The body is the soul's edge.
classic aphorism by Lucian Blaga from The Discobolus (1945), translated by Dan Costinaş
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The lie is the vacation of truth.
classic quote by Lucian Blaga
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Kierkegaard: The Don Quixote of religion.
famous aphorism by Lucian Blaga, translated by Dan Costinaş
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The mother tongue of the passions has no syntax.
classic aphorism by Lucian Blaga, translated by Dan Costinaş
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The poet: A blood donor at the hospital of words.
classic aphorism by Lucian Blaga from The Élan of the Island (1977), translated by Dan Costinaş
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Love is the second smile of our tragedy. Yet maybe the very first.
classic aphorism by Lucian Blaga from The Discobolus (1945), translated by Dan Costinaş
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Alchemy [Alchimie]
What turns into poetry?
Only the things that have died out
and are preserved in mind.
Only what you have left behind,
but still can't live without.
Only departure and return.
Only the route of cranes,
The leaves, which fall dead on the ground,
and people's toil and pains.
poem by Lucian Blaga, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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Self-Portrait
Lucian Blaga is as mute as a swan.
In his homeland
a creature’s snow stands for the word.
His spirit is in quest
in age-old mute quest
since all times
and up to the ultimate bounds, without rest.
He is in quest of the water of which the rainbow drinks.
He is in quest of the water
of which the rainbow
drinks its beauty and non-being.
poem by Lucian Blaga from Unsuspected Steps (1943), translated by Dan Duţescu
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Memnon's column
The column, cut deep by the sword of a king
got a beautiful gift, the stone didn't possess:
so, when touched by the first shining rays of the spring
it was able to sing the forbidden distress.
And through ages and ages, its holy, long chord
playing in the aurora, with a sound loud and fair,
the inner destruction and the secret discord,
could be heard all the time spreading notes in the air.
To perform all the time at a moment precise,
it was mended one day by another great king.
Yet, since then, neither played nor was able to sing.
That's because had a soul the stone frigid as ice,
as long as it suffered and bitter tears shed.
But having no wound, the creature was dead.
poem by Lucian Blaga, translated by Octavian Cocoş
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I Am Not a Man who Does Things
There are so many of you, men who do things,
everywhere in the streets, under the sky, roofs.
Only I am here purposeless, infamous.
only good for drowning in water.
But I am waiting, have been waiting for a long time
for some wholly good, wholly honest passerby to say to him:
Oh, don‘t turn and look at me,
Oh, don‘t condemn my immobility.
I grow among you, but shaded by my hands
the mystic fruit ripens in another place.
Don‘t curse me, don‘t curse me!
Friend of deep things,
companion of silence,
I play above the doing.
Sometimes with a flute of ancestral bone
I sens myself to death as a song.
Questioning, my brother looks at me,
[...] Read more
poem by Lucian Blaga from In the Great Passage (În marea trecere) (1924), translated by Roy MacGregor-Hastie
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