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Wednesday, August 26, 2009

I Hate That Drum's Discordant Sound

Current mood: Appreciative

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
And burning town, and ruin'd swains,
And mangl'd limbs, and dying groans,
And widow's tears, and orphan's moans;
And all the Misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.

John Scott (1730 - 1783)

4:43 am - 0 comments - 0 Kudos
Thursday, February 12, 2009

The preface of THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY

Current mood: In awe

The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.
The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
     
The highest, as the lowest, form of critisism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
      
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.
They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.
 
These is no such thing as a moral or immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. That is all.
 
The 19th century dislike of Realism is the rage of the Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.
 
The 19th century dislike of Romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in the glass.
 
The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the mortality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.
 
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
 
No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
 
Thought and langauge are to the artist instruments of an art.
Vice and virtue are to the artists materials for an art.
 
From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.
 
All art is at once surface and symbol.
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.
 
It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex and vital.
 
When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.
 
We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensly.
 
All art is quite useless.
 
 
Oscar Wilde
2:58 am - 1 comments - 0 Kudos
Wednesday, February 04, 2009

moss on my pillow

Current mood: contemplative

I finally found a place to rest my head

But it's strangely quiet

I must be dead

 

A little cold...

Tonight I won’t be so bold

This bedtime story has grown old

(How many times must I be told?)

 

It is still and silent

Remorse is futile

Who would have thought a mere feeling could be so violent?

 
11:22 pm - 3 comments - 6 Kudos
Thursday, September 25, 2008

not important

Current mood: No idea

I cant stand false apologies and
 
sincere goodbyes!
 
 
 
They make this girlie sad :(
 
 
5:25 pm - 0 comments - 0 Kudos
Tuesday, September 16, 2008

...

Current mood: calm

A tick a tick a tick...

 

 

 

There is blood all over

 

 

 

 my pick...

 

 

 

 

 

6:44 am - 1 comments - 0 Kudos
Monday, September 15, 2008

Currently untitled...

Current mood: blah

If each occurence is unique
Why do all travelling soldiers have blistered feet?
If each day exists on its own
Why are so many sad and alone?
If each worm becomes a different moth
How can it be said we are cut from the same cloth?
If forever is never and never is now
How can you say we'll be together somehow?
5:21 pm - 1 comments - 2 Kudos