Doktor, Donna a sonet 130
Byl Doktor. A Donna. A v rámci Red Nose Day vzniklo jedno video se Sonetem č. 130
Pro pohodlí cituji originál
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red, than her lips red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
As any she belied with false compare.
V českém překladu
to zní asi takhle:
Mé milé v očích neplá slunce zář,
jak korál rudý není její ret
a růže hezčí nežli její tvář
a v mnohých barvách krášlí tento svět.
Je bílý mramor - ne však její hruď,
jak dráty vlasy, ne jak hedvábí,
a parfém mnohem lépe, buď jak buď,
než její dech mne vůní přivábí.
Rád naslouchám jí, ale přiznávám,
že hudba uchu více lahodí.
Když kráčí, pak se jistě nezdá vám,
jak víla že se vznáší v jahodí.
Ať jiní básní v klamných příměrech -
i bez nich se mi z milé tají dech.
A proč to tady? Svět přece potřebuje můzy dotek, aspoň někdy.
: link na knihovnu na archive.org
V rámci poznávání světa DW dopisuji patřičné poznámky ...
"Really, do I have to do all of your thinking for you?"
The Eight Doctors
"The ruthless arrogance that has been the curse of our Time Lord race. Nothing must endanger us, nothing must stand in our way. And if the lives of inferior have to be sacrificed, so be it!
You left Gallifrey in a fit of pique, and a stolen TARDIS, when your colleagues on the High Council refused to tolerate your arrogance. You selfishly took Susan with you because you felt it might be pleasant to have her company, without considering what the departure might mean for her.
Whatever your motives, much good may come of your leaving Gallifrey. But try to learn a little humility. And remember, you cannot fight evil with evil's methods. The end never justifies the means."
"The only thing sadder than a battle lost is a battle won. Old Wellington sait that to me, just after Waterloo. He was quite right".
There were disadvantages to being thought all-knowing and all-powerful, mused the Doctor. Nobody told you anything, since they assumed you knew it allready.
"The process of conversion - the change, we call it - takes place over many nights. We drink the blood of the chosen one, time after time, taking him" - he smiled at Romana - "or her close to, but not over, the brink of death ..."
"What happens then?"
"Either the chosen one dies or becomes one of us. No all are suitable. A certain strength of spirit is required to survive the process."
That must be why Aukon was so keen to vampirise young Adric, thought Romana. He sensed Adric had the strength of spirit they needed.
Ignoring Zam, the Doctor addressed Romana, deliberately using the clam, detached tone of one scientist discussing an interesting theory with another.
"In my view - for this bunch of vamipres, at least - a kinf of forced mutuation occurs. It takes several exposures for the vampire toxin to establish in the bloodstream. If the subject survives various changes occur. The cardiovascular and muscular systems are immensely strengthened, and the ageing process is arrested."
Romana replied in the samne scientific tone:
"you get the various side effects of course - sensitivity to light, mild hydrophobia, the allergy to to the allys component in garlic ..."
The Doctor nodded. "And of course, the raging hunger for extra protein that the altered systen beeds. Hence the blood-drinking."
He turned to Zam. "You know, you could actually get the same effect by gnawing a good hunk of Cheddar cheese, but id doesn't quite have right mystique, does it?"
The mind of Borusa, the Doctor's much-loved old teacher and the most distinguished of the Lord President of Gallifrey had silently broken under the strain of his responsibilities. With crazed logic, he had decided that what was best for Gallifrey was that he alone should rule it forever. To achieve this he needed more than the twelve regenerations granted to every Time Lord. He needed true immortality.
Like most Time Lords, he was deeply ashamed of some of the dark secrets in his people's past. He knew that their morally superior image was largely a front, but there was no need to spread scandal araund the cosmos.
Immune to scene's beauty, Wrag saw only a clear field of fire and gratifying lack of opposing military installations. He didn't know where he was, or why, but Sontaran's duty was allways clear - to conquer.
The Doctor realised that most Time Lords had no idea of the tragic circumstances in which Borusa had left them. As fas as they knew, he had merely vanished in mysterious circumstances. Now equally mysteriously, he had returned.
There were no obvious indications that the Doctor was in trouble. He was safe inside the TARDIS, where no enemy could reach him and there was no unexpected trap waiting him there - yet.
No, the Doctor's enemy was inside his own mind. For no particular reason, he was feeling depressed.
It was a condition which occasionally attacked Time Lords, especially those with half their regenerations behind them. In fact, the condition attacked most intelligent lifeforms and was well known on many planets, inclulding old Earth.
There it was known as accidie, and to the Churh it was a mortal sin - a denial of God. It was also known as ennui, the megrims, the blues, or the black dog. But whatever the name, the symptoms were always the same; listlessness, boredom, a sense that life was ultimately meaningless and futile, without point or purpose.
If short-lived humans can be oppressed by such feelings, how much more vulnerable is a Time Lord, weighed down by the burden of regeneration after regeneration. When life seems to have no value, an almost ending supply is a curse, not a blessing.
The Doctor could rememver mornings on Gallifrey when a daisy on a snowy mountainside or a drop of dew gleaming on a blade of grass was a sufficient reason for living.
Je told himself he was simply bored, that perhaps, much as he hated to admit it, he was lonely. He badly muissed having travelling companuon to share his journey with.
Both problems could easily be remedied.
The cosmos was full of excitement and adventure. As for companions, well - Earth, and any other planet with intelligent life, was full of sentient life-forns eager ti see the Universe at his side.
But the Doctor was sick of risking his neck in some noble cause - and even more sick of doing nothing. Fed up with being wise and kindly and patient and patronisingly paternal, his persona had darkened, he had become detached. He could barely believe some of the things he had done these last few years. And now, no one was here, and he realised with a cold bitterness just how much he hated be alone.
The Doctor knew in his hearts that he should go back to Gallifrey and place himself in the hands of the Chief Hospitaller and his team of psycho-techs. There were frugs, there was neurosurgery, there was endless well-meaning talk ...
Even then, though, a cure was by no means guaranteed.
Some Time Lords recovered, but others wandered off into the Outlands and were never seen again.
The treatment of last resort was a forced regeneration, in the hope that the melancholia would be left behind in the discarded form ...
As you once said yourself, Doctor, a man is the sum of his memories, and a Time Lord even more so. You needed your other selves, just as they needed you. For a time I needed you - to make one or two small improvements in the patterns of history.
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