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“Why should I fear death?
If I am, then death is not.
If Death is, then I am not.
Why should I fear that which can only exist when I do not?
Long time men lay oppressed with slavish fear.
Religious tyranny did domineer.
At length the mighty one of Greece
Began to assent the liberty of man.”
―
If I am, then death is not.
If Death is, then I am not.
Why should I fear that which can only exist when I do not?
Long time men lay oppressed with slavish fear.
Religious tyranny did domineer.
At length the mighty one of Greece
Began to assent the liberty of man.”
―
“Such a captive maiden, having plenty of time to think, soon realizes that her tower, its height and architecture, are like her ego only incidental: that what really keeps her where she is is magic, anonymous and malignant, visited on her from outside and for no reason at all. Having no apparatus except gut fear and female cunning to examine this formless magic, to understand how it works, how to measure its field strength, count its lines of force, she may fall back on superstition, or take up a useful hobby like embroidery, or go mad, or marry a disk jockey. If the tower is everywhere and the knight of deliverance no proof against its magic, what else?”
― The Crying of Lot 49
― The Crying of Lot 49
“I am the Dark One, – the Widower, – the Unconsoled
The Aquitaine Prince whose Tower is destroyed:
My only star is dead, - and my constellated lute
Bears the Black Sun of Melancholia.
In the night of the Tomb, You who comforted me,
Give me back Mount Posillipo and the Italian sea,
The flower that my afflicted heart liked so much
And the trellised vineyard where the grapevine unites with the rose.
Am I Amor or Phoebus ?… Lusignan or Biron ?
My forehead is still red from the Queen’s kiss;
I dreamt of the Cave where the mermaid swims…
Twice victorious I crossed Acheron:
Taking turn to play the Orpheus’ lyre
The sighs of the Saint and the Fairy’s screams.”
― Les Chimères
The Aquitaine Prince whose Tower is destroyed:
My only star is dead, - and my constellated lute
Bears the Black Sun of Melancholia.
In the night of the Tomb, You who comforted me,
Give me back Mount Posillipo and the Italian sea,
The flower that my afflicted heart liked so much
And the trellised vineyard where the grapevine unites with the rose.
Am I Amor or Phoebus ?… Lusignan or Biron ?
My forehead is still red from the Queen’s kiss;
I dreamt of the Cave where the mermaid swims…
Twice victorious I crossed Acheron:
Taking turn to play the Orpheus’ lyre
The sighs of the Saint and the Fairy’s screams.”
― Les Chimères
Ryan’s 2025 Year in Books
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