“Green Eyes (Aquellos Ojos Verdes).” English translation by Eddie Rivera and Eddie Woods.
To the former of these Sects we may justly annumerate all such, who conceived the soul of man to be only a certain harmony, not of Musical sounds, but a contemperation of parts, humours, and qualities; and consequently, that as of Musical Harmony, nothing can remain after the sounds are vanished, so of the soul nothing can remain, after death hath once destroyed that harmonious Contemperation of parts, humours, and qualities, from whence it did result.
And this purely was the opinion of not only those ancienter Greeks, Dicaearchus, Aristoxenus, Andraeas, and Asclepiades, all which are thereof strongly accused by Plato (in Phaed.) and Aristotle (Lib. I. de Anima. Cap. 5.) but also our Master Galen, who was positive an plain in his definition of the soul, to be a certain Temperament of Elementary Qualities.
Charleton, Walter. “An Apology for Epicurus.” Epicurus: His Morals. London: Peter Davies, 1926.
White shirts never really went away, of course—there has always been a certain kind of man (vigilant against trends and unbothered by boxier fits) who preferred them above all others—so it’s not like they’re coming back into style. Rather, we are the ones coming back to white shirts, rediscovering their virtues and remaking them in our own image.
Stein, Joshua David. “The Hunt For the Great White Shirt.” Esquire. 14 Jan. 2015.
The wisdom of marriage rests upon an extremely unsentimental view of lovers and their passions. Its assumptions, when they are frankly exposed, are horrifying to those who have been brought up in the popular romantic tradition of the Nineteenth Century. These assumptions are that, given an initial attraction, a common social background, common responsibilities, and the conviction that the relationship is permanent, compatibility in marriage can normally be achieved.
It is precisely this that the prevailing sentimentality about love denies. It assumes that marriages are made in heaven, that compatibility is instinctive, a mere coincidence, that happy unions are, in the last analysis, lucky accidents in which two people who happen to suit each other happen to have met.
The convention of marriage rests on an interpretation of human nature which does not confuse the subjective feeling of the lovers that their passion is unique, with the brutal but objective fact that, had they never met, each them would in all probability have found a lover who was just as unique.
“Love,” says Mr. [George] Santayana, “is indeed much less exacting than it thinks itself. Nine-tenths of its cause are in the lover, for one-tenth that may be in the object. Were the latter not accidentally at hand, an almost identical passion would probably have been felt for some one else; for, although with acquaintance the quality of an attachment naturally adapts itself to the person loved, and makes that person its standard ideal, the first assault and mysterious glow of the passion is much the same for every object.”
This is the reason why the popular conception of romantic love as the meeting of two affinities produces so much unhappiness. The mysterious glow of passion is accepted as a sign that the great coincidence has occurred; there is a wedding and soon, as the glow of passion cools, it is discovered that no instinctive and preordained affinity is present.
At this point the wisdom of popular romantic marriage is exhausted. For it proceeds on the assumption that love is a mysterious visitation. There is nothing left, then, but to grin and bear a miserably dull and nagging fate, or to break off and try again.
The deep fallacy of the conception is in the failure to realize that compatibility is a process and not an accident, that it depends on the maturing of instinctive desire by adaptation to the whole nature of the other person and to the common concerns of the pair of lovers.
Lippmann, Walter. A Preface to Morals. New York: Macmillan, 1929. 309-10. Print.
“It was one of those great spring days—a Sunday. You knew summer would be coming soon.”
The essential discovery of maturity has little if anything to do with information about the names, the locations, and the sequences of facts; it is the acquiring of a different sense of life, a different kind of intuition about the nature of things.
A boy can take you into the open at night and show you the stars; he might tell you no end of things about them, conceivably all that an astronomer could teach. But until and unless he feels the vast indifference of the universe to his own fate, and has placed himself in the perspective of cold and illimitable space, he has not looked maturely at the heavens.
Until he has felt this, and unless he can endure this, he remains a child, and in his childishness he will resent the heavens when they are not accommodating. He will demand sunshine when he wishes to play, and rain when the ground is dry, and he will look upon storms as anger directed at him, and the thunder as a personal threat.
Lippmann, Walter. A Preface to Morals. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1929. 186-87. Print.