lyrical hero, his experiences. Attention paid to the sensory side of the poems also determined the selected translations, since the rejection of translators from the original results in a certain deformation of its meaning and fi gurative structure, which infl uences the musical embodiment of the poetic source.

[Editors’ note: this lyric essay was presented as the keynote address at Edith Cowan University’s CREATEC symposium on the theme Catastrophe and Creativity in November 2012, and represents excerpts from the author’s publication Threading Light: Explorations in Loss and Poetry. Regina, SK: Hagios Press, 2011. Reproduced with the author’s permission].Essay and verse and anecdote are the ways I have chosen to apprentice myself to loss, grief, faith, memory, and the stories we use to tie and untie them. Cat’s cradle, Celtic lines, bends and hitches are familiar: however, when I write about loss, I find there are knots I cannot tie or release, challenging both my imagination and my craft. Over the last decade, I have been learning that writing poetry is also the art of tying together light and dark, grief and joy, of grasping and releasing. Language is a hinge that connects us with the flesh of our experience; it is also residue, the ash of memory and imagination. (Threading Light 7) ———Greek katastrophé overturning, sudden turn, from kata down + strophe ‘turning” from strephein to turn.Loss and catastrophe catapult us into the liminal, into a threshold space. We walk between land we have known and the open sea. ———Mnemosyne, the mother of the nine Muses, the personification of memory, makes anthropologists of us all. When Hermes picked up the lyre, it was to her—to Remembrance —that he sang the first song. Without remembrance, oral or written, we have no place to begin. Stone, amulet, photograph, charm bracelet, cufflink, fish story, house, facial expression, tape recorder, verse, or the same old traveling salesman joke—we have places and means to try to store memories. Memories ground us, even as we know they are fleeting and flawed constructions that slip through our consciousness; ghosts of ghosts. One cold winter, I stayed in a guest room in my mother’s apartment complex for three days. Because she had lost her sight, I sat at the table in her overheated and stuffy kitchen with the frozen slider window and tried to describe photographs as she tried to recall names and events. I emptied out the dusty closet she’d ignored since my father left, and we talked about knitting patterns, the cost of her mother’s milk glass bowl, the old clothes she could only know by rubbing the fabric through her fingers. I climbed on a chair to reach a serving dish she wanted me to have, and we laughed hysterically when I read aloud the handwritten note inside: save for Annette, in a script not hers. It’s okay, she said; I want all this gone. To all you kids. Take everything you can. When I pop off, I don’t want any belongings. Our family had moved frequently, and my belongings always fit in a single box; as a student, in the back of a car or inside a backpack. Now, in her ninth decade, my mother wanted to return to the simplicity she, too, recalled from her days on a small farm outside a small town. On her deathbed, she insisted on having her head shaved, and frequently the nursing staff came into the room to find she had stripped off her johnny shirt and her covers. The philosopher Simone Weil said that all we possess in the world is the power to say “I” (Gravity 119).Memory is a cracked bowl, and it fills endlessly as it empties. Memory is what we create out of what we have at hand—other people’s accounts, objects, flawed stories of our own creation, second-hand tales handed down like an old watch. Annie Dillard says as a life’s work, she’d remember everything–everything against loss, and go through life like a plankton net. I prefer the image of the bowl—its capacity to feed us, the humility it suggests, its enduring shape, its rich symbolism. Its hope. To write is to fashion a bowl, perhaps, but we know, finally, the bowl cannot hold everything. (Threading Light 78–80) ———Man is the sire of sorrow, sang Joni Mitchell. Like joy, sorrow begins at birth: we are born into both. The desert fathers believed—in fact, many of certain faiths continue to believe—that penthos is mourning for lost salvation. Penthus was the last god to be given his assignment from Zeus: he was to be responsible for grieving and loss. Eros, the son of Aphrodite, was the god of love and desire. The two can be seen in concert with one another, each mirroring the other’s extreme, each demanding of us the farthest reach of our being. Nietzsche, through Zarathustra, phrased it another way: “Did you ever say Yes to one joy? O my friends, then you have also said Yes to all Woe as well. All things are chained, entwined together, all things are in love.” (Threading Light 92) ———We are that brief crack of light, that cradle rocking. We can aspire to a heaven, or a state of forgiveness; we can ask for redemption and hope for freedom from suffering for ourselves and our loved ones; we may create children or works of art in the vague hope that we will leave something behind when we go. But regardless, we know that there is a wall or a dark curtain or a void against which we direct or redirect our lives. We hide from it, we embrace it; we taunt it; we flout it. We write macabre jokes, we play hide and seek, we walk with bated breath, scream in movies, or howl in the wilderness. We despair when we learn of premature or sudden death; we are reminded daily—an avalanche, an aneurysm, a shocking diagnosis, a child’s bicycle in the intersection—that our illusions of control, that youthful sense of invincibility we have clung to, our last-ditch religious conversions, our versions of Pascal’s bargain, nothing stops the carriage from stopping for us.We are fortunate if our awareness calls forth our humanity. We learn, as Aristotle reminded us, about our capacity for fear and pity. Seeing others as vulnerable in their pain or weakness, we see our own frailties. As I read the poetry of Donne or Rumi, or verse created by the translator of Holocaust stories, Lois Olena, or the work of poet Sharon Olds as she recounts the daily horror of her youth, I can become open to pity, or—to use the more contemporary word—compassion. The philosopher Martha Nussbaum argues that works of art are not only a primary means for an individual to express her humanity through catharsis, as Aristotle claimed, but, because of the attunement to others and to the world that creation invites, the process can sow the seeds of social justice. Art grounds our grief in form; it connects us to one another and to the world. And the more we acquaint ourselves with works of art—in music, painting, theatre, literature—the more we open ourselves to complex and nuanced understandings of our human capacities for grief. Why else do we turn to a stirring poem when we are mourning? Why else do we sing? When my parents died, I came home from the library with stacks of poetry and memoirs about loss. How does your story dovetail with mine? I wanted to know. How large is this room—this country—of grief and how might I see it, feel the texture on its walls, the ice of its waters? I was in a foreign land, knew so little of its language, and wanted to be present and raw and vulnerable in its climate and geography. Writing and reading were my way not to squander my hours of pain. While it was difficult to live inside that country, it was more difficult not to. In learning to know graveyards as places of comfort and perspective, Mnemosyne’s territory with her markers of memory guarded by crow, leaf, and human footfall, with storehouses of vast and deep tapestries of stories whispered, sung, or silent, I am cultivating the practice of walking on common ground. Our losses are really our winter-enduring foliage, Rilke writes. They are place and settlement, foundation and soil, and home. (Threading Light 86–88) ———The loseability of our small and larger worlds allows us to see their gifts, their preciousness.Loseability allows us to pay attention. ———“A faith-based life, a Trappistine nun said to me, aims for transformation of the soul through compunction—not only a state of regret and remorse for our inadequacies before God, but also living inside a deeper sorrow, a yearning for a union with the divine. Compunction, according to a Christian encyclopaedia, is constructive only if it leads to repentance, reconciliation, and sanctification. Would you consider this work you are doing, the Trappistine wrote, to be a spiritual journey?Initially, I ducked her question; it was a good one. Like Neruda, I don’t know where the poetry comes from, a winter or a river. But like many poets, I feel the inadequacy of language to translate pain and beauty, the yearning for an embodied understanding of phenomena that is assensitive and soul-jolting as the contacts of eye-to-eye and skin-to-skin. While I do not worship a god, I do long for an impossible union with the world—a way to acknowledge the gift that is my life. Resonance: a search for the divine in the everyday. And more so. Writing is a full-bodied, sensory, immersive activity that asks me to give myself over to phenomena, that calls forth deep joy and deep sorrow sometimes so profound that I am gutted by my inadequacy. I am pierced, dumbstruck. Lyric language is the crayon I use, and poetry is my secular compunction...Poets—indeed, all writers—are often humbled by what we cannot do, pierced as we are by—what? I suggest mystery, impossibility, wonder, reverence, grief, desire, joy, our simple gratitude and despair. I speak of the soul and seven people rise from their chairs and leave the room, writes Mary Oliver (4). Eros and penthos working in concert. We have to sign on for the whole package, and that’s what both empties us out, and fills us up. The practice of poetry is our inadequate means of seeking the gift of tears. We cultivate awe, wonder, the exquisite pain of seeing and knowing deeply the abundant and the fleeting in our lives. Yes, it is a spiritual path. It has to do with the soul, and the sacred—our venerating the world given to us. Whether we are inside a belief system that has or does not have a god makes no difference. Seven others lean forward to listen. (Threading Light 98–100)———The capacity to give one’s attention to a sufferer is a rare thing; it is almost a miracle; it is a miracle. – Simone Weil (169)I can look at the lines and shades on the page clipped to the easel, deer tracks in the snow, or flecks of light on a summer sidewalk. Or at the moon as it moves from new to full. Or I can read the poetry of Paul Celan.Celan’s poem “Tenebrae” takes its title from high Christian services in which lighting, usually from candles, is gradually extinguished so that by the end of the service, the church is in total darkness. Considering Celan’s—Antschel’s—history as a Romanian Jew whose parents were killed in the Nazi death camps, and his subsequent years tortured by the agony of his grief, we are not surprised to learn he chose German, his mother’s language, to create his poetry: it might have been his act of defiance, his way of using shadow and light against the other. The poet’s deep grief, his profound awareness of loss, looks unflinchingly at the past, at the piles of bodies. The language has become a prism, reflecting penetrating shafts of shadow: in the shine of blood, the darkest of the dark. Enlinked, enlaced, and enamoured. We don’t always have names for the shades of sorrows and joys we live inside, but we know that each defines and depends upon the other. Inside the core shadow of grief we recognise our shared mortality, and only in that recognition—we are not alone—can hope be engendered. In the exquisite pure spot of light we associate with love and joy, we may be temporarily blinded, but if we look beyond, and we draw on what we know, we feel the presence of the shadows that have intensified what appears to us as light. Light and dark—even in what we may think are their purest state—are transitory pauses in the shape of being. Decades ago my well-meaning mother, a nurse, gave me pills to dull the pain of losing my fiancé who had shot himself; now, years later, knowing so many deaths, and more imminent, I would choose the bittersweet tenderness of being fully inside grief—awake, raw, open—feeling its walls, its every rough surface, its every degree of light and dark. It is love/loss, light/dark, a fusion that brings me home to the world. (Threading Light 100–101) ———Loss can trigger and inspire creativity, not only at the individual level but at the public level, whether we are marching in Idle No More demonstrations, re-building a shelter, or re-building a life. We use art to weep, to howl, to reach for something that matters, something that means. And sometimes it may mean that all we learn from it is that nothing lasts. And then, what? What do we do then? ———The wisdom of Epictetus, the Stoic, can offer solace, but I know it will take time to catch up with him. Nothing can be taken from us, he claims, because there is nothing to lose: what we lose—lover, friend, hope, father, dream, keys, faith, mother—has merely been returned to where it (or they) came from. We live in samsara, Zen masters remind us, inside a cycle of suffering that results from a belief in the permanence of self and of others. Our perception of reality is narrow; we must broaden it to include all phenomena, to recognise the interdependence of lives, the planet, and beyond, into galaxies. A lot for a mortal to get her head around. And yet, as so many poets have wondered, is that not where imagination is born—in the struggle and practice of listening, attending, and putting ourselves inside the now that all phenomena share? Can I imagine the rush of air under the loon that passes over my house toward the ocean every morning at dawn? The hot dust under the cracked feet of that child on the outskirts of Darwin? The gut-hauling terror of an Afghan woman whose family’s blood is being spilled? Thich Nhat Hanh says that we are only alive when we live the sufferings and the joys of others. He writes: Having seen the reality of interdependence and entered deeply into its reality, nothing can oppress you any longer. You are liberated. Sit in the lotus position, observe your breath, and ask one who has died for others. (66)Our breath is a delicate thread, and it contains multitudes. I hear an echo, yes. The practice of poetry—my own spiritual and philosophical practice, my own sackcloth and candle—has allowed me a glimpse not only into the lives of others, sentient or not, here, afar, or long dead, but it has deepened and broadened my capacity for breath. Attention to breath grounds me and forces me to attend, pulls me into my body as flesh. When I see my flesh as part of the earth, as part of all flesh, as Morris Berman claims, I come to see myself as part of something larger. (Threading Light 134–135) ———We think of loss as a dark time, and yet it opens us, deepens us.Close attention to loss—our own and others’—cultivates compassion.As artists we’re already predisposed to look and listen closely. We taste things, we touch things, we smell them. We lie on the ground like Mary Oliver looking at that grasshopper. We fill our ears with music that not everyone slows down to hear. We fall in love with ideas, with people, with places, with beauty, with tragedy, and I think we desire some kind of fusion, a deeper connection than everyday allows us. We want to BE that grasshopper, enter that devastation, to honour it. We long, I think, to be present.When we are present, even in catastrophe, we are fully alive. It seems counter-intuitive, but the more fully we engage with our losses—the harder we look, the more we soften into compassion—the more we cultivate resilience. ———Resilience consists of three features—persistence, adaptability transformability—each interacting from local to global scales. – Carl FolkeResilent people and resilient systems find meaning and purpose in loss. We set aside our own egos and we try to learn to listen and to see, to open up. Resilience is fundamentally an act of optimism. This is not the same, however, as being naïve. Optimism is the difference between “why me?” and “why not me?” Optimism is present when we are learning to think larger than ourselves. Resilience asks us to keep moving. Sometimes with loss there is a moment or two—or a month, a year, who knows?—where we, as humans, believe that we are standing still, we’re stuck, we’re in stasis. But we aren’t. Everything is always moving and everything is always in relation. What we mistake for stasis in a system is the system taking stock, transforming, doing things underneath the surface, preparing to rebuild, create, recreate. Leonard Cohen reminded us there’s a crack in everything, and that’s how the light gets in. But what we often don’t realize is that it’s we—the human race, our own possibilities, our own creativity—who are that light. We are resilient when we have agency, support, community we can draw on. When we have hope. ———FortuneFeet to carry you past acres of grapevines, awnings that opento a hall of paperbarks. A dog to circle you, look behind, point ahead. A hip that bends, allows you to slidebetween wire and wooden bars of the fence. A twinge rides with that hip, and sometimes the remnant of a fall bloomsin your right foot. Hands to grip a stick for climbing, to rest your weight when you turn to look below. On your left hand,a story: others see it as a scar. On the other, a newer tale; a bone-white lump. Below, mist disappears; a nichein the world opens to its long green history. Hills furrow into their dark harbours. Horses, snatches of inhale and whiffle.Mutterings of men, a cow’s long bellow, soft thud of feet along the hill. You turn at the sound.The dog swallows a cry. Stays; shakes until the noise recedes. After a time, she walks on three legs,tests the paw of the fourth in the dust. You may never know how she was wounded. She remembers your bodyby scent, voice, perhaps the taste of contraband food at the door of the house. Story of human and dog, you begin—but the wordyour fingers make is god. What last year was her silken newborn fur is now sunbleached, basket dry. Feet, hips, hands, paws, lapwings,mockingbirds, quickening, longing: how eucalypts reach to give shade, and tiny tight grapes cling to vines that align on a slope as smoothlyas the moon follows you, as intention always leans toward good. To know bones of the earth are as true as a point of light: tendernesswhere you bend and press can whisper grace, sorrow’s last line, into all that might have been,so much that is. (Threading Light 115–116) Acknowledgments The author would like to thank Dr. Lekkie Hopkins and Dr. John Ryan for the opportunity to speak (via video) to the 2012 CREATEC Symposium Catastrophe and Creativity, to Dr. Hopkins for her eloquent and memorable paper in response to my work on creativity and research, and to Dr. Ryan for his support. The presentation was recorded and edited by Paul Poirier at Mount Saint Vincent University in Halifax, Nova Scotia. My thanks go to Edith Cowan and Mount Saint Vincent Universities. ReferencesBerman, Morris. Coming to Our Senses. New York: Bantam, 1990.Dillard, Annie. For the Time Being. New York: Vintage Books, 2000.Felstiner, John. Paul Celan: Poet, Survivor, Jew. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2001.Folke, Carl. "On Resilience." Seed Magazine. 13 Dec. 2010. 22 Mar. 2013 ‹http://seedmagazine.com/content/article/on_resilience›.Franck, Frederick. Zen Seeing, Zen Drawing. New York: Bantam Books, 1993.Hanh, Thich Nhat. The Miracle of Mindfulness. Boston: Beacon Press, 1976.Hausherr, Irenee. Penthos: The Doctrine of Compunction in the Christian East. Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 1982.Neilsen Glenn, Lorri. Threading Light: Explorations in Loss and Poetry. Regina, SK: Hagios Press, 2011. Nietzsche, Frederick. Thus Spake Zarathustra. New York: Penguin, 1978. Nussbaum, Martha. Upheavals of Thought: The Intelligence of Emotions. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Oliver, Mary. “The Word.” What Do We Know. Boston: DaCapo Press, 2002.Rilke, Rainer Maria. Duino Elegies and the Sonnets to Orpheus. (Tenth Elegy). Ed. Stephen Mitchell. New York: Random House/Vintage Editions, 2009.Weil, Simone. The Need for Roots. London: Taylor & Francis, 2005 (1952).Weil, Simone. Gravity and Grace. London: Routledge, 2004.Further ReadingChodron, Pema. Practicing Peace in Times of War. Boston: Shambhala, 2006.Cleary, Thomas (trans.) The Essential Tao: An Initiation into the Heart of Taoism through Tao de Ching and the Teachings of Chuang Tzu. Edison, NJ: Castle Books, 1993.Dalai Lama (H H the 14th) and Venerable Chan Master Sheng-yen. Meeting of Minds: A Dialogue on Tibetan and Chinese Buddhism. New York: Dharma Drum Publications, 1999. Hirshfield, Jane. "Language Wakes Up in the Morning: A Meander toward Writing." Alaska Quarterly Review. 21.1 (2003).Hirshfield, Jane. Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry. New York: HarperCollins, 1997. Lao Tzu. Tao Te Ching. Trans. Arthur Waley. Chatham: Wordsworth Editions, 1997. Neilsen, Lorri. "Lyric Inquiry." Handbook of the Arts in Qualitative Research. Eds. J. Gary Knowles and Ardra Cole. Thousand Oaks: Sage, 2008. 88–98. Ross, Maggie. The Fire and the Furnace: The Way of Tears and Fire. York: Paulist Press, 1987.

The article discusses Johann Kuhnau’s fourth keyboard sonata, Der todtkranke und wieder gesunde Hiskias (The Mortally Ill and Then Restored Hezekiah), from his last volume of six keyboard sonatas published in Leipzig in 1700, known popularly as “Biblical Sonatas.” Titled as Musicalische Vorstellung einiger biblischer Historien (Musical Representation of Several Biblical Stories), the set presents a remarkably thorough and detailed musical depiction of selected scenes from the Old Testament. This is also a rare collection of keyboard music to provide a detailed narrative commentary, consisting of verbal synopses of selected stories in German, which preface each sonata, and commentaries in Italian written into notation, which underline portrayed situations, events and affections. To examine the plot-based narrative underlying the storyline of this particular sonata, some authentic discourses have been taken into consideration for analytical purposes. These included the composer’s foreword to the collection of his “Biblical Sonatas,” synopsis of the story depicted in the fourth sonata, and a comprehensive theory of musical rhetoric and the doctrine of the affections found in various 17th and 18th century sources. In this article, the author specifies distinct musical-rhetorical figures that resemble (by analogy) or refer to certain extra-musical objects or phenomena and serve as vehicles for creating different moods and establishing the atmosphere. Depending on which narrative element – action or affections – is brought into focus in each of the six sonatas, the author distinguishes between two types of sonatas, namely ‘action sonatas’ and ‘affective sonatas.’ Affections and shifts in mood experienced by Hezekiah make an important narrative element in the storyline of the fourth sonata. Hence this particular sonata falls under the category of ‘affective sonatas.’ The analysis of this sonata revealed that the narrative is constructed therein in several layers. Firstly, there is a verbal layer: to depict the story in detail and with much consistency, the composer thought it necessary to accompany notation with the synopsis of the story and verbal commentaries. Moreover, quotations from the Protestant chorale Ach Herr mich armen Sünder (Ah Lord, poor sinner that I am) imply verbal connotations of their verses. Secondly, it contains a musical-affective layer: musical devices (such as musical-rhetorical figures, key, rhythm, metre, and the like) are employed there to convey the indicated affections, such as wailing (lamento) or, in other words, sorrow, confidence (confidenza) and joy (allegrezza). The author observes that many compositional choices made by Kuhnau adhere to the standard methods of expressing affects as they were defined in the Baroque treatises. Thirdly, there is an associative layer: certain fragments and elements resemble (by analogy) and refer to extra-musical objects and/or phenomena, such as Belshazzar’s face turning pale and his limbs trembling in terror, the sesquialtera ratio (3:2), which symbolizes the numerical proportion of steps on Ahaz’s sundial and the years of Hezekiah’s life. The alternating musical textures, normally associated with sadness (adagio) and merriment (allegro), can be also mentioned as a characteristic narrative feature in this sonata. Although Kuhnau claimed to have depicted Biblical stories according to his own imagination, the analysis revealed that his writing in this sonata does not veer away from the typical musical vocabulary of the Baroque era, which nowadays requires a more sensitive ear and keener insight into compositional conventions of the period.

In the public domain of end, what is the real impact of endism on our cultural and political lives? Are the proponents of apocalypse and armageddon correct to assume that there is an impending divine climax to the system of human affairs on this planet? Researching in the world of endism, it is usually the extreme, often dangerous forms of endist belief which the media popularly exploit to define 'other' forms of 'endist' fundamentalism. Reading about the apocacidal (suicides for the apocalypse) tendencies of various cults and sects horrifies us in their acts of forcible manipulation. Yet apocaholicism (a mental state of intoxication on the endtimes) can not be limited to the extra-societal gathering in the outer suburbs that awaits an end with grim but enthusiastic anticipation and which makes the occasional evening news headline or Sixty Minutes exposure. Nor can a keen sense of apocalypse be situated as being primarily a characteristic of religious fundamentalism. Secular society itself, as suggested by this collection of essays, is drunk on different meditations of the 'end'. In film alone, from Deep Impact through Armageddon to The End of Days, a mainstream space exists for courting the end in public forms of spectacularisation and profit-making. In this use, the end creates revenue. But there are other senses of the end too in secular society. Within the broader scope of the public exist those individuals who comprise this mass, and who also experience an ultimate more personal end, death. Yet death is only regarded literally by the physical professions. In the more social sphere, this phenomenon is as highly constructed as any other cultural entity. For instance, death functions as closure to the individual narrative of life. In this place, it is greeted with wails of sorrow and remorse for the deceased, and it is for this reason that death is also constructed as a beginning for a transformed body and other world in some belief systems. This latter view of death minimises the importance of death by subscribing to a perspective, which postulates life as an ongoing series of endings - of childhood, education, career, hearing and physical existence. However, death manifests itself in many other forms, as this issue of M/C demonstrates. In this collection, twelve authors wrestle with the question of 'end' and interrogate the links between the character of 'end' and the crisis of definition in what exactly is an 'end'? Refusing to offer superficial solutions to defining 'end', participants from America, Australia, New Zealand and England maintain that the 'end' is never neutral, but that the totality of a given time, of individual personalities reading 'signs of the endtimes', and the question of narrative -- not just the benefits of charting an 'end' from a supposed 'beginning' -- must be taken into account. The two streams of public and private senses of the end have directed the flow and organisation of content within this issue of M/C. How we engage with private, often personal treatments of 'end' is as important as how we deal with 'endism' in the public domain. Yet, as became apparent in shaping this engagement for publication, these two spheres of interrogation are not similar and sometimes mutually inconsistent. In order to not favour public over private, we decided to arrange the collection into two sections: 'critiques' and 'perspectives', with the addition of two guided internet tours by the editors. Six writers examine the domain of end as public narrative: The critiques section feature article asks, 'the end of the world is near, or is it?' It can be suggested that endtime expectants are tied to doctrines of theology that define the 'end' in very specialised terms. The terms can be contradictory across theologica -- one religious organisation may understand Sunday worship to mark a sign of the end whereas another perceives something more immediate and apocalyptic in the ascendancy of smart cards -- but for endtimes believers their interpretative home resides along a single intellectual path: the 'end' is theological. With the layperson in mind, David Bennett marks out this theological landscape used to represent and define the apocalypse in Australia. He introduces us to an often hidden character of the armageddon script, the Endtimer, and reminds us that prophecy popularisation in Australia, if less visible than in our western counterparts, remains alive and well in 1999. How well received is the Endtimer within society? Nick Caldwell takes on another type of Endtimer, the 'spoilers and cheaters' -- those democratisers of access and evaluation to the 'end' of a film or game. He argues that since we cannot have an 'end' without narrative, we need to think about the textual strategies used when we try to locate the 'end' in a particular textual place and the reading strategies used to avoid this 'end' until its appointed time of authorial revelation. Nick re-evaluates the place of the spoiler or cheater in contemporary reading practices, though not without a strategically placed spoiler of his own... Extending narrative to medium, 'Bandwidth' is clearly a term whose time is here. But what would the reconceptualisation of 'bandwidth' suggest for its future? Axel Bruns interrogates the ways in which 'bandwidth' is created and defined by its users and controllers. In 'The End of Bandwidth', he considers the tactical implications of 'non-bandwidth' activity upon the media environment and suggests the migration of the term 'bandwidth' to the periphery in favour of a less commercially framed interpretation -- the intersubjective 'infinite' -- is more suited to a contemporary and workable understanding of the Net. 'Apocacides, Apocaholics and Apocalists' takes a selective tour through the landscape of endism that permeates the Internet. One must ask, 'why contemporary apocalypticism'? Certainly not because visions of extinction dominate private, popular and scientific imaginations today? Nor because the apocalypse is an interesting anecdote from scriptures past, a tale of postponed divine re-creation to be told from generation to generation of what might have been had Friedrich Nietzsche not spoken up? Too many expect an imminent literal end to the world as we know it for the detractors of endism to dismiss it so easily. The reasons for apocalyptism are often hidden, slippery in definition -- sometimes for the complex history of the endtimes narrative, other times for the less than enthusiastic responses it evokes in the non-Christianised world. Geoff Hoyte offers one explanation regarding the endurance of endism: hope. In a common-sense approach to the 'end', he relates a humble perspective of dignified courtship with apocalypticism and suggests a key to an even greater 'beginning'. Can there be a context for intellectual legitimacy of the apocalypse? Henry Lawton outlines a variety of approaches to endism and in the process positions as a central concern questions to do with representations of the 'end' in popular and intellectual work. From the discipline of psychohistory, Henry argues that it is possible to chart the development of endist perspectives. From a listener's perspective, Alex Burns examines the cycles of alien discontinuity, fragmentation and post-millennium foreboding within a gritty meditation on 'end', the album The Fragile. As a reflexive index of social-political realities, Alex argues that certain styles of music can be embraced within a space for Sadeian aesthetics and that the 'dynamic synthesis' Nine Inch Nails embodies within its music has wider implications for the nature and direction of contemporary global cultural shift. A unique subjectivity, 'The Machine is Obsolete' invokes a rarely-used, if sometimes impossible language of review: the description of musical form, an aural projection, via written text, the visual projection. Six writers examine the domain of death as a private narrative: The perspectives section's feature article comes from a New Zealand Funeral Director, Michael Wolffram. From this profession, he examines the manner in which the bereaved construct death through religious and secular belief systems. According to Wolffram, these views on death actually affirm notions of beginnings rather than the presumed endings -- religious frameworks discuss death in terms of an afterlife whilst secular paradigms present the advent of an altered state of life after death via the impact of the deceased's works in a community. However, Wolffram believes that the focus of death has shifted from the community to the individual more recently, with society marginalising the experience of dying by discarding traditional systems of support. He suggests that contemporary society has yet to produce a new system of support, which has, perhaps positively, empowered the individual to choose and own a framework of death -- be it already existing, individually patented or indeed non-existent. Philip Nitschke's article continues this theme of the individual's empowerment of death. Nitschke is an Australian medical doctor best known for his strong advocacy of euthanasia and its legalisation. He begins with a story of an encounter with an 85-year-old German woman who had survived a Nazi concentration camp. She was in good health, but was requesting the power to end her life. This is a common situation, along with the requests received from terminally-ill patients, according to Nitschke, and he further claims that statistics are beginning to indicate that individuals who are empowered with their own deaths achieve an improved quality of life -- be they terminally ill or well in health. He provides these statistics as continuing evidence in his crusade to encourage medical doctors to relinquish their potential sovereignty over the timing of death in these cases and empower the individual in this matter. Pain and suffering are relative -- or so Donna Lee Brien suggests in an excerpt from her fictionalised biography of Edith and John Power. As standards of life deteriorate under war conditions, Edith Power becomes aware of the value of life itself rather than life values, by which she once judged her existence. But as she begins to appreciate living, she learns of the immanent death of her husband, John. Once again what is held dear and valued in her life shifts when all she is left with is memories. "The virtual is dead! Long live online!" cries Lelia Green in her manifesto-like article, which calls for the end of the phrase "virtual community". Green revisits some of the negative criticism of online communication and communities, addressing these by presenting some negative attributes of 'real' life and the benefits of online. As we move into the next millennium, Green believes that the notion of 'virtual' with respect to online activity should die its rightful death, and that the term "online community", in its better reflection of the its environment, should be adopted. Philosophy has long held that one cannot experience death directly or first hand, but can only hope to gain a semblance of understanding through representation. Using Levinas and Heidegger, Laurie Johnson challenges this premise, proposing that personal death can be 'experienced' through Other's death. Johnson recounts his own dream of death to explore the narrative and character of death within this dream. The character of death is identified as himself and the death dream is equated with personal experience. The author leaves the reader with the question of the extent to which dreams can potentially be related to experience. Physical, individual end can be discussed as 'death', or less obviously as the rear-end, as Simon Astley-Scholfield has done in his article on Allen Ginsberg's 1986 poem, "Sphincter". Scholfield suggests that Ginsberg's poem indicates a significant point in his writing by marking a transition in this poet's construction of sexual pleasure. As Scholfield notes, "Sphincter" incorporates an awareness of wider social issues, for instance AIDS and age, and transforms anal-erotic joy from an act involving flesh contact to that of "safe sex". This transition and maturing of the poet is observed by Scholfield in the context of his larger body of work. Endism is in a constant state of creation and intense negotiation. The 'end' derives its power from the contestation over its senses and uses: Is the 'end' as understood within an apocalyptic framework imminent? What are the signs of its approach? Is the death of self ultimate and final? What experience, if any, lies beyond that final curtain each of us will one day face? Within public and private domains, the competition for meaning over 'end' is diverse and complex but one thing is certain: the 'end' is never here nor there -- it is always nigh! Jason Ensor, Felicity Meakins-- 'End' Issue Editors Citation reference for this article MLA style: Jason Ensor, Felicity Meakins. "Editorial: 'End'." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.8 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9912/edit.php>. Chicago style: Jason Ensor, Felicity Meakins, "Editorial: 'End'," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 8 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9912/edit.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Jason Ensor, Felicity Meakins. (1999) Editorial: 'end'. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture v(n). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9912/edit.php> ([your date of access]).

Examines the euphrasy and rue which Michael applies to Adam’s eyes in book 11 of Paradise Lost, which have been variously glossed by editors of the poem. In medieval and early modern herbals euphrasy was associated with joy or cheerfulness in contrast to rue’s association with sorrow, reinforcing the poem’s “ethical message of tempering joy with sorrow,” which “accords with other exhortations toward moderation” in Paradise Lost. Euphrasy was also, thanks to false etymology, associated with pleasing eloquence and poetry, allowing Milton an occasion for wordplay. Noting that Adam “does not always judge or interpret the visions [shown to him in books 11 and 12] correctly,” Stelzer suggests that “the remedy Michael administers in book 11 is temporary and imperfect, albeit extraordinary.”