By Mikl S. Szentkuthy, Tim Wilkinson, Zeno Bianu
Marginalia on Casanova, the 1st quantity of the St. Orpheus Breviary, is Miklos Szentkuthy's synthesis of 2,000 years of eu tradition. St. Orpheus is Szentkuthy's Virgil, an omniscient, poet who publications us no longer via hell, yet via all of recorded historical past, fable, faith, and literature, albeit reimagined as St. Orpheus metamorphosizes himself into kings, popes, saints, tyrants, and artists. instantly pagan and Christian, Greek and Hebrew, Asian and eu, St. Orpheus is a mosaic of historical past and mankind in a single supra-person and veil, an unending sequence of mask and personae, humanity in its protean, futural form, an consistently altering functionality of discourse, textual content, delusion, & mentalite. via St. Orpheus' procedure, disparate moments of historical past turn into synchronic, are juggled to bare, satirically, their mutual distinction and crucial similarity. "Orpheus wandering within the infernal regions," says Szentkuthy, "is the perennial image of the brain misplaced amid the enigmas of fact. the purpose of the paintings is, at the one hand, to symbolize the truth of background with the maximum attainable precision, and at the different, to teach, during the mutations of the eu spirit, the entire uncertainties of contemplative guy, the transiency of feelings and the sterility of philosophical systems." Marginalia on Casanova relives the despiritualization of the most protagonist's sensual adventures, although it truly is much less his intercourse existence & extra his highbrow challenge, the only determinant of his being, that's the focal point of this mesmeric booklet. via his personal glittering institutions and extensively spanning array of metaphors, Szentkuthy analyses and perspectives the 18th century and its concept of homogeneity from the vantage aspect of the 20 th century, with the total armor of somebody who used to be, maybe, one of many final Hungarian Europeans. whereas a remark on Casanova's memoirs, it's also Szentkuthy's personal philosophy of affection. ardour, playfulness, irony, and a complete gamut of protean metamorphoses are what represent Marginalia on Casanova, a piece within which readers will event either profundity and a taking to wing of essay-writing that's intellectually radiant and that's as sensual and provocative as a gondola trip with Casanova
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Additional info for Marginalia on Casanova: St. Orpheus Breviary I
Sample text
Casanova lived in the Bohemian castle of Count Waldstein, in Dux, between 1785 and 1798 as ‘court’ librarian; those were the last thirteen years of his life, from the age of sixty till his death. A librarian with every good reason, because, as you will be able to see in the following saintly reading, Casanova was (admittedly with slight St. Orpheus exaggeration) an intellectual of the 18th century: far more interesting than he was a sexually and otherwise oriented chameleon daredevil. One would probably not be far off the mark in presuming that the count was not solely interested in the historiographer, philosopher, and mathematician in Casanova.
What is tiredness and what strength? What is virginity and what eternal breeding? All this, and more, is as yet unequivocal, all this anything at all — this bud, this one and only happiness, the threshold of thresholds, Casanovas youth codex is a book of nostalgia: by the time we first understand it, we are definitely no longer eight years old, and therefore we are excluded forever from the one and only paradise. We are not youngsters anymore: this first melancholy underlining in itself already lends otherworldly magic colors to Casanova’s first volume.
He trudged off, neck pulled into his chest, to one of his greatest foes, who then heard the catalogue of the senile Alfonso’s sins with Luciferian or barracks of Hades lust, took indescribable delight in proscribing writing, and, not feeling bound by any confidence of the confessional in “this special and typical case,” the company in the glass palaces of the Neapolitan king cranked out stale jokes about the doddering exhibitionist satyr which required no wit at all. When he had still been at liberty to write, his head had ached so badly, he felt dizzy and fevered (damn & blast these not so rare conjunctions of radiant raison and all kinds of abominable morbidity), he would clutch an ice-cool marble tablet to his left temple with the aid of a contraption that was the brainchild of a nun’s head.