Ein Kumpel meinte gestern, in diesem wie in allen FußballForen seien ja nur schlicht sktrukturirte proletenhafte Fußball-Fans. Und ich will ihn widerlegen (er liest hier manchmal mit). Und er ist Werder-Fan.
Und "Beowulf" ist immerhin ein Stück Weltliteratur. Ich kann auch "Ulysses" auf englisch posten. Oder auch nicht. Not. Ffffffssssssssssss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
II: The Monster’s Depredations (Lines 115-188)
(115) So Grendel, at nightfall, set out to see
How the Ring-Danes[*] were placed in
The high house, after their beer-fest.
There he found a noble host
Sleeping from feasting, dead to woe
(120) And human sorrow; the cursed beast
Grim and greedy, ruthless, and ripe
For savagery, had soon snatched
Thirty thanes from their slumber,
Then returned, sated[*] with spoils,
(125) With a feast of flesh, to seek his lair.
There, in half-light, before the dawn,
Grendel’s craftiness was revealed;
After the feasting, rose the lament
In that morning-cry. The mighty king,
(130) Their fine leader, sat there sorrowing.
The man suffered, mourning his thanes,
As they stared at the demon’s foul trail
Its strong poison lasting and lingering;
Nor had they long to wait for more,
(135) Later, one night, Grendel again
Dealt more murder, without remorse,
His fate and fury held too fast to him.
Easy to find him who’d be elsewhere,
Seeking his slumber further away,
(140) A bed among branches, when clear,
Truly told, all the tokens apparent,
Of the hall-seeker’s hatred; held himself
Further and safer in shunning the fiend.
So Grendel ruled, defying the right,
(145) One against all, till the finest of houses
Stood deserted. Twelve winter-tides,
Long time, the lord of the Shieldings
Suffered in anguish, every woe,
Seas of sorrow. So it was known
(150) To the sons of men, sung clearly
In bitter ballads, that Grendel wrought
Long against Hrothgar, in fierce enmity,
Fighting and feud, a host of seasons
In singular strife, refusing all truce
(155) With any man of the massed Danes,
To forgo his fury, make reparation.
None of those counsellors expected
Recompense from the killer’s hands.
There the dark death-shade battened
(160) On young and old, as he lay in wait
And set snares; in the night holding
The misty moors. No man knows
Where hell’s mysteries go roaming.
So the foe of mankind, lone walker,
(165) Wrought many felonies, committed
Harsh hurts. He haunted Heorot,[*]
The glittering hall, in the dark of night,
Prevented from nearing the gift-throne,
The Maker’s treasure he held no love for.
(170) They were harsh times, heart-breaking
For the Shielding’s king. Many often sat,
Mighty in counsel, pondering a plan;
What bold-minded men might do best
To counteract the moments of terror.
(175) Oftentimes they made sacred vows
At pagan shrines, offered up prayer
That some demon-slayer would grant
Aid to the people. Such were their ways,
Their heathen[*] hopes. Hell they thought on,
(180) In heart’s depths. They knew not the Maker,
The Judge of deeds, blind to the Lord God,
Nor honoured the Helm of the Heavens,
Wielder of Glory. Woe to the man
Who in his terror must give his soul
(185) To the fire’s embrace, without hope
Of help or change. Blessed is the man
Who after death seeks for the Lord
Finding peace in his Father’s arms.
„Selbst das wildeste Tier kennt doch des Mitleids Regung“ – „Ich kenne keins und bin deshalb kein Tier“ (Richard III).
