Como la cigarra

Our appeal to our Readers to send us the songs telling about their history has been generously answered by Julia sharing with us her experiences of their change of regime in the early ’80s:

Me di cuenta, al leer esta entrada de Poemas del Río Wang, de que no podía en modo alguno hacer un aporte realmente abarcador de lo que fue la música de protesta o de transición en Argentina. Hay tanto que no conozco o no tengo presente, o que conozco de nombre, pero para ser sinceros no llegó a tocarme directamente. Sin embargo pensando con sinceridad y sin pretender ser en lo más mínimo exhaustiva, hay canciones que se me empezaron a agolpar en la cabeza al considerar el asunto.

No sé si tienen todas la misma calidad, sé que no representan un misma época. Algunas las recuerdo de cuando yo tenía 12 años y empezaba a hablarse de democracia nuevamente en Argentina, otras vienen heredadas de mis padres. Aquí hay un compilado muy aleatorio (aclaro que creo que las últimas son las de valor más universal).

Lo primero que pensé –al darme cuenta de que lo mejor era hablar de uno mismo, porque hay grandes nombres de Argentina que no podrían faltar en un recorrido completo, pero que no formaron parte de mi verdadera historia– fue en los años 1982 y 1983.

En la Argentina, vivíamos desde 1976 gobernados por una dictadura militar (autodenominada “Proceso de Reorganización Nacional”) que es tristemente célebre por su brutal represión que dejó como saldo miles y miles de muertos. El terrorismo de estado transitaba por cauces subterráneos y su dimensión no fue realmente reconocida por todos en su completa magnitud hasta que volvió la democracia. Se vivía, entonces, un clima de violencia silenciada, de censura y represión ya casi naturalizadas.

En 1982, la Junta Militar nos sumerge en una gran locura: una guerra contra Gran Bretaña por las Islas Malvinas. Si bien creo que todos los argentinos defendemos nuestra soberanía sobre estas islas, el letal proyecto de atacar a los ingleses y mandar una gran cantidad de soldados de 18 años (chicos que estaban haciendo su servicio militar), mal equipados y poco protegidos, fue desgarrador. Lamentablemente muchos argentinos, imbuidos de esa estupidez mental que produce el chauvinismo, aplaudieron al presidente de facto en el poder en ese momento, Comandante Leopoldo F. Galtieri, al proclamar la guerra. La esperable derrota contra los ingleses fue uno de los detonantes más importantes para que el “Proceso” tuviera que dejar el poder y llamara a elecciones en 1983.

El relato de esta guerra viene a cuento aquí, porque fue a causa del enfrentamiento con Gran Bretaña que, en ese año de 1982, la dictadura militar prohibió a las radios pasar música en inglés y se produjo un boom (¡qué rebeldía usar un vocablo del “enemigo”) del llamado “Rock Nacional”.

Luego, en 1983, todos estábamos enfervorizados por la inminente vuelta de la democracia. Yo tenía entre 11 y 12 años (y para datos exóticos vivía en Ushuaia, la ciudad más austral del mundo) y recuerdo mi fascinación al escuchar las canciones del gran músico del rock argentino, Charly García, como Inconsciente colectivo.


Charly García - Inconsciente colectivo - Del álbum Yendo de la cama al living, 1982
También recuerdo el decir sin decir, pero diciendo bastante, otra canción posterior Los dinosaurios (aludiendo a los militares que se estaban yendo del poder y con una clara referencia a los “desaparecidos”, personas arrestadas, torturadas y, en la mayoría de los casos, asesinadas por el terrorismo de estado que se desplegó durante la dictadura de 1976-1983).


Charly García - Los dinosaurios - Del álbum Clics modernos, 1983
Pero sin duda una canción que reúne a argentinos de todos los ámbitos es Sólo le pido a Dios de León Gieco que fue escrita en 1978, pero se convirtió en un himno pacifista durante la guerra de Malvinas (1982) y luego fue muy simbólica en toda la transición hacia la democracia.


León Gieco - Sólo le pido a Dios - Del álbum IV LP, 1978 - Cantada en el link por Mercedes Sosa
Al llegar a Mercedes Sosa que canta tan lindo esa canción de León Gieco, recordé las de María Elena Walsh que me hacía escuchar mi madre. Esta genial y multifacética autora es una institución de la literatura y canción infantil en nuestro país, pero tiene además canciones “para grandes”, entre ellas Serenata para la tierra de uno, una canción preciosa que me emociona cada vez que la escucho (transmisión materna, sin duda). María Elena Walsh sufrió la cerrazón ideológica de los gobiernos de Juan Domingo Perón (de 1946 a 1955 y de 1973 a 1976 –seguido después de su muerte en 1974 por su mujer, vicepresidente electa) y también la de las distintas dictaduras militares que los sucedieron (salvo pequeñas bocanadas de democracia en la década del 60). Así que esta canción de amor al propio país y de compromiso con él más allá de todas las dificultades, desagrados y contradicciones muestra el sentir preciso de muchos argentinos. Cuesta reconocer, sin embargo, que sólo nosotros somos los culpables de lo que vivimos (no tuvimos invasiones, ataques externos, ni catástrofes naturales que puedan justificar los descalabros de nuestra historia). De todas formas, la letra de la canción es muy sutil, no hay un tono de denuncia, sólo se sobreentienden las dificultades al retratar los tironeos del alma al tener que justificar el querer vivir “en la tierra de uno”.


Serenata para la tierra de uno de María Elena Walsh cantada también por Mercedes Sosa
Otra canción suya, muy emblemática para nosotros, es Como la cigarra. Fue compuesta en épocas de transición de un gobierno militar de los 60 al último de Perón, que luego, en 1976, desembocaría en el “Proceso” militar. Lo curioso es que la misma autora ha dicho que cuando ella cantó en público esta canción hacia 1975 a nadie le llamaba mucho la atención ni parecía entenderla y, sin embargo, años después se convertiría en un himno del renacimiento de la democracia en 1983. Se ve que en ese momento muchos argentinos nos dimos cuenta de que también habíamos sido y éramos como la cigarra.


Como la cigarra – María Elena Walsh, 1972 - En este link cantada Mercedes Sosa (a mediados de los '70 supongo)
Aquí van las letras.

Inconsciente colectivo Charly García Nace una flor, todos los días sale el sol de vez en cuando escuchas aquella voz. Como de pan, gustosa de cantar, en los aleros de mi mente con las chicharras. Pero a la vez existe un transformador que te consume lo mejor que tenés te tira atrás, te pide más y más y llega un punto en que no querés. Mamá la libertad, siempre la llevarás dentro del corazón te pueden corromper te puedes olvidar pero ella siempre está Mamá la libertad, siempre la llevarás dentro del corazón te pueden corromper te puedes olvidar pero ella siempre está Ayer soñé con los hambrientos, los locos, los que se fueron, los que están en prisión hoy desperté cantando esta canción que ya fue escrita hace tiempo atrás. Es necesario cantar de nuevo, una vez más. Los Dinosaurios Charly García Los amigos del barrio pueden desaparecer Los cantores de radio pueden desaparecer Los que están en los diarios pueden desaparecer La persona que amas puede desaparecer. Los que están en el aire pueden desaparecer en el aire Los que están en la calle pueden desaparecer en la calle. Los amigos del barrio pueden desaparecer, Pero los dinosaurios van a desaparecer. No estoy tranquilo mi amor, Hoy es sábado a la noche, Un amigo está en cana. Oh, mi amor, Desaparece el mundo Si los pesados, mi amor, llevan todo ese montón de equipajes en la mano Oh, mi amor, yo quiero estar liviano. Cuando el mundo tira para abajo es mejor no estar atado a nada Imaginen a los dinosaurios en la cama Cuando el mundo tira para abajo es mejor no estar atado a nada Imaginen a los dinosaurios en la cama Los amigos del barrio pueden desaparecer Los cantores de radio pueden desaparecer Los que están en los diarios pueden desaparecer La persona que amas puede desaparecer. Los que están en el aire pueden desaparecer en el aire Los que están en la calle pueden desaparecer en la calle. Los amigos del barrio pueden desaparecer, Pero los dinosaurios van a desaparecer. Serenata para la tierra de uno María Elena Walsh Porque me duele si me quedo pero me muero si me voy, por todo y a pesar de todo, mi amor, yo quiero vivir en vos. Por tu decencia de vidala y por tu escándalo de sol, por tu verano con jazmines, mi amor, yo quiero vivir en vos. Porque el idioma de infancia es un secreto entre los dos, porque le diste reparo al desarraigo de mi corazón. Por tus antiguas rebeldías y por la edad de tu dolor, por tu esperanza interminable, mi amor, yo quiero vivir en vos. Para sembrarte de guitarra para cuidarte en cada flor, y odiar a los que te lastiman, mi amor, yo quiero vivir en vos.

Sólo le pido a Dios León Gieco Sólo le pido a Dios que el dolor no me sea indiferente, que la reseca muerte no me encuentre vacío y solo sin haber hecho lo suficiente. Sólo le pido a Dios que lo injusto no me sea indiferente, que no me abofeteen la otra mejilla después que una garra me arañó esta suerte. Sólo le pido a Dios que la guerra no me sea indiferente, es un monstruo grande y pisa fuerte toda la pobre inocencia de la gente. Sólo le pido a Dios que el engaño no me sea indiferente si un traidor puede más que unos cuantos, que esos cuantos no lo olviden fácilmente. Sólo le pido a Dios que el futuro no me sea indiferente, desahuciado está el que tiene que marchar a vivir a una cultura diferente Como la cigarra María Elena Walsh Tantas veces me mataron, tantas veces me morí, sin embargo estoy aquí resucitando. Gracias doy a la desgracia y a la mano con puñal, porque me mató tan mal, y seguí cantando. Cantando al sol, como la cigarra, después de un año bajo la tierra, igual que sobreviviente que vuelve de la guerra. Tantas veces me borraron, tantas desaparecí, a mi propio entierro fui, solo y llorando. Hice un nudo del pañuelo, pero me olvidé después que no era la única vez y seguí cantando. Cantando al sol, como la cigarra, después de un año bajo la tierra, igual que sobreviviente que vuelve de la guerra. Tantas veces te mataron, tantas resucitarás cuántas noches pasarás desesperando. Y a la hora del naufragio y a la de la oscuridad alguien te rescatará, para ir cantando. Cantando al sol, como la cigarra, después de un año bajo la tierra, igual que sobreviviente que vuelve de la guerra

Soñando viejas luces de Hungría

That this our world is so small, to follow on the catchword of the previous post, is attested by the fact that all the three songs randomly selected as examples of history sung link up in some way the two fines terrae of Latin culture, Spain and Hungary. I have already expounded this about the first and the third song, but about the second I only discovered the same after the publication of the post.


Dusán & Zorán Sztevanovity: Volt egy tánc (There Was a Dance) (From the CD Az élet dolgai (The Things of Life), 1991) (See its text and our comments in the previous post.)

This song, Volt egy tánc (There Was a Dance) was written by Dusán Sztevanovity on the melody of the popular Take This Waltz by Leonard Cohen


Leonard Cohen, Take This Waltz (From the CD I’m Your Man, 1988)

However, the lyrics of the original song of Cohen is a free translation of a poem by Federico García Lorca. Here you can read Cohen’s text together with the English translation of Lorca’s poem, while here a comparison of the two texts. And here below the poem in the original Spanish.

Little Viennese Waltz In Vienna there are ten little girls a shoulder for death to cry on and a forest of dried pigeons. There is a fragment of tomorrow in the museum of winter frost. There is a thousand-windowed dance hall. Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this close-mouthed waltz. Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz, of itself, of death, and of brandy that dips its tail in the sea. I love you, I love you, I love you, with the armchair and the book of death down the melancholy hallway, in the iris's dark garret, in our bed that was once the moon's bed, and in that dance the turtle dreamed of. Ay, ay, ay, ay! Take this broken-waisted waltz In Vienna there are four mirrors in which your mouth and the echoes play. There is a death for piano that paints the little boys blue. There are beggars on the roof. There are fresh garlands of tears. Aye, ay, ay, ay! Take this waltz that dies in my arms. Because I love you, I love you, my love, in the attic where children play, dreaming ancient lights of Hungary through the noise, the balmy afternoon, seeing sheep and irises of snow through the dark silence of your forehead. Ay, ay, ay ay! Take this “I will always love you” waltz. In Vienna I will dance with you in a costume with a river's head. See how the hyacinths line my banks! I will leave my mouth between your legs, my soul in photographs and lilies, and in the dark wake of your footsteps, my love, my love, I will have to leave violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons.

Pequeño vals vienés En Viena hay diez muchachas, un hombro donde solloza la muerte y un bosque de palomas disecadas. Hay un fragmento de la mañana en el museo de la escarcha. Hay un salón con mil ventanas. ¡Ay, ay, ay, ay! Toma este vals con la boca cerrada. Este vals, este vals, este vals, este vals, de sí, de muerte y de coñac que moja su cola en el mar. Te quiero, te quiero, te quiero, con la butaca y el libro muerto, por el melancólico pasillo, en el oscuro desván del lirio, en nuestra cama de la luna y en la danza que sueña la tortuga. ¡Ay, ay, ay, ay! Toma este vals de quebrada cintura. En Viena hay cuatro espejos donde juegan tu boca y los ecos. Hay una muerte para piano que pinta de azul a los muchachos. Hay mendigos por los tejados, hay frescas guirnaldas de llanto. ¡Ay, ay, ay, ay! Toma este vals que se muere en mis brazos. Porque te quiero, te quiero, amor mío, en el desván donde juegan los niños, soñando viejas luces de Hungría por los rumores de la tarde tibia, viendo ovejas y lirios de nieve por el silencio oscuro de tu frente. ¡Ay, ay, ay, ay! Toma este vals, este vals del «Te quiero siempre». En Viena bailaré contigo con un disfraz que tenga cabeza de río. ¡Mira qué orillas tengo de jacintos! Dejaré mi boca entre tus piernas, mi alma en fotografías y azucenas, y en las ondas oscuras de tu andar quiero, amor mío, amor mío, dejar, violín y sepulcro, las cintas del vals.

The great Flamenco singer Enrique Morente who had met Leonard Cohen in 1993 in Madrid dedicated to his songs and to Lorca’s poems the CD Omega of 1996 that has since become a veritable cult disk in Spain. On this he sings the Pequeño vals vienés with the melody of Cohen, but with the original text of Lorca in a fascinating Flamenco style.


Federico García Lorca: Pequeño vals vienés, performed by Enrique Morente

And to make the links between the two fines terrae even more intricate, Lorca himself mentions Hungary in his poem: Soñando viejas luces de Hungría – “Dreaming about the ancient lights of Hungary”. And indeed this is the very subject of the text written sixty years later by Dusán Sztevanovity on the melody of Cohen and on the memory of the lost generation of his parents. The circle closes.

History sung

Recently we were listening with Wang Wei along a whole night to the songs of the Spanish Transition, comparing those years with those of the change of regimes in Eastern Europe. During that night we decided that we would post for each other some songs now and then that put into words the history as it was personally experienced, and that thus became “hymns” for a generation, as they say in Spanish.

Such songs, in spite of their popularity in their own countries, are almost always unknown beyond their borders. They are never translated, and when their melody is occasionally borrowed it is always provided with a new text. Only if you take into consideration how many such songs you know and love in your own language – and hereby we ask the benevolent Reader to share with us her or his own ones – then you realize how important dimensions of the history of all the other countries remain unknown to you, even if you perhaps know the languages of some of them.

At the same time it is exactly the local notoriety of these songs that makes it difficult to write about them in one’s own language. For what could I tell about them that my compatriots do not know? If it were not for the deliberate bilinguism of our blog, we would prefer to write about them only in English, so that Wang Wei – or Pei Di – would translate them only into Spanish or Hungarian, respectively. Under the circumstances, however, we cannot but keep in mind an ideal reader who is a foreigner but nevertheless reads well Hungarian or Spanish; and consequently we also expect our benevolent Reader to keep in mind that these posts have been written for such an ideal reader and to benevolently forgive us the references to things too well known to her or him.

It is even difficult to label these posts in their original languages. In English most of such songs are called “ballads” and those who sing them “ballad singers.” In other languages there is no word for the genre, but yes for their authors-singers, like the Spanish and Italian “cantautores” and “cantautori”, or the Russian “бард”. In Hungarian, however, neither the genre nor its singers have a term of their own, although both of them exist since the medieval minstrels and the wandering chronicle-singers of the Turkish wars to János Bródy and Dusán Sztevanovity (the latter has just published in print his complete lyrics written since the '60s with the title Csak szöveg [Just texts]). Finally, while keeping “ballad” as our English label, in the Hungarian version of the blog we decided to adopt the label “énekelt versek” (“poems sung”) coined by the great performer Ferenc Sebő in the '80s which also indicates how much this genre has borrowed from written poetry, both from medieval minstrels and Renaissance chronicle-singers and from modern authors.


As this thread started from the songs of various changes of regimes, let us open our sounding gallery with the song of the Hungarian change of regime undergone by ourselves, the Happy times by Zorán Sztevanovity.

(Those who read some Hungarian, here can find a fascinating short biography of the two brothers of Serbian origin, the singer Zorán and the poet Dušán whose father, having fought as a Serbian partisan against the Nazis, suffered several years of persecution, imprisonment and tortures in the '50s as a member of the Yugoslavian embassy of Budapest for resisting to the claims of autocracy of both Tito and Stalin. One of their most famous songs, also quoted below, bears reference to these events.)

Interestingly, the experiences of the years of change in the late '80s and early '90s, bringing with themselves the interruption of so many friendships falling on the other side of the unexpectedly and irrationally outlined new ideological borders, will be also familiar to our Spanish readers, albeit not in the perspective of twenty, but rather of eighty years. We specifically call the attention of our foreign readers to such polysemic idioms like “camp” (peace camp, pioneer camp, labour camp), or “digging a pit” (“gravediggers of capitalism” and the Hungarian proverb “who digs a pit for others will fall in it himself”), as well as to such idiosyncrasies like the unspecific great purpose or the never-falling sun of glory that will also sound familiar to those heirs of the world empire of Emperor Charles V (above which the sun never fell) who have lost it through a long series of defeats.


Dusán Sztevanovity (text) and Zorán (song):
Boldog idő (Happy time) (from the CD Az élet dolgai (The things of life), 1991)

So proudly stood the camp in the very middle of the world and we had a tent of our own and her and me in it It was a tremendously bright age the Sun shone day and night and we discovered the great purpose: she me and I her. It was a great life The song was echoing on The heart was drumming for that was a beautiful, happy time no wine, no money, only me and her That was a beautiful, happy time happy time In the daytime we mostly digged pits: the beautiful future already came up to the shoulders and we were always on the top once me and then her Tell me anything, but I liked that damned past time because there was the tent in it and her and me in the tent It was a great life The song was echoing on The heart was drumming for that was a beautiful, happy time no wine, no money, only me and her That was a beautiful, happy time only me and her, happy time And then the camp suddenly collapsed in the very middle of the peace and the tent buried us under itself with me and her in it And by when we finally crept out there was no camp, only bad weather and we set out to seek for a new tent this way me and that way her In front of us there was the large horizon and I already see that this will be the beautiful happy time no problem, no money, no wine, no woman This will be the beautiful happy time no money, no woman happy time

Olyan büszkén állt a tábor Pont a világ kellős közepén És a miénk volt egy sátor Benne ő, és benne én Az egy roppant fényes kor volt Éjjel-nappal a Nap sütött És a nagy célt felfedeztük Engem ő, és én meg őt Nagy élet volt Az ének szólt A szív dobolt Mert az volt a szép boldog idő Se bor, se pénz, csak én meg ő Az volt a szép boldog idő Boldog idő Nappal főleg vermet ástunk Már vállig ért a szép jövő De mi mindig fölül voltunk Egyszer én, máskor ő Mondhatsz bármit, nekem tetszett Ez az átkos múlt idő Mert a sátor ott állt benne És benne én, s benne ő Nagy élet volt Az ének szólt A szív dobolt Mert az volt a szép boldog idő Se bor, se pénz, csak én meg ő Az volt a szép boldog idő Csak én meg ő, boldog idő Aztán összedőlt a tábor Pont a béke kellős közepén Maga alá gyűrt a sátor És benne ő, és benne én S mire lassan előbújtunk Tábor nincs, csak rossz idő Megyünk sátor után nézni Erre én és arra ő Előttünk áll A tág határ S én látom már Hogy az lesz a szép boldog idő Se gond, se pénz Se bor, se nő Az lesz a szép boldog idő Se pénz, se nő boldog idő

Two other songs serve for footnote to this one. The Volt egy tánc (There Was a Dance), written on the melody of Leonard Cohen’s “Take This Waltz” and published on the same CD – it could have not even been published earlier – sums up the history of the fifty years coming to a definitive end in 1989, through the personal history of the author’s and singer’s parents: from pre-war years, the last time when there was dance and brooch and culture in Hungary through the darkness of the fifties to the hopeless provincialism of the three decades of the so-called “Kádár era”. There’s not much to explain about this either. We call the attention of the foreign reader that the “dreadful car” is a synonyme of the idiom “fekete autó” (“black car”, e.g. “the black car came for him” = ‘he was arrested by the secret police’) that in those years put deep roots in colloquial Hungarian.


Dusán & Zorán Sztevanovity: Volt egy tánc (There Was a Dance) (From the CD Az élet dolgai (The Things of Life), 1991)

A show-white ship was sailing on the river and the boy and the girl pressed close to each other a colorful lampion was shining on the sky like the brooch on the deep blue vest And the board was filled with music, they played a slowly swinging romantic song ay, ay, ay, ay, there was a dance, a dance as beautiful as you only see in movies And the trains set off, one after the other and the boy was standing at the window and the old, hardeded soldiers in the wagon were just laughing at him: If you are a man, hide your tears – what will you do when coming to the battlefield? Ay, ay, ay, ay there was a dance, a dance and perhaps there will be a continuation one time A dance, a dance, a dance, a dance and through the flames, death and smoke a white ship is sailing And the trains came back, one after the other – some peaceful years we did merit too – and then came that dreadful car and it silently stopped in front of the house. And Mom was standing at the window and waiting for my father for years again. Ay, ay, ay, ay there was a dance, a dance perhaps there will be a continuation some time And the brooch was not enough to buy any more coal and the third winter passed away and an early morning they rang the bell three times and my father stood at the door It did not matter that we already had nothing the great pawnshop swallowed everything ay, ay, ay, ay there was a dance, a dance and perhaps there will be a continuation indeed A dance, a dance, a dance, a dance and through the prison, solitude and hope a white ship is sailing But the news and cannons were speaking again in fact, why should life be different? and we pressed all we had in two suitcases but we already did not manage to leave Now they watch the TV in silence where another world is shining and they don’t call anyone to account for the long series of stolen years Because dreams were lost for nothing like the clothes left in the pawnshop Hm, there was a dance a dance, a dance and sometimes they believed there would be a continuation

Hófehér hajó úszott a folyón S összesimult a fiú s a lány Színes lampion fénylett az égen Mint a brosstű a mélykék ruhán És a fedélzet zenével megtelt Szólt a ringató, lassú románc Aj, aj, aj, aj Volt egy tánc, volt egy tánc Ilyen szépet csak filmekben látsz És a vonatok indultak sorra És a fiú az ablakban állt És a vagonban nevettek rajta A harcedzett vén katonák Hogyha férfi vagy, rejtsd el a könnyed Mi lesz veled, ha a csatában jársz Aj, aj, aj, aj Volt egy tánc, volt egy tánc Talán egyszer még lesz folytatás Egy tánc, egy tánc, egy tánc, egy tánc És a lángon, a halálon, füstön át Úszik egy fehér hajó És a vonatok megjöttek sorra Néhány békeév nekünk is járt Aztán jött az a rettegett autó És a ház előtt halkan megállt És a mama az ablaknál állva Újra évekig apámra várt Aj, aj, aj, aj Volt egy tánc, volt egy tánc Talán egyszer még lesz folytatás És a brosstűből szénre már nem telt És a harmadik tél is lejárt És egy hajnalon csöngettek hármat És az apám az ajtóban állt Azt se bántuk, hogy nem volt már semmink Mindent elnyelt a nagy zálogház Aj, aj, aj, aj Volt egy tánc, volt egy tánc Talán mégiscsak lesz folytatás Egy tánc, egy tánc, egy tánc, egy tánc És a börtönön, magányon, reményen át Úszik egy fehér hajó De már szóltak a hírek s az ágyuk Mondd, az életük miért lenne más És mi mindent két bőröndbe gyűrtünk De már nem ment az elindulás Már csak csendesen nézik a tévét Ahol ragyog egy másik világ És ők nem kérik senkin se számon Az elrabolt évek sorát Pedig semmiért vesztek el álmok Mint a zálogban hagyott ruhák Hm, volt egy tánc Volt egy tánc, volt egy tánc S néha elhitték, lesz folytatás

And finally the same hopeless atmosphere is immortalized in another footnote song, the Vasárnap délután (Sunday Afternoon), as we have undergone it ourselves. When I look inside, I clearly see in front of me even today the stale silence and choking desperation of the empty city in a Sunday afternoon. When I tried to present this to Wang Wei as the quintessence of Eastern European existence, illustrating it precisely with the Vasárnap délután, he just laughed and cited to me the Portuguese fados speaking about the same unbearableness of Sunday. So small is this our world.


Dusán & Zorán Sztevanovity: Vasárnap délután (Sunday Afternoon) (From the CD Zorán III, 1979)

On Sunday afternoon the city dies a little bit and the shopwindows are somehow paler On Sunday afternoon a real ice cream is a real pleasure and sometimes I feel an old fragrance On Sunday afternoon, after the long and silent lunch Mom always put the nice clothes on me At the door she combed my hair and she did not pay attention to my demand to let me dress all the week like this. na - na - na - na - Sunday afternoon na - na - na - na - Sunday afternoon On Sunday afternoon the faces of the girls are a little bit nicer and the big boy promised to come home by ten The shoes are shining on the parquet floor of the dance school and a few pairs manage to perform the figure On Sunday afternoon was it that I got to know you your brother was playing chess with my father at us we were teenagers and I talked heaps of crap to you and we tried and found how good love was On Sunday afternoon perhaps anger is more silent, too and the divorced father can see his little son Relatives from the countryside pay visit to the newborns and all the flowers are bought up at the cemetery of Farkasrét. On Sunday afternoon was it that I saw you again and it all happened again as at one time You did not grew much more adult, neither I more serious and we knew beforehead how good it is to love On Sunday afternoon my time silently passes away and sometimes I feel as if you were nearing on Sunday afternoon is always too close the evening when I know you’ll never come again On Sunday afternoon the city dies a little bit and the shopwindows are somehow paler On Sunday afternoon nothing has happened since long only sometimes I feel an old fragrance

Vasárnap délután a város meghal egy kicsit És valahogy sápadtabbak a kirakatok Vasárnap délután egy igazi fagylalt jólesik És néha érzek egy régi illatot Vasárnap délután a csendes, hosszú ebéd után A mama rám adta mindig a szép ruhát Az ajtóban még megfésült és nem hallgatott rám Ha kértem, hadd járjak így egész héten át na - na - na - na - vasárnap délután, na - na - na - na - vasárnap délután Vasárnap délután a lányok arca kicsit szebb S a nagyfiú ígérte tízre hazajön A tánciskola parkettjén a cipők fényesek És néhány párnak a figura összejön Vasárnap délután volt mikor megismertelek A bátyád apámmal nálunk sakkozott Kamaszok voltunk és sok hülyeséget beszéltem neked És kipróbáltuk, a szerelem jó dolog Vasárnap délután talán a harag is csendesebb S az elvált apa láthatja kisfiát A vidéki rokonok látogatják az újszülötteket És Farkasréten is elfogy a sok virág Vasárnap délután volt mikor viszontláttalak És újra megtörtént, ahogyan egy régi napon Te sem lettél felnőttebb és én sem komolyabb És előre tudtuk, szeretni jó nagyon Vasárnap délután az időm csendesen megy el És néha úgy érzem, máris érkezel Vasárnap délután az este mindig túl közel Mikor tudom, hogy többé nem jössz el Vasárnap délután a város meghal egy kicsit És valahogy sápadtabbak a kirakatok Vasárnap délután már régen semmi sem történik Csak néha érzek egy régi illatot

Dogs of God

Not all of them are dogs. But all are looking with the same openness and confidence as the dog looks at its master. In the safety of the created being and in the presence of the Master taking care of the creation. In the Mesoamerican exhibition of the Dahlem Museum of Berlin.

With all its eyes the animal world beholds the Open. … Free from death. Only we see death; the free animal has its demise perpetually behind it and before it always God, and when it moves, it moves into eternity, the way brooks and running springs move.		Mit allen Augen sieht die Kreatur das Offene. … Frei von Tod. Ihn sehen wir allein; das freie Tier hat seinen Untergang stets hinter sich und vor sich Gott, und wenn es geht, so gehts in Ewigkeit, so wie die Brunnen gehen.
(Rilke, Eighth Elegy)

Ethologists write that during the several thousand years passed on the side of the man, the dog became a being that is genetically dependent on man and is only able to accomplish itself in a symbiosis with him. It is not a being closed in itself as the majority of animals are, but is open to man: he is the center of its existence. It can become wild, but by this it also becomes deformed, unlike other animals, while if it lives in a real closeness to man, it is somehow able to rise above the limits of its own animal existence.

As a man living in a real closeness to dogs, I have been watching for several years this strange metamorphosis of them, and I can imagine on this model the relationship between man and God. As it was quoted from Saint John of the Cross by his companion Brother Eliseo (at that time living, by chance, in a Mexican Carmelitan monastery):

When a very simple sister once asked him why the frogs were jumping into the water when she was nearing to the pond in the garden of the monastery, he replied that for the frogs the depth of the pond is that place, that center where they feel safe and where nobody can hurt them. Let her act the same, that is, let her avoid the creatures and submerge to the depth and in her own center who is God and let her hide in Him.

Man – again unlike the majority of animals – is not a being closed in himself, but by constitution is open to God. His “center” is not in himself, but in Him. And like the dog, he also has only two choices of either turning away from this center and thus getting deformed, or trying to get increasingly nearer to Him, and thus rising above the limits of his human existence.

It is precisely John of the Cross and Teresa of Avila who describe this anthropology in the most detailed way.

And yet, upon that warm, alert animal is the weight and care of enormous sadness. For what sometimes overwhelms us always clings to it, too—a kind of memory that tells us that what we're now striving for was once nearer and truer and attached to us with infinite tenderness. Here all is distance, there it was breath.

..

Und doch ist in dem wachsam warmen Tier Gewicht und Sorge einer großen Schwermut. Denn ihm auch haftet immer an, was uns oft überwältigt – die Erinnerung, als sei schon einmal das, wonach man drängt, näher gewesen, treuer und sein Anschluss unendlich zärtlich. Hier ist alles Abstand, und dort wars Atem.

Who does not speak Arabic

...should better not speak Arabic, says the Hungarian proverb. Honestly, I cannot imagine in what circumstances our proverb-making forefathers found themselves constrained speaking precisely Arabic rather than Turkish, Tartar or Teuton and thus facing the gulf yawning between the subjective and objective reality of their linguistic competencies. Quite unrealistic. But so many unrealistic things happen daily in our lives. I would have not imagined Serbs getting in such situation either, and lo, it did happen. True, they have no proverb to defend them from such a danger.

The popular group Kulin ban has played since 2005 Medieval Serbian music mixed with modern elements (“od Kulina bana do današnjih dana” – “from Kulin Ban (†1204) to our days”). On their site composed with great ethnomusicological care they also present in detail the traditional instruments of the Balkans and of the Middle East. They describe Arabic lute – oud – like this:


“Both the words oud and lute [laúd, liuto] come from Arabic al-’ud [“the tree”]...” In fact: every lute history begins with this phrase. However, the word written there with Arabic characters does not mean this.

First of all because of the uncorrect form of the letters. In Arabic every letter has four different forms, depending on its position at the beginning, middle or end of the word. It isn’t magic: in our cursive script we also put a little stroke in front of “o”, for example, when it follows another letter, but omit it if it stands at the beginning of a word. The difference of the various Arabic character forms is no more important than this, and it is also dictated by the momentum of the writing hand. Nevertheless, whoever picked together these five letters from the computer’s character table knew nothing about this convention, and always chose the standalone form, like this:

د و ع ل ا

This is like someone writing in cursive script, but lifting the pen after each letter, leaving a short break, and then continuing with the next letter. In Arabic this looks even more strange as the difference of the various forms is much more marked. If the composer chose the correct medial and final forms, the word would look like this:

دوعلا

The more important mishap is, however, that he typed the word from left to right, as Serbs write, and not from right to left as Arabs do who would read the above word as du’lā. I don’t know whether this means anything. It does not figure in the dictionary, although Google has 303 occurrences of it. Anyway, the correct right-to-left form of the word al-’ud should be this:

العود

And as to why the name of the lute comes precisely from the word “tree”, Arabic popular etymology offers a fascinating explanation. The tree, while living, absorbes the song of all the birds singing on its branches along the years. Then the tree becomes a lute, and the lute emits the condensed song of the birds, the more profusely the longer the tree had been absorbing it. I have seen a wonderful Persian miniature illustrating this in the bazaar of Esfahan. I am sorry for having not bought it. Perhaps I would also play more beautifully on the lute if I put it in front of myself.

However, this small typo was only good to offer an occasion for the popularization of the Kulin ban. For both their site and their program is rich and beautiful, as is the music they play. Their first CD Kulin ban was published in 2006, still with much experimenting. We are looking forward to the more mature next one.


Kulin ban: Žali Zare da žalimo, 2006 (2'08")

Kulin ban: Januške Beluške, 2006 (6'12")

Confines del Río Wang

Quien no ha peregrinado, ¿qué ha visto? Quien no ha visto, ¿qué ha alcanzado? Quien no ha alcanzado, ¿qué ha sabido? ¿Y qué puede llamar descanso quien no ha tenido fortuna por la mar o por la tierra? Pues, como dice Ovidio: «No merece las cosas dulces quien no ha gustado las amarguras, ni ha tenido regalado día en la patria quien no ha venido de larga ausencia a los brazos de sus amigos». (Lope de Vega, El peregrino en su patria)

Aquí dejamos tres momentos consecutivos de un viaje al pueblo de Szék, en Transilvania. Íbamos a una boda y encontramos, además, un funeral, el del abuelo de la novia, que acababa de morir. Son tres galerías de imágenes, sin más palabras. Primero, el viaje. El funeral y el entierro, nada más llegar. Y la boda, al día siguiente, con su larga fiesta hasta el amanecer. Ved un mundo que desaparece.

Nota de Pei Di: Aunque estoy seguro de que recorreréis estos tres álbumes de fotos, dejadme que destaque aquí abajo una de ellas. Son los músicos gitanos que, a solicitud expresa del difunto abuelo, tocaron durante todo su funeral y continuaron tocando, pocas horas después y casi hasta la extenuación, en la boda de su nieta. Fue el hermoso primer encuentro de Wang Wei con el absurdo mágico de esta Europa del Este.

Discreción

Hemos encontrado una prueba irrefutable de la popularidad de las publicaciones de Studiolum: la edición húngara de junio de 2008 de GEO magazine, dedicado a La Ruta de la Seda, incluye un artículo de dos páginas sobre Aurel Stein, ilustrado con tres fotos extraídas de la página sobre este personaje (http://dunhuang.mtak.hu) que preparamos entre Studiolum y la Biblioteca de la Academia Húngara de Ciencias, exactamente de la primera y la segunda página.

Lástima que este artículo no contribuirá a la bien merecida fama de nuestra página porque solo nosotros sabemos de dónde proceden las imágenes. En efecto, el autor del artículo Péter Erdély Eszkimó olvidó con todo cuidado mencionar su fuente.

Y ¿cómo podemos estar seguros? Muy simple. Las dos primeras imágenes eran inéditas hasta que fueron publicadas por nosotros, mientras que la tercera, el retrato de Aurel Stein, es en realidad una foto en grises que nosotros convertimos en sepia para darle ese aire de fotografía antigua. Además, las únicas copias de las dos primeras están guardadas en la Colección Oriental de la Academia. Habría sido un bonito detalle mencionarnos, aunque solo fuera en un pie de foto con tipografía menor.

Discretion

The popularity of the publications of Studiolum is indicated by the fact that the printed Hungarian version of the June 2008 edition of the GEO magazine, dedicated to the Silk Road, also included a two-pages article on Aurel Stein, illustrated with three photos taken over from the Stein page (http://dunhuang.mtak.hu) prepared by the Studiolum and the Library of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences, right from the first and the second page, respectively.

What a pity that this article will not contribute to the growth of the well-deserved popularity of our page, for only we know where these images come from. In fact, the author of the article Péter Erdélyi Eszkimó carefully forgot to indicate their source.

And where do we know it from? Very simple. The first two images out of the three were published by us for the first time, while the third one, the portrait of Aurel Stein is in the reality just as black as the other two: we have converted it into this sepia tone for the sake of an old-fashioned impression. By the way, the only copies of the first two ones are preserved in the Oriental Collection of the Academy. At least this much should have been fair to be mentioned in a caption in small print.

I’ll come when you call me

Whoever clicked on the link to the Klezmatics in the previous post and listened to the first song of their Grammy-awarded CD Wonder Wheel, experienced a strange fusion of several layers of time. The lyrics on the CD were written by the legendary traveling songwriter and folk musician of the '40s Woody Guthrie, but their melodies date from sixty or – indirectly – thirty years later. In fact, around the turn of the century a number of renowned American pop musicians attempted to “complete” the lyrics of Guthrie that survived without music. Among them there was, upon the request of Guthrie’s daughter, the Klezmatics as well. They, however, did not apply here their usual modern klezmer style, but had recourse to those simple, melodic, “bright” ballads of the '60s and '70s written by Guthrie’s belated disciples like Bob Dylan or Donovan. These are the melodies of our childhood, and it is a curious feeling to hear them again. And one more, final layer of time is that this CD of 2006 – also arranging several Biblical texts like Take off your shoes, the spot you’re standing is holy ground; Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will never pass away – says, although in a different way, the same as sixteen years earlier the Hassidic song on the CD Rhythm and Jews.


Guthrie wrote in 1949 this song that starts as a simple counting rhyme: the first verse beginning with “one” is augmented at every repetition with one more verse beginning with two, three, four etc., up to ten. And also the question-and-reply introducing the counting verses comes from a children’s play in which the “mother” asks her “child” whether she will come home when she will call her. The “child” answers yes, and then the “mother” tells her at what time she will call her. We only write here the last strophe of the song that contains all the ten verses of the counting rhyme.


Woody Guthrie-Klezmatics (1949/2006): Come When I Call You (4'25")

Oh, will you come when I call you? I’ll come when you call me. I’ll call you at half-past ten. Ten for the atom bomb loose again. Nine for the crippled and blind. Eight for my eight billion graves. Seven for the continents blowed up. Six for the cities all wrecked. Five’s for the warplanes that fly. Four’s for the guns of this war. Three’s for these warships at sea. Two’s for the love of me and you. One’s for the pretty little baby that’s born, born, born and gone away.

The “pretty little baby” can be eventually Guthrie’s youngest child who not much earlier died in a fire. But as with the verses progressing the lyrics becomes increasingly apocalyptic, so the image of the lost child becomes also increasingly metaphoric – and the introductory question-and-answer increasingly eschatologic. It is already not the mother who asks her child whether she will come, but the child her mother, the abandoned man God: and it is also significant that not at an exact hour like in the original play, but always late, half an hour after the horror caused by himself. The title of the poem is a single cry for help: Come when I call you. Maran atha. But after every new horror we hear again and again the phrase which again and again rises above the tragedy: I’ll come when you call me.

Meshiakh ben Dovid zitst oybn on

This illuminated initial letter of the so-called Kaufmann Haggadah, copied in Catalonia in the 14th century represents a king raising his goblet to say a blessing: BRWK, that is Baruk Adonai, Blessed be the Lord. The king is in all probability David, for in the haggadah resuming the liturgy of Seder Night this image follows Psalm 113 of David:

Praise the Lord!
Praise the name of the Lord!
Let the name of the Lord be praised both now and for evermore!
From the risig of the sun to the place where it sets, the name of the Lord is to be praised!
The Lord is exalted over all the nations,
his glory above the heavens.

The Bohemian David Kaufmann (1852-1899) won at a competition the first professor’s chair of the College of Rabbinical Studies of Budapest founded in 1877. He soon learned perfect Hungarian too, as foreseen by the requirements of his new position, and later he left his precious collection of medieval Hebrew manuscripts to the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. We are just working on their web edition with Studiolum.

We have selected this blessing initial from the most famous manuscript of the collection as the emblem of our edition. For David Kaufmann himself became identical with King David for a moment when, out of exuberant joy felt over the purchase of the most ancient – 10th-century Palestinian - manuscript of the Mishnah, he wrote his own thanksgiving poem on the inner endpaper of the manuscript with the title “Psalm of David”.


This representation of King David seen exactly in the eschatological light of Seder Night also foresees the figure of the Messiah, as he is described in this beautiful Hassidic song:

A string of pearls, a golden banner The Messiah, son of David sits on high Holding a goblet in his right hand Making a blessing on the whole land. Amen and amen, this is sure: The Messiah will come this year. If he comes by chariot, There will be good years. If he comes on horseback, There will be good times. If he comes on foot, The Jews will go into the Land of Israel.

Shnirele perele, gildene fon Meshiakh ben Dovid zitst oybn on Er halt a bekher in der rekhter hant, Makht a brokhe afn gantsn land. Omeyn veomeyn, dos iz vor, Meshiakh vet kumen hayntiks yor. Vet er kumen tsu forn, Veln zayn gute yorn. Vet er kumen tsu raytn, Veln zayn gute tsaytn. Vet er kumen tsu geyn, Veln di yidn in erets yisroyl aynshteyn.

Kata recounts that when the Klezmatics at the very end of the 80’s – among the first signs of the political opening of Hungary – gave a concert in Budapest, and they had been frolicking throughout all the night with such modern klezmers like


Klezmatics: Man in a Hat (3'03") (From the disk Jews with Horns)

at the very end they suddenly stopped short, and then silently started this song: The Messiah will come this year.


Klezmatics: Shnirele perele (6'11") (From the disk Rhythm & Jews)

The public of the concert – secularized Jews of the second and third generation – listened to them in a dumbfounded silence.

Giro d’Italia

Cesare Ripa, Iconologia, 1593: Giro d’Italia
Source: Herneweb.com. Cycling Blog & Photos

We arrived to Urbino on the same day as the 91th run of the Giro d’Italia. We saw the last competitors rolling out of the town. It goes without saying that we have missed its best. Whoever is curious of it can read a running commentary in the blog of Ashley and Jason. They write there was a monumental festa in the town. We, as true historians of art, can only deduce the importance of the feast from the decorations.