Andrea Wulf's Magnificent Rebels, The First Romantics: Book Review

★★★★★ Magnificent Rebels: The First Romantics and the Invention of the Self by Andrea Wulf is a fabulous book.

In the late 18th century, what we now call Germany consisted of a great many large and small self-governing principalities and fiefdoms, and the authorities rigidly controlled a great many aspects of their subjects' lives, not least ruling on who could marry whom, or divorce, and requiring permission to travel.

The book is about the lives and works of the first Germanic Romantics, a group of philosophers, poets, artists and thinkers, who gathered for a number of years in the small and relatively free town of Jena, 150 miles south-west of Berlin, around the turn of the 18th century, and whom the author terms the Jena Set. These were people like Caroline Böhmer-Schlegel-Schelling and her daughter Auguste; Johann Gottlieb Fichte; Johann Wolfgang von Goethe; Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel; Alexander, Caroline, and Wilhelm von Humboldt; Novalis; Friedrich Schelling; Friedrich Schiller; August Wilhelm and Friedrich Schlegel; Friedrich Schleiermacher; Ludwig Tieck, and Dorothea Veit-Schlegel.

If there's one takeaway from this compelling and well-rounded history that tells it “warts and all”,  it is that the wonders the German Romantics of the Jena Set wrought so energetically perfectly illustrate that “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts” – in their case far greater – when creative folk come together to chat and discuss a wide, inter-disciplinary range of topics, and collaborate in producing literary or artistic works. All the more so when such meetings of minds are facilitated by someone as intelligent, perceptive, informed and energising as the Jena Set's muse, Caroline Böhmer-Schlegel-Schelling.

The Winds of Change in the Twilit Hours: A Poem

The winds of change
are blowing a gale,
rattling my old sash window frame,
and a draft is sneaking past
the sleepy door snake
guarding my humble parlour.  

A wayward leaf,
its short life spent,
flutters against the window pane —
a timely reminder that
like most things in this life,
this sojourn, too, shall pass.

.  

A Subtle Reminder: A Poem

I'm burning sandalwood today,
and its fragrance reminds me
of the subtle realm
ever-present behind – and beyond
the cheap plastic façade
and gossamer-thin veils
we foolishly think of
as civilisation
and “the Real World”.

 

Okay, So. But Listen: A Poem

Okay, so ...

The politician
Is a nasti piece of work,
And the oligarch
Really is a callous jerk.

All the world's oceans
Are a filthy toilet bowl,
And the floods and fires
Are raging out of control.

I down two cans of beer
Oh – go on! – let's make it three,
To wash away all
My blues and anxiety.

Lines Drawn in the Sand: A Poem

Oh, subtle intimations of the hidden world
That grace our dreams by night and inspire thoughts by day,
Every which way I turn I glimpse some deeper truth
And yet – what use to me, if here unmoved I stay?
  
There's an incoming message I must deliver,
A note to myself and “To whom it may concern”,
Things are coming to a head, more storms are brewing;
No time for delay – nor yet to the bar adjourn.
  
In film, book, poetry, art, and common street talk
Blessèd, subversive, kindred souls of secrets hint,
Stirring the dying embers of some age-old fire
Or striking new sparks in kindling with their sharp flint.

  

The Early-Morning Briefing: A Poem

Eugenie breezed back into my life this morn,
and stirred me from the most sublime slumber.
There I was floating aloft a twilit cloud,
when – “Presto!” – my soul was jerked back down to earth.
 
“This is your early-morning wake-up call.
Rise and shine and show a leg there, shipmate!
Jump out of bed and fling the curtains wide,
rub your sleepy eyes, and turn on the telly.”

Beyond the Point of No Return: A Poem

For what seemed an aeon, I searched in vain
for the fabled Ladder to the Stars.
With so much loss and yet so little gain,
close I came – but still, no cigars.
 
On I trod in the steps of Greater Men,
with nothing but the goal in mind.
And one mile turned to two, seven leagues to ten;
these greater men guiding the blind.

Lost Soul in a Disenchanted World: A Poem

I approached the regal Lady sitting before me,
and fell to my knees, clutching at her velvet dress.
Salty tears pressed hard behind my eyeballs and welled-up,
and I cried out in heart-felt sorrow and distress.
 
“So many abandoned me for the Sky Gods,” sighed She,
“I, who feed and nurture you and from whose womb you spring.
Dear heart, I nurse you, protect and cherish you,
for I’m anima mundi and in me you cling.”
 

The Cracks in the Concrete: A Poem

“I think I’m losing my mind,” I blurted out
to the only bright-eyed person I could find
in this fathomless sea of darkly-sunken, vacant faces.
A sentient soul in this disenchanted land of the blind.
 
The old man raised an eyebrow and broadly smiled:
“Come, sit a moment while you find calm,” he beckoned.
“Then we’ll take a walk and leave these cares behind.”
I drew a deep breath, and then drew a second.
  

Arcadia Revisited: A Poem

Once upon a time, beyond place and time,
and everywhere you cared to ramble,
there stood a Garden no digger touched,
nor black tarmacked road, nor death-dark mill.

If you use reason, you will be deceived
into thinking it mere childish myth.
But open your heart and you will sense:
though long overgrown, it still endures.
  

The Highs and Lows on the Road to Atonement: A Poem

It all began long, long ago, when I fatefully put my feet up.
Week after week I’d laboured, sprucing house from top to tail.
I’d burnt the candle at both ends, but now I drank a cup,
yet while my body’s work was done, my mind still blew a gale.

Up, up I flew and farther still; to the dizzying heights I reached.
Entranced by associative delight — until fright snatched hold of me.
Symbol, sign and metaphor, the flood my defences breached;
burst and scattered far and wide, connected teardrops in a sea.

The Lovers' Inner Sense: A Poem

Softly-spoken, sentimental words, they arise welcome yet unbidden,
like affectionate rays of sun, through dense woodland crowns.
Lighting up a sacred space in the undergrowth and
glinting in the swirling, gurgling waters of the nearby brook.
  
A rustling in the autumn leaves draws my attention.
“Hello, Lickle Sleepy Eyes”, she whispers, both strange yet so familiar.
And I catch a snatch of a voice I haven’t heard for many moons,
cooing softly: “We, too, love to be recognized and loved.”
  

The Bridge Builder by Will Allen Dromgoole

An old man, going a lone highway,
Came, at the evening, cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast, and deep, and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.

The old man crossed in the twilight dim;
The sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned, when safe on the other side,
And built a bridge to span the tide.

“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim, near,
“You are wasting strength with building here;
Your journey will end with the ending day;
You never again will pass this way;
You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide-
Why build you this bridge at the evening tide?”

The builder lifted his old gray head:
“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,
“There followeth after me today,
A youth, whose feet must pass this way.

This chasm, that has been naught to me,
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him.”

• By Etienne de L'Amour ~ Google+