R.L. Swihart's Blog, page 45

Homo Faber

Perhaps Hanna expected too much, where men were concerned, though I think she loved men. If there were any reproaches, they were self-reproaches; if Hanna could or had to live again, she would love men quite differently. She found it natural that men (she said) were mentally restricted, and only regretted her own stupidity in thinking each of them (I don’t know how many there had been) an exception. Yet Hanna, to my mind, is anything but stupid. But she thought herself so. She thought it stupid of a woman to want to be understood by a man; the man (said Hanna) wants the woman to be a mystery, so that he can be inspired and excited by his own incomprehension. The man hears only himself, according to Hanna, therefore the life of a woman who wants to be understood by a man must inevitably be ruined. According to Hanna. The man sees himself as master of the world and the woman only as his mirror. The master is not compelled to learn the language of the oppressed; the woman is compelled, though it does her no good, to learn the language of the master, she merely learns a language that always puts her in the wrong. Hanna regretted having become a Ph.D. As long as God is a man, not a couple, the life of a woman, according to Hanna, is bound to remain as it is now, namely wretched, with woman as the proletarian of Creation, however smartly dressed.

Homo Faber

 Sabeth listened when I told her about my experiences, but as one listens to an old man; without interrupting, politely, without believing, without getting excited.

Homo Faber

I took the standpoint that the profession of technologist, a man who masters matter, is a masculine profession, if not the only masculine profession there is. I told them we were on a ship, that is to say a product of technology . . . “True,” he said, “very true.” And all the time he held her arm, pretending to be interested and attentive merely so as not to have to let go of the girl’s arm. “Go on,” he said, “go on.” The girl came to my aid. As I hadn’t seen the sculptures in the Louvre she brought the conversation around to my robots; but I didn’t feel like talking about them and merely said that sculptures and things like that are nothing more (to my way of thinking) than forebears of the robot. Primitive peoples tried to annul death by portraying the human body—we do it by finding substitutes for the human body. Technology instead of mysticism!

Max Frisch's Homo Faber

I only lost my temper when Marcel started to talk about my work, that is to say about UNESCO, saying the technologist was the final guise of the white missionary, industrialization the last gospel of a dying race and living standards a substitute for a purpose in living ... I asked him if he was a Communist. Marcel denied it.

Mitred Parakeet in Long Beach CA

Lone Mitred Parakeet @ LBCU (near Wilson HS), trying to take a short nap (see #4). Long Beach CA. They're more likely to be seen in small groups (a dozen or so), flying high above the treeline or in the trees (palm, magnolia, other), but you can occasionally catch them alone.

#rlswihart #longbeachca #wilsonhs #lbcu #parakeetsofinstagram #mitredparakeet #nature #beauty #poetry #readmorepoetry2023 #meniscuspoetry #donners #ukraine 🇺🇦🎈🦜

R L Swihart's "Donners" @ Meniscus

My new poem "Donners" is up Down Under @ Meniscus (Volume 11, Issue 1, p. 168). My thanks to the magazine and especially the editor, Jen Webb. You can download the whole issue at the link below, then navigate to p. 168. Lots of good poetry, so read it all.:)

https://meniscus.org.au/current-issue

From Eduard Morike's "Prague""

 

In the woods, who knows where, Stands a green fir-tree; 

A rosebush, who can tell, Blooms in what garden? 

Already they have been chosen – Oh soul, remember! – 

To take root on your grave, For they must grow there. 

Out on the meadow two Black steeds are grazing, 

And homewards to the town They trot so sprightly. 

They will be walking when They draw your coffin; 

Who knows but that may be Even before they shed 

That iron on their hooves That glints so brightly.

Durrenmatt: Barlach: Suspicion

“What will happen now?” Barlach whispered. “Nothing will happen,” replied the Jew, grabbing the old man by the shoulders and pulling him up so that their faces were close together, eye to eye. “Nothing, nothing at all,” the giant whispered again. “No one knows, except for you and Hungertobel, that I was here; inaudibly, I glided, a shadow, through the corridors, to Emmenberger, to you, no one knows that I exist, only the poor devils I have saved, a handful of Jews, a handful of Christians. Let the world bury Emmenberger and let the newspapers publish their eulogies and memorials for this dead man. The Nazis wanted Stutthof; the millionaires, this hospital; others will want other things. We can’t save the world as individuals, that would be a task as hopeless as that of poor Sysyphus; it is not up to us, nor is it up to any man of power, or any nation, or the devil himself, who is surely more powerful than anyone; it is in the hand of God, who makes his decisions alone. We can only help in particular cases, we cannot affect the whole. Those are the limits of the poor Jew Gulliver, those are the limits of all human beings. Therefore, we should not try to save the world, but we must endure it. This is the only true adventure left to us at this late hour.” And carefully, like a father with his child, the giant lowered the old man back into his bed.

Durrenmatt: Barlach: Suspicion

“I think you’re used to that,” the old man retorted. Emmenberger was taken aback for a moment. “I’m pleased,” he finally said, shaking his head, “that you haven’t lost your sense of humor. Let’s start with Fortschig. He was sentenced to death and executed. My dwarf did a good job. Climbing down the light shaft of the house in the Kesslergasse, after a strenuous promenade across wet roof tiles, cats purring all around him, then squeezing through that little window and landing a truly powerful and deadly blow with my car key against the skull of our poetaster on his throne—this was not easy for my little Tom Thumb.

Canyon Wren @ Big Dalton Wilderness