It isn’t a circle–it is simply a long line
2 hours ago
"I wish to boast that Pygmalion has been an extremely successful play, both on stage and screen, all over Europe and North America as well as at home. It is so intensely and deliberately didactic, and its subject is esteemed so dry, that I delight in throwing it at the heads of the wiseacres who repeat the parrot cry that art should never be didactic. It goes to prove my contention that great art can never be anything else."
"Nonsense! Time enough to think of the future when you havnt any future to think of."
"Oh, if only I'd known what a dreadful thing it is to be clean I'd never have come..."and for you #Dewithon19 readers:
"Sentimental rhetoric! That's the Welsh strain in him. It also accounts for his mendacity and dishonesty."I'd also say, Oh, George. Never explain. The afterword tells us who Liza Doolittle marries and everything that happens afterwards. But the play proper ends with the question of who Liza marries (if anyone) up in the air. (As does My Fair Lady, though as for that, does anyone really doubt Audrey Hepburn's about to marry Rex Harrison as Henry Higgins?) Shaw's afterword (from 1942) was mostly a disappointment.
Why do I languish thus, drooping and dull,
As if I were all earth?
O give me quickness, that I may with mirth
Praise thee brim-full!
The wanton lover in a curious strain
Can praise his fairest fair;
And with quaint metaphors her curled hair
Curl o're again.
Thou art my loveliness, my life, my light,
Beauty alone to me:
Thy bloody death and undeserv'd makes thee
Pure red and white.
When all perfections as but one appear,
That those thy form doth show,
The very dust, where thou dost tread and go,
Makes beauties here.
Where are my lines then? my approaches? views?
Where are my window songs?
Lovers are still pretending, and ev'n wrongs
Sharpen their muse:
But I am lost in flesh, whose sugared lies
Still mock me, and grow bold:
Sure thou didst put a mind there, if I could
Find where it lies.
Lord, clear thy gift, that with a constant wit
I may but look towards thee:
Look only, for to love thee, who can be,
What angel fit?
"I can't live without Daisy, Fred thought. There is no God, no spiritual authority, no design, there are no causes and no effects--there is no purpose in the universe, but if there were, it could be shown that there was an intention, throughout recorded and unrecorded time, to give me Daisy."
"Living on the river, he occasionally entertained himself by watching the bathers, and was fairly accustomed to the sight of the human figure in the wet; but it always ended in self-criticism. He wanted to get away from sex thoughts, minimize their importance, just as he wished to reduce the importance of money. Money and sex, he reflected, obsessive thoughts, too much everywhere - literature, magazines, drama, or cinema deal with nothing but sex all the time, but the female figure, water-soaked, is enchanting."
|It's all about a girl named Daisy, almost drives me crazy|
|I wanna see stars!|
Some Saian mountaineer
Struts today with my shield.
I threw it down by a bush and ran
When the fighting got hot.
Life seemed somehow more precious.
It was a beautiful shield.
I know where I can buy another
Exactly like it, just as round.
Fox knows many,
What breaks me,
Is tasteless desire,
And I know how to lead off
The sprightly dance
Of the lord Dionysus,
I do it thunderstruck
|Those dresses strike me as more proto-Mod than Archaic, but still...|
|The girls are clothed but the boy naked. Oh, Mr. Davenport!|
Now sing to tarnish and good weathering
The praise of wrinkles which sustain us
Savory as apples whose heaps in attics
Keep many alive through old winter wars
In that instant, the dining room became nail-bitingly unbearable (see Midday Face-Off at Sioux Falls: A Mohave Dan Western, Lone Star Publishers, Bendley, 1992).or:
There was, too, the supremely itchy feeling I'd seen her somewhere before, when she had a similar eggshell haircut--a feeling so persistent, the next day, sunny and freezing, when Leulah dropped me off at home, I found myself weeding through some of the contemporary biographies in Dad's library, Fuzzy Man: The Life and Times of Andy Warhol (Benson, 1990), Margaret Thatcher: The Woman, The Myth (Scott, 1999), Mikhail Gorbachev: The Lost Prince of Moscow (Vadivarich, 1999), flipping to the centers and inspecting the photographs.It strikes me as a suitable enough style for who the narrator is--a hyper-literate undergraduate--but your mileage may vary, and the jokiness of the titles is uneven. (The idea of Andy Warhol as Fuzzy Man works for me, but not all of them do.)
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by,
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat me with your loveliest lie,
I will protest you with my favorite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And oaths were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived,
To carry on without a break thus far,--
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.
We live in our own world,A world that is too smallFor you to stoop and enterEven on hands and knees,The adult subterfuge.And though you probe and pryWith analytic eye,And eavesdrop all our talkWith an amused look,You cannot find the centreWhere we dance, where we play,Where life is still asleepUnder the closed flower,Under the smooth shellOf eggs in the cupped nestThat mock the faded blueOf your remoter heaven.