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| How could they survive? Well, they had a telephone. Their parents had none. |
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Friday, April 25, 2014
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Rather be it Shakespeare*
the 398nd anniversary of either his death
and the death of Cervantes
just to wish a very special literary evening.
It's also the (International) Day of the book?
Well, yes. But isn't every day a day of the book?
Comparing the results of my recent attempts to write some sonnets myself with what I am rereading these days, I came to the conclusion, in order not to put anyone off the realm of poetry, to post rather one from the Master of Avondale.
Alack what poverty my muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O blame me not if I no more can write!
Look in your glass and there appears a face,
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other my verses tend,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell.
And more, much more than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.
* Blessed be your good memory. Well, indeed, knowing I would be fighting with a deadline, I went back to April 23rd, 2009, copied and pasted, updated the years, and voilà.
After all, it's no dissertation.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
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