Though full of direct knowledge of his fellows Whose eyes and faces are a script humane; Though voices sing to him like Lobos' cellos In lack and loss and woe this man remains.. In times gone by,the voice and face sufficed. Poets' music seemed to us almost divine; But now a subtle torture's been devised To write with pen and letters intertwined. This man, though wise like cat,or bear or owl, Has failed in his acquaintance with the pen. Nor does he have the words which politicians howl. Nor can he read more than his list of sin. For now the map is where the mind must dwell And of reality,no-one can tell.
Do we expect more
From some nations than others?
Why do you agree ?
Where language began
alphabets were invented
stories were read or sung.
libraries were cherished here
signs and symbols too
were made possible by sages
where have they all gone?
The ten commandments
Thou shalt not murder ethics
Are we all done for?
Do the identifications with fictions, the inner, tidal motions of pathos and libido which the novel, the film, the painting, the symphony unleash within us somehow immunize us against the humbler, less formed, but actual claims of suffering and of need in our surroundings? Does the cry in the tragic play muffle, even blot out, the cry in the street?
- Paris Review – The Art of Criticism No. 2, George Steiner (wordscat.wordpress.com)
- Fatal Collision At Oak and Steiner (haighteration.com)
- Equality plus (mysayjmcornelis.wordpress.com)
- Because when you ask someone about love, they tell you about heartbreak (the-positivity-project.com)
|What a day|
- Reverberate by Erik Johansson (inprnt.wordpress.com)