“I hate inconstancy—I loathe, detest,
Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made
Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast
No permanent foundation can be laid;
Love, constant love, has been my constant guest,
And yet last night, being at a masquerade,
I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan,
Which gave me some sensations like a villain.
But soon Philosophy came to my aid,
And whisper’d, ‘Think of every sacred tie!’
‘I will, my dear Philosophy!’ I said,
‘But then her teeth, and then, oh, Heaven! her eye!
I’ll just inquire if she be wife or maid,
Or neither—out of curiosity.’
‘Stop!’ cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian
(Though she was masqued then as a fair Venetian);
‘Stop!’ so I stopp’d.—But to return: that which
Men call inconstancy is nothing more
Than admiration due where nature’s rich
Profusion with young beauty covers o’er
Some favour’d object; and as in the niche
A lovely statue we almost adore,
This sort of adoration of the real
Is but a heightening of the ‘beau ideal.’
’Tis the perception of the beautiful,
A fine extension of the faculties,
Platonic, universal, wonderful,
Drawn from the stars, and filter’d through the skies,
Without which life would be extremely dull;
In short, it is the use of our own eyes,
With one or two small senses added, just
To hint that flesh is form’d of fiery dust.
Yet ’tis a painful feeling, and unwilling,
For surely if we always could perceive
In the same object graces quite as killing
As when she rose upon us like an Eve,
’Twould save us many a heartache, many a shilling
(For we must get them any how or grieve),
Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever,
How pleasant for the heart as well as liver!
The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,
But changes night and day, too, like the sky;
Now o’er it clouds and thunder must be driven,
And darkness and destruction as on high:
But when it hath been scorch’d, and pierced, and riven,
Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye
Pours forth at last the heart’s blood turn’d to tears,
Which make the English climate of our years.”
Source: DON JUAN
“Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,—
For both are much the same, since what men think
Exists when the once thinkers are less real
Than what they thought, for mind can never sink,
And ’gainst the body makes a strong appeal;
And yet ’tis very puzzling on the brink
Of what is call’d eternity, to stare,
And know no more of what is here, than there—”
Source: DON JUAN
“The poem should provide that break, that vision into reality which relieves and makes alive.”
Source: Straw for the Fire: From the Notebooks of Theodore Roethke
“A poetry of longing: not for escape, but for a greater reality.”
Source: Straw for the Fire: From the Notebooks of Theodore Roethke
“- You know very well you’re not real.
- ‘I am real!’ said Alice and began to cry.
- You won’t make yourself a bit realler by crying.”
Source: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland / Through the Looking-Glass
“Liars despise the truth and anyone who speaks it. They will fight and attack those who tell the truth in order to protect their lies.”
“Certain mysteries are for formal reasons impenetrable, and here is the vast darkness of the subject.”
Source: Naven: A Survey of the Problems suggested by a Composite Picture of the Culture of a New Guinea Tribe drawn from Three Points of View
“You can try to code their brain and body, but you cannot change a person's identity, personality, morals, integrity and stance in life.”
Source: Reality Is Just A Possible Fantasy
“You cannot lose the truth. You must keep it buried, in a box under the stairs in the cellar of your brain. You might even struggle to find it some days. But if it's tossed out, if it's lost... then so are you." Ewen sighed and said, "Sometimes I think the whole of Germany is like that. Hitler invented a fiction for them, and they're all living it... and they've totally lost the truth." He got very quiet. "But why? How? How does a whole country bury the truth and forget where they buried it?”
Source: Max in the House of Spies: A Tale of World War II
“We're not going to split the heart of reality: not until the third semester.”
Source: Straw for the Fire: From the Notebooks of Theodore Roethke