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@deeperkindofslumber
“The good or ill accidents of life are very little at our disposal; but we are pretty much masters of what books we shall read, what diversions we shall partake of, and what company we shall keep. Philosophers have endeavoured to render happiness entirely independent of everything external. That degree of perfection is impossible to be attained: But every wise man will endeavour to place his happiness on such objects chiefly as depend upon himself: and that is not to be attained so much by any other means as by this delicacy of sentiment. When a man is possessed of that talent, he is more happy by what pleases his taste, than by what gratifies his appetites, and receives more enjoyment from a poem or a piece of reasoning than the most expensive luxury can afford.
[•••].
On farther reflection, I find, that it (a cultivated taste for the polite arts) rather improves our sensibility for all the tender and agreeable passions; at the same time that it renders the mind incapable of the rougher and more boisterous emotions.
Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes,
Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros.
(Ovid, Epistulae ex Ponto; „Having learned about polite arts with tenacity dulcifies the character and does not allow you to be fierce.”).
For this, I think there may be assigned two very natural reasons. In the first place, nothing is so improving to the temper as the study of the beauties, either of poetry, eloquence, music, or painting. They give a certain elegance of sentiment to which the rest of mankind are strangers. The emotions which they excite are soft and tender. They draw off the mind from the hurry of business and interest; cherish reflection; dispose to tranquillity; and produce an agreeable melancholy, which, of all dispositions of the mind, is the best suited to love and friendship.
In the second place, a delicacy of taste is favourable to love and friendship, by confining our choice to few people, and making us indifferent to the company and conversation of the greater part of men. You will rarely find, that mere men of the world, whatever strong sense they may be endowed with, are very nice in distinguishing characters, or in marking those insensible differences and gradations, which make one man preferable to another. Any one, that has competent sense, is sufficient for their entertainment: They talk to him, of their pleasure and affairs, with the same frankness that they would to another; and finding many, who are fit to supply his place, they never feel any vacancy or want in his absence.
(Whereas) One that has well digested his knowledge both of books and men, has little enjoyment but in the company of a few select companions. He feels too sensibly how much all the rest of mankind fall short of the notions which he has entertained. And, his affections being thus confined within a narrow circle, no wonder he carries them further, than if they were more general and undistinguished. The gaiety and frolic of a bottle companion improves with him into a solid friendship: And the ardours of a youthful appetite become an elegant passion.”
-- David Hume, "Of The Delicacy Of Taste And Passion"
"EUROPA", Lars Von Trier - Prologue
Detail: The Archangel Michael fighting the Rebel Angels, by Lucas Vorsterman, 1621
A permanent online resource for Hume scholars and students, including reliable texts of almost everything written by David Hume, and links t
And the death of dreams
Shall be a beautiful end
They all came to Heliogabalus’ parties, the ancient equivalent of Conan Grey, a wicked party-animal and an angel with horns with a fine taste for flowers. Once a year he howled on top of his empire so everyone could hear: « Come and rejoice, my friends! It is the only week of the year where the beautifuls aren’t scorning the uglies, for all of you are covered with the finest rose petals! » Of course they all lacked the ability to take maniac selfies but Lawrence Alma-Tadema and Cole Thomas immortalized one of these feasts; they were two painters in love but who never dared in their lifetime tell each other for they were too afraid to be laughed at. Everyone would come a long way just to bathe in roses; some drowned in petals, drunk, sank there alone before they could make a new friend. Egor clearly had enough and asked for it all to stop, a protective hand above his hangover head on the 2nd day, feeling like someone took his soul away. Nerds, prom queens, geeks, ferret lovers, people who called themselves “normal”, all showed up and reunited in peace, days and nights, for this special week once a year. A real mood for many present-day citizens.
And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy.
Edgar Allan Poe, Romance 1831
“The light of a candle
is transferred to another candle—
spring twilight”
- Yosa Buson
- Yosa Buson
📖.
The Metropolitan Museum
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