Post something from a writer
Guess who wrote it
Translations are fine
"This boat is of shato-wood, and its gunwales are cut magnolia,
Musicians with jewelled flutes and with pipes of gold
Fill full the sides in rows, and our wine
Is rich for a thousand cups.
We carry singing girls, drift with the drifting water,
Yet Sennin needs
A yellow stork for a charger, and all our seamen
Would follow the white gulls or ride them.
Kutsu's prose song
Hangs with the sun and moon."
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James franco
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask; But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."
Ma, I see your panties, he thinks, and takes care of his business as fast as he can. There's Vaseline in the medicine cabinet, but he doesn't use it. He wants it to burn.
It was a lone tree burning on the desert. A heraldic tree that the passing storm had left afire. The solitary pilgrim drawn up before it had traveled far to be here and he knelt in the hot sand and held his numbed hands out while all about in that circle attended companies of lesser auxiliaries routed forth into the inordinate day, small owls that crouched silently and stood from foot to foot and tarantulas and solpugas and vinegarroons and the vicious mygale spiders and beaded lizards with mouths black as a chowdog's, deadly to man, and the little desert basilisks that jet blood from their eyes and the small sandvipers like seemly gods, silent and the same, in Jeda, in Babylon. A constellation of ignited eyes that edged the ring of light all bound in a precarious truce before this torch whose brightness had set back the stars in their sockets.
John Donne?
Damn. Charles Douty? Certainly not R. F. Burton....
Hill-dawg Cliton?
Yaaas slay
The more I drink the more I feel it. That's why I drink, for it is in drink that i'm trying to find sympathy and compassion.
Nope
Extinguish Vanity in the Mind, and you naturally retrench the little Superfluities of Garniture and Equipage. The Blossoms will fall of themselves, when the Root that nourishes them is destroyed.
Italian style sonnet. Petrarch in translation? (If so, that's a mighty good rendering, which is why I doubt that I'm correct..)
Nope, its originally English
A shot in the dark: Flaubert translated? (The Temptations..)
Yeah, it's too good.
O.k. Late Wordsworth?
Nope. Its pretty old
Lightly she kissed his hand. The skin was warm, blue veins branching like rivers beneath his pale translucent skin. Outside the greater rivers flowed, and they would flow forever, but not so the rivers in her father's hand. Too soon that current would grow still.
The sonnet or the prose? If the sonnet then it has to be Milton, which is frustrating, because I've read a ton of him but little in the way of lyric. If the prose (the chow dog description prompted me to think that it was perhaps more modern than it felt) then I'll guess Browne, although that has to be wrong unless it's in the Pseudodoxia, which makes little sense, but I'm desperate....
A pilgrim in the desert at an otherwise burning tree figured as a torch (that puts out the stars) but around the perimeter of light glow the starlike eyes of either noxious or melancholic beasts? Great image. Could that (final answer) be Milton too, somewhere in his voluminous unread prose? (Weird. I just experienced deja vu..)
But no. Milton was a fanatic Prot and this is a Catholic image (unless it's a complete reconfiguration of the Mosaic happening). Is it French?
The first line was talking about how he went blind
poemhunter.com
Ohh. I see, or rather didn't. I read it as 'how i waste my time' -_-
Cormac McCarthy - Blood Meridian
The run on sentence gave it away but I had to google it just to make sure
My nigga EZra£
Marcel Proust.
Thomas Pynchon
>. He liked the color of the
streetlamps and the light that spilled over the fronts of the houses. The shadows that moved
as he moved. The ashen, sooty dawns. The men of few words who gathered in the pub,
where he became a regular. The pain, or the memory of pain, that here was literally sucked
away by something nameless until only a void was left. The knowledge that this question was
possible: pain that turns finally into emptiness. The knowledge that the same equation applied
to everything, more or less.
No. But interesting guess.