May. 1st, 2009 | 12:51 pm
I always wait until after the class has discussed the text before I write my entries. Bad idea. I get caught up is the discussion, and forget what it was I wanted to say about the text, so I try to look back at the notes I wrote in the margins, and they rarely make much sense more than "!!" and "lovely."
I suppose these two notes fit when I think about Blake. Blake Blake Blake, I love Blake. I think it was the proverbs that first did it for me, I think. Profound bursts of thought, they get me every time.
Ah, but The Book of Thel. I say, !!, and I say, lovely. This is a new one for me. My favorite, Marriage of Heaven and Hell still firmly holds its position as No. 1, but I did enjoy this. Wordsworth might be considered the mostly consistent in his nature writing, but I think writing a story from the perspective of a virginal drop of dew is undoubtedly brilliant.
Or did she only live to be at death the food of worms?
I think of this far too often. It is too easy to believe in God, to believe you are more than the cycle of the universe, that your only purpose in death is to feed the earth. What is a worm? It cannot reason, it cannot love, it cannot compose poetry. I fear the confrontation of death, not because of Judgment Day, as the men on Hayden lawn warn me, but of the day when there is nothing more than to feed the earth, to be burried and become fossil fuel for a generation a million years from now.
Why cannot the Ear be closed to its own destruction?
Or the glistening Eye to the poison of a smile?
Blake saw the darkness of humanity, how could he not? He saw the plasticity of a culture, and the capabilities of Mankind in height of the French Revolution. Is there any wisdom in war when we know so little about death? Maybe those who fight for religion find wisdom in war, so that they might die and say "Ha! I told you so!" The joke is on both sides.
I want to be Thel, so that I might disappear with the afternoon sun and melt beside fountains and springs.