Bonne année! § Честита Нова Година! § Happy New Year! Felice Anno Nuovo!
Tag: watercolor
in your house…
Some house fairies from the anglo-saxon folklore:
A brownie or broonie (Scots), also known as a brùnaidh or gruagach (Scottish Gaelic), is a household spirit from British folklore that is said to come out at night while the owners of the house are asleep and perform various chores and farming tasks. The human owners of the house must leave a bowl of milk or cream or some other offering for the brownie, usually by the hearth. Brownies are described as easily offended and will leave their homes forever if they feel they have been insulted or in any way taken advantage of. Brownies are characteristically mischievous and are often said to punish or pull pranks on lazy servants. If angered, they are sometimes said to turn malicious, like boggarts.
(…)
Wikipedia
Boggart is one of numerous related terms used in English folklore for either a household spirit or a malevolent genius loci inhabiting fields, marshes or other topographical features.The household form causes mischief and things to disappear, milk to sour, and dogs to go lame.
(…)
Wikipedia
Bwbach “bogy, scarecrow.” A Welsh household fairy which may be helpful or mischievous. It is a scold to teetotalers and dissenting ministers. The bwbach is best known in the three Glamorganshires.
(…)
Encyclopedia mythica
All in the golden afternoon
All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide. Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour,
Beneath such dreamy weather,
To beg a tale of breath too weak
To stir the tiniest feather!
Yet what can one poor voice avail
Against three tongues together?
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little arms are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide. Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour,
Beneath such dreamy weather,
To beg a tale of breath too weak
To stir the tiniest feather!
Yet what can one poor voice avail
Against three tongues together?
Imperious Prima flashes forth
Her edict “to begin it”—
In gentler tone Secunda hopes
“There will be nonsense in it!”—
While Tertia interrupts the tale
[viii]Not more than once a minute.
Anon, to sudden silence won,
In fancy they pursue
The dream-child moving through a land
Of wonders wild and new,
In friendly chat with bird or beast—
And half believe it true.
And ever, as the story drained
The wells of fancy dry.
And faintly strove that weary one
To put the subject by,
“The rest next time—” “It is next time!”
The happy voices cry.
Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out—
And now the tale is done,
And home we steer, a merry crew,
Beneath the setting sun.
Alice! a childish story take,
And with a gentle hand
Lay it where Childhood’s dreams are twined
In Memory’s mystic band,
Like pilgrim’s wither’d wreath of flowers
Pluck’d in a far-off land.
prefatory poem in “Allice’s Advetures in Wonderland“
by Lewis Carroll
The window
Yon little Tree, yon blooming Apricocke;
How I would spread, and fling my wanton armes
In at her window; I would bring her fruite
Fit for the Gods to feed on: youth and pleasure
Still as she tasted should be doubled on her,
And if she be not heavenly, I would make her
So neere the Gods in nature, they should feare her,
And then I am sure she would love me.
The Two Noble Kinsmen
by William Shakespeare and John Fletcher
Aimless journey
I am sincerely honored to present here a story, born in the imagination of a very talented author who saw my watercolor. I usually take classical literature, fairytales and fiction, for my illustrations, but I must say, it is a marvelous feeling to have an original piece in harmony with my drawing.
Please enjoy @isa93’s story and I hope we will soon read something new from her!
He woke up surrounded by blue. The light that shone inside the snowy cave, the robe that had kept him warm during the gelid night. Even his eyes, reflected on the blue ceiling made of ice.
The prince stretched his limbs, breaking the cold from his muscles. On his elbows, he crawled out of the low cave. He closed his eyes before emerging and then just stood there, two feets from the entrance. The freezing cold air slowly surrounded him while he prepared to open his eyes, not yet ready to face the blazing light. It wasn’t until he had put on his blue hat that he was able to take in the landscape before him. Soft blanket—pure white.
He searched for his friend in the low branches of the trees, even though he hadn’t heard its characteristic greet. It wouldn’t be there. Not this early. Feeling just slightly lonely, he resumed his journey—blue boots easily cutting through the mellow snow.
With the sun high in the sky his lively pace turned to a slower one, melting snow making it harder to advance. In the new rhythm, he thought about his mission. Would he ever find him? He was tired, but he couldn’t back down now. He had to find Raskith.
Thinking about the warlord sent a chill down his spine. Had it been wise? Taking that quest on his own? Would he be attacked? He hoped he didn’t need to use his sword. He disliked violence.
The prince almost laughed at that last thought. He had made the journey all the way from Alge-Cale to wander the depths of those woods in search of a powerful weapon that would give his kingdom a tactical advantage over their neighbours. But he disliked violence. Even with his diplomatic upbringing, he couldn’t escape it. Why was violence so easily sparked whereas peace was so elusive? Peace was anything but the absence of violence. Would it be like that forever? To fight while at war and prepare to fight while at peace. Was there an end to the cycle?
He raised the collar of his robe against his face, protecting it from the chilly wind. An almost unnoticeable rustle in the top of the trees made him smile a little. “Who? Who?” his feathered friend asked, soaring low in the late afternoon, once again keeping him company in those desolated woods. Who, indeed, could find a balance between the two powers?
The mute shadow of the owl sliding over the snow was replaced with one much bigger. Looking up, the prince marveled at the scene before him. Black silhouette covering the red twilight sky.
“Who roams these woods?” Raskith asked as he landed, the whole ground shaking from his words. The calm, golden eyes, three heads above him, radiated authority. So much that the prince felt compelled to answer immediately.
“Kalrich, Prince of Hyroc, My Lord.” He said while bowing. The prince was mesmerized by the black scales that covered the giant body from tail to wings. He focused for a moment where his talons met the snow. A perfect match. An enchanting contrast.
“What business does your kind has with the Northern Dragons, Your Highness?”
“I seek an audience with My Lord… Our kingdom calls for aid.”
For a long moment, there was no answer. It gave the sun enough time to hide completely behind the mountains, turning deep red into dark blue.
“Very well.” Raskith said at last. “Kalrich, Prince of Hyroc. You are welcome to share your concerns with the dragon council.”
Strong, yet serene. Rampaging, yet composed. Violent, yet peaceful. Following the warlord to the Northern Dragon’s den, he was surely on the right path to finding an answer.
His search was over, but the journey had just began.
@isa93
Cache-cache avec la Befana § Чакайки Бефана § Aspettando la Befana
Sta per arrivare!
Вещицата Бефана идва винаги на 6 януари и може да бъде забелязана на метла в небето или оставяйки бонбони за послушните и въглища за непослушните деца в чорапите! Да, малко като дядо Коледа.
По някакво (случайно) съвпадение на същата дата влъхвите са засвидетелствали почитта си с дарове на малкия Иисус.
Чешма
Чешмата има особено значение и символика в българската традиция. Тя е извор на живот и място за приказки, среща на влюбените, където стари и млади, жени и мъже, богати и бедни се спират за да утолят жаждата си и да напълнят стомните си. В миналото богатите и видни жители безвъзмездно давали пари за построяването на чешма, за да оставят следа и да дарят нещо ценно на техните съграждани.
Легенди разказват, че за да се избегне лоша орис в чешмата трябва да се вгради сянката на добра, лична девойка. Жестока е тази легенда защото остави ли момата сянката си в студения камък полинява. Но водата така тече чиста и носи живот на цялото село.
La fontana è un simbolo speciale nella tradizione bulgara. Si tratta di una fonte di vita e un luogo per parlare, punto d’incontro degli innamorati, dove giovani e anziani, uomini e donne, ricchi e poveri si fermano per dissetarsi e riempire le loro brocche. Nel passato, le persone ricche e i padroni donavano i loro soldi per costruire una fontana lasciando una tracia, qualcosa di prezioso ai loro concittadini.
La legenda dice che per essere evitata la cattiva sorte nella fontana si deve integrare l’ombra di una giovane e bella ragazza. E’ crudele questa tradizione, perché lasciata l’ombra nelle pietre fredde della fontana la ragazza si ammalava. E l’acqua scorreva pura e portava la vita nel villaggio.
Sputnik Sweetheart I
“Were you asleep?” Sumire asked.
“Um,” I groaned and instinctively glanced at the alarm clock beside my bed. The clock had huge fluorescent hands, but I couldn’t read the time. The image projected on my retina and the part of my brain that processed it were out of sync, like an old lady struggling, unsuccessfully, to thread a needle. What I could understand was that it was dark all around and close to Fitzgerald’s “Dark Night of the Soul”.
Maria, Dubliners
The matron had given her leave to go out as soon as the women’s tea was over and Maria looked forward to her evening out. The kitchen was spick and span: the cook said you could see yourself in the big copper boilers. The fire was nice and bright and on one of the side-tables were four very big barmbracks. (…)
Maria was a very, very small person indeed but she had a very long nose and a very long chin. She talked a little through her nose, always soothingly: “Yes, my dear,” and “No, my dear.”
Clay, James Joyce
Evil under the Sun § Зло под Слънцето
Stepmothers! It was rotten to have a stepmother, everybody said so. And it was true! Not that Arlena was unkind to her. Most of the time she hardly noticed the girl. But when she did, there was a contemptuous amusement in her glance, in her words. The finished grace and poise of Arlena’s movements emphasized Linda’s own adolescent clumsiness. With Arlena about, one felt, shamingly, just how immature and crude one was.
Agatha Christie
Wisdom
“I’m not absolutely certain of the facts, but I rather fancy it’s Shakespeare who says that it’s always just when a fellow is feeling particularly braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with the bit of lead piping.”
Jeeves and the Unbidden Guest
P.G. Wodehouse
Le Joueur de flûte
La quatrième jour, un étranger arriva à Hamelin et demanda à voir le maire :
-J’ai entendu dire que vous offriez mille pièces d’or à celui qui délivrerait la ville de ses rats.
Le maire demanda :
– Cela est vrai, mais qui êtes-vous ?
– On m’appelle le Joueur de flûte. Je sais comment vous aider.
Cendrillon au Marais
Le fils du roi, qu’on alla avertir qu’il venait d’arriver une grande princesse
qu’on ne connaissait point, courut la recevoir ; il lui donna la main
à la descente du carrosse, et la mena dans la salle où était la compagnie.
Il se fit alors un grand silence, on cessa de danser et les violons
ne jouèrent plus, tant on était attentif à contempler les grandes beautés
de cette inconnue.
Cendrillon
Peril at End House
“Imagine, Hastings,” he said, “that house there-the one on the point that we have admired so much, it belongs to Mademoiselle here.”
“Indeed?” I said, though I was unable to recall having expressed any admiration. In fact I had hardly noticed the house.
“It looks rather eerie and imposing standing there by itself far from anything.”
“It’s called End House,” said the girl. “I love it but it’s a tumble-down old place. Going to rack and ruin.”
Peril at End House
Agatha Christie
Christina Georgina Rossetti
It shakes,–my trees shake; for a wind is roused
In cavern where it housed:
Each white and quivering sail,
Of boats among the water leaves
Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale:
Each maiden sings again,
— Each languid maiden, whom the calm
Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm,
Miles down my river to the sea
They float and wane,
Long miles away from me.
Autumn
Giannino finalmente tranquillo
Virginia e suo marito, fin dal loro ritorno dal viaggio di nozze che fecero
quando prese fuoco il caminetto nel salotto da ricevere, vennero ad
abitare questo quartiere che è molto comodo e centrale e dove mio cognato
ha messo pure il suo studio d’avvocato, che ha un ingresso a sé ma che
comunica con la casa per mezzo d’un usciolino che mette nella stanza
degli armadi. Io ho una cameretta piccola, ma elegante, che dà sul cortile
e dove sto benissimo.
9 gennaio
Il giornalino di Gian Burrasca di Vamba
Eugene Oneguine
Его нежданным появленьем,
Мгновенной нежностью очей
И странным с Ольгой поведеньем
До глубины души своей
Она проникнута; не может
Никак понять его; тревожит
Ее ревнивая тоска,
Как будто хладная рука
Ей сердце жмет, как будто бездна
Под ней чернеет и шумит…
“Погибну”, Таня говорит,
“Но гибель от него любезна.
Я не ропщу: зачем роптать?
Не может он мне счастья дать”.
ГЛАВА ШЕСТАЯ
Traduction française… mais bien plus pale que l’original
La soudaine apparition d’Eugène, la tendresse qui avait un instant fait briller ses yeux, son étrange conduite avec Olga, tout cela a bouleversé l’âme de la jeune fille. Une angoisse jalouse l’oppresse ; il semble qu’une main glacée lui serre le cœur, et qu’un gouffre béant s’entr’ouvre et gronde sous ses pas « Je vais mourir, » dit-elle, « mais la blessure qui me vient de lui m’est chère ; je ne murmure pas : il ne peut me donner le bonheur ! »
Christmas song
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum
Wie treu sind deine Blätter
Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit,
Nein, auch im Winter, wenn es schneit.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Wie treu sind deine Blätter.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Du kannst mir sehr gefallen.
Wie oft hat nicht zur Weihnachtszeit
Ein Baum von dir mich hoch erfreut.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Du kannst mir sehr gefallen.
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Dein Kleid will mich was lehren.
Die Hoffnung und Beständigkeit,
Gibt Trost und Kraft zu jeder Zeit!
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum,
Dein Kleid will mich was lehren.
Dream
Мечта! в волшебной сени
Мне милую яви,
Мой свет, мой добрый гений,
Предмет моей любви,
И блеск очей небесный,
Лиющих огнь в сердца,
И Граций стан прелестный
И снег ее лица;
Представь, что, на коленях
Покоясь у меня,
В порывистых томленьях
Склонилася она
Ко груди грудью страстной,
Устами на устах,
Горит лицо прекрасной,
И слезы на глазах!..
Из “Городок”
Александр Сергеевич Пушкин
Jeu au ghetto. Le sabotage amoureux
(…)
Non que ces sept années de peau, de chair, de cheveux et d’ossature eussent eu de quoi éclipser les créatures de rêve des jardins d’Allah et du ghetto de la communauté internationale.
La beauté du monde, c’était ma longue pavane offerte au jour, c’était la vitesse de mon cheval, c’était mon crâne déployé comme une voile aux souffles des ventilateurs.
(…)
Amélie Nothomb
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