W. H. Auden

The only way to spend New Year’s Eve is either quietly with friends or in a brothel. Otherwise when the read more

The only way to spend New Year’s Eve is either quietly with friends or in a brothel. Otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off, someone is bound to be left in tears.

We are all here on earth to help others; what on earth the others are here for I don't know.

We are all here on earth to help others; what on earth the others are here for I don't know.

Continuing a short series on forgiveness: Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner. ("To know all is to forgive all.") read more

Continuing a short series on forgiveness: Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner. ("To know all is to forgive all.") No commonplace is more untrue. Behavior, whether conditioned by an individual neurosis or by society, can be understood, that is to say, one knows exactly why such and such an individual behaves as he does. But a personal action or deed is always mysterious. When we really act, precisely because it is a matter of free choice, we can never say exactly why we do this rather than that. But it is only deeds that we are required to forgive. If someone does me an injury, the question of forgiveness only arises if I am convinced (a) that the injury he did me was a free act on his part and therefore no less mysterious to him than to me, and (b) that it was me personally whom he meant to injure. Christ does not forgive the soldiers who are nailing him to the Cross; he asks the Father to forgive them. He knows as well as they do why they are doing this -- they are a squad, detailed to execute a criminal. They do not know what they are doing, because it is not their business, as executioners, to know whom they are crucifying. If the person who does me an injury does not know what he is doing, then it is as ridiculous for me to talk about forgiving him as it would be for me to "forgive" a tile which falls on my head in a gale.

Proper names are poetry in the raw. Like all poetry they are untranslatable.

Proper names are poetry in the raw. Like all poetry they are untranslatable.

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, read more

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.