A blog formerly known as Bookishness

By Charles Matthews

"Dazzled by so many and such marvelous inventions, the people of Macondo ... became indignant over the living images that the prosperous merchant Bruno Crespi projected in the theater with the lion-head ticket windows, for a character who had died and was buried in one film and for whose misfortune tears had been shed would reappear alive and transformed into an Arab in the next one. The audience, who had paid two cents apiece to share the difficulties of the actors, would not tolerate that outlandish fraud and they broke up the seats. The mayor, at the urging of Bruno Crespi, explained in a proclamation that the cinema was a machine of illusions that did not merit the emotional outbursts of the audience. With that discouraging explanation many ... decided not to return to the movies, considering that they already had too many troubles of their own to weep over the acted-out misfortunes of imaginary beings."
--Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

Friday, May 14, 2010

Poem of the Day: Edward Thomas

Lights Out 

I have come to the borders of sleep, 
The unfathomable deep 
Forest where all must lose 
Their way, however straight, 
Or winding, soon or late; 
They cannot choose. 

Many a road and track 
That, since the dawn's first crack, 
Up to the forest brink, 
Deceived the travelers, 
Suddenly now blurs, 
And in they sink. 

Here love ends, 
Despair, ambition ends; 
All pleasure and all trouble, 
Although most sweet or bitter, 
Here ends in sleep that is sweeter 
Than tasks most noble.

There is not any book 
Or face of dearest look 
That I would not turn from now 
To go into the unknown 
I must enter, and leave, alone, 
I know not how. 

The tall forest towers; 
Its cloudy foliage lowers 
Ahead, shelf above self; 
Its silence I hear and obet 
That I may lose my way 
And myself.