Hverjum klukkan glymur

 

Í gær kom það í hlut Geirs H. Haardes forsætisráðherra að „hringja bjöllunni“ við lok viðskipta á hlutabréfamarkaðnum Nasdaq. Ég set gæsalappir þar utan um því Nasdaq er algerlega rafrænn markaður og þar er ekkert markaðsgólf eða eiginleg bjalla. Þess í stað studdi Geir á hnapp til þess að binda enda á viðskiptin þennan daginn.

Af einhverri ástæðu komu hin fleygu orð um hverjum klukkan glymur upp í huga minn. Metallica gerði lag með því heiti, For Whom the Bell Tolls, sem hlusta má á í tónlistarspilaranum efst til hægri. Áður hafði Ernest Hemingway auðvitað komið þeim á hvers manns varir, en hann fékk þau að láni frá breska frumspekiskáldinu og prédikarnum John Donne. Hann notaði þau í frægri bænagjörð: „Spurðu ekki hverjum klukkan glymur, hún glymur þér.“

Sú hugvekja frá 1623 hefur svo sannarlega staðist tímans tönn og raunar er ég ekki frá því að hún sé einstaklega viðeigandi nú á þessum óvissutímum á mörkuðum. Það má a.m.k. með góðum vilja lesa hana þannig núna, svo tíðrætt sem Donne verður um að enginn geti einangrað sig, stöðu alþjóðasamfélagsins; betl, lántökur og eymd; gull, gengi og gjaldmiðla; ágirnd, auðlegð og mótlæti. Í lokin bendir hann svo á þær varnir og öryggi ein sem dugi. Ætli íslenskum fjármálafakírum og áhugamönnum um efnahagsmál væri ekki hollt að lesa Donne, nú þegar þeir eru að kynnast guðsóttanum?

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 bloggað neitt að ráði að undanförnu; ekki vegna þess að tilefnin gefist ekki, það gera þau í hrönnum; heldur vegna þess að ég hef haft mun mikilvægari hnöppum að hneppa. Ég var sumsé svo stálheppinn að eignast dóttur í liðnum mánuði. Henni og móður heilsast vel (þó mig gruni að þær séu að fá flensu) og stóru systurnar tvær eru í skýjunum yfir þessu mesta krútti allra krútta. Ég líka og veit því ekki hversu iðinn ég verð í bloggheimum á næstunni. Það er meira en nóg að gera á heimilinu og á Viðskiptablaðinu sitjum við ekki auðum höndum heldur.

En af þessu góða tilefni vildi ég deila með lesendum skemmtikvæði eftir bandaríska skáldið Ogden Nash (1902-1971), en hann var sumpart svar Bandaríkjamanna við Þórarni Eldjárn. Nema Þórarinn er náttúrlega mun fjölhæfara 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.