Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Erotica Romana by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (bill gates book recommendations txt) 📖
Download in Format:
- Author: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Book online «Erotica Romana by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (bill gates book recommendations txt) 📖». Author Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
V Do not, beloved, regret that you yielded to me so quickly: I entertain no base, insolent thoughts about you. Arrows of Cupid work divers effects. Some do but scratch us: Slow and insidious these poison our hearts over years. Yet with a head freshly honed and cunningly fledged, certain others Pierce to the marrow, inflame rapidly there our blood. When gods and goddesses in days of heroes made love, then Lust followed look and desire, with no delay, was indulged. Surely you don't think the goddess of love lost a moment reflecting When, in Idean grove, Anchises caught her eye. Nor did Luna delay about kissing that beautiful dreamer— Jealous Aurora had else hastily wakened the lad. At the loud banquet Hero regarded Leander—then promptly Into dark waters he plunged, ardently swam toward his love. When Rhea Silvia, princess and virgin, came down to the Tiber Just to fetch water, a god seized her and that is the way Mars begat himself sons, a pair of twins whom a she wolf Suckled. Today a proud Rome claims to be queen of the world.
VI We are so pious, we lovers. Discreetly we worship all powers, Hoping for favor from each god and each goddess as well. We are like you, ye victorious Romans, in this: for we offer Gods of all peoples and tribes, over the whole world, a home— May the Egyptian, black and austere out of primeval basalt, Or from the marble a Greek, form them charming and white— Yet the eternal ones do not object to particularism (Incense of most precious sort, strewn for just one of their host). Therefore we gladly confess to singling a special immortal And our devotions each day pledging but solely to her. Mischievous celebrants we at these mysteries gay, and so solemn: Silence exactly befits rites at which we're adepts. Rather onto our heels by horrible deeds the Erinyes We would allure, even Zeus' punishment sooner we'd dare— Under that rock, or bound to a tumbling wheel we'd endure it— Than we'd withdraw our hearts from the delights of her cult. Sweet Opportunity, that is her name. You should meet her. Often will she turn up, ever in a new form. Daughter of Proteus might well she be whom he sired upon Thetis. In metamorphoses they've many a hero deceived. So now the daughter beguiles the naive and bedazzles the foolish, Teases you while you're asleep; when you awaken, she's flown. Eagerly yields herself up to the quick, to the active man only. He discovers she's tame, playful and tender and sweet. Once she appeared to me, too: a dark-skinned girl, tumbling Over her forehead the hair down in waves heavy and dark. Round about a delicate neck curled short little ringlets; Up from the crown of her head crinkled the unbraided hair. When she dashed by me I seized her, mistaking her not. Lovingly Kiss and embrace she returned, knowing and teaching me how. O how enraptured I was! Ah, say now no more. It's a bygone. But, O pigtails of Rome, still I'm entrammled in you.
VII Happily now on classical soil I feel inspiration. Voices from present and past speak here evocatively. Heeding ancient advice, I leaf through the works of the Ancients With an assiduous hand. Daily the pleasure's renewed. Throughout the night, in a different way, I'm kept busy by Cupid— If erudition is halved, rapture is doubled that way. Do then I not become wise when I trace with my eye her sweet bosom's Form, and the line of her hips stroke with my hand? I acquire, As I reflect and compare, my first understanding of marble, See with an eye that feels, feel with a hand that sees. While my beloved, I grant it, deprives me of moments of daylight, She in the nighttime hours gives compensation in full. And we do more than just kiss; we prosecute reasoned discussions (Should she succumb to sleep, that gives me time for my thoughts). In her embrace—it's by no means unusual—I've composed poems And the hexameter's beat gently tapped out on her back, Fingertips counting in time with the sweet rhythmic breath of her slumber. Air from deep in her breast penetrates mine and there burns. Cupid, while stirring the flame in our lamp, no doubt thinks of those days when For the triumvirs he similar service performed.
VIII "Can you be cruel enough to sadden me thus with reproaches? Germans speak, I suppose, bitterly when they're in love. Bear it I must when the gossips bring forth accusations: I'm guilty— Or am I not? But, alas, all of my guilt was with you. Clothes that you've given bear witness for envious neighbors That the poor widow no more grieves for her husband alone. Did you not thoughtlessly visit me in the disguise of a cleric, Muffled all up in a cloak, hair all rounded behind? Who was it chose that gray monk if not you? Well then a prelate Now is my lover—Ah, who is my prelate but you? Never, incredible as it may sound in this clerical city, Has any cleric brought me—swear it I will—to his bed. I was sufficiently poor, sad to say. I was young. The seducers Noted it well. Falconier ogled me often enough. One of the pimps for Albani with billets doux very impressive Called me to Ostia once. Quattro Fontani next time. Who was it did not appear there? Why, who but the very same girl who Hated with all of her heart stockings both violet and red. For: 'In the end you poor girls are the ones who are sure to be cheated.' So said my father although—Mother was not much impressed. Father was right. Here I stand in the end being cheated and scolded. You don't believe your own words. They're your excuse to escape. Go, then. Unworthy of women are men. We, who carry your children Next to our hearts, in these hearts loyalty we bear you, too. As for you men, when you've poured out your potency in our embraces And your desires dissipate, love with them passes away." These things expressed, and taking her child from its chair, my beloved Presses it close to her heart, kisses it, tears in her eyes. I'm now so very ashamed of myself for having permitted Gossip of neighbors to spoil picture so eloquent. For a short moment a fire may burn darkly while smoke swirls about it. Water dashed on the coals suddenly smothers their glow. Rapidly then renewed heat overcomes those lowering vapors, Sends up a flame that anew bright and more powerful gleams.
IX How very happy I am here in Rome when I think of the bad days Far back there in the north, wrapped in a grayish light. Over my head there the heavens weighed down so dismal and gloomy; Colorless, formless, that world round this exhausted man lay. Seeking myself in myself, an unsatisfied spirit, I brooded, Spying out pathways dark, lost in dreary reflection. Here in an �ther more clear now a luster encircles my forehead. Phoebus the god evokes forms, clear are his colors by day. Bright with the stars comes the evening, ringing with songs that are tender, And the glow of the moon, brighter than northern sun. What blessedness mortals may know! Am I now dreaming? Or welcomes Jupiter, Father, as guest—me, to ambrosial halls? See, I lie here extending my arms toward your knees. I am praying: Hospitality's god, Jupiter Xenius! Hear: How I am come to this place I no longer can say—I was Seized up by Hebe. 'Twas she led to this sacred hill. Did you command her a hero to seek and deliver before you? May be she erred. Then forgive. Let her mistake profit me! Does not Fortuna, your daughter, when strewing her glorious presents, After the manner of girls, yield to each passing whim? You, O hospitable god, will by no means now banish a stranger From your Olympian heights back to the base earth again. "Poet, come to your senses!"—Forgive me, Jupiter, is not Rome's Capitoline Hill second Olympus to you? Suffer me, Jupiter, here and let Hermes guide me at last then Past Cestius' Tomb gently to Orkus below.
X When you were small,
Free ebook «Erotica Romana by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (bill gates book recommendations txt) 📖» - read online now
Add a comment
Log in Registration
Comments (0)