amazing (zadivljujuće)?

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Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
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https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/images/hb/hb_14.81.1.jpg
Angel of the Revelation

The Second Coming
BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
 
wirdz:
^ amazing...

setih se sartrove mučnine, i onoga što u toj knjizi piše o stablima...

"Čemu toliko potpuno jednakih stabala? Toliko promašenih opstanaka i tvrdoglavo ponovno započetih i ponovno promašenih – poput nespretnih napora kukca, koji je pao na leđa? (Ja sam bio jedan od tih napora). To i takvo obilje nije sličilo na darežljivost, naprotiv. (...) Počeh se smijati jer sam se odjednom sjetio golemih proljeća, koja opisuju u knjigama, punih krhanja, pucanja, gorostasnih procvata. Bilo je glupaka koji su počinjali da vam govore o volji za moć i o borbi za život. (...) Ona nisu imala želje da postoje, samo se u tome nisu mogla spriječiti; i to je sve" (Sartr, Mučnina)

ne znam šta da mislim o tome, pogotovo kad vidim ovako nešto.
Kliknite za proširenje...

davno sam chitala sartra, mozda i prerano... i preskochicu citat jer ne moze bez celine
znam samo da je ostavio bash muchan osecaj , shto je najgore, nekog i razumevanja, valjda poistovecivanja sa mislima "velikog " pisca
sad ga ne bih ni pipnula
svoju jad je istresao

zadivljujuci i ispunjavajuci mi je osmeh mojih dveju kerefeka, sasvim jednostavno.
 
AAnakonda:
davno sam chitala sartra, mozda i prerano... i preskochicu citat jer ne moze bez celine
znam samo da je ostavio bash muchan osecaj , shto je najgore, nekog i razumevanja, valjda poistovecivanja sa mislima "velikog " pisca
sad ga ne bih ni pipnula
svoju jad je istresao
Kliknite za proširenje...

da, teška knjiga... ono što je čudno je da me je nekako neobično odmaralo da je čitam kad sam bio u depri...
 
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“Alone”
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
 
Ja sam nekada patio sto sam glup. Poceo sam da citam Marksa i Istarhova da to promenim. Bez uspeha.
A onda sam shvatio da je to nepromenljivo, kao zemlja, kao stena. Ne pomaze ni obrazovanje ni razmisljanje.
I onda sam rekao: dobro, glup sam, pa sta? PA STA???

I nastavio da citam i Marksa i Istarhova.
U pocetku sam nasao mehanizme da glupost sakrijem, da ne bude ocigledno.
A onda sam pustio, neka bude kako bude, neka svi misle da sam glup, nije to najgore sto moze da se desi.
I dalje sam glup ali se zbog toga vise ne nerviram.
Ali ja sam danas dobio dovoljno osmeha da prezivim dan.
 
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