Searching for waste in Stifter's Der Nachsommer (Indian Summer, 1857), a novel in which everything glistens in cleanliness and orderliness, may seem like an odd endeavor.1 The domestic spaces that the protagonist inhabits as a child and visits as an adult are veritable paragons of orderly households. These include the city apartment and subsequent suburban domicile of his parents in Vienna as well as the two country estates that help shape his later development: the Asperhof belonging to his paternal friend and mentor Risach and the Sternenhof, where his future wife Natalie and her mother Mathilde reside. Not a single speck of dust sullies these abodes, nothing lies purposeless within their confines; furniture is looked after with care, household items treated with deference. The same holds true for the extramural gardens and their harmoniously arranged grounds, particularly at Risach's Rosenhaus, where every fallen leaf is instantly removed, sandy pathways are regularly raked smooth, and trees receive a thorough bark-scrubbing every spring. Indeed, even in the otherwise detritus-generating realm of labor—here for instance the Asperhof's artisanal workshop—order and tidiness remain a top priority. Thus, given this initial sampling of hygienic examples drawn from the novel, what is the point of pursuing traces of waste therein?

At the end of the year 1812 Beethoven could look back on a remarkably productive decade that had seen him compose an array of large-scale masterpieces including the Third to Eighth Symphonies, the last two piano concertos, the Violin Concerto and the Triple Concerto, the string quartets opp.59, 74 and 95, two versions of the opera Leonore, and the Mass in C. In the two-and-a-half years that followed the completion of the Seventh and Eighth Symphonies, and the culmination of his serene manner marked by the ‘Archduke’ Trio and the op.96 Violin Sonata, Beethoven experienced a comparatively lean period in his output. Much of this time was taken up with the final revision of his opera, and with occasional pieces such as Wellingtons Sieg (the so-called ‘Battle Symphony’), the cantata Der glorreiche Augenblick, the Namensfeier Overture, and the choral setting of Goethe's Meeres Stille und glückliche Fahrt. The only new work of real significance to emerge was the highly concentrated two-movement Piano Sonata op.90. It is possible that in the wake of the ‘Immortal Beloved’ letter of the summer of 1812 Beethoven experienced some form of mid-life crisis, as well as a prolonged period of depression. His state of mind is reflected in some of his diary entries from the end of 1812 and the early summer of 1813: ‘You should not be a human being [Mensch], not for yourself, only for others; for you there is no longer any happiness except in yourself, in your art. O God! Give me strength to conquer myself, nothing at all must fetter me to life.’

Beethoven's last chamber works with piano are intimately bound up with the nearly two hundred arrangements of folk songs he made in the decade between 1810 and 1820, the large majority of them for the Scottish philanthropist and folksong enthusiast George Thomson. Thomson's mission was to publish as comprehensive as possible a collection of Scottish folk melodies (and later, songs from Wales and Ireland), in settings with preludes, postludes and accompaniments for piano trio made by some of the leading composers of central Europe. To this end, he turned first to Haydn's pupil Ignaz Pleyel, then to the Bohemian composer Leopold Kozeluch (described at one point by the exasperated Beethoven in his voluminous correspondence with Thomson as a miserabilis); and eventually to Haydn himself, who had already provided two folksong collections for the Scottish publisher William Napier. But by 1803 it was clear that Haydn was becoming too frail to continue with this work for much longer, and it was in that year that Thomson made an initial approach to Beethoven.

Thomson's first letter to Beethoven, dated 20 July 1803, has not survived, but in his reply of 5 October the composer agreed to write six sonatas based on Scottish national airs for a fee of 300 ducats. This, however, was too high for Thomson, who was prepared to pay only half the requested amount; and, perhaps not surprisingly, negotiations at this stage came to nothing. All the same, Beethoven appears to have begun work on the project, and to have jotted down a few brief piano sketches of Scottish tunes in the summer of 1804.

1 January. How differently has the old year ended and the new one begun to what I expected. On the 30 Dec. I wrote to Hinck that everything in the world was going as I wished, and the very next day was one of the most melancholy I ever passed. Sutton came up again on Thursday from Brighton, Dan saw him on Friday and thought him much the same; on Saturday morning I went to his chambers determined to make him call in other advice, but after waiting an hour and a half went away without seeing him, as he was out. At 2 oclock his friend John Romilly sent a messenger to us in the City to say he was much worse and we must come up immediately. I went and found him attacked by paralysis and speechless. His apothecary had sent for Dr Bright, and as he could not come till 6 asked me to stay with him, which I did. He was downstairs in his library, sometimes sitting in one chair sometimes in another, walking up and down the room, taking down a book and putting it up again, cutting with his knife and so on to kill time. I took a book to read that I might not fuss him by appearing to watch him; I spoke occasionally and he tried to answer but could not articulate a word intelligibly. It was a most wearying time. … His face was very slightly drawn and fixed in one expression without the power of change or smiling. Bright treated him as Welbank had done before, cupped him and gave him a powerful medicine and I came away at 7.

Mortality is one of the distinctive traits of the Scandinavian gods as they are portrayed in the literary sources. While the Olympian gods of classical antiquity were considered immortal and Zeus, according to the Hesiodic account, established himself as the perpetual and unchallengeable ruler of the gods after having hurled the arch-monster Typhon into the depths of Tartarus, the ground beneath the Scandinavian gods was less firm. As presented in the Eddas, the major gods of the North knew that their time was limited and that their giant antagonists at some point in the future would gather forces and rise against them. In the cataclysmic upheaval that would follow, the ordered world of Óðinn and his brothers would be demolished; stars would vanish from the sky and the sea would engulf the earth. Throughout mythological history, Óðinn does his best to prepare for this calamity although he also seems to know that his efforts will be exerted in vain and that the gods will succumb in the end. The future of the gods is bleak indeed. Some relief is offered by the prospect that general annihilation will be followed by partial regeneration. Prognostication indicates that a purified and paradisiacal world will rise from the sea of its own accord, fields will grow unsown, misfortune will be expunged, and that Baldr, the only god presented as unambiguously good, will return from the dead and inhabit Óðinn's old quarters in harmony with his killer Hǫðr.

Shortly after the destruction of a city, beaten tracksextend out over the ruins. In a certain way, theyrestore the old relations of pathways that existedbefore the destruction, while at the same time, theymark out manifestly new shortcuts and detours.

—Alexander Kluge and Oskar Negt

The plan, you see, that's you, it's me.

The plan is all our strength,

is muscle, blood, and certainly

not a paper; it is passion,

love for cleanliness,

honesty, cheerful courage,

that everything I grasp right

and quickly prospers to our happiness.

—Georg Maurer

MariaLangner begins her novel Stahl in late February 1950 with thedemolition of the smokestack of the ruinedBrandenburg Steel and Rolling Mills, or SWB, whichis being cleared to make way for a new steel mill tobe constructed on the site. Two veteransteelworkers, Fritz Budde and Eduard Ackermann,survey “das Erbe des Reiches” (the heritage of theReich), with its “Millionen zerstreuter Steine,zwerghaftes Unkraut auf vertrockneten fadendünnenStielen, aus zerfressenen Fundamenten auftragende,verbogene Eisenstangen” (millions of scatteredstones, stunted weeds on dried, thread-thin stalks,twisted iron rods rising from eroded foundations).And yet, even amid this destruction, the work beginson Ofenbereich I, or Furnace Area I, which “hebtsich, scharf begrenzt, aus Schwärze und Chaos”(lifts itself, starkly defined, from blackness andchaos), where

[d]reihundert Menschen bewegen sich im erleuchtetenViereck, umzit¬tert vom flammenden Netz rieselnder,schmelzender Schneekristalle. Preßlufthämmerschnattern sich ins Gestein. Dumpf klickerndschlagen die Spitzhacken gegen Mauerreste.Frauenhändestoßen Schippen in Steinhaufen. Hände inklobigen Fäustlingen fassen nach Ziegelbrocken.

“If There Be Among You a Prophet of the Lord”

The creators of the Welles-Ros Bible were keen to enhance the illustrations’ topicality as well as their exegetical and didactic efficacy, to make the Bible a personalized primer for its intended owner. They achieved these aims through an astute choice of visual models, and by carefully editing both text and imagery to relate them to aspects of the Welles family's history, experience, and thought-world. Several images were designed to encourage John de Welles's identification with the protagonists of the biblical books they introduce, including the pious courtier and administrator Nehemiah and the prophets Micah and Jeremiah. The prophets are accorded a notable prominence in the Bible's decorative program. The richly narrative historiated initials for the Prophetic books range from 16 to 24 lines in height. The largest of them, including the initials for Isaiah, Ezekiel, Daniel, and Joel, are therefore among the largest images in the Old Testament as a whole, a visual emphasis that is in line with Carmelite historiography and spirituality.

The prophetic role or vocation entailed not only seeing but also hearing and speaking. The prophet hears the Lord's words and enters into dialogue with God in order to communicate the divine message to people who may be reticent to receive it. The forest, a key locus in the Welles family's story, is also a vital site of prophetic experience in the Bible's illuminated pages.

For medieval Christians the Bible gave history its “time scale” and its purpose, in the words of Beryl Smalley, as well as its narrative arc. Extending from Creation to the Last Things, history “unrolled” through the two testaments to the reader's present and beyond, offering an account of both “exploits actually performed” in the past, as the Rhetorica ad Herennium (first century BC) put it, as well as events foreseen or prophesied – that is, the whole history of human salvation according to the Christian worldview. For authorities and their audiences living in Augustine's sixth, present age, the Bible and its exegesis offered a means to understand observable historical change, and the thread with which to tie together the eternal and the mundane. The rise and fall of empires, kingdoms, and cities, the advent of new religious and political movements, the fortunes of armies and dynasties, the deeds of individuals, and even global catastrophe could be related to both biblical events and biblical prophecy by means of allegory and analogy.

Also integral to the Christian perception of the Bible as a template for human history are its numerous genealogies. In the Old Testament genealogies are concentrated in Genesis, 1 Chronicles, and 1 and 2 Esdras (Ezra and Nehemiah), with briefer genealogies and dynastic lists scattered throughout other biblical books; the gospels of Matthew and Luke contain two differing genealogies of Jesus. While many biblical genealogies are simple lists of names, even the tersest genealogy is a form of narrative.

Personal Life and Operatic Works

The Diary

Smetana bore his fate with unparalleled heroism. Initially, neither he nor anyone else around him fully grasped the magnitude of the impending catastrophe. Throughout the preceding, tumultuous years, he diligently chronicled not only theatrical events but also political and national developments in his diary. It is intriguing to examine the external events Smetana documented in the period leading up to his illness, as we can observe his selflessness and tendency to prioritize broader issues over personal matters. His spirit remained indomitable, and he was profoundly affected by both personal and national circumstances. In August 1868, he recorded the Viennese government's persecution of Czechs and those who dared to voice even the slightest opposition to the authorities: “In this manner, they will not win our affection.” Another entry, from February 1869, reflects his frustration with the political climate, including martial law: “Vienna is the undoing of Prague.”

His tone softened somewhat in March 1869, when martial law, which had suspended constitutional rights like free press and assembly, was repealed. Following the September 1869 elections to the Viennese Parliament, which favored the Czech opposition (the “Declarants”), Smetana noted: “A turning point for the Czechs … They are ready to settle. We have only one response: ‘State Rights for the Bohemian Crown’.”