A man reserves his true and deepest love not for the species of woman in whose company he finds himself electrified and enkindled, but for that one in whose company he may feel tenderly drowsy.
REFLECTIONS ON A PUDDLE
One must have a reason for reflection — an eye to admire variations. And only so many days can fulfill a day — in which one can be close to that April sky — with sight of it beneath. This requires an understanding: A reason without, an inward nature, a spontaneous glance.
Song: “April Fool” by Patti Smith
Trying to figure out how to share these songs with a teacher friend that’s not on FB. Why can’t people just be on FB?
It comes the very moment you wake up each morning. All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals. And the first job each morning consists simply in shoving them all back; in listening to that other voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in. And so on, all day. Standing back from all your natural fussings and frettings; coming in out of the wind.
I did not say anything. I was always embarrassed by the words sacred, glorious, and the expression in vain. We had heard them, sometimes standing in the rain almost out of earshot, so that only the shouted words came through, and had read them, on proclamations that were slapped up by billposters over other proclamations, now for a long time, and I had seen nothing sacred, and the things that were glorious had no glory and the sacrifices were like the stockyards at Chicago if nothing was done with the meat except to bury it. There were many words that you could not stand to hear and finally only the names of the places had dignity. Certain numbers were the same way and certain dates and these with the names of places were all you could say and have them mean anything. Abstract words such as glory, honor, courage, or hallow were obscene beside the concrete names of villages, the numbers of roads, the names of rivers, the numbers of regiments and the dates.
A Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway.