bit.ly/uSDl5T

Franz KAFKA: KLEINE FABEL : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3TmLTizcUwI

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2mY0WThMTY)

"Ach,", sagte die Maus, "die Welt wird enger mit jedem Tag.
Zuerst war sie so breit, dass ich Angst hatte, ich lief weiter
und war gluecklich dass ich endlich rechts und links in der Ferne Mauern sah,
aber diese langen Mauern eilen so schnell aufeinander zu,
dass ich schon im letzten Zimmer bin und dort im Winkel steht die Falle,
in die ich laufe."
"Du musst nur die Laufrichtung aendern", sagte die Katze und frass sie.

Mikra fablo da Franz KAFKA (nel* = en la)

"Akh!" dicis la muso, "la mondo divenas streta omna'die.
Chel komenco olu esis tante larja ke me timis. Do me kuradis e kuradis
til ke me lontane vidis muri che'dextre ed anke che'sinistre. Tamen,
ca longa muri streteskis tante rapide ke me ja esas nel* lasta chambro.
Yen ibe nel* angulo vartas la kaptilo ad'en ube me mustas kurar."
"Tu devez nur chanjar la direciono!", dicis la kato' e lore lun devoris.

Quon la fablo dicas?

Lore Bebson HOCHFELD fush'kantas ..... en la Yida.

TUM-BALALAIKA + Tradukuro en Ido

Shteyt a bocher, shteyt un tracht // Stacas yunulo, stacas lu pensante
Tracht un tracht a gantse nacht: // Lu pensas e pensas dum la tota nokto:
Vemen tsu nemen un nit farshemen? // Quan por prenar e ne por shamigesar?
Vemen tsu nemen un nit farshemen? // Quan me devez prenar e ne por refuzesar?

Refreno:
Tum-bala, tum-bala, tum-balalaika, // Tum-bala, tum-bala, tum-balalaika,
Tum-bala, tum-bala, tum-balalaika, // Tum-bala, tum-bala, tum-balalaika,
Tum-balalaika, shpil balalaika, // Tum-balalaika, pleez la balalayko,
Tum-balalaika, freylach zol zayn. // Tum-balalaika, lasez ni esar joyoza!

Meydl, meydl, ch'vel bay dir fregn: // Yunino, yunino, me volas questionar tu:
Vos ken vaksn, vaksn on regn? // Quo povas kreskar, kreskar sen pluvo?
Vos ken brenen un nit oyfhern? // Quo povas brular dum multa multa yari?
Vos ken benken, veynen on treren? // Quo povas aspirar e plorar sen lakrimo?

(refreno)

Narisher bocher, vos darfstu fregn? // Stulta yunulo, quon tu darfas questionar?
A shteyn ken vaksn, vaksn on regn. // Stono ne'frivola povas kreskar sen pluvo.
Libe ken brenen, un nit oyfhern. // Amoro vera povas brular dum longega yari.
A harts ken benken, veynen on treren. // Kordio povas aspirar e plorar sen lakrimo.

(refreno)

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Jean-Christophe

de Romain Rolland

Vaste roman cyclique, ce roman fleuve est un signe d'amour et d'espoir adressé à la génération suivante. Le héros, un musicien de génie, doit lutter contre la médiocrité du monde. Mêlant réalisme et lyrisme, cette fresque est le tableau du monde de la fin du XIXème siècle au début du vingtième.

Suddenly, in the dark, Gottfried began to sing. He sang in a weak, husky
voice, as though to himself; he could not have been heard twenty yards
away. But there was sincerity and emotion in his voice; it was as though he
were thinking aloud, and that through the song, as through clear water, the
very inmost heart of him was to be seen. Never had Jean-Christophe heard
such singing, and never had he heard such a song. Slow, simple, childish,
it moved gravely, sadly, a little monotonously, never hurrying--with long
pauses--then setting out again on its way, careless where it arrived, and
losing itself in the night. It seemed to come from far away, and it went no
man knows whither. Its serenity was full of sorrow, and beneath its seeming
peace there dwelt an agony of the ages. Jean-Christophe held his breath; he
dared not move; he was cold with emotion. When it was done he crawled
towards Gottfried, and in a choking voice said:

"Uncle!"

Gottfried did not reply.

"Uncle!" repeated the boy, placing his hands and chin on Gottfried's knees.

Gottfried said kindly:

"Well, boy..."

"What is it, uncle? Tell me! What were you singing?"

"I don't know."

"Tell me what it is!"

"I don't know. Just a song."

"A song that you made."

"No, not I! What an idea!... It is an old song."

"Who made it?"

"No one knows...."

"When?"

"No one knows...."

"When you were little?"

"Before I was born, before my father was born, and before his father, and
before his father's father.... It has always been."

"How strange! No one has ever told me about it."

He thought for a moment.

"Uncle, do you know any other?"

"Yes."

"Sing another, please."

"Why should I sing another? One is enough. One sings when one wants to
sing, when one has to sing. One must not sing for the fun of it."

"But what about when one makes music?"

"That is not music."

The boy was lost in thought. He did not quite understand. But he asked for
no explanation. It was true, it was not music, not like all the rest. He
went on:

"Uncle, have you ever made them?"

"Made what?"

"Songs!"

"Songs? Oh! How should I make them? They can't be made."

With his usual logic the boy insisted:

"But, uncle, it must have been made once...."

Gottfried shook his head obstinately.

"It has always been."

The boy returned to the attack:

"But, uncle, isn't it possible to make other songs, new songs?"

"Why make them? There are enough for everything. There are songs for when
you are sad, and for when you are gay; for when you are weary, and for when
you are thinking of home; for when you despise yourself, because you have
been a vile sinner, a worm upon the earth; for when you want to weep,
because people have not been kind to you; and for when your heart is glad
because the world is beautiful, and you see God's heaven, which, like Him,
is always kind, and seems to laugh at you.... There are songs for
everything, everything. Why should I make them?"

"To be a great man!" said the boy, full of his grandfather's teaching and
his simple dreams.

Gottfried laughed softly. Jean-Christophe, a little hurt, asked him:

"Why are you laughing?"

Gottfried said:

"Oh! I?... I am nobody."

He kissed the boy's head, and said:

"You want to be a great man?"

"Yes," said Jean-Christophe proudly. He thought Gottfried would admire him.
But Gottfried replied:

"What for?"

Jean-Christophe was taken aback. He thought for a moment, and said:

"To make beautiful songs!"

Gottfried laughed again, and said:

"You want to make beautiful songs, so as to be a great man; and you want to
be a great man, so as to make beautiful songs. You are like a dog chasing
its own tail."

Jean-Christophe was dashed. At any other time he would not have borne his
uncle laughing at him, he at whom he was used to laughing. And, at the same
time, he would never have thought Gottfried clever enough to stump him with
an argument. He cast about for some answer or some impertinence to throw at
him, but could find none. Gottfried went on:

"When you are as great as from here to Coblentz, you will never make a
single song."

Jean-Christophe revolted on that.

"And if I will!..."

"The more you want to, the less you can. To make songs, you have to be like
those creatures. Listen...."

The moon had risen, round and gleaming, behind the fields. A silvery mist
hovered above the ground and the shimmering waters. The frogs croaked, and
in the meadows the melodious fluting of the toads arose. The shrill tremolo
of the grasshoppers seemed to answer the twinkling of the stars. The wind
rustled softly in the branches of the alders. From the hills above the
river there came down the sweet light song of a nightingale.

"What need is there to sing?" sighed Gottfried, after a long silence. (It
was not clear whether he were talking to himself or to Jean-Christophe.)
"Don't they sing sweeter than anything that you could make?"

Jean-Christophe had often heard these sounds of the night, and he loved
them. But never had he heard them as he heard them now. It was true: what
need was there to sing?... His heart was full of tenderness and sorrow. He
was fain to embrace the meadows, the river, the sky, the clear stars. He
was filled with love for his uncle Gottfried, who seemed to him now the
best, the cleverest, the most beautiful of men. He thought how he had
misjudged him, and he thought that his uncle was sad because he,
Jean-Christophe, had misjudged him. He was remorseful. He wanted to cry
out: "Uncle, do not be sad! I will not be naughty again. Forgive me, I love
you!" But he dared not. And suddenly he threw himself into Gottfried's
arms, but the words would not come, only he repeated, "I love you!" and
kissed him passionately. Gottfried was surprised and touched, and went on
saying, "What? What?" and kissed him. Then he got up, took him by the hand,
and said: "We must go in." Jean-Christophe was sad because his uncle had
not understood him. But as they came to the house, Gottfried said: "If you
like we'll go again to hear God's music, and I will sing you some more
songs." And when Jean-Christophe kissed him gratefully as they said
good-night, he saw that his uncle had understood.