Tutu: Phantastische Episoden und poetische Exkursionen

by Alexander von Ungern-Sternberg, Sylva (illustrationen)

Aus dem Buch: "Mein lieber Baron! Wie weit werden Sie es mit Ihrer verzweifelten und verteufelten Chemie noch treiben? Ich, meinerseits mu� Ihnen offen erkl�ren, da� ich m�de bin, Ihre weitern Erfolge in diesem diabolischen Fache mit einem Triumphgeschrei zu begleiten, das ganz und gar nicht zu dem Elend pa�t, welches Sie durch Ihre sogenannten Entdeckungen �ber die Welt gebracht haben. Ich bitte Sie, schauen Sie nur ein wenig um sich. Bemerken Sie jene Tr�mmerhaufen? Sie bezeichnen die Stra�e, die Sie gezogen sind; erkennen Sie jene Kr�ppel, die Ihnen nachschleichen? es sind die einst gl�cklichen Menschen, die in einer Welt voll T�uschung zufrieden lebten, und durchaus nicht begehrten aufgekl�rt und belehrt zu werden. Und vollends wir armen Dichter! Ach, mein Herr, welch eine Last von Vers�ndigung haben Sie auf sich geladen, indem Sie uns, die wir f�r das Publikum dichten und erfinden, allen Stoff aus dem wir unsre Figuren schaffen, geraubt haben. Wer glaubt nun noch an die Zaubersagen, an die Feen, Elfen und Kobolde, mit denen wir die Erde bev�lkerten? Ein jeder Schulknabe wei� jetzt da� ein Irrlicht nichts anderes ist, als ein Phosphor-Fl�mmchen; und doch sind grade diese geheimen Schrecken der Natur die s��esten Reizmittel, die wir unter unsre Gerichte streuen, welche wir Frauen und Kindern, und allen die diesen gleichen, vorsetzen..." Alexander von Ungern-Sternberg (1806-1868), war ein deutscher Erz�hler, Dichter und Maler. Er war Verfasser historischer und biographischer Romane, Novellen und ironischer M�rchen.

220 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1846

About the author

Peter Alexander Freiherr von Ungern-Sternberg (22 April 1806 – 24 August 1869) also known as Alexander von Sternberg, was a Baltic German novelist, poet and painter who worked under the pseudonym Sylvan.

Source: Wikipedia

Reviews

[Osiris Oliphant]

..Your cries of triumph do not at all match the misery that you have brought to the world through your so-called discoveries.

Do you recognize those cripples who stalk you? They are the once happy people who lived contentedly in a world full of ignorance and did not desire to be enlightened or taught.

And especially we poor poets! Oh, sir, what a burden of condemnation you have placed upon yourself by robbing us of all the mysteries from which we create our works.

What do we do with a world ruled not by miracles but by chlorinated lime and acid?

Ever since you placed the ancient phosphorus crown of Pluto on your head and sat on the black basalt throne, you have become overconfident in a way that is almost unbearable.

I see you standing at the forefront of the innumerable army of chemists, exclaiming: We are the ones who gave you the railways!

A pitiful invention! So you and those like you are proud of dragging us poor travelers along straight lines! Who will give us back the rustling forests, the quiet moonlit churchyards, lovely clear lakes, the secret corners of creation through which our traveling chariot used to steer?

Alas, instead we have nothing but a steaming stove in front of us and a pestilential stench behind us, we hear nothing but the shrill sound of a rascal's whistle and see nothing but a barren landscape on which a tycoon calculates his profits.

Everything is over, and just admit openly, it's only over because you and those like you have taken over the world. All that remains is to ask what will happen if these successes are achieved to a greater extent. When you have woven around our old earth the wire mesh of your railways, will you finally give it peace?

No no! I see it coming, when you no longer have anything to analyze, you, as modern cannibals of science, will attack the brains and hearts of your fellow human beings in order to use the blood globules of one and the trembling fibers of the other for your experiments.

But then, sir, be careful! We poets will rise against you en masse; A war will break out such as the earth has never seen before: a war of poets against chemists, a war of virtues against a band of small, poisonous men of destruction.

As a modest attempt to respond like with like, you receive this little story, which I recently found in I don't know which old forgotten manuscript collection of one of my friends and hereby dedicate to you. It still contains, thank heavens, countless miracles and improbabilities, and is full of facts that are likely to cause some annoyance to a man like you who wants to explain everything...