So if I asked you about art you could give me the skinny on every art book ever written...Michelangelo? You know a lot about him I bet. Life's work, criticisms, political aspirations. But you couldn't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You've never stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling. And if I asked you about women I'm sure you could give me a syllabus of your personal favorites, and maybe you've been laid a few times too. But you couldn't tell me how it feels to wake up next to a woman and be truly happy. If I asked you about war you could refer me to a bevy of fictional and non-fictional material, but you've never been in one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap and watched him draw his last breath, looking to you for help. And if I asked you about love I'd get a sonnet, but you've never looked at a woman and been truly vulnerable. Known that someone could kill you with a look. That someone could rescue you from grief. That God had put an angel on Earth just for you. And you wouldn't know how it felt to be her angel. To have the love be there for her forever. Through anything, through cancer. You wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in a hospital room for two months holding her hand and not leaving because the doctors could see in your eyes that the term 'visiting hours' didn't apply to you. And you wouldn't know about real loss, because that only occurs when you lose something you love more than yourself, and you've never dared to love anything that much. I look at you and I don't see an intelligent confident man, I don't see a peer, and I don't see my equal. I see a boy. Nobody could possibly understand you, right Will? Yet you presume to know so much about me because of a painting you saw. You must know everything about me. You're an orphan, right? Do you think I would presume to know the first thing about who you are because I read 'Oliver Twist?' And I don't buy the argument that you don't want to be here, because I think you like all the attention you're getting. Personally, I don't care. There's nothing you can tell me that I can't read somewhere else. Unless we talk about your life. But you won't do that. Maybe you're afraid of what you might say.
|
In summer, the song sings itself.
|
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady's slipper.
|
Their time past, pulled down cracked and flung to the fire go up in a roar All recognition lost, burnt clean clean in the flame, the green dispersed, a living red, flame red, red as blood wakes on the ash--
|
The perfect man of action, is the suicide.
|
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady's slipper.
|
You're never on the sideline, like in sports. There's constant action. That's what people love.
|
But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.
|
The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost.
|
I have been trying to do this since high school. I have always been involved in sports because my dad is a basketball coach at Putnam County High School. My father has been a basketball, football, track and cross country coach.
|
This is the evolution of a partnership that has already reaped many rewards for both Williams-Sonoma and CBS. We've enjoyed a fruitful relationship with the 'Early Show,' and this new campaign takes that collaboration one giant step forward. We're confident that the penetration in mall and retail centers across the country that Williams-Sonoma offers, as well as their upscale customer base, makes them the ideal partner to launch what is going to be television's most anticipated new schedule.
|
The better work men do is always done under stress and at great personal cost.
|
If they give you lined paper, write the other way.
|
Their time past, pulled down cracked and flung to the fire go up in a roar All recognition lost, burnt clean clean in the flame, the green dispersed, a living red, flame red, red as blood wakes on the ash--
|
By listening to his language of his locality the poet begins to learn his craft. It is his function to lift, by use of imagination and the language he hears, the material conditions and appearances of his environment to the sphere of the intelligence where they will have new currency.
|
By listening to his language of his locality the poet begins to learn his craft. It is his function to lift, by use of imagination and the language he hears, the material conditions and appearances of his environment to the sphere of the intelligence where they will have new currency.
|
But all art is sensual and poetry particularly so. It is directly, that is, of the senses, and since the senses do not exist without an object for their employment all art is necessarily objective. It doesn't declaim or explain, it presents.
|
In summer, the song sings itself.
|
The perfect man of action, is the suicide.
|
We have to distrust each other. It is our only defense against betrayal.
|
What power has love but forgiveness? In other words by its intervention what has been done can be undone. What good is it otherwise?
|
His golf bag does not contain a full set of irons.
|
I can't stand a naked light bulb, any more than I can a rude remark or a vulgar action.
|
We have to trust the courts to work it out in a fair and equitable way.
|
What power has love but forgiveness? In other words by its intervention what has been done can be undone. What good is it otherwise?
|
Ah, yes, divorce...from the Latin word meaning to rip out a man's genitals through his wallet
|
I don't believe people die from hard work. They die from stress and worry and fear -- the negative emotions. Those are the killers, not hard work. The fact is, in our society today, most people don't understand what hard work is all about.
|
September tries its best to have us forget summer.
|
It is alive, venomous it smiles grimly its words cut—
|
It is alive, venomous it smiles grimly its words cut—
|