George H. Boker:
The Book of the Dead - Erstausgabe
1943, ISBN: 861bda26216ae47d06933e0360bc4e34
Moscow Publishing House of the People's Commissariat of the RSFSR 1940. From Content # 2: Individual housing construction; Light camouflage of an apartment building; Great attention to hi… Mehr…
Moscow Publishing House of the People's Commissariat of the RSFSR 1940. From Content # 2: Individual housing construction; Light camouflage of an apartment building; Great attention to high-speed urban construction; High-speed construction; draft technical specifications for the design and installation of sewerage networks in seismic areas; specific electricity consumption for the movement of tram cars; New developments in concrete work on the construction of embankments; Scientific and research work of the ACH in 1939; V.K.Petrov and V.G.Sosianc - urban transport; Prof. B.B. Veselovsky - Course in Economics and Planning of Utilities. We have thousands of titles and often several copies of each title may be available. Please feel free to contact us for a detailed description of the copies available. SKUalbb8e1248eb49c3972, 0, In both war-time letters to his cousin, Charles Getz, Weber writes mostly of support for Russia against the Nazis but he also discusses his art. In the letter dated 1942, Weber offers Charles congratulations on his marriage. Weber comments on his cousin no longer being lonely. "One can read the greatest books... but reading is not living. Life without human (and (social) [sic] contact is pretty barren." Weber continues by commenting on an "excellent appreciation of my work in the Morning Freiheit' by Dr. Kloomok... his is one of the best Jewish writers...." Dr. Isaac Kloomok was a scholar who wrote about Jewish artists, including Weber and Marc Chagall. Weber writes of current events. "At the moment the news from Russia is not so very good, and you know how grieved I am, but in the end the Nazi bastards will be conquered and sent to hell for all time!...." He continues in English until the last paragraph which he writes in Yiddish. "I would like to apologize for not writing in Yiddish, it takes too long...I was in Chicago but after my lecture in the museum my whole time was take up by receptions...." He signs, "Max - Motel," and continues in Yiddish. " They are talking about a second front while Hitler has opened four fronts. How long can Soviet Russia keep on fighting 90% of this war?" In the second letter written almost a year later and fully in Yiddish, Weber apologizes for not writing for some time saying that he had to prepare for two exhibitions, "one in New York [possibly the 1942 Paul Rosenberg & Co. gallery exhibition], and the other, for The Carnegie Institute, museum of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania [the Carnegie Institute exhibition took place in 1943]. " He says that the other reason for not writing was because he was in a bad mood as his son "Meinard was drafted on the 29th January; he had to interrupt his studies in college." Weber then opens up to his cousin about how he feels, specifically about current world problems. "I got used to the thought of the terrible war lead by the Capitalist locust'... You are... a more decent human being than the millions of professional Intellectuals'. A person can be very learned, and despite his knowledge be a moron, with lack of insight about himself, who becomes an enemy of himself and an enemy of other people... my heart aches about the fact we witness that after the accomplishment of the Soviet Union to rescue the world from the Nazi snake, she is being criticized and made fun of by her own allies... Now... a trial of two labor leaders in Poland. It's unbelievable how the God of the capitalists provides them with material, accusing them the same way as the previous traitors did at the last trial." He continues in this vein, upset at the "capitalists" and closes by saying that his son, Meinard, is a colonel in the Chemical Impregnating Division of the army. He signs, "Max - Mordecai." Autograph, 0, AN INCREDIBLE RARE ALL-ORIGINAL DATE-STAMPED 1882 1ST EDITION THAT HAS BEEN VERY WELL-PRESERVED FOR 142 YEARSHERE ARE "SOME" OF THE SUBJECTS DISCUSSED: THE GODS, ANCIENT EGYPT, DEATH, THE DIVINE, THE SOUL, HEAVEN AND HELL, FATE, THE CREATOR, GOOD AND EVIL, SPECTRES, DREAMS, MYSTICISM, POETRY, SPIRITUALITY, VISIONS, GHOSTS, AND SO MUCH MORE"Through the dark path, oer which I tread,One voice is ever at my ear,One muffled form deserts the dead And haunts my presence far and near."This is a hauntingly beautiful collection of poetry and writings pertaining to death, judgment, and redemption. It contains mystical passages on everything from Heaven and Hell to the soul and dreams. It is in incredible condition, considering it was printed during the 19th-century Victorian Era. Throughout this write-up, I have sprinkled in some of the original reviews derived from old articles and passages from the book to give you a better idea of its context. If I had to compare it to a famous poet, it is similar to that of Edgar Allan Poe in its dark, macabre, and ominous verse with hints of spirituality, loss, and love. It's a one-in-a-billion book with no others like it. I would snag this one before it's gone..."Mr. Boker has written neither to relieve grief, gratify pique, nor elicit sympathy. He has written because there was a voice in his heart clamoring for utterance and would not be stilled.""Beside the spreading Nile of old, They buried their worthy dead. A scrolled papyrus unfolds His virtues and the life he led.And all the gods, in council grave, Asked nothing but this written scroll, As evidence, to doom or save The bearer's arbitrated soul.""Man leaned on man for judgment just, The grave became truth's inner shrine, And every heap of mortal dust Was reverenced as divine. So I, within thy hallowed tomb, Enclose this book, the most loved of men. There, till the dreadful day of doom, May it repose, but open then! Book of the Dead, if any, see False judgments in thy earnest page,Be all thy gathered sins on me, Man's vengeance and God's juster rage.""The Book of the Dead. Somewhere, I read or heard the weird, mysterious title. It seemed to me like a sepulcher that, upon being opened, would stifle with its foul breath or loathsome smells. Or, like the entrance to a tomb, where centuries dead lay fostering in their ghastly nakedness of sin and shame, a hideous wilderness of perishing forms, rattling bones, and putrefying souls, from which the flimsy covering that hid their corruption on earth, had fallen. Or, perhaps, it contained tidings of the far-away Spiritual shore, which is veiled in the mists rising from the waters of Oblivion.""The Book of the Dead followed me in my dreams, like a haunting conscience, and I felt the certainty of what it was could not be worse than the Vague suspicion of what it might be."I meet thee, sometimes, in the deep of midnight, on that neutral ground, 'Twixt life and death, which men call sleep: We meet and part, without a sound.""The day arose in dismal black, In dismal black crept out the morn;Noon passed unheeded, and the rack Grew darker, thicker, and more forlorn."In robes of woe, before me stoodA silent figure. Towards the ground,His features, muffled in his hood,Were bowed with sorrow most profound.I questioned him, but no replyWas mine, save what might be expressedBy the long quaver of a sigh,Or hands that beat his troubled breast."The blended beauty and bitterness of Mr. Boker's book have been un-excelled by anything in literature since Byron gave the world his marvelous deduction of passion and pathos more than seventy years ago. The poem has not been written in a frenzy of spleen, nor has its motive been malignant revenge. It is a careful distillation of wrath and resentment, pregnant with point and purpose. From the initial page to the finale, each hymn of praise is alternated by a wail of persecution and wrong, so direful in its earnestness that it can only emanate from a heart that has quaffed itself drunk from the cup of invidious falsehood and wilful injury."Our dead to us are never deadUntil their memories are erased;For oftentimes, my hands are ledTo do the very things he praised.Not in remembrance are they done,But timidly, as though he stoodAlive beneath the blessed sun,And smiled in his approving mood.I sing some ballads, happy and droll,Some quip he loved, ore going hence,And think it strange he does not roll His laughter out,and drown the sense.I do not think he cannot smile;I drop my head and, bend my ear, And only ask myself, " Is he so far he cannot hear?"The overall condition of this book is very good; it is the best I have ever owned or seen. It has some normal aging and shelf wear but has been exceptionally well-kepta lovely book.Every line glows with the fire of a great and just hatred, and the turning leaves sound the bugle note of war; for beneath these words and rhymes, there is morbid matter from which they sprang, and an aching, bloody chasm, gaping open-mouthed and insatiate as hell.Throughout, the thought is wild, and the phraseology is a spontaneous outpouring of a soul which grief has stirred to melody.There are no fatiguing antitheses nor learned parallelisms. Still, here and there, the author has touched social and theological philosophies with innate mystic delicacy, yet withal the depth and fervency shown in his patriotic Ivrics of the civil war, intensified. Side by side with fierce passages of schismatism that seem to have issued as naturally as the breath of an injured man who hungers for the deaf ear and tardy aid of God, are exquisite descriptions of nature, as pure in tone and versification as if they had fallen from the inspired lips of a maiden, before the vitiating air of the world had dried the dew of heaven from her soul. Evil and sorrow set a blister there. The scathing scorn of XOVITI. is in marked contrast to the calm and holy rhythm of the introspective reverie LX X. that seems as if the writer had mused the thought into expression while wrapped in the twilight glamour of a medieval cathedral. The story of the dead and the allusion to Amilcar of old are bright jewels of artistic taste set in this crown of serpents' fangs and devils' claws.A shadow of profound reflection, such as comes to those alone who have felt the curse of the sickly forms, the social lies, the avarice, and the veiled crimes of modern life, overcasts the picture with a cloud, half divine and half demoniacal.Inasmuch as the language of an aggrieved heart and brain has no euphuisms, so this song of stain and sadness has made for itself a tongue tipped with gall and frothing with pain; and if man fails to read aright the truths it tells, and the miscreant feel the sting of the strain, then let their insensate souls wither of inward darkness."And when the coffin-lid is raised, Where lies the dumb, defenseless man, Let him remember those who praised, And count his virtues if he can.""It costs an effort of the mind, A stretch of memory strong and dread, Ere, groping through my brain, I find The vision of his dying bed.""I had a vision of the night,A presage of the day of doom,When all the wrongs shall come to light That slumber in the darkened tomb.I saw the court of heaven unclosed; the risen sinners sadly met;Our good, our ill, our joys, our woes Stood naked at the judgment seat.My culprits found a foremost place.I gazed at them: I bore no grudgeBefore his stern, accusing face,I witness, and our God the judge.I gazed at them; I gazed around;No passion held me in control;The sense of awe was so profound, So deep the clearness of the soul.""The fierce, rebellious fall of rainSeems endless through this dreary night:It pierces in my blind; the pane Is starred and streaked with watery light.I know the grass upon thy tomb.Is streaming, like a swimmer's hair And all thy roses' fragrant bloom Is floating on the boisterous air.Thy recking violets tangled swim, Overburdened bows thy eglantine,And stains of yellow soil bedim The luster of thy myrtle vine.The treacherous damp hath slowly slid.Through oozy roots and melting cay,To spread upon thy coffin lid,And help corruption to its prey."George Henry Boker (October 6, 1823 January 2, 1890) was an American poet, playwright, and diplomat.Early years and educationBoker was born in Philadelphia. His father was Charles S. Boker, a wealthy banker whose financial expertise weathered the Girard National Bank through the panic years of 183840 and whose honor, impugned after his 1857 death, was defended many years later by his son in "The Book of the Dead." Charles Boker was also a director of the Mechanics National Bank.Boker was brought up in an atmosphere of ease and refinement, receiving his preparatory education in private schools and entering Princeton University in 1840. While there, he helped found and was the first editor of the college literary magazine, the Nassau Monthly (now the Nassau Lit).He was left in easy circumstances and could devote his time to literature, boxing, and dancing.Charles Godfrey Leland, a relative, recounted:As a mere schoolboy, Boker's knowledge of poetry was remarkable. Even at nine years of age, I can remember that he manifested that wonderful gift that caused him many years after to be characterized by some great actorI think it was Forrestas the best reader in America ... While at college ... Shakespeare and Byron were his favorites. He used to quiz me sometimes for my predilections for Wordsworth and Coleridge. We both loved Shelley passionately.Boker graduated from Princeton in 1842. His marriage to Julia Riggs of Maryland followed shortly after while he was studying law, a profession which was to serve him in good stead during his diplomatic years but which he gave up for the stronger pull of poetry.Literary recognitionIn 1848, his first volume of verse, The Lessons of Life and Other Poems, was published.Also, he met Bayard Taylor and Richard Henry Stoddard, who would be long-lasting friends. This group of young men supported and encouraged. Each other in the face of official journalistic criticism.Launched in the literary life, Boker began to write assiduously. His first play, Calaynos, went into two editions during 1848, and the following year, was played by Samuel Phelps at Sadler's Wells Theatre, London, May 10. This tragedy is notable for its depiction of the racial issues between the Spanish and the Moors.This was soon followed by other plays. The next to be staged was a comedy, The Betrothal (1850). Two other tragedies from this time are Anne Boleyn (1850) and Leonor de Guzman (1853).During this time, in correspondence with his friends, Boker was determining to himself the distinction between poetic and dramatic style. But Boker was not wholly wed to theatrical demands; he still approached the stage in the spirit of the poet who was torn between loyalty to poetic indirectness and the necessity for direct dialogue.Francesca da Rimini (1853) is the play he is most well-remembered for. It is a verse tragedy based on the story of Paolo and Francesca from the fifth canto of Dante's Inferno. Boker published the original version, called the reading version, but used an acting version for the stage, which had more directness and dramatic flow. This allowed for a compromise between the poet of the reading version and the demands of the theatre. "Francesca da Rimini is one of our finest verse dramas, certainly the best American romantic tragedy written before the twentieth century."The American Civil War not only turned Boker's pen to the Union Cause, but changed him politically from a Democrat to a staunch Republican. In fact, his name is closely interwoven with the rehabilitation of the Republican party in Philadelphia. His volume "Poems of the War," was issued in 1864.In 1862, the Union League Club was founded, with Boker as the leading spirit; through his efforts, the war earnestness of the city was concentrated here; from 1863 to 1871, he served as its secretary; from 1879 to 1884 as its president. But Boker's thoughts were also concerned with poetry. In 1869, Boker issued Königsmark, The Legend of the Hounds, and other Poems, and this ended his dramatic career until his return from abroad.Diplomatic activitiesPresident Ulysses S. Grant sent Boker to Constantinople as U.S. Minister (his appointment dated November 3, 1871)an honor undoubtedly bestowed in recognition of his national service. Here he remained for four years, "and during that time secured the redress for wrongs done American subjects by the Syrians, and successfully negotiated two treaties, one having reference to the extradition of criminals, and the other to the naturalization of subjects of little power in the dominions of the other."Boker's initial enthusiasm for Turkish scenery and culture was unbounded, but after a time, his ignorance of the tongue, and distrust of interpreters, contributed to his frustration. By the time his Government was ready to transfer him to another post he was glad to leave Turkey. Despite this, he had developed his diplomatic skills and shown a talent for cultivating personal contacts.In 1875, he was transferred to Russia, which was considered a more prestigious position.The new political administration resulting from the 1876 American election viewed Boker unfavorably. Despite securing support from Emperor Alexander II of Russia, Boker was recalled in 1878.Later yearsBoker in his later years by Frederick GutekunstOn January 15, 1878, Boker withdrew from diplomatic life, returning to the United States. At this time he was depressed, feeling that both his literary and diplomatic careers had been failures.In 1882 Lawrence Barrett mounted a revival of Francesca da Rimini. This brought more public interest in Boker and his other work, which necessitated the reprinting of several of his books. In 1884, he was elected as a member to the American Philosophical Society.His home in Philadelphiaone of the literary centres of the time,bore traces of his Turkish staycarpets brought from Constantinople, Arabic designs on the draperies, and rich Eastern colours in the tapestried chairs.Boker was also a director of the Mechanics National Bank of Philadelphia for several years later in his life.George Henry Boker tombstone in Laurel Hill Cemetery, PhiladelphiaBoker died on January 2, 1890, in Philadelphia and was interred at Laurel Hill Cemetery.In addition to the works already mentioned, Boker also wrote hundreds of sonnets. A collection of these, Sequence on Profane Love, was discovered in manuscript after his death, and published in 1927. He has been compared to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow as one of the premier American sonnet writers, J.P. Lippincott & Co., 1882, 3<
