Oscar Wilde Blog

by Jörg W. Rademacher

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Literarischer Blog - Literary Blog Graham Swift (2)

Liebe Leser des literarischen Blogs,

Zeiten ohne Drang, dem fußballerischen Weltgeschehen nicht nur durch Verfolgen der Nachrichten, sondern auch durch Mitfiebern am Bildschirm auf der Spur zu bleiben wie in diesem Juni, wenn die lange geplante Europameisterschaft zum 60. Jahrestag der ersten im Jahr 1960 zunächst einmal entfällt, sind auch Momente, da die Literatur ihren Rang als Freizeitbeschäftigung wieder gewinnt. Denn Lesen ist überall möglich, selbst hinter der Maske im IC oder RE, ob zu Hause oder vor dem Bahnhof in der Morgensonne am Waterlootag, am kleinen Bildschirm oder mit dem Buch, das riecht und anzufaßbar ist, in der Hand. Lesen geschieht ja vielfältig, mit und ohne Bleistift, als Zeitvertreib oder als Möglichkeit, andere Welten zu entdecken als diejenige, in der man sich gerade aufhält.

 

Dear readers of this literary blog,

you may not miss watching international football now with Liverpool FC winning their first league title since 1990 when the likes of Ian Rush were still around to win silverware for them. With Jürgen Klopp the first-ever German manager to clinch that title, even fans of Schalke 04, the arch-enemy of Klopp's former Borussia Dortmund – that in 1966 beat Liverpool FC in a memorable Cup winner's Cup Final in Glasgow with the winning goal so surprising for the cameraman that you also see the goal being retrieved from the back of the net – now wish him well. At this time, we would have been watching the Euro 2020 to coincide with the 60th anniversary of that competition this year. Actually, reading has come to the fore for many, I reckon, who can do this everywhere even now, either at home in your armchair or behind a mask or “face-covering” when seated in an IC or regional train or when basking in the morning sun on Waterloo Day, which, of course, does not trigger the same associations everywhere. You may do reading in many ways, with or without a pencil, as a simple pastime or as a means to discover worlds other those where you find yourself at the moment.

 

 

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Literarischer Blog - Literary Blog Graham Swift (1)

Liebe Leser des literarischen Blogs,

erneut auf Deutsch und Englisch wende ich mich an Sie und Euch mit einer Besprechung. Graham Swift ist bei weitem unter den englischen Autoren der Gegenwart mein Lieblingsschriftsteller. Die meisten mag ich nach einem Roman nicht wieder erlesen. Bei Swift war es rasch gegangen, der Wunsch, ihn immer wieder zu lesen und wurde in fast drei Jahrzehnten nie enttäuscht. Es wird drei Blog-Posts geben zu ihm. Hier der erste:

 

Dear readers of my blog,

Mothering Sunday is the first short novel by Graham Swift I read. And it is not going to be the last for his style is of such crispness that you feel it even in the German translation by Susanne Höbel who I once met over a period of three or four days in early May 1996 at Villa Waldberta at Feldafing near Munich where we both took part in a seminar on translation criticism.

 

 

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Blog Artikel deutsch (4): Benjamin Cors; Reviews summed up

Liebe Leserin, lieber Leser dieses auch literarischen Blog-Posts,

erstmals erscheinen heute alle vier Rezensionen der bis 2018 publizierten ersten Bände der Normandie-Thriller von Benjamin Cors zusammen. So hatte ich sie im Frühherbst 2018 geschrieben und allesamt zum Abdruck in einer Regionalzeitung geschickt. Nur die ersten beiden Besprechungen sind auch erschienen, und zwar in anderer Form als hier. Die Normandie habe ich bislang nur zweimal besucht, 1985 und 2005, als ich unvergeßliche zwei Wochen als begleitende Lehrkraft eines Schüleraustausches erlebte. Insofern ist gerade jetzt, da das Reisen besonders ins Ausland, besonders mit Gruppen unter große Vorbehalte gestellt ist, solch eine Romanserie von großer, gerade auch emotionaler Bedeutung. Viel Vergnügen bei der Lektüre. Das gewählte Format entspricht dem für potentielle Rezensionen in der Presse.

 

Dear readers of my blog,

while the following summaries of the German thrillers written by Benjamin Cors have already been posted, the German originals were written with a view of being published in a regional paper. Two did not appear as I wrote them, and, indeed, I am sure I have only the right to re-publish them as I first wrote. The last two have not yet appeared in German, and since I told the publishers that I wanted to write about the whole series it is only now that I can be as good as my word. And, to be honest, I am longing to read the fifth volume in that series that has just appeared in German. The format is as if these short reviews were to appear in the printed press.

Jörg W. Rademacher, 17th June 2020

 

 

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On the return to tuition in class

 

Turning from online to classroom teaching

Dear readers of my blog,

direct contacts still being limited to occasional conversations over the phone, particularly if to meet traveling across borders would be involved, it is only rarely that I actually speak to one or the other of you. I did, though, last week, and several people – as had happened in my immediate environs before the shutdown – encouraged me to devise the next blog.

It may sound strange to you that someone who likes to discuss things literary and political as much as I do should find it difficult to come up with more than two blogs in the past nine weeks of limited movement in Germany. Actually, I had thought I might provide a regular up-date on what is going on here in the light of Oscar Wilde with a special focus on his annus terribilis in the spring of 1895. It is quite simple: the times we are going through at the moment have made me think of many more things than just those events my online calendar for 2020 seemed to record for another year of commemorations of different sorts.

 

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Life without actual social contacts or living at a social distance from one another

Dear readers of my blog,

with more than three weeks gone after the announcement of the shutdown and Holy Week under way, I do feel the urge to depict in words my impressions of empty streets in small country towns when pedestrian areas are deserted but for market days when at least greengrocers, butchers, the odd fishmonger, baker and cheese merchant as well as now, once again, the seller of flowers and plants, allow people in Leer to queue in quite their own way before the market tents or trailers.

Last Saturday, for example,

 

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What to do and read when in solitary or family confinement owing to Covid 19

Dear readers of my blog,

after all of Europe and much of the rest of the world has been subjected to a confinement in people’s houses and/or gardens with quite a few of them also with limited access as to visitors, for they are high-risk patients, I feel very strongly that I need to say something in public, since it is simply impossible to know where to begin contacting people outside your personal and local circle if the only thing is – apart from using social media – to start ringing up Tom, Dick, and Harry. It is a matter of concentration on the most vital contacts, those old-age pensioners, for example, the age of one’s parents or those parents themselves who cannot receive visits from either their children or grandchildren and whose only current personal contacts are the nursing personnel. Some of these old men and women still do their own reading and react not only like seasoned practitioners to this crisis mode of life, others cannot but recall the last great crisis they underwent in their own lives, the Second World War, that is. The problem, however, is that those who are prepared for this crisis are a small minority. For, to put it in a nutshell:

“The sole cause of all human misery is the inability of people to sit quietly in their rooms.”

This sentence written by the French philosopher and mathematician Blaise Pascal I found in the collection entitled “Life I Do Not Understand You”, edited by Danny Morrison, Belfast, 2019.

 

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Wildes Hauptwerk

Alles über
"Das Bildnis des Dorian Gray"

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Über mich

Jörg W. Rademacher (*1962), born and bred in Westphalia. Attended university at Münster, Dundee and Lille. State exam in 1988. Ph.D. In 1993. Scholar, language teacher as well as writer and translator at Münster until 2002. Since 2002 secondary school teacher, writer and translator in East Frisia. Working on Wilde since 1988. Publishing on Wilde since 2000 as biographer and editor and translator, on a regular basis with Elsinor Verlag since 2012, since 2015 also editor and translator of Oscar Wilde calendars.

Der neue Kalender

Interesse an einem Kalender?
Kontaktieren Sie mich.

A calendar in progress 2023

Composing these reflections when offering, selling, and sending out the current calendar is still only a matter of weeks away, I do feel that this project has made another step: at long last, a balance has been found between word and image, with Günter Plessow the author of the verse translations into German, while I translated two of Egon Günther’s poems into English besides choosing, arranging, and, sparsely this time, commenting the poems. If you like, you can see the history of the Oscar Wilde calendars represented by their respective covers on my website: oscar-wilde-blog.de
In fact, it is only owing to Günter Plessow’s industry in translating what he calls “Lyrical Notes” into German in the year 2021 that a substantial selection of Wilde poems ranging from the 1870s through the 1890s, including “The Sphinx” and “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”, are now available for re-publication as part of this calendar project. This is also why, compared to previous calendars, this Oscar Wilde Calendar concentrates on poetry on the one hand and focuses on verse in English and German on the other hand. Taking the poems chosen this time in turn, I also include miniatures of the collage work, so that it is possible to survey the complete calendar here.

January

Oscar Wilde
Ravenna


A year ago I breathed the Italian air, –
And yet, methinks this northern Spring is fair, –
These fields made golden with the flower of March,
The throstle singing on the feathered larch,
The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by,
The little clouds that race across the sky;
And fair the violet’s gentle drooping head,
The primrose, pale for love uncomforted,
The rose that burgeons on the climbing briar,
The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon of fire
Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring);
And all the flowers of our English Spring,
Fond snow-drops, and the bright-starred daffodil.

“Ravenna”, in: Oscar Wilde, Poems and Poems in Prose, edited by Bobby Fong and Karl Beckson, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000, pp. 46- 54; here: p. 46.

Only issued separately in 1878 and first anthologised with Wilde’s poetry since 1908, “Ravenna” is a prize poem, winning Wilde the Newdigate Prize, partly recited by the author himself in the Sheldonian Theate Oxford on 26th June 1878 and dedicated to a lady that he had met in Rome in the spring of 1877: Julia Constance Fletcher (1858-1938). The latter published novels pseudonymously, among others Mirage (1877) containing a portrait of Wilde as Mr. Davenant (Oscar Wilde, Poems and Poems in Prose, pp. 247/248).

February

Maria Eger in memoriam
First & lasting impressions

I don’t know exactly but think it was her guttural laugh preceding
the first words she ever said to me or the answering machine
that established some kind of mutual liking when she
said the Zurich Joyce Centre people had given her my number.

Living still at Münster Westphalia with a red dialling phone to boot
I had to be called for in my study facing the busy suburban street
to tell her that what she was looking for was the Joyce Book with
13 poems set to music from Pomes Penyeach and given to Joyce

for his 50th anniversary in 1932 and lying in the Zurich archives
which made her laugh again for Fritz Senn had said for music
she’d rather ask Rademacher Radmachrees as Finnegans Wake
has it not him being the unmusical sort so the first call sent her back

to where she had been before but she not only took it with good humour
she also remained in touch for the next twenty-one years even asking
me to speak in January 2021 on the 80th anniversary of Joyce’s death
a talk I never finished writing owing to the second nationwide lock-down.

She did not lose hope encouraged literary & musical talents of all kinds
invited over to Nuremberg whoever had written sculpted composed &
painted drawn translated anything of importance organizing symposia
making friends meet across the cultural divide of East & West and

North & South digging deep into her own pocket to pay impolite actors
just as well as grateful young pianists frustrated journalists up-and-coming
teachers while teaching herself legions of enthusiastic readers of Joyce &
other difficult writers never tiring of finding yet another interesting project.

Until one day some time last summer or even before that it was the last time
she spoke on my answering machine or I no longer durst ring her to ask
would she like the new calendar the last edition of which I had sent off
to friends in her name then I only waited for the inevitable to happen

her Bavarian voice to join “all the dead voices” accumulating in my
ears’ memory chamber just as images of dear lost ones are kept in
one’s mind’s eye returning to life only when there is a trigger a dream
at night another wake at another person’s death bed.

JWR Leer, 4. März 2023

March

Maria Eger in memoriam
First & lasting impressions

I don’t know exactly but think it was her guttural laugh preceding
the first words she ever said to me or the answering machine
that established some kind of mutual liking when she
said the Zurich Joyce Centre people had given her my number.

Living still at Münster Westphalia with a red dialling phone to boot
I had to be called for in my study facing the busy suburban street
to tell her that what she was looking for was the Joyce Book with
13 poems set to music from Pomes Penyeach and given to Joyce

for his 50th anniversary in 1932 and lying in the Zurich archives
which made her laugh again for Fritz Senn had said for music
she’d rather ask Rademacher Radmachrees as Finnegans Wake
has it not him being the unmusical sort so the first call sent her back

to where she had been before but she not only took it with good humour
she also remained in touch for the next twenty-one years even asking
me to speak in January 2021 on the 80th anniversary of Joyce’s death
a talk I never finished writing owing to the second nationwide lock-down.

She did not lose hope encouraged literary & musical talents of all kinds
invited over to Nuremberg whoever had written sculpted composed &
painted drawn translated anything of importance organizing symposia
making friends meet across the cultural divide of East & West and

North & South digging deep into her own pocket to pay impolite actors
just as well as grateful young pianists frustrated journalists up-and-coming
teachers while teaching herself legions of enthusiastic readers of Joyce &
other difficult writers never tiring of finding yet another interesting project.

Until one day some time last summer or even before that it was the last time
she spoke on my answering machine or I no longer durst ring her to ask
would she like the new calendar the last edition of which I had sent off
to friends in her name then I only waited for the inevitable to happen

her Bavarian voice to join “all the dead voices” accumulating in my
ears’ memory chamber just as images of dear lost ones are kept in
one’s mind’s eye returning to life only when there is a trigger a dream
at night another wake at another person’s death bed.

JWR Leer, 4. März 2023

April

Lucky you Lucky Luke

Happy-go-lucky view of life
Lucky to have escaped the MCA
Lucky on Pozzo’s leash running on stage
in Waiting for Godot dog-like that is
another endgame of silences from which emerges
Jordan the rapper who can hardly read or write
suitable for waiting on stage walking around the bare tree
while being a lucky loser and unsuitable for the garrulous
Wilde talk of The Importance of Being Earnest
incapable of pulling off the lucky punch
you need to realise if you want to win
when facing someone from Ireland.

JWR

According to the title “Oscar Wilde & Friends”, it is here that a film version of Waiting for Godot based on a true story in Sweden when detainees produced the piece and ran off when the first night was looming and associations meet triggered by a life with Irish literature and theatre as played on stages in France. Last but not least an echo can still be heard of the amazement shown over the phone by a lady in the press office of a repertory theatre in Westphalia who inhaled and exhaled audibly on hearing that Samuel Beckett was Irish. She had simply never thought of where he had been born and bred.

May

“Mr. Wilde, what is your opinion of Harrisburg
from the little you have seen of it?”
“Well, one should not generalize about a place, having
seen as little as I have of your city. I came here in
the afternoon, and was engaged in writing a letter the
remainder of the day, and consequently am unable to
form any opinion of the ‘Capital City.’”
“How were you pleased with your audience this
evening?”
“I had a very charming audience, indeed, of perhaps
150 or 200 persons. They were quite attentive and
showed me the respect that the most sensitive lecturer
would desire. Of course, I don’t expect every one to
agree with what I say ‒”

From: “Oscar Wilde,” Harrisburg Telegraph (Harrisburg, PA), 5 May 1882, 4. In: Oscar Wilde. The Complete Interviews. Volume One, edited by Rob Marland, Jena: Little Eye, 2022, pp. 380-384, here: p. 380.

Latter-day readers of Oscar Wilde, who are unaware of the multiple occasions he faced an American audience live during his tour of North America in 1882, might know, however, of the incident at the nuclear power station Three Mile Island, closed down by now, on 28 March 1979 that hit the headlines the world over, as Wilde‘s lecture almost 97 years earlier had not. It took the research of OscarWildeinAmerica blogger John Cooper to discover the article with questions and answers about Harrisburg and the event to put an earlier Harrisburg on the map of literary America. Wilde is polite, if evasive, a diplomat if respectfully addressed. Yet one never knows what he may say if provoked.

June

Pain in June

Unlike drinking tea which is
one of the “simple pleasures”
not liked by Lord Henry Wotton
having a glass of French red wine
in Paris can be a both costly
and painful experience

the real one foreshadowing
the imaginary moment on the
terrace of an East Friesian
moated castle to celebrate
the teacher training college
head’s accession to an honorary

professorship when the head
of French in a rare outburst
of emotion said: “I can’t don’t
you see I’m wearing white pants.”
White jeans that is it was too in Paris
when an irascible sixty-niner

the conversion of 1968 being impossible
jumped up in the Arène de Lutèce
the Roman ruin in central Paris
where he’d just been at the receiving end
of a glass of red wine spilled by a student
who when at home and still at school

used impulsively to spill cold chocolate
at any time he sat next to his father
who it was who had to fulfill the lecturer’s
demand for complete compensation
by typing a letter to the insurance company
and announce the damage.

JWR

Paris is a place of where not only Wilde wished to be but also the Germans before and after 1968, a capital in the form of an island in France whose centre is the Île de la Cité, where both Notre-Dame de Paris as well as the book by Victor Hugo named after the cathedral as of 1482 find their factually and novelistically rooted place, particularly after the fire of 15th and 16th April 2019.

July

Lover's Lament

weakly luminescent silk veils
the statue of a woman
who on the edge of the wood calls her tawny owls

just like the dew fleeting ornament of an as yet young day
makes a string of pearls in places lived in by a sombre
desire
it is your aura filtered by crystals of salt
that puts bright spots into the looming dark of storm
in the revolutions of your temper
that shaking days start to falter
that sticks moved as if by the hand of ghosts civilly
begin a new game of cannon
using the balls completely adrift of universes
used since time of yore
to bowing to the laws of coincidence
which doubtless is your law
which you steer with the moue of your
lips
a furtive movement of your hand
or the unchaste signal of your breast tips
which command a whole range
of botanic correspondences
solstice plants
dancing in the feathered harmony of your breath
you swinging your strong sceptre
even in those icy regions which of all
sensations
is the stronghold primarily of pain
just as over the infinite vastness of space
partly already turned into rot
you at times feed petals sand and ice splinters
into the gears of the world
yet if you full of high spirits
chase a worn-out old nag
with the name of free will
once again over the world’s edge
remember the joyless clown of your dreams
that troubadour
that you once forgot in chains
on the world’s disk

Egon Günther; translated by JWR

Wilde did not fail to write about love and lovers. Indeed, it was one of the subjects he infinitely varied in all genres. There was much love’s labour’s lost in his work, too, since contrary to what he allowed the outside world to know when at Oxford he laboured hard to finish a work of art, let alone sit an exam successfully.

August

Is that all we can do

instead of giving all for everyone and more
it’s happiness that each one’s looking for

fear burning in the heart sweating in the furrow
suffering man’s lot in their social class burrow

fleeing from the shades of punishments looming
on the run like slaves in aimless flights erring

is that all you know and go for
cannot you offer more?

creatures plagued by shame and necessity
obeying their masters’ order with audacity

living as serfs in leviathan’s treadmill
vacation joys missed the worst of their fill

dreaming greedily of cockaigne
of sweet loafing on white sand

is that all we can do
cannot we offer more?

Egon Günther; translated by JWR

“To sweep a slushy crossing for eight hours, on a day when the east wind is blowing is a disgusting occupation. To sweep it with mental, moral, or physical dignity seems to me to be impossible. To sweep it with joy would be appalling.
Man is made for something better than disturbing dirt. All work of that kind should be done by a machine.”

Oscar Wilde, The Soul of Man under Socialism, ed. JWR, Coesfeld: Elsinor, 2021, p. 36.

Here are two brother souls at work. One laments the lack of laziness, the other laments the surplus of leisure, which also bars the way to recognizing what is essential.

September

Over night

over night
the old world was begone
drunken I must have put it away

or something evil came along
destroying truth & poetry
the debris lying all around
the ball of the sun running
fully against the grain

yesterday in the yard the weeds
were still lying bright and clear in his light

today until the new morning
laughingly dawns
remains darkened my sight

after a sombre night
world begone was lost
energetically we have put it away
for us a rough day was born

let’s grip the moment
swiftly at its forelock
(curses often breed blessings)
so that we do not miss the moment
while walking along evil roads

so tell me quickly
before everything ends:
who has some good advice
who knows the golden way to return
on which our lot will turn

tell me at once: who indeed
is so bright & good
who finds the key to happiness
who will give us courage again

over night
the old world (who knows whereto)
was all begone
the times being out of joint

Egon Günther; translated by JWR

Again and again, Oscar Wilde used the elegiac tone, also in his poetry, he may have had an inkling of what kind of life he led along the razor’s edge, his both private and public, not least political existence. Listening to a warning, however, was not his forte.

October

On "Portia"

“In your place I’d have discarded the poem.”
– “But then Wilde’s ‘every day anti-Semitism’
as you call it or his conventionally Christian
anti-Judaism wouldn’t have come to light.”

It is an occasional poem that to translate
you need to read in a much larger context
one reaching out far beyond the boundaries of
verse rhythm metre and rhyme not to speak of
semantics;

reaching out to the religious social moral
backgrounds in London of the 1870s and 1880s
couched in words the moment Wilde saw
and admired Ellen Terry as Portia on stage.

 

JWR

Not everyone reads poems. Fewer still read about poems. Even fewer are those who read, let alone write on, translations of poems. Still the few are happier than those who do not savour words but eat them, as they only know fat volumes. Wilde wrote for himself, then for the few, for sure when he created verses. Thus his life as a man of letters begins and ends with poetry. Whoever appreciates him whole can also live with the stain of his faults.