On the shoulders of giants
... Thou art a dreaming thing;
A fever of thyself-think of the Earth;
What bliss even in hope is there for thee?
What haven? every creature hath its home;
Every sole man hath days of joy and pain,
Whether his labours be sublime of low-
The pain alone; the joy alone; distinct:
Only the dreamer venoms all his days,
Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve.
-John Keats
I believe in having a personal philosophy. I don't pay much mind to keeping it consistent, but rather judge it and keep it based on its day to day utility.
I am a writer. As such I find it essential to keep a separate philosophy specifically designed to govern the use of my words so that my labors might take on some semblance of meaning. I struggle with this one a lot, it brings me the bulk of my moments of joys and pain (not quite days, I fear they've been stunted by our world of rapidity). Yet one thing has never changed within that landscape, this indefetigable truth: it is better to try and produce something that is not to your standards so that you might try again than to bow before the giants of your field who make us look small. They are dead, and their work is no longer theirs.
It is ours.
I've been studying some of the classics on my own time for the past few years. Specifically: The Iliad, The Odyssey, The Aeneid, Metamorphosis, and the Divine comedy. Except for the first two of those, each borrowed from those before them. Homer begot Virgil and Ovid; Virgil begot Dante. It is impossible for a single man to stand alone and equal the impact of these giants. Even Homer, who pulled from no known poet is believed to have created his epics be collecting provincial hymns on the most epic of his culture's tales.
At the heart of it, what I am now working on (Abby's and my comic for those keeping track) is about just this. It is about somebody who has spent so much time studying the classics that he's lost his confidence to be anything so great. He dreams of such things, of course, but only the dreamer venoms all of his days.
In the end we just need to act.
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are-
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
-Alfred Tennyson
A fever of thyself-think of the Earth;
What bliss even in hope is there for thee?
What haven? every creature hath its home;
Every sole man hath days of joy and pain,
Whether his labours be sublime of low-
The pain alone; the joy alone; distinct:
Only the dreamer venoms all his days,
Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve.
-John Keats
I believe in having a personal philosophy. I don't pay much mind to keeping it consistent, but rather judge it and keep it based on its day to day utility.
I am a writer. As such I find it essential to keep a separate philosophy specifically designed to govern the use of my words so that my labors might take on some semblance of meaning. I struggle with this one a lot, it brings me the bulk of my moments of joys and pain (not quite days, I fear they've been stunted by our world of rapidity). Yet one thing has never changed within that landscape, this indefetigable truth: it is better to try and produce something that is not to your standards so that you might try again than to bow before the giants of your field who make us look small. They are dead, and their work is no longer theirs.
It is ours.
I've been studying some of the classics on my own time for the past few years. Specifically: The Iliad, The Odyssey, The Aeneid, Metamorphosis, and the Divine comedy. Except for the first two of those, each borrowed from those before them. Homer begot Virgil and Ovid; Virgil begot Dante. It is impossible for a single man to stand alone and equal the impact of these giants. Even Homer, who pulled from no known poet is believed to have created his epics be collecting provincial hymns on the most epic of his culture's tales.
At the heart of it, what I am now working on (Abby's and my comic for those keeping track) is about just this. It is about somebody who has spent so much time studying the classics that he's lost his confidence to be anything so great. He dreams of such things, of course, but only the dreamer venoms all of his days.
In the end we just need to act.
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are-
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
-Alfred Tennyson