I’m reading Dante’s Inferno. The translation is by Esolen. It’s very good. He doesn’t write in poetry, but he uses poetic devices such as end rhyme and alliteration. It’s powerful prose. This book reminds me of when passions trump reason, and the prices we pay when we let it so. I’m half way through, but I must say, it is getting tiresome watching so many people burning in hell for eternity. What about the Christan virtue of mercy? Dante’s hell is a dark place indeed.
On a side note, I’m sad that I had to look so far down to resurrect this thread.
I wrote a book myself, three years ago, called The Representative; since then I haven’t read fiction, although I did read some Asimov shortly after finishing writing my own book.
Time flows. It isn’t a killer but if we’re not prepared to jump on that wave and be in harmony with the ocean of our life, we lose out.
Time doesn’t kill. Time creates.
I loved his In Memoriam. Here’s my favorite poem in that work:
I trust I have not wasted breath:
I think we are not wholly brain,
Magnetic mockeries; not in vain,
Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death;
Not only cunning casts in clay:
Let Science prove we are, and then
What matters Science unto men,
At least to me? I would not stay.
Let him, the wiser man who springs
Hereafter, up from childhood shape
His action like the greater ape,
But I was born to other things.
I just wrote a book and Now I’m going to read Thomas Reid’s Inquiry into the Human Mind. I’ve read it before but I didn’t really do a critical study. I want to do this for my own book which is kind of a philosophical odyssey. For pleasure I just read Name of the WInd. It’s a fantasy novel. It was brilliant.
I attempted to write my own version of Sophie’s World but part one didn’t get good enough reviews for me to make part two even though I was 30% done with it. I still play with my book every once in a while. I’ve moved on to a sci fi dystopian now. Here’s my project:
Strange Angel by George pendle the story of , the co founder of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena, .ca Johns Parsons.
Here is a verse he wrote, (an excerpt) :
I height Don Quixote, I live in peyote,
marijuana, morphine and cocaine,
I never knew sadness, but only a madness
That burns at the heart and the brain.