Her Telepathic-Station transmits thought-waves
the second-rade, the bored, the disappointed,
and any of us when tired or uneasy,
are tuned to receive.
So, though unlisted in atlas or phone-book,
Her Garden is easy to find. In no time
one reaches the gate over which is written
large: MAKE LOVE NOT WAR.
Inside it is warm and still like a drowsy
September day, though the leaves show no sign of
turning. All around one notes the usual
pinks and blues and reds,
a shade over-emphasized. The rose-bushes
have no thorns. An invisible orchestra
plays the Great Masters: the technique is flawless,
the rendering schmaltz.
Of Herself no sign. But, just as the pilgrim
is starting to wonder “Have I been hoaxed by
a myth?”, he feels Her hand in his and hears Her
murmuring: “At last!
With me, mistaught one, you shall learn the answers.
What is conscience but a nattering fish-wife,
the Tree of Knowledge but the splintered main-mast
of the Ship of Fools?
Consent, you poor alien, to my arms where
sequence is conquered, division abolished:
soon, soon, in the perfect orgasm, you shall, pet,
be one with the All.”
She does not brutalize Her victims (beasts could
bite or bolt), She simplifies them to flowers,
sessile fatalists who don’t mind and only
can talk to themselves.
All but a privileged Few, the elite She
guides to Her secret citadel, the Tower
where a laugh is forbidden and DO HARM AS
THOU WILT is the Law.
Dear little not-so-innocents, beware of
Old Grandmother Spider: rump Her endearments.
She’s not quite as nice as She looks, nor you quite
as tough as you think.
W.H. Auden. Circe.
@4 months ago with 9 notes
"… Let the mystery writ upon the jaguars die with me. He who has glimpsed the universe, he who has glimpsed the burning designs of the universe, can have no thought for a man, for a man’s trivial joys or calamities, though he himself be that man. He was that man, who no longer matters to him. What does he care about the fate of that other man, what does he care about the other man’s nation, when now he is no one? That is why I do not speak the formula, that is why, lying in darkness, I allow the days to forget me… ."
Jorge Luis Borges. The Writing Of The God.
@9 months ago with 33 notes
#Jorge Luis Borges
"… A creative life implies a regime of strict mental health, of high conduct, of constant stimulus, which keep active the consciousness of man’s dignity. A creative life is energetic life, and this is only possible in one or other of these two situations: either being the one who rules, or finding oneself placed in a world which is ruled by someone in whom we recognize full right to such function: either I rule or I obey. By obedience I do not mean mere submission - this is degradation - but on the contrary, respect for the ruler and acceptance of his leadership, solidarity with him, an enthusiastic enrollment under his banner… ."
Jose Ortega y Gasset. Who Rules In The World? The Revolt Of The Masses.
@9 months ago with 16 notes
#Jose Ortega y Gasset
"… If you, who adhere to this religion, have the same attitude toward yourselves that you have toward your fellow men; if you refuse to let your own suffering lie upon you even for an hour and if you constantly try to prevent and forestall all possible distress way ahead of time; if you experience suffering and displeasure as evil, hateful, worthy of annihilation, and as a defect of existence, then it is clear that besides your religion of pity you also harbor another religion in your heart that is perhaps the mother of the religion of pity; the religion of comfortableness. How little you know of human happiness, you comfortable and benevolent people, for happiness and unhappiness are sisters and even twins that either grow up together or, as in your case, remain small together… ."
Friedrich Nietzsche. The will to suffer and those who feel pity. 338. Book Four. The Gay Science.
@1 year ago with 65 notes
"Three very ancient faces stay with me:
one is the Ocean, which would talk with Claudius,
another the North, with its unfeeling temper,
savage both at sunrise and at sunset;
the third is Death, that other name we give
to passing time, which wears us all away.
The secular burden of those yesterdays
from history which happened or was dreamed,
oppresses me as personally as guilt.
I think of the proud ship, carrying back
to sea the body of Scyld Sceaving,
who ruled in Denmark, underneath the sky;
I think of the great wolf, whose reins were serpents,
who lent the burning boat the purity
and whiteness of the beautiful dead god;
I think of pirates too, whose human flesh
is scattered through the slime beneath the weight
of waters which were ground for their adventures;
I think of mausoleums which the sailors
saw in the course of Northern odysseys.
I think of my own death, my perfect death,
without a funeral urn, without a tear."
Jorge Luis Borges. Elegy.
@1 year ago with 27 notes
… Here are my lost hands.
They’re invisible, but you
see them through the night,
through the invisible wind.
Give me your hands, I see them
through the rasping sands
of our American night,
and I choose yours and yours,
that hand and that other hand,
the one that rises to struggle
and the one that’s sown again.
I don’t feel alone in the night,
in the darkness of the land.
I’m people, innumerable people.
I have in my voice the pure strength
to penetrate silence
and germinate in the dark.
Death, martyrdom, shadow, ice,
suddenly shroud the seed.
And the people seem to be buried.
But the corn returns to the earth.
Its implacable red hands
pierced the silence.
From death we’re reborn… .
Pablo Neruda. XIII. The Fugitive.
@1 year ago with 39 notes
"… We must constantly give birth to our thoughts out of our pain, and nurture them with everything we have in us of blood, heart, fire, pleasure, passion, agony, conscience, fate, and catastrophe. Life to us — that means constantly transforming everything we are into light and flame, as well as everything that happens to us… ."
Friedrich Nietzsche. 3. Preface. The Gay Science.
@1 year ago with 123 notes
… Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity
Some revelation is at hand… .
W.B. Yeats. The Second Coming.
@1 year ago with 39 notes