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Hier im Wald mit dir zu liegen, moosgebettet, windumatmet, in das Flüstern, in das Rauschen leise liebe Worte mischend, öfter aber noch dem Schweigen lange Küsse zugesellend, unerschöpflich - unersättlich, hingegebne, hingenommne, ineinander aufgelöste, zeitvergeßne, weltvergeßne. Hier im Wald mit dir zu liegen, moosgebettet, windumatmet. Christian Morgenstern

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Die Nacht holt heimlich

Die Nacht holt heimlich durch des Vorhangs Falten Aus Deinem Haar vergessnen Sonnenschein. Schau, ich will nichts, als Deine Hände halten Und still und gut und voller Frieden sein.

Da wächst die Seele mir, bis sie in Scherben Den Alltag sprengt. Sie wird so wunderweit: An ihren morgenroten Molen sterben Die ersten Wellen der Unendlichkeit.

Rainer Maria Rilke: Advent, Leipzig, 1898, S. 55

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Max Pechstein, Sitzendes Mädchen, 1910

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It does.

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Benedict Cumberbatch and Damian Lewis at the Evening Standard Theatre Awards

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There is a sense of impatience and a yearning for a life less ordinary, which is destructive, as it leads you away from harnessing the true value of things. But it also gives you fantastic knowledge. I know I am going to die on my own, which is something you don’t realise until you are faced with that. You leave this world as you come into it, on your own. A sobering but profound thought to realise early in life.

Benedict Cumberbatch (The Guardian, Saturday 17 July 2010)

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All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

— William Shakespeare: As you like it, Act II, Scene VII

All the World's a Stage

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OMG this is perfection.

Now THIS is what a feminist looks like #ellefeminism #BenedictCumberbatch

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Benedict Cumberbatch for Intro Film at the Premiere of The Imitation Game - BFI London Film Festival 2014 [x]

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Wertschätzung ist etwas Wundervolles. Was andere auszeichnet, wird so unser Besitz. -- Appreciation is a wonderful thing: It makes what is excellent in others belong to us as well.

Voltaire

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Da immer weniger Menschen an Jenseits oder Wiedergeburt glauben, ist für sie auch die Vorstellung obsolet geworden, es im nächsten Leben anders oder besser machen zu können. Stattdessen ahnt der moderne Mensch, dass er alles, was er erledigen will, in 70, 80, 90 Jahren geschafft haben muss. So wird Beschleunigung zum "Ewigkeitsersatz".

Soziologe Hartmut Rosa Quelle: Jörg Schindler: Der Uhr-Mensch. In: SPIEGEL 36/2014, S. 117.

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To get something you never had, you have to do something you never did.

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T.S. Eliot: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (1915)

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

               So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

               And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

               And should I then presume?

               And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

               Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

               That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

               “That is not it at all,

               That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?   Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

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Nothing is impossible, the word itself says 'I'm possible'!

Audrey Hepburn

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