These faults may occasionally be excused in a work of length; but a short poem must be correct and perfect.“
    "All this is true, segnor; but you should consider that I only write for pleasure.”
    "Your defects are the less excusable. Their incorrectness may be forgiven, who work for money, who are obliged to complete a given task in a given time, and are paid according to the bulk, not value of their productions. But in those whom no necessity forces to turn author, who merely write for fame, and have full leisure to polish their compositions, faults are unpardonable, and merit the sharpest arrows of criticism.

The Monk

tumblr_lgbsa9doTI1qzv802

Michael Trommer – “Morning Haze”
Tree Line

This barely-there album is like Tape’s most abstract pieces, further deconstructed and stretched out into soundscapes. Its moments of beauty are like the natural moments of beauty inherent to the world: transient and difficult to isolate. This track doesn’t really get going, if get going is an applicable idiom, until around two minutes in. The album is free.

What can repay me for having kissed the leathern paw of that confounded old witch? Diavolo! She has left such a scent upon my lips, that I shall smell of garlick for this month to come! As I pass along the Prado, I shall be taken for a walking omelet, or some large onion running to seed!

The Monk

Amongst fowl, peacocks and pigeons, all fenny fowl are forbidden, as ducks, geese, swans, herons, cranes, coots, didappers, waterhens, with all those teals, curs, sheldrakes, and peckled fowls, that come hither in winter out of Scandia, Muscovy, Greenland, Friezland, which half the year are covered all over with snow, and frozen up. Though these be fair in feathers, pleasant in taste, and have a good outside, like hypocrites, white in plumes, aud soft, their flesh is hard, black, unwholesome, dangerous, melancholy meat; Gravant et putrefaciunt stomachum, saith Isaac, part. 5, de vol.; their young ones are more tolerable, but young pigeons he quite disapproves.

Anatomy of Melancholy

None sleep so profoundly as those who are determined not to wake.

The Monk