There is nothing wrong in this whole world.

You don't know what's in my heart.


There is nothing wrong in this whole world.

You don't know what's in my heart.


There is nothing wrong you don't know.

What's in my heart this whole world.

You don't know nothing is wrong:

The effect of beauty ... is good to the degree that, through its analogies ... the possibility of regaining paradise through repentance and forgiveness is recognized. Its effect is evil to the degree that beauty is taken, not as analogous to, but identical with goodness ... and the conclusion drawn that, since all is well in the work of art, all is well in history. But all is not well there.
_ W. H. Auden, The Dyer's Hand (New York, 1962), 71.
As less is demanded of art, as it is burdened with less idealism, and therefore less likely to disappoint and disillusion, it has freer rein to do what it can do, which is to create a model of a saved world, in which, as Auden says, crowds are communities and sins forgiven. Lucy McDiarmid

There is nothing wrong in this whole world. "Even though there is so much to be unhappy about in this world, we should try to create something amazing and beautiful and interesting despite all of the problems." Chris Cobb




You Don't Know
What's in My Heart [Then We Came To the End by Joshua Ferris, Chp 1]
WE WERE FRACTIOUS AND overpaid. Our mornings lacked promise. At least those of us who smoked had something to look forward to at ten-fifteen. Most of us liked most everyone, a few of us hated specific individuals, one or two people loved everyone and everything. Those who loved everyone were unanimously reviled. We loved free bagels in the morning. They happened all too infrequently. Our benefits were astonishing in comprehensiveness and quality of care. Sometimes we questioned whether they were worth it. We thought moving to India might be better, or going back to nursing school. Doing something with the handicapped or working with our hands. No one ever acted on these impulses, despite their daily, sometimes hourly contractions. Instead we met in conference rooms to discuss the issues of the day.



1 comments (posted on below post 3/17/08 9:11 pm)
"The imperatives directed at the poet require him not to make the dark cold surroundings disappear, or to transform them magically, but to face them and act in spite of them. "Still" means "nevertheless" as well as "always." The poet persuades with full awareness of his context. In the act of persuading and singing in spite of circumstances, the poet creates his own world. Like the river's valley in the second part, the poetic landscape here comes into being gradually as the poet invents it. But the surrounding world cannot be wished away, or even distanced. Balancing creative energy against binding circumstances, Auden insists on the abiding reality of "unsuccess" and "distress." The reality of the good, saved world is assured by the poet's creation? by what is in heart?, but it must endure in the midst of the desert and frozen seas this whole world which the poet can never change." Lucy McDiarmid

Why do you think though that "art" is responsible? Something strange what is the strange thing? in the need to "free" art so that its redemptiveness can be actualized. . . . I read the Dyer's Hand early and "But all is not well there" stayed. to me I suppose it is strange that anything is asked of art, that any burden is placed on it, any rein given it. (because to me it all institutions are strange? strange. not familiar. not of the homeland. not what they should be. 'Ah Humanity.' is everything wrong? Poetry makes nothing happen.)

But I agree the cost of what is in your heart in these days will dear is still necessary. the cost of what is in one's heart (or: MY heart? ) - what is its cost? its cost while dear - the cost is dear - is necessary - needed? by whom, for what. is that to say?: the cost while dear is worth it. worth it to keep what is in one's heart. keep. sake. In spite of . . .
the cost here, then, is that what is in one's heart (or: MY heart) may take one to sleep, with kings and counselors. is that the cost, mc?

"Strangely huddled at the base of the wall, his knees drawn up, and lying on his side, his head touching the cold stones, I saw the wasted Bartleby. But nothing stirred. I paused; then went close up to him; stooped over, and saw that his dim eyes were open; otherwise he seemed profoundly sleeping. Something prompted me to touch him. I felt his hand, when a tingling shiver ran up my arm and down my spine to my feet.
The round face of the grub-man peered upon me now. “His dinner is ready. Won’t he dine to-day, either? Or does he live without dining?”
“Lives without dining,” said I, and closed the eyes.
“Eh!—He’s asleep, aint he?”
“With kings and counsellors,” murmured I."

lovely, thank you.