it is much the same
Jan. 18th, 2011 02:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
incandescensToday has been busy, tiring, somewhat frustrating, and even though things are more or less on course, or at least not wandered too far off it, has left me with a certain feeling of dissatisfaction.
Though since I am not snowed in, flooded out, having my waterbed leak on me (not that I have a waterbed anyhow), am in reasonable health (other than the possible mild cold that everyone seems to have), and have craft stuff to be getting on with, I suppose I should not complain. How dissatisfying.
---
That One
Oh days devoted to the useless burden
of putting out of mind the biography
of a minor poet of the Southem Hemisphere,
to whom the fates or perhaps the stars have given
a body which will leave behind no child,
and blindness, which is semi-darkness and jail,
and old age, which is the dawn of death,
and fame, which absolutely nobody deserves,
and the practice of weaving hendecasyllables,
and an old love of encyclopedias
and fine handmade maps and smooth ivory,
and an incurable nostalgia for the Latin,
and bits of memories of Edinburgh and Geneva
and the loss of memory of names and dates,
and the cult of the East, which the varied peoples
of the teeming East do not themselves share,
and evening trembling with hope or expectation,
and the disease of entymology,
and the iron of Anglo-Saxon syllables,
and the moon, that always catches us by surprise,
and that worse of all bad habits, Buenos Aires,
and the subtle flavor of water, the taste of grapes,
and chocolate, oh Mexican delicacy,
and a few coins and an old hourglass,
and that an evening, like so many others,
be given over to these lines of verse.
-- Jorge Luis Borges
Though since I am not snowed in, flooded out, having my waterbed leak on me (not that I have a waterbed anyhow), am in reasonable health (other than the possible mild cold that everyone seems to have), and have craft stuff to be getting on with, I suppose I should not complain. How dissatisfying.
---
That One
Oh days devoted to the useless burden
of putting out of mind the biography
of a minor poet of the Southem Hemisphere,
to whom the fates or perhaps the stars have given
a body which will leave behind no child,
and blindness, which is semi-darkness and jail,
and old age, which is the dawn of death,
and fame, which absolutely nobody deserves,
and the practice of weaving hendecasyllables,
and an old love of encyclopedias
and fine handmade maps and smooth ivory,
and an incurable nostalgia for the Latin,
and bits of memories of Edinburgh and Geneva
and the loss of memory of names and dates,
and the cult of the East, which the varied peoples
of the teeming East do not themselves share,
and evening trembling with hope or expectation,
and the disease of entymology,
and the iron of Anglo-Saxon syllables,
and the moon, that always catches us by surprise,
and that worse of all bad habits, Buenos Aires,
and the subtle flavor of water, the taste of grapes,
and chocolate, oh Mexican delicacy,
and a few coins and an old hourglass,
and that an evening, like so many others,
be given over to these lines of verse.
-- Jorge Luis Borges
no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 10:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 01:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 02:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 02:48 pm (UTC)But
stealcomplain in measure," quoth Harry the King. "There's measure in all things made!"(to misquote Kipling)