avoir elle, c'est avoir les étoiles
(to have her is to have the stars)
avoir elle, c'est avoir les étoiles
(to have her is to have the stars)
・゚*✧ 𝓘 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝑒𝓅𝓉 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝓘 𝒹𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒 ✧*:・゚
One tree is like another tree, but not too much. One tulip is like the next tulip, but not altogether. More or less like people – a general outline, then the stunning individual strokes. Hello Tom, hello Andy. Hello Archibald Violet, and Clarissa Bluebell. Hello Lilian Willow, and Noah, the oak tree I have hugged and kissed every first day of spring for the last thirty years. And in reply its thousands of leaves tremble! What a life is ours! Doesn’t anybody in the world anymore want to get up in the
middle of the night and
sing?
In the beginning I was young and such a stranger to myself I hardly existed. I had to go out into the world and see it and hear it and react to it, before I knew at all who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be. Wordsworth studied himself and found the subject astonishing. Actually what he studied was his relationship to the harmonies and also the discords of the natural world. That’s what created the excitement.
And whoever thinks these are worthy, breathy words I am writing down is kind. Writing is neither vibrant life nor docile artifact but a text that would put all its money on the hope of suggestion. Come with me into the field of sunflowers is a better line than anything you will find here, and the sunflowers themselves far more wonderful than any words about them.
Do you think there is anything not attached by its unbreakable cord to everything else? Plant your peas and your corn in the field when the moon is full, or risk failure. This has been understood since planting began. The attention of the seed to the draw of the moon is, I suppose, measurable, like the tilt of the planet. Or maybe not -- maybe you have to add some immeasurable ingredient made of the hour, the singular field, the hand of the sower.
Understand from the first this certainty. Butterflies don’t write books, neither do lilies or violets. Which doesn’t mean they don’t know, in their own way, what they are. That they don’t know, in their own way, what they are. That they don’t know they are alive – that they don’t feel. That action upon which all consciousness sits, lightly or heavily. Humility is the price of the leaf-world. Vain-glory is the bane of us the humans.
- Mary Oliver, Upstream
some bronco,
somewhere,
he went,
‘no loving for me…
…no loving for you’
but then when
thought the Rainfox,
… for some coronco?
- sincerely by the artist formerly known as
Last edited by Moonbeaux Rainfox; 11-16-2019 at 04:46 PM.
“In the very end, civilizations perish because they listen to their politicians and not to their poets.” - Jonas Mekas, IEI
“Imagine an eye unruled by man-made laws of perspective, an eye unprejudiced by compositional logic, an eye which does not respond to the name of everything but which must know each object encountered in life through an adventure of perception. How many colors are there in a field of grass to the crawling baby unaware of 'Green'? How many rainbows can light create for the untutored eye? How aware of variations in heat waves can that eye be? Imagine a world alive with incomprehensible objects and shimmering with an endless variety of movement and innumerable gradations of color. Imagine a world before the 'beginning was the word.” - Stan Brakhage, ILI
"Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just tow me an inch, no-
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.
That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter-
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chisled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.
And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift."
― Sylvia Plath
“My typology is . . . not in any sense to stick labels on people at first sight. It is not a physiognomy and not an anthropological system, but a critical psychology dealing with the organization and delimitation of psychic processes that can be shown to be typical.” —C.G. Jung
The shock of first seeing a birch tree at night, rising up in the dark as cool and slim as a ghost. And the nights, bigger than imagining: black and gusty and enormous, disordered and wild with stars. — Donna Tartt, "The Secret History"
Or you could just accept that Jesus Christ is lord and savior. He does indeed deserve our adoration after all given the criteria of the quoted tryhard. I mean, if ya gotta "adore" something, might as well adore a thing that loves you enough to die horribly for your eternal sake even if you despise them for doing so.
“My typology is . . . not in any sense to stick labels on people at first sight. It is not a physiognomy and not an anthropological system, but a critical psychology dealing with the organization and delimitation of psychic processes that can be shown to be typical.” —C.G. Jung
Wenn nicht mehr Zahlen und Figuren
Sind Schlüssel aller Kreaturen
Wenn die, so singen oder küssen,
Mehr als die Tiefgelehrten wissen,
Wenn sich die Welt ins freye Leben
Und in die Welt wird zurück begeben,
Wenn dann sich wieder Licht und Schatten
Zu ächter Klarheit werden gatten,
Und man in Mährchen und Gedichten
Erkennt die wahren Weltgeschichten,
Dann fliegt vor Einem geheimen Wort
Das ganze verkehrte Wesen fort.
NOVALIS
Es reden und träumen die Menschen viel
von bessern künftigen Tagen;
nach einem glücklichen, goldenen Ziel
sieht man sie rennen und jagen.
Die Welt wird alt und wird wieder jung,
doch der Mensch hofft immer Verbesserung.
Die Hoffnung führt ihn ins Leben ein,
sie umflattert den fröhlichen Knaben,
den Jüngling locket ihr Zauberschein,
sie wird mit dem Greis nicht begraben;
denn beschließt er im Grabe den müden Lauf,
noch am Grabe pflanzt er – die Hoffnung auf.
Es ist kein leerer, schmeichelnder Wahn,
erzeugt im Gehirne des Toren,
im Herzen kündet es laut sich an:
zu was Besserm sind wir geboren.
Und was die innere Stimme spricht,
das täuscht die hoffende Seele nicht.
Friedrich von Schiller
"War does not determine who is right, only who is left"--Pretty much the truth. History is written by the victors and all that.
"Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot."--How every wannabe writer/author should view their work. Art and expression first, all else second. Sadly, like I say over and over again, they be way more focused on propagandizing their worldview than delivering on a good story or just some honest to God fun in fictional form. Hence why most everything made recently sucks balls harder than a singularity that you've already passed the "Event Horizon" on.
"I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations — one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it — you will regret both."--A good point, but only if you let introspection consume you. Sometimes ya just have to "act". At some point, you simply must do something. It can be nothing, as even that counts as an action really. Yet if you dwell on it long enough you will regret it. Should have said it this way instead of that, should have kept my mouth shut there, etc. You'll regret most everything you've ever done if you analyze it long and hard enough. Know that, acknowledge it, and grow stronger from realizing that truth.
"I would't know, I've only ever killed Communists"--A quote/feeling I'm sorry to say many will be made to be quite familiar with in the coming decade in regards to what it obviously implies. Wish it wasn't the case but, well, the commies did bring it upon themselves in the end if we're all being honest.
“Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.”
― Sun Tzu, The Art of War
“My typology is . . . not in any sense to stick labels on people at first sight. It is not a physiognomy and not an anthropological system, but a critical psychology dealing with the organization and delimitation of psychic processes that can be shown to be typical.” —C.G. Jung
AWAKENING
Sleep and slumber, dreams of wonder... weaving,
morning's vacuum broke the spell
Pitted pillow, note of parting... leaving,
'from your friend, a fond farewell'
Sunrise throbbing, twilight aching... grieving,
daydreams, flashbacks, nightmares knell
Pale phantasms, visions sneaking... thieving,
plot to fill the empty shell
12 DELIRIA
1st Delirium: Collapses
Fractured sky bolts, billows bursting... rumbling,
heavens tighten, turn the vise
Horsemen saddle shafts of lightning... tumbling,
jagged highways must suffice
Ruptured skyways, hailstones crackling... crumbling,
naked pearls of paradise
Toxic tongues of laughter stinging... stumbling,
ocean buckets choked with ice
Droplets drumming, thunder muzzled... mumbling,
washed out whispers pay the price
Smothered blazes, cinders smoking... humbling,
ashes shaped in sacrifice
2nd Delirium: Descents
Asphalt alleys, ashen faces... frowning,
blowing bubbles, chewing gum
Drinking ale from tavern tankards... downing,
moonlit beads of painted rum
Stony stars and sea misshapen... drowning,
humble rivers' rhythms hum
Apparitions aspirating... clowning,
diamonds dying, minstrels strum
Incandescent candles conquered... crowning,
vacant vapours, cold and numb
3rd Delirium: Fates
Tempest turmoil, tapered turrets... holding,
dungeons, dragons, chains and racks
Wheels of fortune, Tarot temptress... molding,
Hangmen, Towers, One Eyed Jacks
Sand dune castles, cryptic candles... folding,
warping walls of liquid wax
Idols colder, combed and coddled... scolding,
hide in fissures, peek through cracks
4th Delirium: Lost Souls
Sunken cities, pilgrims peering... gawking,
squinting eyeballs, blazing sun
Janus facing, shepherds chasing... stalking,
friends embrace before they shun
Tearooms steaming, tumult teeming... talking,
lovers listen, poets pun
Broken stones unanchored, quaking... rocking,
slipping, falling, one by one
Beaten pathways, footsteps marking... mocking,
wedged in webs which spiders spun
Circus shelters, big tops tumbling... locking,
people pacing, soon they're none
Numbered exits, zeros numbing... knocking,
midnight daylight's days undone
Moon blood shackles, shivers shaming... shocking,
starlight striders streaking, stun
Hushed but harried hermits waiting... walking,
restless rainbows on the run
Pixies, elves, and echoes bouncing... balking,
fading fast when dawn's begun
Bantum butterflies are flitting... flocking
sometimes conquered, overrun
Hocus pokus, seers focus... squawking,
voodoo wavered, witchcraft won
5th Delirium: Introspection
Sundown furnace, fires fading... coughing,
dusky dew drops drain the air
Empty chalice, sipped in silence... quaffing,
thirsting shadows unaware
Looking glass and lattice scorning... scoffing,
local loser gapes and stares
Faces covered, dancing naked... doffing,
peering inside, hope despairs
6th Delirium: The Void
Tales of taboos, mystic mythos... missing,
windows shuttered, bolted door
Kindled candles, tongues and anvils... hissing,
heavy hammers, echoes roar
Dark deceivers, raven charmers... kissing,
draging demons from the shore
Hopeless hollows filled with doubters... dissing
standing empty - nevermore
7th Delirium: Searching
Martyred monks haunt runic ruins... waiting,
banging broken bells below
Vaulted hallways, voided voices... grating,
churning Chinese chimes aglow
Granite graveyards, spectres spooking... skating,
blackened bushes, roses grow
Midget dwarfs seek mutant migrants... mating,
packing parcels, ice and snow
8th Delirium: Nighttime
Throbbing drumheads, fingers blazing... steaming,
coins of copper, beggars plea
Rusty residues of resin... streaming,
opal amber filigree
Orphan shades in shallow shadows... teeming,
steeping twigs in twilight tea
Cloister doorsteps, Prophets gaming... scheming,
tracing tracks of destiny
Blacksmiths blanching, horseshoes glowing... gleaming,
partially sheathed in black debris
Phantoms feigning, nightmares scathing... screaming,
dusty dreamers drifting free
9th Delerium: Emptyness
Water wheels in wastelands... turning,
drowning relics in the slum
Rumpled rags of fashioned burlap... burning,
lit by bandits blind and dumb
Pastured prisons, ponies bridled... yearning,
forest fairies under thumb
Sounds inside of cauldrons coughing... churning,
blaring bugles, tattooed drum
10th Delirium: Alienation
Rain unravelling, wistfully weeping... falling,
treacle trickling, fickle sky
Mushrooms sprinkled, visions sprouting... sprawling,
seagulls drowning, dolphins die
Rabble gasping, spirits broken... crawling,
lonely lonesome swallows cry
Babbling brooks and breakers ebbing... bawling
puppies paddle, puppets sigh
People passing ripple past me... calling,
rainbow colours, collars high
Chaos seething, lepers looting... stalling,
stealing stallions on the sly
Pencils pausing, scholars scrambling... scrawling,
scratching scribbles, asking why
11th Delirium: Jetsam
Silver sails sway pallid pirates... prowling,
Jolly Rogers, wind and sound
Parrots perching, tattered feathers... fouling,
tethered talons, tied and bound
Shipwrecked foghorns, trumpets stranded... howling,
spiral springs of time unwound
Magic moonlight, shimmers shaking... scowling,
burnt out matchsticks washed aground
Prairie wolfs, coyotes calling... yowling,
witching hours, midnight hounds
Tightrope walkers, grizzlies grunting... growling,
seeking islands, lost and found
12th Delirium: Relief
Slumber shattered, vapours captive... haunting,
chained in mirrors, breaking free
Scarlet skylines, daylight dawning... daunting,
rivers rushing to the sea
Silence softens, sandmen whisper... wanting,
piercing rafters, turning keys
Shadows shudder, notions fluster... flaunting,
moonbeam bullets meant for me
Mind in migraine, meadows trembling... taunting,
sparrows speak in harmony
REAWAKENING
Pitter patter, teardrops paling... pearling,
salting scarves in secret drawers
Mist amongst us, smoke rings rising... curling,
climbing from the ocean floors
See-saw circles, senses swerving... swirling,
swept away with silver oars
Courtyard jesters, sceptres twisting... twirling,
push the past to foreign shores
Passing pangs of passions heaving... hurling,
burning bridges, closing doors
Roses wither, icons waning... whirling,
time decays and time restores
Lost Love Deliria
Terry O’Leary
wear your scars like tattoos
let them remind you of all
the times you could’ve died,
but survived the heartache and pain
the world endured.
- N. Sammak
・゚*✧ 𝓘 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝑒𝓅𝓉 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝓘 𝒹𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒 ✧*:・゚
"A clan does not bring forth a demigod,
Does not produce a monster unforeseen;
Only a line of good or evil men,
Bring happiness or terror in the end."
— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
@mu4 @Grendel Thanks for reminding me of this in Shoutbox. (This will probably be my signature once I make my OC avatar and everyone else makes theirs or has theirs made by someone who does art.)
Alexander Pushkin
The Poet and the Crowd
"Procul este, profani." ["Away, profaners!" -- Horace]
The poet's absent-minded hand
Strummed the inspired lyre. He sang on
While unenlightened folk around,
Expressions proud and coldly frowned,
Listened with meaningless attention.
And the crass rabble questioned thus:
"To what end is his tuneful singing?
With earfuls of this soulful ringing,
To what goal is he leading us?
Where is the lesson in his chanting?
Our hearts both breaking and enchanting,
Oh waywardmost of sorcerers,
Your song is freer than the breeze,
But just as fruitless. Tell us please,
Where's the utility to us?"
The Poet
Be silent, senseless mob, grunt not,
Wage worker, slave to care and want,
I cannot stand your cheeky rant!
Worm of the earth, not son of heaven,
Utility's what you believe in,
Your judgment is inane and hollow:
You weigh the torso of Apollo,
Yet in his form you see no good.
That marble is a god! So what?
You much prefer your cooking pot,
Because therein you cook your food!
The Rabble
No, Sir! If you are heaven's chosen,
Not someone who's a dime a dozen,
Use divine gifts as it befits:
Conduits for useful benefits!
Correct with verse your brethren's hearts,
For we are cowardly, ungrateful,
Sly, foolish, wicked, shameless, hateful,
Slaves, liars, targets for your dart.
We are cold castrates of the heart!
Berate us then, our vice to lessen,
Loving thy neighbor. We too may love you
If you instill in us your lesson
The while we have a listen of you.
The Poet
Away with you! The peaceful poet
Cares not for your stupidity!
The lyre cannot revive your lot:
Persist in your depravity.
Each of you frightens like a coffin.
Think of the plethora of fine things
You've used to exercise your vileness:
Whips, prisons, axes; – enough, madmen!
Since on your sidewalk townfolk walk,
Sweeping it clean is useful work,
Yet do you ask the altar priests
To ply the broom and sweep the streets?
No, not for mundane trepidation,
Nor mortal gain, nor battleground,
But we were born for inspiration,
For prayerful and wondrous sound.
Translated from the Russian by Philip Nikolayev
@The Bourgeoisie
No gods, no kings, only man.
“I kissed him passionately, I even wanted to bruise him, so that he would not be able to forget me.”
-Françoise Sagan
・゚*✧ 𝓘 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝑒𝓅𝓉 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝓘 𝒹𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒 ✧*:・゚
“ ...But what you don't know is that that sweater is not just blue, it's not turquoise. It's not lapis. It's actually cerulean. ” — Miranda Priestly, The Devil Wears Prada
Found
ONCE through the forest
Alone I went;
To seek for nothing
My thoughts were bent.
I saw i' the shadow
A flower stand there
As stars it glisten'd,
As eyes 'twas fair.
I sought to pluck it,--
It gently said:
"Shall I be gather'd
Only to fade?"
With all its roots
I dug it with care,
And took it home
To my garden fair.
In silent corner
Soon it was set;
There grows it ever,
There blooms it yet.
1815. Goethe
Driving at night I feel the Milky Way
streaming above me like the graph of a cry.
-Adrienne Rich
i was the ocean
you wanted rivers
i was the moon
you chased the stars
・゚*✧ 𝓘 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝑒𝓅𝓉 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝓘 𝒹𝑜 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓇𝓋𝑒 ✧*:・゚
.You Can Be A
KING
........OR A
STREET
SWEEPER
.BUT EVERYBODY
DANCES WITH
.........THE
.GRIM REAPER
The Man-Moth
BY ELIZABETH BISHOP
Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for “mammoth.”
Here, above,
cracks in the buildings are filled with battered moonlight.
The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat.
It lies at his feet like a circle for a doll to stand on,
and he makes an inverted pin, the point magnetized to the moon.
He does not see the moon; he observes only her vast properties,
feeling the queer light on his hands, neither warm nor cold,
of a temperature impossible to record in thermometers.
But when the Man-Moth
pays his rare, although occasional, visits to the surface,
the moon looks rather different to him. He emerges
from an opening under the edge of one of the sidewalks
and nervously begins to scale the faces of the buildings.
He thinks the moon is a small hole at the top of the sky,
proving the sky quite useless for protection.
He trembles, but must investigate as high as he can climb.
Up the façades,
his shadow dragging like a photographer’s cloth behind him
he climbs fearfully, thinking that this time he will manage
to push his small head through that round clean opening
and be forced through, as from a tube, in black scrolls on the light.
(Man, standing below him, has no such illusions.)
But what the Man-Moth fears most he must do, although
he fails, of course, and falls back scared but quite unhurt.
Then he returns
to the pale subways of cement he calls his home. He flits,
he flutters, and cannot get aboard the silent trains
fast enough to suit him. The doors close swiftly.
The Man-Moth always seats himself facing the wrong way
and the train starts at once at its full, terrible speed,
without a shift in gears or a gradation of any sort.
He cannot tell the rate at which he travels backwards.
Each night he must
be carried through artificial tunnels and dream recurrent dreams.
Just as the ties recur beneath his train, these underlie
his rushing brain. He does not dare look out the window,
for the third rail, the unbroken draught of poison,
runs there beside him. He regards it as a disease
he has inherited the susceptibility to. He has to keep
his hands in his pockets, as others must wear mufflers.
If you catch him,
hold up a flashlight to his eye. It’s all dark pupil,
an entire night itself, whose haired horizon tightens
as he stares back, and closes up the eye. Then from the lids
one tear, his only possession, like the bee’s sting, slips.
Slyly he palms it, and if you’re not paying attention
he’ll swallow it. However, if you watch, he’ll hand it over,
cool as from underground springs and pure enough to drink.
“People always tell me that this is possible, that that is impossible. But do we understand anything about the workings of fate?”
-Jean Cocteau
“There is perhaps no phenomenon which contains so much destructive feelings as “moral indignation,” which permits envy or hate to be acted out under the guise of virtue. The “indignant” person has for once the satisfaction of despising and treating a creature as “inferior,” coupled with the feeling of his own superiority and rightness.” - Erich Fromm
great quote^
today one of the most loved politician around here, a typical right wing ignorant, went around the poor neighborhoods of my city, ringed the intercom of some immigrant families, and with a face like his ass, asked "do you sell drugs?"
*vomit*
"Tradition is not the cult of ashes, it is custody of the fire"
DYING, LAUGHING
A lover was telling his beloved
how much he loved her, how faithful
he had been, how self-sacrificing, getting up
at dawn every morning, fasting, giving up
wealth and strength and fame,
all for her.
There was a fire in him.
He didn't know where it came from,
but it made him weep and melt like a candle.
"You've done well," she said, "but listen to me.
All this is the decor of love, the branches
and leaves and blossoms. You must live
at the root to be a true lover."
"Where is that!
Tell me!"
"You've done the outward acts,
but you haven't died. You must die."
When he heard that, he lay back on the ground
laughing, and died. He opened like a rose
that drops to the ground and died laughing.
That laughter was his freedom,
and his gift to the eternal.
As moonlight shines back at the sun,
he heard the call to come home, and went.
When light returns to its source,
it takes nothing
of what it has illuminated.
It may have shone on a garbage dump, or a garden,
or in the center of a human eye. No matter.
It goes, and when it does,
the open plain becomes passionately desolate,
wanting it back.
Mevlana Rumi
“We read the letters of the dead like helpless gods,
but gods, nonetheless, since we know the dates that follow.
We know which debts will never be repaid.
Which widows will remarry with the corpse still warm.
Poor dead, blindfolded dead,
gullible, fallible, pathetically prudent.
We see the faces people make behind their backs.
We catch the sound of wills being ripped to shreds.
The dead sit before us comically, as if on buttered bread,
or frantically pursue the hats blown from their heads.
Their bad taste, Napoleon, steam, electricity,
their fatal remedies for curable diseases,
their foolish apocalypse according to St. John,
their counterfeit heaven on earth according to Jean-Jacques…
We watch the pawns on their chessboards in silence,
even though we see them three squares later.
Everything the dead predicted has turned out completely different.
Or a little bit different – which is to say, completely different.
The most fervent of them gaze confidingly into our eyes:
their calculations tell them that they’ll find perfection there.”
— Wislawa Szymborska, The Letters of the Dead
(Translation by Stanislaw Baranczak & Clare Cavanagh)
Improving your happiness and changing your personality for the better
Jungian theory is not grounded in empirical data (pdf file)
The case against type dynamics (pdf file)
Cautionary comments regarding the MBTI (pdf file)
Reinterpreting the MBTI via the five-factor model (pdf file)
Do the Big Five personality traits interact to predict life outcomes? (pdf file)
The Big Five personality test outperformed the Jungian and Enneagram test in predicting life outcomes
Evidence of correlations between human partners based on systematic reviews and meta-analyses of traits
“He accorded his art the highest respect, that of never taking it for granted. Always, as long as he lived, he tried to learn more, in order to serve it better.”
― Elizabeth Borton De Trevino, I, Juan de Pareja
Full Moon
BY ELINOR WYLIE
My bands of silk and miniver
Momently grew heavier;
The black gauze was beggarly thin;
The ermine muffled mouth and chin;
I could not suck the moonlight in.
Harlequin in lozenges
Of love and hate, I walked in these
Striped and ragged rigmaroles;
Along the pavement my footsoles
Trod warily on living coals.
Shouldering the thoughts I loathed,
In their corrupt disguises clothed,
Morality I could not tear
From my ribs, to leave them bare
Ivory in silver air.
There I walked, and there I raged;
The spiritual savage caged
Within my skeleton, raged afresh
To feel, behind a carnal mesh,
The clean bones crying in the flesh.
Dream Song #327 by John Berryman
Freud was some wrong about dreams, or almost all;
besides his insights grand, he thought that dreams were a transcript
of childhood & the day before,
censored of course: a transcript:
even his lesser insight were misunderstood & became a bore
except for the knowing & troubled by the Fall.
Grand Jewish ruler, custodian of the past,
our paedegogue to whip us into truth,
I sees your long story,
tyrannical & triumphant all-wise at last
you wholly failed to take into account youth
& had no interest in your glory.
I tell you, Sir, you have enlightened but
you have misled us: a dream is a panorama
of the whole mental life,
I took one once to forty-three structures, that
accounted in each for each word: I did not yell ‘mama’
nor did I take it out on my wife.
"The more clearly you become conscious of the frailty, vanity, and dream-like quality of all things, the more clearly will you also become conscious of the eternity of your own inner being." - Arthur Schopenhauer
"Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Every angel is terrifying."
Rainer Maria Rilke: Duino Elegies - The First Elegy
Sascha Schneider: Hypnose, 1904
Sascha Schneider: The Astral Man, 1903
I want to knowif you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing
Tatyana's letter to Onegin from Pushkin's Eugene Onegin
I write this to you - what more can be said?
What more can I add to that one fact?
For now I know it is in your power
To punish me contemptuously for this act.
But you, keeping for my unhappy lot
Even one drop of sympathy
Will not entirely abandon me.
At first I wished to remain silent;
Believe me, my shame, my agony,
You never ever would have heard.
As long as hope remained preserved
That rarely, even once a week,
I'd see you in our country house,
To hear your voice, to hear you speak,
To say a few words, and then, and then
To think, and think, and think again
All day, all night, until the next meeting.
But it is said you are unsociable,
And in this backwater all is tedious to you,
While we… well here we shine at nothing,
Although we're glad to welcome you.
Why did you come to visit us?
In this forgotten rural home
Your face I never would have known
Nor known this bitter suffering.
The fever of inexperience
In time (who can tell?) would have died down,
And I'd have found another lover,
Dear to my heart, to whom I'd be true,
And a loving wife, and virtuous mother.
Another!… No, no one on this earth
Is there to whom I'd give my heart!
That is ordained by highest fate…
That is heaven's will - that I am yours;
My life till now was but a pledge,
Of meeting with you, a forward image;
You were sent by heaven of that I'm sure,
To the grave itself you are my saviour…
In dreams you have appeared to me,
Though yet unseen, I held you dear,
Your glance and strangeness tortured me,
To my soul your voice was loud and clear
From long ago… It was not a dream!
You came, and I knew that very instant,
I was struck dumb, my heart flared up,
And in my thoughts said "He is the one!"
Is it not true? I heard you often:
In the silence did you not speak to me,
Both when I helped the poor, and when
With prayer I sought to ease and soften
The pain inside my anguished head?
And at this very moment, is it not you,
Oh sweetest, lovely vision who
In the night's transparency flits by
And quietly nestles by the bed's head?
And you, who with love and rapturously
Whispered a word of hope to me?
Who are you, my guardian angel?
Or a wily devil, a tempter fatal?
Disperse these doubts, this agony.
Perhaps all this is nothingness,
A foolish mind's self-aberration,
And something other is fate's decree…
So be it! Whatever my destiny,
To you I give it from this day,
Before you the tears roll down my cheek,
And your protection I beseech…
For consider: here I am alone,
No one understands what I say,
My reason tortures me every day,
And silently I am doomed to perish.
You I await: With a single glance
Revive the hope that's in my heart,
Cut short this heavy dream I cherish,
Deserving, I know, reproach and scorn.
I finish - I tremble to read it through,
With shame and terror my heart sinks low,
But your honour is my guarantee
And to that I entrust my destiny.
“I want the following word: splendor, splendor is fruit in all its succulence, fruit without sadness. I want vast distances. My savage intuition of myself.”
― Clarice Lispector
^ In this article (https://www.the16types.info/vbulleti...Stratiyevskaya), Stratiyevskaya compared Onegin and Tatyana to Activity partners ILI and ESI. However, I think EIE fits Onegin better.
Which is not to say that Mirage with the correct Erotic Attitudes can't go just as wrong as Activity. It can. It has.