Or if we do applaud, honour and admire, quota pars, how small a part, in respect of the whole world, never so much as hears our names! how few take notice of us! how slender a tract, as scant as Alcibiades his land in a map! And yet every man must and will be immortal, as he hopes, and extend his fame to our antipodes, whenas half, no, not a quarter, of his own province or city neither knows nor hears of him: but say they did, what’s a city to a kingdom, a kingdom to Europe, Europe to the world, the world itself that must have an end, if compared to the least visible star in the firmament, eighteen times bigger than it? and then if those stars be infinite, and every star there be a sun, as some will, and, as this sun of ours, hath his planets about him, all inhabited, what proportion bear we to them, and where’s our glory?

Anatomy of Melancholy

Initium caecitas, progressus labor, exitus dolor, error omnia. [Blindness at the beginning, labor in the middle, grief at the end, error in all.]

Petrarch

St. Jerome and the lion (Bosch, Benozzo Gozzoli, Albrecht Altdorfer, Filippo Lippi)

the twitter trap

the twitter trap

“Basically, we are outsourcing our brains to the cloud. The upside is that this frees a lot of gray matter for important pursuits like FarmVille and “Real Housewives.” But my inner worrywart wonders whether the new technologies overtaking us may be eroding characteristics that are essentially human: our ability to reflect, our pursuit of meaning, genuine empathy, a sense of community connected by something deeper than snark or political affinity.”

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Dirty Three – “Lullabye For Christie”
Whatever You Love, You Are

Inevitably, whenever I run into a “what’s the saddest song in the world” discussion or article, my mind jumps immediately to “Lullabye For Christie.” Sure, there things like “Tears In Heaven”, Barber’s Adagio For Strings, much of A Silver Mt. Zion’s first album, and more recent stuff like The Antlers’ Hospice. But I always come back to this simple call and response, its inexorable, funereal procession and final unhinged shriek. Soundtrack to a burial at dawn.

Roy Charles Brooking, The Capture of a French Ship (I like the water – very ripply)

Of all my seeking this is all my gain:
No agony of any mortal brain
   Shall wrest the secret of the life of man;
The Search has taught me that the Search is vain.

Yet sometimes on a sudden all seems clear—
Hush! hush! my soul, the Secret draweth near;
   Make silence ready for the speech divine—
If Heaven should speak, and there be none to hear!

Yea! sometimes on the instant all seems plain,
The simple sun could tell us, or the rain;
   The world, caught dreaming with a look of heaven,
Seems on a sudden tip-toe to explain.

Like to a maid who exquisitely turns
A promising face to him who, waiting, burns
   In hell to hear her answer— so the world
Tricks all, and hints what no man ever learns.

The Rubáiyát