The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to. I walk through the streets of Buenos Aires and stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the arch of an entrance hall and the grillwork on the gate; I know of Borges from the mail and see his name on a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; he shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship; I live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me. It is no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to the language and to tradition. Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things.
Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.
I do not know which of us has written this page.
Inquisitor on
0
ThomamelasOnly one man can kill this many Russians. Bring his guitar to me! Registered Userregular
Whence came D and D? Nay, do not ask that,
For that's a question whose answer knows no name,
Whose answer, should it even come to fame ,
Would it were back where wicked demons sat,
For the genesis of such a dire rat
Would lead one to knowledge full of vile shame,
Shameful, sinful, of such that could not frame
Black bile itself, boiling in a vat.
Nay, do not ask "Whence came that D and D?"
The answer would lead you down a dark road
Where mystery doubled on mystery,
Like seeing first the boil 'fore the toad.
D and D, that fall before the fall,
Godless harbor of cocks, and dicks, and lol.
Okay, I'm done. I can't compete with this. Good show, sir.
there once was a poster named Bama
with his man parts he was quite a gambla
he gave some young boys the shaft
and though his friends laughed
he was elected president of NAMBLA
There once was a poster named Mike
To suck titties he would very much like
So he went to a club
Was mocked as a scrub
And went home with a bouncer named Spike
There once was a poster named Mike
To suck titties he would very much like
So he went to a club
Was mocked as a scrub
And went home with a bouncer named Spike
there once was a worker named justin
whose chops his coworkers were bustin
he pushed a cart full of mail
padded with fail
him, his bosses weren't trustin
there once was a sucker named mikeman
that motherfucker stole my bike, man
i chased him for miles
but his fascistic wiles
led me into the arms of the Reich. Man.
alright that one got away from me.
Evil Multifarious on
0
Podlyyou unzipped me! it's all coming back! i don't like it!Registered Userregular
Posts
i'm just going by tradition
getting in the spirit
stroking my beard
Most poetry is horrible.
Good poetry is awesome.
In this way, I find it's the same as pretty much every other artform.
the "no true scotch man" fallacy.
"Borges and I"
The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to. I walk through the streets of Buenos Aires and stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the arch of an entrance hall and the grillwork on the gate; I know of Borges from the mail and see his name on a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; he shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship; I live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me. It is no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to the language and to tradition. Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things.
Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.
I do not know which of us has written this page.
Most likely not since I've already maxed my psych coverage. They would pay for prescriptions but that's about it.
Okay, I'm done. I can't compete with this. Good show, sir.
especially street burritos
preach it
actually you know what, i think feral and preacher should switch usernames
it'd be more suitable
I hate having to put work into things to get something out of them!
i got nothin
with his man parts he was quite a gambla
he gave some young boys the shaft
and though his friends laughed
he was elected president of NAMBLA
hahahahahahaha
the "no true scotch man" fallacy.
Imma write a paper on it. I'm just rather undecided on how to approach it.
nerd is a good egg
there's a fellow we call justinsane
his flesh to the dark gods a fane
he crawls with infection
and with fell predilection
for acts of a horror unnamed
That's not it at all. I just don't like poetry.
...I don't even know what this says.
Which I'm gonna guess was the point.
There once was a poster named Mike
To suck titties he would very much like
So he went to a club
Was mocked as a scrub
And went home with a bouncer named Spike
I wrote a paper on it
I forget what I said
hmmmmmmmmmmmmm
the "no true scotch man" fallacy.
He enjoys being tickled in the bowel
or so I should think
says his "good pal" Inq
whose chops his coworkers were bustin
he pushed a cart full of mail
padded with fail
him, his bosses weren't trustin
there were good poets, at one time
but i have a hard time with poetry written after, oh, let's say 1950 or so
maybe even before that
modern and "postmodern" poetry can suck my dick
but langston hughes wrote after 1950 !
Pony: I don't know, but I hate them!
They are pretentious they hate the common man with their big words
that motherfucker stole my bike, man
i chased him for miles
but his fascistic wiles
led me into the arms of the Reich. Man.
alright that one got away from me.
"i don't like movies after 1950" is basically what you said
"i don't like books after 1950!"