Büchertag

So oft wie ich die Lister Meile schon auf- und abgeschlendert bin hätte ich nicht gedacht, dass ich tatsächlich noch ein neues Geschäft dort entdecke. Wobei nicht das Geschäft neu ist, sondern die Entdeckung durch mich. Aber das Schaufenster enthielt so viele interessante Bücher, dass mein Blick an der Buchhandlung Ingeborg Becker hängen blieb. Und es hat sich gelohnt, das Antiquariat zu betreten: Bücher bis zur Decke, zwei nette ältere Damen als Bedienung, eine antike handbetriebene Registrierkasse und viele schöne Bücher und Kupferstiche machen den Charme dieses Ladens aus.

So konnte ich dann auch nicht wieder gehen, ohne ein Werk über die alte und je eines über die neue Heimat im Großen und im Kleinen zu erstehen…

Werbung

Glorious Night

Was mich besonders beeindruckt hat im Urlaub ist dieser unheimlich schöne südliche Nachthimmel. Könnte ich mir stundelnag anschauen. Passend dazu fand ich eine sehr schöne Stelle in meiner Reiselektüre:

„It was a glorious night. The moon had sunk, and left the quiet earth alone with the stars. It seemed as if, in the silence and the hush, while we her children slept, they were talking with her, their sister – conversing of mighty mysteries in voices too vast and deep for childish human ears to catch the sound.

They awe us, these strange stars, so cold, so clear. We are as children whose small feet have strayed into some dim-lit temple of the god they have been taught to worship but know not; and, standing where the echoing dome spans the long vista of the shadowy light, glance up, half hoping, half afraid to see some awful vision hovering there.

And yet it seems so full of comfort and of strength, the night. In its great presence, our small sorrows creep away, ashamed. The day has been so full of fret and care, and our hearts have been so full of evil and of bitter thoughts, and the world has seemed so hard and wrong to us. Then Night, like some great loving mother, gently lays her hand upon our fevered head, and turns our little tear-stained faces up to hers, and smiles; and, though she does not speak, we know what she would say, and lay our hot flushed cheek against her bosom, and the pain is gone.

Sometimes, our pain is very deep and real, and we stand before her very silent, because there is no language for our pain, only a moan. Night’s heart is full of pity for us: she cannot ease our aching; she takes our hand in hers, and the little world grows very small and very far away beneath us, and, borne on her dark wings, we pass for a moment into a mightier Presence than her own, and in the wondrous light of that great Presence, all human life lies like a book before us, and we know that Pain and Sorrow are but the angels of God.“