The journey not the arrival matters.
Submitted by allie16e over 2 years ago
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Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
Submitted by adealey over 2 years ago
In the seventeenth century a dissociation of sensibility set in, from which we have never recovered.
Someone said: ‘The dead writers are remote from us because we know so much more than they did.’ Precisely, and they are that which we know.
The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an ‘objective correlative’.
Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin.
Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water.
I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
‘Jug Jug’ to dirty ears.
The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble.
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.