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Embla

Bloggfćrslur mánađarins, september 2008

Hverjum klukkan glymur

nasdaq 

Í gćr kom ţađ í hlut Geirs H. Haardes forsćtisráđherra ađ „hringja bjöllunni“ viđ lok viđskipta á hlutabréfamarkađnum Nasdaq. Ég set gćsalappir ţar utan um ţví Nasdaq er algerlega rafrćnn markađur og ţar er ekkert markađsgólf eđa eiginleg bjalla. Ţess í stađ studdi Geir á hnapp til ţess ađ binda enda á viđskiptin ţennan daginn.

Af einhverri ástćđu komu hin fleygu orđ um hverjum klukkan glymur upp í huga minn. Metallica gerđi lag međ ţví heiti, For Whom the Bell Tolls, sem hlusta má á í tónlistarspilaranum efst til hćgri. Áđur hafđi Ernest Hemingway auđvitađ komiđ ţeim á hvers manns varir, en hann fékk ţau ađ láni frá breska frumspekiskáldinu og prédikarnum John Donne. Hann notađi ţau í frćgri bćnagjörđ: „Spurđu ekki hverjum klukkan glymur, hún glymur ţér.“

Sú hugvekja frá 1623 hefur svo sannarlega stađist tímans tönn og raunar er ég ekki frá ţví ađ hún sé einstaklega viđeigandi nú á ţessum óvissutímum á mörkuđum. Ţađ má a.m.k. međ góđum vilja lesa hana ţannig núna, svo tíđrćtt sem Donne verđur um ađ enginn geti einangrađ sig, stöđu alţjóđasamfélagsins; betl, lántökur og eymd; gull, gengi og gjaldmiđla; ágirnd, auđlegđ og mótlćti. Í lokin bendir hann svo á ţćr varnir og öryggi ein sem dugi. Ćtli íslenskum fjármálafakírum og áhugamönnum um efnahagsmál vćri ekki hollt ađ lesa Donne, nú ţegar ţeir eru ađ kynnast guđsóttanum?

Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any occasion rings? but who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of himself out of this world? No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

Neither can we call this a begging of misery, or a borrowing of misery, as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves, but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbours.

Truly it were an excusable covetousness if we did, for affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.

No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it, and made fit for God by that affliction.

If a man carry treasure in bullion, or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current money, his treasure will not defray him as he travels.

Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it.

Another man may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels, as gold in a mine, and be of no use to him; but this bell, that tells me of his affliction, digs out and applies that gold to me: if by this consideration of another's danger I take mine own into contemplation, and so secure myself, by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.

Nýtt og betra líf

Ég hef ekki bloggađ neitt ađ ráđi ađ undanförnu; ekki vegna ţess ađ tilefnin gefist ekki, ţađ gera ţau í hrönnum; heldur vegna ţess ađ ég hef haft mun mikilvćgari hnöppum ađ hneppa. Ég var sumsé svo stálheppinn ađ eignast dóttur í liđnum mánuđi. Henni og móđur heilsast vel (ţó mig gruni ađ ţćr séu ađ fá flensu) og stóru systurnar tvćr eru í skýjunum yfir ţessu mesta krútti allra krútta. Ég líka og veit ţví ekki hversu iđinn ég verđ í bloggheimum á nćstunni. Ţađ er meira en nóg ađ gera á heimilinu og á Viđskiptablađinu sitjum viđ ekki auđum höndum heldur.

En af ţessu góđa tilefni vildi ég deila međ lesendum skemmtikvćđi eftir bandaríska skáldiđ Ogden Nash (1902-1971), en hann var sumpart svar Bandaríkjamanna viđ Ţórarni Eldjárn. Nema Ţórarinn er náttúrlega mun fjölhćfara skáld en Nash var.

 

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children

 

My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky;

Contrariwise, my blood runs cold

When little boys go by.

For little boys as little boys,

No special hate I carry,

But now and then they grow to men,

And when they do, they marry.

No matter how they tarry,

Eventually they marry.

And, swine among the pearls,

They marry little girls.


Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,

With parents who feed and clothe him.

Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,

But I have begun to loathe him.

Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless

This child who to me is nameless.

This bachelor child in his carriage

Gives never a thought to marriage,

But a person can hardly say knife

Before he will hunt him a wife.


I never see an infant (male),

A-sleeping in the sun,

Without I turn a trifle pale

And think is he the one?

Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,

And then he'll want a pony,

And then he'll think of pretty girls,

And holy matrimony.

A cat without a mouse

Is he without a spouse.


Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,

And quietly sucks his thumbs.

His cheeks are roses painted on silk,

And his teeth are tucked in his gums.

But alas the teeth will begin to grow,

And the bubbles will cease to bubble;

Given a score of years or so,

The roses will turn to stubble.

He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,

And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,

And raging and ravenous for the kill,

He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.

This infant whose middle

Is diapered still

Will want to marry My daughter Jill.


Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!

My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.

A fig for embryo Lohengrins!

I'll open all his safety pins,

I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,

And give him readings from Aristotle.

Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,

And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.

Then perhaps he'll struggle though fire and water

To marry somebody else's daughter.  


Höfundur

Andrés Magnússon
Andrés Magnússon
blaðamaður á Englandi ritar hér fréttir, fróðleik og hugleiðingar, sem ekki rata á prent.
Okt. 2017
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