Samstag, 12. Mai 2012

Edward Lear

Man fragt sich: was kann er nicht, dieser Edward Lear? Er kann malen, er kann zeichnen, er kann dichten. Nicht so wie Lord Tennyson, eher so wie Lewis Carroll. Heute vor zweihundert Jahren wurde der Meister des literarischen Nonsens in Holloway geboren. Das kennt jeder ➱Edgar Wallace Leser, weil da ein Gefängnis ist, aber 1812 gab es das noch nicht. Zur Feier seines Geburtstags hat man heute den International Owl and Pussycat Day ausgerufen. Denken wir also heute einmal an den Mann, der den Nonsens literaturfähig gemacht hat. Nicht dass vor ihm Literaten nicht schon Nonsens geschrieben hätten. Man braucht zu ihm auch nichts zu sagen, er kann sich selbst vorstellen:

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear,
Who has written such volumes of stuff.
Some think him ill-tempered and queer,
But a few find him pleasant enough.

His mind is concrete and fastidious,
His nose is remarkably big;
His visage is more or less hideous,
His beard it resembles a wig.

He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers,
(Leastways if you reckon two thumbs);
He used to be one of the singers,
But now he is one of the dumbs.

He sits in a beautiful parlour,
With hundreds of books on the wall;
He drinks a great deal of marsala,
But never gets tipsy at all.

He has many friends, laymen and clerical,
Old Foss is the name of his cat;
His body is perfectly spherical,
He weareth a runcible hat.

When he walks in waterproof white,
The children run after him so!
Calling out, "He's gone out in his night-
Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!"

He weeps by the side of the ocean,
He weeps on the top of the hill;
He purchases pancakes and lotion,
And chocolate shrimps from the mill.

He reads, but he does not speak, Spanish,
He cannot abide ginger beer;
Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish,
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!

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