The valley of dusk was filled
With a silver-grey fragrance, like the moon
Seeping through clouds. But it asn't night.
Sie trug den Becher in der Hand -
Ihr Kinn und Mund glich seinem Rand -,
So leicht und sicher war ihr Gang,
Es läuft der Frühlingswind
Durch kahle Alleen,
Seltsame Dinge sind
In seinem Wehn.
Ich kann so gut verstehen die ungetreuen Frauen,
So gut, mir ist, als könnt' ich in ihre Seelen schauen.
Your little sister
Has tossed her
Untied hair forward
Like a living veil,
Noch spür ich ihren Atem auf den Wangen:
Wie kann das sein, dass diese nahen Tage
Fort sind, für immer fort, und ganz vergangen?
War der Himmel trüb und schwer,
Waren einsam wir so sehr,
Aber das ist nun nicht mehr:
Weh, geschieden von den Meinigen,
Lieg ich hier seit vielen Wochen,
Ach und denen, die mich peinigen,
Muß ich Mahl- um Mahlzeit kochen.
There is a land where all is pure,
And this land is called
The land of death.
Here nothing is pure.
Und Kinder wachsen auf mit tiefen Augen,
Die von nichts wissen, wachsen auf und sterben,
Und alle Menschen gehen ihre Wege.
Und süße Früchte werden aus den herben
We are all creatures of flame. The butterfly: the intensity of a short life and fragility become color.
I know that flowers never fall out of open windows by themselves. Especially not at night. But that's beside the point.
One fills the large Delft jugs,
Painted with blue dragons and birds,
With a loose sheaf of bright flowers:
Among them jasmine, ripe roses unfolding,
»Works« are dead rock, sprung from resounding chisel,
When the master is at work, chipping away at his living self.
»Works« announce the mind as pupas announce the butterfly:
»Look, it left me behind – lifeless – and fluttered away.«
Thoughts are apples on the tree,
Not meant for anyone in particular,
But they end up belonging
To the one who takes them.
You are the garden locked,
Your childlike hands are waiting,
Your lips are without violence.
You are the fountain sealed,
We are alone in the dark. You up there have lips, rolled-up leaves, hands entwined with rosy blood and bluish veins,
Dann, erst dann komm ich zum Weiher,
Der in stiller Mittel spiegelt,
Mir des Gartens ganze Freude
Träumerisch vereint entriegelt.
Hugo Laurenz August Hofmann von Hofmannsthal, was an Austrian novelist, librettist, poet, dramatist, narrator, and essayist. Early Life Hofmannsthal was born in Landstraße, Vienna, the son of an upper-class Austrian mother, Anna Maria Josefa Fohleutner (1852–1904), and an Austrian–Italian bank manager, Hugo August Peter Hofmann, Edler von Hofmannsthal (1841–1915).His great-grandfather, Isaak Löw Hofmann, Edler von Hofmannsthal, from whom his family inherited the noble title "Edler von Hofmannsthal," was a Jewish merchant ennobled by the Austrian emperor. He began to write poems and plays from an early age. He met the German poet Stefan George at the age of seventeen and had several poems published in George's journal, Blätter für die Kunst. He studied law and later philology in Vienna but decided to devote himself to writing upon graduating in 1901. Along with Peter Altenberg and Arthur Schnitzler, he was a member of the avant garde group Young Vienna (Jung Wien). Career In 1900, Hofmannsthal met the composer Richard Strauss for the first time. He later wrote libretti for several of his operas, including Elektra (1909), Der Rosenkavalier (1911), Ariadne auf Naxos (1912, rev. 1916), Die Frau ohne Schatten (1919), Die ägyptische Helena (1927), and Arabella (1933). In 1912 he adapted the 15th century English morality play Everyman as Jedermann, and Jean Sibelius (amongst others) wrote incidental music for it. The play later became a staple at the Salzburg Festival. During the First World War Hofmannsthal held a government post. He wrote speeches and articles supporting the war effort, and emphasizing the cultural tradition of Austria–Hungary. The end of the war spelled the end of the old monarchy in Austria; this was a blow from which the patriotic and conservative-minded Hofmannsthal never fully recovered. Nevertheless the years after the war were very productive ones for Hofmannsthal; he continued with his earlier literary projects, almost without a break. In 1920, Hofmannsthal, along with Max Reinhardt, founded the Salzburg Festival. His later plays revealed a growing interest in religious, particularly Roman Catholic, themes. Among his writings was a screenplay for a film version of Der Rosenkavalier (1925) directed by Robert Wiene. Personal life In 1901, he married Gertrud (Gerty) Schlesinger, the daughter of a Viennese banker. Gerty, who was Jewish, converted to Christianity before their marriage. They settled in Rodaun, not far from Vienna, and had three children. On 13 July 1929, his son Franz committed suicide. Two days later, Hofmannsthal himself died of a stroke at Rodaun (now part of Liesing). He was buried wearing the habit of a Franciscan tertiary, as he had requested. In early 1929, his daughter Christiane, married German indologist, Heinrich Zimmer, who taught at University of Greifswald, Heidelberg University, and Balliol College, Oxford (1939–1940), before moving to New Rochelle, New York, to become a Visiting Lecturer in Philosophy at Columbia University. Heinrich Zimmer died in 1943. Thought On 18 October 1902, Hofmannsthal published a fictive letter in the Berlin Daily, Der Tag (The Day) titled simply "Ein Brief" ("A Letter"). It was purportedly written in 1603 by Philip, Lord Chandos to Francis Bacon. In this letter Chandos says that he has stopped writing because he has "lost completely the ability to think or to speak of anything coherently"; he has given up on the possibility of language to describe the world. This letter reflects the growing distrust of and dissatisfaction with language that so characterizes the Modern era, and Chandos's dissolving personality is not only individual but societal. Growing up the son of a wealthy merchant who was well connected with the major artists of the time, Hofmannsthal was raised in what Carl Schorske refers to as "the temple of art". This perfect setting for aesthetic isolation allowed Hofmannsthal the unique perspective of the privileged artist, but also allowed him to see that art had become a flattened documenting of humanity, which took our instincts and desires and framed them for viewing without acquiring any of the living, passionate elements. Because of this realization, Hofmannsthal’s idea of the role of the artist began to take shape as someone who created works that would inspire or inflame the instinct, rather than merely preserving it in a creative form. He also began to think that the artist should not be someone isolated and left to his art, but rather a man of the world, immersed in both politics and art. Hofmannsthal saw in English culture the ideal setting for the artist. This was because the English simultaneously admired Admiral Nelson and John Milton, both war heroes and poets, while still maintaining a solid national identity. "In [Hofmannsthal’s] view, the division between artist (writer) and man of action (politician, explorer, soldier) does not exist in England. Britain provides her subjects with a common base of energy which functions as equilibrium, a force lacking in fragmented Germany" (Weiss). This singular and yet pragmatic identity must have appealed to Hofmannsthal to a certain degree due to the large scale fragmentation of Austria at the time, which was in the throes of radical nationalism and anti-Semitism, a nation in which the progressive artist and the progressive politician were growing more different and hostile to each other by the day. Present-day descendants Rodolphe von Hofmannsthal, great-grandson of Hugo, is married to Lady Frances von Hofmannsthal, née Armstrong-Jones, daughter of the 1st Earl of Snowdon (former husband of Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowdon) and his second wife, Lucy Mary Davies.)
The valley of dusk was filled
With a silver-grey fragrance, like the moon
Seeping through clouds. But it wasn't night.
The silver-grey fragrance of the dark valley
Caused my sleepy thoughts to blur,
And silently I sank into the weaving,
Transparent sea and left my life.
What wonderful flowers there were,
With dark chalices glowing! A maze of plants
Through which a yellow-red light,
as if from topazes, glowed in warm streams. All
Was filled with a deep swelling
Of melancholy music. And this I knew,
Even though I could not fathom it, but I knew:
This was death. Death turned music,
With an immense longing, sweet and glowing darkly,
Brother to deepest melancholy.
A nameless homesickness for life kept crying
Mutely in my soul, crying as someone
On board a big ocean vessel would cry, a ship, driven
By gigantic yellow sails, passing by the city,
His city, at night in dark-blue water. There he sees
The lanes, hears the rushing of the fountains, smells
The scent of the lilac bushes, sees himself,
A child, standing on the shore, with a child's eyes,
Fearful, with tears welling up, sees
Through the open window the light in his room
But the big ship carries him along,
Gliding away on dark-blue water soundlessly,
Driven by gigantic yellow sails of strange shape.