Thursday, March 28, 2013


“If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.”
~George Eliot, Middlemarch: A Study of Provincial Life

quoth the madman

Bravo ! 
View Post
I shall revenge myself in the cruelest way you can imagine. I shall forget it.
John Steinbeck

ars poetica

As you shall sleep forgotten
under the waxy soil
and the cross of God shall stand upright
infixed above your spoils

As both your cheeks shall melt in rot
over your shaky teeth
and in the foetid vacuum of your orbs
maggots shall swarm and breed

For you that slumber, which to most is peace
shall be renewed torment
and a remorse shall come, steadfast and cold
to fret upon your brain.

A remorse, the sharpest and most cruel, shall
come over your burial
in spite of God, and in spite of his cross
to gnaw upon your bones.

I shall be that remorse. I, seeking you
in the dark of the night
Lamia who shuns the morn, shall come and howl
as would howl a she-wolf;

I shall with mine own nails dig up the earth
by your virtue made dung
and split asunder the foul planks which hold
your infamous carrion.

Ah, how in your heart still vermillion shall
I quench the hate of old
Ah, with what joy shall I protrude my claw
into your shameless womb!

On your putrescent belly, nestled up
I shall forever dwell
A specter of vengeance and sin, a
monstrosity from hell;

And at your ear, which was so fair, shall I
whisper insatiable
sayings which shall set your brain on fire
like glowing hot iron

When you shall ask: why do you sting me, and
drench me with your poison?
I shall respond: don't you remember your
hair, which looked so awesome?

Don't you recall the plentiful blond mane
falling upon your chest
and eyes of blackest tint, and bottomless
sparkled by yellow flames?

And the audacities of your bosom, the
opulence of the hip?
Don't you recall how beautiful you were
provocative, and pale?

But are you not then that who her naked breasts
exposed to public eyes
and, foaming Licisca, made her own bed
into a true traffic hub?

Are you not the one who drunks and soldiers
welcomed in her embrace
lowered herself to unspeakable kisses
yet laughed upon my face?

And as I loved you, and fell upon my knees
in front of you, and, you see
when you looked at me I only wanted
to die under your feet

Why deny - to me, who loved you so - a
gentle glance, when for you
I would have made myself a slave, I would
have made myself depraved?

Why did you say no, when crawling at your
feet I implored your mercy
while your pimps out in the street awaited
for the next batch of Brits?

You laughed? Now listen! Up from the cave grave
this sinful corpse of yours
your naked flesh so much I adored
I am nailing to the pillory

And the pillory are those verses, whereas I condemn you
to eternal blame, and punishments
so harsh that you shall long
for those dispensed in hell.

Here shall you ever die a new death, oh accursed
slowly being pierced with pins
and with your shame, my vengeance
between your eyes I seal.
~THE SONG OF HATE - by Lorenzo Stecchetti (1877)

Friday, March 22, 2013

quoth the madman


voyage au bout de la nuit
Nothing in the world can bother you as much as your own mind, I tell you. In fact, others seem to be bothering you, but it is not others, it is your own mind.
Ravi Shankar

quoth the madman

"The mind is beautiful because of the paradox. It uses itself to understand itself."
~Adam Elenbass


"I walk around the world like a ghost, and sometimes I question whether I even exist. Whether I’ve ever existed at all."
~Paul Auster, Travels in the Scriptorium

quoth the madman

We never keep to the present. We recall the past; we anticipate the future as if we found it too slow in coming and were trying to hurry it up, or we recall the past as if to stay its too rapid flight. We are so unwise that we wander about in times that do not belong to us, and do not think of the only one that does; so vain that we dream of times that are not and blindly flee the one that is. The fact is that the present usually hurts. We thrust it out of sight because it distresses us, and if we find it enjoyable, we are sorry to see it slip away. We try to give it the support of the future, and think how we are going to arrange things over which we have no control for a time we can never be sure of reaching. Let each of us examine his thoughts; he will find them wholly concerned with the past or the future. We almost never think of the present, and if we do think of it, it is only to see what light it throws on our plans for the future. The present is never our end. The past and the present are our means, the future alone our end. Thus we never actually live, but hope to live, and since we are always planning how to be happy, we should never be so.

— Blaise Pascal

Thursday, March 21, 2013



Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954)
Every morning I sit at the kitchen table over a tall glass of water swallowing pills. (So my hands won’t shake.) (So my heart won’t race.) (So my face won’t thaw.) (So my blood won’t mold.) (So the voices won’t scream.) (So I don’t reach for knives.) (So I keep out of the oven.) (So I eat every morsel.) (So the wine goes bitter.) (So I remember the laundry.) (So I remember to call.) (So I remember the name of each pill.) (So I remember the name of each sickness.) (So I keep my hands inside my hands.) (So the city won’t rattle.) (So I don’t weep on the bus.) (So I don’t wander the guardrail.) (So the flashbacks go quiet.) (So the insomnia sleeps.) (So I don’t jump at car horns.) (So I don’t jump at cat-calls.) (So I don’t jump a bridge.) (So I don’t twitch.) (So I don’t riot.) (So I don’t slit a strange man’s throat.)
~Jeanann Verlee, Good Girl.

quoth the madman

"Spiritual people can be some of the most violent people you will ever meet. Mostly, they are violent to themselves. They violently try to control their minds, their emotions, and their bodies. They become upset with themselves and beat themselves up for not rising up to the conditioned mind’s idea of what it believes enlightenment to be. No one ever became free through such violence. Why is it that so few people are truly free? Because they try to conform to ideas, concepts, and beliefs in their heads. They try to concentrate their way to heaven. But Freedom is about the natural state, the spontaneous and unselfconscious expression of beingness. If you want to find it, see that the very idea of a someone who is in control is a concept created by the mind. Take one step backward into the unknown."
- Adyashanti

quoth the madman

"To stay present in everyday life, it helps to be deeply rooted within yourself; otherwise, the mind, which has incredible momentum, will drag you along like a wild river."
- Eckhart Tolle

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

here is truth

Happy Spring Equinox/First Day of Spring/Ostara/Alban Eiler- Remember, you can't expect to create magic and live to the point of tears when you allow yourself to be nourished by a steady diet of mainstream media réchauffé...

Friday, March 15, 2013

quoth the madman

Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, “I am falling to the floor crying,” but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it — you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well.
Richard Siken


Children picking up our bones
Will never know that these were once
As quick as foxes on the hill.

Wallace Stevens, The Palm at the end of the Mind

quoth the madman

Do not weep. Do not wax indignant. Understand.
Baruch Spinoza

ars poetica

“We who are lovers sit by the fire,
Cradled warm ‘twixt thought and will,
Sit and drowse like sleeping dogs
In the equipoise of all desire,
Sit and listen to the still
Small hiss and whisper of green logs
That burn away, that burn away
With the sound of a far-off falling stream
Of threaded water blown to steam,
Grey ghost in the mountain world of grey.
Vapours blue as distance rise
Between the hissing logs that show
A glimpse of rosy heat below;
And candles watch with tireless eyes
While we sit drowsing here. I know,
Dimly, that there exists a world,
That there is time perhaps, and space
Other and wider than this place,
Where at the fireside drowsily curled
We hear the whisper and watch the flame
Burn blinkless and inscrutable.
And then I know those other names
That through my brain from cell to cell
Echo—reverberated shout
Of waiters mournful along corridors:
But nobody carries the orders out,
And the names (dear friends, your name and yours)
Evoke no sign. But here I sit
On the wide hearth, and there are you:
That is enough and only true.
The world and the friends that lived in it
Are shadows: you alone remain
Real in this drowsing room,
Full of the whispers of distant rain
And candles staring into the gloom.”

Aldous Huxley By the Fire

Saturday, March 9, 2013


For after all what is man in nature? A nothing in relation to infinity, all in relation to nothing, a central point between nothing and all and infinitely far from understanding either. The ends of things and their beginnings are impregnably concealed from him in an impenetrable secret. He is equally incapable of seeing the nothingness out of which he was drawn and the infinite in which he is engulfed.
~Blaise Pascal, Pensées #72

Friday, March 8, 2013


Tuesday, March 5, 2013

ars poetica

A wind sways the pines,
And below
Not a breath of wild air;
Still as the mosses that glow
On the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there.
The pine-tree drops its dead;
They are quiet, as under the sea.
Overhead, overhead
Rushes life in a race,
As the clouds the clouds chase;
And we go,
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,
Even we,
Even so.

quoth the madman

A mind all logic is like a knife all blade. It makes the hand bleed that uses it.
Rabindranath Tagore

Sunday, March 3, 2013


But, when nothing subsists of an old past, after the death of people, after the destruction of things, alone, frailer but more enduring, more immaterial, more persistent, more faithful, smell and taste still remain for a long time, like souls remembering, waiting, hoping, upon the ruins of all the rest, bearing without giving way, on their almost impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory.
~Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way


For me, joy never comes without the grief of knowing it is only ephemeral. All happiness carries with it the seed of its own end.
~ Gabrielle Wittkop, The Necrophiliac



Édité (via gifmovie)

People who have recently lost someone have a certain look, recognizable maybe only to those who have seen that look on their own faces. I have noticed it on my face and I notice it now on others. The look is one of extreme vulnerability, nakedness, openness. It is the look of someone who walks from the ophthalmologist’s office into the bright daylight with dilated eyes, or of someone who wears glasses and is suddenly made to take them off. These people who have lost someone look naked because they think themselves invisible. I myself felt invisible for a period of time, incorporeal. I seemed to have crossed one of those legendary rivers that divide the living from the dead, entered a place in which I could be seen only by those who were themselves recently bereaved. I understood for the first time the power in the image of the rivers, the Styx, the Lethe, the cloaked ferryman with his pole. I understood for the first time the meaning of the practice of suttee. Widows did not throw themselves on the burning raft out of grief. The burning raft was instead an accurate representation of the place to which their grief (not their families, not the community, not custom, their grief) had taken them.
~ Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking


The desire to live could not be dictated to you. You could not be happy on command, whether the order was given by you or by someone else. The moments of happiness you knew came unbidden. You could understand their sources, but you could not reproduce them.
~Edouard Levé, Suicide


When I see the blind and wretched state of men, when I survey the whole universe in its deadness, and man left to himself with no light, as though lost in this corner of the universe without knowing who put him there, what he has to do, or what will become of him when he dies, incapable of knowing anything, I am moved to terror, like a man transported in his sleep to some terrifying desert island, who wakes up quite lost, with no means of escape. Then I marvel that so wretched a state does not drive people to despair.

— Blaise Pascal - Pensees


Archaeologists have not yet discovered any stage of human existence without art. Even in the half-light before the dawn of humanity we received this gift from Hands we did not manage to discern. Nor have we managed to ask: Why was this gift given to us and what are we to do with it? And all those prophets who are predicting that art is disintegrating, that it has used up all its forms, that it is dying, are mistaken. We are the ones who shall die. And art will remain. The question is whether before we perish we shall understand all its aspects and all its ends.

— Alexsandr Solzhenitsyn, Beauty Will Save the World