O.Wilde, Preface to 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. (...)
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.
They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all. (...)

No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything. (...)
All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.
It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.
When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself...


O. Wilde (1854-1900),
Preface to 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'


Showing posts with label W. Blake. Show all posts
Showing posts with label W. Blake. Show all posts

Thursday, April 28, 2011

The Lamb, W. Blake


  The Lamb
  
   [from Songs of
    Innocence, 1789]


    by
 
    William Blake
    1757–1827

    English poet, painter, and
    printmaker



   The Lamb
                
Blake's illustration of The Lamb
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I’ll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!


Italian translation:


Agnellino, chi ti fece?
Sai chi ti fece?
Ti diede la vita, e ti disse di mangiare
Dal ruscello e sopra il prato;
Ti diede un vestito di delizia,
Il più morbido vestito, di lana, chiaro;
(Chi) Ti diede una così tenera voce,
da fare gioire tutte le valli!
Agnellino, chi ti fece?
Sai chi ti fece?

Agnellino, te lo dirò,
Agnellino, te lo dirò:
Egli è chiamato col tuo nome,
Poiché Egli Si chiama Agnello.
Egli è mite, ed Egli è buono;
Divenne un piccolo bambino.
Io un bambino, e tu un agnello,
Siamo chiamati col Suo nome.
Agnellino, Dio ti benedica!
Agnellino, Dio ti benedica!

The Tyger, W. Blake



     The Tyger
     [from Songs of Experience,  1794]


      by

      William Blake 
       1757–1827

      English poet, painter, and
      printmaker  
    
         The Tyger


Blake's illustration of The Tyger

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

 

Italian translation:

Tigre! Tigre! Ardente e Luminosa,
nella foresta della notte,
Quale immortale mano o occhio
poté dare forma alla tua terribile simmetria?

In quali lontani abissi o cieli
bruciò il fuoco dei tuoi occhi?
Su quali ali osa egli librarsi?
Che cosa osa afferrare il fuoco?

E quale spalla, e quale ingegno,
poté torcere le fibre del tuo cuore?
E quando il tuo cuore iniziò a battere,
quale terribile mano? E quale terribile piede?

Quale martello? Quale catena?
In quale fornace fu (plasmata) la tua mente?
Quale incudine? Quale terribile stretta
osa afferrare il suo mortale terrore?

Quando le stelle gettarono le loro lance
e lavarono il paradiso con le loro lacrime:
Egli sorrise a vedere il Suo lavoro?
Colui che creò l'Agnello, creò te?

Tigre, Tigre, luce chiara
nelle foreste della notte:
quale immortale mano od occhio
            osò plasmare la tua terribile simmetria?