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Camille Saint Saens: Danse Macabre Opus 40
Click "PLAY" if you want to listen to the music.
And another translation
Zigger-zigger-zig tapping on a coffin
Death has got a beat and a toothy grin.
At the stroke of twelve plays a crazy polka
zigger-zigger-zag on his violin.
The night is dark, the winter winds blow
the tree-branches creak in the stormy clouds
and off the whitened skeletons go
they skip and they leap in their flowing shrouds.
Zigger-zigger-zig how they frisk and toss
dancing to the beat rattling every bone.
Now a lustful pair sit down on the moss
hoping to repeat pleasures they had known.
Zigger-zigger-zag Death is keeping at it
scraping out the tune on his violin.
Two have lost their veils they are dancing naked
he gives her a squeeze like a carnal sin.
The lady they say is of noble race
her partner a lad from the market town
but oh! she welcomes his embrace
as if the young boor had a royal crown.
Zigger-zigger-zig hand in hand a-dancing
what a host of dead risen from the turf
zigger-zigger-zag in that ghostly party
is the king himself romping with a serf.
But hush! all at once their hands let go.
They jostle, they flee they've heard the cock crow.
How lovely that night when poor folk are free!
So all praise to Death and equality!
Zig et zig et zag, la mort en cadence
Frappant une tombe avec son talon,
La mort à minuit joue un air de danse,
Zig et zig et zag, sur son violon.
Le vent d'hiver souffle, et la nuit est sombre,
Des gémissements sortent des tilleuls;
Les squelettes blancs vont à travers l'ombre
Courant et sautant sous leurs grands linceuls.
Zig et zig et zag, chacun se trémousse,
On entend claquer les os des danseurs,
Un couple lascif s'asseoit sur la mousse
Comme pour goûter d'anciennes douceurs.
Zig et zig et zag, la mort continue
De racler sans fin son aigre instrument.
Un voile est tombé! La danseuse est nue!
Son danseur la serre amoureusement.
La dame est, dit-on, marquise ou baronne.
Et le vert galant un pauvre charron -
Horreur! Et voilà qu'elle s'abandonne
Comme si le rustre était un baron!
Zig et zig et zig, quelle sarabande!
Quels cercles de morts se donnant la main!
Zig et zig et zag, on voit dans la bande
Le roi gambader auprès du vilain!
Mais psit! tout à coup on quitte la ronde,
On se pousse, on fuit, le coq a chanté
Oh! La belle nuit pour le pauvre monde!
Et vive la mort et l'égalité!
Dance of Death /
Translator unknown
Tap, tap, tap - Death rhythmically,
Taps a tomb with his heel,
Death at midnight plays a gigue,
Tap, tap, tap, on his violin.
The Winter wind blows, the night is dark,
The lime-trees groan aloud;
White skeletons flit across the gloom,
Running and leaping beneath their huge shrouds.
Tap, tap, tap, everyone's astir,
You hear the bones of the dancers knock,
A lustful couple sits down on the moss,
As if to savour past delights.
Tap, tap, tap, Death continues,
Endlessly scraping his shrill violin.
A veil has slipped! The dancer's naked!
Her partner clasps her amorously.
They say she's a baroness or marchioness,
And the callow gallant a poor cartwright.
Good God! And now she's giving herself,
As though the bumpkin were a baron!
Tap, tap, tap, what a saraband!
Circles of corpses all holding hands!
Tap, tap, tap, in the throng you can see
King and peasant dancing together!
But shh! Suddenly the dance is ended,
They jostle and take flight - the cock has crowed;
Ah! Nocturnal beauty shines on the poor!
And long live death and equality!
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Beware you
people passing by,
As you are now, so once was I,
And as I am now, so must you be,
Prepare for death and follow me.

Know from where you came and where you are going:
From where you came--from a putrid drop.
Where you are going--to a place
of dust, maggots and worms.
דע מאין באת, ולאן אתה הולך:
מאין באת, מטיפה סרוחה.
ולאן אתה הולך, למקום עפר רימה ותולעה.




The Beautiful Rosine - Antoine Wiertz

Edgar Allan Poe
Dreamland (1844)
By a route obscure and
lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule--
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE--out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters--lone and dead,
Their still waters--still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,--
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,--
By the mountains--near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,--
By the gray woods,--by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,--
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,--
By each spot the most unholy--
In each nook most melancholy,--
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past--
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by--
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth--and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region--
For the spirit that walks in shadow
'Tis--oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not--dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only.
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.




















Δεν ελπίζω τίποτε. Δεν φοβούμαι
τίποτε. Είμαι λεύτερος.
I hope for nothing. I fear nothing.
I am free.



Danse macabre / Charles Baudelaire
Fière, autant qu'un vivant, de sa noble stature
Avec son gros bouquet, son mouchoir et ses gants
Elle a la nonchalance et la désinvolture
D'une coquette maigre aux airs extravagants.
Vit-on jamais au bal une taille plus mince?
Sa robe exagérée, en sa royale ampleur,
S'écroule abondamment sur un pied sec que pince
Un soulier pomponné, joli comme une fleur.
La ruche qui se joue au bord des clavicules,
Comme un ruisseau lascif qui se frotte au rocher,
Défend pudiquement des lazzi ridicules
Les funèbres appas qu'elle tient à cacher.
Ses yeux profonds sont faits de vide et de ténèbres,
Et son crâne, de fleurs artistement coiffé,
Oscille mollement sur ses frêles vertèbres.
Ô charme d'un néant follement attifé.
Aucuns t'appelleront une caricature,
Qui ne comprennent pas, amants ivres de chair,
L'élégance sans nom de l'humaine armature.
Tu réponds, grand squelette, à mon goût le plus cher!
Viens-tu troubler, avec ta puissante grimace,
La fête de la Vie? ou quelque vieux désir,
Eperonnant encor ta vivante carcasse,
Te pousse-t-il, crédule, au sabbat du Plaisir?
Au chant des violons, aux flammes des bougies,
Espères-tu chasser ton cauchemar moqueur,
Et viens-tu demander au torrent des orgies
De rafraîchir l'enfer allumé dans ton coeur?
Inépuisable puits de sottise et de fautes!
De l'antique douleur éternel alambic!
À travers le treillis recourbé de tes côtes
Je vois, errant encor, l'insatiable aspic.
Pour dire vrai, je crains que ta coquetterie
Ne trouve pas un prix digne de ses efforts
Qui, de ces coeurs mortels, entend la raillerie?
Les charmes de l'horreur n'enivrent que les forts!
Le gouffre de tes yeux, plein d'horribles pensées,
Exhale le vertige, et les danseurs prudents
Ne contempleront pas sans d'amères nausées
Le sourire éternel de tes trente-deux dents.
Pourtant, qui n'a serré dans ses bras un squelette,
Et qui ne s'est nourri des choses du tombeau?
Qu'importe le parfum, l'habit ou la toilette?
Qui fait le dégoûté montre qu'il se croit beau.
Bayadère sans nez, irrésistible gouge,
Dis donc à ces danseurs qui font les offusqués:
«Fiers mignons, malgré l'art des poudres et du rouge
Vous sentez tous la mort! Ô squelettes musqués,
Antinoüs flétris, dandys à face glabre,
Cadavres vernissés, lovelaces chenus,
Le branle universel de la danse macabre
Vous entraîne en des lieux qui ne sont pas connus!
Des quais froids de la Seine aux bords brûlants du Gange,
Le troupeau mortel saute et se pâme, sans voir
Dans un trou du plafond la trompette de l'Ange
Sinistrement béante ainsi qu'un tromblon noir.
En tout climat, sous tout soleil, la Mort t'admire
En tes contorsions, risible Humanité
Et souvent, comme toi, se parfumant de myrrhe,
Mêle son ironie à ton insanité!»
— Charles Baudelaire
The Dance of Death
Proud as a living person of her noble stature,
With her big bouquet, her handkerchief and gloves,
She has the nonchalance and easy manner
Of a slender coquette with bizarre ways.
Did one ever see a slimmer waist at a ball?
Her ostentatious dress in its queenly fullness
Falls in ample folds over thin feet, tightly pressed
Into slippers with pompons pretty as flowers.
The swarm of bees that plays along her collar-bones
Like a lecherous brook that rubs against the rocks
Modestly protects from cat-calls and jeers
The funereal charms that she's anxious to hide.
Her deep eye-sockets are empty and dark,
And her skull, skillfully adorned with flowers,
Oscillates gently on her fragile vertebrae.
Charm of a non-existent thing, madly arrayed!
Some, lovers drunken with flesh, will call you
A caricature; they don't understand
The marvelous elegance of the human frame.
You satisfy my fondest taste, tall skeleton!
Do you come to trouble with your potent grimace
The festival of Life? Or does some old desire
Still goading your living carcass
Urge you on, credulous one, toward Pleasure's sabbath?
With the flames of candles, with songs of violins,
Do you hope to chase away your mocking nightmare,
And do you come to ask of the flood of orgies
To cool the hell set ablaze in your heart?
Inexhaustible well of folly and of sins!
Eternal alembic of ancient suffering!
Through the curved trellis of your ribs
I see, still wandering, the insatiable asp.
To tell the truth, I fear your coquetry
Will not find a reward worthy of its efforts;
Which of these mortal hearts understands raillery?
The charms of horror enrapture only the strong!
The abyss of your eyes, full of horrible thoughts,
Exhales vertigo, and discreet dancers
Cannot look without bitter nausea
At the eternal smile of your thirty-two teeth.
Yet who has not clasped a skeleton in his arms,
Who has not fed upon what belongs to the grave?
What matters the perfume, the costume or the dress?
He who shows disgust believes that he is handsome.
Noseless dancer, irresistible whore,
Tell those dancing couples who act so offended:
"Proud darlings, despite the art of make-up
You all smell of death! Skeletons perfumed with musk,
Withered Antinoi, dandies with smooth faces,
Varnished corpses, hoary-haired Lovclaces,
The universal swing of the danse macabre
Sweeps you along into places unknown!
From the Seine's cold quays to the Ganges' burning shores,
The human troupe skips and swoons with delight, sees not
In a hole in the ceiling the Angel's trumpet
Gaping ominously like a black blunderbuss.
In all climes, under every sun, Death admires you
At your antics, ridiculous Humanity,
And frequently, like you, scenting herself with myrrh,
Mingles her irony with your insanity!"
— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild,
1954)
The Dance of Death
Proud, as a living person, of her height,
Her scarf and gloves and huge bouquet of roses,
She shows such nonchalance and ease as might
A thin coquette excessive in her poses.
Who, at a ball, has seen a form so slim?
Her sumptuous skirts extravagantly shower
To a dry foot that, exquisitely trim,
Her footwear pinches, dainty as a flower.
The frills that rub her collarbone, and feel,
Like a lascivious rill against a rock,
The charms she is so anxious to conceal,
Defend them, too, from ridicule and mock.
Her eyes are formed of emptiness and shade.
Her skull, with flowers so deftly decked about,
Upon her dainty vertebrae is swayed.
Oh what a charm when nullity tricks out!
"Caricature," some might opine, but wrongly,
Whose hearts, too drunk with flesh that runs to waste,
Ignore the grace of what upholds so strongly.
Tall skeleton, you match my dearest taste!
Come you to trouble with your strong grimace,
The feast of life? Or has some old desire
Rowelled your living carcase from its place
And sent you, credulous, to feed its fire?
With tunes of fiddles and the flames of candles,
Hope you to chase the nightmare far apart,
Or with a flood of orgies, feasts, and scandals
To quench the bell that's lighted in your heart?
Exhaustless well of follies and of faults,
Of the old woe the alembic and the urn,
Around your trellised ribs, in new assaults,
I see the insatiable serpent turn.
I fear your coquetry's not worth the strain,
The prize not worth the effort you prolong.
Could mortal hearts your railleries explain?
The joys of horror only charm the strong.
The pits of your dark eyes dread fancies breathe,
And vertigo. Among the dancers prudent,
Hope not your sixteen pairs of smiling teeth
Will ever find a contemplative student.
Yet who's not squeezed a skeleton with passion?
Nor ravened with his kisses on the meat
Of charnels. What of costume, scent, or fashion?
The man who feigns disgust, betrays conceit.
O noseless geisha, unresisted gouge!
Tell these fastidious feigners, from your husk —
"Proud fondling fools, in spite of talc and rouge,
You smell of death. Anatomies of musk,
Withered Antinouses, beaux of dunder,
Corpses in varnish, Lovelaces of bone,
The dance of death, with universal thunder,
Is whirling you to places yet unknown!
From Seine to Ganges frolicking about,
You see not, through a black hole in the ceiling,
Like a great blunderbus, with funnelled snout,
The Angel's trumpet, on the point of pealing.
In every clime, Death studies your devices
And vain contortions, laughable Humanity,
And oft, like you, perfumes herself with spices
Mixing her irony with your insanity!"
— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)
Danse macabre
Proud as a woman of her queenly height,
with huge bouquet and handkerchief and gloves,
she flaunts the grace and nonchalance, tonight,
of gaunt coquettes who play at lady-loves.
Could any dancer vaunt a slimmer waist?
her lavish robe in royal fullness flows
in folds upon her dainty ankles, laced
in tufted patterns lovely as a rose
The lace-frill rippling on her bony breast,
like rills caressing rocks in amorous play,
chastely defends from every silly jest
those ghastly charms that must not see the day.
Her eyes are darkening voids which open wide;
her skull, with flowers dexterously crowned,
sways on her slender spine from side to side.
o spell of nothingness by folly gowned!
Some, lovers of the flesh, perhaps will claim
thou art a travesty. they do not know
the nameless elegance of the human frame.
tall skeleton, my heart prefers thee so!
Doest come to trouble, with thy potent sneer
Life's festival? or does some ancient fire
— of fool! — still prick thy living carcass here
making thee seek this Sabbath of Desire?
Dost hope, by violins and lights beguiled,
to slay that mocking nightmare of unrest?
art come to urge the orgy's torrent wild
to quench the hell-fire blazing in thy breast?
Exhaustless fount of every stupid sin!
alembic of our old, eternal woe!
I see thy ribs, and wandering within,
the sateless asp, still wriggling to and fro.
But, truth to tell, I fear thy coquetry
may find no guerdon for its labours long;
which of these death-doomed hearts can laugh with thee?
nay, horror's wine is only for the strong!
Those eyes, deep gulfs where ghastly secrets lurk,
breathe giddiness. no prudent cavaliers
can gaze unsickened on the eternal smirk
that on thy two and thirty teeth appears.
Yet, who has not embraced a skeleton?
who on the thought of tombs has never fed?
what means the scent we use, the cloak we don?
lovely ye deem yourselves, who scorn the dead.
O noseless nautch-girl, o resistless trull,
go tell the partner who thy beauty shuns:
"proud minions, though ye rouge each bleaching skull,
all smell of death! o scented skeletons,
Worn dandies, shaven fools with stinking breath,
pale varnished corpses, grey decrepit beaux,
the world-wide rhythm of the Dance of Death
is sweeping you to shores no mortal knows!
From Seine to Ganges burnt, where'er we roam,
Death's head is dancing, crazed, incurious
of the Dark Angel's trump which from the dome
is thrust, an evil gaping blunderbuss.
Death ogles thee both here and everywhere,
writhing, ridiculous humanity,
and oft, myrrh-scented too, she comes to share
in irony, thine own insanity!"
— Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)

The Second Coming /
William Butler Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Click play if you want to listen
to
"The Second Coming":








































































Alfred Kubin

Alfred Kubin


William Blake - Satan Sin and Death








The Epitaph of Asher ben Turiel, Toledo, Spain, 1349.
This stone is a memorial
That a later generation may know
That 'neath it lies hidden a pleasant bud,
A cherished child.
Perfect in knowledge,
A reader of the Bible,
A student of the Mishnah and Gemara.
Had learned from his father
What his father learned from his teachers:
The statutes of God and his laws.
Though only fifteen years in age,
He was like a man of eighty in knowledge.
More blessed than all sons: Asher-may he rest in Paradise -
The son of Joseph ben Turiel-may God comfort him,
He died of the plague, in the month of Tammuz, in the year 109 [June or
July, 1349].
But a few days before his death
He established his home;
But yesternight the joyous voice of the bride and groom
Was turned to the voice of wailing.
[Apparently he had just been married.]
And the father is left, sad and aching.
May the God of heaven
Grant him comfort.
And send another child
To restore his soul.














































Medusa-Caravaggio

Head of Medusa - Paul Rubens




"Contra vim Mortis
Non est medicamen in hortis."
(Chant Royal of the King of Terrors:
Austin Dobson's Collected Poems, 1896)
He is the despots' Despot. All must bide,
Later or soon, the message of his might;
Princes and potentates their heads must hide,
Touched by the awful sigil of his right;
Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait
And pours a potion in his cup of state;
The stately Queen his bidding must obey;
No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray;
And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith—
"Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play."
There is no king more terrible than Death.
The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride,
He draweth down; before the armèd Knight
With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;
He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight;
The Burgher grave he beckons from debate;
He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate,
Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay;
No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay;
E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth,
Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay ...
There is no king more terrible than Death.
All things must bow to him. And woe betide
The Wine-bibber,—the Roisterer by night;
Him the feast-master, many bouts defied,
Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite;
Woe to the Lender at usurious rate,
The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate;
Woe to the Judge that selleth right for pay;
Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey
With creeping tread the traveller harryeth:—
These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay ...
There is no king more terrible than Death.
He hath no pity,—nor will be denied.
When the low hearth is garnishèd and bright,
Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,
And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;
He hath no pity for the scorned of fate:—
He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,
Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may;
Nay, the tired Ploughman,—at the sinking ray,—
In the last furrow,—feels an icy breath,
And knows a hand hath turned the team astray ...
There is no king more terrible than Death.
He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride,
Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,
That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,
He with the clatter of his drum doth fright;
He scares the Virgin at the convent grate;
The Maid half-won, the lover passionate;
He hath no grace for weakness and decay:
The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray,
The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth,—
All these he leadeth by the lonely way ...
There is no king more terrible than Death.
ENVOY.
Youth, for whose ear and monishing of late,
I sang of Prodigals and lost estate,
Have thou thy joy of living and be gay;
But know not less that there must come a day,—
Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,—
When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,—
There is no king more terrible than Death.



Theatrum Mortis
















Ce sunt eu, vei fi şi tu. Ce eşti tu, am fost şi eu.
What I am, you will be, too. What you are, I've been myself.








Life's a jest, and all things show it;
I thought so once, and now I know it.
























Gottfried Benn:
Beautiful Childhood
The mouth of the girl who had laid so long
In the reeds looked so gnawed at.
When one broke open the breast,
The esophagus was so full of holes.
Finally in a bower under the diaphragm
I found a nest of young rats.
One little sister lay dead.
The others were living on liver and kidney,
Drank the cold blood and had
Spent a beautiful childhood there.
And beautiful and fast their death, too, came:
I threw them the lot of them into the water.
Oh, how the little snouts squeaked!
(Translator unknown)
And another translation.
Gottfried Benn:
A fine childhood
The mouth of a girl who had long lain in the reeds
looked so chewed up.
When we broke open the torso, the esophagus was so full of holes.
Finally in a bower under the diaphragm
we found a nest of young rats.
One little sister rat lay dead.
The others were living off liver and kidney,
drinking the cold blood and enjoying
a fine childhood.
And fine and fast was their death too:
we threw the whole bunch into water.
Oh, how those little snouts squeaked!
(Translator unknown)
Gottfried Benn:
Cycle
The lone molar of a whore
who had died unknown
had a gold filling.
As if by silent agreement
the others had fallen out.
But this one the morgue attendant knocked out
and pawned to go dancing.
For, he said,
only earth should return to earth.
(Translator unknown)





Giorgio Ghisi



Le Testament / François Villon
Les Regrets De La Belle Heaulmière
Translated by A. S. Kline
By chance, I heard the belle complain,
The one we called the Armouress,
Longing to be a girl again,
Talking like this, more or less:
‘Oh, old age, proud in wickedness,
You’ve battered me so, and why?
Who cares, who, for my distress,
Or whether at all your blows I die?
You’ve stolen away that great power
My beauty ordained for me
Over priests and clerks, my hour,
When never a man I’d see
Would fail to offer his all in fee,
Whatever remorse he’d later show,
But what was abandoned readily,
Beggars now scorn to know.
Many a man I then refused –
Which wasn’t wise of me, no jest –
For love of a boy, cunning too,
To whom I gave all my largesse.
I feigned to him unwillingness,
But, by my soul, I loved him bad.
What he showed was his roughness,
Loving me only for what I had.
He could drag me through the dirt,
Trample me underfoot, I’d love him,
Break my back, whatever’s worse,
If only he’d ask for a kiss again,
I’d soon forget then every pain.
A glutton, full of what he could win,
He’d embrace me – with him I’ve lain.
What’s he left me? Shame and sin.
Now he’s dead, these thirty years:
And I live on, old, and grey.
When I think of those times, with tears,
What I was, what I am today,
View myself naked: turn at bay,
Seeing what I am no longer,
Poor, dry, meagre, worn away,
I almost forget myself in anger.
Where’s my smooth brow gone:
My arching lashes, yellow hair,
Wide-eyed glances, pretty ones,
That took in the cleverest there:
Nose not too big or small: a pair
Of delicate little ears, the chin
Dimpled: a face oval and fair,
Lovely lips with crimson skin?
The fine slender shoulder-blades:
The long arms, with tapering hands:
My small breasts: the hips well made
Full and firm, and sweetly planned,
All Love’s tournaments to withstand:
The broad flanks: the nest of hair,
With plump thighs firmly spanned,
Inside its little garden there?
Now wrinkled forehead, hair gone grey:
Sparse eyelashes: eyes so dim,
That laughed and flashed once every way,
And reeled their roaming victims in:
Nose bent from beauty, ears thin,
Hanging down like moss, a face,
Pallid, dead and bleak, the chin
Furrowed, a skinny-lipped disgrace.
This is the end of human beauty:
Shrivelled arms, hands warped like feet:
The shoulders hunched up utterly:
Breasts….what? In full retreat,
Same with the hips, as with the teats:
Little nest, hah! See the thighs,
Not thighs, thighbones, poor man’s meat,
Blotched like sausages, and dried.
That’s how the bon temps we regret
Among us, poor old idiots,
Squatting on our haunches, set
All in a heap like woollen lots
Round a hemp fire men forgot,
Soon kindled, and soon dust,
Once so lovely, that cocotte…
So it goes for all of us.
Le Testament / François Villon
Les Regrets De La Belle Heaulmière
Jà parvenue à vieillesse.
Advis m'est que j'oy regretter
La belle qui fut heaulmière,
Soy jeune fille souhaitter
Et parler en ceste manière:
«Ha! vieillesse felonne et fière,
Pourquoy m'as si tost abatue?
Qui me tient que je ne me fière,
Et qu'à ce coup je ne me tue?
«Tollu m'as ma haulte franchise
Que beauté m'avoit ordonné
Sur clercz, marchans et gens d'Eglise:
Car alors n'estoit homme né
Qui tout le sien ne m'eust donné,
Quoy qu'il en fust des repentailles,
Mais que luy eusse abandonné
Ce que reffusent truandailles.
«A maint homme l'ay reffusé,
Qui n'estoit à moy grand saigesse,
Pour l'amour d'ung garson rusé,
Auquel j'en feiz grande largesse.
A qui que je feisse finesse,
Par m'ame, je l'amoye bien!
Or ne me faisoit que rudesse,
Et ne m'amoyt que pour le mien.
«Jà ne me sceut tant detrayner,
Fouller au piedz, que ne l'aymasse,
Et m'eust-il faict les rains trayner,
S'il m'eust dit que je le baisasse
Et que tous mes maux oubliasse;
Le glouton, de mal entaché,
M'embrassoit... J'en suis bien plus grasse!
Que m'en reste-il? Honte et péché.
«Or il est mort, passé trente ans,
Et je remains vieille et chenue.
Quand je pense, lasse! au bon temps,
Quelle fus, quelle devenue;
Quand me regarde toute nue,
Et je me voy si très-changée,
Pauvre, seiche, maigre, menue,
Je suis presque toute enragée.
«Qu'est devenu ce front poly,
Ces cheveulx blonds, sourcilz voultyz,
Grand entr'oeil, le regard joly,
Dont prenoye les plus subtilz;
Ce beau nez droit, grand ne petiz;
Ces petites joinctes oreilles,
Menton fourchu, cler vis traictis,
Et ces belles lèvres vermeilles?
«Ces gentes espaules menues,
Ces bras longs et ces mains tretisses;
Petitz tetins, hanches charnues,
Eslevées, propres, faictisses
A tenir amoureuses lysses;
Ces larges reins, ce sadinet,
Assis sur grosses fermes cuysses,
Dedans son joly jardinet?
«Le front ridé, les cheveulx gris,
Les sourcilz cheuz, les yeulx estainctz,
Qui faisoient regars et ris,
Dont maintz marchans furent attaincts;
Nez courbé, de beaulté loingtains;
Oreilles pendans et moussues;
Le vis pally, mort et destaincts;
Menton foncé, lèvres peaussues:
«C'est d'humaine beauté l'yssues!
Les bras courts et les mains contraictes,
Les espaulles toutes bossues;
Mammelles, quoy! toutes retraictes;
Telles les hanches que les tettes.
Du sadinet, fy! Quant des cuysses,
Cuysses ne sont plus, mais cuyssettes
Grivelées comme saulcisses.
«Ainsi le bon temps regretons
Entre nous, pauvres vieilles sottes,
Assises bas, à croppetons,
Tout en ung tas comme pelottes,
A petit feu de chenevottes,
Tost allumées, tost estainctes;
Et jadis fusmes si mignottes!...
Ainsi en prend à maintz et maintes.»


















Edgar Lee Masters (1868–1950)
Spoon River
Anthology
Silence
I HAVE known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths,
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young.
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities—
We cannot speak.
A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
“How did you lose your leg?”
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.
It comes back jocosely
And he says, “A bear bit it off.”
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.
There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of an embittered friendship.
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered
Into a realm of higher life.
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished;
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.
There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d’Arc
Saying amid the flames, “Blessed Jesus”—
Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.
And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.
Eugene Carman
RHODES’ slave! Selling shoes and gingham,
Flour and bacon, overalls, clothing, all day long
For fourteen hours a day for three hundred and thirteen days
For more than twenty years.
Saying “Yes’m” and “Yes, sir” and “Thank you”
A thousand times a day, and all for fifty dollars a month.
Living in this stinking room in the rattle-trap “Commercial.”
And compelled to go to Sunday School, and to listen
To the Rev. Abner Peet one hundred and four times a year
For more than an hour at a time,
Because Thomas Rhodes ran the church
As well as the store and the bank.
So while I was tying my neck-tie that morning
I suddenly saw myself in the glass:
My hair all gray, my face like a sodden pie.
So I cursed and cursed: You damned old thing!
You cowardly dog! You rotten pauper!
You Rhodes’ slave! Till Roger Baughman
Thought I was having a fight with some one,
And looked through the transom just in time
To see me fall on the floor in a heap
From a broken vein in my head.
Margaret Fuller Slack
I WOULD have been as great as George Eliot
But for an untoward fate.
For look at the photograph of me made by Penniwit,
Chin resting on hand, and deep--set eyes--
Gray, too, and far-searching.
But there was the old, old problem:
Should it be celibacy, matrimony or unchastity?
Then John Slack, the rich druggist, wooed me,
Luring me with the promise of leisure for my novel,
And I married him, giving birth to eight children,
And had no time to write.
It was all over with me, anyway,
When I ran the needle in my hand
While washing the baby's things,
And died from lock--jaw, an ironical death.
Hear me, ambitious souls,
Sex is the curse of life.
Willard Fluke
MY wife lost her health,
And dwindled until she weighed scarce ninety pounds.
Then that woman, whom the men
Styled Cleopatra, came along.
And we-- we married ones
All broke our vows, myself among the rest.
Years passed and one by one
Death claimed them all in some hideous form
And I was borne along by dreams
Of God's particular grace for me,
And I began to write, write, write, reams on reams
Of the second coming of Christ.
Then Christ came to me and said,
"Go into the church and stand before the congregation
And confess your sin."
But just as I stood up and began to speak
I saw my little girl, who was sitting in the front seat--
My little girl who was born blind!
After that, all is blackness.













Requiem
|
1
Day of wrath! O day of mourning! See fulfilled the prophets' warning, Heaven and earth in ashes burning! 2 Oh what fear man's bosom rendeth, when from heaven the Judge descendeth, on whose sentence all dependeth. 3 Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth; through earth's sepulchers it ringeth; all before the throne it bringeth. 4 Death is struck, and nature quaking, all creation is awaking, to its Judge an answer making. 5 Lo! the book, exactly worded, wherein all hath been recorded: thence shall judgment be awarded. 6 When the Judge his seat attaineth, and each hidden deed arraigneth, nothing unavenged remaineth. 7 What shall I, frail man, be pleading? Who for me be interceding, when the just are mercy needing? 8 King of Majesty tremendous, who dost free salvation send us, Fount of pity, then befriend us! 9 Think, good Jesus, my salvation cost thy wondrous Incarnation; leave me not to reprobation! 10 Faint and weary, thou hast sought me, on the cross of suffering bought me. shall such grace be vainly brought me? 11 Righteous Judge! for sin's pollution grant thy gift of absolution, ere the day of retribution. 12 Guilty, now I pour my moaning, all my shame with anguish owning; spare, O God, thy suppliant groaning! 13 Thou the sinful woman savedst; thou the dying thief forgavest; and to me a hope vouchsafest. 14 Worthless are my prayers and sighing, yet, good Lord, in grace complying, rescue me from fires undying! 15 With thy favored sheep O place me; nor among the goats abase me; but to thy right hand upraise me. 16 While the wicked are confounded, doomed to flames of woe unbounded call me with thy saints surrounded. 17 Low I kneel, with heart submission, see, like ashes, my contrition; help me in my last condition. |
1
Dies iræ! dies illa Solvet sæclum in favilla Teste David cum Sibylla! 2 Quantus tremor est futurus, quando judex est venturus, cuncta stricte discussurus! 3 Tuba mirum spargens sonum per sepulchra regionum, coget omnes ante thronum. 4 Mors stupebit et natura, cum resurget creatura, judicanti responsura. 5 Liber scriptus proferetur, in quo totum continetur, unde mundus judicetur. 6 Judex ergo cum sedebit, quidquid latet apparebit: nil inultum remanebit. 7 Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? Quem patronum rogaturus, cum vix justus sit securus? 8 Rex tremendæ majestatis, qui salvandos salvas gratis, salva me, fons pietatis. 9 Recordare, Jesu pie, quod sum causa tuæ viæ: ne me perdas illa die. 10 Quærens me, sedisti lassus: redemisti Crucem passus: tantus labor non sit cassus. 11 Juste judex ultionis, donum fac remissionis ante diem rationis. 12 Ingemisco, tamquam reus: culpa rubet vultus meus: supplicanti parce, Deus. 13 Qui Mariam absolvisti, et latronem exaudisti, mihi quoque spem dedisti. 14 Preces meæ non sunt dignæ: sed tu bonus fac benigne, ne perenni cremer igne. 15 Inter oves locum præsta, et ab hædis me sequestra, statuens in parte dextra. 16 Confutatis maledictis, flammis acribus addictis: voca me cum benedictis. 17 Oro supplex et acclinis, cor contritum quasi cinis: gere curam mei finis. |
















When I am dead and in my grave,
and all my bones are rotten.
While reading this you'll think of me
when I am long forgotten!

















Because I Could Not Stop for Death
A Poem by
Emily Dickinson
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.












The tortures of the damned - Lincoln Cathedral

Here lies a miser who lived for himself, who cared
for nothing but gathering wealth. Now where he is and how he fares;
nobody knows and nobody cares.
























Dante and Virgil before Lucifer

Coppo di Marcovaldo

Meister von Torcello









Good friend, for Jesus sake forbear
To dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be ye man that spares these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones.































Der Tod und das Mädchen / Matthias Claudius
| Original German | English Translation |
|---|---|
Das Mädchen: |
The Maiden: |



















































































Lucas Cranach the Elder - Salome

Lucas Cranach

Caravaggio - Judith Beheading



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מת
נפטר
נאסף אל אבותיו
נאסף אל עמיו
נאסף לאספת כל בני חלוף
נפח את נשמתו
הוציא את נשמתו
הלך לעולמו
הלך לבית עולמו
הלך לעולם שכולו טוב
הלך בדרך כל חי
הלך בדרך כל בשר
הלך בדרך כל הארץ
הלך לארץ תחתית
הלך מארץ החיים אל שאול תחתית
הסתלק מהעולם
הגיע לשערי מוות
נטרד מן העולם
הוציא את ימיו
שבק חיים לכל חי
יצא לחופשי
ירד דומה
נקטף באיבו
נקטף בדמי ימיו
נקטף באביב ימיו
ניתק פתיל חייו
נסתלק מן העולם
נסתלק לחיי העולם הבא
נסתלק ופג וגז ולא היה עוד
החזיר נשמתו לבורא
נקרא לישיבה של מעלה
נתבקש לישיבה של מעלה
מריח את הפרחים מלמטה
נמצא ארבע אמות באדמה
ישן עם הדגים
התפגר
Danse Macabre and The Black Death
Dance of Death,
also variously called Danse Macabre (French), Danza Macabra (Italian) or
Totentanz
(German), is a late-medieval allegory on the universality of death - no
matter one's station in
life, the dance of death unites all. La Danse Macabre consists of the
personified death leading a
row of dancing figures from all walks of life to the grave—typically with an
emperor, king,
youngster, beautiful female, all skeletal. They were produced to remind
people of how fragile their
lives were and how vain the glories of earthly life were. Its origins are
postulated from
illustrated sermon texts; the earliest artistic examples are in a cemetery
in Paris from 1424.
The deathly horrors of the 14th Century—such as recurring famines, the
Hundred Years War in France
and, most of all, the Black Death, were culturally digested throughout
Europe. The omnipresent
possibility of sudden and painful death increased the religious desire for
penitence, but it also
evoked a hysterical desire for amusement while still possible, a last dance
as a cold comfort. The
danse macabre combines both desires: similar to the popular mediaeval
mystery plays, the dance-
with-death allegory was originally a didactic play to remind people of the
inevitability of death
and to advise them strongly to be prepared all times for death.
The earliest examples of such plays, which consisted of short dialogs
between Death and each of its
victims, can be found in the direct aftermath of the Black Death in Germany,
where it was known as
the Totentanz, but also in Spain as la Danza de la Muerte. The French term
danse macabre most
likely derives from Latin Chorea Machabæorum, literally "dance of the
Maccabees". 2 Maccabees, a
deuterocanonical book of the Bible in which the grim martyrdom of a mother
and her seven sons is
described, was a well-known mediaeval subject. It is possible that the
Maccabean Martyrs were
commemorated in some early French plays or that people just associated the
book’s vivid
descriptions of the martyrdom with the interaction between Death and its
prey. Both the play and
the evolving paintings were ostensive penitential sermons which even
illiterate people (who were
the overwhelming majority) could understand.
Furthermore, church frescoes dealing with death had a long tradition and
were widespread, e.g. the
legend of the three men and the three dead: On a ride three young gentlemen
meet the skeletal
remains of three of their ancestors who warn them: Quod fuimus, estis; quod
sumus, vos eritis (What
we were, you are; what we are, you will be). Numerous if often simple fresco
versions of that
legend from the 13th century onwards have survived (for instance in the
hospital church of Wismar).
Since they were showing pictorial sequences of men and skeletons covered
with shrouds those
paintings can be regarded as cultural precursors of the new genre.
A danse macabre painting normally shows a round dance headed by Death. From
the highest ranks of
the mediaeval hierarchy (usually pope and emperor) descending to its lowest
(beggar, peasant and
child) each mortal’s hand is taken by a skeleton or an extremely decayed
body. The famous Totentanz
in Lübeck’s Marienkirche (destroyed by an Allied bomb raid in WW II)
presented Death very lively
and agile, making the impression that the skeletons were actually dancing,
whereas their dancing
partners looked clumsy and passive. The apparent class distinction in almost
all of these paintings
is completely neutralized by Death as the ultimate equalizer, so that a
sociocritical element is
subtly inherent to the whole genre: The Totentanz of Metzin for instance
shows how a pope crowned
with his tiara is being led into hell by the dancing Death.
The Black Death,
or the Black Plague, was one of the deadliest pandemics in human history,
widely
thought to have been caused by a bacterium named Yersinia pestis (Bubonic
plague), but recently
attributed by some to other diseases.
The pandemic is thought to have begun in Central Asia or India and spread to
Europe during the
1340s. The total number of deaths worldwide is estimated at 75 million
people; approximately 25-50
million of which occurred in Europe. The Black Death is estimated to have
killed 30% to 60% of
Europe's population. It may have reduced the world's population from an
estimated 450 million to
between 350 and 375 million in 1400.
Medieval people called the 14th century catastrophe either the "Great
Pestilence" or the "Great
Plague". Writers contemporary to the plague referred to the event as the
"Great Mortality".
The term "Black Death" was introduced for the first time in 1833. It has
been popularly thought
that the name came from a striking late-stage sign of the disease, in which
the sufferer's skin
would blacken due to subepidermal hemorrhages (purpura), and the extremities
would darken with
gangrene (acral necrosis). However, the term is more likely to refer to
black in the sense of glum,
lugubrious or dreadful.
The Black Death was, according to chronicles, characterized by buboes
(swellings in lymph nodes),
like the late 19th century Asian Bubonic plague. Scientists and historians
at the beginning of the
20th century assumed that the Black Death was an outbreak of the same
disease, caused by the
bacterium Yersinia pestis and spread by fleas with the help of animals like
the black rat (Rattus
rattus). However, this view has recently been questioned by some scientists
and historians. New
research suggests Black Death is lying dormant.
An interesting hypothesis about the epidemiology—the appearance, spread and
especially
disappearance—of plague from Europe is that the flea-bearing rodent
reservoir of disease was
eventually succeeded by another species. The black rat (Rattus rattus) was
originally introduced
from Asia to Europe by trade, but was subsequently displaced and succeeded
throughout Europe by the
bigger brown rat (Rattus norvegicus). The brown rat was not as prone to
transmit the germ-bearing
fleas to humans in large die-offs due to a different rat ecology. The
dynamic complexities of rat
ecology, herd immunity in that reservoir, interaction with human ecology,
secondary transmission
routes between humans with or without fleas, human herd immunity and changes
in each might explain
the eruption, dissemination, and re-eruptions of plague that continued for
centuries until its
(even more) unexplained disappearance.
The classic sign of bubonic plague was the appearance of buboes in the
groin, the neck and armpits,
which oozed pus and bled. Most victims died within four to seven days after
infection. When the
plague reached Europe, it first struck port cities and then followed the
trade routes, both by sea
and land.
The bubonic plague was the most commonly seen form during the Black Death,
with a mortality rate of
thirty to seventy-five percent and symptoms including fever of 38 - 41 °C
(101-105 °F), headaches,
painful aching joints, nausea and vomiting, and a general feeling of
malaise. Of those who
contracted the bubonic plague, 4 out of 5 died within eight days. Pneumonic
plague was the second
most commonly seen form during the Black Death, with a mortality rate of
ninety to ninety-five
percent. Symptoms included fever, cough and blood-tinged sputum. As the
disease progressed, sputum
became free flowing and bright red. Septicaemic plague was the least common
of the three forms,
with a mortality rate close to one hundred percent. Symptoms were high
fevers and purple skin
patches.
The governments of Europe had no apparent response to the crisis because no
one knew its cause or
how it spread. In 1348, the plague spread so rapidly that before any
physicians or government
authorities had time to reflect upon its origins, about a third of the
European population had
already perished. In crowded cities, it was not uncommon for as much as
fifty percent of the
population to die. Europeans living in isolated areas suffered less, and
monasteries and priests
were especially hard hit since they cared for the Black Death's victims.
Because fourteenth century
healers were at a loss to explain the cause, Europeans turned to
astrological forces, earthquakes,
and the poisoning of wells by Jews as possible reasons for the plague's
emergence. No one in the
fourteenth century considered rat control a way to ward off the plague, and
people began to believe
only God's anger could produce such horrific displays. There were many
attacks against Jewish
communities. In August of 1349, the Jewish communities of Mainz and Cologne
were exterminated. In
February of that same year, Christians murdered two thousand Jews in
Strasbourg.Where government
authorities were concerned, most monarchs instituted measures that
prohibited exports of
foodstuffs, condemned black market speculators, set price controls on grain,
and outlawed large-
scale fishing. At best, they proved mostly unenforceable, and at worst they
contributed to a
continent-wide downward spiral. The hardest hit lands, like England, were
unable to buy grain
abroad: from France because of the prohibition, and from most of the rest of
the grain producers
because of crop failures from shortage of labour. Any grain that could be
shipped was eventually
taken by pirates or looters to be sold on the black market. Meanwhile, many
of the largest
countries, most notably England and Scotland, had been at war, using up much
of their treasury and
exacerbating inflation. In 1337, on the eve of the first wave of the Black
Death, England and
France went to war in what would become known as the Hundred Years' War.
Malnutrition, poverty,
disease and hunger, coupled with war, growing inflation and other economic
concerns made Europe in
the mid-fourteenth century ripe for tragedy.
The plague did more than just devastate the medieval population; it caused a
substantial change in
economy and society in all areas of the world. Economic historians like
Fernand Braudel have
concluded that Black Death exacerbated a recession in the European economy
that had been under way
since the beginning of the century. As a consequence, social and economic
change greatly
accelerated during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The church's
power was weakened, and in
some cases, the social roles it had played were taken over by secular
groups. Also the plague led
to peasant uprisings in many parts of Europe, such as France (the Jacquerie
rebellion), Italy (the
Ciompi rebellion, which swept the city of Florence), and in England (the
English Peasant Revolt).
Europe had been overpopulated before the plague, and a reduction of 30% to
50% of the population
could have resulted in higher wages and more available land and food for
peasants because of less
competition for resources. However, for reasons that are still debated,
population levels declined
after the Black Death's first outbreak until around 1420 and did not begin
to rise again until
1470, so the initial Black Death event on its own does not entirely provide
a satisfactory
explanation to this extended period of decline in prosperity.
Differences in cultural and lifestyle practices between Jews and Christians
led to persecution.
Jews were charged by some with having provoked the plague. Because Jews had
a religious obligation
to be ritually clean, they did not use water from public wells. And so as
previously mentioned,
Jews were suspected of causing the plague by deliberately poisoning wells.
Typically, comparatively
fewer Jews died from the Black Death, in part due to rabbinical laws that
promoted habits that were
generally cleaner than that of a typical medieval villager. Jews were also
socially isolated, often
living in Jewish ghettos. Because isolated people were less likely to be
infected, there were
differences in mortality rates between Jews and non-Jews and this led to
raised suspicions in
people who had no concept of bacterial transmission.
Christian mobs
attacked Jewish settlements across Europe; by 1351, sixty major and 150
smaller
Jewish communities had been destroyed, and more than 350 separate massacres
had occurred. This
persecution reflected more than ethnic hatred. In many places,
attacking Jews was a way to
criticize the monarchs who protected them (Jews were under the protection of
the king, and often
called the "royal treasure"), and monarchic fiscal policies, which were
often administered by Jews.
An important legacy of the Black Death was to cause the eastward movement of
what was left of north
European Jewry to Poland and Russia, where it remained until the twentieth
century.
Flagellants practiced self-flogging (whipping of oneself) to atone for sins.
The movement became
popular after general disillusionment with the church's reaction to the
Black Death. The Black
Death led to cynicism toward religious officials who could not keep their
promises of curing plague
victims and banishing the disease. No one, the Church included, was able to
cure or accurately
explain the reasons for the plague outbreaks. One theory of transmission was
that it spread through
air, and was referred to as miasma, or 'bad air'. This increased doubt in
the clergy's abilities.
Extreme alienation with the Church culminated in either support for
different religious groups such
as the flagellants, which from their late 13th century beginnings grew
tremendously during the
opening years of the Black Death, and later to a pursuit of pleasure and
hedonism. It was a common
belief at the time that the plague was due to God's wrath, caused by the
sins of mankind; In
response, the flagellants travelled from town to town, whipping themselves
in an effort to mimic
the sufferings of Jesus prior to his crucifixion. Originating in Germany,
several miraculous tales
emerged from their efforts, such as a child being revived from the dead, and
a talking cow. These
stories further fuelled the belief that the flagellants were more effective
than church leaders. It
may have been that the flagellant's later involvement in hedonism was an
effort to accelerate or
absorb God's wrath, to shorten the time with which others suffered. More
likely, the focus of
attention and popularity of their cause contributed to a sense that the
world itself was ending,
and that their individual actions were of no consequence.
Sadly, the flagellants may have more likely contributed to the actual
spreading of the disease,
rather than its cure. Presumably, there were towns that the flagellants
visited or passed through
which were largely unaffected by the plague until that point, only to be
infected by fleas carried
either by the flagellant's followers, or the flagellants themselves. This is
a common ironic theme
in how individuals at the time dealt with the plague - that in nearly all
cases, the methods
employed to defend against the plague encouraged its spread.
The Black Death hit the monasteries very hard because of their proximity
with the sick, who sought
refuge there, so that there was a severe shortage of clergy after the
epidemic cycle. This resulted
in a mass influx of hastily-trained and inexperienced clergy members, many
of whom knew little of
the discipline and rigor of the veterans they replaced. This led to abuses
by the clergy in years
afterwards and a further deterioration of the position of the Church in the
eyes of the people.
Inspired by Black Death, Danse Macabre is an allegory on the universality of
death and a common
painting motif in late-medieval periods.
After 1350, European culture in general turned very morbid. The general mood
was one of pessimism,
and contemporary art turned dark with representations of death.
In retrospect, it seemed like everything the people thought to do at the
time simply made the
problem worse. For example, since many equated the plague with God's wrath
against sin, and that
cats were often considered in league with the Devil, cats were killed en
masse. Had this bias
toward cats not existed, local rodent populations could have been kept down,
lessening the spread
of plague-infected fleas from host to host.





Macabre,Word
History:
The word macabre is an excellent example of a word formed with reference
to a specific context that has long since disappeared for everyone but
scholars. Macabre
is first recorded in the phrase Macabrees daunce in a work written around
1430 by John
Lydgate. Macabree was thought by Lydgate to be the name of a French author,
but in fact
he misunderstood the Old French phrase Danse Macabre, "the Dance of Death,"
a subject
of art and literature. In this dance, Death leads people of all classes and
walks of
life to the same final end. The macabre element may be an alteration of
Macabe, "a Maccabee."
The Maccabees were Jewish martyrs who were honored by a feast throughout the
Western Church,
and reverence for them was linked to reverence for the dead. Today macabre
has no
connection with the Maccabees and little connection with the Dance of Death,
but it
still has to do with death.
Macabre, world wide:
Hebrew:
מקברי,מבעית,
איום, נורא, מפחיד, מבהיל, מחריד, מזעזע, מזוויע, מעורר חלחלה
Arabic: رَهيب، مُرَوِع
Czech: strašidelný
Danish: makaber
Dutch: griezelig
Estonian: õudne
Finnish: makaaberi
French: macabre
German: grausig, makaber
Greek: μακάβριος
Hungarian: hátborzongató
Icelandic: óhugnanlegur, dauða-
Indonesian: mengerikan
Italian: macabro
Latvian: drausmīgs; šaušalīgs
Lithuanian: klaikus, makabriškas
Norwegian: makaber
Polish: makabryczny
Portuguese (Brazil): macabro
Portuguese (Portugal): macabro
Romanian: macabru
Russian: мрачный, жуткий
Slovak: strašidelný
Slovenian: grozoten, obešenjaški
Spanish: macabro
Swedish: makaber
Turkish: korkunç
Chinese (Simplified): 可怕的, 恐怖的,令人毛骨悚然的
Chinese (Traditional): 可怕的, 恐怖的
Japanese: 気味の悪い
Korean: 소름끼치는
Death, world wide:
Hebrew:
מוות, מיתה, פטירה,
אבדון, כיליון, כליה, גוויעה, חידלון, חוסר חיים, קץ החיים, יציאת הנשמה
Arabic: مَوْت
Chinese (Simplified): 灭亡
Chinese (Traditional): 滅亡
Czech: úmrtí, smrt
Danish: dødsfald; døden
Dutch: dood
Estonian: surm, surmajuhtum
Finnish: kuolema, kuolemantapaus
French: mort, décès
German: der Tod
Greek: θάνατος
Hungarian: halál
Icelandic: dauði
Indonesian: kematian
Italian: morte
Japanese: 死
Korean: 죽음, 사망
Latvian: nāve
Lithuanian: mirtis
Norwegian: død(en), dødsfall
Polish: śmierć
Portuguese (Brazil): morte
Portuguese (Portugal): morte
Romanian: moarte, deces
Russian: смерть
Slovak: úmrtie
Slovenian: smrt
Spanish: muerte
Swedish: död, dödsfall
Turkish: ölüm