Letra dashurie nga autorë të famshëm (Tribut për Shën Valentinin)

[Eagle]

Don Kishoti -Dylqinjes se Tobozes...:) kjo e fundit nuk i shkruante se s'ishin hape ala kurset kunder analfabetizmit...

[angeldust]

Rri mer Eagle aman, c't'i shkruante dhe Dylqinja? Rrezik ajo e deshte t'i vinte prane atje, ai shkonte me gallop maje me maje halucinacioneve ne lufte kunder mullinjve te eres...!


DD, ne ajo lista qe ke sjelle ti, letra e Franz Kafkes per Felice Bauer, s'e marr vesh pse e fusin fare ne kualifikim... pasi me duket misherim i gjalle i cinizmit te shendoshe. Po e sjell tani qe ta heq qafe, sepse marr me mend se do ta nxirrte koken heret e vone ne kjo teme. :)


11 November, 1912

Fräulein Felice!

I am now going to ask you a favor which sounds quite crazy, and which I should regard as such, were I the one to receive the letter. It is also the very greatest test that even the kindest person could be put to. Well, this is it:

Write to me only once a week, so that your letter arrives on Sunday -- for I cannot endure your daily letters, I am incapable of enduring them. For instance, I answer one of your letters, then lie in bed in apparent calm, but my heart beats through my entire body and is conscious only of you. I belong to you; there is really no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong enough. But for this very reason I don't want to know what you are wearing; it confuses me so much that I cannot deal with life; and that's why I don't want to know that you are fond of me. If I did, how could I, fool that I am, go on sitting in my office, or here at home, instead of leaping onto a train with my eyes shut and opening them only when I am with you? Oh, there is a sad, sad reason for not doing so. To make it short: My health is only just good enough for myself alone, not good enough for marriage, let alone fatherhood. Yet when I read your letter, I feel I could overlook even what cannot possibly be overlooked.

If only I had your answer now! And how horribly I torment you, and how I compel you, in the stillness of your room, to read this letter, as nasty a letter as has ever lain on your desk! Honestly, it strikes me sometimes that I prey like a spectre on your felicitous name! If only I had mailed Saturday's letter, in which I implored you never to write to me again, and in which I gave a similar promise. Oh God, what prevented me from sending that letter? All would be well. But is a peaceful solution possible now? Would it help if we wrote to each other only once a week? No, if my suffering could be cured by such means it would not be serious. And already I foresee that I shan't be able to endure even the Sunday letters. And so, to compensate for Saturday's lost opportunity, I ask you with what energy remains to me at the end of this letter: If we value our lives, let us abandon it all.

Did I think of signing myself Dein? No, nothing could be more false. No, I am forever fettered to myself, that's what I am, and that's what I must try to live with.

Franz

[Diabolis]

Sepse ka edhe me keq.

Nje nga D.H.Lawrence, qe po te kishte ndonje teme mbi miqesine mund te rrinte dhe andej:

To the Hon. Dorothy Brett

Dear Brett,
Your leter with -----‘s enclosed this morning. They make me sick in the pit of my stomach. The cold, insect-like ugliness of it. I shall avoid meeting -------.
…
And a word about friendship. Friendship between a man and a woman, as a thing of first importance to either, is impossible: and I know it. We are creatures of two halves, spiritual and sensual – and each half is as important as the other. Any relation based on the one half-say the delicate spiritual half alone-inevitably brings revulsion and betrayal. It is halfness, or partness wich causes Judas.
…
No, Brett. I do not want your friendship, till you have a full relation somewhere, a kindly relation of both halves, not in part, as all your friendship have been. That which is in part is in itself a betrayal. Your “friendship” for me betrays the essential man and male that I am, and makes me ill. Yes, you make me ill, by dragging at one half at the expense of the other half. And I am so much better now you have gone. I refuse any more of this “delicate friendship” business, because it damages one;s wholeness.
…
Know, know that this “delicate” halfness makes evil. Put away all that Virginal stuff. Don’t wtill go looking for men with strange eyes, who know life from A to Z.
…
And try to be whole, not that unreal thing that all men hate you for, even I. Try and recover your wholeness, that is all. Then friendship is possible, in the kindliness of one’s heart.

D.H.L.

Remember I think Christ was profoundly, disastrously wrong.

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

ose korespondencat e De Beauvoir & Sartre, se te tere i konsideronin si cifti me perfekt i shekullit deri ate dite kur u botuan letrat.

angel, thanks per fragmentet. My "search skills" are pathetic.

[StormAngel]

Tema qenka mbase fantastike,dhe me leje do doja te merrja pjese:

Ja edhe nje leter e Ludwig Van Beethoven



Beethoven to his 'Immortal Beloved'





Letter 1

July 6, in the morning

My angel, my all, my very self -

Only a few words today and at that with pencil (with yours) - Not till tomorrow will my lodgings be definitely determined upon - what a useless waste of time -
Why this deep sorrow when necessity speaks - can our love endure except through sacrifices, through not demanding everything from one another; can you change the fact that you are not wholly mine, I not wholly thine -
Oh God, look out into the beauties of nature and comfort your heart with that which must be -
Love demands everything and that very justly - thus it is to me with you, and to you with me.
But you forget so easily that I must live for me and for you; if we were wholly united you would feel the pain of it as little as I -
My journey was a fearful one; I did not reach here until 4 o'clock yesterday morning. Lacking horses the post-coach chose another route, but what an awful one; at the stage before the last I was warned not to travel at night; I was made fearful of a forest, but that only made me the more eager - and I was wrong.
The coach must needs break down on the wretched road, a bottomless mud road.
Without such postilions as I had with me I should have remained stuck in the road.
Esterhazy, traveling the usual road here, had the same fate with eight horses that I had with four - Yet I got some pleasure out of it, as I always do when I successfully overcome difficulties -
Now a quick change to things internal from things external.
We shall surely see each other soon; moreover, today I cannot share with you the thoughts I have had during these last few days touching my own life -
If our hearts were always close together, I would have none of these.
My heart is full of so many things to say to you - ah - there are moments when I feel that speech amounts to nothing at all -
Cheer up - remain my true, my only treasure, my all as I am yours.
The gods must send us the rest, what for us must and shall be -

Your faithful LUDWIG

[StormAngel]

George Gordon (Lord Byron)
To
Lady Caroline Lamb




August 1812

My dearest Caroline,

If tears, which you saw & know I am not apt to shed, if the agitation in which I parted from you, agitation which you must have perceived through the whole of this most nervous nervous affair, did not commence till the moment of leaving you approached, if all that I have said & done, & am still but too ready to say & do, have not sufficiently proved what my real feelings are & must be ever towards you, my love, I have no other proof to offer.

God knows I wish you happy, & when I quit you, or rather when you from a sense of duty to your husband & mother quit me, you shall acknowledge the truth of what I again promise & vow, that no other in word or deed shall ever hold the place in my affection which is & shall be most sacred to you, till I am nothing.

I never knew till that moment, the madness of -- my dearest & most beloved friend -- I cannot express myself -- this is no time for words -- but I shall have a pride, a melancholy pleasure, in suffering what you yourself can hardly conceive -- for you don not know me. -- I am now about to go out with a heavy heart, because -- my appearing this Evening will stop any absurd story which the events of today might give rise to -- do you think now that I am cold & stern, & artful -- will even others think so, will your mother even -- that mother to whom we must indeed sacrifice much, more much more on my part, than she shall ever know or can imagine.

"Promises not to love you" ah Caroline it is past promising -- but shall attribute all concessions to the proper motive -- & never cease to feel all that you have already witnessed -- & more than can ever be known but to my own heart -- perhaps to yours -- May God protect forgive & bless you -- ever & even more than ever.

yr. most attached
BYRON

P.S. -- These taunts which have driven you to this -- my dearest Caroline -- were it not for your mother & the kindness of all your connections, is there anything on earth or heaven would have made me so happy as to have made you mine long ago? & not less now than then, but more than ever at this time -- you know I would with pleasure give up all here & all beyond the grave for you -- & in refraining from this -- must my motives be misunderstood --? I care not who knows this -- what use is made of it -- it is you & to you only that they owe yourself, I was and am yours, freely & most entirely, to obey, to honour, love --& fly with you when, where, & how you yourself might & may determine.

[Leila]

Pa sa qaramane disa. Megjithese, une gjithnje them mos dashuro shkrimtare. lol
Ndoshta artisti me i perafert per te dashuruar, duhet te jete nje fotograf (apo edhe skulptore... they're very good drivers), por jo digital apo surreal. Digitalet jane me keq se piktoret. :D
Gezuar Shen Valentinin, angeldust. ;)

To Nora Joyce (1909)

My own dear Nora,

I love you, I cannot live without you... I would like to go through life side by side with you, telling you more and more until we grew to be one being together until the hour should come for us to die.
Even now the tears rush to my eyes and sobs choke my throat as I write this...
O my darling be only a little kinder to me, bear with me a little even if I am inconsiderate and unmanageable and believe me we will be happy together.
Let me love you in my own way.
Let me have your heart always close to mine to hear every throb of my life, every sorrow, every joy.

James Joyce

[Diabolis]

Ismail Kadare per Ljuba C.

Ljuba ime e shtrenjtë.
Një javë më parë kur me ndihmën e Zotit të j. (shtiva në dorë), ishte vërtet një gjë e mrekullueshme, një çudnoje mgnovjenje, siç shkruan Pushkini i madh. Veç në mos më ke ngjitur triperin, (në gjuhën tonë ai emërtohet me një fjalë me tingëllim madhështor skullamendo, e huajtur nga italishtja dhe që të kujton termat e muyikës, andanto moderato, apo jo?), pra veç në mos më ke ngjitur triperin, ndonëse një shkrimtar, heminguej më duket, ka thënë se kur e marr prej teje edhe triperi më duket i mrekullueshëm. Kështu, pra, as ai s’ma zbeh dot dashurinë për ty, veç në mos e ke marrë prej ndonjë çifuti uzbek, se, përveç nga simpatia që kam për çifutët, kam dëgjuar se çifutët e Uzbekistanit e kanë triperin më të keq se sifilisin.

p.s. perkthimi i vete autorit nga rusishtja

[EXODUS]

Marie! Marie!

Oh let me repeat that name a hundred times,
a thousand times over;
for three days now it has lived within me, oppressed me,
set me afire.
I am not writing to you, no, I am close beside you.
I see you,
I hear you...
Eternity in your arms...Heaven,
all is within you and even more than all...
Oh! Leave me free to rave in my delirium.
Mean, cautious, narrow reality is no longer enough for me.
We must live out lives to the full,
our loves, our sorrow...!
Oh! you believe me capable of
self-sacrifice, chastity, temperance
and piety, do you not?
But let no more be said of this...
it is for you to question, to draw conclusions,
to save me as you see fit.
Let me be mad, senseless
since you can do nothing, nothing
at all for me.
It is good for me to speak to you now.
This is to be! To be!!!

- Franz Liszt

[nursezi]

Spring 1797

To Josephine,

I love you no longer; on the contrary, I detest you. you are a wretch, truly perverse, truly stupid, a real Cinderella. You never write to me at all, you do not love your husband; you know the pleasure that your letters give him yet you cannot even manage to write him half a dozen lines, dashed off in a moment! What then do you do all day, Madame? What business is so vital that it robs you of the time to write to your faithful lover? What attachment can be stifling and pushing aside the love, the tender and constant love which you promised him? Who can this wonderful new lover be who takes up your every moment, rules your days and prevents you from devoting your attention to your husband?

Beware, Josephine; one fine night the doors will be broken down and there I shall be. In truth, I am worried, my love, to have no news from you; write me a four page letter instantly made up from those delightful words which fill my heart with emotion and joy. I hope to hold you in my arms before long, when I shall lavish upon you a million kisses, burning as the equatorial sun.



:D Isn't this the sweetest? Me urdher, o do me shkruash nje leter o ti te dish!

hahahaha....the guy obviously knew what he was doing...a little dose of threat with his sweet looove. Megjithate kjo eshte thjeshte nje leter se ne fakt marredhenia e bonapartit me josefinen ka qene shume e motivuar nga arsye politike etj. etj.