Flying into a sunrise – it’s always a fascinating moment. Having been a frequent flyer throughout my professional life, I have seen many such moments and they have never lost their magic. Anticipation, peace of mind, hope… Some time ago I flew to Finland. We took off at dawn and reached our cruising altitude just when the sun went up. I had unpacked my Pushkin novel and my tablet, I stared at the golden light, the clouds, I heard the humming of the two turboprops and more importantly, I listened to a great piece of music: Pyotr Tchaikovsky’s Grande Sonate in G major, Op. 37
Night has fallen. Does it get dark in paradise? I wonder. I haven’t come across a writer who has reflected the daily business of life in paradise. Does it ever get dark? Do people sleep occasionally? Do they have to get up early? Perhaps for one more tedious lyra lesson?
Herr: Es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.
Befiehl den letzten Früchten, voll zu sein;
gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin, und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.
Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.1
It’s raining outside. While we did not have enough rain in June and July, nature seems to catch up now. The climate is changing. We are experiencing weather extremes: droughts, floods. Resignation. I can do my best to reduce my carbon footprint, but sometimes it feels so pointless. A disheartening feeling, difficult to suppress. It takes a real effort to convince myself over and over again: Every step counts. Every step counts. Let’s not loose hope.