...::¨˜”°º•†•º°”˜¨¨˜”°º•†•º°”˜¨¨˜”°º•†•º°”˜¨::...

L'Artista è il Creatore delle cose Belle.

Rivelare l'Arte e nascondere l'Artista è lo scopo dell'Arte.

Oscar Wilde

...::¨˜”°º•†•º°”˜¨¨˜”°º•†•º°”˜¨¨˜”°º•†•º°”˜¨::...

Immagini di cui il mio Cuore non può fare a meno.

Opere di coloro che ammiro,

E Scopro ogni Notte.

Lover Of Darkness

...::¨˜”°º•†•º°”˜¨¨˜”°º•†•º°”˜¨¨˜”°º•†•º°”˜¨::...

Lover Of Darkness

S. Dalì - Meditative Rose, 1958

Edonista.

Forse come quella stessa rosa rossa che io osservo e dipingo.

Forse come quella stessa figura che si ferma, rapita, ad osservare un quadro,

Ma il bello non è solo dove siamo soliti vederlo.

Inaspettato nelle forme più strane,

Oppure talmente ovvio che stentiamo a vederlo.

Edonista,

Come la Rosa che eleggo a mio simbolo,

Ugualmente delicata e sanguinaria.

Rosa.

W. Blake - A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water'd it in fears,

Night & morning with my tears;

And I sumned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright;

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole

When the night had veil'd the Pole.

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree.

W. Blake - A Whirlwind of Lovers

Una Divina Immagine

La Crudeltà ha cuore umano,

E volto umano la Gelosia,

Il Terrore, umana forma divina,

E veste umana, il Mistero.

Di ferro forgiato è la veste umana,

Un'ignea forgia l'umana forma,

Ermetica fornace il volto umano,

Sua avida gola è il cuore.

William Blake

"Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,"
Said then the lost archangel, "this the seat
That we must change for heaven, this mournful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so, since he
Who now is sovereign can dispose and bid
What shall be right: farthest from him is best
Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme
Above his equals. Farewell happy fields
Where joy for ever dwells! Hail horrors! hail
Infernal world! and thou profoundest hell
Receive thy new possessor, one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; th'Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition though in hell:
Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven.
But therefore let we then our faithful friends,
The associates and co-partners of our loss,
Lie thus astonished on th'oblivious pool,
And call them not to share with us their part
In this unhappy mansion, or once more
With rallied arms to try what may be yet
Regained in heaven, or what more lost in hell?"

So Satan spake, and him Beelzebub
Thus answered."Leader of those armies bright,
Which but the Omnipotent non could have foiled,
If once they hear that voice, their liveliest pledge
Of hope in fears and dangers, heard so oft
In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge
Of battle when it raged, in all assaults
Their surest signal, they will soon resume
New courage and revive, though now they lie
Grovelling and prostrate on yon lake of fire
As we erewhile, astounded and amazed.
No wonder, fallen such a pernicious highth!"

John Milton - Paradise Lost (1667)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, not yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

John Donne - SONNET X

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my maker, and present
My true account, lest he, returning, chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask; but Patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state
Is kingly - thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."

John Milton - SONNET XVII: On His Blindness