Without Lifting A Finger

 Aurélie had accepted the principal role in the drama I had brought back from Germany. I shall never forget the day she allowed me to read her the play. The love scenes had been written with her in mind. I believe I recited them with spirit, and above all with rapture. In the conversation that ensued, I revealed I was the Stranger of the two letters. She said to me: ‘You’re mad, but come and see me again … I have yet to find a man who knows how to love me.’

Worldly ambitions, however, meant little to our generation; the greedy scramble for honours and positions in which everybody was then engaged only served to distance us from all possible spheres of activity. The sole refuge left to us was the poets’ ivory tower – which we climbed, higher and higher, in order to isolate ourselves from the crowd. Having been guided to these heights by our masters, we at last breathed the pure air of solitude, drinking ourselves into oblivion from the golden cup of fable, drunk with poetry and love – love, alas, of vague shapes, of blue and rosy hues, of metaphysical phantoms. Seen close, any real woman seemed too gross to our starry-eyed sensibilities. She had to appear a queen or goddess: above all, she had to lie beyond reach.

Red-throated Loon @ Naples Island. Was checking on the Night Heron Colony and found this sleeping beauty floating (without a care in the world) in the marina. A nice surprise. Lifer.  #rlswihart13 #southernca #naplesisland #loonsofinstagram #redthroatedloon #loons #nature #beauty #poetry #readmorepoetry2022 #lastresort #thebookendsreview #ukraine

I have a new poem up at The Bookends Review: Last Resort. I hope you check it out. Last Resort @ The Bookends Review 

 Can you guess my name?

"O youth! The strength of it, the faith of it, the imagination of it! To me she was not an old rattle-trap carting about the world a lot of coal for a freight—to me she was the endeavour, the test, the trial of life. I think of her with pleasure, with affection, with regret—as you would think of someone dead you have loved. I shall never forget her.... Pass the bottle.

"I was greatly surprised. His long black hair scattered over the straw bolster contrasted with the olive pallor of his face. It occurred to me he might be a Basque. It didn't necessarily follow that he should understand Spanish; but I tried him with the few words I know, and also with some French. The whispered sounds I caught by bending my ear to his lips puzzled me utterly. That afternoon the young ladies from the Rectory (one of them read Goethe with a dictionary, and the other had struggled with Dante for years), coming to see Miss Swaffer, tried their German and Italian on him from the doorway. They retreated, just the least bit scared by the flood of passionate speech which, turning on his pallet, he let out at them. They admitted that the sound was pleasant, soft, musical—but, in conjunction with his looks perhaps, it was startling—so excitable, so utterly unlike anything one had ever heard. The village boys climbed up the bank to have a peep through the little square a

Rereading Conrad's Heart of Darkness and will perhaps go on to read more of his work. For starters: Amy Foster, Youth, Some Thoughts on his books which I believe he wrote later in life. Two famous "clips" (see T S Eliot and Apocalypse Now): He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath: “‘The horror! The horror!’ “‘Mistah Kurtz—he dead.’

A few Toms in Cambria ("Top of the World") -- fanning the air & "gobbledygooking." Enjoyed it immensely.:) #rlswihart13 #cambriaca "topoftheworld #toms #wildturkeys #nature #beauty #poetry #beauty #gravelroads #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine 🇺🇦

Great was the year and terrible the Year of Our Lord 1918, the second since the Revolution had begun. Sun had been abundant in the summer, snow in the winter, and two stars had risen particularly high in the sky: Venus, the Evening Star; and Mars, red and quivering. But in years of peace and blood alike the days shoot by like arrows, and in the hard frost the young Turbins had not noticed the onset of shaggy white December. Oh, Father Frost, sparkling with snow and happiness! Mama, radiant queen! Where are you now?

A first for me: Bulgakov's White Guard. Takes place in and around Kiev at the time of the Russian Revolution. A tidbit from the intro: Russia was the only state founded simultaneously upon European values and Eastern despotism. Hence the permanent identity crisis of Russia, which felt itself simultaneously both European and Asian. Granted, there are class distinctions in any state, but in no other state have they been so profound that they shaped two separate nations. No other state ever held almost ninety percent of its own population in slavery for centuries. The main problem that remains unsettled is: How does one remain honorable (and Bulgakov’s favorite characters talk endlessly about honor) when living in a state founded upon dishonor, on police corruption, ubiquitous theft, and violation of individual dignity? How can one be an honorable person and yet wish to preserve this state of affairs?

Western Tanager @ Eisenhower Park. Lit matches jumping from tree to tree. Happy weekend. #rlswihart13 #southerncalifornia #eisenhowerpark #tanagersofinstagram #westerntanager #nature #beauty #poetry #weekend #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine 🇺🇦

“But permit me to ask you,” the foreign guest resumed after a troubled silence, “what about the proofs of God’s existence? As we know, there are exactly five of them.” “Alas!” Berlioz answered with regret. “None of these proofs is worth a thing, and humanity has long since scrapped them. You must agree that, in the realm of reason, there can be no proof of God’s existence.” “Bravo!” cried the foreigner. “Bravo! These are exactly the words of the restless old Immanuel on this subject. But curiously enough, he demolished all five arguments and then, as if to mock himself, constructed his own sixth one.” “Kant’s argument,” the educated editor countered with a subtle smile, “is equally unconvincing. No wonder Schiller said that only slaves could find Kant’s reasoning on this subject satisfactory. And Strauss simply laughed at his proof.” As Berlioz spoke, he thought to himself, “But still, who is he? And why does he speak Russian so well?” “This Kant ought to be sent to Solovki for three y