Hieronder een persoonlijke selectie uit British Literature I & British Literature II VWO.
NB: de beste man leeft nog - voorzover ik weet - en dit is dan ook geen postuum eerbetoon.
1) Ik begin bij Shakespeare. Geen poëzie inderdaad, maar toneel. En toch ook poëzie: het taalgebruik is immers zo bijzonder dat alles een gedicht lijkt. Ik citeer de mooiste regels uit Macbeth:
(Macbeth twijfelt over de geplande moord op Duncan):
If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well
It were done quickly: if th'assassination
Could trammel up the consequence, and catch
With his surcease succes; that but this blow
Might be the be-all and the end all-here,
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,
We'd jump the life to come.-But in these cases,
We still have judgment here;
(Macbeth overdenkt de dood van zijn vrouw):
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his our upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
2) Dan enkele regels uit The Castaway van William Cowper, een gedicht dat schitterend de wanhoop van een drenkeling en van de dichter zelf verwoordt:
Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
[...]
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank
[...]
No voice divine the storm allayed,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatched from all effectual aid,
We perished, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
3) Het derde voorbeeld is het prachtige Ozymandias van Shelley, dat ik ooit nog in een eerstejaarscollege in Nijmegen gedeclameerd heb:
I met a traveller form an antique land
I met a traveller form an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty and despair!
Nothing besides remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
4) Een van de grote dichters van WO I mag ook niet ontbreken: Siegfried Sassoon, met Does it matter?
Does it matter? -- losing your legs?. . . .
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter? -- losing your sight? ...
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.
Do they matter? -- those dreams from the pit? ....
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For they'll know you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.
5) En tot slot mag de grote T.S. Eliot ook niet ontbreken: Hieronder regels uit The Waste Land (onlangs nog vertaald en verklaard door Paul Claes):
19-24:
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.
60-68:
Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound of the final stroke of nine.