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ویلیام باتلر ییتس
در این کتاب، مؤلفان زندگی حرفهای طولانی و پرحادثه و بارور ویلیام باتلرییتس را پی میگیرند و در کنار فعالیتهای شاعرانۀ ییتس به دورههای گوناگون حیات سیاسیاش مانند سرپرستی تئاتر آبی و عضویت در مجلس سنای ایرلند میپردازند. آنها با حدت و تیزهوشی آمیخته با طنز و شوخطبعی، ویژگیهای متضاد شخصیت این نابغۀ ایرلندی را که همزمان هم محبوب و هم خشن
161 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 1986
2 people are currently reading
42 people want to read
About the author
Micheál Mac Liammóir
12 booksMicheál Mac Liammhóir (born Alfred Willmore) was an English-born Irish actor, dramatist, impresario, writer, poet and painter. MacLiammóir was born to a Protestant family living in the Kensal Green neighbourhood of London.
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Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews
February 3, 2020
Brief, heavily illustrated look at the poet’s life.
February 23, 2012
Yeats had a lifelong fascination with supernatural nonsense. Such thinking, however, may have influenced some of his greater poems in a positive way. 'Mr WB Yeats, Presenting Mr George Moore to the Queen of Fairies', 1904. Artist: Max Beerbohm is a very telling satire of the absurdity of some of the great poet's beliefs.
When Yeats was in his 20s, he met Maud Gonne, the woman he would love for perhaps the rest of his life without it being returned. She was a woman who spoke of war and the glories of war so that it may have been better for Yeats as a poet that he did not marry her. His poetry may have then focused on Irish independence more than it did. She would marry a military man. Yeats's life would be "changed, changed utterly."
Lady Gregory would introduce Yeats to the great Abbey Theater. But here again it is good that Yeats did not focus solely on that. I am not a fan of his plays. They are no way near his poetry.
In 1917, he married George Hyde-Lees, an Englishwoman. The Irish of the time did not seem to direct their animosity against England to English individuals. She was loved and accepted from the beginning. With Yeats, she practiced automatic writing from the spirit world on their honeymoon. Now that's what I call a fun honeymoon. She helped to increase his undiminished passion for the "hidden world."
Wins the Nobel Prize for literature in 1923. He followed that with "A Vision." In it he wrote about communications he and his wife received from "invisible forces."
His final book of poetry, The Tower, was an absolute work of genius. I'm glad he didn't die young, and I wish he focused more on his poetry when he was young.
Yeats died at the age of 73. He was buried under Ben Bulben with one of the greatest epitaphs ever written:
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!
When Yeats was in his 20s, he met Maud Gonne, the woman he would love for perhaps the rest of his life without it being returned. She was a woman who spoke of war and the glories of war so that it may have been better for Yeats as a poet that he did not marry her. His poetry may have then focused on Irish independence more than it did. She would marry a military man. Yeats's life would be "changed, changed utterly."
Lady Gregory would introduce Yeats to the great Abbey Theater. But here again it is good that Yeats did not focus solely on that. I am not a fan of his plays. They are no way near his poetry.
In 1917, he married George Hyde-Lees, an Englishwoman. The Irish of the time did not seem to direct their animosity against England to English individuals. She was loved and accepted from the beginning. With Yeats, she practiced automatic writing from the spirit world on their honeymoon. Now that's what I call a fun honeymoon. She helped to increase his undiminished passion for the "hidden world."
Wins the Nobel Prize for literature in 1923. He followed that with "A Vision." In it he wrote about communications he and his wife received from "invisible forces."
His final book of poetry, The Tower, was an absolute work of genius. I'm glad he didn't die young, and I wish he focused more on his poetry when he was young.
Yeats died at the age of 73. He was buried under Ben Bulben with one of the greatest epitaphs ever written:
Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!
February 5, 2022
4.0 out of 5. An engaging, brief overview of Yeats’ life and work, with excerpts from his key poems. Enjoyable and enlightening!
April 18, 2024
This is a short biography (127 pages) of the great Irish poet: W.B.Yeats. It takes us through his youth and into his old age, which, on the whole, was unremarkable, but shows us how remarkable his inner life was, especially his passion and knowledge of pre-Christian paganism that informed his spiritual life.
Born into a bohemian family of writers and painters, Yeats was destined to follow their path, which he dutifully did, and would lead him to winning the Nobel Prize for literature in 1923. Michael Macliammoir acquaints us with the people he met who greatly influenced him - Maude Goone, Lady Gregory, J.M. Synge and others, and the inspiration he drew from his beloved homeland.
Heavily illustrated, sadly all in black and white, this is a good book if you love W.B. Yeats. Long out of print, copies are available from eBay.
Born into a bohemian family of writers and painters, Yeats was destined to follow their path, which he dutifully did, and would lead him to winning the Nobel Prize for literature in 1923. Michael Macliammoir acquaints us with the people he met who greatly influenced him - Maude Goone, Lady Gregory, J.M. Synge and others, and the inspiration he drew from his beloved homeland.
Heavily illustrated, sadly all in black and white, this is a good book if you love W.B. Yeats. Long out of print, copies are available from eBay.
April 23, 2012
Read into the following sentence what you will:
My favourite written words by Yeats are located on his epitaph.
My favourite written words by Yeats are located on his epitaph.
May 23, 2016
This short book (with many photos) gave a good introduction to W.B. Yeats and the Ireland of his times. I might be ready to go on to something in more depth now!
April 10, 2019
Easter, 1916
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman’s days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute to minute they live;
The stone’s in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven’s part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman’s days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute to minute they live;
The stone’s in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven’s part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse—
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews