Wednesday, August 24, 2005

A Humbug

O Praxilla of Sikyon, you number the uncucumber’d days!
The loveliest of the things I leave is sunlight,
Followed by the blazing stars,
The face of the full moon,
Ripe cucumbers, apples, and pears.

Melville, in Pierre or The Ambiguites: “Now he began to curse anew his fate, for now he began to see that after all he had been finely juggling with himself, and postponing with himself, and in meditative sentimentalities wasting the moments consecrated to instant action.”


To work.