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Pastimes : Clown-Free Zone... sorry, no clowns allowed -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Giordano Bruno who wrote (412802)	12/23/2010 9:57:04 AM
From: Jeff Jordan	Respond to of 436258

Seneca? To greed, all nature is insufficient. ~ "At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet." Genius is one of the many forms of insanity I thought Jung said love was insanity? Where love rules, there is no will to power; and where power predominates, there love is lacking. The one is the shadow of the other. I like the quote about insanity is what you need in an insane world?<g>

To: Giordano Bruno who wrote (412802)	12/23/2010 10:45:03 AM
From: Jeff Jordan	1 Recommendation Respond to of 436258

Madness is something rare in individuals -- but in groups, parties, peoples, ages it is the rule...... When the sword-hilt's in our hand,-- Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land; Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and puling crye, Our business is like men to fight, And hero-like to die! No nation keeps its word. A nation is a big, blind worm, following what? Fate perhaps. A nation has no honour, it has no word to keep. ... The Conqueror Worm BY EDGAR ALLAN POE Lo! ’t is a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly— Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout, A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out—out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. youtube.com youtube.com