Showing posts with label favourite poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label favourite poems. Show all posts

Saturday, November 5, 2011

quote to quote...

"The point is not to understand the world, but to change it"  Karl Marx

A nice encapsulation of the idea that at the end of the day it is what we do that matters, and  how everything else could be viewed as ultimately intangible and unreal; and, if consider the notion that we lead our lives in pursuit of something more than mere pleasure, but to have a purpose, maybe it could be extended to "the point is not to understand the world, or even to enjoy it, but to change it" .

Though maybe related is Woody Allen's quote, "I don't want to achieve immortality through my works; I want to achieve immortality through not dying". Indeed!

What also comes to mind are the following lines from Larkin's "Churchgoing" (the full poem, one of my favourites, is here)
"since someone will forever be surprising,
a hunger in himself to be more serious"

Maybe the driven are simply delusional, and it is better to sit back and enjoy things after all. Mill might have thought "it is better to be a human dissatisfied than a pig satisfied", but maybe he overestimated humans, and underestimated pigs.

Still, something reassuring in having simply wanting to enjoy life as a plan B, a worst case goal if all else fails :-)

Friday, September 30, 2011

to tweet, to who, a merry note

An article about twitter brought 'tu-whit, tu-who' to my mind - this classic little Shakespeare poem...when icicles hang by the wall...

Winter
    When icicles hang by the wall
        And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
    And Tom bears logs into the hall,
        And milk comes frozen home in pail,
    When Blood is nipped and ways be foul,
    Then nightly sings the staring owl,
        Tu-who;
    Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
    While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
    When all aloud the wind doth blow,
        And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
    And birds sit brooding in the snow,
        And Marian's nose looks red and raw
    When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
    Then nightly sings the staring owl,
        Tu-who;
    Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note,
    While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
        William Shakespeare