holyfuckingshit40000.blogspot.com, 20 volume Orwell set. Brand new, at the College. Absolute political, prosaic, poetic, epistolary, and, of course...moreholyfuckingshit40000.blogspot.com, 20 volume Orwell set. Brand new, at the College. Absolute political, prosaic, poetic, epistolary, and, of course, most importantly, proletarian dopeness. Orwell is also clearly a master poetic architect possessing and wielding, once again, his signature immensity of clarity. This one I found appropriate for the current autumnal/summer meteorological tumults:
Summer-like for an instant the autumn sun bursts out, And the light through the turning elms is green and clear; It slants down the path and the ragged marigolds glow Fiery again, last flames of the dying year.
A blue-tit darts with a flash of wings, to feed Where the coconut hangs on the pear tree over the well; He digs at the meat like a tiny pickaxe tapping With his needle-sharp beak as he clings to the swinging shell.
The he runs up the trunk, sure-footed and sleek like a mouse, And perches to sun himself; all his body and brain Exult in the sudden sunlight, gladly believing That the cold is over and summer is here again.
But I see the umber clouds that drive for the sun, And a sorrow no argument ever can make away Goes through my heart as I think of the nearing winter, And the transient light that gleams like the ghost of May;
And the bird unaware, blessing the summer eternal, Joyfully labouring, proud in his strength, gay-plumed, Unaware of the hawk and the snow and the frost-bound nights, And of his death foredoomed.(less)
By sanctifying History in order to discredit God, Marxism has merely rendered Him more peculiar and more haunting. You can stifle every impulse in hum...moreBy sanctifying History in order to discredit God, Marxism has merely rendered Him more peculiar and more haunting. You can stifle every impulse in humanity except the need for an Absolute, which will survive the destruction of temples and even the disappearance of religion on earth. Russia and the Virus of Liberty, pg. 25.
Wow, History and Utopia is truly blowing my mind right now. I think I described it as a "mind orgasm" last night, but I was fresh off the dank and my descriptive capacities were severely impaired by the stupefying psychotropic in combination with the stunning content. Dark, pithy, isomorphic, resonant—concise, illustrious historical hallucinations.(less)
Miłosz is already most assuredly one of my favorite poets, and my relationship with this volume has been marked by a wondrous, but slightly perturbing...moreMiłosz is already most assuredly one of my favorite poets, and my relationship with this volume has been marked by a wondrous, but slightly perturbing, synchronicity. Every time I flip open its pages, the perfect poem for that particular temporal node inexplicably reveals itself to me.
If I were in the place of young poets (quite a place, whatever the generation might think) I would prefer not to say that the earth is a madman’s dream, a stupid tale full of sound and fury.
It’s true, I did not happen to see the triumph of justice. The lips of the innocent make no claims. And who knows whether a fool in a crown, a winecup in hand, roaring that God favors him because he poisoned, slew, and blinded so many, would not move the onlookers to tears: he was so gentle.
God does not multiply sheep and camels for the virtuous and takes nothing away for murder and perjury. He has been hiding for so long that it has been forgotten how he revealed himself in the burning bush and in the breast of a young Jew ready to suffer for all who were and will be.
It is not certain if Ananke awaits her hour to pay back what is due for the lack of measure and for pride.
Man has been given to understand that he lives only by the grace of those in power. Let him therefore busy himself sipping coffee, catching butterflies. He who cares for the Republic will have his right hand cut off.
And yet, the Earth merits a bit, a tiny bit, of affection. Not that I take too seriously consolations of nature, and baroque ornaments, the moon, chubby clouds (although it’s beautiful when bird-cherries blossom on the banks of the Wilia). No, I would even advise to keep further from Nature, from persistent images of infinite space, of infinite time, from snails poisoned on a path in a garden, just like our armies.
There is so much death, and that is why affection for pigtails, bright-colored skirts in the wind, for paper boats no more durable that we are . . .(less)