The Survivor
Primo LeviThe Survivor Gönderileri
The Survivor kitaplarını, The Survivor sözleri ve alıntılarını, The Survivor yazarlarını, The Survivor yorumları ve incelemelerini 1000Kitap'ta bulabilirsiniz.Airport
We're leaving. The great cavelike bird
Sucks up everyone indiscriminately:
We cross Acheron
Via a telescopic concourse.
It taxis, accelerates, gathers power,
Lifts off, and suddenly is raised into the sky
Body and soul: our bodies and souls.
Are we worthy of Assumption?
Now it flies into the purple twilight
Over the ice of nameless seas,
Or above a mantle of dark clouds,
As if this planet of ours
Had hidden its face in shame.
Now it's flying with dull thuds
Almost as if someone were driving piles
Into the Stygian swamp;
Now along soft,
Smoothed tracks of air.
The night is without sleep, but brief,
Brief the way no night has ever been:
Light and carefree like a first night.
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The vulture that gnaws at me every evening
Has the face of everyman.
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Passover
Tell me: how is this night
Different from all other nights?
Tell me, how is this Passover
Different from other Passovers?
Light the light, unbar the door
So that the traveler may enter,
Be he Gentile or Jew:
Perhaps the prophet is hidden under his rags.
Enter and sit with us,
Listen, drink, and sing and celebrate Passover.
Eat the bread of
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Autobiography
I'm old like the world, I who speak to you.
In the dark of origins
I swarmed in the blind furrows of the sea,
Blind myself: but already I wanted the light
When I was still lying in the sea floor's filth.
I swilled salt with a thousand infinitesimal throats;
I was a fish, sleek and fast. I avoided traps,
I showed my young the sidewise tracks of the crab.
Taller than a tower, I offended the sky,
The mountains trembled at my storming step
And my brute hulk obstructed the valleys:
The rocks of your time still sport
The incredible mark of my scales.
I sang to the moon the liquid song of the toad,
And my patient hunger perforated wood.
Impetuous skittish stag
I ran through woods that are ashes today, and gloried in my strength.
I was drunk cicada, astute horrendous tarantula,
And salamander and scorpion and unicorn and asp.
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Heart of Wood
My next-door neighbor's sturdy:
A horse chestnut on Corso Re Umberto;
My age but he doesn't seem it,
He shelters sparrows and crows, and has no
shame
Putting out buds and leaves in April,
Fragile flowers in May, and in September
Burrs with harmless spines
That hold shiny, tannic chestnuts.
An impostor, but naïve: he wants to seem
Like his fine mountain brother's rival,
Lord of sweet fruit and rare mushrooms.
It's not a happy life. The number 8
And 19 trams run across his roots
Every five minutes, leaving him deaf,
And he grows twisted, as if he wants to escape.
Year after year, he sucks up gentle poisons
From the methane-saturated subsoil;
He's drenched by dog piss,
The striations on his bark get clogged
With the avenues’ polluted dust;
Under his bark hang desiccated
Chrysalises that will never be butterflies.
Still, in his slow-witted wooden heart
He senses and enjoys the changing seasons.
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The Girl of Pompeii
Since the anguish of each belongs to us all
We're still living yours, scrawny little girl
Clinging convulsively to your mother
As if you wanted to get back inside her
When the sky went black that afternoon.
To no avail, because the sky, turned poison,
Infiltrated the shut windows of your quiet
House with its thick walls to find you
Happy
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The Dark Stars
No one should sing again of love or war.
The order the cosmos took its name from has been dissolved;
The heavenly legions are a snarl of monsters,
The universe besieges us, blind, violent, and strange.
The sky is scattered with horrible dead suns,
Dense sediment of shattered atoms.
Only despairing heaviness emanates from them,
Not energy, not messages, not particles, not light;
Light itself falls back, broken by its own weight,
And all of us human seed we live and die for
nothing,
And the heavens perpetually roil in vain.
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In the Beginning
Fellow men for whom a year is long,
A century a venerable goal,
Exhausted earning your bread,
Worn out, enraged, deluded, sick, and lost;
Hear, and be consoled and mocked:
Twenty billion years ago,
Splendid, moving through both space and time,
There was a globe of flame, alone, eternal, Our common father and our executioner, And it exploded, and all change began.
Even now, the faint echo from this one catastrophe reversal
Sounds from the far ends of the universe.
Everything was born from that one spasm:
The same abyss that embraces us and taunts us,
The same time that gives us life and ruins us,
Everything each of us has thought,
The eyes of every woman we have loved,
Suns by the thousand, too,
And this hand that writes.
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Arrival
Happy the man who's come to port,
Who leaves behind him seas and storms,
Whose dreams are dead or never born;
Who sits and drinks by the fire
At the beer hall in Bremen, and is at peace.
Happy the man like a flame gone out,
Happy the man like estuary sand,
Who has laid down his burden and wiped his brow
And rests by the side of the road.
He doesn't fear or hope or wait,
But stares intently at the setting sun.
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Song of the Crow II
‘What is the number of your days? I've counted them:
Few and brief, and each one heavy with cares;
With anguish about the inevitable night, When nothing saves you from yourself;
With fear of the dawn that follows,
With waiting for me, who wait for you,
With me who (hopeless, hopeless to escape!)
Will chase you to the ends of the earth,
Riding your horse,
Darkening the bridge of your ship
With my little black shadow,
Sitting at the table where you sit,
Certain guest at every haven,
Sure companion of your every rest.
‘Till what was prophesied has been accomplished,
Until your strength disintegrates,
Until you too end
Not with a bang but in silence,
The way the trees go bare in November,
The way one finds a clock stopped.'
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