Don't you know that both sickness and death must eventually surprise us, no matter what we're doing? They'll surprise the farmer in his field, the sailor at sea. What do you want to be doing when they come for you? For make no mistake, you will be overtaken. If you have anything better to do before then, get to work on that.
—Epictetus, Discourses, book III, letter 5.
Or, to use the paraphrase from Shawshank Redemption, "Get busy living, or get busy dying."
...all the bullshit astrological talk in the news of late, I present these classic descriptions of sign and type! They were originally published in the June, 1973 issue of McCalls Magazine as "Horoscopes for Other People (Who Aren't Nearly as Nice as We Are)" by Barbara Holland.
I didn't come here to argue about whether astrology is honest-to-goodness and cross-your-heart for real. [...] What really bothers me now is all that sweetness and light out there in horoscope land.
I mean, it's all very well for you and me; we're like our horoscopes say we are. Artistic, sympathetic, intelligent, sensitive, charming, brave and lovely. But what about crotchety old Aunt Clara? How do you explain her, and that creep in Cost Accounting, and the Boston Strangler? Were they born at some dateless moment, slipped in under some never-mentioned sign reserved for those utterly without redeeming graces? Or are the kindly stargazers hiding something from us? Is it possible that there are actually stinkers born under certain signs of the zodiac (although, of course, not our signs)?
What we need is a zodiacal guide to stinkers, a horoscope pointing out the horrid truth under all that astrological optimism. And even if some few teensy, endearing little faults do accidentally apply to you and me—well, perhaps the truth, like stewed prunes and dental surgery, is good for a person. So, after exhaustive research in the annals of history, I have come up with the following rundown.
Clearly, as she says, these aren't meant to describe our own signs—though maybe she has something there with that "Four hours is the ideal length of time to know a Libra."
nec tamen, ut lauder, uigilo curamque futuri nominis, utilius quod latuisset, ago. detineo studiis animum falloque dolores, experior curis et dare uerba meis. quid potius facam desertis solus in urbe, quamue malis aliam quærere coner opem?
I wish I had some such study tonight to drive myself to like distraction, that I would not now be sitting here brooding as I am, under full sway of this sad, sorrowful season's selection of spectres. This flu business hardly helps.
Last night, I lost myself in music, or my fumbling attempts thereat. As they did not turn out well—they seldom do—I do not wish to pursue the same fruitless path tonight. The goal, as with Ovid, is to forget my frustrations, not encourage them. Yet running through my options now, I'm coming to a dreary conclusion: everything I know how to do is an equal frustration.
Writing, art, music, any of it, all of it—equally flawed, equally disappointing. I'm tired of this; I need a new outlet.
Fazer uma obra e reconhecê-la má depois de feita é uma das tragédias da alma.Sobretudo é grande quando se reconhece que essa obra é a melhor que se podia fazer.Mas ao ir escrever uma obra, saber de antemão que ela tem de ser imperfeita e falhada; ao está-la escrevendo estar vendo que ela é imperfeita e falhada—isto é o máximo da tortura e da humilhação do espírito.Não se os versos que escrevo sinto que me não satisfazem, mas sei que os versos que estou para escrever me não satisfarão, também.
Por que escrevo então? [...] Tenho de escrever como cumprindo um castigo.E o maior castigo é o de saber que o que escrevo resulta inteiramente fútil, falhado e incerto.
—Pessoa, Livro do desassossego, 231
As it's said that "the truth is established" by "two witnesses", these two botcheries of last night's effort will be mine.
Ein Waltzer fis-Moll
The basic study of the intended melody, meant to be a throw-away piece, though it's perhaps the better of the two in the end.
Black Keys
A more elaborate work on the same melodic material, passing through a number of modulations into other tonal areas than the basic F# minor of the original, though beginning and ending with it.
Further work and revision has—perhaps, or hopefully—improved this latter work, so I have removed the earlier recording; the new incarnation has been premiered on the Facebook "fan" page, under the title "A Waltz in Winter".
He cometido el peor de los pecados que un hombre puede cometer. No he sido feliz. [...] Mi mente se aplicó a las simétricas porfías del arte, que entreteje naderías. No me abandona. Siempre está a mi lado la sombra de haber sido un desdichado.
, V. vii. 39–40.
, Viertes Hauptstück: Sprüche und Zwischenspiele, 157.
