Talking to poets II

Não faz tempo, eu tinha 12 anos (risos), eu aprendi uma palavra que poderia definir o que eu também era. Por algum tempo achei que timidez fosse o meu caso, mas não era, era algo mais grave, era mesmo misantropia. Misantropia!! Essa é a palavra que depois me fez escreve-la em poemas que falavam de formigas, que para mim são doces representantes da minha misantropia (se não estiver aqui está em meu blog, depois procuro e mostro). Misantropia é a palavra que a minha amiga Juliana parece que adorou aprender comigo. Misantropia é meu estado quase patológico às vezes de afastamento do convívio social e de entrega total a mim mesma…Coisa de gente meio bicho.  Mas, nem sei porque estou escrevendo em português. Deveria estar escrevendo em alemão já que o poeta que trago hoje escrevia em tal língua. Poderia também escrever em francês em homenagem a Molière que também se dedicou ao tema do misantropo.

Talking to poets today presents my favorite poem by Goethe (in Englih, I am sorry. I don’t have it in the original form)

THE MISANTHROPE.

AT first awhile sits he,

With calm, unruffled brow;
His features then I see,
Distorted hideously,–

An owl’s they might be now.

What is it, askest thou?
Is’t love, or is’t ennui?

‘Tis both at once, I vow.

1767-9.

Bringing some intertextuality I also present one part of the play  “The misanthrope” (Le Misanthrope ou l’Atrabilaire amoureux) by Moilère, which is a very good piece of this play.

Act I

Scene I.—Philinte, Alceste.

Philinte. What is the matter? What ails you? Alceste (seated). Leave me, I pray. Philinte. But, once more, tell me what strange whim… Alceste. Leave me, I tell you, and get out of my sight. Philinte. But you might at least listen to people, without getting angry. Alceste. I choose to get angry, and I do not choose to listen. Philinte. I do not understand you in these abrupt moods, and although we are friends, I am the first… Alceste (rising quickly). I, your friend? Lay not that flattering unction to your soul. I have until now professed to be so; but after what I have just seen of you, I tell you candidly that I am such no longer; I have no wish to occupy a place in a corrupt heart.

Philinte. I am then very much to be blamed from your point of view, Alceste?

Alceste. To be blamed? You ought to die from very shame; there is no excuse for such behaviour, and every man of honour must be disgusted at it. I see you almost stifle a man with caresses, show him the most ardent affection, and overwhelm him with protestations, offers, and vows of friendship. Your ebullitions of tenderness know no bounds; and when I ask you who that man is, you can scarcely tell me his name; your feelings for him, the moment you have turned your back, suddenly cool; you speak of him most indifferently to me. Zounds! I call it unworthy, base, and infamous, so far to lower one’s self as to act contrary to one’s own feelings, and if, by some mischance, I had done such a thing, I should hang myself at once out of sheer vexation.

Não se preocupe, eu hoje não estou misantropa rsrs