Zusatztext "Perhaps the greatest testament of personal devotion published in this century." The New York Times "The conviction when one has finished [ Markings is] that one has had the privilege of being in contact with a great! good! and lovable man."W. H. Auden Informationen zum Autor Dag Hammarskjold was born in Sweden in 1905 and died in Northern Rhodesia in a plane crash in 1961, while flying there to negotiate a cease-fire between United Nations and Katanga forces. Elected Secretary-General of the United Nations in 1953, serving until his death, he was known throughout the world as a peacemaker. He had studied law and economics, but was also widely read in philosophy and literature. His internal struggles remained a private matter between him and God until after his death, when this book of meditations was published, making him posthumously one of the twentieth century's most noted spiritual pilgrims. Klappentext "Perhaps the greatest testament of personal devotion published in this century." - The New York Times A powerful journal of poems and spiritual meditations recorded over several decades by a universally known and admired peacemaker. A dramatic account of spiritual struggle, Markings has inspired hundreds of thousands of readers since it was first published in 1964. Markings is distinctive, as W.H. Auden remarks in his foreword, as a record of "the attempt by a professional man of action to unite in one life the via activa and the via contemplativa." It reflects its author's efforts to live his creed, his belief that all men are equally the children of God and that faith and love require of him a life of selfless service to others. For Hammarskjöld, "the road to holiness necessarily passes through the world of action." Markings is not only a fascinating glimpse of the mind of a great man, but also a moving spiritual classic that has left its mark on generations of readers. Leseprobe MARKINGS Only the hand that erases can write the true thing MEISTER ECKHART 1925-1930 Thus is was I am being driven forward Into an unknown land. The pass grows steeper, The air colder and sharper. A wind from my unknown goal Stirs the strings Of expectation. Still the question: Shall I ever get there? There where life resounds, A clear pure note In the silence. Smiling, sincere, incorruptible-- His body disciplined and limber. A man who had become what he could, And was what he was-- Ready at any moment to gather everything Into one simple sacrifice. Tomorrow we shall meet, Death and I-- And he shall thrust his sword Into one who is wide awake. But in the meantime how grievous the memory Of hours frittered away. Beauty: a note that set the heartstrings quivering as it flew by; the shimmer of the blood beneath a skin translucent in the sunlight. Beauty: the wind which refreshed the traveler, not the stifling heat in dark adits where beggars grubbed for gold. Never look down to test the ground before taking your next step: only he who keeps his eye fixed on the far horizon will find his right road. Life yields only to the conqueror. Never accept what can be gained by giving in. You will be living off stolen goods, and your muscles will atrophy. Never measure the height of a mountain, until you have reached the top. Then you will see how low it was. "Better than other people." Sometimes he says: "That, at least, you are." But more often: "Why should you be? Either you are what you can be, or you are not--like other people." What you have to attempt--to be yourself. What you have to pray for--to become a mirror in which, according to the degree of purity of heart you have attained, the greatness of life will be reflected. Every...

Autorentext
Dag Hammarskjold was born in Sweden in 1905 and died in Northern Rhodesia in a plane crash in 1961, while flying there to negotiate a cease-fire between United Nations and Katanga forces. Elected Secretary-General of the United Nations in 1953, serving until his death, he was known throughout the world as a peacemaker. He had studied law and economics, but was also widely read in philosophy and literature. His internal struggles remained a private matter between him and God until after his death, when this book of meditations was published, making him posthumously one of the twentieth century's most noted spiritual pilgrims.

Leseprobe
MARKINGS Only the hand that erases can write the true thing MEISTER ECKHART 1925-1930 Thus is was I am being driven forward Into an unknown land. The pass grows steeper, The air colder and sharper. A wind from my unknown goal Stirs the strings Of expectation. Still the question: Shall I ever get there? There where life resounds, A clear pure note In the silence. Smiling, sincere, incorruptible-- His body disciplined and limber. A man who had become what he could, And was what he was-- Ready at any moment to gather everything Into one simple sacrifice. Tomorrow we shall meet, Death and I-- And he shall thrust his sword Into one who is wide awake. But in the meantime how grievous the memory Of hours frittered away. Beauty: a note that set the heartstrings quivering as it flew by; the shimmer of the blood beneath a skin translucent in the sunlight. Beauty: the wind which refreshed the traveler, not the stifling heat in dark adits where beggars grubbed for gold. Never look down to test the ground before taking your next step: only he who keeps his eye fixed on the far horizon will find his right road. Life yields only to the conqueror. Never accept what can be gained by giving in. You will be living off stolen goods, and your muscles will atrophy. Never measure the height of a mountain, until you have reached the top. Then you will see how low it was. "Better than other people." Sometimes he says: "That, at least, you are." But more often: "Why should you be? Either you are what you can be, or you are not--like other people." What you have to attempt--to be yourself. What you have to pray for--to become a mirror in which, according to the degree of purity of heart you have attained, the greatness of life will be reflected. Every deed and every relationship is surrounded by an atmosphere of silence. Friendship needs no words--it is solitude delivered from the anguish of loneliness. If your goal is not determined by your most secret pathos, even victory will only make you painfully aware of your own weakness. Life only demands from you the strength you possess. Only one feat is possible--not to have run away. To be sure, you have to fence with an unbuttoned foil: but, in the loneliness of yesterday, did you not toy with the idea of poisoning the tip? We carry our nemesis within us: yesterday's self-admiration is the legitimate father of today's feeling of guilt. He bore failure without self-pity, and success without self-admiration. Provided he knew he had paid his utter-most farthing, what did it matter to him how others judged the result. A Pharisee? Lord, thou knowest he has never been righteous in his own eyes. 1941-1942 The middle years He stood erect--as a peg top does so long as the whip keeps lashing it. He was modest--thanks to a robust conviction of his own superiority. He was unambitious--all he wanted was a life free from cares, and he took more pleasure in the failures of others than in his own successes. He saved his life by never risking it--and complained that he was misunderstood. "The Army of Misfortune." Why should we always think of this as meaning "The Others"? Your cravings as a human animal do not become a prayer just because it is God whom you ask to attend to them. Isn't the void which surrounds you when the noise ceases your just reward for a day devoted to preventing others from neglecting you? What gives life its value you can find--and lose. But never possess. This holds good above all for "the Truth about Life." How can you expect to keep your powers of hearing when you never want to listen? That God should have time for you, you seem to take as…