Living

“That was the strange thing, that one did not know where one was going, or what one wanted, and followed blindly, suffering so much in secret, always unprepared and amazed and knowing nothing; but one thing led to another and by degrees something had formed itself out of nothing, and so one reached at last this calm, this quiet, this certainty, and it was this process that people called living.”

-- Virginia Woolf, "The Voyage Out"

One just hoped for something more.

Living

“That was the strange thing, that one did not know where one was going, or what one wanted, and followed blindly, suffering so much in secret, always unprepared and amazed and knowing nothing; but one thing led to another and by degrees something had formed itself out of nothing, and so one reached at last this calm, this quiet, this certainty, and it was this process that people called living.”

-- Virginia Woolf, "The Voyage Out"

One just hoped for something more.

Sylvia

The end of Sylvia’s date with Bob. And it looks like the end of Bob. She is ready to move on. Next step: college. Then the world. Just mix in more than a little disillusion.

_ _ _

Walking back to the car, the streets were wide, windswept and pale dark. I looked down an alley: beautiful blackness. Papers strewn in the streets. Unreal city. “I could polka down the streets,” I told Bob. I was sweet to him going home. It was the goodbye, the end of a cycle, and he had no way of knowing. He thought there still was hope.

In the car he said, after I had let him kiss me for a while, “It always has to end, doesn’t it? We always have to separate.”

“Yes,” I said.

He was insistent, “But it doesn’t always have to be that way. We could be together someday for always.”

“Oh, no,” I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. “We keep running till we die. We separate, get further apart, till we are dead.”

He has no home; he is unhappy. I could be the source of his joy, the refuge of his life. And I can only pass on. Something in me wants more. I can’t rest. Without emotion I let him kiss me. The evening had been lovely, complete. I had been alone more than I could have been had I gone by myself. The poor guy; there is no one nicer. Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

-- Sylvia Plath, The Journals 1950

Sylvia

The end of Sylvia’s date with Bob. And it looks like the end of Bob. She is ready to move on. Next step: college. Then the world. Just mix in more than a little disillusion.

_ _ _

Walking back to the car, the streets were wide, windswept and pale dark. I looked down an alley: beautiful blackness. Papers strewn in the streets. Unreal city. “I could polka down the streets,” I told Bob. I was sweet to him going home. It was the goodbye, the end of a cycle, and he had no way of knowing. He thought there still was hope.

In the car he said, after I had let him kiss me for a while, “It always has to end, doesn’t it? We always have to separate.”

“Yes,” I said.

He was insistent, “But it doesn’t always have to be that way. We could be together someday for always.”

“Oh, no,” I told him, wondering if he knew it was all over. “We keep running till we die. We separate, get further apart, till we are dead.”

He has no home; he is unhappy. I could be the source of his joy, the refuge of his life. And I can only pass on. Something in me wants more. I can’t rest. Without emotion I let him kiss me. The evening had been lovely, complete. I had been alone more than I could have been had I gone by myself. The poor guy; there is no one nicer. Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.

-- Sylvia Plath, The Journals 1950

Growing Up

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Growing Up

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Another Life

“There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.”

-- Virginia Woolf, "The Years"

I doubt that I will ever get around to reading Virginia Woolf, but I am grateful that I have been able to come across a fair bit of her writing on the Internet. We seem to have kindred spirits, as much as can be possible between an aborigine and an upper-middle-class white woman.

Another Life

“There must be another life, she thought, sinking back into her chair, exasperated. Not in dreams; but here and now, in this room, with living people. She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice with her hair blown back; she was about to grasp something that just evaded her. There must be another life, here and now, she repeated. This is too short, too broken. We know nothing, even about ourselves.”

-- Virginia Woolf, "The Years"

I doubt that I will ever get around to reading Virginia Woolf, but I am grateful that I have been able to come across a fair bit of her writing on the Internet. We seem to have kindred spirits, as much as can be possible between an aborigine and an upper-middle-class white woman.

Casanova

Our fourth installment from Casanova’s preface to his Memoirs.

_ _ _

In spite of a good foundation of sound morals, the natural offspring of the Divine principles which had been early rooted in my heart, I have been throughout my life the victim of my senses; I have found delight in losing the right path, I have constantly lived in the midst of error, with no consolation but the consciousness of my being mistaken.

Therefore, dear reader, I trust that, far from attaching to my history the character of impudent boasting, you will find in my Memoirs only the characteristic proper to a general confession, and that my narratory style will be the manner neither of a repenting sinner, nor of a man ashamed to acknowledge his frolics. They are the follies inherent to youth; I make sport of them, and, if you are kind, you will not yourself refuse them a good-natured smile.

-- Casanova, The Memoirs

_ _ _

So, we have an answer to what Casanova’s attitude will be between his free-loving lifestyle and his strong avowal of faith. He takes a middle path. He will not have ashes in his mouth, nor will he be an impudent braggart. I am expecting to enjoy this.

Casanova

Our fourth installment from Casanova’s preface to his Memoirs.

_ _ _

In spite of a good foundation of sound morals, the natural offspring of the Divine principles which had been early rooted in my heart, I have been throughout my life the victim of my senses; I have found delight in losing the right path, I have constantly lived in the midst of error, with no consolation but the consciousness of my being mistaken.

Therefore, dear reader, I trust that, far from attaching to my history the character of impudent boasting, you will find in my Memoirs only the characteristic proper to a general confession, and that my narratory style will be the manner neither of a repenting sinner, nor of a man ashamed to acknowledge his frolics. They are the follies inherent to youth; I make sport of them, and, if you are kind, you will not yourself refuse them a good-natured smile.

-- Casanova, The Memoirs

_ _ _

So, we have an answer to what Casanova’s attitude will be between his free-loving lifestyle and his strong avowal of faith. He takes a middle path. He will not have ashes in his mouth, nor will he be an impudent braggart. I am expecting to enjoy this.

Character

Who has the time and energy to waste? That's just life, right?

Character

Who has the time and energy to waste? That's just life, right?