Monday, July 19, 2010

Thinking of Stendhal

At the least, the active life begins again for me;
Charms of youth, what they name vigour.

Cascades, hills over "dales" over lakes, indoors
From the rain, soup, and promenades, I see.

Sometimes, surging thoughts hide things from selves,
But not on purpose for the purposes of cowardice.

It was, above all, a woman of strong faith in herself,
Adieu, my fine Scala, my beautiful lake Como, adieu, adieu!

-

Can you not memorize this theology
Like the rules to a game of whist?

Do not Rousseau about it; nor hold (if you
happen to fall into it and believe) your old boys,

Your encyclopedic boys in disdain. No,
Have no spirit, my lad, until you graduate.

-

An Italian heart (what makes
Him less lovable, pardon):
No vanity but as adornment,
No guard against still, sole, gorgeous sights.

Sitting on an island rock,
No longer on edge,
Protected by deep night,
And the vast silence,
Some tears in the eyes,
Fresh moments not tasted
For a long time.

He swore never again to lie.

-

That religion steals the courage
to think of unusual things, and holds
above all personal examination the highest
of sins; a foot in the door of protestantism.

To know of what we are guilty, ask the priest, or read
the catalogue of sins, printed in books titled
Prepration for the Sacrement of Penitence.

Read murder; skipped passed simony.
(O Simon mago, o miseri seguaci!)

-

He was still young, still damn far
from spending his time to seek out
with patience particular realities of
things, thereby to figure out their causes.

dealers of antiques,
brokers, archaeologists,
You are not, as you think, alive.

For we are ever weak;
Always weakness entered
In the calculations
(come face al mancar dell' alimento)