eller oerhört litterärt raffinerade som i denna fria rockvideo över sången "Dalai Lama " också av och med Rammstein,

men grundat på en parafras eller pastisch på Goethes och Schuberts "Erlkönig" som man kan höra här med en av världens främsta baryton: Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau:

Det är väl så med stora kulturnationer. De har ett så stort utbud att det mesta kommer fram: Därför är det synd att våra distributörer av musik, film och litteratur inte är mer noggranna. Hur skall jag som ex inte vill ladda ner olagligt nånsin komma åt det jag vill, när snart knappt internetföretag vågar ha vissa udda titlar inne? Samma spännvid som är ganska lätt att hitta i det tyska utbudet finns givetvis i det anglosaxiska, men där har skräpet fått en oturlig övervikt, och i det fransk-, och spanskspråkiga , som är svårt att hitta.

Nåväl Se, lyssna och njut!!

Här är Goethes text översatt till engelska, där Rammsteins parafras blir rätt tydlig. Fast vad sången har med Dalai Lama att göra, är mig en aning fördolt: Det är inte så mycken tibetansk buddhism vad jag kan se..men, den är gripande som popsång

Who rides so late through night and wind?
It is the father with his child.
He holds the boy safe in his arm
He holds him safe, he keeps him warm.

"My son, why do you hide your face so fearfully?"
"Father, do you not see the Elf king?
The Elf king with crown and robe?"
"My son, it's a wisp of fog."

"You lovely child, come, go with me!
Nothing but beautiful games I'll play with you;
Many colourful flowers are on the shore,
My mother has many golden robes."

"My father, my father, can't you hear,
What the Elf king quietly promises me?"
"Be calm, stay calm, my child;
It is the wind rustling in the dry leaves."

"Do you want to come with me, fine lad?
My daughters should already be waiting for you;
My daughters lead the nightly folkdance
And rock you and dance and sing."

"My father, my father, and can't you see there,
The Elf king daughters in the gloomy place?"
"My son, my son, I see it well:
It is the old grey willows gleaming."

"I love you, your beautiful form entices me;
And if you're not willing, I shall use force."
"My father, my father, now he takes hold of me!
The Elf king has wounded me!"

It horrifies the father; he rides swiftly,
Holding in his arms the moaning child.
He reaches the yard with great difficulty;
In his arms, the child was dead.

[dailymotion id=x5zwi1]

We escape into stories. They transport us from our workaday lives to places where everything is more focused, usually more intense. The hardships and the triumphs are greater than ours. The colors are brighter, the passions are stronger, the resolutions more satisfying and meaningful. In stories, life makes much better sense. The wicked are punished. Virtue and perseverance are generally rewarded. Dreams come true -- or if they do not, there is dignity and nobility in their not-coming-true.

Listen to anyone who loves a great book: "I felt I was there," s/he says. "I want to go there." "I want to live there." "I didn't want it to end." Why are series books so popular from age to age? -- because we never want it to end. We don't want to come back from those places we love. We don't want to say goodbye to those people.

This offering of an escape, a refuge, is a great service to readers. Sometimes it's greater than we could possibly imagine. I was absolutely floored when a person -- now a close friend -- told me the story of how my book Dragonfly saved her life. That sounds like a ridiculously grandiose claim for me to make, and it would be, but for two reasons: 1.) it's true, and 2.) the credit doesn't belong to me. Dragonfly is not an "inspirational" book. It doesn't have any "message" of encouragement, and the part that encouraged my friend isn't a particularly encouraging part -- in fact, it's the book's most tragic moment. But this person read it at precisely the time in life that she needed to read it. All the events of her life worked together -- and yes, I believe that certainly God worked -- through the medium or filter of this book, this scene -- and this person was inspired to keep on living. She took one path instead of the other at a very, very dire crossroads in the darkest stretch of life. And she got to a place that was much better. Again, I had nothing to do with it. But God, working through her life's circumstances and through something I left lying around out there in the world (the book) . . . saved a life. That's an extreme example, but the point is, we never know. When the stories leave us, they have a life of their own. They're like children in that sense. They're made from parts of us -- they have our blood in them -- but they pass beyond our reach and our knowledge. They encounter people we never will. Tennyson wrote in The Princess: "Our echoes roll from soul to soul, / And grow for ever and for ever."

All good and fine, right? Who wouldn't want to be a writer? On the first day of class, I usually tell my writing students, "If you want to change the world, you're studying the right thing." But there is a grim side to it all.

Writing transports us into other worlds . . . wonderful, enchanting worlds. But think of the old stories in which people make forays into the realm of Faery. "Come away, O human child! / To the waters and the wild / With a faery, hand-in-hand, / For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand." Or in another poem, Goethe's, the Elf-King comes and snatches away the child, and the child's father is left holding a corpse. Faery is an alluring place, but humans who enter it do not come back -- or if they do, so much time has passed in their own world that everyone they knew and loved is either very old or long dead.

There is a cost to visiting elfland. The song of the Sirens lures sailors to their deaths. And are not these wonderful and well-loved books Faery to us? Take note of this next sentence, because it's the gist of this lengthy exposition -- it's the one-line summary of this posting:

I have been as tormented by stories as by anything "real" in life.

Perhaps . . . no, probably . . . no, definitely -- moreso. The joy of a story that gets into our hearts is a savage joy. A cruel joy. It's devastating, and we have no defense against it.

First example: Watership Down. In fifth grade, I remember crying and crying when I finished reading it. The world for me had changed, not entirely in a good way. I had loved the book so much, and now it was over, and I knew that I might re-read it later in life, but that I'd never again have the experience of reading it for the first time. And I knew that, although I'd carry the book around in my heart forever, I couldn't live inside the book. I'd have to go to school, grow up, work, etc. -- those perfect moments of traveling with Hazel, Fiver, Bigwig, et al. were not where the bulk of my life would lie.

That's the reality: beauty -- true and perfect beauty -- makes us miserable. We encounter it, but it's like the food in those all-you-can eat buffet restaurants: we can't take it with us. And we have to leave; we always have to leave.

Second example: The Thorn Birds. Colleen McCullough published the book in 1977. In 1983 it was made into the TV miniseries, which made history for being second only to Roots in popularity. I first experienced it as the miniseries, which captivated me so much that I read the book. I was in high school. The story sent me into the wildest delight and worst agony I'd ever known. I was head-over-heels in love with Meggie Cleary. Not Rachel Ward who played her, but the character, Meggie. I wanted to live on Drogheda in the Australian Outback. I wanted to raise sheep. The story, along with the Mel Gibson / Sissy Spacek film The River, affected the way I thought -- I saw rural, agricultural life as sacred, pure, and to be desired above all else. These stories affected the way I dressed. I had some hand-me-down clothes from my uncle, who was a farmer. I insisted on wearing these gray and khaki-colored, oversized shirts, pants, and floppy fedora hats even when I went away to college in the Chicago area. Stories -- fiction -- had given me an ideal. Or perhaps they had helped me to realize my innate ideals; I was a country boy, so country life was my birthright.

I bring this up now because recently I've been revisiting the film version of The Thorn Birds on DVD, and it's amazing how it's all come back to me in its grandeur, wonder, and searing pain. I'm in high school again. It's astonishing how these scenes are etched into my mind and heart -- it's like I've never been away, and yet all these years have gone by in the interim. I'm still in love with Meggie Cleary. I still want to put on a fedora and go herd sheep. My friend S.F. will remember me saying back in college that I wanted the theme music of The Thorn Birds to be played at my wedding and my funeral. I still want that.

Oh, the power of these stories! And they do, as I said earlier, have their own life. I read an interview with Colleen McCullough, and she said she didn't like the film version of The Thorn Birds at all -- she said she didn't like anything about it. Rachel Ward has said that she didn't enjoy filming it at all, even though she met her husband during the making of it. So the woman who created the story and the woman who gave Meggie a face both disliked this film version that enchanted me. The story cut through -- it has its life. It is what it is, and it's bigger than the sum of everyone who brought it to us, including the author herself.

Incidentally, Rachel Ward is about 50 now. She's an attractive 50-year-old, but that face that was Meggie in 1983 exists now only in pixels and perhaps on celluloid somewhere. But it does still exist there, and it's as powerful today as it was then. I challenge any man to look at that face, to hear that soft voice with its accent, and not be thoroughly miserable.

And the book goes on -- and all the great books go on, changing the world in each new generation, making a difference in the life of every unsuspecting reader who stumbles upon them. "What's this about?" I asked my dad, picking up a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. "Oh, it's a long, involved story about a ring," he said. "Everyone wants the ring." "Hmm," I said -- and the rest is history.

So get out there, writer, and fulfill your sacred task. Save lives, but know that you will also break hearts. But . . . I guess we readers want that, don't we? It's like that legend that gives The Thorn Birds its title: the bird that, all its life, seeks a long, sharp thorn; and finding it, the bird impales itself on the thorn and dies. But dying, it sings a song of unimaginable beauty . . . "and all the world stills to listen. And God in His Heaven smiles."

Foto: ROADandTRACK

Ansonsten ist er im Design seinem Vorgänger 350Z recht ähnlich, obwohl es natürlich einige Änderungen zu entdecken gibt. Der 370Z soll auch etwas kürzer geraten (etwa 4,15m) als sein Vorgänger (4,31m). Außerdem soll beim Gewicht kräftig eingespart werden, laut Road&Track wiegt der Neue nur mehr 1365 Kilo...

Weitere Gerüchte gefällig? Im Motorraum steckt angeblich derselbe 3,7 Liter V6, der auch im Infiniti G37 werkt. Er wird aber überarbeitet, und anstatt 310PS wie im G37 nun 350PS leisten, womit der 370Z in unter 5 Sekunden den Sprint von Null auf Hundert schaffen sollte.

Foto: autoblog

Wann er hierzulande erhältlich sein wird und zu welchen Preisen, dazu gibt es noch keine Informationen. Vielleicht ist schon irgendwann 2009 mit ihm in unseren Breiten zu rechnen, obwohl das eine zu optimistische Schätzung sein könnte. Preislich wird er wohl etwas gegenüber dem 350Z zulegen.

Jeg er den glade ejer af et lille akvarie på ca. 30 liter. I december lagde jeg ud med at have to slørhaler, men jeg syntes, at det var for fattigt og udvidede med fire platyer. Platyernes indtog i akvariesamfundet foregik ikke uden problemer. Den røde platy, kaldet Kongen, mobbede de andre fisk og jagede dem rundt på det lille areal. Især gik det ud over den sorte slørhale, som til sidst gemte sig under pumpen af skræk for den hidsige Konge. En dag kom jeg så hjem fra arbejde, og, oh ve, slørhalen var død. Mobbet ihjel.
Kongen fortsatte med at jage lidt med de resterende fisk, og jeg overvejede en overgang at udrense den i bedste GULAG-stil, men lod så naturen gå sin gang. Det gjorde jeg vel i, da magtbalancen i akvariet fandt sit naturlige leje med Kongen som en overbærende tyran...
I forgårs bemærkede jeg, at den grå platy lå helt stille og gispede under pumpen. Jeg pirkede lidt til den, men den kunne nærmest ikke svømme længere. Urolig for dens videre skæbne gik jeg i seng... Det kunne jo være, at den bare havde forædt sig. Men ak! Dagen efter var den død.

Tragedien har fået mig til at forfatte følgende digt, frit efter Goethes Erlkönig:

Dem Nis grauset's, er schläft sehr schlecht
Der Fisch ist krank, es ist nicht gerecht
Er träumt vom Fisch und dessen Not
Trauer am Morgen, der Fisch war tot 

Med den yderste respekt blev Grå fisket op med en ske og siden bisat i toilettet, viklet ind i køkkenrulle. Den højtidelige ceremoni blev efterfulgt af et par minutters tavshed og kontemplation over livets forgængelighed, hvorefter jeg tog på arbejde.

Grå in memoriam. RIP.

Der Erlkönig

Who rides here so late through night and wind?
It is a father with his small child.
He holds his son firm in his arms
He clasps him safely, he keeps him warm.

"My son, oh why do you look so afraid?"
"See Father, don't you see the elven king is there?
The elven king, elven king with crown and cloak?"
"My son, it's a wisp of mist."

"My dearest child, come, go with me!
all kinds of games I'll play with you;
such lovely flowers bloom on the bank,
and my mother has many golden clothes."

"My father, my father, and do you not hear,
What the elven king promises sweetly to me?"
"Stay peaceful, oh stay calm, dearest child;
In leaves so dry there rustles the wind."

"Will you dear boy, will you come with me
My daughters soon they will wait on you;
My daughters lead in the nightly dance
And cradle and dance and sing you to sleep."

"My father, my father, and do you not see,
The elven king's daughters in that dark place?"
"My son, my son, I see it so clear:
Tis only the ancient willows so grey."

"I love you, your fine figure attracts me so much;
And if you're not willing, I'll take you by force."
"My father, my father, he's grasping me now!
The elven king has hurt me, has hurt me!"

The father shudders, he quickens his pace,
He holds in his arms the groaning child.
He reaches home with haste and dread;
In his arms, the child was dead.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Bereits mit dem Einsingen habe ich verspürt, dass es heute einfach ganz wunderbar gehen wird. Nur ein paar schwierige Phrasen probiert - gingen ganz locker aus der Kehle. Dann waren noch gut 1,5 h Zeit bis der Abend begonnen hat und vor mir auch noch einige Stücke.

Beim Betreten des Saals dann schon eine gespannte Atmosphäre - naja, die Besucher haben ja das Programm in der Hand und was lesen sie da? Franz Schubert, Erlkönig. Ein Stück, das (fast) jedem zumindest ein Begriff ist und das viele auch wirklich kennen. Das Vorspiel beginnt und ich wild (passt auch zum Lied, hehe) entschlossen, das Letzte aus mir (und aus dem Lied :) ) herauszuholen. Und so war's dann auch. Es ist einfach vorzüglich gegangen - ein kleines Drama mit 3 Personen und Erzähler und ich ganz locker von einer Person zur nächsten gewechselt (denke 2 weitere hätte ich noch leicht geschafft an diesem Abend - muss mich mal umschauen, ob es nicht vielleicht irgendwo so ein Stück gibt ;) ). Der Applaus danach, nahezu nicht enden wollend - musste mehr als ein Mal zurück auf die Bühne.

Danach ging's weiter im Abend - wieder einige schöne Stücke meiner netten (hübschen) Kolleginnen. Ja diesmal war ich sozusagen der Hahn im Korb - einige Soprane und Mezzos und ich der einzige männliche Sänger (diesmal sogar als richtiger Darsteller, aber dazu vielleicht noch später).

Also, wie gesagt einige Stücke aus Lied und Oper später, bin wieder ich an der Reihe: diesmal andere Szene - ein schottisches Schloss und der wilde Tyrann Macbeth sinniert nach einem aufwühlenden Recitativo in einer mitreißenden Arie über den Fortgang seines Lebens (Perfidi, all' anglo, contro me v'unite ... Pieta, rispetto, onore; von Giuseppe Verdi). Yup, genau das habe ich dann auch gemacht - ohne Rücksicht auf Verluste. Tja, wie heißt's: viel risk echt fun. Im Gegensatz zur letzten Prüfung diesmal wirklich einmalig im besten Sinn - habe das Stück zu jeder Sekunde beherrscht und nicht umgekehrt. Als es dann zu Ende war, tosender Applaus und laute Bravo Rufe. Auch diesmal wieder, runter von der Bühne, rauf, runter ...

Nach dem Konzert gab's dann natürlich auch direkt was von den Leuten - hier ein paar Auszüge (hehe, will ja auch noch fertig werden, mit dem Schreiben):

• "... Klasse, ein Gesamtkunstwerk ..."
• "... kommt da der nächste tolle Opernsänger?"
• "... großartig, habe noch nie so einen Erlkönig gehört ..."
• "... einfach super, der Gesang und die Darstellung ..."
• "... toll, das habe ich mir nicht erwartet, dass es so eine Steigerung geben wird - das waren ja 200% gegenüber der Probe..." (beim Einsingen war Georgien noch der Meinung, dass es schon sehr super wird, wenn zumindest 80% von den Proben erreicht werden)
• "... ich habe schon die letzten Abend, noch beim früheren Lehrer, gehört, aber DAS war eine Steigerung ..."
• "... wieso hast Du nur 2 und nicht mehr Stücke gesungen?"
• "... ich bin schon gespannt, was da noch Alles kommen wird - nur weiter so ..."

Und die feinen Kommentare sind dann auch noch danach, bei der "Premierenfeier", weitergegangen (hätte vielleicht mit aufnehmen sollen, was die Leute so gesagt haben - muss ich mir für's nächste Mal merken). Man kann sagen, ein perfekter Abend (wer nicht war - selber schuld, würde ich sagen). Apropos aufnehmen: irgendjemand hat das auch tatsächlich gemacht und vielleicht komme ich noch zu der Aufnahme - könnte sie ja dann später zur Verfügung stellen, falls das wer möchte :) .

Ach ja, der Titel des Films von Jack - ist jetzt beinahe etwas untergegangen: As Good As It Gets - oder wie man bei uns sagt:

Besser geht's nicht.

Who rides so late through the night and wind?
It's the father with his child;
He has the boy safe in his arm,
He holds him secure, he holds him warm.
 
“My son, what makes you hide your face in fear?” –
Father, don't you see the Erlking?
The Erlking with crown and flowing robe? –
“My son, it's a wisp of fog.” –
 
“You dear child, come along with me!
Such lovely games I'll play with you;
Many colorful flowers are at the shore,
My mother has many a golden garment.”
 
My father, my father, and do you not hear
What the Erlking promises me so softly? –
“Be quiet, stay quiet, my child;
In the dry leaves the wind is rustling.” –
 
“Won't you come along with me, my fine boy?
My daughters shall attend to you so nicely.
My daughters do their nightly dance,
And they'll rock you and dance you and sing you to sleep.”
 
My father, my father, and do you not see over there
Erlking's daughters in that dark place? –
“My son, my son, I see it most definitely:
It's the willow trees looking so grey.”
 
“I love you; I'm charmed by your beautiful form;
And if you're not willing, then I'll use force.”
My father, my father, now he's grabbing hold of me!
Erlking has done me harm! –
 
The father shudders, he rides swiftly,
He holds in (his) arms the moaning child.
He reaches the farmhouse with effort and urgency.
In his arms the child was dead.

(Der Erlkönig von J.W von Goethe, übersetzt von Hyde Flippo)