henconouthal
HenConOutHal
‘I seem fated to pass through the world without colliding with it or moving it — and I'm sure I can't tell you whether the fate's good or evil. I don't die — I don't fall in love. And if other people die or fall in love they always do it when I'm just not there.’ Reading English at Oxford.
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Cease then, nor order imperfection name:
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on thee.
Submit.—In this, or any other sphere,
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear:
Safe in the hand of one disposing pow'r,
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
All nature is but art, unknown to thee;
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony, not understood;
All partial evil, universal good:
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,
One truth is clear, Whatever is, is right.
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poor fellow! such a thing as a journal was quite foreign to him – he seemed quite astonished when I calmly said I could tell what I had said and done for the last 21 years past quite as well as for the last Sunday but one
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Against the Charms our Ballox have
How weak all human skill is
Since they can make a Man a slave
To such a Bitch as Willis .
Whom that I may describe throughout
Assist me Bawdy Powers
I'le write upon a double Clowt
And dipp my Pen in Flowers.
Her looks demurely Impudent
Ungainly Beautifull
Her modesty is insolent
Her witt both pert and dull.
A Prostitute to all the Town
And yet with no man Freinds
She rails and scolds when she lyes down
And Curses when she Spends.
Bawdy in thoughts, precise in Words,
Ill natur'd though a Whore,
Her Belly is a Bagg of Turds,
And her Cunt a Common shore.
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“I need a little language such as lovers use, words of one syllable such as children speak when they come into the room and find their mother sewing and pick up some scrap of bright wool, a feather, or a shred of chintz. I need a howl; a cry. When the storm crosses the marsh and sweeps over me where I lie in the ditch unregarded I need no words. Nothing neat. Nothing that comes down with all its feet on the floor. None of those resonances and lovely echoes that break and chime from nerve to nerve in our breasts making wild music, false phrases. I have done with phrases.”
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PASSIONS are liken'd best to floods and streams:
The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;
So, when affection yields discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words, in words discover
That they are poor in that which makes a lover.
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Don’t we forgive everything of a lover? We forgive selfishness, desire, guile. As long as we are the motive for it.
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“I had to touch you with my hands, I had to taste you with my tongue; one can't love and do nothing.”
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