Artículos de revistas sobre el tema "German drama – 19th century – Translations into English"

This article examines the English repertoire of the German theatre in Ljubljana in the last decades of the Habsburg monarchy and its reception by the local German newspaper, Laibacher Zeitung. It considers only drama, not operas or operettas. The English plays were, of course, performed in translation, in German, as opposed to the plays performed in the Slovenian language from the late 18th century on and especially within the Dramatično društvo circle established in 1867. The choice of performances gives interesting insights into the late 19th century attitude towards English culture as well as the self-image fostered by the German stage in Ljubljana.

“The oldest hath borne most”: The old age of Shakespeare’s King Lear in Czech translationsfrom the 18th and 19th centuriesA number of critics have noted the importance of the motif of old age in Shakespeare’s King Lear, chiefly the old age of the play’s eponymous character. Indeed, the King’s age serves in the play as a powerful dramaturgical device, a kind of prism through which the audience sees not just Lear’s character, but also other characters’ deeds and most of the play’s action. When watching the play, the audience is constantly reminded of Lear’s age, both directly, through Lear’s or other characters’ speeches, and indirectly, through a number of physical details. It could be said that the King’s age is employed at all possible levels of the drama, becoming the main impulse for the development of the plot.King Lear is one of the first plays by Shakespeare to be translated into Czech, and various dramatists attempted to localise it for Czech audiences. The present paper examines three early translations of King Lear into Czech: by Prokop Šedivý 1792, Josef Kajetán Tyl 1835, and Ladislav Čelakovský 1856. While the last mentioned version is the first “true” translation of the play into Czech, using Shakespeare’s unabridged English original as the source text, the two earlier translations are rather loose adaptations, almost certainly based on various German stage versions, altering significant portions of the story and cutting entire scenes and speeches or even characters.Surprisingly, even the earliest Czech translators seem to have been aware of the dramaturgi­cal importance of the dominant motif in the original play and, in spite of the sometimes drastic alterations, tried to preserve it in their versions as much as possible. Nevertheless, in various passages from the Czech versions, we may observe that even with this knowledge, the translators at times struggled with a number of nuances in the original, not always being able to preserve the complexity of a character or dramatic situation. This was only achieved by Ladislav Čelakovský, whose mid-19th century text was the first to represent Shakespeare’s King Lear, both in terms of form and, of course, in terms of the motifs of the original.„Najstarszy wycierpiał najwięcej”: starość króla Leara Szekspira w czeskich przekładach okresu odrodzenia narodowegoWielu badaczy zwróciło uwagę na znaczenie motywu starości w Królu Learze Szekspira, zwłaszcza na starość tytułowego protagonisty dramatu. Królewska starość służy w istocie jako mocny środek dramaturgiczny owego utworu, w pewnym sensie jest to pryzmat, przez który widzowie spoglądają nie tylko na samego Leara, ale także na czyny pozostałych postaci i akcję sztuki w ogóle. Podczas przedstawienia uwagę widzów nieustannie przyciąga wiek Leara, bądź bezpośrednio, a więc w samych wypowiedziach Leara lub innych postaci, bądź za pomocą szeregu detali fizycznych. Można stwierdzić, że wiek króla pojawia się we wszystkich warstwach dramatu i staje się głównym impulsem rozwoju akcji.Król Lear jest jednym z pierwszych dramatów Szekspira, które zostały przełożone na język czeski, a w sumie istnieje około piętnastu czeskich przekładów tego tekstu. Niniejszy esej bada trzy wczesne przekłady wersję Prokopa Šedivego 1792, Josefa Kajetána Tyla 1835 i Ladisla­va Čelakovskiego 1856. Podczas gdy ostatni wymieniony tekst jest pierwszym „prawdziwym” przekładem Króla Leara na czeski, wychodzącym z nieskróconego angielskiego oryginału jako wzorca, pozostałe dwa przekłady są raczej wolniejszymi adaptacjami, prawie na pewno opartymi na różnych niemieckich adaptacjach pierwotnej sztuki, w których zmienione są znaczące elementy historii, a czasem całe dialogi i sceny a nawet postaci.Jednak nawet pierwsi czescy tłumacze mimo wszystko świadomi byli dramaturgicznego znaczenia dominującego motywu starości w pierwotnym tekście i nawet w pewnych drastycznych skrótach tekstu starali się go w jak największym stopniu zachować. Z konfrontacji różnych fragmentów badanych wersji czeskich wypływa, że i w tym wypadku tłumacze często walczyli z różnymi niuansami oryginału i nie zawsze potrafili zachować daną postać czy sytuację w całej jej rozpiętości. Osiągnął to dopiero Ladislav Čelakovski. Jego przekład zpołowy XIX wieku był pierwszym, w którym udało się w pełni wyrazić tekst Szekspirowskiego Króla Leara od strony formalnej, oraz zachować sens poszczególnych motywów oryginału.

It is a well-known fact that the Turkic-speaking peoples of Eurasia and Siberia possess a rich heritage of oral epic poetry. Much has been written down, and in some areas the oral tradition of epic poetry is still flourishing today. While a few of the early texts, written down in the 19th century, are available in older German translations (A. Schiefner, W. Radloff), the majority of these epics can only be accessed either in their original language or (in some cases) in Russian translation. Translations of Turkic oral epics into European languages such as English, German or French are urgently needed in order to familiarize epic scholars outside the Turkic- or Russianspeaking world with this important corpus. Translating Turkic epics into European languages poses, however, a number of problems. In the following some of these problems are identified and discussed with reference to my translations of the Uzbek oral epics Ravshan and Alpamysh into German, the Karakalpak epic Edige and the Kirghiz epic Manas both into English. ´The latter translation is still ongoing; two volumes have so far been completed. The translation problems concern basic methodological questions such as the choice between a literary and a literal translation and the strategies available to overcome differences in linguistic structure between the source languages and the target languages. An important element in translation is not only the linguistic, but also the stylistic level of the text. In addition, a translation has to pay attention to paralinguistic aspects (e.g., music and performance modes) and to the cultural world of the original. The translator is not only a mediator between languages, but also between cultures.

Latvian national identity (language-centred), the literary polysystem and even the written language itself are the result of translation. Translations have always constituted the majority of literary and other texts. Translation played an exceptionally important, even pivotal, role in the beginnings of written Latvian in the 16th-18th centuries. Translators (native German speakers) formed, codified and modified written Latvian. Religious translations applied a rigorous fidelity approach. Secular translations were localizations of easy reading, sentimental German stories. Parallel to the rise of native literature in the 19th century, there occurred a gradual transition from adaptation /domestication to foreignization and fidelity as the main approach. More ambitious translations of Western classics started, usually done by distinguished Latvian writers. Next to the traditional faithfulness, some translations were freely shortened and otherwise modified. After acquiring independence at the beginning of the 20th century the volume of translation grew and included also literature from more exotic sources. The Soviet period brought a re-orientation: most translations were done from Russian, fiction was translated from the original languages or via Russian as well. Regaining of independence brought about an enormous growth in the translated information amount; within 5 years English became the dominant source language. Translation again (like in the early stage of Latvian) became the main vehicle of language development. In a somewhat paradoxical way translators have formed, altered and inspired a strong language-bound national identity. Their voice, though not always heard and recognized, has been central in the Latvian narrative polyphony.

Though Sir William Jones's captivating English version of a ghazal of Hafez, first published in 1771, inspired many translators in the final years of the 18th and early years of the 19th century, none succeeded in producing a living, breathing body of Hafez's work in English. Goethe, of course, lavished his admiration on Hafez in the West–Östliche Divan, and Ralph Waldo Emerson echoed and amplified this praise in America with a number of English translations of von Hammer-Purgstall's German renditions of Hafez. All this attention from trend- and style-setting literary figures did Hafez the favor of creating an interest in and a ready market for translations of his poems. At the same time, however, it burdened him with a literary reputation the expectations of which were difficult for translators to meet. Once FitzGerald's Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, perhaps the most successful English verse translation in history, demonstrated the possibility of creating a native English idiom for a poet such as Khayyam, readers' expectations for Hafez only intensified. Though a score of translators have tried their hand at Hafez, none has managed anything more than a satisfactory result.

In a diachronic perspective from the 16th century to the present, this article inves­ tigates translated interlinguistic agreement and difference in the use of the temporally marked Slovenian prepositional phrases that appeared in the semantic group of verba dicendi in the first two books of the Old Testament and the New Testament of the old­ est Slovenian translation of the Bible, from 1584, and that were replaced in the mod­ em literary language in the 19th century by the introduction of prepositionless or other prepositional patterns. A comparison is made on the basis of Internet publications of parallel sections of six foreign language translations (Latin, German, two English [17th century and modem], French and Russian), and the extent to which these preposition­ al phrases are covered by older or modem literary Slovenian syntactic patterns is deter­ mined .

The article deals with the oldest music-related documents from the Morawetz collection (most of which come from the collection of Friedrich Donebauer), which the Czech Museum of Music obtained in 2003 and 2008. Specifically, this involves letters of musicians from Bohemia who were working in German-speaking countries around the end of the 18th century and the beginning of the 19th (Jiří Antonín Benda, Leopold Koželuh, Antonín František Bečvařovský, and Jan Václav Hugo Voříšek). The study presents a critical edition of six letters and one receipt and their translations into Czech and English. On that basis, there is an examination of context within the framework of the lives of the individual musicians and of the period musical milieu. The letters document cultural exchange, tastes, and the stylistic orientation of the period as well as of the music business in Europe at the end of the 18th century and the beginning of the 19th. Voříšek’s letter documents the period reception of a Mass by Jan Václav Tomášek in Vienna in 1815.

The continental expansion of the Elizabethan-Jacobean Theatre and the transnational influence of its drama attracted historical interest in the long 19th century, but the topic was then largely neglected for several decades in German-speaking areas for some decades, as a consequence of the war. The standstill in research, visible in the mass of out-dated standard literature, established the creation of numerous legends. A prime example which is examined here in close detail is the persistence of fictional biographical narratives relating to the English theatre director John Spencer. The trigger was a false Brandenburgish prince. An extensive concealed and interlinked control mechanism steered the “choreography of traveling people”* in the opening up of the continental theatre business: clientelism.

In the first half of the 19th century, the international interdenominational organization the Religious Tract Society in London provided financial support for the publication of religious books in the native languages of the people of the Kingdom of Prussia: German, Polish, Sorbian and Lithuanian. The branch of the Prussian Religious Tract Society established in Klaipėda, an important trading city of the time, took care of the translations of short books into Lithuanian along with their publishing and distribution. Wilhelm Andreas Rhenius (1753–1833), the inspector of the Bachman’s estate, the follower of the Moravian movement, who managed compilations, worked for the Klaipėda branch. This article aims to reveal the ties of Rhenius, the member of the Society, with the international organization in London, and his participation in educational activities in Klaipėda. Lithuanian translations of religious English texts patronized by the Religious Tract Society in London are also discussed, including an anonymous small volume book, The Warning Voice (Graudénimo Balsas, 1818), published in Tilsit, the Prussian Lithuania, in 4,000 copies, and the collected sermons Sixteen Short Sermons (Sźeßolika trumpi Kalbesei, 1820, Tilsit) by the British author Thomas Tregenna Biddulph (1763–1838), the minister of St. James’s Church in Bristol.

Among Slovene scholars in English and German studies Jakob Kelemina (19 July 1882- 14 May 1957) has a very important place. Janez Stanonik justly places him among the founding fathers of the University of Ljubljana (Stanonik 1966: 332). From 1920 Kelemina was professor of Germanic philology and between 1920 and 1957 he was also the Chair of the Deparment ofGermanic Languages and Literatures at the Faculty of Arts of this university. The major part of Kelemina's research was devoted to German and Austrian literatures, German philology, German-Slovene cultural relations, and literary theory; his work in these fields has already been discussed by severa! Slovene scholars. However, in the first two decades of the twentieth century Kelemina also wrote severa! book reviews of Slovene and Croatian translations of Shakespeare's plays as well as three introductory essays to Slovene translations of Shakespeare's plays. They are considered as the first serious studies on Shakespeare in Slovenia (Moravec 1974: 437), and have not been analysed yet. Therefore this topic presents the core of my study, together with an evaluation of Kelemina's contribution to Slovene translations of Shakespeare's plays done by Oton Župančič (1878-1949) during the first half of the twentieth century. Župančič's translations became the criterion for all further translations of Shakespeare's dramatic works in Slovene. Župančič is stili one of our most important poets and translators of this time and Kelemina's advice and criticism undoubtedly also helped him to achieve such a high standard in his translations. In the central part of my study I also include some new material (e.g. Kelernina's letters), which is relevant for our understanding of his co-operation with Oton Župančič and other Slovene authors and critics. In order to put Kelemina's work into a historical perspective I present at the beginning of my study a brief survey of the development of drama and theatre in Slovenia, particularly as regards pro­ ductions and early attempts oftranslating Shakespeare's plays into Slovene. This information, which may be particularly relevant for foreign readers, ends with the year 1922, when Kelemina's last writ­ing about Shakespeare's plays appeared. In 2007 we commemorate the one hundred and twenty-fifth anniversary of Kelemina's birth and fiftieth anniversary of his death, which is another reason why his work on Shakespeare should be finally researched and evaluated. This study should also help expand our knowledge about Jakob Kelemina's contribution regarding translations of Shakespeare's plays for the Slovene theatre and for Slovene culture generally.

Abstract This is the first Italian translation of some selections from the Ëddoštho* “Reminiscences” of Sadriddin Ajnī (Bukhara 1878—Dushanbe 1954), the author commonly regarded as the leading representative of modern Tajik literature. Ajnī’s Reminiscences, divided into four parts and published between 1948 and 1954, are a collection of lively short-stories where the author described his childhood spent in two villages near Bukhara, as well as his youth and schooldays at the madrasa in the last two decades of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th century. Parts I and II were more often translated into many languages, both in the Republics of the former Soviet Union and in other countries. Translations in Russian (parts I-IV), German and French (parts I-II) have appeared in the 1950s. In English, separate chapters from the work have been published in academic journals from the 1950s onward; the most recent English translation (part I) is The sands of Oxus. Boyhood reminiscences of Sadriddin Aini, tr. by J.R. Perry and R. Lehr (Costa Mesa, Mazda Publishers, 1998).

The article examines the tradition of research on the topic of the priesthood in the legacy of St. Gregory the Theologian from the 19th century to 2020. The review includes general monographs on both the formation of the episcopate in Late Antiquity and specifically the legacy of Nazianzen, dissertations, publications in periodicals, dictionaries and encyclopedias on this topic, as well as on a wide range of related topics, key publications and translations of the Apology on his Flight — St. Gregory’s central text on the priesthood — in English, Russian, German, French and Italian. The following periodization of historiography is proposed: the early period (19th — middle of 20th centuries), theological studies of the Apology in the 50s–70s, studies and publications by J.Bernardi, the “new wave” of the 1990s and its development in the 21st century. In the last period, three main trends are identified: the Theologian’s texts on the priesthood are considered in the context of: the development of the image of a monk-bishop in Late Antiquity; platonic political philosophy; Gregory’s main theological concepts. The importance of research on other aspects of Gregory’s work is shown especially the categories θεωρία/πρᾶξις and his autobiographical texts. Two lines of further research are proposed as the most promising: intertextual analysis of the Apology and integral analysis of the entire legacy of St. Gregory through the prism of the priesthood theme.

This paper deals with the question of the formation of Croatian adjectives with the prefix među-. While such adjectives were very rare in late 19th and early 20th century, an analysis of relevant lexicographic works and digital corpora demonstrated that their number started to become larger in later 20th century, culminating in recent decades. Today, the [među-N-Suff]Adj derivational pattern is a productive, accounting for 134 adjectives with a frequency of ten occurrences or more retrieved from the largest extant Croatian web corpus, hrWaC. On the basis of an analysis of available older lexicographic works and digital corpora, it can be concluded that među- prefixed adjectives first entered into Croatian as loan translations (calques) of Latin(ate) and German terms. According to more recent lexicographic works and digital corpora, later on, and especially in recent decades, which coincided with a growing English influence on Croatian, među- prefixed adjectives were probably produced as equivalents of English inter- prefixed adjectives. The number of među- prefixed adjectives, as well as the variety of semantic domains in which they are used, testify to the fact that the [među-N-Suff]Adj pattern is well-established and productive in contemporary Croatian. The analysis of Croatian među- prefixed adjectives in this paper could contribute to shedding more light on the question of morphological borrowing phenomena in general.

The Collection of Lithuanian Proverbs and Proverbial Phrases built by the Institute of Lithuanian Literature and Folklore in Vilnius presents a thorough view of the corpus of traditional paremias. A larger part of the Collection consists of archival data, another one – of paremias collected from written sources.Archival data – that is paremias mostly from the Lithuanian Folklore Archive (LTR), Lithuanian Scientific Society’s Archive (LMD). These texts are mainly samples of the spoken language and dialects. The oldest archive collections are from the 19th century. Another large part of Lithuanian paremias compilation consists of texts collected from written sources. It is worth to mention, that we have around 1500 proverbs from the period of the 16th to the 18th centuries.The collection is accessible through three resources: they are the Card Index, the publication “Lithuanian Proverbs and Proverbial Phrases” (LPP), and The Electronic Compilation of Proverbs and Proverbial Phrases (eLPP).The Card Index was the first organized and systematized resource of Lithuanian paremias and served as the base for LPP and eLPP. The Card Index was created in 1970–1990 following the initiative of professor Kazys Grigas, who was also the author of the system of it. There are around 50 000 proverb types and more than 200 000 variant texts in the Card Index.At the end of the 20th century, LPP was started to be compiled. There have been three volumes published until now (Vol. 1 – 2000, Vol. 2 – 2008, Vol. 3 – 2019). LPP presents carefully sorted data without duplicates, copies, and fakes, and it has some additional data: Lithuanian paremias equivalents (in Latvian, Polish, German, English, Latin, and Russian) and type titles’ translations into English, German, and Russian.In 1998, eLPP was started and in 2018, after receiving funding from the Lithuanian Research Council (LMTLT), the database was updated. Now, the database also has an English version. eLPP includes the Card Index’ data and LPP data as well, with an exception of paremias variants. Due to the recently observed rising need to find an explanation of a saying, the category “Interpretation” has been introduced. The newly programmed search engine now contains functions of a simple search, advanced search, and selection lists. The database address is http://archyvas.llti.lt/elpp/lt, an email for comments and questions is patarles@llti.lt.

The article concerns one of the most important characters of national Italian puppet theatre, the marionette Pulcinella, and its influence on the images of folk heroes of puppet and drama theaters, street performances and literary works in European countries. National invariants of this character in the theaters and literatures of Western and Central Europe from the time of the appearance of this character to the beginning of the twentieth century are highlighted. Due to the expansion of economic and political ties, from the beginning of the 17th century, Pulcinella, together with itinerant artists and puppeteers, begins its transition to most European national folk theaters and literature. Depending on the geography of the country, its national character traits and national stereotypes, Pulcinella changes his image, his name, his behavior, and language. However, what is the most important, each national puppet retains both external and internal features of their original predecessor, Pulcinella. Examples provided in the article prove that most of the national invariants of Pulcinella possess his main character trait, that is, a fight against injustice and fierce criticism of authorities. Such characters as the English Punch, the Dutch Pickelgering, the French Polychenelle and Guignol, the German and Austrian Hanswurth, the Spanish and Portuguese Don Cristobal, the Czech Kaszparek and the German Kasperle invariably pursue two main goals: to protect the wronged and to defeat the evil In each of the countries, the characters created on the prototype of Pulcinella, were warmly accepted by the public and became very popular, especially with common people. At the same time, they differed from the original with their national coloring; they became the mouthpiece of national character traits, national ethnic stereotypes. The article seconds the opinion of many literary scholars that the origins the marionette character of Pulcinella can be traced to the Italian folk theater hero of Maccus, mainly because Pulcinella adopts the features of that ancient character's appearance, such as an irregularly shaped head, a large hump on his back, a hooked nose, a large belly and lively shrewd eyes. With small changes and variations, these features of appearance are received not only by Pulcinella, but also by the numerous national invariants of this character in Europe. However, all these national invariants also preserve the typical traits of Pulcinella's character, such as cockiness, cunning, thirst for justice and victory in an argument. In the 19th century, the Pulcinella marionette ‘returns’ to Italy and transforms into the wooden puppet Pinocchio. Carlo Collodi’s novel becomes so popular that it is translated in many countries of the world, and the new characters modelled on Pinocchio, acquire national features, such as Zeppel Kern by the German writer Otto Julius Birbaum. This begins a new round of Pulcinella's influence on the world culture.

In the second half of the 19th century, children’s picture books became a mass phenomenon in European book publishing practice. The development of printing technology, the formation of psychology as scientific knowledge, the improvement of methods of educational interaction between adults and children led to the appearance of children’s books not only for reading them aloud, but also for looking at pictures in them. However, the connections between the textual and visual narratives of books were not yet strong. Often, for economic reasons, the same illustrations were used in combination with different texts, and translations and reprints added discrepancies. In the article, this is illustrated by materials from the analysis of German, Russian, and English editions with drawings by Oscar Pletsch: Die Kinderstube (Hamburg, 1860), Gute Freundschaft (Berlin, 1865), Kleines Volk (Berlin, 1865), Allerlei Schnik-Schnak (Leipzig, 1866); Malen’kie Lyudi (St. Petersburg, 1869), Tesnaya Druzhba (St. Petersburg, 1869), Pervye Shagi Zhizni (St. Petersburg, 187?), Yolka (St. Petersburg, 1874); Child- Land (London, 1873). The plots Pletsch created are compared with the texts in three languages. As a result of the analysis, significant differences between the texts and the visual range of the editions were revealed. The article identifies the options of transforming meanings and interpreting drawings, reveals the tendency of their use for didactic purposes. The album Gute Freundschaft (initially containing only short captions to the drawings) acquired detailed poetic texts—monologues or dialogues of depicted children—in the Russian translation. The English publisher “scattered” the visual series: in Child-Land, the same drawings were placed randomly and mixed with other illustrations without observing any logic. The London edition contained prosaic texts, many of which did not coincide in meaning with the storyline of the original. The author (translator) sometimes interpreted the images “taken out of context” in a neutral way and sometimes added other (including sharply negative) characteristics to children’s postures, gestures, and movements. In a number of cases, the texts emotionally “loaded” the images in a completely different way than the artist conceived: a gesture of greeting turned into a threat, expectation turned into boredom, and so on. It should be stressed that the Russian publisher Mauritius Wolf treated the German originals more carefully than his English colleagues from S.W. Partridge & C°. The analysis of publications and the comparison of their verbal and visual plots allowed identifying the nature of the interrelation of text and image as a “conversation in different languages”. The reason for the “discord” could be translation problems, general changes in the functional tasks of the publication (for example, towards a didactic purpose), the mismatch of cultural codes in the system of different European languages, and technical difficulties in printing. All this led to the emergence of new senses and meanings—sometimes unexpected, but always important, interesting and never accidental.

James W. Underhill. Voice and Versification in Translating Poems. University of Ottawa Press, 2016. xiii, 333 p. After its very strong stance in the 19th century, the versification part of translation scholarship was gradually declining during the 20th century, substituted by the innovative searches for semasiology, culture and society in text. The studies of structural and cognitive approaches to writing, its postcolonial identity or gender-based essence uncovered a lot of issues of the informational essence of texts, but overshadowed the meaning of their formal structures. The book ‘Voice and Versification in Translating Poems’ welcomes us to the reconsideration of what formal structures in poetry can mean. James William Underhill, a native of Scotland and a graduate of Hull University, got Master’s and PhD degrees from Université de Paris VIII (1994 and 1999 respectively). He has translated from French, German and Czech into English, and now, he is full professor of poetics and translation at the English Department of Rouen University as well as the director of the Rouen Ethnolinguistics Project. His scholarly activities focused on the subject of metaphor, versification, cultural linguistics and translation. He also authored ‘Humboldt, Worldview, and Language’ (Edinburgh University Press, 2009), ‘Creating Worldviews: Ideology, Metaphor and Language’ (Edinburgh University Press, 2011), and ‘Ethnolinguistics and Cultural Concepts: Truth, Love, Hate and War’ (Cambridge University Press, 2012). the belief of the impossibility of translating poems, poems are translated and sometimes translated quite successfully. In contemporary literary criticism, one observes the contradiction that despiteJames W. Underhill investigates this fascinating observable fact by deploying the theory of voice. The first part of the book, ‘Versification’, is more theoretical as the researcher is to summarizes the existing views and introduce fundamental terms and guidelines. The book is strongly influenced by the French theoretician Henri Meschonnic, but other academic traditions of researching verse are also present. This part includes four chapters where the author discusses recent scholarship in the subject-matter (‘Form’), theories of verse structure (‘Comparative Versification’), rhythm and stress systems (‘Meter and Language’), and the issues of patterning and repetition (‘Beyond Metrics’). The author shapes the key principle of his views that ‘[v]oice represents the lyrical subject of the poem, the “I” that creates it, but that is also created in and by the poem’ (p. 44). This stipulation drives him to the analysis of five facets in poetry translation: 1) the voice of a language; 2) the voice of an era; 3) the voice of a literary movement or context of influence; 4) the voice of a poet; 5) the voice of the particular poem. Part 2, ‘Form and Meaning in Poetry Translation’, offers more theorizing on how we can (or should) translate form. The triple typology of main approaches – (translating form blindly; translating a poem with a poem; translating form meaningfully) – sounds like a truism. The generic approach might be more beneficial, as the variety of terms applied in poetry translation and applicable to the idea of the book – (poetic transfusion, adaptation, version, variant) – would widen and deepen the range of questions trying to disclose the magic of transformations while rendering poetry of a source author and culture to the target reader as an individual and a community. The experience of a reader (individual and cultural personality) could be a verifying criterion for translating strategies shaped the translator’s experience. In Part 3, ‘Case Studies’, the author explores the English translations of Charles Baudelaire’s poetry and the French and German translations of Emily Dickinson’s poems. All translations theoreticians and practitioners will agree with the researcher’s statement that “[t]ranslating that simplicity is inevitably arduous” (p. 187). Balancing between slavery-like formalist operations and free transcreations, translators experiment on strategies of how to reproduce the original author’s voice and versification successfully enough. The longing categorically pushes us to the necessity of understanding what is in language but communication, how a nation’s emotionality is built linguistically, and why a language applies certain meters for specific emotional articulation. ‘Glossary’ (p. 297-319), compiled on the basis of theoretical reflections in the main text on the book, is of significant practical value. This could really become a good sample to follow in any academic book. This book takes us closer to the questions ‘How can a form mean something?’ and ‘How can we verify this meaning?’, though further research merged in ethnolingual, ethnopoetic and ethnomusical studies still promises to be extremely rich.

We’ll have trouble now!The Archaeological Society of Jutland was founded on Sunday, 11 March 1951. As with most projects with which P.V Glob was involved, this did not pass off without drama. Museum people and amateur archaeologists in large numbers appeared at the Museum of Natural History in Aarhus, which had placed rooms at our disposal. The notable dentist Holger Friis, the uncrowned king of Hjørring, was present, as was Dr Balslev from Aidt, Mr and Mrs Overgaard from Holstebro Museum, and the temperamental leader of Aalborg Historical Museum, Peter Riismøller, with a number of his disciples. The staff of the newly-founded Prehistoric Museum functioned as the hosts, except that one of them was missing: the instigator of the whole enterprise, Mr Glob. As the time for the meeting approached, a cold sweat broke out on the foreheads of the people present. Finally, just one minute before the meeting was to start, he arrived and mounted the platform. Everything then went as expected. An executive committee was elected after some discussion, laws were passed, and then suddenly Glob vanished again, only to materialise later in the museum, where he confided to us that his family, which included four children, had been enlarged by a daughter.That’s how the society was founded, and there is not much to add about this. However, a few words concerning the background of the society and its place in a larger context may be appropriate. A small piece of museum history is about to be unfolded.The story begins at the National Museum in the years immediately after World War II, at a time when the German occupation and its incidents were still terribly fresh in everyone’s memory. Therkel Mathiassen was managing what was then called the First Department, which covered the prehistoric periods.Although not sparkling with humour, he was a reliable and benevolent person. Number two in the order of precedence was Hans Christian Broholm, a more colourful personality – awesome as he walked down the corridors, with his massive proportions and a voice that sounded like thunder when nothing seemed to be going his way, as quite often seemed to be the case. Glob, a relatively new museum keeper, was also quite loud at times – his hot-blooded artist’s nature manifested itself in peculiar ways, but his straight forward appearance made him popular with both the older and the younger generations. His somewhat younger colleague C.J. Becker was a scholar to his fingertips, and he sometimes acted as a welcome counterbalance to Glob. At the bottom of the hierarchy was the student group, to which I belonged. The older students handled various tasks, including periodic excavations. This was paid work, and although the salary was by no means princely, it did keep us alive. Student grants were non-existent at the time. Four of us made up a team: Olfert Voss, Mogens Ørsnes, Georg Kunwald and myself. Like young people in general, we were highly discontented with the way our profession was being run by its ”ruling” members, and we were full of ideas for improvement, some of which have later been – or are being – introduced.At the top of our wish list was a central register, of which Voss was the strongest advocate. During the well over one hundred years that archaeology had existed as a professional discipline, the number of artefacts had grown to enormous amounts. The picture was even worse if the collections of the provincial museums were taken into consideration. We imagined how it all could be registered in a card index and categorised according to groups to facilitate access to references in any particular situation. Electronic data processing was still unheard of in those days, but since the introduction of computers, such a comprehensive record has become more feasible.We were also sceptical of the excavation techniques used at the time – they were basically adequate, but they badly needed tightening up. As I mentioned before, we were often working in the field, and not just doing minor jobs but also more important tasks, so we had every opportunity to try out our ideas. Kunwald was the driving force in this respect, working with details, using sections – then a novelty – and proceeding as he did with a thoroughness that even his fellow students found a bit exaggerated at times, although we agreed with his principles. Therkel Mathiassen moaned that we youngsters were too expensive, but he put up with our excesses and so must have found us somewhat valuable. Very valuable indeed to everyon e was Ejnar Dyggve’s excavation of the Jelling mounds in the early 1940s. From a Danish point of view, it was way ahead of its time.Therkel Mathiassen justly complained about the economic situation of the National Museum. Following the German occupation, the country was impoverished and very little money was available for archaeological research: the total sum available for the year 1949 was 20,000 DKK, which corresponded to the annual income of a wealthy man, and was of course absolutely inadequate. Of course our small debating society wanted this sum to be increased, and for once we didn’t leave it at the theoretical level.Voss was lucky enough to know a member of the Folketing (parliament), and a party leader at that. He was brought into the picture, and between us we came up with a plan. An article was written – ”Preserve your heritage” (a quotation from Johannes V. Jensen’s Denmark Song) – which was sent to the newspaper Information. It was published, and with a little help on our part the rest of the media, including radio, picked up the story.We informed our superiors only at the last minute, when everything was arranged. They were taken by surprise but played their parts well, as expected, and everything went according to plan. The result was a considerable increase in excavation funds the following year.It should be added that our reform plans included the conduct of exhibitions. We found the traditional way of presenting the artefacts lined up in rows and series dull and outdated. However, we were not able to experiment within this field.Our visions expressed the natural collision with the established ways that comes with every new generation – almost as a law of nature, but most strongly when the time is ripe. And this was just after the war, when communication with foreign colleagues, having been discontinued for some years, was slowly picking up again. The Archaeological Society of Jutland was also a part of all this, so let us turn to what Hans Christian Andersen somewhat provocatively calls the ”main country”.Until 1949, only the University of Copenhagen provided a degree in prehistoric archaeology. However, in this year, the University of Aarhus founded a chair of archaeology, mainly at the instigation of the Lord Mayor, Svend Unmack Larsen, who was very in terested in archaeology. Glob applied for the position and obtained it, which encompassed responsibility for the old Aarhus Museum or, as it was to be renamed, the Prehistoric Museum (now Moesgaard Museum).These were landmark events to Glob – and to me, as it turned out. We had been working together for a number of years on the excavation of Galgebakken (”Callows Hill”) near Slots Bjergby, Glob as the excavation leader, and I as his assistant. He now offered me the job of museum curator at his new institution. This was somewhat surprising as I had not yet finished my education. The idea was that I was to finish my studies in remote Jutland – a plan that had to be given up rather quickly, though, for reasons which I will describe in the following. At the same time, Gunner Lange-Kornbak – also hand-picked from the National Museum – took up his office as a conservation officer.The three of us made up the permanent museum staff, quickly supplemented by Geoffrey Bibby, who turned out to be an invaluable colleague. He was English and had been stationed in the Faeroe Islands during the war, where he learned to speak Danish. After 1945 he worked for some years for an oil company in the Gulf of Persia, but after marrying Vibeke, he settled in her home town of Aarhus. As his academic background had involved prehistoric cultures he wanted to collaborate with the museum, which Glob readily permitted.This small initial flock governed by Glob was not permitted to indulge inidleness. Glob was a dynamic character, full of good and not so good ideas, but also possessing a good grasp of what was actually practicable. The boring but necessary daily work on the home front was not very interesting to him, so he willingly handed it over to others. He hardly noticed the lack of administrative machinery, a prerequisite for any scholarly museum. It was not easy to follow him on his flights of fancy and still build up the necessary support base. However, the fact that he in no way spared himself had an appeasing effect.Provincial museums at that time were of a mixed nature. A few had trained management, and the rest were run by interested locals. This was often excellently done, as in Esbjerg, where the master joiner Niels Thomsen and a staff of volunteers carried out excavations that were as good as professional investigations, and published them in well-written articles. Regrettably, there were also examples of the opposite. A museum curator in Jutland informed me that his predecessor had been an eager excavator but very rarely left any written documentation of his actions. The excavated items were left without labels in the museum store, often wrapped in newspapers. However, these gave a clue as to the time of unearthing, and with a bit of luck a look in the newspaper archive would then reveal where the excavation had taken place. Although somewhat exceptional, this is not the only such case.The Museum of Aarhus definitely belonged among the better ones in this respect. Founded in 1861, it was at first located at the then town hall, together with the local art collection. The rooms here soon became too cramped, and both collections were moved to a new building in the ”Mølleparken” park. There were skilful people here working as managers and assistants, such as Vilhelm Boye, who had received his archaeological training at the National Museum, and later the partners A. Reeh, a barrister, and G.V. Smith, a captain, who shared the honour of a number of skilfully performed excavations. Glob’s predecessor as curator was the librarian Ejler Haugsted, also a competent man of fine achievements. We did not, thus, take over a museum on its last legs. On the other hand, it did not meet the requirements of a modern scholarly museum. We were given the task of turning it into such a museum, as implied by the name change.The goal was to create a museum similar to the National Museum, but without the faults and shortcomings that that museum had developed over a period of time. In this respect our nightly conversations during our years in Copenhagen turned out to be useful, as our talk had focused on these imperfections and how to eradicate them.We now had the opportunity to put our theories into practice. We may not have succeeded in doing so, but two areas were essentially improved:The numerous independent numbering systems, which were familiar to us from the National Museum, were permeating archaeological excavation s not only in the field but also during later work at the museum. As far as possible this was boiled down to a single system, and a new type of report was born. (In this context, a ”report” is the paper following a field investigation, comprising drawings, photos etc. and describing the progress of the work and the observations made.) The instructions then followed by the National Museum staff regarding the conduct of excavations and report writing went back to a 19th-century protocol by the employee G.V. Blom. Although clear and rational – and a vast improvement at the time – this had become outdated. For instance, the excavation of a burial mound now involved not only the middle of the mound, containing the central grave and its surrounding artefacts, but the complete structure. A large number of details that no one had previously paid attention to thus had to be included in the report. It had become a comprehensive and time-consuming work to sum up the desultory notebook records in a clear and understandable description.The instructions resulting from the new approach determined a special records system that made it possible to transcribe the notebook almost directly into a report following the excavation. The transcription thus contained all the relevant information concerning the in vestigation, and included both relics and soil layers, the excavation method and practical matters, although in a random order. The report proper could then bereduced to a short account containing references to the numbers in the transcribed notebook, which gave more detailed information.As can be imagined, the work of reform was not a continuous process. On the contrary, it had to be done in our spare hours, which were few and far between with an employer like Glob. The assignments crowded in, and the large Jutland map that we had purchased was as studded with pins as a hedge hog’s spines. Each pin represented an inuninent survey, and many of these grew into small or large excavations. Glob himself had his lecture duties to perform, and although he by no means exaggerated his concern for the students, he rarely made it further than to the surveys. Bibby and I had to deal with the hard fieldwork. And the society, once it was established, did not make our lives any easier. Kuml demanded articles written at lightning speed. A perusal of my then diary has given me a vivid recollection of this hectic period, in which I had to make use of the evening and night hours, when the museum was quiet and I had a chance to collect my thoughts. Sometimes our faithful supporter, the Lord Mayor, popped in after an evening meeting. He was extremely interested in our problems, which were then solved according to our abilities over a cup of instant coffee.A large archaeological association already existed in Denmark. How ever, Glob found it necessary to establish another one which would be less oppressed by tradition. Det kongelige nordiske Oldsskriftselskab had been funded in 1825 and was still influenced by different peculiarities from back then. Membership was not open to everyone, as applications were subject to recommendation from two existing members and approval by a vote at one of the monthly lecture meetings. Most candidates were of course accepted, but unpopular persons were sometimes rejected. In addition, only men were admitted – women were banned – but after the war a proposal was brought forward to change this absurdity. It was rejected at first, so there was a considerable excitement at the January meeting in 1951, when the proposal was once again placed on the agenda. The poor lecturer (myself) did his best, although he was aware of the fact that just this once it was the present and not the past which was the focus of attention. The result of the voting was not very courteous as there were still many opponents, but the ladies were allowed in, even if they didn’t get the warmest welcome.In Glob’s society there were no such restrictions – everyone was welcome regardless of sex or age. If there was a model for the society, it was the younger and more progressive Norwegian Archaeological Society rather than the Danish one. The main purpose of both societies was to produce an annual publication, and from the start Glob’s Kuml had a closer resemblance to the Norwegian Viking than to the Danish Aarbøger for nordisk Oldkyndighed og Historie. The name of the publication caused careful consideration. For a long time I kept a slip of paper with different proposals, one of which was Kuml, which won after having been approved by the linguist Peter Skautrup.The name alone, however, was not enough, so now the task became to find so mething to fill Kuml with. To this end the finds came in handy, and as for those, Glob must have allied him self with the higher powers, since fortune smiled at him to a considerable extent. Just after entering upon his duties in Aarhus, an archaeological sensation landed at his feet. This happened in May 1950 when I was still living in the capital. A few of us had planned a trip to Aarhus, partly to look at the relics of th e past, and partly to visit our friend, the professor. He greeted us warmly and told us the exciting news that ten iron swords had been found during drainage work in the valley of lllerup Aadal north of the nearby town of Skanderborg. We took the news calmly as Glob rarely understated his affairs, but our scepticism was misplaced. When we visited the meadow the following day and carefully examined the dug-up soil, another sword appeared, as well as several spear and lance heads, and other iron artefacts. What the drainage trench diggers had found was nothing less than a place of sacrifice for war booty, like the four large finds from the 1800s. When I took up my post in Aarhus in September of that year I was granted responsibility for the lllerup excavation, which I worked on during the autumn and the following six summers. Some of my best memories are associated with this job – an interesting and happy time, with cheerful comradeship with a mixed bunch of helpers, who were mainly archaeology students. When we finished in 1956, it was not because the site had been fully investigated, but because the new owner of the bog plot had an aversion to archaeologists and their activities. Nineteen years later, in 1975, the work was resumed, this time under the leadership of Jørgen Ilkjær, and a large amount of weaponry was uncovered. The report from the find is presently being published.At short intervals, the year 1952 brought two finds of great importance: in Februar y the huge vessel from Braa near Horsens, and in April the Grauballe Man. The large Celtic bronze bowl with the bulls’ heads was found disassembled, buried in a hill and covered by a couple of large stones. Thanks to the finder, the farmer Søren Paaske, work was stopped early enough to leave areas untouched for the subsequent examination.The saga of the Grauballe Man, or the part of it that we know, began as a rumour on the 26th of April: a skeleton had been found in a bog near Silkeborg. On the following day, which happened to be a Sunday, Glob went off to have a look at the find. I had other business, but I arrived at the museum in the evening with an acquaintance. In my diary I wrote: ”When we came in we had a slight shock. On the floor was a peat block with a corpse – a proper, well-preserved bog body. Glob brought it. ”We’ll be in trouble now.” And so we were, and Glob was in high spirits. The find created a sensation, which was also thanks to the quick presentation that we mounted. I had purchased a tape recorder, which cost me a packet – not a small handy one like the ones you get nowadays, but a large monstrosity with a steel tape (it was, after all, early days for this device) – and assisted by several experts, we taped a number of short lectures for the benefit of the visitors. People flocked in; the queue meandered from the exhibition room, through the museum halls, and a long way down the street. It took a long wait to get there, but the visitors seemed to enjoy the experience. The bog man lay in his hastily – procured exhibition case, which people circled around while the talking machine repeatedly expressed its words of wisdom – unfortunately with quite a few interruptions as the tape broke and had to be assembled by hand. Luckily, the tape recorders now often used for exhibitions are more dependable than mine.When the waves had died down and the exhibition ended, the experts examined the bog man. He was x-rayed at several points, cut open, given a tooth inspection, even had his fingerprints taken. During the autopsy there was a small mishap, which we kept to ourselves. However, after almost fifty years I must be able to reveal it: Among the organs removed for investigation was the liver, which was supposedly suitable for a C-14 dating – which at the time was a new dating method, introduced to Denmark after the war. The liver was sent to the laboratory in Copenhagen, and from here we received a telephone call a few days later. What had been sent in for examination was not the liver, but the stomach. The unfortunate (and in all other respects highly competent) Aarhus doctor who had performed the dissection was cal1ed in again. During another visit to the bogman’s inner parts he brought out what he believed to be the real liver. None of us were capable of deciding th is question. It was sent to Copenhagen at great speed, and a while later the dating arrived: Roman Iron Age. This result was later revised as the dating method was improved. The Grauballe Man is now thought to have lived before the birth of Christ.The preservation of the Grauballe Man was to be conservation officer Kornbak’s masterpiece. There were no earlier cases available for reference, so he invented a new method, which was very successful. In the first volumes of Kuml, society members read about the exiting history of the bog body and of the glimpses of prehistoric sacrificial customs that this find gave. They also read about the Bahrain expeditions, which Glob initiated and which became the apple of his eye. Bibby played a central role in this, as it was he who – at an evening gathering at Glob’s and Harriet’s home in Risskov – described his stay on the Persian Gulf island and the numerous burial mounds there. Glob made a quick decision (one of his special abilities was to see possibilities that noone else did, and to carry them out successfully to everyone’s surprise) and in December 1952 he and Bibby left for the Gulf, unaware of the fact that they were thereby beginning a series of expeditions which would continue for decades. Again it was Glob’s special genius that was the decisive factor. He very quickly got on friendly terms with the rulers of the small sheikhdoms and interested them in their past. As everyone knows, oil is flowing plentifully in those parts. The rulers were thus financially powerful and some of this wealth was quickly diverted to the expeditions, which probably would not have survived for so long without this assistance. To those of us who took part in them from time to time, the Gulf expeditions were an unforgettable experience, not just because of the interesting work, but even more because of the contact with the local population, which gave us an insight into local manners and customs that helped to explain parts of our own country’s past which might otherwise be difficult to understand. For Glob and the rest of us did not just get close to the elite: in spite of language problems, our Arab workers became our good friends. Things livened up when we occasionally turned up in their palm huts.Still, co-operating with Glob was not always an easy task – the sparks sometimes flew. His talent of initiating things is of course undisputed, as are the lasting results. He was, however, most attractive when he was in luck. Attention normally focused on this magnificent person whose anecdotes were not taken too seriously, but if something went wrong or failed to work out, he could be grossly unreasonable and a little too willing to abdicate responsibility, even when it was in fact his. This might lead to violent arguments, but peace was always restored. In 1954, another museum curator was attached to the museum: Poul Kjærum, who was immediately given the important task of investigating the dolmen settlement near Tustrup on Northern Djursland. This gave important results, such as the discovery of a cult house, which was a new and hitherto unknown Stone Age feature.A task which had long been on our mind s was finally carried out in 1955: constructing a new display of the museum collections. The old exhibitio n type consisted of numerous artefacts lined up in cases, accompaied ony by a brief note of the place where it was found and the type – which was the standard then. This type of exhibition did not give much idea of life in prehistoric times.We wanted to allow the finds to speak for themselves via the way that they were arranged, and with the aid of models, photos and drawings. We couldn’t do without texts, but these could be short, as people would understand more by just looking at the exhibits. Glob was in the Gulf at the time, so Kjærum and I performed the task with little money but with competent practical help from conservator Kornbak. We shared the work, but in fairness I must add that my part, which included the new lllerup find, was more suitable for an untraditional display. In order to illustrate the confusion of the sacrificial site, the numerous bent swords and other weapons were scattered a.long the back wall of the exhibition hall, above a bog land scape painted by Emil Gregersen. A peat column with inlaid slides illustrated the gradual change from prehistoric lake to bog, while a free-standing exhibition case held a horse’s skeleton with a broken skull, accompanied by sacrificial offerings. A model of the Nydam boat with all its oars sticking out hung from the ceiling, as did the fine copy of the Gundestrup vessel, as the Braa vessel had not yet been preserved. The rich pictorial decoration of the vessel’s inner plates was exhibited in its own case underneath. This was an exhibition form that differed considerably from all other Danish exhibitions of the time, and it quickly set a fashion. We awaited Glob’s homecoming with anticipation – if it wasn’t his exhibition it was still made in his spirit. We hoped that he would be surprised – and he was.The museum was thus taking shape. Its few employees included Jytte Ræbild, who held a key position as a secretary, and a growing number of archaeology students who took part in the work in various ways during these first years. Later, the number of employees grew to include the aforementioned excavation pioneer Georg Kunwald, and Hellmuth Andersen and Hans Jørgen Madsen, whose research into the past of Aarhus, and later into Danevirke is known to many, and also the ethnographer Klaus Ferdinand. And now Moesgaard appeared on the horizon. It was of course Glob’s idea to move everything to a manor near Aarhus – he had been fantasising about this from his first Aarhus days, and no one had raised any objections. Now there was a chance of fulfilling the dream, although the actual realisation was still a difficult task.During all this, the Jutland Archaeological Society thrived and attracted more members than expected. Local branches were founded in several towns, summer trips were arranged and a ”Worsaae Medal” was occasionally donated to persons who had deserved it from an archaeological perspective. Kuml came out regularly with contributions from museum people and the like-minded. The publication had a form that appealed to an inner circle of people interested in archaeology. This was the intention, and this is how it should be. But in my opinion this was not quite enough. We also needed a publication that would cater to a wider public and that followed the same basic ideas as the new exhibition.I imagined a booklet, which – without over-popularsing – would address not only the professional and amateur archaeologist but also anyone else interested in the past. The result was Skalk, which (being a branch of the society) published its fir t issue in the spring of 1957. It was a somewhat daring venture, as the financial base was weak and I had no knowledge of how to run a magazine. However, both finances and experience grew with the number of subscribers – and faster than expected, too. Skalk must have met an unsatisfied need, and this we exploited to the best of our ability with various cheap advertisements. The original idea was to deal only with prehistoric and medieval archaeology, but the historians also wanted to contribute, and not just the digging kind. They were given permission, and so the topic of the magazine ended up being Denmark’s past from the time of its first inhabitant s until the times remembered by the oldest of us – with the odd sideways leap to other subjects. It would be impossible to claim that Skalk was at the top of Glob’s wish list, but he liked it and supported the idea in every way. The keeper of national antiquities, Johannes Brøndsted, did the same, and no doubt his unreserved approval of the magazine contributed to its quick growth. Not all authors found it easy to give up technical language and express themselves in everyday Danish, but the new style was quickly accepted. Ofcourse the obligations of the magazine work were also sometimes annoying. One example from the diary: ”S. had promised to write an article, but it was overdue. We agreed to a final deadline and when that was overdue I phoned again and was told that the author had gone to Switzerland. My hair turned grey overnight.” These things happened, but in this particular case there was a happy ending. Another academic promised me three pages about an excavation, but delivered ten. As it happened, I only shortened his production by a third.The 1960s brought great changes. After careful consideration, Glob left us to become the keeper of national antiquities. One important reason for his hesitation was of course Moesgaard, which he missed out on – the transfer was almost settled. This was a great loss to the Aarhus museum and perhaps to Glob, too, as life granted him much greater opportunities for development.” I am not the type to regret things,” he later stated, and hopefully this was true. And I had to choose between the museum and Skalk – the work with the magazine had become too timeconsuming for the two jobs to be combined. Skalk won, and I can truthfully say that I have never looked back. The magazine grew quickly, and happy years followed. My resignation from the museum also meant that Skalk was disengaged from the Jutland Archaeological Society, but a close connection remained with both the museum and the society.What has been described here all happened when the museum world was at the parting of the ways. It was a time of innovation, and it is my opinion that we at the Prehistoric Museum contributed to that change in various ways.The new Museum Act of 1958 gave impetus to the study of the past. The number of archaeology students in creased tremendously, and new techniques brought new possibilities that the discussion club of the 1940s had not even dreamt of, but which have helped to make some of the visions from back then come true. Public in terest in archaeology and history is still avid, although to my regret, the ahistorical 1960s and 1970s did put a damper on it.Glob is greatly missed; not many of his kind are born nowadays. He had, so to say, great virtues and great fault s, but could we have done without either? It is due to him that we have the Jutland Archaeological Society, which has no w existed for half a century. Congr tulat ion s to the Society, from your offspring Skalk.Harald AndersenSkalk MagazineTranslated by Annette Lerche Trolle

At last year’s Tour de France—the three-week cycling race—the winner of one stage was disqualified for allegedly obstructing a competitor. In newspapers and on social media, cycling fans immediately started a heated debate about the decision and about the actual course of events. They uploaded photographs and videos, which they had often edited and augmented with graphics to support their interpretation of the situation or to direct attention to some neglected detail (Simpson; "Tour de France").Due to their competitive character and their audience’s partisanship, modern media sports continuously create controversial moments like this, thereby providing ample opportunities for what Jason Mittell—with respect to complex narratives in recent TV drama—called “forensic fandom” ("Forensic;" Complex), in which audience members collectively investigate ambivalent or enigmatic elements of a media product, adding their own interpretations and explanations.Not unlike that of TV drama, sport’s forensic fandom is stimulated through complex forms of seriality—e.g. the successive stages of the Tour de France or the successive games of a tournament or a league, but also the repetition of the same league competition or tournament every (or, in the case of the Olympics, every four) year(s). To articulate their take on the disqualification of the Tour de France rider, fans refer to comparable past events, activate knowledge about rivalries between cyclists, or note character traits that they condensed from the alleged perpetrator’s prior appearances. Sport thus creates a continuously evolving and recursive storyworld that, like all popular seriality, proliferates across different media forms (texts, photos, films, etc.) and different media platforms (television, social media, etc.) (Kelleter).In the following I will use two examples (from 1908 and 1966) to analyse in greater detail why and how sport’s seriality and forensic attitude contribute to the highly dynamic “transmedia intertextuality” (Kinder 35) of media sport. Two arguments are of special importance to me: (1) While social media (as the introductory example has shown) add to forensic fandom’s proliferation, it was sport’s strongly serialized evaluation of performances that actually triggered the “spreadability” (Jenkins, Ford, and Green) of sport-related topics across different media, first doing so at the end of the 19th century. What is more, modern sport owes its very existence to the cross-media circulation of its events. (2) So far, transmedia has mainly been researched with respect to fictional content (Jenkins; Evans), yet existing research on documentary transmedia forms (Kerrigan and Velikovsky) and social media seriality (Page) has shown that the inclusion of non-fiction can broaden our knowledge of how storytelling sprawls across media and takes advantage of their specific affordances. This, I want to argue, ensures that sport is an insightful and important example for the understanding of transmedia world-building.The Origins of Sport, the Olympics 1908, and World-BuildingSome authors claim that it was commercial television that replaced descriptive accounts of sporting events with narratives of heroes and villains in the 1990s (Fabos). Yet even a cursory study of past sport reporting shows that, even back when newspapers had to explain the controversial outcome of the 1908 Olympic Marathon to their readers, they could already rely on a well-established typology of characters and events.In the second half of the 19th century, the rules of many sports became standardized. Individual events were integrated in organized, repetitive competitions—leagues, tournaments, and so on. This development was encouraged by the popular press, which thus enabled the public to compare performances from different places and across time (Werron, "On Public;" Werron, "World"). Rankings and tables condensed contests in easily comparable visual forms, and these were augmented by more narrative accounts that supplemented the numbers with details, context, drama, and the subjective experiences of athletes and spectators. Week by week, newspapers and special-interest magazines alike offered varying explanations for the various wins and losses.When London hosted the Olympics in 1908, the scheduled seriality and pre-determined settings and protagonists allowed for the announcement of upcoming events in advance and for setting up possible storylines. Two days before the marathon race, The Times of London published the rules of the race, the names of the participants, a distance table listing relevant landmarks with the estimated arrival times, and a turn-by-turn description of the route, sketching the actual experience of running the race for the readers (22 July 1908, p. 11). On the day of the race, The Times appealed to sport’s seriality with a comprehensive narrative of prior Olympic Marathon races, a map of the precise course, a discussion of the alleged favourites, and speculation on factors that might impact the performances:Because of their inelasticity, wood blocks are particularly trying to the feet, and the glitter on the polished surface of the road, if the sun happens to be shining, will be apt to make a man who has travelled over 20 miles at top speed turn more than a little dizzy … . It is quite possible that some of the leaders may break down here, when they are almost within sight of home. (The Times 24 July 1908, p. 9)What we see here can be described as a world-building process: The rules of a competition, the participating athletes, their former performances, the weather, and so on, all form “a more or less organized sum of scattered parts” (Boni 13). These parts could easily be taken up by what we now call different media platforms (which in 1908 included magazines, newspapers, and films) that combine them in different ways to already make claims about cause-and-effect chains, intentions, outcomes, and a multitude of subjective experiences, before the competition has even started.The actual course of events, then, like the single instalment in a fictional storyworld, has a dual function: on the one hand, it specifies one particular storyline with a few protagonists, decisive turning points, and a clear determination of winners and losers. On the other hand, it triggers the multiplication of follow-up stories, each suggesting specific explanations for the highly contingent outcome, thereby often extending the storyworld, invoking props, characters, character traits, causalities, and references to earlier instalments in the series, which might or might not have been mentioned in the preliminary reports.In the 1908 Olympic Marathon, the Italian Dorando Pietri, who was not on The Times’ list of favourites, reached the finish first. Since he was stumbling on the last 300 meters of the track inside the stadium and only managed to cross the finish line with the support of race officials, he was disqualified. The jury then declared the American John Hayes, who came in second, the winner of the race.The day after the marathon, newspapers gave different accounts of the race. One, obviously printed too hastily, declared Pietri dead; others unsurprisingly gave the race a national perspective, focusing on the fate of “their” athletes (Davis 161, 166). Most of them evaluated the event with respect to athletic, aesthetic, or ethical terms—e.g. declaring Pietri the moral winner of the race (as did Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in The Daily Mail of July 25). This continues today, as praising sport performers often figures as a last resort “to reconstruct unproblematic heroism” (Whannel 44).The general endeavour of modern sport to scrutinize and understand the details of the performance provoked competing explanations for what had happened: was it the food, the heat, or the will power? In a forensic spirit, many publications added drawings or printed one of the famous photographs displaying Pietri being guided across the finish line (these still regularly appear in coffee-table books on sports photography; for a more extensive analysis, see Stauff). Sport—just like other non-fictional transmedia content—enriches its storyworld through “historical accounts of places and past times that already have their own logic, practice and institutions” (Kerrigan and Velikovsky 259).The seriality of sport not only fostered this dynamic by starting the narrative before the event, but also by triggering references to past instalments through the contingencies of the current one. The New York Times took the biggest possible leap, stating that the 1908 marathon must have been the most dramatic competition “since that Marathon race in ancient Greece, where the victor fell at the goal and, with a wave of triumph, died” (The New York Times 25 July 1908, p. 1). Dutch sport magazine De Revue der Sporten (6 August 1908, p. 167) used sport’s seriality more soberly to assess Hayes’ finishing time as not very special (conceding that the hot weather might have had an effect).What, hopefully, has become clear by now, is that—starting in the late 19th century—sporting events are prepared by, and in turn trigger, varying practices of transmedia world-building that make use of the different media’s affordances (drawings, maps, tables, photographs, written narratives, etc.). Already in 1908, most people interested in sport thus quite probably came across multiple accounts of the event—and thereby could feel invited to come up with their own explanation for what had happened. Back then, this forensic attitude was mostly limited to speculation about possible cause-effect chains, but with the more extensive visual coverage of competitions, especially through moving images, storytelling harnessed an increasingly growing set of forensic tools.The World Cup 1966 and Transmedia ForensicsThe serialized TV live transmissions of sport add complexity to storytelling, as they multiply the material available for forensic proliferations of the narratives. Liveness provokes a layered and constantly adapting process transforming the succession of actions into a narrative (the “emplotment”). The commentators find themselves “in the strange situation of a narrator ignorant of the plot” (Ryan 87), constantly balancing between mere reporting of events and more narrative explanation of incidents (Barnfield 8).To create a coherent storyworld under such circumstances, commentators fall back on prefabricated patterns (“overcoming bad luck,” “persistence paying off,” etc.) to frame the events while they unfold (Ryan 87). This includes the already mentioned tropes of heroism or national and racial stereotypes, which are upheld as long as possible, even when the course of events contradicts them (Tudor). Often, the creation of “non-retrospective narratives” (Ryan 79) harnesses seriality, “connecting this season with last and present with past and, indeed, present with past and future” (Barnfield 10).Instant-replay technology, additionally, made it possible (and necessary) for commentators to scrutinize individual actions while competitions are still ongoing, provoking revisions of the emplotment. With video, DVD, and online video, the second-guessing and re-telling of elements—at least in hindsight—became accessible to the general audience as well, thereby dramatically extending the playing field for sport’s forensic attitude.I want to elaborate this development with another example from London, this time the 1966 Men’s Football World Cup, which was the first to systematically use instant replay. In the extra time of the final, the English team scored a goal against the German side: Geoff Hurst’s shot bounced from the crossbar down to the goal line and from there back into the field. After deliberating with the linesman, the referee called it a goal. Until today it remains contested whether the ball actually was behind the goal line or not.By 1966, 1908’s sparsity of visual representation had been replaced by an abundance of moving images. The game was covered by the BBC and by ITV (for TV) and by several film companies (in colour and in black-and-white). Different recordings of the famous goal, taken from different camera angles, still circulate and are re-appropriated in different media even today. The seriality of sport, particularly World Cup Football’s return every four years, triggers the re-telling of this 1966 game just as much as media innovations do.In 1966, the BBC live commentary—after a moment of doubt—pretty soberly stated that “it’s a goal” and observed that “the Germans are mad at the referee;” the ITV reporter, more ambivalently declared: “the linesman says no goal … that’s what we saw … It is a goal!” The contemporary newsreel in German cinemas—the Fox Tönende Wochenschau—announced the scene as “the most controversial goal of the tournament.” It was presented from two different perspectives, the second one in slow motion with the commentary stating: “these images prove that it was not a goal” (my translation).So far, this might sound like mere opposing interpretations of a contested event, yet the option to scrutinize the scene in slow motion and in different versions also spawned an extended forensic narrative. A DVD celebrating 100 years of FIFA (FIFA Fever, 2002) includes the scene twice, the first time in the chapter on famous controversies. Here, the voice-over avoids taking a stand by adopting a meta-perspective: The goal guaranteed that “one of the most entertaining finals ever would be the subject of conversation for generations to come—and therein lies the beauty of controversies.” The scene appears a second time in the special chapter on Germany’s successes. Now the goal itself is presented with music and then commented upon by one of the German players, who claims that it was a bad call by the referee but that the sportsmanlike manner in which his team accepted the decision advanced Germany’s global reputation.This is only included in the German version of the DVD, of course; on the international “special deluxe edition” of FIFA Fever (2002), the 1966 goal has its second appearance in the chapter on England’s World Cup history. Here, the referee’s decision is not questioned—there is not even a slow-motion replay. Instead, the summary of the game is wrapped up with praise for Geoff Hurst’s hat trick in the game and with images of the English players celebrating, the voice-over stating: “Now the nation could rejoice.”In itself, the combination of a nationally organized media landscape with the nationalist approach to sport reporting already provokes competing emplotments of one and the same event (Puijk). The modularity of sport reporting, which allows for easy re-editing, replacing sound and commentary, and retelling events through countless witnesses, triggers a continuing recombination of the elements of the storyworld. In the 50 years since the game, there have been stories about the motivations of the USSR linesman and the Swiss referee who made the decision, and there have been several reconstructions triggered by new digital technology augmenting the existing footage (e.g. King; ‘das Archiv’).The forensic drive behind these transmedia extensions is most explicit in the German Football Museum in Dortmund. For the fiftieth anniversary of the World Cup in 2016, it hosted a special exhibition on the event, which – similarly to the FIFA DVD – embeds it in a story of gaining global recognition for the fairness of the German team ("Deutsches Fußballmuseum").In the permanent exhibition of the German Football Museum, the 1966 game is memorialized with an exhibit titled “Wembley Goal Investigation” (“Ermittlung Wembley-Tor”). It offers three screens, each showing the goal from a different camera angle, a button allowing the visitors to stop the scene at any moment. A huge display cabinet showcases documents, newspaper clippings, quotes from participants, and photographs in the style of a crime-scene investigation—groups of items are called “corpus delicti,” “witnesses,” and “analysis.” Red hand-drawn arrows insinuate relations between different items; yellow “crime scene, do not cross” tape lies next to a ruler and a pair of tweezers.Like the various uses of the slow-motion replays on television, in film, on DVD, and on YouTube, the museum thus offers both hegemonic narratives suggesting a particular emplotment of the event that endow it with broader (nationalist) meaning and a forensic storyworld that offers props, characters, and action building-blocks in a way that invites fans to activate their own storytelling capacities.Conclusion: Sport’s Trans-Seriality Sport’s dependency on a public evaluation of its performances has made it a dynamic transmedia topic from the latter part of the 19th century onwards. Contested moments especially prompt a forensic attitude that harnesses the affordances of different media (and quickly takes advantage of technological innovations) to discuss what “really” happened. The public evaluation of performances also shapes the role of authorship and copyright, which is pivotal to transmedia more generally (Kustritz). Though the circulation of moving images from professional sporting events is highly restricted and intensely monetized, historically this circulation only became a valuable asset because of the sprawling storytelling practices about sport, individual competitions, and famous athletes in press, photography, film, and radio. Even though television dominates the first instance of emplotment during the live transmission, there is no primordial authorship; sport’s intense competition and partisanship (and their national organisation) guarantee that there are contrasting narratives from the start.The forensic storytelling, as we have seen, is structured by sport’s layered seriality, which establishes a rich storyworld and triggers ever new connections between present and past events. Long before the so-called seasons of radio or television series, sport established a seasonal cycle that repeats the same kind of competition with different pre-conditions, personnel, and weather conditions. Likewise, long before the complex storytelling of current television drama (Mittell, Complex TV), sport has mixed episodic with serial storytelling. On the one hand, the 1908 Marathon, for example, is part of the long series of marathon competitions, which can be considered independent events with their own fixed ending. On the other hand, athletes’ histories, continuing rivalries, and (in the case of the World Cup) progress within a tournament all establish narrative connections across individual episodes and even across different seasons (on the similarities between TV sport and soap operas, cf. O’Connor and Boyle).From its start in the 19th century, the serial publication of newspapers supported (and often promoted) sport’s seriality, while sport also shaped the publication schedule of the daily or weekly press (Mason) and today still shapes the seasonal structure of television and sport related computer games (Hutchins and Rowe 164). This seasonal structure also triggers wide-ranging references to the past: With each new World Cup, the famous goal from 1966 gets integrated into new highlight reels telling the German and the English teams’ different stories.Additionally, together with the contingency of sport events, this dual seriality offers ample opportunity for the articulation of “latent seriality” (Kustritz), as a previously neglected recurring trope, situation, or type of event across different instalments can eventually be noted. As already mentioned, the goal of 1966 is part of different sections on the FIFA DVDs: as the climactic final example in a chapter collecting World Cup controversies, as an important—but rather ambivalent—moment of German’s World Cup history, and as the biggest triumph in the re-telling of England’s World Cup appearances. In contrast to most fictional forms of seriality, the emplotment of sport constantly integrates such explicit references to the past, even causally disconnected historical events like the ancient Greek marathon.As a result, each competition activates multiple temporal layers—only some of which are structured as narratives. It is important to note that the public evaluation of performances is not at all restricted to narrative forms; as we have seen, there are quantitative and qualitative comparisons, chronicles, rankings, and athletic spectacle, all of which can create transmedia intertextuality. Sport thus might offer an invitation to more generally analyse how transmedia seriality combines narrative and other forms. Even for fictional transmedia, the immersion in a storyworld and the imagination of extended and alternative storylines might only be two of many dynamics that structure seriality across different media.AcknowledgementsThe two anonymous reviewers and Florian Duijsens offered important feedback to clarify the argument of this text.ReferencesBarnfield, Andrew. "Soccer, Broadcasting, and Narrative: On Televising a Live Soccer Match." Communication & Sport (2013): 326–341.Boni, Marta. "Worlds Today." World Building: Transmedia, Fans, Industries. Ed. Marta Boni. Amsterdam: Amsterdam UP, 2017. 9–27."Das Archiv: das Wembley-Tor." Karambolage, 19 June 2016. 6 Feb. 2018 <https://sites.arte.tv/karambolage/de/das-archiv-das-wembley-tor-karambolage>.The Daily Mail, 25 July 1908.Davis, David. Showdown at Shepherd’s Bush: The 1908 Olympic Marathon and the Three Runners Who Launched a Sporting Craze. 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Media of Serial Narrative. Ed. Frank Kelleter. Columbus: The Ohio State UP, 2017. 7–34.Kerrigan, Susan, and J.T. Velikovsky. "Examining Documentary Transmedia Narratives through the Living History of Fort Scratchley Project." Convergence 22.3 (2016): 250–268.Kinder, Marsha. "Playing with Power on Saturday Morning Television and on Home Video Games." Quarterly Review of Film and Television 14 (1992): 29–59.King, Dominic. "Geoff Hurst’s Goal against West Germany DID Cross the Line!" Daily Mail Online. 4 Jan. 2016. 6 Feb. 2018 <http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-3384366/Geoff-Hurst-s-goal-against-West-Germany-DID-cross-line-Sky-Sports-finally-prove-linesman-right-award-controversial-strike-1966-World-Cup-final.html>.Kustritz, Anne. "Seriality and Transmediality in the Fan Multiverse: Flexible and Multiple Narrative Structures in Fan Fiction, Art, and Vids." TV/Series 6 (2014): 225–261.Mason, Tony. "Sporting News, 1860-1914." The Press in English Society from the Seventeenth to Nineteenth Centuries. Eds. Michael Harris and Alan Lee. Associated UP, 1986. 168–186.Mittell, Jason. Complex TV: The Poetics of Contemporary Television Storytelling. New York: NYU Press, 2015.———. "Forensic Fandom and the Drillable Text." Spreadable Media. 17 Dec. 2012. 4 Jan. 2018 <http://spreadablemedia.org/essays/mittell/>.The New York Times 25 July 1908.O’Connor, Barbara, and Raymond Boyle. "Dallas with Balls: Televised Sport, Soap Opera and Male and Female Pleasures." Leisure Studies 12.2 (1993): 107–119.Page, Ruth. "Seriality and Storytelling in Social Media." StoryWorlds: A Journal of Narrative Studies 5.1 (2013): 31–54.Puijk, Roel. "A Global Media Event? Coverage of the 1994 Lillehammer Olympic Games." International Review for the Sociology of Sport 35.3 (2000): 309–330.De Revue der Sporten, 6 August 1908.Ryan, Marie-Laure. Avatars of Story. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2006.Simpson, Christopher. "Peter Sagan’s 2017 Tour de France Disqualification Appeal Rejected by CAS." Bleacher Report. 6 July 2017. 6 Feb. 2018 <https://bleacherreport.com/articles/2720166-peter-sagans-2017-tour-de-france-disqualification-appeal-rejected-by-cas>.Stauff, Markus. "The Pregnant-Moment-Photograph: The London 1908 Marathon and the Cross-Media Evaluation of Sport Performances." Historical Social Research (forthcoming). The Times, 22 July 1908.The Times, 24 July 1908."Tour de France: Peter Sagan Disqualified for Elbowing Mark Cavendish." 4 July 2017. 6 Feb. 2018 <https://www.usatoday.com/story/sports/cycling/2017/07/04/demare-wins-tour-stage-as-cavendish-involved-in-nasty-crash/103410284/>.Tudor, Andrew. "Them and Us: Story and Stereotype in TV World Cup Coverage." European Journal of Communication 7 (1992): 391–413.Werron, Tobias. "On Public Forms of Competition." Cultural Studies ↔ Critical Methodologies 14.1 (2014): 62–76.———. "World Sport and Its Public. On Historical Relations of Modern Sport and the Media." Observing Sport: System-Theoretical Approaches to Sport as a Social Phenomenon. Eds. Ulrik Wagner and Rasmus Storm. Schorndorf: Hofmann, 2010. 33–59.Whannel, Garry. Media Sport Stars. Masculinities and Moralities. London/New York: Routledge, 2001.

Teesid: Tartu Ülikooli maailmakirjanduse professori, luuletaja, kirjandusteadlase ja hispaaniakeelse kirjanduse spetsialisti Jüri Talveti tõlketegevuse viljade hulka kuulub luulet ja proosat nii sajandeid vanast Hispaania klassikast kui ka 20. sajandil või tänapäeval romaani keeltes või inglise keeles loodud teostest. Käesolev artikkel keskendub sellele, kuidas professor Talvet on tõlgendanud luule ja poeetika, kuid ka kirjandusajaloo, iseäranis barokk-kirjanduse alaseid küsimusi oma kirjandusteaduslikes esseedes. Vaadeldakse ka tema tõlketegevuse mahtu ja tõlketöö põhimõtteid. Jüri Talvet (born in 1945) is a poet and a scholar of comparative literature, Chair Professor of World Literature at the University of Tartu. His numerous translations of poetry and poetical fiction from the Romance languages and, to a lesser extent, from English, reflect his views on world poetry. Those views are also expressed in his theoretical writings from the years of 1977 to 2015. Having studied English literature as the main subject at the University of Tartu, he early developed an interest in Spanish, in other Iberian languages, and in the Iberoamerican literatures. His translations from that area include works from medieval and early modern literature as well as notable literary achievements from the 20th century and the contemporary era. Talvet’s interpretations of Federico García Lorca and the “Latin American boom” authors are supported by profound insights into the philosophy, aesthetics, and poetics of the 17th century Spanish Baroque literature, known as the literary Golden Age of Spain. The influence which Talvet’s activities have exerted has widened the horizons of Estonia’s literary culture: while in the early 20th century, the previous German, Russian and Finnish leanings were supplemented by orientations to, and translations from, French and Italian literatures, Talvet has helped to enrich the Estonian literary landscape with the mentality and traditions of even more distant language areas, such as Castilian (Spanish), Catalan, Galician, Portuguese, and the Latin American countries. In the section “Quevedo and Góngora” of this article, Talvet’s interpretation of some of the key issues of dispute in the Baroque literature of Spain are studied, based both on his theoretical essays and on his translations of the poetry of Francisco de Quevedo. Talvet has attempted to use the terms of the Baroque philosopher and writer Baltasar Gracián, agudeza, concepto (definable approximately as “conceit” or “wit”) and conceptismo, for the analysis of the late 20th century Estonian poetry. On that background, defnitions of conceptismo and cultismo (the other main school in Spanish Baroque poetry) are offered in this article, with implications that those definitions may have for understanding different styles and methods of poetry in general, and the characteristics of Talvet’s own poems and poetry translations in particular. To escape diffusion in pure sensuality and verbal indulgence, poetry has to rely on concepts as well as images. Talvet’s interpretations of poetry and poetical thinking are found to be close to conceptismo, or with a considerable amount of conceptuality inherent to them. The juxtaposition of paradoxical ideas from different levels of reality, social and psychic, is seen as the essential poetical method that Talvet refers to as he defines, quoting Yuri Lotman, the structural-semantic code of poetry as being “paradigmatic”. In the final section of the article, Talvet’s 23 book-length published translations are listed, including translations from Spanish, Catalan, English and French. The list does not include numerous translations of single poems or cycles of poetry that have appeared in literary journals, nor his contributions to anthologies of poetry, nor the translations from his native Estonian into a foreign language, such as Spanish or English, in which he has participated. His translations encompass lyrical works as well as fiction and plays. Talvet has translated classical European poetry, such as the sonnets of Petrarch and Quevedo and Provençal poems, as well as the rhymed poems of American poets into Estonian with complete metrical correspondence and full rhymes. However, in the latest decades Talvet has expressed scepticism in the sense and feasibility of attempting to convey the rhyming complexities of the major European literatures into Estonian, a language with a considerably smaller potential for finding full rhymes. Accordingly, his three translations of Spanish Baroque drama (by Calderón and Tirso de Molina) employ a liberal method of versification. In all his versatile activities as a poet, a translator, and a theorist of poetry, Professor Talvet has shown great devotion to developing and cultivating aesthetic values. A lot of his colleagues and students have benefited from his friendly advice. Thinking of his contributions to Estonia’s literary tradition, one may repeat and paraphrase the sentence that he used for the conclusion of his essay on the Catalan poet Salvador Espriu in 1977: “to write (and to translate) poetry is to work for the benefit of the people.”

Among the 19th century literary salons an important role is played by that of the countess Clara Maffei, not only for its long duration (52 years) and its European reputation. It’s a private meeting point, the heart of Milan where aristocrats, intellectuals and burgeois gather together. The four personalities involved are: the two founders Andrea and Clara Maffei, Giuseppe Verdi and his wife Giuseppina Verdi Strepponi with their correspondence. This epistolar exchange consists of more than 600 documents, partly wellknown and published and partly unpublished (Clara’s letters conserved in Sant’Agata archives). Very important is the correspondence between Verdi and Clara. Andrea Maffei (Molina di Ledro 1798 – Milano 1885) stands out in the Italian culture of the mid nineteenth century: connoisseur of poets and theatre beyond the Alps, he spreads in Italy the International taste with many translations from german, his second language (from Klopstock to the theatre of Schiller) and English authors: he is friend of many artists and he represents actively the consonance among literature, art and music. He offers to Verdi, received in the salon in 1842, formative relationships with intellectuals and artists and personally a lively school of cultural and theatre taste, guiding him in the choice of subjects, he composes for Verdi the libretto of I Masnadieri and he makes the fantasy arrangements of the witches in Macbeth. Chiara Carrara Spinelli (Bergamo 1814 – Milano 1886) is a fascinating creature, cultured and quivering of emotions and ideals. She has a vocation in receiving and listening, she offered all kinds of spiritual, material and social assistance. The relationship between Clara and Verdi is based on a confidential, noble, without reserve friendship. A friendship that grows in the distance, as for 20 years Verdi stays away from Milan, and he will see Clara again in 1868 during the visit at Manzoni. But her letters marks a thread with old and new friends of the salon, and herself, who adores and spends time with Manzoni, stimulates the cult of Verdi for this personality with continuous news and pushes him to a meeting. During the two stays in Sant’Agata she captures intimate moments of Verdi’s life. He represents for Clara the maximum ambition of art and ethics, and she is proud of sharing his choices, reassured about her apprehensions and weakness. Verdi opens his heart to Clara and facilitates the correspondence between Clara and Peppina who will become close friends.

OPSOMMING Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770-1831), een van die belangrikste figure in die ontwikkeling van Duitse idealisme, se filosofie staan as "absolute idealisme" bekend, aangesien hy die idee, of gees (verstand) as die eintlike werklikheid beskou - in teenstelling met 'n materialistiese denker soos Karl Marx, wat materie (stof) as primêre werklikheid aanwys. Hegel was die eerste Westerse denker wat die geskiedenis ernstig opgeneem het; volgens hom is alles, spesifiek menslike kulturele aktiwiteite, onderworpe aan historiese ontwikkeling, en beskryf hy hierdie ontwikkeling op verskeie vlakke, insluitende dié wat hy "absolute gees" noem. Op hierdie vlak word wêreldgeskiedenis aan die hand van 'n "dialektiese" ontwikkeling vanaf "subjektiewe" gees (individuele menslike passies en bedoelinge) via "objektiewe" gees (staatstrukture en wette) tot "absolute gees" voorgestel. In hierdie artikel word daar aandag gegee aan wat volgens Hegel op laasgenoemde vlak gebeur, spesifiek met betrekking tot sy raaiselagtige stelling, dat die kuns as "hoogste uitdrukking" van die gees "moet sterf", om plek te maak vir religie en filosofie as manifestasies daarvan op meer gevorderde vlakke. 'n Mens kan tereg wonder wat Hegel daarmee bedoel het in die lig van die voortdurende beoefening van kuns tot vandag toe. Die antwoord is geleë in die frase, "hoogste uitdrukking", wat daarop dui dat hy aan kuns in historiese ontwikkelingsterme dink - met ander woorde, kuns is die draer van die absolute gees tot op 'n bepaalde tydstip, waarna dit plek moet maak vir ander sodanige uitdrukkingsvorme, te wete godsdiens en filosofie. Bowendien is kuns self ook onderworpe aan interne ontwikkeling; vir Hegel is die vroegste kuns simbolies van aard, (met Egiptiese kuns as voorbeeld), gevolg deur klassieke kuns (onder die antieke Grieke) en laastens romantiese kuns (in sy eie tyd). Die verskille tussen hierdie drie kunsvorms word bepaal deur die verhouding tussen idee en materie; in simboliese kuns domineer materie oor die idee in kunswerke, sodat die betekenis daarvan slegs vaagweg gepeil kan word (dink maar aan die Sfinks, as die "simbool van die simboliese"), terwyl daar 'n volmaakte balans tussen idee en materie bestaan in klassieke Griekse kuns, sodat geeneen van die twee dominant is nie (soos in die geval van beeldhouwerke wat die god Apollo voorstel). In romantiese kuns (byvoorbeeld die romantiese skilderkuns van Gericault) vind 'n mens die teenoorgestelde van simboliese kuns, met die idee wat dermate oor die materie heers dat dit byna daarin slaag om in denkbeeldige vorm daarvan los te breek. Hierdie is volgens Hegel die "hoogste" ontwikkelingspunt wat kuns as draer van die gees kan bereik, voordat dit plek maak vir religie as "beelddenke" en uiteindelik filosofie, waar die gees as idee suiwer, sonder enige stoflike oorblyfsel, tot uitdrukking kom. Hier voltooi die absolute gees die ontwikkelingstrajek daarvan, wat by die objektiewe vergestalting daarvan begin en via subjektiewe beliggaming uiteindelik in absolute "selfkennis" kulmineer. Vir die doeleindes van hierdie artikel is dit egter tematies betekenisvol dat Hegel ook melding maak van die voortbestaan van kuns ná die punt waar dit afstand doen van die titel van "hoogste" manifestasie van die gees of idee, naamlik in die gewaad van "kritiese", polemiese kuns, wat vry geword het van spesifieke wêreldbeskouings. 'n Mens kan in die moderne kunsbewegings van die vroeë 20ste eeu - insluitende kubisme, abstrakte ekspressionisme, konseptualisme en futurisme - die beliggaming van hierdie verwagting by Hegel bespeur, waar hierdie soort kuns telkens die ontologiese aanspraak maak dat dit die ware werklikheid blootlê. As besonder treffende tydgenootlike uitdrukking van sodanige (radikale) kritiese kuns word Andy Goldsworthy se ekologiese kuns ten slotte onder die loep geplaas. Trefwoorde: dood van kuns, kritiese kuns, ekologiese kuns, dialekties, Hegel, geskiedenis, kapitalisme, Goldsworthy ABSTRACT Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770-1831), one of the major figures in the history of philosophy, played a significant role in the development of German idealism from Immanuel Kant in the 18th century via figures such as Schelling and Fichte, with the movement culminating in Hegel's "absolute idealism". In ontological terms idealism means that "the idea" is regarded as the true reality, instead of material things. Karl Marx, who learned a lot from Hegel as far as his dialectical method goes, famously remarked that Hegel had turned the world on its head, and he, Marx (a materialist thinker), would put it back on its feet again. Hegel made a substantial contribution to the philosophy of art - his multi-volume work, Lectures on Aesthetics, is justly famous - but instead of discussing it here in general terms, I shall focus on Hegel's puzzling statement that art had reached the highest point of its development as bearer of "the idea" in his own time (the first half of the 19th century), and would have to make way for religion and philosophy as expressions of the idea, or spirit/mind. This is known as Hegel's thesis of "the death of art". One might wonder what this means, because anyone can see that, if he meant the end of art as a cultural practice, he was simply wrong, given the ubiquitous signs of ongoing artistic activities. This may be the case, but recall that Hegel saw art as having reached the highest point of its development as bearer of "the idea" at that time, suggesting that there would still be a role for art after this point. This is precisely what is the case. For Hegel, the idea, or spirit (mind) as ultimate reality, unfolds itself in the history of the world at various levels. At the niveau of social and political development, which Hegel writes about in his Philosophy of History, he understands history from the ancient Chinese, Indians and Persians, through the Greeks and Romans until his own time as the history of the increasing "consciousness of freedom", with every new era displaying a step forward, approximating the ideal of political freedom. In this, his most accessible work, as well as in his magnum opus, The Phenomenology of spirit/mind, Hegel displays what is probably his most lasting philosophical legacy - a keen awareness, more than any philosopher before him, of history, and the fact that everything human is subject to historical development, which he believed to have meaning and direction. Moreover, instead of a simple-minded, linear conception of history, he thinks of historical change dialectically - that is, developing from one state of affairs through its negation by its dialectical opposite, or antithesis, to another, higher state, which comprises a synthesis of the two preceding stages. This new stage is again negated by its opposite, and so on. Importantly, however, Hegel claims that, with every dialectical movement from one historical condition to another, the previous, negated stage is preserved, uplifted, and cancelled simultaneously (a tripartite process called sublation in English, and Aufhebung in German). This means that every earlier stage of development is still present in every later stage, but in a transformed fashion. Hegel also calls this "the negation of the negation" - incorporating something of the other into oneself. To reach the level of what he calls absolute spirit, it develops through subjective spirit (sense perception, consciousness, self-consciousness) and objective spirit (the family, the state, law) to the point where it manifests itself in art, followed by religion, and eventually the highest level, namely, philosophy, where absolute spirit or mind "knows itself" in clear conceptual terms. In the development of art he distinguishes three stages, namely symbolic art, classical art and the art of his own time, namely romantic art. Certain kinds of art correspond to these stages, with architecture being the exemplary symbolic art, sculpture the epitome of classical art, and painting, music and dramatic poetry the clearest expressions of romantic art. Moreover, in every stage, and kind of art there is a typical relationship between the idea and the material within which it is enveloped (for that is what art is, for Hegel: the sensuous, or material, embodiment of the idea). In the case of symbolic art the idea does not appear clearly, but is only dimly suggested because the sensuous envelope predominates over it. The art of the ancient Egyptians serves as an example of symbolic art, with the Sphinx as "the symbol of the symbolic". Classical art is exemplified by ancient Greek sculpture, which is in a sense the "highest" that art is capable of as far as the relationship between idea and matter goes: in the sculptures depicting the Greek gods, such as Apollo, we see the perfect equilibrium, Hegel claims, between idea and matter, with neither dominating the other. However, when romantic art replaces classical art we find a preponderance that is the opposite of that found in symbolic art, insofar as the idea becomes too strong for the material to contain, so that it threatens to break its material bonds. Hegel sees this happening in the painting, music and poetry or drama of his time. Think of romantic paintings such as those of Eugene Delacroix or Theodore Gericault, for example, the latter's painting of The Raft of the Medusa, which commemorates the sinking of a ship by that name and shows survivors on a raft, in various stages of exhaustion and desperation. It is as if the painting is striving to surpass itself as artistic medium in an attempt to express the suffering of these people. The same is true of some of the music of Hegel's time. He would probably have been familiar with Beethoven's opera, Fidelio - with its valorisation of love, courage, sacrifice and freedom - although he does not refer to it. But it is particularly poetry and drama, where the poetic expressions of joy and suffering come close to philosophy (except that here they are instances of imaginative, instead of conceptual articulations), that testify to romantic art signalling the finale of art's capacity to embody the idea. Art passes the baton to religion, which Hegel thinks of as "pictorial thinking", and which expresses the subjectivity of humans and of God better than art could. Eventually religion has to make way for philosophy, though, because it is there that spirit or mind knows itself self-reflectively and clearly. As far as art is concerned there is an important corollary, however. Hegel writes about a "free art" that continues to exist after art has relinquished its "highest vocation", and attributes to this art a critical, polemical function, given that the artist has become free from the constraints of a specific worldview. In this respect Hegel seems to have been prescient; even in his own time he noticed that people had become less interested in merely looking at art, for instance, and more interested in what art meant - hence Hegel's anticipation of a "science of art". Beyond Hegel's lifetime art developed in a manner that bears out his expectations. Particularly in the early 20th century one notices a plethora of new art movements - abstract expressionism, cubism, fauvism, conceptualism, suprematism, futurism, metaphysical art - all of which bear overtly theoretical names, claiming to reflect the true nature of reality. In contemporary ecological art, such as that of Andy Goldsworthy, one may perceive a particularly powerful instance of the "critical" role of art that Hegel anticipated. It is here discussed to demonstrate what is meant by claiming that it embodies a "radically critical" art in the face of the ecological crisis facing humanity. Keywords: death of art, critical art, ecological art, dialectical, Hegel, history, capitalism, Goldsworthy