Gå aldrig natten mildt imøde

Hvis man ikke raser over galskaben og ondskaben i verden, magter man ikke at bekymre sig - det vil sige i virkeligheden er man ligeglad, ikke nødvendigvis kynisk, men oftest fordi ens sjæl ikke kan håndtere at se virkeligheden i øjnene.

Der er naturligvis også den mulighed at man er mere eller mindre blind og dum, men den gælder nok reelt de færreste, hvor det for flertallet nok nærmere kniber med ærligheden og lysten til at se realiteterne i øjnene.

Verden fortjener bedre, end at vi som paralyserede krystere lader galskaben og ondskaben råde.

Der går let en Chamberlain i os alle, som ønsker det bedste og fornægter det værste.

Chamberlain ønskede det virkelig, han mistede sin livskraft og døde, da den krig kom som han havde kæmpet for at undgå.

Churchill, som det er de fleste ubekendt, kæmpede også for at undgå den! Han er husket som den der ville opruste og ryste med sablen i forhold til Tyskland. Men han var også den der talte for, længe før at Hitler kom til magten, at man skulle lempe Versailles traktatens strenge sanktioner mod Tyskland, før løbet var kørt og de rasende Tyskere fuldt opsat på at få hævn.

Den sure mand, pessimisten er mere opmærksom på den ubehagelige virkelighed, som var essensen af denne forrige post.
Optimisten overser alt som ikke stemmer overens med den drømmeverden, som findes inde i hovedet på vedkommende og som vedkommende, måske oprigtigt, ville ønske af godt hjerte eksisterede i den ydre.

Men den drømmefulde kryster giver op, når virkeligheden angriber, som Chamberlain.

Vi skal brænde mod ondskaben og galskaben, ellers er vi den plane vej, som den tromler let henover.
Sådan fungerer verden. Ondskaben og galskaben har ingen hæmninger og får det dermed langt lettere, når godheden er et stort kompleks af handlingslammelse.

Jeg har bragt dette digt før, men jeg bringer det gerne igen og igen:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Dylan Thomas

Digtet er ganske vist skrevet ved hans faders dødsleje og handler om at ikke give slip på livet. Men digtet kan på et højere plan tolkes som om, at man aldrig skal acceptere mørket uden kamp.

Her i Dylan Thomas´ helt fantastiske recitation:

Oktober oktober oktober

Especially when the October wind

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.

Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

 -- Dylan Thomas

Apropos klassisk recitation

Og at frygtløst møde skæbnen, hvilken som helst, med hævet pande og kamp i ens lemmer:



Digtet af Dylan Thomas, i tekstform:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.