Cascading Connections

Centering on the Poet Rainer Maria Rilke, In Bohemia

Eva and I visited Prague as tourists for five days in late July this year. This was time enough to sample only a small part what this great city has to offer.
I knew already that Prague and the country of which it is the capital, the Czech Republic (formerly Bohemia, for the most part), were home to two great composers: Bedřich Smetana (1824-1884) and Antonín Dvořák (1841-1904). What I had failed to remember, if ever fully knew, was that two great writers also called Prague home: Franz Kafka (1883-1924) and Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926).

Before I go further in this vein, here is a little about the relationship between Bohemia and the Czech Republic to orient us historically:

Bohemia is a historical region in central Europe, occupying the western two-thirds of the traditional Czech Lands, currently the Czech Republic. In a broader meaning, it often refers to the entire Czech territory, including Moravia and Czech Silesia, especially in historical contexts, such as the Kingdom of Bohemia.

Bohemia has an area of 52,750 km² and 6.25 million of the Czech Republic’s 10.3 million inhabitants. It is bordered by Germany to the southwest, west, and northwest, Poland to the north-east, the Czech historical region of Moravia to the east, and Austria to the south. Bohemia’s borders are marked with mountain ranges such as the Bohemian Forest, the Ore Mountains, and the Krkonoše within the Sudeten mountains. [Source: Wikipedia]


The remainder of the present-day Czech Republic is within the area known historically as Moravia. which occupies most of the eastern third of the Czech Republic including the South Moravian Region and the Zlín Region, as well as parts of the Moravian-Silesian, Olomouc, Pardubice, Vysočina and South Bohemian regions.

In the north, Moravia borders Poland and Czech Silesia; in the east, Slovakia; in the south, Lower Austria; and in the west, Bohemia. [Source: Wikipedia]

Now to the “Cascading Connections.”

My father loved the writings of the German philosopher-poets Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805), and especially the poetry of Rilke. At home he would recite snippets of their poetry in German when feeling expansive. As a college student at Berkeley in the mid 1930s, he joined the German Club in order to advance his studies in the German language and culture. He spoke Hochdeutsch, although there are no known German antecedents in our family. (Dad was in no way enamored of the rise of Hitler’s National Socialism in Germany at the time—quite the opposite).

So, at a young age I was introduced to the name of Rilke, but never knew him even though I never forgot his name and his influence on Dad.

Fast forward more than a half-century to 2009, Stockholm, where I now live. A writer friend, knowing I have an interest in writing poetry (an interest that happened upon me only within in the last dozen years) recommended to me Rilke’s “Letters to a Young Poet.” I found them, entire, on the Internet. I began reading the ten letters, some of them emanating from Sweden where Rilke went to recover from the pressures of life in what was then the Austro-Hungarian Empire, including Bohemia. I hadn’t yet finished my reading of the letters when I arrived Prague and saw Rilke’s name and image in various locations in the city, especially those catering to tourists. This is when I felt I had come full circle with Rilke.

Conrad H. Pavellas, 1913 – 2000

I miss my father ever more as I age. He and I had conversations I could have with no one else due, in part, that he consciously educated me, not always successfully, to his ways and thoughts. We were different in important ways, yet much the same in intellectual interests and abilities. This journal (“blog”) is, in large part, an attempt to cover the historical and literary ground that my father urged me to travel but did only in small part during his lifetime. I was bound for the world of science and business and had little time for strictly intellectual pursuits that brought along no short-term material rewards.

So, in ending this essay I will now assure Dad, in absentia, and you, dear reader, that I have read Rilke, in translation to be sure. I hope you will find Rilke’s advice to the young poet as soulful and valuable as I do.

Read them here.

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The End of the World

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Cormac McCArthy

I recently read The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. It’s about the end of civilization, the action of the novel seeming to take place in what is left of the Western United States after, apparently, an atomic holocaust. It is a very dark novel in all respects, but it is a love story, too—about the love between a man and his young son, two of the very few survivors who are struggling to find food and shelter, and safety from other desperately foraging humans. Civilization collapses; cannibalism ensues. Everything is ashes. It is written simply and directly. I enjoyed the reading of it despite its darkness.

The book reminded me of two others I had read in the last dozen years or so, one twice: Earth Abides, by George R. Stewart. The other, I am currently reading for the second time to refresh my memory of it: Earth by David Brin. It’s a big book, but a quick read.

The End of the World

George R. Stewart

My favorite among these is Earths Abides. As in The Road there is a main male character, but in addition there is also a family with well-defined characters that collects itself from the few survivors of a world-wide epidemic of disease. Civilization collapses slowly, giving more time to see how much man has separated himself and protected himself from the natural, non-electro-mechanical world. It is beautifully told. A bonus for me is that it occurs in familiar territory, primarily in the hills of Berkeley, California. One image of it persists in my mind: the use of otherwise useless copper pennies for arrow tips.

Earth is as big as the earth, it seems. It has everything in it: physics, astronautics, geography, hydrology, geology, sociology, economics, psychology, genetics, ethology, ecology, religious dogma, Earth as living Goddess (Gaia), sex, love, lots of Maori cultural stuff and more. The central story is a tiny but potentially catastrophic black hole in the middle of the Earth. In addition to this problem, the (future) earth has 50 billion people and rising seas due to global warming. But don’t worry, it’ll turn out all right because of the many heroes populating the novel, which has its villains too. I’m afraid, despite the wealth of thought-provoking information it gives us, it is a pot-boiler, made for Hollywood’s eventual attention. I probably won’t finish reading it this time.

We are fascinated with scenarios imagining and depicting the collapse of civilization upon which most of us depend, absolutely. There are people in the world able to exist directly from the land and forests they inhabit, but these souls seem to be fading from view.

A book I read a few years ago by Paul Theroux, Dark Star Safari, shows us, among many other things on his soulful journey, how the Africans who live in the bush or outback are the most likely to survive over time, as compared with those who flock to the teeming, filthy cities and lose their ability to cope with the vicissitudes presented by natural forces. The novel Earth, takes the implicit position that science and technology will save us from all foreseen and unforeseen events.

Any of these books, including Theroux’s, is useful, at the least, to remind us of our mutual interdependence on the complicated systems we have built to support us: water, agriculture, electricity, information, transport and so forth. The collective noun for all this is, I suppose, infrastructure.

How secure do we feel about our Infrastructure? In whom are we placing our trust to assure us everything is and will be OK—no matter what?

Hmmmm?

 

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