I lack rigor: but and so I greatly enjoy people robuster than I am grappling (I think that's the word) (maybe it's not) with terms both known (squishy) and unknown (bold or apologetic).
Poetry, I can nearly agree with myself, crafts language that is deliberately different. Other, langue, parole—I can only brush these things off my trouser knee. There is something unsteady about sexy, but also elevated, eloquent, lyrical. I'm not ashamed to say when I was younger, reading Shakespeare, I used to laugh out loud at the great lines, or I thought great. But they weren't funny. They were just superfine. Why did I laugh?
It is that enterprise there, that, other.
If I like it, I call it a brown cow.
Poetry, I can nearly agree with myself, crafts language that is deliberately different. Other, langue, parole—I can only brush these things off my trouser knee. There is something unsteady about sexy, but also elevated, eloquent, lyrical. I'm not ashamed to say when I was younger, reading Shakespeare, I used to laugh out loud at the great lines, or I thought great. But they weren't funny. They were just superfine. Why did I laugh?
It is that enterprise there, that, other.
If I like it, I call it a brown cow.
1 RIDERS:
brown cows. I still read Shakespeare and laugh out loud at superfine lines. Last night I was talking to someone about Henry V and how no one ever talks about one of the best scenes Shakespeare ever wrote, the scene when the French princess is learning English words, and then we rented a film called In Praise Of Love, a Goddard film, and in that film, a character says that the scene I just mentioned is the most erotic scenes in all of Shakespeare. I really love that scene.
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