temerarious besties and timerous beasties

ars poetica

2012-01-08T23:54:00.000-06:00

The look of the world's a lie, a face made up

O'er graves and fiery depths; and nothing's true

But what is horrible. If man could see

The perils and diseases that he elbows

Each day he walks a mile; which catch at him

Which fall behind and graze him as he passes;

Then would he know that life's a single pilgrim,

Fighting unarmed amongst a thousand soldiers

It is this infinite invisible

Which we must learn to know, and yet to scorn,

And, from scorn of that, regard the world

As from the edge of a far star

Death's Jest Book, Thomas Lovell Beddoes

ars poetica

2012-01-08T23:51:00.001-06:00

Miracles are to come.
With you I leave a remembrance
of miracles: they are by
somebody who can love
and who shall be continually reborn,
a human being.
—E.E. Cummings

vanitas

2011-12-02T10:56:00.000-06:00

Relic of Saint Gratian ❧ ❧ ❧
Oh make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust under Dust and under Dust to lie,
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and sans End.

~ The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

quoth the madman

2011-10-18T12:59:00.000-05:00

Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.
Lord Byron

vanitas vanitatum omnia vanitas

2011-10-18T12:42:00.001-05:00

Amalia von Schintling was the daughter of Major Lorenz von Schintling of the General Quarters Staff and Baroness Theresia von Hacke. Over the objections of her fiancee, cousin Fritz von Schintling her father allowed her to be portrayed in the Beauty Gallery. An oriental style cape was chosen for her portrait. Their wedding never took place, as Amalia died of Tuberculosis shortly after completion of the painting.
This painting was completed by Joseph Stieler in 1831 when Amalia was 19.

literacki

2011-10-17T20:03:00.002-05:00

Victor Hugo - What has not been named yet
Whoever you are, listen:

It is. What is it? Give up!

The shadow is the issue, the world is the answer.

It is. This is the living, the vast radiant! That looks into the distance the sun dazzled is he. Heaven, you, us, stars, dust! It is the eye the abyss, opened the bottom of the light seen by all the torches, felt by all the nests, which the universe sprang into infinite radius. He looks, and that's it. Just see the sublime. He created a world just by seeing an abyss And this being who sees, having always been, has always created everything for all eternity.When the mouth down to this name key Supreme Test of praise is almost blasphemy. So no explanation! Do kneel your mind, and become a glance, like us. Why look for the words which are no longer matters? The vile human language does not have an apotheosis. He is, is hardly a glimpse of the tomb. He escapes the words black shade. It would make a beautiful verse with the eternal breeze, And to bask in the perfume and the two wings, put the sun in one and the next flower, and mix all the blue in their splendid scale, were God will not paint. Pensive, that the coating noise and north wind, lightning and storm Let shown awake, it is shown sleeping, breathing gently lifting all the depths of the full extent, moving comet lost in the depths of the heavens, the wind on his horse, the death of his flash, and the rocking of the sea monster, We do not paint. Him! Him! the inalienable, the eternal, uncreated, the unexpected, the impossible, it is.The mole digs and excavations, and see, The shadow told the Mole: Are you sure it is? The Mole meets God! God of the eagle is the prey.Assumes that a single person on earth believes in God, this being, if ever the sun was eclipsed, would replace the dawn. And do you know what it's like the wild hurricane and thundering great? It is in the depths of the abyss unaffordable, Infinity murmuring I love it! in a low voice, When the star shines, she said, I see! All art, all the noise and all the anthem of abortion rights say God! The kiss only the name. I like!

Victor Hugo - Ce qui n'a pas encore de nom

Qui que tu sois, écoute : Il est.

Qu'est-il ? Renonce ! L'ombre est la question, le monde est la réponse. Il est. C'est le vivant, le vaste épanoui ! Ce que contemple au loin le soleil ébloui, C'est lui. Les cieux, vous, nous, les étoiles, poussière ! Il est l'oeil gouffre, ouvert au fond de la lumière, Vu par tous les flambeaux, senti par tous les nids, D'où l'univers jaillit en rayons infinis. Il regarde, et c'est tout. Voir suffit au sublime. Il crée un monde rien qu'en voyant un abîme ; Et cet être qui voit, ayant toujours été, A toujours tout créé de toute éternité. Quand la bouche d'en bas touche à ce nom suprême, L'essai de la louange est presque lé blasphème. Pas d'explication donc ! Fais mettre à genoux Ta pensée, et deviens un regard, comme nous. Pourquoi chercher les mots où ne sont plus les choses ? Le vil langage humain n'a pas d'apothéoses. Ce qu'Il est, est à peine entrevu du tombeau. Il échappe aux mots noirs de l'ombre. On aurait beau Faire une strophe avec les brises éternelles, Et, pour en parfumer et dorer les deux ailes,Mettre l'astre dans l'une et dans l'autre la fleur, Et mêler tout l'azur à leur splendide ampleur, On ne peindrait pas Dieu. Songeur, qu'on le revête De bruit et d'aquilon, de foudre et de tempête ; Qu'on le montre éveillé, qu'on le montre dormant, Sa respiration soulevant doucement Toutes les profondeurs de toute l'étendue, Remuant la comète au fond des cieux perdue, Le vent sur son cheval, la mort sur son éclair, Et le balancement monstrueux de la mer, On ne le peindra pas. Lui ! Lui ! l'inamissible, L'éternel, l'incréé, l'imprévu, l'impossible, Il est. La taupe fouille et creuse, et l'aperçoit ; L'ombre dit à la taupe : es-tu sûre qu'il soit ? La taupe répond : Dieu ! Dieu de l'aigle est la proie. Suppose que sur terre un seul être en Dieu croie, Cet être, si jamais le soleil s'éclipsait, Remplacerait l'aurore. Et sais-tu ce que c'est Que le fauve ouragan, tonnant et formidable ? C'est, dans les profondeurs du gouffre inabordable, L'infini murmurant : je l'aime ! à demi-voix ; Quand l'étoile rayonne, elle dit : je le vois ! Tout le cri, tout le bruit et tout l'hymne de l'homme Avorte à dire Dieu ! Le baiser seul le nomme. J'aime ! -

Ladies cultural awareness day

2011-10-17T19:42:00.001-05:00

I know, Death means me!
I was never terrified so greatly!
I thought he was not in his right mind,
after all, I am young and also an empress.
I thought I had a lot of power,
I had not thought of him
or that anybody could do something against me.
Oh, let me live on, this I implore you!

And Death replies :

Empress, highly presumptuous,
methinks you have forgotten me.
Fall in! It is now time.
You thought I should let you off?
No way! And were you ever so much,
You must participate in this play,
And you others, everybody –
Hold on! Follow me, Mr Cardinal!

The Cardinal now says his piece :

Have mercy on me, Lord, [when it] shall happen.
I can in no way escape it.
[When] I look in front or behind me,
I feel Death by me at all times.
What will the high rank avail me
[the rank] that I had? I must leave it
and become more unworthy at once
than an unclean, stinking dog.

And Death replies:

You were in status equal to
an apostle of God on earth,
in order to strengthen the Christian belief
with words and other good works.
But you have, with great haughtiness,
been riding your high horse.
Therefore you most mourn so much more now!
Now step here in front you too, Mr King!

Les Danses de Mort en peintures étaient courantes dans le Moyen Age tardif, elles ont été peintes pour rappeler aux gens que peu importe riches ou pauvres ou peu importe comment ils ont été puissants, la mort saurait les prendre tous. Les épidémies, telles que la peste noire, étaient récurrentes et nombreuses qui allaient tuer des millions de personnes. Ils étaient en expressions artistiques, les craintes sur le sujet de la mort. Le caractère "mort" dans ces travaux a été considérée non pas comme un destructeur, mais comme un messager de Dieu à son peuple une convocation dans le monde, au-delà de la tombe. Traduction de certains verset de la peinture :
Je sais, la mort me signifie !Je n'ai jamais été tellement terrifiée !Je pensais qu'il n'était pas dans son bon sens,après tout, je suis jeune et aussi une impératrice.Je pensais avoir beaucoup de puissance,Je n'avais pas pensé à luiou que n'importe qui pouvait faire quelque chose contre moi.Oh, laissez-moi vivre, cela, je vous en supplie!
La réponse de la Mort :
Impératrice, très présomptueuse,il me semble que tu m'as oublié.Tombez! Il est temps maintenant.Vous pensiez que je vous laisse hors?Pas du tout! Et avez-vous été tellementVous devez participer à ce jeu,Et vous autres, tout le monde -Tenez! Suivez-moi, Monsieur le Cardinal!
Le cardinal affirme maintenant sa pièce:
Aie pitié de moi, Seigneur, quand il doit arriver.Je ne peux en aucune façon y échapper.Quand je regarde devant ou derrière moi,Je sens la mort par moi en tout temps.Quel sera le haut rang me sertRang que j'ai eu? Je dois laisseret devenir plus indigne à la foisqu'un impur, chien puant.
La Mort répond :
Vous étiez dans un statut égal àun apôtre de Dieu sur terre,afin de renforcer la croyance chrétienneavec les mots et autres bonnes œuvres.Mais vous avez, avec hauteur,été conduite de votre cheval élevé.Par conséquent, ils vous pleurent tellement plus maintenant!Maintenant étape ici, devant vous aussi, Monsieur le Roi!

ars poetica

2011-10-17T19:33:00.002-05:00

Ah ! J’ai la nostalgie de larmes,

De larmes d’amour, douces à souffrir,

Et je crains que cette nostalgie

Ne finisse par être exaucée.

Ah ! La douce misère de l’amour

Et de l’amour l’amer plaisir

Se glissent à nouveau, tourments divins,

Dans ma poitrine à peine guérie.

Ah! I'm nostalgic of tears,
Tears of love, sweet pain,And I fear that this nostalgia

May ultimately be answered.

Ah! The sweet misery of love
And love the bitter pleasure
Slip again torment divine
In my chest barely healed.

Nouveau printemps, XIII, 1828 Henry Heine

plath

2011-08-12T20:42:00.000-05:00

vanitas vanitatum omnia vanitas

2011-08-12T18:54:00.000-05:00

2011-08-12T18:26:00.000-05:00

In omnibus operibus tuis memorare novissima tua, et in aeternum non peccabis

"In all your actions remember your end and you will never sin"

vanité

2011-08-12T18:11:00.000-05:00

La grande Vanité, 1641

Le quatrain en Allemand au premier de l’oeuvre :

"Kunst, Reichtum, Match und Kühnheit stirbet

Die Welt und all ihr thun verdibet

Ein Ewiges kommt nach diser Zeit

Ihr Thoren, flieht die Eitelkeit"

"Art, Richesse, Puissance et Bravoure meurent

Du monde et de ses oeuvres rien ne demeure

Après ce temps viendra l’Eternité

Ô fous! Fuyez la vanité!"

"Art, Wealth, Power and Bravery die

The world and his works nothing remains

After the time is eternity

O fools! Flee vanity!"

hermes

2011-08-12T18:07:00.002-05:00

Tabula smaragdina Hermet Trismegisti

"Verum, sine mendacio, and Certum verissimum: quod est sicut quod est Inferius is superius, quod est superius and is sicut quod est Inferius, unius rei ad perpetranda miracula. Sicut omnes res fuerunt and ab uno, Meditations unius, sic omnes res fuerunt ab hac una nata re, adaptationist. Pater ejus is Sol, mater ejus Luna; Portavant illud Ventus in belly suo; nutrix ejus Terra. Pater omnis mundi totius telesma is rub. Vis ejus integra is so fuer versa in terram. Terram ab igne Separabis, a subtle spisso, suaviter, cum magno ingenio. Ascending in terra Coelum, iterumque down in terram, and vim superiorum recipie and inferiorum. Gloriam totius mundi Sic Habeb. Ideo fugiet a te omnis obscurities. Hic is totius Fortitudine fortitudo fortis, quia omnem rem Vincett subtilem, omnemque Solidam penetrabit. Sic mundus creatus is. Hinc ERUNT adaptationist mirabilis, quarum is modus hic. Ithaca vocatus sum Hermes Trismegistus, habens Philosophiæ totius mundi partes tres. Completum is quod dixi operatione of Solis. "

The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus, the father of the Philosophers (translation from Hortulanus)

"It is true without lying, certain & most true: What is below is like what is above, and what is above is like what is below, to the miracles of one thing. And as all things were, and came from a, by meditation of one: so all things were born of this one thing by adaptation. The sun is the father, the moon is her mother, the wind carried it in its belly, its nurse is the Earth. The father of everyone here. Its power is entire if it is converted into earth. Separate the earth from the fire, the subtle from the gross gently, with great industry. It ascends from earth to heaven, and again it descends to earth, and receives the force of things superior and inferior. You will by this means the glory of the whole world and for that all darkness will flee from you. It is the strong force of any strength: because it overcomes every subtle thing and penetrate every solid thing. Thus the world was created. From this will come out & admirable adaptations, which the average is here. This is why I am called Hermes Trismegistus, having the three parts of the philosophy of everyone. What I said of the operation of the Sun is accomplished and completed. "

bacchanalian

2011-08-12T15:32:00.004-05:00

dug

2011-08-12T15:23:00.002-05:00

The treasure of Boscoreale, buried just before éruption of Vesuvius in 79 yielded a pair of gilded silver cups which have skeletons under a garland of roses. Greek inscriptions in dotted characters are legends, accompanied maxims: "Enjoy while you're alive, the future is uncertain. "

That was the meaning of these cups used by richs Romans at banquets in oratorical contests that allowed them to show their Hellenic culture. The Satyricon of Petronius, describes one of these banquets where guests compete for scholarship and for which references are Greek pretext to an invitation with pleasure. Here, the famous Greek philosophers, reduced to the state of skeletons, illustrate the fragility and vanity of life: Zeno and Epicurus still compete, but in front of two dogs mating.

ars poetica

2011-08-04T21:24:00.001-05:00

LA MORT N’EST RIEN...

La mort n’est rien, je suis simplement passé dans la pièce à côté. Je suis moi, vous êtes vous.

Ce que nous étions les uns pour les autres,
nous le sommes toujours.
Donnez-moi le nom que vous m’avez toujours donné,
Parlez-moi comme vous l’avez toujours fait,
N’employez pas un ton solennel ou triste,
Continuez à rire de ce qui nous faisait rire ensemble,
Priez, souriez, pensez à moi,
Que mon nom soit prononcé comme il l’a toujours été,
Sans emphase d’aucune sorte, sans trace d’ombre,
La vie signifie tout ce qu’elle a toujours signifié,
Elle est ce qu’elle a toujours été.
Le fil n’est pas coupé,
Simplement parce que je suis hors de votre vue.
Je vous attends. Je ne suis pas loin.
Juste de l’autre côté du chemin.
Vous voyez : tout est bien.

~ Charles Péguy

literacki

2011-07-23T22:17:00.000-05:00

“Deeply lost in the night. Just as one sometimes lowers one’s head to reflect, thus to be utterly lost in the night. All around people are asleep. It’s just play acting, an innocent self-deception, that they sleep in houses, in safe beds, under a safe roof, stretched out or curled up on mattresses, in sheets, under blankets; in reality they have flocked together as they had once upon a time and again later in a deserted region, a camp in the open, a countless number of men, an army, a people, under a cold sky on cold earth, collapsed where once they had stood, forehead pressed on the arm, face to the ground, breathing quietly. And you are watching, are one of the watchmen, you find the next one by brandishing a burning stick from the brushwood pile beside you. Why are you watching? Someone must watch, it is said. Someone must be there."

~ At Night ~ Franz Kafka

leigh and trojan

2011-07-22T23:56:00.000-05:00

quoth the madman

2011-07-22T18:28:00.000-05:00

"Dont be afraid of Death; be afraid of an unlived life. You don't have to live forever, you just have to live."

ladies cultural awareness day

2011-07-17T21:44:00.000-05:00

Falling Star -Witold Pruszkowski, 1884

ars poetica

2011-07-16T23:11:00.000-05:00

Yea, gold is son of Zeus: no rust

Its timeless light can stain;

The worm that brings man's flesh to dust

Assaults its strength in vain:

More gold than gold the love I sing,

A hard, inviolable thing.

Men say the passions should grow old

With waning years; my heart

Is incorruptible as gold,

'Tis my immortal part:

Nor is there any god can lay

On love the finger of decay.

~ XXXVI - Long Ago: XXXVI ~ Michael Field

ars poetica

2011-07-16T22:45:00.001-05:00

When they ask to see your gods
your book of prayers
show them lines
drawn delicately with veins
on the underside of a bird’s wing
tell them you believe
in giant sycamores mottled
and stark against a winter sky
and in night’s so frozen
stars crack open spilling
streams of molten ice to earth
and tell them how you drank
the holy wine of honeysuckle
on a warm spring day
and of the softness
of your mother
who never taught you
death was life’s reward
but who believed in the earth
and the sun
and in a million, million light years
of being

~ Catechism for a Witch’s Child ~ J.L. Stanley

something horribe happened here

2011-07-14T11:33:00.001-05:00

palestinian child cleaning the blood of his brother, killed by Israeli shells

ars poetica

2011-07-14T11:30:00.001-05:00

Some day, if I should ever lose you,
will you be able then to go to sleep
without me softly whispering above you
like night air stirring in the linden tree?

Without my waking here and watching
and saying words as tender as eyelids
that come to rest weightlessly upon your breast,
upon your sleeping limbs, upon your lips?

Without my touching you and leaving you
alone with what is yours, like a summer garden
that is overflowing with masses
of melissa and star-anise?

~ Slumber Song ~ Rainer Maria Rilke

ars poetica

2011-07-11T21:24:00.001-05:00

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and
we will wait
and
wait
in that space.

~ Charles Bukowski

literacki

2011-07-08T22:59:00.003-05:00

pierre savorgnan de brazza (1852-1905)

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child
leaving his bed wander'd alone, bareheaded, barefoot,
Down from the shower'd halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they
were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
From your memories sad brother, from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,
From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with tears,
From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease,
From the myriad thence-arous'd words,
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,
From such as now they start the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly,
A man, yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them,
A reminiscence sing.

Once Paumanok,
When the lilac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was growing,
Up this seashore in some briers,
Two feather'd guests from Alabama, two together,
And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown,
And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand,
And every day the she-bird crouch'd on her nest, silent, with bright eyes,
And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing
them,
Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.

Shine! shine! shine!
Pour down your warmth, great sun.'
While we bask, we two together.

Two together!
Winds blow south, or winds blow north,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
While we two keep together.

Till of a sudden,
May-be kill'd, unknown to her mate,
One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest,
Nor return'd that afternoon, nor the next,
Nor ever appear'd again.

And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea,
And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather,
Over the hoarse surging of the sea,
Or flitting from brier to brier by day,
I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird,
The solitary guest from Alabama.

Blow! blow! blow!
Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore;
I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me.

Yes, when the stars glisten'd,
All night long on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake,
Down almost amid the slapping waves,
Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears.

He call'd on his mate,
He pour'd forth the meanings which I of all men know.

Yes my brother I know,
The rest might not, but I have treasur'd every note,
For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding,
Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,
Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights
after their sorts,
The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,
I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,
Listen'd long and long.

Listen'd to keep, to sing, now translating the notes,
Following you my brother.

Soothe! soothe! soothe!
Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,
And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one close,
But my love soothes not me, not me.

Low hangs the moon, it rose late,
It is lagging--O I think it is heavy with love, with love.

O madly the sea pushes upon the land,
With love, with love.

O night! do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?

Loud! loud! loud!
Loud I call to you, my love!
High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves,
Surely you must know who is here, is here,
You must know who I am, my love.

Low-hanging moon!
What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?
O it is the shape, the shape of my mate.'
O moon do not keep her from me any longer.

Land! land! O land!
Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again
if you only would,
For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.

O rising stars!
Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you.

O throat! O trembling throat!
Sound clearer through the atmosphere!
Pierce the woods, the earth,
Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want.

Shake out carols!
Solitary here, the night's carols!
Carols of lonesome love! death's carols!
Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!
O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea!
O reckless despairing carols.

But soft! sink low!
Soft! let me just murmur,
And do you wait a moment you husky-nois'd sea,
For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,
So faint, I must be still, be still to listen,
But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me.

Hither my love!
Here I am! here!
With this just-sustain'd note I announce myself to you,
This gentle call is for you my love, for you.

Do not be decoy'd elsewhere,
That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice,
That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray,
Those are the shadows of leaves.

O darkness! O in vain!
O I am very sick and sorrowful

O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the sea!
O troubled reflection in the sea!
O throat! O throbbing heart!
And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night.

O past! O happy life! O songs of joy!
In the air, in the woods, over fields,
Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!
But my mate no more, no more with me!
We two together no more.

The aria sinking,
All else continuing, the stars shining,
The winds blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing,
With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,
On the sands of Paumanok's shore gray and rustling,
The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of
the sea almost touching,
The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the
atmosphere dallying,
The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously
bursting,
The aria's meaning, the ears, the soul, swiftly depositing,
The strange tears down the cheeks coursing,
The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering,
The undertone, the savage old mother incessantly crying,
To the boy's soul's questions sullenly timing, some drown'd secret hissing,
To the outsetting bard.

Demon or bird! (said the boy's soul,)
Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it really to me?
For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have heard you,
Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake,
And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder
and more sorrowful than yours,
A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, never to die.

O you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me,
O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you,
Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what
there in the night,
By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon,
The messenger there arous'd, the fire, the sweet hell within,
The unknown want, the destiny of me.

O give me the clue! (it lurks in the night here somewhere,)
O if I am to have so much, let me have more!

A word then, (for I will conquer it,)
The word final, superior to all,
Subtle, sent up--what is it?--I listen;
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves?
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?

Whereto answering, the sea,
Delaying not, hurrying not,
Whisper'd me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak,
Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word death,
And again death, death, death, death
Hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my arous'd child's heart,
But edging near as privately for me rustling at my feet,
Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over,
Death, death, death, death, death.

Which I do not forget.
But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother,
That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok's gray beach,
With the thousand responsive songs at random,
My own songs awaked from that hour,
And with them the key, the word up from the waves,
The word of the sweetest song and all songs,
That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,
(Or like some old crone rocking the cradle, swathed in sweet
garments, bending aside,)
The sea whisper'd me.

—Walt Whitman, “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking”

literacki

2011-07-08T22:45:00.002-05:00

“It may be that friendship is nourished on observation and conversation, but love is born from and nourished on silent interpretation. The beloved appears as a sign, a ‘soul’; the beloved expresses a possible world unknown to us, implying, enveloping, imprisoning a world that must be deciphered, that is, interpreted. What is involved, here, is a plurality of worlds; the pluralism of love does not concern only the multiplicity of loved beings, but the multiplicity of souls or worlds in each of them. To love is to try to explicate, to develop these unknown worlds that remain enveloped within the beloved. ”

—Gilles Deleuze, Proust and Signs, trans. Richard Howard

literacki

2011-07-08T22:41:00.000-05:00

“The trick is making memory a blessing,
To learn by loss the cool subtraction of desire,
Of wanting nothing more than what has been,
To know the past forever lost, yet seeing
Behind the wall a garden still in blossom. ”

~ Dana Gioia, “The Lost Garden”

literacki

2011-07-08T22:31:00.000-05:00

“There must be ghosts all over the world. They must be as countless as the grains of the sands, it seems to me. And we are so miserably afraid of the light, all of us. ”

~ Henrik Ibsen ~ Ghosts

quoth the madman

2011-07-08T22:27:00.002-05:00

“I don’t feel that it is necessary to know exactly what I am. The main interest in life and work is to become someone else that you were not in the beginning. ”

~Michel Foucault

ars poetica

2011-07-05T21:22:00.000-05:00