This will not be news to those of you who had a decent mathematical education, but it was to me. After 51 years, thanks to Sean's science homework, I've just learned that there is a difference between precision and accuracy. Really, I had no idea...
(Accuracy, it seems, is only for realists: but even relativists can be—relatively—precise.)
Now for some catch-up.
A few months ago, I picked off the shelf a copy of Rilke's 'Der augewählten Gedichte, anderer Teil. (I don't have the erster Teil, unfortunately). This undated Insel Verlag edition was published in Leipzig, either just before or during the War, judging from the cover, and must have belonged to my uncle Kenneth, as do all of the few decent German books I now possess—including an early copy of Hermann Paul's Prinzipien der Sprachgeschichte, the translation of which will be on my to-do list, probably for ever. It won't happen today, that's for sure: I taught four 90-minute classes virtually back to back, without lunch, came home and cooked dinner, helped to bathe and put the kids in bed...
...Anyway—und dann und wann ein weißer Elephant' (which isn't in this collection, but still careers around my head at least once a week)—I was at my reading of 'Der Schauende' some months ago, and thought: Wow (or some such hint at the ineffable).
What a brilliant piece.
...Wie ist das klein, womit wir ringen
Was mit uns ringt, wie ist das groß:
ließen wir, ähnlicher den Dingen,
uns so vom großen Sturm bezwingen —
wir würden weit und namenlos.
Was wir besiegen, ist das Kleine
und der Erfolg selbst macht uns klein...
Stunning, really. Disheartening, too: after hearing these too perfect lines, writing anything—saying anything—seems only to add more junk to an already overflowing landfill of infinite verbiage.
And so I looked on YouTube for a competent rendering of the poem, and found something quite dreadful, an object lesson in how not to read anything (not even a grocery list), in how a bad performance can utterly ruin even the finest lines.
But then I looked again today
And found the poem resurrect
by Oskar Werner, a man whose name,
though t'is renowned, I never knew
Till now — and more's the shame.
[with apologies to Heine]
YouTube taketh away, but giveth, too
...und dann und wann: ein Wunder — Click to play
Was wir besiegen, ist das Kleine
und der Erfolg selbst macht uns klein...
(Accuracy, it seems, is only for realists: but even relativists can be—relatively—precise.)
Now for some catch-up.
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| (Same series, though mine is an earlier edition) |
...Anyway—und dann und wann ein weißer Elephant' (which isn't in this collection, but still careers around my head at least once a week)—I was at my reading of 'Der Schauende' some months ago, and thought: Wow (or some such hint at the ineffable).
What a brilliant piece.
...Wie ist das klein, womit wir ringen
Was mit uns ringt, wie ist das groß:
ließen wir, ähnlicher den Dingen,
uns so vom großen Sturm bezwingen —
wir würden weit und namenlos.
Was wir besiegen, ist das Kleine
und der Erfolg selbst macht uns klein...
Stunning, really. Disheartening, too: after hearing these too perfect lines, writing anything—saying anything—seems only to add more junk to an already overflowing landfill of infinite verbiage.
And so I looked on YouTube for a competent rendering of the poem, and found something quite dreadful, an object lesson in how not to read anything (not even a grocery list), in how a bad performance can utterly ruin even the finest lines.
But then I looked again today
And found the poem resurrect
by Oskar Werner, a man whose name,
though t'is renowned, I never knew
Till now — and more's the shame.
[with apologies to Heine]
YouTube taketh away, but giveth, too
...und dann und wann: ein Wunder — Click to play
Was wir besiegen, ist das Kleine
und der Erfolg selbst macht uns klein...
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