ROSA LUXEMBURG
13
eagles, falcons, .owls-thousands of little song birds, such as swallows,
wrens, nightingales. So it would seem that during the voyage there
reigns a sort of tacit "God's truce." They are all straining toward a
cornmon goal and fall to the ground half dead of exhaustion, near the
Nile, separating later according to their kinds and countries. And
even better: it appears that on the long stretches of the voyage the
big birds carry the
little
ones on their backs; thus great flocks of cranes
have been seen carrying on their backs a lot of tiny birds that were
chirping happily. Isn't it charming?
... The other day, as I was thumbing through an anthology
of poems, gotten together without taste and as if by accident, I came
across a poem by Hugo von Hoffmannsthal.
As
a rule I am not fond
of his poetry. It seems too artificial, precious, and rather muddy; it's
impossible for me to understand it. But I liked this poem very much,
it made a great impression on me. I copied it. Perhaps you would
like to read it.
I am plunged at the moment in geology. Perhaps you think of it
as a dry science, but it is far from that. I am studying it feverishly
and with real satisfaction, it broadens considerably one's intellectual
horizon and does more than any other science to give a whole and
harmonious view of nature; I would like to tell you a lot of things
about it, but for that we would have to be able to talk, strolling toge–
theI some morning in the fields at Sudende, or taking one another
home several times in the evening, by moonlight. What are you read–
ing? How far have you gotten in the
Lessing-Legende?
I want to know
everything you are doing. Write to me right away,
in
the same way
if
possible, or otherwise in the official way without mentioning this
letter. I am already counting the weeks until I will be able to see you
here again. It will be soon after the new year, won't it? What does
Karl say in his letters? When will you see him again? Give him my
bt'..st greetings. I
kiss
you and press your hand, my dear, dear Sonit–
schka. Write soon and at length.
Yours,
ROSA
Breslau, November 24, 1917
. . . You are wrong when you say I have a prejudice against
modern poets. Fifteen years ago I read Dehmel with enthusiasm–
his prose-a scene at the death-bed of a loved woman-my memory
of it
is
not very clear, but I admired it. Even now I still know by
heart Arno Holz' "Phantasus." I was carried away with enthusiasm
for Johann Schlaf's "Spring," of the same period. Later, I turned
away from these poets and came back to Goethe and Moerike. I don't
