The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Monday, February 4, 2008

notes on art and eros

Notes on Death in Venice, chapter 5

"Socrates says that the artist cannot pursue Beauty without Eros as a companion and guide; the longing of the artist's soul must be that of the lover; thus, Socrates declares that "we writers" cannot be prudent, cannot be grandly somber, but must necessarily fall into the "abyss." The public's faith in its writers is absurd, and it should be forbidden to use art to educate the people. Both Knowledge and Beauty, Socrates claims, lead to the abyss."

http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/venice/section8.rhtml
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