ITT Traditional literature from your country

ITT Traditional literature from your country.

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Come on guys i really want to know.

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ill look it up, do you recommend it?

Yeah it's not bad.

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you know this one already right?

i know it but i haven't read it yet.

ok then how about this one

i didn't knew that one, actually i haven't read anything from Augusto Roa

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That title.

ah ok then go with those two and i guess this one too

Also, "Mi libro Luna de Pluton" by Dross

I'm pretty bummed out that there's no Hungarian literature out there known all over the world desu, even though we have a lot of great writers and poets

here's an excerpth from one of my favourite 20th century Hungarian poem, Dawnstruck

"Struck by the sight
I cried and cried again in my delight:
"They have a ball in heaven, every night!"
There shone in that enchanted radiance
an ancient secret I could clearly sense:
the stars go home at dawn, along immense
bright boulevards of skyborne continents.

I waited
till daybreak, motionless, inebriated.
And then I asked myself: where have you been,
to what disgraceful lowness have you slipped,
what was so dear to you, a strumpet's mean
embrace, an all-important manuscript,
that seasons came and seasons passed unseen,
and you could never glean
the secrets of that great galactic scene?

The score
is fifty years, I realize in awe.
- I have my dead now, ever more and more -
while from their high resplendent mirador
my cosmic neighbours, all these fifty years,
have watched me cry and wipe away my tears.
Now I confess, that kneeling on the floor
I thanked for all this, humbled to the core.

I know that one fine day I'll have to leave,
and I have nothing in which to believe,
but tightening my heart-strings as a chord
I sang and sang until the music soared
to one who can't be seen and can't be guessed,
not in this life, nor in our final rest.
Before they come to throw me overboard,
I know that here, where I am so distressed,
stumbling through quicksands and souls, on my quest,
there is a great unfathomable Lord,
I was His guest."

Literally every finn has read this masterpiece. If not, then at least saw the movie on our independence day.

that was really good user, i loved the ending.

minha terra tem palmeiras
onde canta o sabiá...

I'm glad you liked it, it's one of the few Hungarian poems with a proper translation
the first time I've encountered Dawnstruck was a few years back at a reading by a pretty famous Hungarian actor-director, he presented the poem so well that it made me tear up

I haven't

Other good book from Väinö Linna is Under The North Star.

Other classics that i recommend are
Tove Jansson - Tales From Moominvalley
Mika Waltari - Sinuhe: The Eqyptian
Sofi Oksanen - The Purge

I don't know if there's any good english translation on our national epic Kalevala, though.

This is a traduction of my favorite poem, sadly is not properly adapted, but i would like you to find it.
It's name is Letargia a Don Quijote, by Ruben Dario, he was from nigaragua
King of the gentry, Lord of the sad,
that you encourage daydreams strength and dressed,
crowned with golden helmet of illusion;
no one has been able to overcome yet,
the shield on arm, all fantasy,
and spear in hand, all heart.

Noble pilgrim pilgrims,
Who has sanctified all roads
with the august step of your heroics,
against the certainties against consciences
and against the law and against science,
against lies, against the truth ...

Knight errant knights,
male males fiercest prince,
pair among peers, teacher, cheers!
Cheers, because I judge that today have very little,
the applause or between slights,
and between crowns and for goods
and the nonsense of the crowd!

nigger or fennoswede spotted

Robert Burns is underrated, primarily because his poetry is written in broad Scots. Here's a fairly straightforward excerpt:

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,
An' weary Winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald.
To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

For context, he is addressing a mouse - the nest of which he has disturbed while farming. You might notice the line "The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men", which gave the famous John Steinbeck book its name.

He was also a great songwriter:

youtube.com/watch?v=rQEHuQZB7wY

here's the excerpt of another favourite poem of mine, which always comes to my mind whenever I am walking by the Danube

"My mother was Cumanian, my father
Half-Szekler, half-Rumanian or whole.
From my mother's lips sweet was every morsel,
And from my father's lips the truth was gold.
When I stir, they are embracing each other;
It makes me sad. This is mortality.
This, too, I am made of. And I hear their words:
"Just wait till we are gone..." they speak to me.

So their words speak to me for now they am I,
Despite my weaknesses this makes me strong.
For I am more than most, back to the first cell
To every ancestor I still belong.
I am the Forbear who split and multiplied,
Shaped my father and mother into whole,
My father and mother then in turn divide
And so I have become one single soul.

I am the world, all that is past exists:
Men are fighting men with renewed anguish.
Dead conquerors ride to victory with me
And I feel the torment of the vanquished.
Árpád and Zalán, Werbőczy and Dózsa,
Turks, and Tartars, Slovaks, Rumanians
Fill my heart which owes this past a calm future
As our great debt, today's Hungarians.

I want to work. For it is battle enough
Having a past such as this to confess.
In the Danube's waves past, present and future
Are all-embracing in a soft caress.
The great battle which our ancestors once fought
Resolves into peace through the memories,
And to settle at last our communal affairs
Remains our task and none too small it is."

I looked it up and sadly we don't have it in Hungarian, nor did I find a good English translation :(

Tragedy of Man, a drama by Imre Madách, written in the 1860s in the same vein as Milton's Paradise Lost, with Lucifer guiding Adam through all the different eras of humanity, the story ending after the death of the Earth, with Adam floating in space viewing our frozen planet from the distance and then Adam returning to Paradise, with the Lord appearing before him

"All things that live, endure for the same span;
The century-old tree, and the one-day beetle,
Grow conscious, joy and love, and pass away
When they have reached their own appointed aims.
Time does not move. `Tis only we who change.
A hundred years are but one brief day."

Hungarian poetry is very beautiful.

>doesnt know about faust
what the fuck is wrong with you?
>he read el periquillo sarniento
ooh, so that is

here's one more as a farewell, sadly I have to go to sleep now, as I have work in the morning
cheers Mexibro

>Dezső Kosztolányi: Necrology

See, brethren, all of a sudden he died.
He left us alone: he lied.
We knew him. Not grand or outstanding,
but filled our hearts, notwithstanding.
He is no more.
He is like earth.
Gone is a dearth
of treasure.

Learn ye all from this example.
Such is man: a unique sample.
No more like him. Not now or in the past,
no two leaves are in the same form cast.
All through time he will be lacking.
Look at this head, the collapsing
lovely eyes. Look at the hands here,
in remote haze they disappear,
stone-stiff
like a relic,
on which cuneiform wedges will bear
the ancient secret of his life so unique and rare.

Whoever he was: light and heat he was.
All knew and proclaimed: there he was.
The way he loved this or that meal.
His lips, on which now there is a seal
said, and as his voice on our ears did fall
we could hear the bells of sunken churches toll
deep down, and as he said recently,
'Son, I'd love some cheese presently,'
or he drank wine and happily stared
at the smoke of some cheap cigarette,
and he ran and made phone calls,
and wove dreams of all sorts,
on his forehead shone the sign:
of millions he's the only one.

Find him you will not, to no avail,
not in Asia or Cape Colony or here,
and not in the past either. And future's whim
will see many born, but him.
Never again
will his timid smile shine again.
The wheel of fortune so poor in turning
will never have this wonder returning.

See friends: all this so frail
like the man in the tale.
At one point life thought of him,
'Once upon a time there was him,'
then down came the heavens pounding,
no more of him - our sobs resounding.
Like a statue, stiff and numb he rests,
though once he struggled for the best.
No tears, no words: awaken him nothing can.
Once upon a time there lived a man.

How come the poem perfectly rhymes in English when it was originally written in Hugnarian?

guess the translator must have done a pretty good job

also, Hungarian is a pretty poetic language

CHI

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Saluton, masonisto, mia prapatro Ruben
kiu dum tuta vivo grimpadis supren-suben,
ĉizante sur preĝejoj gargojlojn kaj anĝelojn!

Kaj vin, ho posteulo de Ruben, kiu velojn
de karavelo hisis kaj sur la mar' piratis
kaj la filinon duan de tavernisto svatis
kaj lasis ŝin graveda kaj malaperis tute
sur marofundon -- kara, mi kantas vin salute!
(Kaj ankaŭ vin aparte, ho tavernistfilino,
avino mia praa, al kies mola sino
sin premis tiu filo, kiu en posta vivo
dediĉis sin al rabo, al murdo kaj lascivo,
kaj dek bastardojn patris, el kiuj unu iris
milite al Polujo, kaj tie vaste viris,
al sia semofluo malfermis larĝe kluzojn,
al mi testamentante milope polajn kuzojn!)
Al vi, centmil prapatroj ŝvitintaj sub servuto,
de via tre simila pranepo jen saluto;
sed ege vin surprizus, ke li salutas ame
kiel parenco viajn jugintojn tute same.
Al vi ja ŝajnus strange, ke filo de l' kastelo
kaj via bova ido en trua sklavkitelo
per ia sortkaprico egale kontribuas
al tiu sango, kiu en miaj vejnoj fluas.
Verdire, la surprizo ne estus via sole:
eĉ pli la kastelfilo min gapus senparole!)
Kaj ankaŭ vin, praavaj kaj vilaj sovaĝuloj
kiuj rezistis venke per glavoj kaj ŝtonruloj
invadajn legianojn de roma Agrikolo --
mi vin salutas: Ave!