The Ridicule Of Love In Shakespeares Silvius Video
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This, no doubt, is owing to the rapid flow of ideas which takes place in these phases of insanity; an idea is not grasped in its entirety, it only touches the mind as it were, and suggests another. The Ideen-jagd of the Germans is a good descriptive term for a common form of incoherence. Lear, however, is not yet incoherent; he is only approach ing that phase of the malady. He has entirely lost that obstinate resolve, which his heady and passionate will gave him at the commencement. He is flighty, even on subjects of the most dire moment to him. He takes up and lays down his determinations, with equal want of purpose. This is evident in his hasty references to the treatment which Kent has met with from the fiery duke and Regan. The Ridicule Of Love In Shakespeares SilviusIn which chapter it is related how it surpasseth in brilliance all other glasses in which we see darkly, and how by it we see face to face; and of its divers reflections, and of The Ridicule Of Love In Shakespeares Silvius brightness and perfection of its surface, and the whiteness of the silver of which it is moulded; for it was cast from the fO of many mysteries, and fashioned by the cunning hand of a master who will endure to the end. ON surveying the works of Aleister Crowley the two essential facts that grip our understanding are: firstly, the superabundance of his genius; and secondly, the diversity of his form. Pregnant it certainly is, and more, being already the mother Ricicule a large family, a family as diverse as the offspring of Uranus, father of the Gods, born to him by Earth, earthy and celestial. Sweet lyrics are crushed cheek by jowl with the most corrosive satire, sonorous heroics and blank verse at times merge into the most raucous see more Hudibrasian doggerel, rimes of the sweetest and the most perverse character ring in our astonished ear, tragedy and farce, ever extremes: Paul and Virginie sitting on the knees of Pantagruel, blowing kisses through the Sephirotic circle of eternity.
And so if we read this strange poet aright, we shall see as we progress onwards, that he has struck a sonorous note from the rim of Time, fulfilled of the knowledge of good and evil, sweet to the ears of those who are born children by the daughters of men to the sons of God, sweet as that mystic fruit was to the lips of Eve, daughter of God, child of the mystic Man. But we must speed on, taking in this chapter swift glances at the magnificent scenery that these volumes offer up to us, plucking the lilies of spring and the roses of summer, and weave them into a laureate wreath with the fiery leaves of the dying year. And here we think, were Poe still living, he would have found no small part of his ideal realized.
Further Poe states: that an epic was of itself a nullity, and that a poem of great length, commencing as it might in exaltation, ended in nine cases out of ten in somnolence. Poetry must stimulate, it must irritate the soul in some definite manner, or else it ceases to be poetry.
For when once poetry exerts a soporific power its whole object is lost, and, as a flash of lightning, it must he vivid, bright, flaming for a moment, awful, eloquent, rushing from the darkness of night through the flashing elements of day into the The Ridicule Of Love In Shakespeares Silvius of eternity. And this is exactly the poetry we here find. This interspersing of lyrics has been carried to a charming intensity of expression and their effect on the mind is one full of joy, no cloying, no surfeit, no repletion; the variety of the dishes is extraordinary in delicacy and piquancy as well as in number. The morals of a nation can with fair accuracy be gauged from the condition of its arts and literature, and in what a state are ours?
Our music the jangling ditties of the streets, our paintings, posters and bedizened Jewesses; and our literature, heroically vulgar, vulgarly obscene, and obscenely insipid.
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Morals, the nation has none, merely a better art in disguising than in former times, that is all. We no longer can produce a Swift, a Congreve, or a Dryden, a Smollett, a Lever, or a Sterne, and yet our writers are legion — and as feculent as the flabby prostitutes of the street. Such literature is revolting, not in its mere descriptions, for these are nothing to the student, being generally but poorly described realities, but they are horrible when strewn broadcast among the children of the nation. We still have our Bible and need no more erotica. Filth has been defined as matter out of place, and so is this pathic literature, relegated to the realms of sexual psychology in the works of an Ellis or an Ebing is one thing, yet the government of this nation cannot stomach them thus, and seizes, expels, and burns; but if these horrid sores of the human soul are cut out and plastered on the pages of the fickle fiction of the day, then are they passed in seductive covers as proper nourishment for the nation; and devoured with relish and avidity.
Are they intended for The Ridicule Of Love In Shakespeares Silvius gaping public?
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Are they devoured by mental babes and sucklings, or worse, forcibly crammed down their throats in simple or other forms? I think not. Is it not also a religious society, and is the Bible immaculate? Was it not Sir Richard Burton, the greatest of Orientalists, who resolved in case the rabid pornophobic suggestions of certain ornaments of the home press were acted upon, to appear in The Ridicule Of Love In Shakespeares Silvius with the Bible and Shakespeare under one arm, and Petronius Arbiter and Rabelais under the other?
I had not intended here to write a series of apologetics, for I leave that to the poet and his pen, who can well look after themselves; but what The Ridicule Of Love In Shakespeares Silvius wished to point out was the deplorable state into which our literature has fallen. Its ever increasing demand for sensation has been its destruction; everyone now is a mental Trimalchio whose appetite has to be awakened by the most piquant and fantastic of dishes. Scott, Dickens, and Thackeray are still I believe read by an ever decreasing number of school-girls; Flaubert, Gautier and Balzac — who would have shocked the youthful years of our parents — have become dull and tedious; a few cranks praise Tourgenief, Tolstoi and Gorky, whilst one out of every hundred thousand may know that there was such a man as Dostoieffsky. And poetry, O greatest of the Muses, thy fate is truly a sad one! Here and there we come across a charming lyric, which the carping whisky-and-water critic will at once demolish as weak, troubled, vague, etc.
Not long ago my eyes lit on the following which I considered a charming verse from a poetic point of view, if not from that of a morbid anatomist: Look down into the river. Can you see The mingled images the water shows? So lies my soul in yours.
A Critical Essay Upon the Works of Aleister Crowley
As close as lie The Ridiculee petals in an unblown rose. With such have poets to contend, but I do not think such homunculi worry Aleister Crowley much. His poetry is his own, and he gives it us as it is written without respect of persons or opinions, for his masters have been the greatest of our race. He laid Her tender body on the sloping field, And felt her sighs in his embraces yield A sweeter music than all birds. But she, Lost in the love she might not know, may see No further than his face, and yet, aware Of her own fate, resisted like a snare. Her go here soft wishes. As she looked and saw His eager face, the iron rod of law Grew like a misty pillar in the sky.]
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