Duck Tales

[Brownstone Brat]

[font=Times Roman,Times New Roman]
XXXV

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud:
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,
Thy adverse party is thy advocate,
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an accessary needs must be,
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me

-William Shakespeare


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[Brownstone Brat]

I write to you--what would one more?
What else is there that I could say?
'Tis now, I know, within your will
to punish me with scorn.
But you, preserving for me hapless lot
at least one drop of pity,
you'll not abandon me.
At first, I wanted to be silent;
believe me: of my shame
you never would have known
if I had had the hope but seldom,
but once a week,
to see you at our country place,
only to hear you speak,
to say a word to you,
and then to think and think about one thing,
both day and night, till a new meeting.
But, they say, you're unsociable;
in backwoods, in the country, all bores you,
while we...in no way do we shine,
though simpleheartedly we welcome you.

Why did you visit us?
In the backwoods of a forgotten village,
I would have never known you
nor have known this bitter torment.
The turmoil of an inexperienced soul
having subdued with time (who knows?),
I would have found a friend after my heart,
have been a faithful wife
and a virtuous mother.

Another!... No, to nobody on earth
would I have given my heart away!
That has been destined in a higher council,
that is the will of heaven: I am thine;
my entire life has been the gage
of a sure tryst with you;
I know that you are sent to me by god,
you are my guardian to the tomb....
You had appeared to me in dreams,
unseen, you were already dear to me,
your wondrous glance would trouble me,
your voice resounded in my soul
long since.... No, it was not a dream!
Scarce had you entered, instantly I knew you,
I felt all faint, I felt aflame,
and in my thoughts I uttered: It is he!
Is it not true that it was you I heard:
you in the stillness spoke to me
when I would help the poor
or assuage with a prayer
the anguish of my agitated soul?

And even at this very moment
was it not you, dear vision,
that slipped through the transparent darkness
and gently bent close to my bed head?
Was it not you that with delight and love
did whisper words of hope to me?
Who are you? My guardian angel
or a perfidious tempter?
Resolve my doubts.
Perhaps, 'tis nonsense all,
an inexperienced soul's delusion, and there's
something quite different....

But so be it! My fate
henceforth I place into your hands,
before you I shed tears,
for your defense I plead.
Imagine: I am here alone,
none understands me,
my reason sinks,
and, silent, I must perish.
I wait for you: revive
my heart's hopes with a single look
or interrupt the heavy dream
with a rebuke--alas, deserved!

I close. I dread to read this over.
I'm faint with shame and fear... But to me
your honor is a pledge,
and boldly I entrust myself to it.

-From Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin
Translated by Vladimir Nabokov

 

[Brownstone Brat]

*****
All alone, Andie walked down the long hallway leading to the ballroom. The hotel carpeting was thick and soft under her feet. She moved slowly, holding her head up, clutching her gloves and evening bag. At the end of the carpeted corridor, the massive double doors were closed. She heard the music spilling from the room.

It was now or never, she knew. She slowed down, and stopped. She had to decide whether or not she really wanted to go through with this. She'd been so calm up until now, right up until she'd seen the closed doors and heard the music and the voices and laughter coming from the ballroom.

If she waited at the door, listening from now until forever, she would not hear the voice of a single friend inside that room - not one person who would welcome her, be happy to see her, or even be willing to talk to her. Not one person would think of her as anything but an intruder.

What was she doing there? What was she trying to prove? It was her senior prom. But seniors like Andie Walsh were not expected to attend.
*****

-From Pretty in Pink, A Novel by H.B. Gilmour

 

[Brownstone Brat]

The fountains mingle with the river​

And the rivers with the Ocean​

The winds of Heaven mix for ever​

With a sweet emotion; ​

Nothing in the world is single;​

All things by a law divine​

In one spirit meet and mingle.​

Why not I with thine?---​

See the mountains kiss high heaven,​

And the waves clasp one another;​

No sister-flower would be forgiven​

If it disdained its brother;​

And the sunlight clasps the earth;​

And the moonbeams kiss the sea:​

What is all this sweet work worth​

If thou kiss not me?​

-Love's Philosophy by Percy Shelley​

 

[Brownstone Brat]

I know you all, and will awhile uphold
The unyok'd humour of your idleness:
Yet herein will I imitate the Sun,
Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
To smother-up his beauty from the world,
That, when he please again to be himself,
Being wanted, he may be more wonder'd at,
By breaking through the foul and ugly mists
Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.
If all the year were playing holidays,
To sport would be as tedious as to work;
But, when they seldom come, they wish'd-for come,
And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.
So, when this loose behaviour I throw off,
And pay the debt I never promised,
By how much better than my word I am,
By so much shall I falsify men's hopes;
And, like bright metal on a sullen ground,
My reformation, glittering o'er my fault,
Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes
Than that which hath no foil to set it off.
I'll so offend, to make offence a skill;
Redeeming time, when men think least I will.

-Henry IV Part I by William Shakespeare

 

[Brownstone Brat]

BEATRICE: I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior
Benedick: nobody marks you.

BENEDICK: What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?

BEATRICE: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath
such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come
in her presence.

BENEDICK: Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I
am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I
would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard
heart; for, truly, I love none.

BEATRICE: A dear happiness to women: they would else have
been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God
and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I
had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man
swear he loves me.

BENEDICK: God keep your ladyship still in that mind! so some
gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate
scratched face.

BEATRICE: Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such
a face as yours were.

BENEDICK: Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

BEATRICE: A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.

BENEDICK: I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and
so good a continuer. But keep your way, i' God's
name; I have done.

BEATRICE: You always end with a jade's trick: I know you of old.

-From Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare

 

[Brownstone Brat]

DECIUS BRUTUS
Great Caesar,--

CAESAR
Doth not Brutus bootless kneel?

CASCA
Speak, hands for me!

CASCA first, then the other Conspirators and BRUTUS stab CAESAR

CAESAR
Et tu, Brute! Then fall, Caesar.

Dies

-From Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare

 

[Brownstone Brat]

I hate men.
I can't abide 'em even now and then.
Than ever marry one of them, I'd rest a maiden rather,
For husbands are a boring lot and only give you bother.
Of course, I'm awfully glad that Mother had to marry Father,
But I hate men.

Of all the types I've ever met within our democracy,
I hate most the athlete with his manner bold and brassy,
He may have hair upon his chest but, sister, so has Lassie.
Oh, I hate men!

I hate men.
They should be kept like piggies in a pen.
Avoid the trav'ling salesman though a tempting
Tom he may be,
For on your wedding night he may be off to far Araby,
While he's away in Mandalay is thee who have the baby,
Oh I hate men.

If thou shouldst wed a businessman, be wary, oh, be wary.
He'll tell you he's detained in town on business necessary,
His bus'ness is the bus'ness with his pretty secretary,
Oh I hate men!

I hate men
Though roosters they, I will not play the hen.
If you espouse and older man through girlish optimism,
He'll always stay at home at night and make no criticism,
Though you may call it love, the doctors call it rheumatism.
Oh, I hate men.

From all I've read, alone in bed, from A to Zed, about 'em.
Since love is blind, then from the mind, all womankind should rout 'em,
But, ladies, you must answer too, what would we do without 'em?
Still, I hate men!

-From Kiss Me Kate, Lyrics by Cole Porter

 

[Brownstone Brat]

Two o’clock in the morning. . . I cannot sleep. . . Yet sleep is what I need, if I am to have a steady hand to-morrow. However, at six paces it is difficult to miss. Aha! Mr. Grushnit- ski, your wiles will not succeed! . . . We shall exchange roles: now it is I who shall have to seek the signs of latent terror upon your pallid countenance. Why have you yourself appointed these fatal six paces? Think you that I will tamely expose my forehead to your aim? . . .

No, we shall cast lots. . . And then — then — what if his luck should prevail? If my star at length should betray me? . . . And little wonder if it did: it has so long and faithfully served my caprices.

Well? If I must die, I must! The loss to the world will not be great; and I myself am already downright weary of everything. I am like a guest at a ball, who yawns but does not go home to bed, simply because his carriage has not come for him. But now the carriage is here. . . Good-bye! . . .

My whole past life I live again in memory, and, involuntarily, I ask myself: ‘why have I lived — for what purpose was I born?’ . . . A purpose there must have been, and, surely, mine was an exalted destiny, because I feel that within my soul are powers immeasurable. . . But I was not able to discover that destiny, I allowed myself to be carried away by the allurements of passions, inane and ignoble. From their crucible I issued hard and cold as iron, but gone for ever was the glow of noble aspirations — the fairest flower of life. And, from that time forth, how often have I not played the part of an axe in the hands of fate! Like an implement of punishment, I have fallen upon the head of doomed victims, often without malice, always without pity. . . To none has my love brought happiness, because I have never sacrificed anything for the sake of those I have loved: for myself alone I have loved — for my own pleasure. I have only satisfied the strange craving of my heart, greedily draining their feelings, their tenderness, their joys, their sufferings — and I have never been able to sate myself. I am like one who, spent with hunger, falls asleep in exhaustion and sees before him sumptuous viands and sparkling wines; he devours with rapture the aerial gifts of the imagination, and his pains seem somewhat assuaged. Let him but awake: the vision vanishes — twofold hunger and despair remain!

And to-morrow, it may be, I shall die! . . . And there will not be left on earth one being who has understood me completely. Some will consider me worse, others, better, than I have been in reality. . . Some will say: ‘he was a good fellow’; others: ‘a villain.’ And both epithets will be false. After all this, is life worth the trouble? And yet we live — out of curiosity! We expect something new. . . How absurd, and yet how vexatious!

-From A Hero of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov

 

[Brownstone Brat]

I stand at the window of this great house in the south of France as night falls, the night which is leading me to the most terrible morning of my life. I have a drink in my hand, there is a bottle at my elbow. I watch my reflection in the darkening gleam of the window pane. My reflection is tall, perhaps rather like an arrow, my blond hair gleams. My face is like a face you have seen many times. My ancestors conquered a continent, pushing across death-laden plans, until they can to an ocean which faced away from Europe into a darker past.

************************​

And at last I step out into the morning and I lock the door behind me. I cross the road and drop the keys into the old lady's mailbox. And I look up the road, where a few people stand, men and women, waiting for the morning bus. They are very vivid beneath the awakening sky, and the horizon beyond them is beginning to flame. The morning weighs on my shoulders with the dreadful weight of hope and I take the blue envelope which Jacques has send me and tear it slowly into many pieces, watching them dance in the wind, watching the wind carry them away. Yet, as I turn and begin walking towards the waiting people, the wind blows some of them back on me.

-First and last paragraph of Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin

 

[Brownstone Brat]

*****
Fighting tears, Andie took a step backward. She knew she was one the verge of bolting from the hotel. For a second her hands curled into defiant fists. Then all at once, she let out her breath. Her shoulders drooped. She'd lost her nerve.

"Oh, no," she whispered. "No," and angrily she brushed away a tear. "Damn it, damn it, damn it," she murmured, whirling away from the door and turning to leave. She took a step, then stopped and looked down the hall.

At the far end of the mezzanine was a boy. He was tall, lean, striking. A boy in sleek black tuxedo, dark hair swept back, sunglasses.

Andie stared at him. She peered hard down the corridor.

The boy peeled off his sunglasses and revealed himself.

Andie's mouth fell open. "Duckie?" she breathed.

She was stunned. After all that had happened, all the pain she had caused him, he had come to be with her. He really did love her. Under the strange clothes, the weird behavior, the quirks and eccentricities was the strongest, truest, and most noble friend she'd ever have.

"Oh, God," she murmured. And then she started to cry.

Smiling, Duckie moved down the hall toward her.

She met him midway along the corridor and threw her arms around him.

"What happened?" she asked.

"You're looking at it," Duckie whispered against her hair.

"I can't believe this."

"You know what else you won't believe - I aced my history paper. I'm going to graduate, Andie."

He held her at arm's length. "You look breathtaking," he said. She laughed and hugged him again.

"I want you to know," he said as she stepped back, " that despite the new coiffure and duds, I remain the Duck Man."

He pointed to his feet. Andie looked down. Duckie was still wearing his ancient hightops.

"May I admire you?" Andie said softly through her tears.

"If you wish," he said and she laughed.

Duckie Dale looked at her with his ice-melting grin, his dark eyes dancing with pleasure at the sight of her. He offered his arm, and the started down the hall together to the ballroom.

The doors opened as the approached, and Mr. Donnelly came out. It took him a moment to recognize them, but when he did, his whole face like with surprise and admiration. He shook his head in wonder and stood back, holding open the door for them.

"This thing is so uncomfortable," Duckie said to him, tugging at the collar. "I could never be a waiter."

Mr. Donnelly smiled. "Glad you could make it," he said.

Nearly frozen with nerves, Andie nodded.

Duckie patted her hand on his arm. "You okay?" he asked as they stepped over the threshold into the music and noise of the elegant ballroom.

"No," she said.

"Good. Just checking."

*****​

-From Pretty in Pink, a Novel by H.G. Gilmour

 

[Brownstone Brat]

Alvy Singer: Well, I didn't start out spying. I thought I'd surprise you. Pick you up after school.

Annie Hall: Yeah, but you wanted to keep the relationship flexible. Remember, it's your phrase.

Alvy Singer: Oh stop it, you're having an affair with your college professor, that jerk that teaches that incredible crap course, Contemporary Crisis in Western Man...

Annie Hall: Existential Motifs in Russian Literature. You're really close.

Alvy Singer: What's the difference? It's all mental masturbation.

Annie Hall: Oh, well, now we're finally getting to a subject you know something about.

Alvy Singer: Hey, don't knock masturbation. It's sex with someone I love.

Annie Hall: We're not having an affair. He's married. He just happens to think I'm neat.

Alvy Singer: "Neat." What are you, 12 years old? That's one of your Chippewa Falls expressions.

Annie Hall: Who cares? Who cares?

Alvy Singer: Next thing you know, he'll find you keen and peachy, you know. Next thing you know, he's got his hand on your ass.

Annie Hall: You've always had hostility towards David, ever since I mentioned him.

Alvy Singer: Dav-- you call your teacher David?

Annie Hall: It's his name.

Alvy Singer: It's a Biblical name, right? What does he call you, Bathsheba?

-From Annie Hall

 

[Brownstone Brat]

William Blake: What is your name?

Nobody: My name is Nobody.

William Blake: Excuse me?

Nobody: My name is Xamichee, he who talks loud say nothing.

William Blake: He who talks... I thought you said your name was Nobody.

Nobody: I preferred to be called Nobody.

-From Dead Man
​

******
​

Tiger, tiger, burning bright,
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?​

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?​

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
When thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand forged thy dread feet?​

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dared its deadly terrors clasp?​

When the stars threw down their spears
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile his work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?​

Tiger, tiger, burning bright,
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

-William Blake​

 

[Brownstone Brat]

So, she says it's time she goes
But wanted to be sure I know
She hopes we can be friends
I think, yeah, I guess we can say I
But didn't think to ask her why
She blocked her eyes and drew the curtains
With knots I've got yet to untie...

What if I were Romeo in black jeans
What if I was Heathcliff, it's no myth
Maybe she's just looking for
Someone to dance with...

See, it was just too soon to tell
and looking for some parallel
Can be an endless game
We said goodbye before hello
My secrets she will never know
And if I dig a hole to China
I'll catch the first junk to Soho

What if I were Romeo in black jeans
What if I was Heathcliff, it's no myth
Maybe she's just looking for
Someone to dance with...

Sometime from now you'll bow to pressure
Some things in life you cannot measure by degrees
I'm between the poles and the equator
Don't send no private investigator to find me please
'less he speaks Chinese
And can dance like Astaire overseas

What if I were Romeo in black jeans
What if I was Heathcliff, it's no myth
Maybe she's just looking for
Someone to dance with

-No Myth by Michael Penn

 

[Brownstone Brat]

I was superstitious about dreams then, and am still; and Catherine had an unusual gloom in her aspect, that made me dread something from which I might shape a prophecy, and foresee a fearful catastrophe. She was vexed, but she did not proceed. Apparently taking up another subject, she recommenced in a short time.

`If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable.'

`Because you are not fit to go there,', I answered. `All sinners would be miserable in heaven.'

`But it is not for that. I dreamt once that I was there.'

`I tell you I won't hearken to your dreams, Miss Catherine! I'll go to bed,' I interrupted again.

She laughed, and held me down; for I made a motion to leave my chair.

`This is nothing,' cried she: `I was only going to say that heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy. That will do to explain my secret, as well as the other. I've no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn't have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.'

Ere this speech ended, I became sensible of Heathcliff's presence. Having noticed a slight movement, I turned my head, and saw him rise from the bench, and steal out noiselessly. He had listened till he heard Catherine say it would degrade her to marry him, and then he stayed to hear no further. My companion, sitting on the ground, was prevented by the back of the settle from remarking his presence or departure; but I started, and bade her hush!

`Why?' she asked, gazing nervously round.

`Joseph is here,' I answered, catching opportunely the roll of his cart-wheels up the road; `and Heathcliff will come in with him. I'm not sure whether he were not at the door this moment.'

`Oh, he couldn't overhear me at the door!' said she. `Give me Hareton, while you get the supper, and when it is ready ask me to sup with you. I want to cheat my uncomfortable conscience, and be convinced that Heathcliff has no notion of these things. He has not, has he? He does not know what being in love is?'

I see no reason that he should not know, as well as you,' I returned; `and if you are his choice, he will be the most unfortunate creature that ever was born! As soon as you become Mrs Linton, he loses friend, and love, and all! Have you considered how you'll bear the separation, and how he'll be deserted in the world? Because, Miss Catherine---'

`He quite deserted! we separated!' she exclaimed, with an accent of indignation. `Who is to separate us, pray? They'll meet the fate of Milo! Not as long as I live, Ellen: for no mortal creature. Every Linton on the face of the earth might melt into nothing, before I could consent to forsake Heathcliff. Oh, that's not what I intend--that's not what I mean! I shouldn't be Mrs Linton were such a price demanded! He'll be as much to me as he has been all his lifetime. Edgar must shake off his antipathy, and tolerate him, at least. He will, when he learns my true feelings towards him. Nelly, I see now, you think me a selfish wretch; but did it never strike you that if Heathcliff and I married, we should be beggars? whereas, if I marry Linton, I can aid Heathcliff to rise, and place him out of my brother's power.'

`With your husband's money, Miss Catherine?' I asked. `You'll find him not so pliable as you calculate upon: and, though I'm hardly a judge, I think that's the worst motive you've given yet for being the wife of young Linton.'

`It is not,' retorted she; `it is the best! The others were the satisfaction of my whims: and for Edgar's sake, too, to satisfy him. This is for the sake of one who comprehends in his person my feelings to Edgar and myself. I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don't talk of our separation again: it is impracticable; and---'

She paused, and hid her face in the folds of my gown; but I jerked it forcibly away. I was out of patience with her folly!

-Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

 

[Brownstone Brat]

You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you. You are mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful person as you imagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by all this babble (and I feel that you are irritated) you think fit to ask me who I am--then my answer is, I am a collegiate assessor. I was in the service that I might have something to eat (and solely for that reason), and when last year a distant relation left me six thousand roubles in his will I immediately retired from the service and settled down in my corner. I used to live in this corner before, but now I have settled down in it. My room is a wretched, horrid one in the outskirts of the town. My servant is an old country-woman, ill-natured from stupidity, and, moreover, there is always a nasty smell about her. I am told that the Petersburg climate is bad for me, and that with my small means it is very expensive to live in Petersburg. I know all that better than all these sage and experienced counsellors and monitors...But I am remaining in Petersburg; I am not going away from Petersburg! I am not going away because...ech! Why, it is absolutely no matter whether I am going away or not going away.

But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure?

Answer: Of himself.

Well, so I will talk about myself.

-Notes From Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky
​

 

[Brownstone Brat]

False words are not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil.

-[size=-1]Plato (427 BC - 347 BC), Dialogues, Phaedo[/size]

 

[Brownstone Brat]

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of someone or other of their daughters.

"My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?"
​

*****​

"What is his name?"

"Bingley."

"Is he married or single?"

"Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!"​

*****​

"But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neighbourhood."

"It is more than I engage for, I assure you."

"But consider your daughters..."

"You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy."

"I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving HER the preference."

"They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters."

-Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

 

[Brownstone Brat]

You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken, you've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, "Okay, life's a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness." You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.


-Paul Varjak (George Peppard) in Breakfast at Tiffany's

 

[Brownstone Brat]

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.

-Oscar Wilde