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PostPosted: Sun Oct 08, 2006 9:21 pm
by Saturn
Falina wrote:
Saturn wrote:Its in my top five novels ever :D

What are the other four books actually (if I may ask)? I need some ideas what to read after "Frankenstein" :wink: ...

Well let me think [my list keeps changing]:

Victor Hugo - Les Miserables,

Thomas Hardy - Jude The Obscure.

Cervantes - Don Quixote

Charels Dickens - Great Expectations.


PostPosted: Mon Oct 09, 2006 4:24 pm
by dks
This song just hits right on home for me right now...I turn it way up whenever I hear it...

Where is the moment we need it the most
You kick up the leaves and the magic is lost
They tell me your blue skies fade to grey
They tell me your passion's gone away
And I don't need no carryin' on

You stand in the line just to hit a new low
You're faking a smile with the coffee to go
You tell me your life's been way off line
You're falling to pieces everytime
And I don't need no carryin' on

Cause you had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know
You tell me don't lie
You work at a smile and you go for a ride
You had a bad day
The camera don't lie
You're coming back down and you really don't mind
You had a bad day
Yes, you had a bad day

Bad Day--Daniel Powter

PostPosted: Mon Oct 09, 2006 11:26 pm
by Saturn
From Virginia Woolf's 'The Waves'.

“I hate looking-glasses which show me my real face. Alone, I often fall into nothingness. I must push my foot stealthily lest I should fall down into nothingness. I have to bang my hand against some hard door to call myself back to the body.”

“There is some check in the flow of my being; a deep stream presses on some obstacle; it jerks; it tugs; some knot in the centre resists. Oh, this is pain, this is anguish! I faint, I fail. Now my body thaws; I am unsealed, I am incandescent.”

“It becomes clear that I am not one and simple, but complex and many. Bernard in public, bubbles; in private, is secretive. That is what they do not understand, for they are now undoubtedly discussing me, saying I escape them, am evasive. They do not understand that I have to effect different transitions; have to cover the entrances and exits of several different men who alternatively act their parts as Bernard. I am abnormally aware of circumstances.”

“I see it all. I feel it all. I am inspired. My eyes fill with tears. Yet even as I feel this. I lash my frenzy higher and higher. It foams. It becomes artificial, insincere. Words and words and words, how they gallop – how they lash their long manes and tails, but for some fault in me I cannot give myself to their backs; I cannot fly with them, scattering women and string bags. There is some flaw in me – some fatal hesitancy, which, if I pass it over, turns to foam and falsity. Yet it is incredible that I should not be a great poet. What did I write last night if it was not poetry? Am I too fast, too facile? I do not know. I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.”

I shall fail and shall leave nothing behind me but imperfect phrases littered with sand.”

“For myself, I have no aim. I have no ambition. I will let myself be carried on by the general impulse. The surface of my mind slips along like a pale-grey stream reflecting what passes. I cannot remember my past, my nose, or the colour of my eyes, or what my general opinion of myself is. Only in moments of emergency, at a crossing, at a kerb, the wish to preserve my body springs out and seizes me and stops me, here, before this omnibus. We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends. The roar of the traffic, the passage of undifferentiated faces, this way and that way, drugs me into dreams; rubs the features from faces. People might walk through me. And what is this moment of time, this particular day in which I have found myself caught? The growl of traffic might be any uproar – forest trees or the roar of wild beasts. Time has whizzed back an inch or two on its reel; our short progress has been cancelled. I think also that our bodies are in truth naked. We are only lightly covered with buttoned cloth; and beneath these pavements are shells, bones and silence.”

“What am I? There is no stability in this world. Who is to say what meaning there is in anything? Who is to foretell the flight of a word? It is a balloon that sails over tree-tops. To speak of knowledge is futile. All is experiment and adventure. We are for ever mixing ourselves with unknown quantities. What is to come? I know not.”

“‘Had I been born,’ said Bernard, ‘not knowing that one word follows another I might have been, who knows, perhaps anything. As it is, finding sequences everywhere, I cannot bear the pressure of solitude. When I cannot see words curling like rings of smoke round me I am in darkness – I am nothing. When I am alone I fall into lethargy…”

“…these attempts to say, “I am this, I am that”, which we make, coming together, like separated parts of one body, and soul, are false. Something has been left out from fear. Something has been altered, from vanity. We have tried to accentuate differences. From the desire to be separate we have laid stress upon our faults, and what is particular to us. But there is a chain whirling round, round, in a steel-blue circle beneath.’”

“There can be no doubt, I thought, pushing aside the newspaper, that our mean lives, unsightly as they are, put on splendour and have meaning only under the eyes of love.”

“I want someone to sit beside after the day’s pursuit and all its anguish, after its listenings, and its waitings, and its suspicions. After quarrelling and reconciliation I need privacy – to be alone with you, to set this hubbub in order. For I am as neat as a cat in my habits. We must oppose the waste and deformity of the world, its crowd eddying round and round disgorged and trampling.”

“I reflect now that the earth is only a pebble flicked off accidentally from the face of the sun and that there is no life anywhere in the abysses of space.”

“…like children we tell each other stories, and to decorate them we make up these ridiculous, flamboyant, beautiful phrases that come down beautifully with all their feet on the ground! Also, how I distrust neat designs of life that are drawn upon half-sheets of note-paper. I begin to long for some little language such as lovers use, broken words, inarticulate words, like the shuffling of feet on the pavement.”

“…to seek among phrases and fragments something unbroken – I to whom there is not beauty enough in moon, or tree; to whom the touch of one person with another is all, yet who cannot grasp even that, who am so imperfect, so weak, so unspeakably lonely. There I sat.”

PostPosted: Thu Oct 12, 2006 10:29 pm
by Saturn
“…the man who wishes to be really rich should seek not to increase his possessions but to decrease his desires. He who can never restrain his avarice will never be free from the sense of poverty and want.”
Plutarch, Demetrius,32.

PostPosted: Fri Oct 13, 2006 2:49 pm
by Malia
Here's a great quote from Shakespeare--it is from, what else? Richard III, which I've been reading. Here, Queen Elizabeth (whose two young sons were murdered by Richard and whose daughter Richard now wants to court--gross, eh?) is giving Richard a piece of her mind:

"No doubt the murd'rous knife was dull and blunt
Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart,
To revel in the entrails of my lambs.
But that still use of grief makes wild grief tame,
My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys
Til that my nails were anchored in thine eyes,
And I, in such a desp'rate bay of death,
Like a poor bark of sails and tackling reft,
Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bossom."
--Richard III, Act 4, Scene 4 ll:233-245.

I especially love the images of the sea in this quote--so amazing and powerful!

PostPosted: Tue Oct 17, 2006 10:40 am
by Saturn
More from the genius that is Jeff Buckley. The songs need to be heard but the lyrics are great in themselves:

"Last Goodbye"

This is our last goodbye
I hate to feel the love between us die
But it's over
Just hear this and then I'll go
You gave me more to live for
More than you'll ever know

This is our last embrace
Must I dream and always see your face
Why can't we overcome this wall
Well, maybe it's just because I didn't know you at all

Kiss me, please kiss me
But kiss me out of desire, babe, and not consolation
You know it makes me so angry 'cause I know that in time
I'll only make you cry, this is our last goodbye

Did you say 'no, this can't happen to me,'
And did you rush to the phone to call
Was there a voice unkind in the back of your mind
Saying maybe you didn't know him at all
You didn't know him at all, oh, you didn't know

Well, the bells out in the church tower chime
Burning clues into this heart of mine
Thinking so hard on her soft eyes and the memories
Offer signs that it's over... it's over

"Lover, You Should've Come Over"

Looking out the door I see the rain fall upon the funeral mourners
Parading in a wake of sad relations as their shoes fill up with water
And maybe I'm too young to keep good love from going wrong
But tonight you're on my mind so you never know

When i'm broken down and hungry for your love with no way to feed it
Where are you tonight, child you know how much I need it
Too young to hold on and too old to just break free and run

Sometimes a man gets carried away, when he feels like he should be having his fun
And much too blind to see the damage he's done
Sometimes a man must awake to find that really, he has no-one

So I'll wait for you... and I'll burn
Will I ever see your sweet return
Oh will I ever learn

Oh lover, you should've come over
'Cause it's not too late

Lonely is the room, the bed is made, the open window lets the rain in
Burning in the corner is the only one who dreams he had you with him
My body turns and yearns for a sleep that will never come

It's never over, my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder
It's never over, all my riches for her smiles when I slept so soft against her
It's never over, all my blood for the sweetness of her laughter
It's never over, she's the tear that hangs inside my soul forever

Well maybe I'm just too young
To keep good love from going wrong

Oh... lover, you should've come over
'Cause it's not too late

Well I feel too young to hold on
And i'm much too old to break free and run
Too deaf, dumb, and blind to see the damage i've done
Sweet lover, you should've come over
Oh, love well I'm waiting for you

Lover, you should've come over
'Cause it's not too late

PostPosted: Mon Oct 23, 2006 6:28 pm
by Malia
Here's a quote by Oscar Wilde I found while trolling the internet for information about Keats. It is an excellent tribute, I think--and I'll bet quite a few of us on the forum feel the same way as Wilde does :)

Oscar Wilde on John Keats:

"... who but the supreme and perfect artist could have got from a mere colour a motive so full of marvel: and now I am half enamoured of the paper that touched his hand, and the ink that did his bidding, grown fond of the sweet comeliness of his charactery, for since my childhood I have loved none better than your marvellous kinsman, that godlike boy, the real Adonis of our age.... In my heaven he walks eternally with Shakespeare and the Greeks...."

--Oscar Wilde, letter to Emma Speed (née Keats), the poet's niece, in March 1882, thanking her for the gift of the original manuscript of Keats's "Sonnet on Blue," after he lectured in her hometown of Louisville, Kentucky

PostPosted: Mon Oct 23, 2006 6:37 pm
by dks
And Oscar Wilde is a smart Irishman at that... :wink:

I love so many of his these, to list a few:

America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between.

Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much.

A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.

Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.

PostPosted: Mon Oct 23, 2006 6:38 pm
by Malia
dks wrote:And Oscar Wilde is a smart Irishman at that... :wink:

I love so many of his these, to list a few:

America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between.

Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much.

A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.

Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.

Wilde's witticisms (sp?) are great, aren't they? I have a whole book of his quotes and they're *all* gems! :)

PostPosted: Mon Oct 23, 2006 9:42 pm
by Saturn
Malia wrote:Wilde's witticisms (sp?) are great, aren't they? I have a whole book of his quotes and they're *all* gems! :)

Wilde was the prince of paradox - a genius ironist.

I could read his quotes all day - I have a similar book and you're right Malia every one is priceless :D :lol:

PostPosted: Mon Oct 23, 2006 10:37 pm
by greymouse
What a great Wilde discussion! You people cheered up my day.

I think Wilde is very underestimated as a poet. In my entire Norton Anthology of Poetry there is not a single Wilde poem (and there is some really bad stuff included in there). I think Wilde's poetry is accused of superficiality, but critics just don't understand the point behind it. Anyhow, Keats is noticably the strongest influence on his verse. Wilde is probably my 2nd favorite poet.

I also am charmed by Wilde's fairy tales. What a great writer in so many different genres!

PostPosted: Mon Oct 23, 2006 10:40 pm
by Saturn
Here's a lovely bit of one of my favourite Wilde poems to cheer you up:

“What profit if this scientific age
Burst through our gates with all its retinue
Of modern miracles! Can it assuage
One lover’s breaking heart? what can it do
To make one life more beautiful, one day
More godlike in its period? but now the Age of Clay

Returns in horrid cycle, and the earth
hath borne again a noisy progeny
Of ignorant Titans, whose ungodly birth
Hurls them against the august hierarchy
Which sat upon Olympus; to the Dust
They have appealed, and to that barren arbiter they must

Repair for judgement; let them, if they can,
From Natural warfare and insensate Chance,
Create the new Ideal rule for man!”
‘The Garden of Eros’.

PostPosted: Wed Oct 25, 2006 11:33 am
by Saturn
“Ah, he had loved a love that never
is known today; only a soul
that raves with poetry can ever
be doomed to feel it; there’s one goal
perpetually, one goal for dreaming,
one customary object gleaming,
one customary grief each hour!
not separation’s chilling power,
no years of absence past returning,
no beauties of a foreign clime,
no noise of gaiety, no time
devoted to the Muse, or learning,
nothing could alter or could tire
this soul that glowed with virgin fire.”
~Alexander Pushkin, Onegin, XX

PostPosted: Thu Oct 26, 2006 11:26 pm
by Saturn
This one got me today as I read it:

“My heavy life is hanging by a thread,
a thread that is so worn
if help does not come soon
it will have run its course out to the end;
for, after I had suffered and had gone
from what I held most dear,
one hope alone remained,
one reason why I had to stay alive;
it said, ‘Since you must live
out of your loved one’s sight,
look to yourself, resist.
Who knows that better times will not return,
and much more happy days,
and you regain the good that you have lost?
This hope sustained me once upon a time:
now I indulge it like an empty dream.

Time passes, and the hours go by fast
to see life’s journey out
that I have not a moment
even to think about my race to death.
The sun has hardly risen in the East
before you see light break
on the opposing peak
arrived at by a long and curving track.
Life is so very short,
bodies of mortal men
so heavy and so weak,
that when I think how I am kept apart
from what I love, her face—
such weakness in the wings of my desire—
all customary comfort must fall short.
And how long can I live in such a state?

What things we mortals find to give us pleasure!
All too often we love
whatever is most strange
and brings along the biggest crowd of sighs!
I too am one whom weeping seems to please,
tiring my brains to fill
my eyes with tears, as all
my heart is brimming with unhappiness;
and since to speak of her
bright eyes augments desire,
and nothing touches me
so closely where my feelings run so deep,
I turn back to my theme—
her eyes which lead my eyes to weep and weep;
so that my eyes are punished, having led
me all along the way which is Love’s road.

That golden hair, enough to make the sun
move enviously away,
and that bright glance, sublime
and yet so blazing with the rays of Love
it makes me fade away before my time,
that skilful way you speak,
rare in this world, unique,
which came to me so very courteously—
all these are taken away.
I could more readily
pardon a worse offence
than lose that greeting like an angel’s greeting,
which used to raise my powers
with all the blazing of my heart’s desires;
and nothing I still hope to hear will rouse
me now to anything but heaving sighs.”
~ Petrarch - Si À debile il filo a cui s’attene, 1-32, 65-96.

PostPosted: Fri Oct 27, 2006 1:46 am
by dks
You are quote master, Saturn.

Thank you for posting that--the aching beauty...the last part is very closely related to your life...I'm thinking blonde hair and whatnot... :(