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  • A thing is

    For yourself, I have but this last thing to say. Do not be afraid of the past. If people tell you that it is irrevocable, do not believe them. The past, the present and the future are but one moment in the sight of God, in whose sight we should try to live. Time and space, succession and extension, are merely accidental conditions of Thought. The Imagination can transcend them, and move in a free sphere of ideal existences. Things, also, are in their essence what we choose to make them. A thing is, according to the mode in which one looks at it. ‘Where others’, says Blake, ‘see but the Dawn coming over the hill, I see the sons of God shouting for joy.’

    Oscar Wilde in De Profundis

    (Noted in 2022-04-17)

  • Society

    Society takes upon itself the right to inflict appalling punishments on the individual, but it also has the supreme vice of shallowness, and fails to realise what it has done. When the man’s punishment is over, it leaves him to himself: that is to say it abandons him at the very moment when its highest duty towards him begins. It is really ashamed of its own actions, and shuns those whom it has punished, as people shun a creditor whose debt they cannot pay, or one on whom they have inflicted an irreparable, an irredeemable wrong. I claim on my side that if I realise what I have suffered, Society should realise what it has inflicted on me: and there should be no bitterness or hate on either side.

    Oscar Wilde in De Profundis

    (Noted in 2022-03-25)

  • The sun has long been set

    The sun has long been set,
    The stars are out by twos and threes,
    The little birds are piping yet
    Among the bushes and trees;
    There’s a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,
    And a far-off wind that rushes,
    And a sound of water that gushes,
    And the cuckoo’s sovereign cry
    Fills all the hollow of the sky.
    Who would “go parading”
    In London, “and masquerading,”
    On such a night of June
    With that beautiful soft half-moon,
    And all these innocent blisses?
    On such a night as this is!

    William Wordsworth

    (Noted in 2021-08-18)

  • Melville's withdrawal

    Considerations of Melville’s withdrawal, whether that withdrawal is dated from “The Confidence-Man” of 1857, or the move from Pittsfield in 1863, or “Battle-Pieces” of 1866, tend to center upon the neurasthenic symptoms reflected in family letters of the early fifties and come to a head in his long siege of illness in 1855. His biographers all — Newton Arvin most sensitively, Edwin Haviland Miller most relentlessly — read his life and works for the pattern of a neurosis that, after “Moby-Dick,” cramped and truncated a career of infinite promise. The ineffectual father, early dead in a dreadful scene of madness; the domineering mother; the shaming poverty amid genteel pretensions; the latent (or, in his shipboard years, active) these existed, as well as the pressing financial limitations of authorship and a general incomprehension of the expressive experiments the mature Melville was determined to make. But the golden day, as Lewis Mumford has called it, of American literature was no feast of best-sellers; of its four masterpieces — “The Scarlet Letter” (1850), “Moby-Dick” (1851), “Walden” (1854), and “Leaves of Grass” (first edition 1855) — only “The Scarlet Letter” was an immediate worldly success. There are other sorts of success, and Melville’s withdrawal — not so instant or so complete, we have seen, as the mythic image of it — can be viewed as itself a necessary and therefore successful artistic gesture.

    John Updike in Herman Melville’s Soft Withdrawal (The New Yorker, May 1982)

    (Noted in 2021-05-31)

  • Old maps

    They cut the throats of the packanimals and jerked and divided the meat and they traveled under the cape of the wild mountains upon a broad soda plain with dry thunder to the south and rumors of light. Under a gibbous moon horse and rider spanceled to their shadows on the snowblue ground and in each flare of lightning as the storm advanced those selfsame forms rearing with a terrible redundancy behind them like some third aspect of their presence hammered out black and wild upon the naked grounds. They rode on. They rode like men invested with a purpose whose origins were antecedent to them, like blood legatees of an order both imperative and remote. For although each man among them was discrete unto himself, conjoined they made a thing that had not been before and in that communal soul were wastes hardly reckonable more than those whited regions on old maps where monsters do live and where there is nothing other of the known world save conjectural winds.

    Cormac McCarthy in Blood Meridian

    (Noted in 2021-04-16)

  • Africa

    This was how I started to appreciate that, because I had been uncritically consuming other people’s versions of Africa – shaped by particulars of those people’s existence – I had learned to be afraid of it. This was reflected quietly in the way that I thought about the horizons of possibility, of what I thought was wrong or troubling about the continent, and what needed to be changed. Later, I would go back to my travel guides and realise something that today seems so painfully obvious: the vast majority of guidebooks, especially those written about Africa, are written by white men for white men. Does this matter? It shouldn’t, but of course it does. It is an unfortunate consequence of the world that we have built, and until we all develop the moral clarity to move away from it, it matters. (…) Race (like gender, sexuality and other markers of identity) shapes travel – and backpacking especially – in such palpable ways. As a black woman, I find there are spaces where my race and gender make me invisible, which means that I can immerse myself more fully into the lives of those around me. I can take a series of public buses from Cape Town to Nairobi over a month and have no one notice that I am thousands of kilometres from home. And there are spaces where the colour of my skin makes me hyper-visible, like taking the train from Vienna to Berne and being the only people in our carriage to get their identity documents checked.

    Nanjala Nyabola in Race shapes travel: backpacking as a black woman (The Guardian, November 2019)

    (Noted in 2020-11-23)

  • September 1, 1939

    I sit in one of the dives
    On Fifty-second Street
    Uncertain and afraid
    As the clever hopes expire
    Of a low dishonest decade:
    Waves of anger and fear
    Circulate over the bright
    And darkened lands of the earth,
    Obsessing our private lives;
    The unmentionable odour of death
    Offends the September night.

    Accurate scholarship can
    Unearth the whole offence
    From Luther until now
    That has driven a culture mad,
    Find what occurred at Linz,
    What huge imago made
    A psychopathic god:
    I and the public know
    What all schoolchildren learn,
    Those to whom evil is done
    Do evil in return.

    Exiled Thucydides knew
    All that a speech can say
    About Democracy,
    And what dictators do,
    The elderly rubbish they talk
    To an apathetic grave;
    Analysed all in his book,
    The enlightenment driven away,
    The habit-forming pain,
    Mismanagement and grief:
    We must suffer them all again.

    Into this neutral air
    Where blind skyscrapers use
    Their full height to proclaim
    The strength of Collective Man,
    Each language pours its vain
    Competitive excuse:
    But who can live for long
    In an euphoric dream;
    Out of the mirror they stare,
    Imperialism's face
    And the international wrong.

    Faces along the bar
    Cling to their average day:
    The lights must never go out,
    The music must always play,
    All the conventions conspire
    To make this fort assume
    The furniture of home;
    Lest we should see where we are,
    Lost in a haunted wood,
    Children afraid of the night
    Who have never been happy or good.

    The windiest militant trash
    Important Persons shout
    Is not so crude as our wish:
    What mad Nijinsky wrote
    About Diaghilev
    Is true of the normal heart;
    For the error bred in the bone
    Of each woman and each man
    Craves what it cannot have,
    Not universal love
    But to be loved alone.

    From the conservative dark
    Into the ethical life
    The dense commuters come,
    Repeating their morning vow;
    "I will be true to the wife,
    I'll concentrate more on my work,"
    And helpless governors wake
    To resume their compulsory game:
    Who can release them now,
    Who can reach the deaf,
    Who can speak for the dumb?

    All I have is a voice
    To undo the folded lie,
    The romantic lie in the brain
    Of the sensual man-in-the-street
    And the lie of Authority
    Whose buildings grope the sky:
    There is no such thing as the State
    And no one exists alone;
    Hunger allows no choice
    To the citizen or the police;
    We must love one another or die.

    Defenceless under the night
    Our world in stupor lies;
    Yet, dotted everywhere,
    Ironic points of light
    Flash out wherever the Just
    Exchange their messages:
    May I, composed like them
    Of Eros and of dust,
    Beleaguered by the same
    Negation and despair,
    Show an affirming flame.

    W. H. Auden

    (Noted in 2020-11-16)

  • Ravens

    As we came through the gate to look at the few new lambs
    On the skyline of lawn smoothness,
    A raven bundled itself into air from midfield
    And slid away under hard glistenings, low and guilty.
    Sheep nibbling, kneeling to nibble the reluctant nibbled grass.
    Sheep staring, their jaws pausing to think, then chewing again,
    Then pausing. Over there a new lamb
    Just getting up, bumping its mother’s nose
    As she nibbles the sugar coating off it
    While the tattered banners of her triumph swing and drip from her rear-end.
    She sneezes and a glim of water flashers from her rear-end.
    She sneezes again and again, till she’s emptied.
    She carries on investigating her new present and seeing how it works.

    Over here is something else. But you are still interested
    In that new one, and its new spark of voice,
    And its tininess.
    Now over here, where the raven was,
    Is what interests you next. Born dead,
    Twisted like a scarf, a lamb of an hour or two,
    Its insides, the various jellies and crimsons and transparencies
    And treads and tissues pulled out
    In straight lines, like tent ropes
    From its upward belly opened like a lamb-wool slipper,
    The fine anatomy of silvery ribs on display and the cavity,
    The head also emptied through the eye-sockets,
    The woolly limbs swathed in birth-yolk and impossible
    To tell now which in all this field of quietly nibbling sheep
    Was its mother. I explain
    That it died being born. We should have been her, to help it.
    So it died being born. ‘And did it cry?’ you cry.
    I pick up the dangling greasy weight by the hooves soft as dogs’ pads
    That had trodden only womb-water
    And its raven-drawn strings dangle and trail,
    Its loose head joggles, and ‘Did it cry?’ you cry again.
    Its two-fingered feet splay in their skin between the pressures
    Of my fingers and thumb. And there is another,
    Just born, all black, splaying its tripod, inching its new points
    Towards its mother, and testing the note
    It finds in its mouth. But you have eyes now
    Only for the tattered bundle of throwaway lamb.
    ‘Did it cry?’ you keep asking, in a three-year-old field-wide
    Piercing persistence. ‘Oh yes’ I say ‘it cried.’

    Though this one was lucky insofar
    As it made the attempt into a warm wind
    And its first day of death was blue and warm
    The magpies gone quiet with domestic happiness
    And skylarks not worrying about anything
    And the blackthorn budding confidently
    And the skyline of hills, after millions of hard years,
    Sitting soft.

    Ted Hughes

    (Noted in 2020-10-05)

  • The Eolian Harp

    My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined
    Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
    To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’ergrown
    With white-flowered Jasmin, and the broad-leaved Myrtle,
    (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
    And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
    Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
    Serenely brilliant (such would Wisdom be)
    Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
    Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed!
    The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
    Tells us of silence.

    And that simplest Lute,
    Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!
    How by the desultory breeze caressed,
    Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover,
    It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs
    Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings
    Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
    Over delicious surges sink and rise,
    Such a soft floating witchery of sound
    As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
    Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,
    Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,
    Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
    Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing!
    O! the one Life within us and abroad,
    Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,
    A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,
    Rhythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere—
    Methinks, it should have been impossible
    Not to love all things in a world so filled;
    Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air
    Is Music slumbering on her instrument.

    And thus, my Love! as on the midway slope
    Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,
    Whilst through my half-closed eyelids I behold
    The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,
    And tranquil muse upon tranquility:
    Full many a thought uncalled and undetained,
    And many idle flitting phantasies,
    Traverse my indolent and passive brain,
    As wild and various as the random gales
    That swell and flutter on this subject Lute!

    And what if all of animated nature
    Be but organic Harps diversely framed,
    That tremble into thought, as o’er them sweeps
    Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,
    At once the Soul of each, and God of all?

    But thy more serious eye a mild reproof
    Darts, O beloved Woman! nor such thoughts
    Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject,
    And biddest me walk humbly with my God.
    Meek Daughter in the family of Christ!
    Well hast thou said and holily dispraised
    These shapings of the unregenerate mind;
    Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break
    On vain Philosophy’s aye-babbling spring.
    For never guiltless may I speak of him,
    The Incomprehensible! save when with awe
    I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels;
    Who with his saving mercies healed me,
    A sinful and most miserable man,
    Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess
    Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honored Maid!

    Samuel Taylor Coleridge

    (Noted in 2020-09-28)

  • Our hunting fathers

    Our hunting fathers told the story
    Of the sadness of the creatures,
    Pitied the limits and the lack
    Set in their finished features;
    Saw in the lion's intolerant look,
    Behind the quarry's dying glare,
    Love raging for, the personal glory
    That reason's gift would add,
    The liberal appetite and power,
    The rightness of a god.

    Who, nurtured in that fine tradition,
    Predicted the result,
    Guessed Love by nature suited to
    The intricate ways of guilt,
    That human ligaments could so
    His southern gestures modify
    And make it his mature ambition
    To think no thought but ours,
    To hunger, work illegally,
    And be anonymous?

    W. H. Auden

    (Noted in 2020-09-03)

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