Great Britain
A DIZZY SPELL OF SØREN KIERGEGAARD
I
I was born of those who have the courage
to come to terms with their own ignorance.
A man of virtues and too many
obvious faults, I’m an unfinished cosmos.
I, Victor Eremita, dare think that in time
I will be called when skills are discussed.
I preach. I clame I’m revealing nothing new,
But they whatch me with disbeleif.
I tell them that epochs are finished,
that everything has been named a long time ago.
Still, they reproach me with some sort of originality.
In my really wothless thinking, I merely
copy forms, dealing in
apparent understanding. All I can do
is wait for a movement that will pass judgement.
Translated by Evald Flisar
IV
Life ahead of me goes by suffering.
In fact, the lives of all of us are echoes
of particular sufferings. If we are unaware,
we get over them more easily; we do not touch the sorrow
even while passing by, which might be worth admiring.
On this earth, I can be trained only
for trembling. I was flung into life I have been living absent-mindedly.
Cannot define myself, the others — do not want to,
it would not be decent. I am crucified
between possible ends. I wonder, however,
how I still manage to supply myself with days.
Being, consequently, I cannot define. Moreover, to others
I cannot guarantee that it takes place now and here.
Staying in this world resembles any other exile,
and always takes intense loneliness along. I can feel it,
when I start taking credit for wrapped phrases,
and when I keep letting myself into raising many questions.
As all good beginners do, after all.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
V
Cold is this life, as the streets of Copenhagen.
Solitude, apparently the key feature of existence, is being nurtured
everywhere. I find small comfort in asking myself,
for all the wasted time and under the guise of other names,
what truth was revealed that ominous (or promising) night,
when Socrates drank off poison from the goblet. As of that ancient Greek night,
I guess, there is little doubt about the freedom of choice. Now,
even these writings of mine become different owing to recollection
of the incident. My talk, hopefully, cannot
ever be ad se ipsum. All my sentences are last wills.
I am telling you this as a natural Hellene, an individual alienated
from the present. Once I convey my messages from the will
to you, feel free to judge — how skillfully I have managed to
disguise myself and record occurrences. And if I have repeated myself,
I have done it with success, indeed, since in repetition
I have recognized the only purpose of my writing. If I have quoted,
I have toured all the necessary worlds. I have taken the plunge
of living — that is my greatest sin.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
VI
I know of the sound of carriages in summer evenings.
And I know the meaning of their movement. Man’s
destiny and sin I also know. This is the legacy
I have been left, which denies my species
the privilege of a new beginning, new way. To some documents
— perhaps unjustly — I attribute meaning.
I think of unwritten poems, of what has not been created.
And so, from the atmosphere, I gather doleful lyrical gleanings:
I am a poet who doesn’t write verse!
I also know of the serenity of Socrates,
and I know that I shall never manifest myself.
Our languages are too small to enable us to self-realise,
and yet some of us dare ascribeto the world
our personal trifles. I, too, keep a diary about marginal things,
paradox prepares me for life.
Too little or too much — it’s not up to me to judge.
Mostly I have written about homeland and woman –
look on that as my only legacy.
P. S. It is high time to us to grow older in order to understand Greek, and undestand it in a way the Greeks themselves would have undestood it if they had Christian supposistions.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
FRANCE
A DIZZY SPELL OF SØREN KIERGEGAARD
I
I was born of those who have the courage
to come to terms with their own ignorance.
A man of virtues and too many
obvious faults, I’m an unfinished cosmos.
I, Victor Eremita, dare think that in time
I will be called when skills are discussed.
I preach. I clame I’m revealing nothing new,
But they whatch me with disbeleif.
I tell them that epochs are finished,
that everything has been named a long time ago.
Still, they reproach me with some sort of originality.
In my really wothless thinking, I merely
copy forms, dealing in
apparent understanding. All I can do
is wait for a movement that will pass judgement.
Translated by Evald Flisar
IV
Life ahead of me goes by suffering.
In fact, the lives of all of us are echoes
of particular sufferings. If we are unaware,
we get over them more easily; we do not touch the sorrow
even while passing by, which might be worth admiring.
On this earth, I can be trained only
for trembling. I was flung into life I have been living absent-mindedly.
Cannot define myself, the others — do not want to,
it would not be decent. I am crucified
between possible ends. I wonder, however,
how I still manage to supply myself with days.
Being, consequently, I cannot define. Moreover, to others
I cannot guarantee that it takes place now and here.
Staying in this world resembles any other exile,
and always takes intense loneliness along. I can feel it,
when I start taking credit for wrapped phrases,
and when I keep letting myself into raising many questions.
As all good beginners do, after all.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
V
Cold is this life, as the streets of Copenhagen.
Solitude, apparently the key feature of existence, is being nurtured
everywhere. I find small comfort in asking myself,
for all the wasted time and under the guise of other names,
what truth was revealed that ominous (or promising) night,
when Socrates drank off poison from the goblet. As of that ancient Greek night,
I guess, there is little doubt about the freedom of choice. Now,
even these writings of mine become different owing to recollection
of the incident. My talk, hopefully, cannot
ever be ad se ipsum. All my sentences are last wills.
I am telling you this as a natural Hellene, an individual alienated
from the present. Once I convey my messages from the will
to you, feel free to judge — how skillfully I have managed to
disguise myself and record occurrences. And if I have repeated myself,
I have done it with success, indeed, since in repetition
I have recognized the only purpose of my writing. If I have quoted,
I have toured all the necessary worlds. I have taken the plunge
of living — that is my greatest sin.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
VI
I know of the sound of carriages in summer evenings.
And I know the meaning of their movement. Man’s
destiny and sin I also know. This is the legacy
I have been left, which denies my species
the privilege of a new beginning, new way. To some documents
— perhaps unjustly — I attribute meaning.
I think of unwritten poems, of what has not been created.
And so, from the atmosphere, I gather doleful lyrical gleanings:
I am a poet who doesn’t write verse!
I also know of the serenity of Socrates,
and I know that I shall never manifest myself.
Our languages are too small to enable us to self-realise,
and yet some of us dare ascribeto the world
our personal trifles. I, too, keep a diary about marginal things,
paradox prepares me for life.
Too little or too much — it’s not up to me to judge.
Mostly I have written about homeland and woman –
look on that as my only legacy.
P. S. It is high time to us to grow older in order to understand Greek, and undestand it in a way the Greeks themselves would have undestood it if they had Christian supposistions.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
Germany
A DIZZY SPELL OF SØREN KIERGEGAARD
I
I was born of those who have the courage
to come to terms with their own ignorance.
A man of virtues and too many
obvious faults, I’m an unfinished cosmos.
I, Victor Eremita, dare think that in time
I will be called when skills are discussed.
I preach. I clame I’m revealing nothing new,
But they whatch me with disbeleif.
I tell them that epochs are finished,
that everything has been named a long time ago.
Still, they reproach me with some sort of originality.
In my really wothless thinking, I merely
copy forms, dealing in
apparent understanding. All I can do
is wait for a movement that will pass judgement.
Translated by Evald Flisar
IV
Life ahead of me goes by suffering.
In fact, the lives of all of us are echoes
of particular sufferings. If we are unaware,
we get over them more easily; we do not touch the sorrow
even while passing by, which might be worth admiring.
On this earth, I can be trained only
for trembling. I was flung into life I have been living absent-mindedly.
Cannot define myself, the others — do not want to,
it would not be decent. I am crucified
between possible ends. I wonder, however,
how I still manage to supply myself with days.
Being, consequently, I cannot define. Moreover, to others
I cannot guarantee that it takes place now and here.
Staying in this world resembles any other exile,
and always takes intense loneliness along. I can feel it,
when I start taking credit for wrapped phrases,
and when I keep letting myself into raising many questions.
As all good beginners do, after all.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
V
Cold is this life, as the streets of Copenhagen.
Solitude, apparently the key feature of existence, is being nurtured
everywhere. I find small comfort in asking myself,
for all the wasted time and under the guise of other names,
what truth was revealed that ominous (or promising) night,
when Socrates drank off poison from the goblet. As of that ancient Greek night,
I guess, there is little doubt about the freedom of choice. Now,
even these writings of mine become different owing to recollection
of the incident. My talk, hopefully, cannot
ever be ad se ipsum. All my sentences are last wills.
I am telling you this as a natural Hellene, an individual alienated
from the present. Once I convey my messages from the will
to you, feel free to judge — how skillfully I have managed to
disguise myself and record occurrences. And if I have repeated myself,
I have done it with success, indeed, since in repetition
I have recognized the only purpose of my writing. If I have quoted,
I have toured all the necessary worlds. I have taken the plunge
of living — that is my greatest sin.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
VI
I know of the sound of carriages in summer evenings.
And I know the meaning of their movement. Man’s
destiny and sin I also know. This is the legacy
I have been left, which denies my species
the privilege of a new beginning, new way. To some documents
— perhaps unjustly — I attribute meaning.
I think of unwritten poems, of what has not been created.
And so, from the atmosphere, I gather doleful lyrical gleanings:
I am a poet who doesn’t write verse!
I also know of the serenity of Socrates,
and I know that I shall never manifest myself.
Our languages are too small to enable us to self-realise,
and yet some of us dare ascribeto the world
our personal trifles. I, too, keep a diary about marginal things,
paradox prepares me for life.
Too little or too much — it’s not up to me to judge.
Mostly I have written about homeland and woman –
look on that as my only legacy.
P. S. It is high time to us to grow older in order to understand Greek, and undestand it in a way the Greeks themselves would have undestood it if they had Christian supposistions.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
Italia
A DIZZY SPELL OF SØREN KIERGEGAARD
I
I was born of those who have the courage
to come to terms with their own ignorance.
A man of virtues and too many
obvious faults, I’m an unfinished cosmos.
I, Victor Eremita, dare think that in time
I will be called when skills are discussed.
I preach. I clame I’m revealing nothing new,
But they whatch me with disbeleif.
I tell them that epochs are finished,
that everything has been named a long time ago.
Still, they reproach me with some sort of originality.
In my really wothless thinking, I merely
copy forms, dealing in
apparent understanding. All I can do
is wait for a movement that will pass judgement.
Translated by Evald Flisar
IV
Life ahead of me goes by suffering.
In fact, the lives of all of us are echoes
of particular sufferings. If we are unaware,
we get over them more easily; we do not touch the sorrow
even while passing by, which might be worth admiring.
On this earth, I can be trained only
for trembling. I was flung into life I have been living absent-mindedly.
Cannot define myself, the others — do not want to,
it would not be decent. I am crucified
between possible ends. I wonder, however,
how I still manage to supply myself with days.
Being, consequently, I cannot define. Moreover, to others
I cannot guarantee that it takes place now and here.
Staying in this world resembles any other exile,
and always takes intense loneliness along. I can feel it,
when I start taking credit for wrapped phrases,
and when I keep letting myself into raising many questions.
As all good beginners do, after all.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
V
Cold is this life, as the streets of Copenhagen.
Solitude, apparently the key feature of existence, is being nurtured
everywhere. I find small comfort in asking myself,
for all the wasted time and under the guise of other names,
what truth was revealed that ominous (or promising) night,
when Socrates drank off poison from the goblet. As of that ancient Greek night,
I guess, there is little doubt about the freedom of choice. Now,
even these writings of mine become different owing to recollection
of the incident. My talk, hopefully, cannot
ever be ad se ipsum. All my sentences are last wills.
I am telling you this as a natural Hellene, an individual alienated
from the present. Once I convey my messages from the will
to you, feel free to judge — how skillfully I have managed to
disguise myself and record occurrences. And if I have repeated myself,
I have done it with success, indeed, since in repetition
I have recognized the only purpose of my writing. If I have quoted,
I have toured all the necessary worlds. I have taken the plunge
of living — that is my greatest sin.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
VI
I know of the sound of carriages in summer evenings.
And I know the meaning of their movement. Man’s
destiny and sin I also know. This is the legacy
I have been left, which denies my species
the privilege of a new beginning, new way. To some documents
— perhaps unjustly — I attribute meaning.
I think of unwritten poems, of what has not been created.
And so, from the atmosphere, I gather doleful lyrical gleanings:
I am a poet who doesn’t write verse!
I also know of the serenity of Socrates,
and I know that I shall never manifest myself.
Our languages are too small to enable us to self-realise,
and yet some of us dare ascribeto the world
our personal trifles. I, too, keep a diary about marginal things,
paradox prepares me for life.
Too little or too much — it’s not up to me to judge.
Mostly I have written about homeland and woman –
look on that as my only legacy.
P. S. It is high time to us to grow older in order to understand Greek, and undestand it in a way the Greeks themselves would have undestood it if they had Christian supposistions.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
Albania
A DIZZY SPELL OF SØREN KIERGEGAARD
I
I was born of those who have the courage
to come to terms with their own ignorance.
A man of virtues and too many
obvious faults, I’m an unfinished cosmos.
I, Victor Eremita, dare think that in time
I will be called when skills are discussed.
I preach. I clame I’m revealing nothing new,
But they whatch me with disbeleif.
I tell them that epochs are finished,
that everything has been named a long time ago.
Still, they reproach me with some sort of originality.
In my really wothless thinking, I merely
copy forms, dealing in
apparent understanding. All I can do
is wait for a movement that will pass judgement.
Translated by Evald Flisar
IV
Life ahead of me goes by suffering.
In fact, the lives of all of us are echoes
of particular sufferings. If we are unaware,
we get over them more easily; we do not touch the sorrow
even while passing by, which might be worth admiring.
On this earth, I can be trained only
for trembling. I was flung into life I have been living absent-mindedly.
Cannot define myself, the others — do not want to,
it would not be decent. I am crucified
between possible ends. I wonder, however,
how I still manage to supply myself with days.
Being, consequently, I cannot define. Moreover, to others
I cannot guarantee that it takes place now and here.
Staying in this world resembles any other exile,
and always takes intense loneliness along. I can feel it,
when I start taking credit for wrapped phrases,
and when I keep letting myself into raising many questions.
As all good beginners do, after all.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
V
Cold is this life, as the streets of Copenhagen.
Solitude, apparently the key feature of existence, is being nurtured
everywhere. I find small comfort in asking myself,
for all the wasted time and under the guise of other names,
what truth was revealed that ominous (or promising) night,
when Socrates drank off poison from the goblet. As of that ancient Greek night,
I guess, there is little doubt about the freedom of choice. Now,
even these writings of mine become different owing to recollection
of the incident. My talk, hopefully, cannot
ever be ad se ipsum. All my sentences are last wills.
I am telling you this as a natural Hellene, an individual alienated
from the present. Once I convey my messages from the will
to you, feel free to judge — how skillfully I have managed to
disguise myself and record occurrences. And if I have repeated myself,
I have done it with success, indeed, since in repetition
I have recognized the only purpose of my writing. If I have quoted,
I have toured all the necessary worlds. I have taken the plunge
of living — that is my greatest sin.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
VI
I know of the sound of carriages in summer evenings.
And I know the meaning of their movement. Man’s
destiny and sin I also know. This is the legacy
I have been left, which denies my species
the privilege of a new beginning, new way. To some documents
— perhaps unjustly — I attribute meaning.
I think of unwritten poems, of what has not been created.
And so, from the atmosphere, I gather doleful lyrical gleanings:
I am a poet who doesn’t write verse!
I also know of the serenity of Socrates,
and I know that I shall never manifest myself.
Our languages are too small to enable us to self-realise,
and yet some of us dare ascribeto the world
our personal trifles. I, too, keep a diary about marginal things,
paradox prepares me for life.
Too little or too much — it’s not up to me to judge.
Mostly I have written about homeland and woman –
look on that as my only legacy.
P. S. It is high time to us to grow older in order to understand Greek, and undestand it in a way the Greeks themselves would have undestood it if they had Christian supposistions.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
Poland
A DIZZY SPELL OF SØREN KIERGEGAARD
I
I was born of those who have the courage
to come to terms with their own ignorance.
A man of virtues and too many
obvious faults, I’m an unfinished cosmos.
I, Victor Eremita, dare think that in time
I will be called when skills are discussed.
I preach. I clame I’m revealing nothing new,
But they whatch me with disbeleif.
I tell them that epochs are finished,
that everything has been named a long time ago.
Still, they reproach me with some sort of originality.
In my really wothless thinking, I merely
copy forms, dealing in
apparent understanding. All I can do
is wait for a movement that will pass judgement.
Translated by Evald Flisar
IV
Life ahead of me goes by suffering.
In fact, the lives of all of us are echoes
of particular sufferings. If we are unaware,
we get over them more easily; we do not touch the sorrow
even while passing by, which might be worth admiring.
On this earth, I can be trained only
for trembling. I was flung into life I have been living absent-mindedly.
Cannot define myself, the others — do not want to,
it would not be decent. I am crucified
between possible ends. I wonder, however,
how I still manage to supply myself with days.
Being, consequently, I cannot define. Moreover, to others
I cannot guarantee that it takes place now and here.
Staying in this world resembles any other exile,
and always takes intense loneliness along. I can feel it,
when I start taking credit for wrapped phrases,
and when I keep letting myself into raising many questions.
As all good beginners do, after all.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
V
Cold is this life, as the streets of Copenhagen.
Solitude, apparently the key feature of existence, is being nurtured
everywhere. I find small comfort in asking myself,
for all the wasted time and under the guise of other names,
what truth was revealed that ominous (or promising) night,
when Socrates drank off poison from the goblet. As of that ancient Greek night,
I guess, there is little doubt about the freedom of choice. Now,
even these writings of mine become different owing to recollection
of the incident. My talk, hopefully, cannot
ever be ad se ipsum. All my sentences are last wills.
I am telling you this as a natural Hellene, an individual alienated
from the present. Once I convey my messages from the will
to you, feel free to judge — how skillfully I have managed to
disguise myself and record occurrences. And if I have repeated myself,
I have done it with success, indeed, since in repetition
I have recognized the only purpose of my writing. If I have quoted,
I have toured all the necessary worlds. I have taken the plunge
of living — that is my greatest sin.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
VI
I know of the sound of carriages in summer evenings.
And I know the meaning of their movement. Man’s
destiny and sin I also know. This is the legacy
I have been left, which denies my species
the privilege of a new beginning, new way. To some documents
— perhaps unjustly — I attribute meaning.
I think of unwritten poems, of what has not been created.
And so, from the atmosphere, I gather doleful lyrical gleanings:
I am a poet who doesn’t write verse!
I also know of the serenity of Socrates,
and I know that I shall never manifest myself.
Our languages are too small to enable us to self-realise,
and yet some of us dare ascribeto the world
our personal trifles. I, too, keep a diary about marginal things,
paradox prepares me for life.
Too little or too much — it’s not up to me to judge.
Mostly I have written about homeland and woman –
look on that as my only legacy.
P. S. It is high time to us to grow older in order to understand Greek, and undestand it in a way the Greeks themselves would have undestood it if they had Christian supposistions.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
Russia
A DIZZY SPELL OF SØREN KIERGEGAARD
I
I was born of those who have the courage
to come to terms with their own ignorance.
A man of virtues and too many
obvious faults, I’m an unfinished cosmos.
I, Victor Eremita, dare think that in time
I will be called when skills are discussed.
I preach. I clame I’m revealing nothing new,
But they whatch me with disbeleif.
I tell them that epochs are finished,
that everything has been named a long time ago.
Still, they reproach me with some sort of originality.
In my really wothless thinking, I merely
copy forms, dealing in
apparent understanding. All I can do
is wait for a movement that will pass judgement.
Translated by Evald Flisar
IV
Life ahead of me goes by suffering.
In fact, the lives of all of us are echoes
of particular sufferings. If we are unaware,
we get over them more easily; we do not touch the sorrow
even while passing by, which might be worth admiring.
On this earth, I can be trained only
for trembling. I was flung into life I have been living absent-mindedly.
Cannot define myself, the others — do not want to,
it would not be decent. I am crucified
between possible ends. I wonder, however,
how I still manage to supply myself with days.
Being, consequently, I cannot define. Moreover, to others
I cannot guarantee that it takes place now and here.
Staying in this world resembles any other exile,
and always takes intense loneliness along. I can feel it,
when I start taking credit for wrapped phrases,
and when I keep letting myself into raising many questions.
As all good beginners do, after all.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
V
Cold is this life, as the streets of Copenhagen.
Solitude, apparently the key feature of existence, is being nurtured
everywhere. I find small comfort in asking myself,
for all the wasted time and under the guise of other names,
what truth was revealed that ominous (or promising) night,
when Socrates drank off poison from the goblet. As of that ancient Greek night,
I guess, there is little doubt about the freedom of choice. Now,
even these writings of mine become different owing to recollection
of the incident. My talk, hopefully, cannot
ever be ad se ipsum. All my sentences are last wills.
I am telling you this as a natural Hellene, an individual alienated
from the present. Once I convey my messages from the will
to you, feel free to judge — how skillfully I have managed to
disguise myself and record occurrences. And if I have repeated myself,
I have done it with success, indeed, since in repetition
I have recognized the only purpose of my writing. If I have quoted,
I have toured all the necessary worlds. I have taken the plunge
of living — that is my greatest sin.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
VI
I know of the sound of carriages in summer evenings.
And I know the meaning of their movement. Man’s
destiny and sin I also know. This is the legacy
I have been left, which denies my species
the privilege of a new beginning, new way. To some documents
— perhaps unjustly — I attribute meaning.
I think of unwritten poems, of what has not been created.
And so, from the atmosphere, I gather doleful lyrical gleanings:
I am a poet who doesn’t write verse!
I also know of the serenity of Socrates,
and I know that I shall never manifest myself.
Our languages are too small to enable us to self-realise,
and yet some of us dare ascribeto the world
our personal trifles. I, too, keep a diary about marginal things,
paradox prepares me for life.
Too little or too much — it’s not up to me to judge.
Mostly I have written about homeland and woman –
look on that as my only legacy.
P. S. It is high time to us to grow older in order to understand Greek, and undestand it in a way the Greeks themselves would have undestood it if they had Christian supposistions.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
Slovakia
A DIZZY SPELL OF SØREN KIERGEGAARD
I
I was born of those who have the courage
to come to terms with their own ignorance.
A man of virtues and too many
obvious faults, I’m an unfinished cosmos.
I, Victor Eremita, dare think that in time
I will be called when skills are discussed.
I preach. I clame I’m revealing nothing new,
But they whatch me with disbeleif.
I tell them that epochs are finished,
that everything has been named a long time ago.
Still, they reproach me with some sort of originality.
In my really wothless thinking, I merely
copy forms, dealing in
apparent understanding. All I can do
is wait for a movement that will pass judgement.
Translated by Evald Flisar
IV
Life ahead of me goes by suffering.
In fact, the lives of all of us are echoes
of particular sufferings. If we are unaware,
we get over them more easily; we do not touch the sorrow
even while passing by, which might be worth admiring.
On this earth, I can be trained only
for trembling. I was flung into life I have been living absent-mindedly.
Cannot define myself, the others — do not want to,
it would not be decent. I am crucified
between possible ends. I wonder, however,
how I still manage to supply myself with days.
Being, consequently, I cannot define. Moreover, to others
I cannot guarantee that it takes place now and here.
Staying in this world resembles any other exile,
and always takes intense loneliness along. I can feel it,
when I start taking credit for wrapped phrases,
and when I keep letting myself into raising many questions.
As all good beginners do, after all.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
V
Cold is this life, as the streets of Copenhagen.
Solitude, apparently the key feature of existence, is being nurtured
everywhere. I find small comfort in asking myself,
for all the wasted time and under the guise of other names,
what truth was revealed that ominous (or promising) night,
when Socrates drank off poison from the goblet. As of that ancient Greek night,
I guess, there is little doubt about the freedom of choice. Now,
even these writings of mine become different owing to recollection
of the incident. My talk, hopefully, cannot
ever be ad se ipsum. All my sentences are last wills.
I am telling you this as a natural Hellene, an individual alienated
from the present. Once I convey my messages from the will
to you, feel free to judge — how skillfully I have managed to
disguise myself and record occurrences. And if I have repeated myself,
I have done it with success, indeed, since in repetition
I have recognized the only purpose of my writing. If I have quoted,
I have toured all the necessary worlds. I have taken the plunge
of living — that is my greatest sin.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
VI
I know of the sound of carriages in summer evenings.
And I know the meaning of their movement. Man’s
destiny and sin I also know. This is the legacy
I have been left, which denies my species
the privilege of a new beginning, new way. To some documents
— perhaps unjustly — I attribute meaning.
I think of unwritten poems, of what has not been created.
And so, from the atmosphere, I gather doleful lyrical gleanings:
I am a poet who doesn’t write verse!
I also know of the serenity of Socrates,
and I know that I shall never manifest myself.
Our languages are too small to enable us to self-realise,
and yet some of us dare ascribeto the world
our personal trifles. I, too, keep a diary about marginal things,
paradox prepares me for life.
Too little or too much — it’s not up to me to judge.
Mostly I have written about homeland and woman –
look on that as my only legacy.
P. S. It is high time to us to grow older in order to understand Greek, and undestand it in a way the Greeks themselves would have undestood it if they had Christian supposistions.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
Sweden
A DIZZY SPELL OF SØREN KIERGEGAARD
I
I was born of those who have the courage
to come to terms with their own ignorance.
A man of virtues and too many
obvious faults, I’m an unfinished cosmos.
I, Victor Eremita, dare think that in time
I will be called when skills are discussed.
I preach. I clame I’m revealing nothing new,
But they whatch me with disbeleif.
I tell them that epochs are finished,
that everything has been named a long time ago.
Still, they reproach me with some sort of originality.
In my really wothless thinking, I merely
copy forms, dealing in
apparent understanding. All I can do
is wait for a movement that will pass judgement.
Translated by Evald Flisar
IV
Life ahead of me goes by suffering.
In fact, the lives of all of us are echoes
of particular sufferings. If we are unaware,
we get over them more easily; we do not touch the sorrow
even while passing by, which might be worth admiring.
On this earth, I can be trained only
for trembling. I was flung into life I have been living absent-mindedly.
Cannot define myself, the others — do not want to,
it would not be decent. I am crucified
between possible ends. I wonder, however,
how I still manage to supply myself with days.
Being, consequently, I cannot define. Moreover, to others
I cannot guarantee that it takes place now and here.
Staying in this world resembles any other exile,
and always takes intense loneliness along. I can feel it,
when I start taking credit for wrapped phrases,
and when I keep letting myself into raising many questions.
As all good beginners do, after all.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
V
Cold is this life, as the streets of Copenhagen.
Solitude, apparently the key feature of existence, is being nurtured
everywhere. I find small comfort in asking myself,
for all the wasted time and under the guise of other names,
what truth was revealed that ominous (or promising) night,
when Socrates drank off poison from the goblet. As of that ancient Greek night,
I guess, there is little doubt about the freedom of choice. Now,
even these writings of mine become different owing to recollection
of the incident. My talk, hopefully, cannot
ever be ad se ipsum. All my sentences are last wills.
I am telling you this as a natural Hellene, an individual alienated
from the present. Once I convey my messages from the will
to you, feel free to judge — how skillfully I have managed to
disguise myself and record occurrences. And if I have repeated myself,
I have done it with success, indeed, since in repetition
I have recognized the only purpose of my writing. If I have quoted,
I have toured all the necessary worlds. I have taken the plunge
of living — that is my greatest sin.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
VI
I know of the sound of carriages in summer evenings.
And I know the meaning of their movement. Man’s
destiny and sin I also know. This is the legacy
I have been left, which denies my species
the privilege of a new beginning, new way. To some documents
— perhaps unjustly — I attribute meaning.
I think of unwritten poems, of what has not been created.
And so, from the atmosphere, I gather doleful lyrical gleanings:
I am a poet who doesn’t write verse!
I also know of the serenity of Socrates,
and I know that I shall never manifest myself.
Our languages are too small to enable us to self-realise,
and yet some of us dare ascribeto the world
our personal trifles. I, too, keep a diary about marginal things,
paradox prepares me for life.
Too little or too much — it’s not up to me to judge.
Mostly I have written about homeland and woman –
look on that as my only legacy.
P. S. It is high time to us to grow older in order to understand Greek, and undestand it in a way the Greeks themselves would have undestood it if they had Christian supposistions.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
Slovenija
A DIZZY SPELL OF SØREN KIERGEGAARD
I
I was born of those who have the courage
to come to terms with their own ignorance.
A man of virtues and too many
obvious faults, I’m an unfinished cosmos.
I, Victor Eremita, dare think that in time
I will be called when skills are discussed.
I preach. I clame I’m revealing nothing new,
But they whatch me with disbeleif.
I tell them that epochs are finished,
that everything has been named a long time ago.
Still, they reproach me with some sort of originality.
In my really wothless thinking, I merely
copy forms, dealing in
apparent understanding. All I can do
is wait for a movement that will pass judgement.
Translated by Evald Flisar
IV
Life ahead of me goes by suffering.
In fact, the lives of all of us are echoes
of particular sufferings. If we are unaware,
we get over them more easily; we do not touch the sorrow
even while passing by, which might be worth admiring.
On this earth, I can be trained only
for trembling. I was flung into life I have been living absent-mindedly.
Cannot define myself, the others — do not want to,
it would not be decent. I am crucified
between possible ends. I wonder, however,
how I still manage to supply myself with days.
Being, consequently, I cannot define. Moreover, to others
I cannot guarantee that it takes place now and here.
Staying in this world resembles any other exile,
and always takes intense loneliness along. I can feel it,
when I start taking credit for wrapped phrases,
and when I keep letting myself into raising many questions.
As all good beginners do, after all.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
V
Cold is this life, as the streets of Copenhagen.
Solitude, apparently the key feature of existence, is being nurtured
everywhere. I find small comfort in asking myself,
for all the wasted time and under the guise of other names,
what truth was revealed that ominous (or promising) night,
when Socrates drank off poison from the goblet. As of that ancient Greek night,
I guess, there is little doubt about the freedom of choice. Now,
even these writings of mine become different owing to recollection
of the incident. My talk, hopefully, cannot
ever be ad se ipsum. All my sentences are last wills.
I am telling you this as a natural Hellene, an individual alienated
from the present. Once I convey my messages from the will
to you, feel free to judge — how skillfully I have managed to
disguise myself and record occurrences. And if I have repeated myself,
I have done it with success, indeed, since in repetition
I have recognized the only purpose of my writing. If I have quoted,
I have toured all the necessary worlds. I have taken the plunge
of living — that is my greatest sin.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
VI
I know of the sound of carriages in summer evenings.
And I know the meaning of their movement. Man’s
destiny and sin I also know. This is the legacy
I have been left, which denies my species
the privilege of a new beginning, new way. To some documents
— perhaps unjustly — I attribute meaning.
I think of unwritten poems, of what has not been created.
And so, from the atmosphere, I gather doleful lyrical gleanings:
I am a poet who doesn’t write verse!
I also know of the serenity of Socrates,
and I know that I shall never manifest myself.
Our languages are too small to enable us to self-realise,
and yet some of us dare ascribeto the world
our personal trifles. I, too, keep a diary about marginal things,
paradox prepares me for life.
Too little or too much — it’s not up to me to judge.
Mostly I have written about homeland and woman –
look on that as my only legacy.
P. S. It is high time to us to grow older in order to understand Greek, and undestand it in a way the Greeks themselves would have undestood it if they had Christian supposistions.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
North Macedonia
A DIZZY SPELL OF SØREN KIERGEGAARD
I
I was born of those who have the courage
to come to terms with their own ignorance.
A man of virtues and too many
obvious faults, I’m an unfinished cosmos.
I, Victor Eremita, dare think that in time
I will be called when skills are discussed.
I preach. I clame I’m revealing nothing new,
But they whatch me with disbeleif.
I tell them that epochs are finished,
that everything has been named a long time ago.
Still, they reproach me with some sort of originality.
In my really wothless thinking, I merely
copy forms, dealing in
apparent understanding. All I can do
is wait for a movement that will pass judgement.
Translated by Evald Flisar
IV
Life ahead of me goes by suffering.
In fact, the lives of all of us are echoes
of particular sufferings. If we are unaware,
we get over them more easily; we do not touch the sorrow
even while passing by, which might be worth admiring.
On this earth, I can be trained only
for trembling. I was flung into life I have been living absent-mindedly.
Cannot define myself, the others — do not want to,
it would not be decent. I am crucified
between possible ends. I wonder, however,
how I still manage to supply myself with days.
Being, consequently, I cannot define. Moreover, to others
I cannot guarantee that it takes place now and here.
Staying in this world resembles any other exile,
and always takes intense loneliness along. I can feel it,
when I start taking credit for wrapped phrases,
and when I keep letting myself into raising many questions.
As all good beginners do, after all.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
V
Cold is this life, as the streets of Copenhagen.
Solitude, apparently the key feature of existence, is being nurtured
everywhere. I find small comfort in asking myself,
for all the wasted time and under the guise of other names,
what truth was revealed that ominous (or promising) night,
when Socrates drank off poison from the goblet. As of that ancient Greek night,
I guess, there is little doubt about the freedom of choice. Now,
even these writings of mine become different owing to recollection
of the incident. My talk, hopefully, cannot
ever be ad se ipsum. All my sentences are last wills.
I am telling you this as a natural Hellene, an individual alienated
from the present. Once I convey my messages from the will
to you, feel free to judge — how skillfully I have managed to
disguise myself and record occurrences. And if I have repeated myself,
I have done it with success, indeed, since in repetition
I have recognized the only purpose of my writing. If I have quoted,
I have toured all the necessary worlds. I have taken the plunge
of living — that is my greatest sin.
Translated by Uros Zekovic
VI
I know of the sound of carriages in summer evenings.
And I know the meaning of their movement. Man’s
destiny and sin I also know. This is the legacy
I have been left, which denies my species
the privilege of a new beginning, new way. To some documents
— perhaps unjustly — I attribute meaning.
I think of unwritten poems, of what has not been created.
And so, from the atmosphere, I gather doleful lyrical gleanings:
I am a poet who doesn’t write verse!
I also know of the serenity of Socrates,
and I know that I shall never manifest myself.
Our languages are too small to enable us to self-realise,
and yet some of us dare ascribeto the world
our personal trifles. I, too, keep a diary about marginal things,
paradox prepares me for life.
Too little or too much — it’s not up to me to judge.
Mostly I have written about homeland and woman –
look on that as my only legacy.
P. S. It is high time to us to grow older in order to understand Greek, and undestand it in a way the Greeks themselves would have undestood it if they had Christian supposistions.
Translated by Uros Zekovic