“No, no, I am but shadow of myself:
You are deceived, my substance is not here;”
“She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is a woman, therefore to be won.”
“Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men
When for so slight and frivolous a cause
Such factious emulations shall arise!”
“But you, that are polluted with your lusts, Stain'd with the guiltless blood of innocents, Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, Because you want the grace that others have, You judge it straight a thing impossible To compass wonders but by help of devils.”
“No more can I be sever'd from your side, Than can yourself yourself in twain divide:”
“My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am, nor what I do;”
“May never glorious sun reflex his beams Upon the country where you make abode: But darkness and the gloomy shade of death Environ you, till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves!”
“When a world of men
Could not prevail with all their oratory,
Yet hath a woman's kindness overrul'd;”
“Unbidden guests
Are often welcomest when they are gone.”
“This late dissension grown betwixt the peers
Burns under feigned ashes of forg'd love,
And will at last break out into a flame:
As festered members rot but by degree,
Till bones and flesh and sinews fall away,
So will this base and envious discord breed.”
“Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men,”
“Wilt thou be daunted at a woman's sight? Aye, beauty's princely majesty is such, Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.”
“Glory is like a circle in the water, which never ceaseth to enlarge itself.”
“الصعوبة الخاصة في ادراك الى اي مدى لا تكون فيه رغباتنا -وافكارنا ومشاعرنا بالمثل- حقا رغباتنا بل وُضعت فينا من الخارج مرتبطة ارتباطا وثيقا بمشكلة السلطة و الحرية. في سيرورة التاريخ الحديث حلت محل سلطة الكنيسة سلطة الدولة وحلت محل سلطة الدولة سلطة الضمير وفي حقبتنا الراهنة حلت محل سلطة الضمير السلطة المجهولة للحس المشترك العام والرأي العام كأدوات للتطابق. ولاننا قد حررنا انفسنا من الاشكال الصريحة القديمة للسلطة فاننا لا نتبين اننا اصبحنا فريسة نوع جديد للسلطة. لقد اصبحنا آلات آلية نعيش في ظل وهم الافراد ذوي الارادة الذاتية. هذا الوهم يساعد الفرد على ان يظل غير مدرك لعدم زعزعته, ولكن هذا هو كل العون الذي يستطبع وهم ان يمنحه. ونفس الفرد ضعيفة اساسا, حتى انه يشعر بالعجز والزعزعة الشديدية. انه يعيش في عالم فقد فيه التعلق الاصيل به والذي فيه قد اصبح كل شيء وكل شيء مصطبغا بصبغة الاداة التي تؤدي عملها بلا تفكير حيث اصبح جزءا من آلة بنتها يداه. انه يفكر ويشعر ويريد ما يعتقد انه مفروض فيه ان يفكر فيه ويشعر به ويريده, وفي هذه العملية ذاتها يفقد نفسه التي عليها يجب ان ينبني كل أمان أصيل لفرد حر.”
“Never disturb a man when he’s eating at the Y.”
“It is more beautiful to trust in God. The beautiful in this world is all from his hand, declaring the perfection of taste; he is the author of all form; he clothes the lily, he colours the rose, he distils the dewdrop, he makes the music of nature; in a word, he organized us for this life, and imposed its conditions; and they are such guaranty to me that, trustful as a little child, I leave to him the organization of my Soul, and every arrangement for the life after death. I know he loves me.”
“The sky was the colour of sad weddings.”
“Bisognerebbe saper attendere, raccogliere, per una vita intera e possibilmente lunga, senso e dolcezza, e poi, proprio alla fine, si potrebbero forse scrivere dieci righe valide. Perché i versi non sono, come crede la gente, sentimenti (che si acquistano precocemente), sono esperienze. Per scrivere un verso bisogna vedere molte città, uomini e cose, bisogna conoscere gli animali, bisogna capire il volo degli uccelli e comprendere il gesto con cui i piccoli fiori si aprono al mattino. Bisogna saper ripensare a itinerari in regioni sconosciute, a incontri inaspettati e congedi previsti da tempo, a giorni dell'infanzia ancora indecifrati, ai genitori che eravamo costretti a ferire quando portavano una gioia e non la comprendevamo (era una gioia per qualcun altro), a malattie infantili che cominciavano in modo così strano con tante profonde e grevi trasformazioni, a giorni in stanze silenziose e raccolte e a mattine sul mare, al mare sopratutto, a mari, a notti di viaggio che passavano con un alto fruscio e volavano assieme alle stelle - e ancora non è sufficiente poter pensare a tutto questo. Bisogna avere ricordi di molte notti d'amore, nessuna uguale all'altra, di grida di partorienti e di lievi, bianche puerpere addormentate che si rimarginano. Ma bisogna anche essere stati accanto ad agonizzanti, bisogna essere rimasti vicino ai morti nella stanza con la finestra aperta e i rumori intermittenti. E non basta ancora avere ricordi. Bisogna saperli dimenticare, quando sono troppi, e avere la grande pazienza di attendere che ritornino. Perché i ricordi in sé ancora non sono. Solo quando diventano sangue in noi, sguardo e gesto, anonimi e non più distinguibili da noi stessi, soltanto allora può accadere che in un momento eccezionale si levi dal loro centro e sgorghi la prima parola di un verso.”
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