петък, януари 14, 2011


Mozart & Constanze 

"While I was writing the last page, tear after tear fell on the paper. But I must cheer up - catch! An astonishing number of kisses are flying about - the deuce! I see a whole crowd of them! Ha! Ha!... I have just caught three - they are delicious!" 

                                                                                                                                            Mozart to his wife Constanze

Napoleon Bonaparte to Josephine De Beauharnais
Paris, December 1795

I wake filled with thoughts of you. Your portrait and the intoxicating evening which we spent yesterday have left my senses in turmoil.
Sweet incomparable Josephine, what a strange effect you have on my heart!
Are you angry?
Do I see you looking sad? Are you worried? ...
My soul aches with sorrow, and there can be no rest for your lover; but is there still more in store for me when, yielding to the profound feelings which overwhelm me, I draw from your lips, from your heart a love which consumes me with fire? Ah! it was last night that I fully realized how false an image of you your portrait gives!
You are leaving at noon; I shall see you in three hours.
Until then, mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses; but give me none in return, for they set my blood on fire.


My dearest Teresa,

     I have read this book in your garden;--my love, you were absent, or else I could not have read it.
     It is a favourite book of yours, and the writer was a friend of mine.
     You will not understand these English words, and others will not understand them,--which is the reason I have not scrawled them in Italian.
     But you will recognize the handwriting of him who passionately loved you, and you will divine that, over a book which was yours, he could only think of love.
     In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours--Amor mio--is comprised my existence here and hereafter.
     I feel I exist here, and I feel I shall exist hereafter,--to what purpose you will decide; my destiny rests with you, and you are a woman, eighteen years of age, and two out of a convent. I wish that you had staid there, with all my heart,--or, at least, that I had never met you in your married state.
      But all this is too late. I love you, and you love me,--at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which last is a great consolation in all events.
     But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you.
     Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and ocean divide us,--but they never will, unless you wish it.
George Lord Byron


Rainer Maria Rilke
May 14, 1904, Rome

    To love is good, too: love being difficult.
 For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.
 For this reason young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot yet know love: they have to learn it.
 With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered close about their lonely, timid, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love.
 But learning-time is always a long, secluded time, and so loving, for a long while ahead and far on into life, is--solitude, intensified and deepened loneness for him who loves.
 Love is at first not anything that means merging, giving over, and uniting with another (for what would a union be of something unclarified and unfinished, still subordinate--?), it is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself for another's sake, it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things.


И не смятам за нужно да казвам каквото и да било...
                                                                                                                          ...писмата говорят сами за себе си :)

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