الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل)

حفل دعم الجالية السودانية بمنطقة واشنطن الكبري بالفنان عمر احساس
سارة عبد الباقي الخضر ...فى الذكرى الخامسة لاستشهادك ...دمك دين علينا
هزاع عز الدين جعفر....لك التحية و الانحناء فى الذكرى الخامسة لاستشهادك
د.صلاح مدثر السنهوري....فى الذكرى الخامسة لاستشهدك ارقد مرتاح...ولن نترك السفاح
علم الدين هارون عيسى عبد الرحمن....فى الذكرى الخامسة لاستشهادك تارك فى رقابنا
بابكر النور حمد...فى الذكرى الخامسة لاستشهادك.....لن ننساك
وفاء محمد عبد الرحيم عبد الباقي...فى الذكرى الخامسة لاستشهادك.....دمك لن يذهب هدراً
محمد آدم على ابراهيم...فى الذكرى الخامسة لاستشهادك.....ودعطا لن نتركك ولو طال الزمن
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اخر زيارك لك: 18-09-2018, 03:40 PM الصفحة الرئيسية

مكتبة الاديب محسن خالد(محسن خالد)
نسخة قابلة للطباعة من الموضوع   ارسل الموضوع لصديق   اقرا المشاركات فى صورة مستقيمة « | »
اقرا احدث مداخلة فى هذا الموضوع »
18-10-2005, 04:03 PM

Maysoon Nigoumi

تاريخ التسجيل: 04-03-2004
مجموع المشاركات: 492

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what? (Re: محسن خالد)

    ليه يا محمد عبدالقادر سبيل متوجس مني؟ أنا عملت ليك شنو؟ اااااااه موضوع محمد..نبي داك...إنتا لسة متذكرو....بالغتا
    anyways ده نص المسرحية بالإنجليزي...لو في داعي للترجمة لا مانع لدي

    DON JUAN. My dear Ana, you are silly. Do you suppose heaven is like earth, where people persuade themselves that what is done can be undone by repentance; that what is spoken can be unspoken by withdrawing it; that what is true can be annihilated by a general agreement to give it the lie? No: heaven is the home of the masters of reality: that is why I am going thither.
    ANA. Thank you: I am going to heaven for happiness. I have had quite enough of reality on earth.
    DON JUAN. Then you must stay here; for hell is the home of the unreal and of the seekers for happiness. It is the only refuge from heaven, which is, as I tell you, the home of the masters of reality, and from earth, which is the home of the slaves of reality. The earth is a nursery in which men and women play at being heroes and heroines, saints and sinners; but they are dragged down from their fool’s paradise by their bodies: hunger and cold and thirst, age and decay and disease, death above all, make them slaves of reality: thrice a day meals must be eaten and digested: thrice a century a new generation must be engendered: ages of faith, of romance, and of science are all driven at last to have but one prayer, “Make me a healthy animal.” But here you escape this tyranny of the flesh; for here you are not an animal at all: you are a ghost, an appearance, an illusion, a convention, deathless, ageless: in a word, bodiless. There are no social questions here, no political questions, no religious questions, best of all, perhaps, no sanitary questions. Here you call your appearance beauty, your emotions love, your sentiments heroism, your aspirations virtue, just as you did on earth; but here there are no hard facts to contradict you, no ironic contrast of your needs with your pretensions, no human comedy, nothing but a perpetual romance, a universal melodrama. As our German friend put it in his poem, “the poetically nonsensical here is good sense; and the Eternal Feminine draws us ever upward and on”—without getting us a step farther. And yet you want to leave this paradise!
    ANA. But if Hell be so beautiful as this, how glorious must heaven be!
    The Devil, the Statue, and Don Juan all begin to speak at once in violent protest; then stop, abashed.
    DON JUAN. I beg your pardon.
    THE DEVIL. Not at all. I interrupted you.
    THE STATUE. You were going to say something.
    DON JUAN. After you, gentlemen.
    THE DEVIL [to Don Juan] You have been so eloquent on the advantages of my dominions that I leave you to do equal justice to the drawbacks of the alternative establishment.
    DON JUAN. In Heaven, as I picture it, dear lady, you live and work instead of playing and pretending. You face things as they are; you escape nothing but glamor; and your steadfastness and your peril are your glory. If the play still goes on here and on earth, and all the world is a stage, Heaven is at least behind the scenes. But Heaven cannot be described by metaphor. Thither I shall go presently, because there I hope to escape at last from lies and from the tedious, vulgar pursuit of happiness, to spend my eons in contemplation—
    THE STATUE. Ugh!
    DON JUAN. Señor Commander: I do not blame your disgust: a picture gallery is a dull place for a blind man. But even as you enjoy the contemplation of such romantic mirages as beauty and pleasure; so would I enjoy the contemplation of that which interests me above all things: namely, Life: the force that ever strives to attain greater power of contemplating itself. What made this brain of mine, do you think? Not the need to move my limbs; for a rat with half my brains moves as well as I. Not merely the need to do, but the need to know what I do, lest in my blind efforts to live I should be slaying myself.
    THE STATUE. You would have slain yourself in your blind efforts to fence but
    DON JUAN. Audacious ribald: your laughter will finish in hideous boredom before morning.
    THE STATUE. Ha ha! Do you remember how I frightened you when I said something like that to you from my pedestal in Seville? It sounds rather flat without my trombones.
    DON JUAN. They tell me it generally sounds flat with them, Commander.
    ANA. Oh, do not interrupt with these frivolities, father. Is there nothing in Heaven but contemplation, Juan?

    من هنا يبدا الشغل.....
    DON JUAN. In the Heaven I seek, no other joy. But there is the work of helping Life in its struggle upward. Think of how it wastes and scatters itself, how it raises up obstacles to itself and destroys itself in its ignorance and blindness. It needs a brain, this irresistible force, lest in its ignorance it should resist itself. What a piece of work is man! says the poet. Yes; but what a blunderer! Here is the highest miracle of organization yet attained by life, the most intensely alive thing that exists, the most conscious of all the organisms; and yet, how wretched are his brains! Stupidity made sordid and cruel by the realities learnt from toll and poverty: Imagination resolved to starve sooner than face these realities, piling up illusions to hide them, and calling itself cleverness, genius! And each accusing the other of its own defect: Stupidity accusing Imagination of folly, and Imagination accusing Stupidity of ignorance: whereas, alas! Stupidity has all the knowledge, and Imagination all the intelligence.
    THE DEVIL. And a pretty kettle of fish they make of it between them. Did I not say, when I was arranging that affair of Faust’s, that all Man’s reason has done for him is to make him beastlier than any beast. One splendid body is worth the brains of a hundred dyspeptic, flatulent philosophers.
    DON JUAN. You forget that brainless magnificence of body has been tried. Things immeasurably greater than man in every respect but brain have existed and perished. The megatherium, the icthyosaurus have paced the earth with seven-league steps and hidden the day with cloud vast wings. Where are they now? Fossils in museums, and so few and imperfect at that, that a knuckle bone or a tooth of one of them is prized beyond the lives of a thousand soldiers. These things lived and wanted to live; but for lack of brains they did not know how to carry out their purpose, and so destroyed themselves.
    THE DEVIL. And is Man any the less destroying himself for all this boasted brain of his? Have you walked up and down upon the earth lately? I have; and I have examined Man’s wonderful inventions. And I tell you that in the arts of life man invents nothing; but in the arts of death he outdoes Nature herself, and produces by chemistry and machinery all the slaughter of plague, pestilence, and famine. The peasant I tempt to-day eats and drinks what was eaten and drunk by the peasants of ten thousand years ago; and the house he lives in has not altered as much in a thousand centuries as the fashion of a lady’s bonnet in a score of weeks. But when he goes out to slay, he carries a marvel of mechanism that lets loose at the touch of his finger all the hidden molecular energies, and leaves the javelin, the arrow, the blowpipe of his fathers far behind. In the arts of peace Man is a bungler. I have seen his cotton factories and the like, with machinery that a greedy dog could have invented if it had wanted money instead of food. I know his clumsy typewriters and bungling locomotives and tedious bicycles: they are toys compared to the Maxim gun, the submarine torpedo boat. There is nothing in Man’s industrial machinery but his greed and sloth: his heart is in his weapons. This marvellous force of Life of which you boast is a force of Death: Man measures his strength by his destructiveness. What is his religion? An excuse for hating me. What is his law? An excuse for hanging you. What is his morality? Gentility! An excuse for consuming without producing. What is his art? An excuse for gloating over pictures of slaughter. What are his politics? Either the worship of a despot because a despot can kill, or parliamentary cockfighting. I spent an evening lately in a certain celebrated legislature, and heard the pot lecturing the kettle for its blackness, and ministers answering questions. When I left I chalked up on the door the old nursery saying “Ask no questions and you will be told no lies.” I bought a sixpenny family magazine, and found it full of pictures of young men shooting and stabbing one another. I saw a man die: he was a London bricklayer’s laborer with seven children. He left seventeen pounds club money; and his wife spent it all on his funeral and went into the workhouse with the children next day. She would not have spent sevenpence on her children’s schooling: the law had to force her to let them be taught gratuitously; but on death she spent all she had. Their imagination glows, their energies rise up at the idea of death, these people: they love it; and the more horrible it is the more they enjoy it. Hell is a place far above their comprehension: they derive their notion of it from two of the greatest fools that ever lived, an Italian and an Englishman. The Italian described it as a place of mud, frost, filth, fire, and venomous serpents: all torture. This #######, when he was not lying about me, was maundering about some woman whom he saw once in the street. The Englishman described me as being expelled from Heaven by cannons and gunpowder; and to this day every Briton believes that the whole of his silly story is in the Bible. What else he says I do not know; for it is all in a long poem which neither I nor anyone else ever succeeded in wading through. It is the same in everything. The highest form of literature is the tragedy, a play in which everybody is murdered at the end. In the old chronicles you read of earthquakes and pestilences, and are told that these shewed the power and majesty of God and the littleness of Man. Nowadays the chronicles describe battles. In a battle two bodies of men shoot at one another with bullets and explosive shells until one body runs away, when the others chase the fugitives on horseback and cut them to pieces as they fly. And this, the chronicle concludes, shews the greatness and majesty of empires, and the littleness of the vanquished. Over such battles the people run about the streets yelling with delight, and egg their Government on to spend hundreds of millions of money in the slaughter, whilst the strongest Ministers dare not spend an extra penny in the pound against the poverty and pestilence through which they themselves daily walk. I could give you a thousand instances; but they all come to the same thing: the power that governs the earth is not the power of Life but of Death; and the inner need that has nerved Life to the effort of organising itself into the human being is not the need for higher life but for a more efficient engine of destruction. The plague, the famine, the earthquake, the tempest were too spasmodic in their action; the tiger and crocodile were too easily satiated and not cruel enough: something more constantly, more ruthlessly, more ingeniously destructive was needed; and that something was Man, the inventor of the rack, the stake, the gallows, the electric chair; of sword and gun and poison gas: above all, of justice, duty, patriotism, and all the other isms by which even those who are clever enough to be humanely disposed are persuaded to become the most destructive of all the destroyers.
    DON JUAN. Pshaw! all this is old. Your weak side, my diabolic friend, is that you have always been a gull: you take Man at his own valuation. Nothing would flatter him more than your opinion of him. He loves to think of himself as bold and bad. He is neither one nor the other: he is only a coward. Call him tyrant, murderer, pirate, bully; and he will adore you, and swagger about with the consciousness of having the blood of the old sea kings in his veins. Call him liar and thief; and he will only take an action against you for libel. But call him coward; and he will go mad with rage: he will face death to outface that stinging truth. Man gives every reason for his conduct save one, every excuse for his crimes save one, every plea for his safety save one; and that one is his cowardice. Yet all his civilization is founded on his cowardice, on his abject tameness, which he calls his respectability. There are limits to what a mule or an ####### will stand; but Man will suffer himself to be degraded until his vileness becomes so loathsome to his oppressors that they themselves are forced to reform it.
    THE DEVIL. Precisely. And these are the creatures in whom you discover what you call a Life Force!
    DON JUAN. Yes; for now comes the most surprising part of the whole business.
    THE STATUE. Whats that?
    DON JUAN. Why, that you can make any of these cowards brave by simply putting an idea into his head.
    THE STATUE. Stuff! As an old soldier I admit the cowardice: it’s as universal as sea sickness, and matters just as little. But that about putting an idea into a man’s head is stuff and nonsense. In a battle all you need to make you fight is a little hot blood and the knowledge that it’s more dangerous to lose than to win.
    DON JUAN. That is perhaps why battles are so useless. But men never really overcome fear until they imagine they are fighting to further a universal purpose—fighting for an idea, as they call it. Why was the Crusader braver than the pirate? Because he fought, not for himself, but for the Cross. What force was it that met him with a valor as reckless as his own? The force of men who fought, not for themselves, but for Islam. They took Spain from us though we were fighting for our very hearths and homes; but when we, too, fought for that mighty idea, a Catholic Church, we swept them back to Africa.
    THE DEVIL [ironically] What! you a Catholic, Señor Don Juan! A devotee! My congratulations.
    THE STATUE [seriously] Come, come! as a soldier, I can listen to nothing against the Church.
    DON JUAN. Have no fear, Commander: this idea of a Catholic Church will survive Islam, will survive the Cross, will survive even that vulgar pageant of incompetent schoolboyish gladiators which you call the Army.
    THE STATUE. Juan: you will force me to call you to account for this.
    DON JUAN. Useless: I cannot fence. Every idea for which Man will die will be a Catholic idea. When the Spaniard learns at last that he is no better than the Saracen, and his prophet no better than Mahomet, he will arise, more Catholic than ever, and die on a barricade across the filthy slum he starves in, for universal liberty and equality.
    THE STATUE. Bosh!
    DON JUAN. What you call bosh is the only thing men dare die for. Later on, Liberty will not be Catholic enough: men will die for human perfection, to which they will sacrifice all their liberty gladly.
    THE DEVIL. Ay: they will never be at a loss for an excuse for killing one another.
    DON JUAN. What of that? It is not death that matters, but the fear of death. It is not killing and dying that degrades us, but base living, and accepting the wages and profits of degradation. Better ten dead men than one live slave or his master. Men shall yet rise up, father against son and brother against brother, and kill one another for the great Catholic idea of abolishing slavery.
    THE DEVIL. Yes, when the Liberty and Equality of which you prate shall have made free white Christians cheaper in the labor market than black heathen slaves sold by auction at the block.
    DON JUAN. Never fear! the white laborer shall have his turn too. But I am not now defending the illusory forms the great ideas take. I am giving you examples of the fact that this creature Man, who in his own selfish affairs is a coward to the backbone, will fight for an idea like a hero. He may be abject as a citizen; but he is dangerous as a fanatic. He can only be enslaved whilst he is spiritually weak enough to listen to reason. I tell you, gentlemen, if you can shew a man a piece of what he now calls God’s work to do, and what he will later on call by many new names, you can make him entirely reckless of the consequences to himself personally.
    ANA. Yes: he shirks all his responsibilities, and leaves his wife to grapple with them.
    THE STATUE. Well said, Daughter. Do not let him talk you out of your common sense.
    THE DEVIL. Alas! Señor Commander, now that we have got on to the subject of Woman, he will talk more than ever. However, I confess it is for me the one supremely interesting subject.
    DON JUAN. To a woman, Señora, man’s duties and responsibilities begin and end with the task of getting bread for her children. To her, Man is only a means to the end of getting children and rearing them.
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      Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) أبوذر بابكر15-10-05, 06:50 AM
        Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد15-10-05, 09:02 AM
  Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) مريم بنت الحسين15-10-05, 04:19 AM
    Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد15-10-05, 06:43 AM
  Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) Adil Osman15-10-05, 04:39 AM
    Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد15-10-05, 06:58 AM
      Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) atbarawi15-10-05, 09:28 AM
        Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محمد عبدالقادر سبيل16-10-05, 01:28 AM
          Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد16-10-05, 07:45 AM
            Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) atbarawi16-10-05, 09:05 AM
              Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد16-10-05, 09:51 AM
                Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد16-10-05, 12:38 PM
            Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محمد عبدالقادر سبيل16-10-05, 01:45 PM
              Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد16-10-05, 03:34 PM
                Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد16-10-05, 04:07 PM
  Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) 3mk-Tango16-10-05, 01:04 PM
    Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد16-10-05, 01:30 PM
    Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) Elmosley18-10-05, 06:11 PM
  Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) ahmed haneen16-10-05, 02:30 PM
  Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) خضر حسين خليل16-10-05, 04:05 PM
    Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد16-10-05, 05:06 PM
  Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) صديق الموج16-10-05, 05:35 PM
    Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) الصادق اسماعيل17-10-05, 02:18 AM
      Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) Hussein Mallasi17-10-05, 02:31 AM
        Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) الوليد محمد الامين17-10-05, 06:15 AM
  Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) عدلان أحمد عبدالعزيز17-10-05, 10:48 AM
  Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) ahmed haneen18-10-05, 02:31 AM
  what? Maysoon Nigoumi18-10-05, 04:03 PM
  Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محمد السر19-10-05, 02:44 AM
    Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محمد عبدالقادر سبيل19-10-05, 04:40 AM
      Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) هاجر سيد احمد19-10-05, 10:37 PM
      Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محمد السر20-10-05, 02:01 AM
        Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد23-10-05, 04:40 AM
          Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) hala alahmadi23-10-05, 12:11 PM
            Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد23-10-05, 01:01 PM
  Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) مريم بنت الحسين31-10-05, 01:46 PM
    Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد12-11-05, 01:14 PM
  Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) fadlabi14-11-05, 10:30 AM
    Re: الله (الدمبعلو)، والله الآخر (الجميل) محسن خالد23-11-05, 03:50 PM


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