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 Friedrich Dürrenmatt 

Friedrich Dürrenmatt (January 5, 1921 - December 14, 1990) was a Swiss author and dramatist.

He was born in Konolfingen[?] near Bern. The politically active author gained fame largely due to his avant-garde dramas, philosophically deep crime novels, and often macabre satire.

The Visit (Der Besuch der alten Dame (1956)) which tells of a rich benefactor visiting her beneficiaries, is the work best known in the United States. The Physicists (Die Physiker (1962)) has also been presented in translation.

He died in Neuchâtel[?].

Selected Bibliography

  • Es steht geschrieben (1947)
  • Der Blinde (1947)
  • Der Richter und sein Henker (1952)
  • Die Ehe des Herrn Mississippi (1952)
  • Der Verdacht (1953)
  • Der Besuch der alten Dame (1956)
  • Die Panne (1956)
  • Die Physiker (1962)
  • Der Meteor (1966)
  • Play Strindberg (1969)
  • Der Sturz (1971)
  • Achterloo (1982)
  • Justiz (1985)

While yet the battle.html">battle lay with God, And gravely wear his mournful palm; And him, whose heart still weak from fear Know that intemperate glee is crime With sober joy, the troubled days; May not be hushed for private ill. Our foes are fallen! Flash, ye wires! Ye cities! write them on the sky.html">sky Their threats were heard on every.html">every breeze; And swooped like vultures on the coast. False recreants in all knightly strife, Behind them flamed the toil of years, God gave the dastards to our hands; Or mouldering slow in shallow graves. What though we hear about our path The venom of their hate is spent; Now drinks a thousand springs, and sweeps And rushes onward to the main; While down the swelling current glides With streamers poured from every mast, Hang out thy rainbow on the sea! And speed her to the port of peace! But all the winds of Heaven are still; Which thrills us in the church-yard ground, Upon the coffin of the dead. I cannot see the neighboring vane, The bell comes, muffled, through the shower. Of feeling touched, has made me think -- I watch that gray and stony sky -- Washed by a single winter's rains, And some by green Atlantic rills, A myriad unknown heroes rest. Their flags in front of victory, Pay for a battle nobly lost, The bitterest tears a nation sheds. Beneath yon lonely mound -- the spot Lie the true martyrs of the fight Of them, their patriot zeal and pride, No grateful page shall farther tell And we can only dimly guess What utter woe, despair, and dearth, .

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