"The poet’s mind is ... a receptacle for seizing and storing up numberless feelings, phrases, images, which remain there until all the particles which can unite to form a new compound are present together."
WEBSTER was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense;
To seize and clutch and penetrate,
Expert beyond experience,
He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
. . . . . . . .
-- TS Eliot, 'Whispers of Immortality'
"the more perfect the artist, ... the more perfectly will the mind digest and transmute the passions which are its material"
|On Tue, 1 May 2012 01:11:32 -0700, Peter Montgomery <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>I remember in one of the Tavernas, I was with some English fellows. We
started trading nick names
>for various things. I was trying to find out the english slang for condoms,
but they didn't know any of
>my north Aremican slang, so Ifinally blurted out, prophyllactics. The
taverna went silent, and everyone
>(all men of course), looked at me. Apparently that is the Greek word for
condoms. :) Sheepish look
>on my face.
>Curoious what one remembers.
Why, for all of us, out of all that we have heard, seen, felt, in a
lifetime, do certain images recur, charged with emotion, rather than others?
The song of one bird, the leap of one fish, at a particular place and time,
the scent of one flower, an old woman on a German mountain path, six
ruffians seen through an open window playing cards at night at a small
French railway junction where there was a water-mill: such memories may have
symbolic value, but of what we cannot tell, for they come to represent the
depths of feeling into which we cannot peer. We might just as well ask why,
when we try to recall visually some period in the past, we find in our
memory just the few meagre arbitrarily chosen set of snapshots that we do
find there, the faded poor souvenirs of passionate moments.