March 16th, 2009

blue legacy

the question is...how do you tell the phonies from the realies?

sunday lxxxiv

the fifth line, divided, shows its subject going and coming amidst the startling movements of the time, and always in peril. perhaps he will not incur loss, and find business which he can accomplish.

"among us all we can surely get the better of the little puss; sooner or later, every girl in love betrays herself,--you may be sure of that. but we will talk about it this evening."

there would always be a barrier between them. not only on harvey's side. there were things she had no right to tell - of henri, of his love and care for her, and of that last terrible day when he realized what he had done.

oscar pretended not to hear, the monster! perhaps madame clapart was lacking in tact under the circumstances; but all absorbing sentiments have so much egotism!

amos 7:14 then answered amos, and said to amaziah, i was no prophet, neither was i a prophet's son; but i was an herdman, and a gatherer of sycomore fruit.

this mixture of diabolical imperfections and divine beauties, harmonious in spite of discords, for they blended in a species of savage dignity, also this triumph of a powerful soul over a feeble body, as written in those eyes, made the child, when once seen, unforgettable. nature had wished to make that frail young being a woman; the circumstances of her conception moulded her with the face and body of a boy. a poet observing the strange creature would have declared her native clime to be arabia the blest; she belonged to the afrite and genii of arabian tales.

her face told no lies. she had the soul of that glance of fire, the intellect of those lips made brilliant by the bewitching teeth, the thought enshrined within that glorious brow, the passion of those nostrils ready at all moments to snort flame. therefore love, such as we imagine it on burning sands, in lonely deserts, filled that heart of twenty in the breast of a child, doomed, like the snowy heights of montenegro, to wear no flowers of the spring.

observers ought now to understand how it was that la pechina, from whom passion issued by every pore, awakened in perverted natures the feelings deadened by abuse; just as water fills the mouth at sight of those twisted, blotched, and speckled fruits which gourmands know by experience, and beneath whose skin nature has put the rarest flavors and perfumes. why did nicolas, that vulgar laborer, pursue this being who was worthy of a poet, while the eyes of the country-folk pitied her as a sickly deformity? why did rigou, the old man, feel the passion of a young one for this girl? which of the two men was young, and which was old? was the young peasant as blase as the old usurer? why did these two extremes of life meet in one common and devilish caprice? does the vigor that draws to its close resemble the vigor that is only dawning? the moral perversities of men are gulfs guarded by sphinxes; they begin and end in questions to which there is no answer.

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47 ronin

who does he calculate he is?

the philosophical artisan, seraphimsigrist, had the idea of making use of the 126 collected fragments of heraclitus, the (re)definer of logos, as a stichomantic resource, in the vein of fortune cookies.

the fragments are numbered as collected in the nineteenth century by classical scholar hermann alexander diels.

and pardon my obnoxicity, but fragment number forty-seven of heraclitus, exquisitely, is translated from the greek as:

let us not conjecture randomly
about the most important things.



(or possibly*)


yet let's not make rash guesses
[based on] our most lucid thoughts


*my addition in brackets
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