Nov 28, 2014
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Cornered, the boy kicked out at the world. The world kicked back a lot fuckin harder now.
The Libertines. ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’.
Yes, I was in the wrong. Oh you won’t forgive me, will you? No, you can’t forgive me. I still have you here. Listen, answer your friend, aren’t we to live together any more? Be brave. Answer me quickly. I cannot stay here much longer. Listen only to your good heart. Quick, tell me if I should come to you. Yours, all my life. Rimbaud
Arthur Rimbaud. End of a letter to Paul Verlaine. 4-5 July 1873.
I'm dying, I'm decomposing in dulness, in paltry wickedness, in grayness. What can I say? - in a terrible way I insist on worshipping free freedom, and so many things that I am to be pitied, isn't it true?
Arthur Rimbaud. Part of a letter to Georges Izambard. 2 November 1870.
I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by.
Oscar Wilde. Third stanza of 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol'. 1896-1898.
He now could praise, esteem, approve, But understood not what was love.
Jonathan Swift. Lines 546-547 of 'Cadenus and Vanessa'. 1726.
Summon at once thy courage, rouse thy care, Stand firm, look back, be resolute, beware.
John Gay. Lines 23-24 of ‘Trivia; Or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London’. 1716.
Virtue may choose the high or low degree, 'Tis just alike to Virtue and to me; Dwell in a monk, or light upon a king, She's still the same, belov'd, contented thing. Vice is undone, if she forgets her birth, And stoops from angels to the dregs of earth: But 'tis the fall degrades her to a whore; Let greatness own her, and she's mean no more, Her birth, her beauty, crowds and courts confess, Chaste matrons praise her, and grave bishops bless; In golden chains the willing world she draws, And sees pale Virtue carted in her stead.
Alexander Pope. Lines 137-150 of ‘Epilogue to the Satires’. 1738.