. . . life involves maintaining oneself between contradictions that can't be solved by analysis. |
. . . the waste even in a fortunate life, the isolation of a life rich in intimacy, cannot but be felt deeply, and is the central feeling of tragedy. And anything of value must accept this because it must not prostitute itself; its strength is to be prepared to waste itself, if it does not get the opportunity. |
A humanist, as I understand the term, says, "This world is good enough for me, if only I can be good enough for it." |
Attending there let us absorb the cultures of nations
And dissolve into our judgement all their codes. Then, being clogged, with a natural hesitation (People are continually asking one the way out), Let us stand here and admit that we have no road. |
It is the pain, it is the pain, endures. |
It is this deep blankness is the real thing strange. The more things happen to you the more you can't Tell or remember even what they were. |
It seemed the best thing to be up and go. |
It seems unpleasantly refined To put things off till someone knows. |
Seven types of ambiguity. |
Slowly the poison the whole blood stream fills.
It is not the effort nor the failure tires. The waste remains, the waste remains and kills. |
So your flesh shall be part of mine
And part of mine be yours. Brother and sister we shall be Whose unity endures. Always the sister doll will cry, Made in these careful ways, Cry on and on, Come back to me, Come back, in a few days. |
The "News," the conferences that leer,
the creeping fog, the civil traps. These are what force you into fear. |
The heart of standing is you cannot fly. |
Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end. |
You don't want madhouse and the whole thing there. |