“Interpretation is the revenge of the intellect upon art. Even more. It is the revenge of the intellect upon the world. To interpret is to impoverish, to deplete the world — in order to set up a shadow world of meanings.” (Susan Sontag, novelist, essayist, and cultural critic. 1933- )
by Anne Sexton
Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small humped bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.
“Those who know nothing of foreign languages know nothing of their own.” – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (German Playwright, Poet, Novelist and Dramatist. 1749-1832)
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Maybe this was true in Elizabethan England, but, maybe not so true anymore. Now we can choose whatever alias we want, and we must, as a requirement of the Twenty-First Century. We have personal e-mail, work e-mail, twitter, instant messaging, last.fm profiles, blog profiles, and on and on. Has anyone else been daunted by the task of naming oneself? Presenting oneself to the virtual and non-virtual-by-extension world packaged and labeled by your own hand?
The word gay originally meant happy, then in the early nineteenth century it came to mean something like a loose woman, a strumpet if you will, and today it means many things but almost always something negative and usually male-related.