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Getbig Female Info Boards => Open Talk for Girl Discussion => Topic started by: ToxicAvenger on October 15, 2006, 01:47:09 PM
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You teach me how cruel you've been - cruel and false. Why do you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry, and wring out my kisses and tears; they’ll blight you - they'll damn you. You loved me--then what right had you to leave me? What right--answer me--for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery, and degradation and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart--you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine
Heathcliff to Catherine Earnshaw...on her death bed. Wuthering Heights
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Now despair gave way to regret, and Fabian no longer thought of Vanessa: all that mattered was his horse, freed from oppression of the brush, ready to race. He started along the runway. Big Lick unrestrained, whipping the whithered grass to a fine dust. Fabian came abreast of the plane and glanced at the windows, a row of one-way mirrors. Its engines roaring, the plane started to roll for takeoff. As it wheeled passed him, the mirrors of the windows winking, Fabian imagined the pilot turning to Vanessa, directing her gaze to the runway, relishing what he saw. “Take a look Miss Stanhope! You don’t see many of those anymore!” he would say. Vanessa, her forehead bent to the cool glass of the window, would catch sight of a man on a horse, streaming along the black strip of runway, the man’s helmet, shirt and breeches all white, his horse black, the run of the horse unbroken, the rider tilting as if charging with a lance, in combat with an enemy only he could see.
End of the polo player's love affair. Passion Play, Jerzy Kosinski
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"cause dead ws a gift that kept on giving....dead like diamonds ws forever"
Song of suzannah...the gunslinger S king...hits home in ways i'd rather not really discuss...
DeeDee your passage hit home...i grew up in an all boys high school..i had not spoken to a girl that ws not my sister mum or couzin till at 15 i ws in college in the US...and even then i ws afraid ws girls...i'd run away from them...literally..
but with my friends..we'd rent horses from the race course every friday...and race eachother on the beach....mine ws always this stallion "shaheen" (falcon in arabic)...for his ride got smoother the faster he went....i remember i'd get him at full tilt...then lean over and whisper in his ears...an agressive whisper....urging...and his gallop would get so stretched that it'd almost feel like his belly ws gonna touch the ground.....i swear shaheen my dear friend ws meant for the derby...and then again not...he ws a free spirit..he would've never stretched himself so on confined grounds...but together i swear there were times....he ws like my brother...and we put the wind to shame.....but no ones gonna believe that...
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Toxy, I fear it's going to be just you and me on this thread... oh well. :)
I wanted to post one of the passages towards the end of Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence, but didn't have the book near me, and am rereading Jerzy Kosinski... not sure why, but happy I picked it up again. I had forgotten how well he writes about the "alienated man". :)
Anyway, I know exactly what you mean about racing full tilt. Learned to ride on a sweet, and very patient, polo pony around the age of 8 and have been around horses every since. For awhile, had a lovely arabian mare named Molly, and some of my best memories of childhood were of taking her out of the training ring, out into the open field and tearing into the wind as fast as we could go.
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I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
That I could forget the mockers and insults!
That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers!
That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and bloody crowning.
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
Leaves of Grass - Walt Whitman
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No, no, I'll join in, if I may?
Although I have no horsey stories, I've never ridden really. I didn't get finishing school in Switzerland either, no pony lessons. I took myself off to ballet classes at 16 just because I could afford it and my parents couldn't.
I'll have to think hard about my fave literary words...
>>>Rearden Meatball, can you quote from Ayn Rand please? (I've leant my copy to my Conservative nextdoor neighbour and he's probably still at page 3... So I can't quote any of that unless I start googling.
Can we do poetry, or is this just a prose thread?
xxxLinda
(someone was quoting William Blake a few weeks ago without doing credits...
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I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.
That I could forget the mockers and insults!
That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers!
That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and bloody crowning.
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
Leaves of Grass - Walt Whitman
YES
please
poetry
xxxL
Syliva Plath 1932-63
"You're"
Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A Common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fool's Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our travelled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
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emily dickenson...I wish I knew it by heart...If you were coming in the fall...love that poem
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perhaps we ought do just prose.
This is Carrie Fisher, Surrender the PinK, 1990...
So Dinah had at least partly been drawn to Rudy because she admired what he did. And Dinah had thought that Rudy was with her because she was pretty and he wasn't embarrased by what she did. Dinah could get behind Rudy and say "Good, honey, do that - do what you did again," and feel not like a hypocrite, but instead like a supportive companion.
She admired his discipline - the way he could decide to do or not do something and it would be done or not done. He had bold resolve. She had no resolve. Willpower was not her middle name. Rebecca was.
(And I only opened the book there at that page)
with love
Linda
x
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emily dickenson...I wish I knew it by heart...If you were coming in the fall...love that poem
I'm looking it up.
one to be going on with:
I never lost as much but twice,
And that was in the sod.
Twice have I stood a beggar
Before the door of God!
perhaps I can google it and get all the words?
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hello? I've never read Emily Dickinson properly
how about this:
I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Don't tell! they'd advertise - you know?
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emily dickenson...I wish I knew it by heart...If you were coming in the fall...love that poem
Medford!!! I need more words from this poem. I've got the Bartletts Familiar Quotations out but cannot find that line. There's (obviously) 3 pages of Ms. Dickinson. Do you know the first line of the poem? If you do I'll find it.
with love
Linda
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Medford!!! I need more words from this poem. I've got the Bartletts Familiar Quotations out but cannot find that line. There's (obviously) 3 pages of Ms. Dickenson. Do you know the first line of the poem? If you do I'll find it.
with love
Linda
must b the generation gap again. :-\
If you were coming in the fall,
I'd brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.
If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.
If only centuries delayed,
I'd count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemens land.
If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.
But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time's uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.
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Here's one of everyone's favourites:
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-61
Sonnet from the Portuguese XLIII
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
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A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING.
by John Donne
AS virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."
So let us melt, and make no noise, 5
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant ; 10
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove 15
The thing which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss. 20
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so 25
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam, 30
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just, 35
And makes me end where I begun.
Source:
Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, ed.
London, Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 51-52.
to Works of John Donne
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Toxy, I fear it's going to be just you and me on this thread... oh well. :)
I wanted to post one of the passages towards the end of Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence, but didn't have the book near me, and am rereading Jerzy Kosinski... not sure why, but happy I picked it up again. I had forgotten how well he writes about the "alienated man". :)
Anyway, I know exactly what you mean about racing full tilt. Learned to ride on a sweet, and very patient, polo pony around the age of 8 and have been around horses every since. For awhile, had a lovely arabian mare named Molly, and some of my best memories of childhood were of taking her out of the training ring, out into the open field and tearing into the wind as fast as we could go.
here is a short titbit from my days i spent at the UMD stables...i used to always share my lunch with this horse Highway..i used to call him to the fence by making this clicking snapping sound with my finger (not quite a snap) then lean against him and feed him tree bark and other goodies..shoulda seen his ears go flat as soon as any other horse approached..anyhow...i remember i ws coming out of the astronomy dept.(which ws 50 yrds away from the stables) and in my own world (which i am often) and making the same snapping sound when i see some commotion from the corner of my eyes ...well some poor girl in the cavelry ws trying to sadde him when he had heard me and had come running up to the fence...saddle hanging sideways... looking for me....so i run over and i try to jump the fence when the girl starts screaming at me to get away and that he ws dangerous...now..i ws only 16....and having little experience with girls i really didn't know what to do...i soo wanted to tell her to relax and lemme bring him to her but she kept turning red and yelling..so i just jumped the fence and led highway to her...i didn't quite even had to lead..he'd follow me around like a doggie.....she ws fuming though..and i ws so shy..i just left..even though highway kept trying to follow me and she kept cursing at him...
ya see you could NOT..NEVER tell highway what to do..you had to ask him...stupid girl ...i ws so pissed at her...but i left..thing is..i used to ride him barebak around the pen 8ish at night..before they got put in their stalls..later the stable manager dood got in trouble for letting me do that for i wasn't part of the cavelry...i joined the equestrian team for a minute..but it ws all girls..and back then....that ws like a death sentence.. :-\
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Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.
Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption - S. King
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that reminded me of a poem by Paul L dunbar..lemme google it..
Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)
Sympathy
I KNOW what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals —
I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting —
I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings —
I know why the caged bird sings!
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"Love is a misunderstanding between two fools."
The Elaine Brown Story.
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i'm gonna start quoting from the bible (or the koran
No... perhaps d h lawrence instead?
xxxxx
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emily dickenson...I wish I knew it by heart...If you were coming in the fall...love that poem
[/quote
how come that got deleted? I needed to read that again.
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must b the generation gap again. :-\
If you were coming in the fall,
I'd brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.
If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.
If only centuries delayed,
I'd count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemens land.
If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.
But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time's uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.
found you... must be the space gag pppp
xxxxxxxxLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL LLLL
do some more Walt whit? that's gotta be some of the best?
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"Love is a misunderstanding between two fools."
The Elaine Brown Story.
i like that....kinda sorta like
America and England..2 countries seperated by a common language ...Oscar Wilde..
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And then in autumn the dry, palpitant air, harsh with static electricity, inflaming the body through its light clothing. The flesh coming alive, trying the bars of its prison. A drunken whore walks in a dark street at night, shedding snatches of song like petals. Was it in this that Anthony heard the heart-numbing strains of the great music which persuaded him to surrender forever to the city he loved?
The sulking bodies of the young begin to hunt for a fellow nakedness and those little cafes where Balthazar went so often with the old poet of the city, the boys stir uneasily at their backgammn under the petrol-lamps; disturbed by this dry desert wind - so unromantic, so unconfiding - stir and turn to watch every stranger. They struggle for breath and in every summer kiss they can detect the taste of quicklime.
Lawrence Durrell - The Alexandria Quartet. 884 pages of some of the most beautiful language ever set down on paper.
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this kinda expresses societies indifference...which usually dickens uses angry satire to profuse..
When men are about to commit, or sanction the commission of some injustice, it is not uncommon for them to express pity for the object either of that or some parallel proceeding, and to feel themselves, at the time, quite virtuous and moral, and immensely superior to those who express no pity at all. This is a kind of upholding of faith above works, and is very comfortable.
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this kinda expresses societies indifference...which usually dickens uses angry satire to profuse..
When men are about to commit, or sanction the commission of some injustice, it is not uncommon for them to express pity for the object either of that or some parallel proceeding, and to feel themselves, at the time, quite virtuous and moral, and immensely superior to those who express no pity at all. This is a kind of upholding of faith above works, and is very comfortable.
Where is this from Toxy?
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What terrifying powers we possess. but what a sorry lot of gods some men are. And the worst of it is not the cruelty but the arrogance, the sheer hubris, of those who carry only violence and fear into the animal world, as if it needed any more of either. Their lives entail enough frights and tribulations with the modern fire-makers, now armed with perfected, inescapable weapons, traipsing along for more fun and thrills at their expense, even as so many of them die away. It is our fellow creatures' lot in the universe, the place assigned them in creation, to be completely at our mercy, the fiercest wolf or tiger defenseless against the most cowardly man. And to me it has always seemed not only ungenerous and shabby but a kind of supreme snobbery to deal cavalierly with them, as if their little share of the earth's happiness and grief were inconsequential, meaningless beneath a man's attention, trumped by any and all designs he might have on them, however base, irrational, or wicked.
Matthew Scully - Dominion, the Power of Man, the Suffering of Animals, and the Call to Mercy,
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i like that....kinda sorta like
...Oscar Wilde..
let's quote him. & Walt Whitman and Woody Allen (see there, I got all generous and gave you all men, from both the white cultures that count (sorry Australia and Canada)
...can't find my Oscar Wilde book. But today i got the complete works of john donne in hardcover (for free, in a church. it hurt my back bringing all these books home for like 2-3 miles, but i reckon it was worth it.
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Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months.
I think that God in creating Man, somewhat overestimated his ability.
Morality, like art, means drawing a line somewhere.
Seriousness is the only refuge of the shallow.
Oscar Wilde - quotations.
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How do you google your favourite? I'm gonna try. I'm going to have to as all my books are packed up in boxes.
I think the best quote about oscar wilde was that he said everything first?
That was definitely his best line?
in quotes,
Linda
xxx
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Where is this from Toxy?
toxic, do not read wuthering heights right through till the end. save a chapter or two. it gets better.
then you can read it twice when you get older?
xL
and see or make the movie, buy the t-shirt?
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Where is this from Toxy?
Nicholas Nickleby
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toxic, do not read wuthering heights right through till the end. save a chapter or two. it gets better.
then you can read it twice when you get older?
xL
and see or make the movie, buy the t-shirt?
i've read the book about 50ish times...and never past when cathy dies...
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If you have given up your heart for the Tower, Roland, you have already lost. A heartless creature is a loveless creature, and a loveless creature is a beast. To be a beast is perhaps bearable, although the man who has become one will surely pay hell's own price in the end, but what if you should gain your object? What if you should, heartless, actually storm the Dark Tower and win it? If there is naught but darkness in your heart, what could you do except degenerate from beast to monster? To gain one's object as a beast would only be bitterly comic, like giving a magnifying glass to an elephaunt. But to gain one's object as a monster...
To pay hell is one thing. But do you want to own it?
He thought of Susan, and of the girl who had once waited for him at the window, thought of the tears he had shed over Cuthbert's lifeless corpse. Oh, then he had loved. Yes. Then.
I do want to love! he cried, but although Eddie was also crying a little now with the woman in the wheelchair, the gunslinger's eyes remained as dry as the desert he had crossed to reach this sunless sea.
childe Roland to the dark tower came....
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http://www.grapheine.com/bombaytv/play_uk.php?id=1762184
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http://www.grapheine.com/bombaytv/play_uk.php?id=1762184
i feel guilty about not thinking about you at all now :-\
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Toxic, you've hurt my feelings. :( I make a tribute to the classical Grecian sophistication and erudition that you (particularly) and DIVISION share, and you respond so cruelly. Why? I just wanted to show how much I appreciate a cool cat like you.
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"At the same instant the sweat in my eyebrows dripped down over my eyelids all at once and covered them with a warm, thick film. My eyes were blinded behind the curtain of tears and salt. All I could feel were the cymbals of sunlight crashing on my forehead and, indistinctly, the dazzling spear flying up from the knife in front of me. The scorching blade slashed at my eyelashes and stabbed at my stinging eyes. That’s when everything began to reel. The sea carried up a thick, fiery breath. It seemed to me as if the sky split open from one end to the other to rain down fire. My whole being tensed and I squeezed my hand around the revolver. The trigger gave; I felt the smooth underside of the butt; and there, in that noise, sharp and deafening at the same time, is where it all started. I shook off the sweat and sun. I knew that I had shattered the harmony of the day, the exceptional silence of a beach where I’d been happy. Then I fired four more times at the motionless body where the bullets lodged without leaving a trace. And it was like knocking four quick times on the door of unhappiness."
- Albert Camus The Stranger
Now THAT was something.
DIV
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Toxic, you've hurt my feelings. :( I make a tribute to the classical Grecian sophistication and erudition that you (particularly) and DIVISION share, and you respond so cruelly. Why? I just wanted to show how much I appreciate a cool cat like you.
if ya wana suck my cock bro...just ask..i'll just do a whole buncha coke and pretend you're a chick.. :-\
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Is there a difference between a girls mouth and a guys mouth ?
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Is there a difference between a girls mouth and a guys mouth ?
maybe al will offer and i'll find out...
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Is there a difference between a girls mouth and a guys mouth ?
I wouldn't think it's the mouth itself that matters as much as the intentions behind the movement and the face attached.
I'm the type of guy who demands eye contact from a woman when she's giving head.
The visual stimulation is key, so obviously that "mouth" theory is out the window.
DIV
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So if a guy made eye contact with you while he greased your weasel that would be cool ?
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So if a guy made eye contact with you while he greased your weasel that would be cool ?
lol
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So if a guy made eye contact with you while he greased your weasel that would be cool ?
i'd sooo duchoven ya >:(
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I hope that wouldnt make you break eye contact with Division :D
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I hope that wouldnt make you break eye contact with Division :D
if you have a vagina..and i'm hoping you do...i like ya!
PS i'm not for blowjobs..its a waste of a fackin orgasm as i see it...
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Effectively, I have 3 :D
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Effectively, I have 3 :D
you have a 3???
i'm a foriegner .....me no habla k...
i'm gonna go make piggys in a blankey while ya elaborate k :)
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ooooo..i just got that....
..and it gavmie a semi! :)
forgive me..i'm semi drunk... :-\
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semi drunk getting drunker, or just sobering up?
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So if a guy made eye contact with you while he greased your weasel that would be cool ?
It would never get to that point because I only deal with vaginas.
Do I need to break it down for you, Sandy?
DIV
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semi drunk getting drunker, or just sobering up?
i never get to shitfaced now a days....i get drunk..then i get sleepy...then i give lil juni a quick wak and then i pass out...
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Do I need to break it down for you, Sandy?
Apparently my sense of humor is a bit beyond yee grasp, I'll stick to dick and fart jokes from now on :D
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Apparently my sense of humor is a bit beyond yee grasp, I'll stick to dick and fart jokes from now on :D
i love fart jokes! ;D so does stella....oo oo wait ..lemme fetch something i posted recently on the gossip...
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http://one.revver.com/watch/95332/format/flv/affiliate/184
lmao... ;D
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How we moved from the topic of most moving passages to blowjobs and fart jokes is beyond me. Then again, this GetBig. Anything goes.
Okay...I have several. I'll just start with a few and then if y'all want to read more, I'll provide them. I happen to have Fight Club sitting right here, and I just bought Chuck Palahniuck's other novel, Choke, tonight, so this is on my mind.
"If you don't know what you want," the doorman said, "you end up with a lot you don't."
May I never be complete.
May I never be content.
May I never be perfect.
To me, if you achieve these descriptions, then you have nothing to improve upon, nowhere to go. You either have to start over and become something new or you have to falter and tear down everything that made you complete, content, and perfect in order to start over and reach these states again. And what's the point in that?
The following is from Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451:
"When I was a boy my grandfather died, and he was a sculptor. He was also a very kind man who had a lot of love to give the world, and he helped clean up the slum in our town; and he made toys for us and he did a million things in his lifetime; he was always busy with his hands. And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for all the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again, he would never carve another piece of wood or help us raise doves and pigeons in the bakcyard or play the violin the way he did, or tell us jokes the way he did. H was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them just the way he did. He was individual. He was an important man. I've never gotten over his death. Often I think what wonderful carvings never came to birth because he died. How many jokes are missing from the world, and how many homing pigeons untouched by his hands. He shaped the world. He did things to the world. The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on.
"Everyone must leave something behind he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted. you're there. It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn cutter might just as well not have have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime."
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ANY one who wishes to become a good writer should endeavour, before he allows himself to be tempted by the more showy qualities, to be direct, simple, brief, vigorous, and lucid.
The King’s English
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The King’s English
I thought it belonged to the Queen now.
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How we moved from the topic of most moving passages to blowjobs and fart jokes is beyond me. Then again, this GetBig. Anything goes.
Sex and literature often go hand in hand. Like Toxic and DIVISION (and Al-Gebra would like to join them?).
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Sex and literature often go hand in hand. Like Toxic and DIVISION (and Al-Gebra would like to join them?).
Not sure about all that......
Junaid and I are cultured, but other than that we don't have that much else in common.
DIV
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Sex and literature often go hand in hand.
I totally agree with that.
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I thought it belonged to the Queen now.
Good one champ !
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There were thirteen of us: Thorkell Son of Thorkell the Misaligned, Thorkell the Short, Thorkell Thorkellsson, Thorkell Cat, Thorkell Flat-Nose, Thorkell-neb, Thorkell Ale-Lover, Thorkell the Old, Thorkell the Deep-minded, Ofeig, Skeggi, Grim, and me. We were tough. We were hardy. We were bold.
.........
Then one night we heard the cries of gulls like souls stricken in the dark. Thorkell Ale-Lover, keen of smell, snuffed the breeze. "Landfall near," he said. In the morning the sun threw our shadows on a new land -- buff and green, slabs of grey, it swallowed the horizon.
"Balder be praised!" said Thorkell the Old.
"Thank Frigg," I said.
We skirted the coast, looking for habitations to sack. There were none. We'd discovered a wasteland. The Thorkells were for putting ashore to replenish our provisions and make sacrifice to the gods (in those days we hadn't yet learned to swallow unleavened bread and dab our foreheads with ashes. We were real primitives.) We ran our doughty sleek warship up a sandy spit and lept ashore, fierce as flayed demons. It was an unnecessary show of force, as the countryside was desolate but it did our hearts good.
The instant my feet touched earth the poetic fit came on me and I composed this verse:
New land, new-found beyond
The mickle waves by mickle fell
Men-fish, their stark battle
Valor failed them not.
No Edda, I grant you -- but what can you expect after six weeks of bailing? I turned to Thorkell Son of Thorkell the Misaligned, my brain charged with creative fever.
T. Coraghessan Boyle - We Are Norsemen - from Stories
(After reading some of the posts here tonight, it seemed applicable. :))
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There were thirteen of us: Thorkell Son of Thorkell the Misaligned, Thorkell the Short, Thorkell Thorkellsson, Thorkell Cat, Thorkell Flat-Nose, Thorkell-neb, Thorkell Ale-Lover, Thorkell the Old, Thorkell the Deep-minded, Ofeig, Skeggi, Grim, and me. We were tough. We were hardy. We were bold.
.........
Then one night we heard the cries of gulls like souls stricken in the dark. Thorkell Ale-Lover, keen of smell, snuffed the breeze. "Landfall near," he said. In the morning the sun threw our shadows on a new land -- buff and green, slabs of grey, it swallowed the horizon.
"Balder be praised!" said Thorkell the Old.
"Thank Frigg," I said.
We skirted the coast, looking for habitations to sack. There were none. We'd discovered a wasteland. The Thorkells were for putting ashore to replenish our provisions and make sacrifice to the gods (in those days we hadn't yet learned to swallow unleavened bread and dab our foreheads with ashes. We were real primitives.) We ran our doughty sleek warship up a sandy spit and lept ashore, fierce as flayed demons. It was an unnecessary show of force, as the countryside was desolate but it did our hearts good.
The instant my feet touched earth the poetic fit came on me and I composed this verse:
New land, new-found beyond
The mickle waves by mickle fell
Men-fish, their stark battle
Valor failed them not.
No Edda, I grant you -- but what can you expect after six weeks of bailing? I turned to Thorkell Son of Thorkell the Misaligned, my brain charged with creative fever.
T. Coraghessan Boyle - We Are Norsemen - from Stories
(After reading some of the posts here tonight, it seemed applicable. :))
i used to really like boyle . . . i think it was when i thought bruce springsteen was bob dylan's heir.
now the only one i still really admire is dylan.
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i used to really like boyle . . . i think it was when i thought bruce springsteen was bob dylan's heir.
now the only one i still really admire is dylan.
I think he was just too prolific, and the quality of his work suffered a little. Still, he has penned some of the most hilarious short stories. Every now and then I'll pick through them if I feel the need to laugh my guts out while reading some excellent prose. Greasy Lake and East Meets West were fine novels imho...
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Speaking of Dylan...Thomas Dylan, that is...here's a poem I love (and just wrote about on my public forum):
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by Thomas Dylan
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
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This is one of my favorites, always.
Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Now the White
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.
-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
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i think his name was dylan thomas . . . btw, do you think welsh women are particularly pretty?
i like the victorians too, even though toxie's doing his best to ruin them for me. >:(
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It is Dylan Thomas; I seem to be suffering from dyslexia and forgetfulness. Before a show: not enough sugar and no brain cells to be found anywhere. Immediately after a show: too much sugar and still no brain cells.
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I seem to be suffering from dyslexia and forgetfulness.
Does that mean you dont remember to screw up your words :D