Nov. 29th, 2008

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From Moore's Life of Lord Byron:

Another proof of the ductility with which he fell into his new friend's tastes and predilections, appears in the tinge, if not something deeper, of the manner and cast of thinking of Mr. Wordsworth, which is traceable through so many of his most beautiful stanzas. Being naturally, from his love of the abstract and imaginative, an admirer of the great poet of the Lakes, Mr. Shelley omitted no opportunity of bringing the beauties of his favourite writer under the notice of Lord Byron; and it is not surprising that, once persuaded into a fair perusal, the mind of the noble poet should — in spite of some personal and political prejudices which unluckily survived this short access of admiration — not only feel the influence but, in some degree, even reflect the hues of one of the very few real and original poets that this age (fertile as it is in rhymers quales ego et Cluvienus) has had the glory of producing.

This was the period of Byron's Childe Harold 3 and Manfred, "Hymn to Intellectual Beauty" and "Mont Blanc" for Shelley, and of course the not very Wordsworthian horror story night. "Cluvienus" is a poet Juvenal lumps together with himself in a moment of self-deprecation. Poor Moore. Who's the favorite writer of your favorite writer? (I should read The Excursion.)
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We are all artists already.

There was more of me once than there is now.

They were right to not stress moments. Their rules and categories existed only for moments, for herding them, shoring them up for feeling in darkness. Moments were at the center, all they did was for moments only, but it was bad taste speaking of them. Because they knew they could not be pursued. We lack this skill. We bounce about within limits. Find where the moments come and pen us in where we're sure to bounce into them sometimes.

They were wrong not to stress moments. The fences were broken, had human-sized incompletenesses. We wandered in momentless darkness, no compass, no map. Worse, we found hives of great sweetness in hedges, in holes.

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