Erotica Romana by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (best fiction books to read txt) 📗

XIV Can't you hear voices, beloved, out on the Via Flamina? Reapers are now going home, back from harvesting grain. They had journeyed to Rome from afar, and here plaited for Ceres Wreaths which the Romans today scorn to make for themselves. Festivals no longer celebrate Ceres, the nourishing goddess Who replaced acorns of old, giving man golden wheat. Let us commemorate her then ourselves in festival private (Two constitute a whole tribe, when they are two in love). Have you by any chance heard how that mystical, strange celebration Followed victorious troops back from Eleusis to Rome? Greeks were the ones who began it, and only to Greeks they proclaimed it Even within Roman walls: "Come to the sanctified night." Those who were not of the cult kept their distance; neophytes trembled, Waiting in garments of white, symbol of all that is pure. Then the initiates must aimlessly wander about through the eerie Circles of figures as if pilgriming through their own dreams. Snakes on the ground were writhing about. Now virgins came bearing Caskets securely locked, richly wreath�d with grain. Surely the gestures of murmuring priests must contain some deep meaning— Impatient acolytes wait, anxiously hoping for light. Not until after many a testing and trial did they discover What, within sacred ring, secretive image concealed. What was this mystery other than this: that Demeter, goddess, Once upon a time had to a hero been kind. It was to Jason, powerful king of the Cretans, she granted Of her immortal self hidden sweet parts to explore. That made the fortune of Crete! The marital bed of the goddess Soon grew pregnant with grain, heavy her bounteous fields. As for the rest of the world, it languished away, while Ceres, Derelict of her true task, dalliance offered in love. —Now the initiate youths, having followed this tale, all astonished, Turned and beckoned their loves—love, do you comprehend? See there the sacred shade beneath that bushy-boughed myrtle? Our satisfaction will there scarcely endanger a world.

XV Cupid is always a scoundrel, and if you believe him he'll cheat you. Here's what the hypocrite said: "Trust me just once more, this time. I have the best of intentions toward you who have now dedicated— I recognize it with thanks—life and writings to me. Lo, I have followed you hither to Rome, and I'd like to do something Here in this far away land pleasing to such an old friend. Every traveller I've ever known has complained of poor treatment: He whom I recommend treatment delicious receives. You've now regarded with awe all the structures which lie here in ruins, Cultivated your eye, sensing each hallow�d space. How you've revered the formative will of those ancient artists! In their own ateliers often I 've visited them. As for their works, why, I formed those myself—now this time I'm boasting Not. Oh come now, admit what I am saying is true. Where are your own creations, your service to me having slackened? Where is invention's glow now? Where is the color all gone? Friend, do you hope you can create again? —The school of the Ancients Yet remains open. Its gates, years have not closed them to you. I am eternally young, and as teacher I still love the young ones. Wisdom that comes with old age pleases me not. Listen here: Wasn't antiquity young when those fortunate Ancients were living? Happy then be your life, too: in it antiquity lives. Where will you find a fit theme for your song? —It is I must provide it. As for a style truly grand, love can alone give you that." All of these claims that sophist asserted. Could I contradict him? I am wont to obey, when my commander decrees. Treacherous now he is keeping his word: giving me themes for my poems While he is stealing my time, potency, presence of mind. Gazing into her eyes, holding hands, giving kisses, exchanging Syllables sweet and those words lovers alone understand, Murmuring our conversations we stutter in sweet oratory. Hymns of such sort pass away, wanting prosodical tact. Goddess of morning, Aurora, as friend of my muse I once knew you. Has the unprincipled god, Cupid, seduced you now too? So that these mornings you come as his sweetheart, awakening me at His festive altar again, where I must celebrate him? Here on my breast flows her hair, an abundance of curls, while her head rests, Pressing my arm as it's bent, so as to pillow her neck. What a delicious condition, if only these few tranquil moments Could in my memory fix firmly that image of joy When the night rocked us to sleep—but in slumber she's moving away now, From my side turns, as she goes leaving her hand in my hand. Love in our hearts makes us one, as the genuine need there stays constant; Only returning desire knows oscillation or change. Gently her hand presses mine, now she opens her eyes and is looking Into my own eyes. No—don't. Let my thoughts rest on your form! Please close your eyes. They're inebriation, confusion, they rob me All too soon of the joy quiet reflection affords. Grand are the forms of this body and nobly positioned each member. Had Ariadne lain thus, Theseus never had fled. Only a single kiss for these lips and then, O Theseus, leave her; Look at her eyes—she's awake! Now you're eternally bound.