Life, less on

Life, less on

However precocious I had thoroughly believed I was, the age-old lesson of the fool, who must suffer at the hand (and not infrequently, at the ridicule) of life for ever daring to call himself wise, was duly repeated its reproach to a very uneducated young man.

Nor is it politic, I say, to surrender, however comforting ignorance is pledged to secure; for though a dozen well-stitched volumes will expand the library of humanity with vague remonstrance and uninhibited innuendo in which the “ultimate” philosophy is the simplest action or inaction; that, moreover, the brain must embrace its(thin)self and be—simply be, an idiot! No — although philosophy profs will preach, eventually, to accept our feebleness and foolishness, I maintain my doctrine as far as to live by acceptance with endeavour.

If their literature means to say that “letting go” is “natural” and part of man’s nature, then the just-arrived-off-dog-poo fly in their bechamel must be this question: Wherefore must a man’s nature be printed and instructed? Surely the wild man needs not a lengthy lecture of instructions to be wild!


Holy Sylvia

My voice is too soft

For a whistle up the cylinder,

Up thin-walled flesh and ribbed bones aloft;

This outcry is, as fire goes, a cinder.

For to speak of you, I stutter

Though my mouth begs against its pitied lot

And forms beauteous words to utter

But for inept lips as lids I got

That even a siren’s poem is cast off and lost.

Of other arts, this hand is stale

For neither brush nor pen to hold

To write the ink in evenness, my palm shall ever fail

Though eternal hot my feeling is, the result is always cold;

For thou art the holy angel now, and all, all is told.


Excerpt I like, from Bell Village

Indeed, even an indulgent boy emperor whose absolute power eschews not the happy adventures of tyranny—metered out and expelled in a fashion not intolerable of the word—even such an odd-ordained boy must surely have not gusto enough or ever find an hour perfectly void of amusement to tempt the fat China-eyed boy to accuse the simple, poor-dimensioned brain of Mrs. Fletcher as being one sufficiently proportioned with vigour and that species of acumen not infrequently discovered under the caps of enlightened monks upon wearisome mountain slabs, cross-legged or hovering in concord with the sleeping clouds adrift. Mrs. Fletcher is neither condemned nor suspected of such an office, for notice of this kind belongs not to her feature. Nay, and it is not a sad deficiency; for of the shallow or surfaced necessaries in whose favour a young lady may be brought from misery to joyousness by an attention of a mind less acquainted with esoterica or astrological philosophies, for which a populace, driven by cleverness and a brooding kind of thinking, insight and ready sympathies, is at hand in any corner of the chiselling manufacture of civilized existence. Therefore, let Mrs. Fletcher and like-feathers flock in abundance, for simple, uninvolved and untrained troubles hold a majority among the lesser, however deeper, cruelties refined brains purchase at a bargain for superiority over beast, bird and bark.


If love must

If love must begin its stringing chords

Of chimes or by orchestral score,

Let it sound its piano eternal

Or till lover’s ear is deaf confirmed.

For, for the sakes of those in serenation,

However incessant the noise

Though it be sweet its pitch

It stays as invisible as an unreached itch.

But for these men and women,

Whose hearts unlock by this siren,

Let not love begin its good-good act;

For love, when it leaves, turns nothing fact.


Happy to despair

Everything clicks in place at the last moment, at point of utter despair and hopelessness. It seems almost ironic or cruel that the answer should come only after the sufferer has just about given up all hope.

It usually comes, this clarity, in that well-known, American-action-film ending when hero saves lover half a second before the facility in which she is chained, explodes in true, big-budget style.
If clarity and hope do not come at that moment of despair then life would never have become a popular undertaking.
Life is not difficult in itself. It is actually full of options to prolong its creatures’ lives. — the energy of life is so determined to strive that in spite of its body host it will do everything to prosper.
The difficulty comes with our fellow man—and indeed, above all, our dear selves.