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then you lead me to the sheltered cavern, and show me to myself, and then reveal to me profundities within my breast.
temper meditation’s austere pleasure.
That nothing perfect ever can accrue to Man
he humbles me before myself, and by a single breath he transforms your gifts to nothingness,
Are you not done yet with this kind of life?
This is just the tone I needed! Demanding gratitude for boring me.
What is the point of cowering like an owl in fissured rocks and dismal mountain caves?
to feel six days of God’s creation in your bosom,
(Makes an obscene gesture.) to end in … Well, I’ll keep it to myself.
You pig!
I even grudge the Body of the Lord when her lips approach to touch the Host. MEPHISTOPHELES. That’s good, my friend! I’ve often envied you the pair of roes that feeds among the lilies. 34 FAUST. Get out, you pimp!
Am I not the fugitive, the homeless roamer, an aimless, rootless, monstrous creature, 3350 roaring like a cataract from crag to crag, madly racing for the final precipice?
You, Satan, claimed this sacrifice! Help, Satan, help abridge the time of fear!
Let her fate come crashing down on mine, let us both embrace perdition!
I can think of nothing tawdrier in the world than a devil who despairs.
Who may name Him, who profess: I believe in Him?
Mater Dolorosa.
Any scamp can thumb his nose at me! And I must take it like a bankrupt gambler, sweating blood at every casual allusion.
one would like to murder her.
Hide! Hide! Yet sin and shame will not remain concealed. Air? Light? Woe to you!
Now in the devil’s name, go straight! Or else I’ll snuff the fluttering life right out of you.
Do they babble? Do they sing? Are those ancient lovers’ lays, Languid voices out of blissful days? We love and hope, and hope and love! And the echo, like an age-old secret tale, Rings below and sings above. To-whit! To-whoo! Not far away 3890 Are the plover, owl, and jay. Have they all remained awake?
polyp-tether
Mammon
Let Lady Baubo lead the crew. With mother on a strapping swine The other hags will stay in line.
It is an old transmitted custom that little worlds are spawned within the great. I see the younger witches go stark naked and older ones more shrewdly veiled.
he who’s pushed imagines that he’s pushing.
That you can fill the aperture.
We are so smart, but still the ghosts haunt Tegel.
a scarlet mouse sprang from her lips.
Composed in 1797,
