The City of Dreadful Night E-Book

James Thomson

• Herausgeber: E-BOOKARAMA
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

James Thomson, who wrote under the pseudonym Bysshe Vanolis, was a Scottish Victorian era poet famous primarily for the long poem "The City of Dreadful Night", first published in 1874, an expression of bleak pessimism in a dehumanized, uncaring urban environment. 
He struggled with depression, insomnia and alcohol-abuse throughout his short life and his work frequently reflected the bleakness and despair of his life’s experiences.
Raymond Williams calls "The City of Dreadful Night": ‘a symbolic vision of the city as a condition of human life’. Williams asserts that, by the Victorian-era, the city had become a new form of human consciousness. The city of Thomson’s poem is clearly an imagined London. But it is not the dynamic hub of Empire of the popular imagination: for him it is a city of death in life.  A place permeated by loss of belief, loss of purpose and loss of hope.

Leseprobe

Table of contents

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XXI

THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT

James Thomson

Per me si va nella citta dolente.

— Dante

Poi di tanto adoprar, di tanti moti

D’ogni celeste, ogni terrena cosa,

Girando senza posa,

Per tornar sempre la donde son mosse;

Uso alcuno, alcun frutto

Indovinar non so.

Sola nel mondo eterna, a cui si volve

Ogni creata cosa,

In te, morte, si posa

Nostra ignuda natura;

Lieta no, ma sicura

Dell’ antico dolor . . .

Pero ch’ esser beato

Nega ai mortali e nega a’ morti il fato.

— Leopardi

Proem

Lo, thus, as prostrate, “In the dust I write

My heart’s deep languor and my soul’s sad tears.”

Yet why evoke the spectres of black night

To blot the sunshine of exultant years?

Why disinter dead faith from mouldering hidden?

Why break the seals of mute despair unbidden,

And wail life’s discords into careless ears?

Because a cold rage seizes one at whiles

To show the bitter old and wrinkled truth

Stripped naked of all vesture that beguiles,

False dreams, false hopes, false masks and modes of youth;

Because it gives some sense of power and passion

In helpless innocence to try to fashion

Our woe in living words howe’er uncouth.

Surely I write not for the hopeful young,

Or those who deem their happiness of worth,

Or such as pasture and grow fat among

The shows of life and feel nor doubt nor dearth,

Or pious spirits with a God above them

To sanctify and glorify and love them,

Or sages who foresee a heaven on earth.

For none of these I write, and none of these

Could read the writing if they deigned to try;

So may they flourish in their due degrees,

On our sweet earth and in their unplaced sky.

If any cares for the weak words here written,

It must be some one desolate, Fate-smitten,

Whose faith and hopes are dead, and who would die.

Yes, here and there some weary wanderer

In that same city of tremendous night,

Will understand the speech and feel a stir

Of fellowship in all-disastrous fight;

“I suffer mute and lonely, yet another

Uplifts his voice to let me know a brother

Travels the same wild paths though out of sight.”

O sad Fraternity, do I unfold

Your dolorous mysteries shrouded from of yore?

Nay, be assured; no secret can be told

To any who divined it not before:

None uninitiate by many a presage

Will comprehend the language of the message,

Although proclaimed aloud for evermore.