Poem Comprised Of Quotes

LOVE of others is the appreciation of one's self. MAY your egotism be so gigantic that you comprise mankind in your self-sympathy.

You begin to suspect, as you gaze through this you-shaped hole of insight and fire, that though it is the most important thing you own — never deny that for an instant — it has not shielded you from anything terribly important. The only consolation is that though one could have thrown it away at any time, morning or night, one didn't. One chose to endure. Without any assurance of immortality, or even competence, one only knows one has not been cheated out of the consolation of carpenters, accountants, doctors, ditch-diggers, the ordinary people who must do useful things to be happy. Meander along, then, half blind and a little mad, wondering when you actually learned — was it before you began? — the terrifying fact that had you thrown it away, your wound would have been no more likely to heal: indeed, in an affluent society such as this, you might even have gone on making songs, poems, pictures, and getting paid. The only difference would have been — and you learned it listening to all those brutally unhappy people who did throw away theirs — and they do, after all, comprise the vast and terrifying majority — that without it, there plainly and starkly would have been nothing there; no, nothing at all.

May your egotism be so gigantic that you comprise mankind in your self-sympathy.

Memories are better than life. Nothing I'm part of is good until later. I love what time does. I make decisions on the basis of sensing what will produce the best memory. They're my finest works: all that multidimensional and liquid maze of experience minus the fear and uncertainty, or with the fear and uncertainty changed to something else. Because they're already finished. I made them up and they comprise me. It's as if experience is only the dark, chaotic factory where these little infinity jewels are pressed into being. Everyone is the poet of their memories. Usually it's better to get things over with so you have the memory. But like the best poems, they're also never really finished because they gain new meaning as time reveals them in different lights. Maybe every memory is inside you from the beginning; they erupt and branch and merge in fantastic patterns, but if you really tried you could trace any one of them back to the same original. Maybe the best ones are all the same: of being born. Or dying, or whatever it is.

Each letter in the Celtic ogham alphabet stood for a tree and its magical associations, and the symbology of trees is a richly poetic presence in Celtic myths. The English poet Robert Graves, in his extraordinary book The White Goddess, deals at great length with the order and meanings of the letters comprising this tree alphabet. He conjectures that the famous Welsh Battle of the Trees (a group of ancient poems preserved in the sixteenth century manuscript The Romance of Taliesin) refers to a druidic battle of words rather than a literal battle of vegetation.

In order to grasp how exploitation is overcome by sublimation, it is not enough to stay with this standard definition of sublimation as the elevation of an ordinary object to the dignity of a Thing. As Lacan aptly demonstrated apropos courtly love, an ordinary object (woman) is there elevated to the dignity of the Thing, she becomes an “inhuman partner,” dangerous to get too close to, always out of reach, mixing horror and respect. The paradox of desire is here brought to an extreme, turning the experience of love into an endlessly postponed tragedy. In true love, however, comedy enters: while the beloved remains a Thing, it is simultaneously “desublimated,” accepted in all her ridiculous bodily imperfections. A true miracle is thus achieved: I can hold the Thing-jouissance in my hands, making fun of it and playing games with it, enjoying it without restraint – true love doesn’t idealize – or, as Lacan put it in his seminar on anxiety: “Only love-sublimation makes it possible for jouissance to condescend to desire.” This enigmatic proposition was perspicuously interpreted by Alenka Zupančič who demonstrated how, in the comedy of love, sublimation paradoxically comprises its opposite, desublimation – you remain the Thing, but simultaneously I can use you for my enjoyment: “to love the other and to desire my own jouissance. To ‘desire one’s own jouissance’ is probably what is the hardest to obtain and to make work, since the enjoyment has trouble appearing as an object.” One should not shirk from a quite concrete and graphic description of what this amounts to: I love you, and I show this by fucking you just for pleasure, mercilessly objectivizing you – this is how I am no longer exploited by serving the Other’s enjoyment. When I worry all the time whether you also enjoy it, it is not love – “I love you” means: I want to be used as an object for your enjoyment. One should reject here all the Catholic nonsense of preferring the missionary position in sex because lovers can whisper tender words and communicate spiritually, and even Kant was too short here when he reduced the sexual act to reducing my partner to an instrument of my pleasure: self-objectivization is the proof of love, you find being used degrading only if there is no love. This enjoyment of mine should not be constrained even by the tendency to enable my partner to reach orgasm simultaneously with me – Brecht was right when, in his poem “Orges Wunschliste,” he includes in the wish-list of his preferences non-simultaneous orgasms: “Von den Mädchen, die neuen. / Von den Weibern, die ungetreuen. / Von den Orgasmen, die ungleichzeitigen. / Von den Feindschaften, die beiderseitigen.” “Of the girls, the new. / Of the women, the unfaithful. / Of orgasms, the non-simultaneous. / Of the animosities, the mutual.

Only with her - PART II For when it comes to love and life, prestige loses its significance, All that matters is the moment where you can love her with every heartbeat and the mind’s complete faithfulness, I had fallen in love long ago, but my mind took a while to love what I realised as the most loving feeling, While my heart instantly began beating for her and it immediately recognised her as its most endearing feeling, Now I live in this world created by my mind that is unaware it is obeying my heart’s fancies, Her thoughts, her imaginations, creating for me a world where she fills all my emotional vacancies, I do not mind my current existence in this world, where my mind thinks for my heart and my heart beats neither for me nor for my mind, But only for her, and when in both of them, I my own identity try to find, I realise she occupies every part of this world, where my mind and my heart patronise her alone, And I too begin to favour their sentimental inclinations with a feeling that is too prone, To fall in love again and again, with my own heart that loves her unfailingly, And then my mind doesn't mind loving her willingly, For it partly still lives for me, because without me what can it be, Just a mind that thinks endlessly, leading to feelings that it can neither feel nor see, So, it lets me be the master who depends on the feelings of his revolting heart, Finally we all are ring fenced by her feelings, from which now none of us can depart, And my heart beats one beat at a time, the mind thinks one thought at a time, while I live my life in single moments, I have to deal with my heart and my mind’s ever shifting sentimental arrangements, Where the heart always wants her feelings to be the dominant sentiment, But the mind knows then it will dissolve my existence and this becomes its predicament, Because without me it will be reduced to just a whim, that arises whenever the heart feels something, And in the kingdom of my heart she comprises everything, So, the mind fears its own identity crisis, because it is only her thoughts that continuously flow from my heart, But now all three of us realise that from beautiful thoughts none of us can part, Because to each one of us, she offers reasons to: beat, to think and to keep falling in love, And maybe this is what the wise refer to as a true and fulfilling feeling of love. So, I have left the mind alone, I let the heart beat for whatever sensation it pleases to, Because only then I admit to them both that I love her and I want to! And the heart happily beats for her, the mind only thinks about her, As they leave me alone, just to be with her!

Only with her - PART II For when it comes to love and life, prestige loses its significance, All that matters is the moment where you can love her with every heartbeat and the mind’s complete faithfulness, I had fallen in love long ago, but my mind took a while to love what I realised as the most loving feeling, While my heart instantly began beating for her and it immediately recognised her as its most endearing feeling, Now I live in this world created by my mind that is unaware it is obeying my heart’s fancies, Her thoughts, her imaginations, creating for me a world where she fills all my emotional vacancies, I do not mind my current existence in this world, where my mind thinks for my heart and my heart beats neither for me nor for my mind, But only for her, and when in both of them, I my own identity try to find, I realise she occupies every part of this world, where my mind and my heart patronise her alone, And I too begin to favour their sentimental inclinations with a feeling that is too prone, To fall in love again and again, with my own heart that loves her unfailingly, And then my mind doesn't mind loving her willingly, For it partly still lives for me, because without me what can it be, Just a mind that thinks endlessly, leading to feelings that it can neither feel nor see, So, it lets me be the master who depends on the feelings of his revolting heart, Finally we all are ring fenced by her feelings, from which now none of us can depart, And my heart beats one beat at a time, the mind thinks one thought at a time, while I live my life in single moments, I have to deal with my heart and my mind’s ever shifting sentimental arrangements, Where the heart always wants her feelings to be the dominant sentiment, But the mind knows then it will dissolve my existence and this becomes its predicament, Because without me it will be reduced to just a whim, that arises whenever the heart feels something, And in the kingdom of my heart she comprises everything, So, the mind fears its own identity crisis, because it is only her thoughts that continuously flow from my heart, But now all three of us realise that from beautiful thoughts none of us can part, Because to each one of us, she offers reasons to: beat, to think and to keep falling in love, And maybe this is what the wise refer to as a true and fulfilling feeling of love. So, I have left the mind alone, I let the heart beat for whatever sensation it pleases to, Because only then I admit to them both that I love her and I want to! And the heart happily beats for her, the mind only thinks about her, As they leave me alone, just to be with her!

In my first chapter I mentioned Robert Browning, who chose to do just this, working his way right through the Dictionary in order to equip himself for a literary career. He thought of its contents as a sort of poem. Its appeal was threefold: it contained a vast amount of poetic language, provided definitions that were often sumptuously lyrical, and comprised tens of thousands of quotations from a wide variety of authors, many of whom were forgotten but worthy of recall, and whose writings, as presented by Johnson, bodied forth a history of human psychology. Browning’s attention to the Dictionary was exceptionally dedicated,

The third category comprises the poetry of the period, mainly found in four collections dating from around 1000 – the Vercelli, Exeter, Beowulf, and Junius texts – and including the major poems: Beowulf, The Wanderer, The Seafarer, The Battle of Maldon, and The Dream of the Rood.