High expectations imply utter happiness and bitter disappointment. May we all have both in our lives!

luni, 17 noiembrie 2008

To his coy mistress

Mi-aduc si acum aminte cat am iubit poezia asta si cat m-a facut unul dintre profii nostri de la fac sa o urasc. N-o sa accept niciodata ideea ca a intelege o poezie e acelasi lucru cu a recita niste randulete invatate pe derost din nush ce critic.

Omul asta (Andrew Marvell, responsabilu cu poezica)are o gandire extraordinara pentru sec. 17 si fiecare omuletz in parte ar trebui sa o descopere in felul lui, fara sa ii fie varate pe gat idei ale altora despre el. Cu alte cuvinte, citeste poezica frate si da-ti cu parerea, daca ai chef si timp, nu mai sta si toci ca papagalu pagini intregi de blablauri academice.

Critica literara in sine este doar cu titlu de indreptar, poti sa fii de acord sau nu cu niste idei, sa ti le promovezi pe ale tale..pana la urma aici e loc de mai bine intotdeauna.

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

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