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Coda vez que considero que me tengo de morir, tiendo la capa en el suelo y no me harto de dormir. But no, not sleeping, but dreaming dreaming life, since life is a dream. Among us Spaniards another phrase has very rapidly passed into current usage, the expression "It's a question of passing the time," or "killing the time." And, in fact, we make time in order to kill it.
Of all Digby's many interests the most constant and permanent was medicine. How to enlarge the span of man's life was a problem much meditated on in his age. We have seen how Descartes's mind ran on it; and in Bacon's Natural History there is reference to a 'book of the prolongation of life. In spite of what is written on his Janssen hermit portrait Saber morir la mayor hazanza Digby loved life.
Come le mosche noi dobbiam morir, Mentre gl' imboscati si stanno a divertir." Sang the young men as they went away, While the imboscati were standing about To amuse themselves, with a newspaper in their hand And a cigarette. For us the bayonet charge! Like flies we must die. While the imboscati stand about to amuse themselves.
'Van muerte tan escondida, Que no te sienta venir, Porque el plazer del morir, No mestorne a dar la vida. "That's Spanish from Miguel de Cervantes.
I explained the whole affair to him, and described the punishment to which I had been subjected, and which seemed to me unjust. He pacified me, and exhorted me to be patient, telling me to comfort myself with the Spanish proverb, un rey no puede morir, which he explained as meaning that the ruler of a school must of necessity always be in the right.
No toothache nor other malady, and no spleen; people die by accident or from old age; indeed, the Montereyans have an odd proverb, "El que quiere morir que se vaya del pueblo" that is to say, "He who wishes to die must leave the city." While remaining there I had rather a perilous adventure.
I have been happy not for moments only, not for hours, not for whole days even, but for whole weeks together. And what right had I to happiness? She felt terror at the thought of her happiness. 'What, if that cannot be? she thought. 'What, if it is not granted for nothing? Why, it has been heaven... and we are mortals, poor sinful mortals.... Morir si giovane. Oh, dark omen, away!
Conventional song-forms returned when poet and composer gave voice to the dying woman's lament for the happiness that was past and her agony of fear when she felt the touch of Death's icy hand; but where is melody more truthfully eloquent than in "Addio, del passato," and "Gran Dio! morir so giovane"? Is it within the power of instruments, no matter how great their number, or harmony with all the poignancy which it has acquired through the ingenious use of dissonance, or of broken phrase floating on an instrumental flood, to be more dramatically expressive than are these songs?
"Whatever you like, cara mia." And standing by the piano, her arms hanging loose, she began a chant such as the peasants use working under the olives. Her voice was small and deep, with a peculiar thick sweetness that suited the song, half-humorous, half-pathetic. These were the words she sang: Vorrei morir di morte piccinina, Morta la sera e viva la mattina.
Vorrei morire, e non vorrei morire, Vorrei veder, chi mi piange e chi lide; Vorrei morir, e star sulle finestre, Vorrei veder chi mi cuce la veste; Vorrei morir, e stare sulla scala, Vorrei veder chi mi porta la bara; Vorrei morir, e vorre' alzar la voce, Vorrei veder chi mi parta la croce. "Very well chosen, my dear," said Miss Prunty, when the song was finished.
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