At the violet hour, when the eyes and back	215
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives	220
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,	225
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.	230
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,	235
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;	240
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall	245
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows on final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...
She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;	250
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,	255
And puts a record on the gramophone.

 

"il presente fugge senza  posa verso il passato; e la fuga è un andare continuo verso la morte,un perpetuo morire.....""la vita passata è un conto già chiuso: è morta e annichilita." "

Perciò ad un uomo di giudizio deve importar poco se il suo passato sia pieno di dolori o gioie.

Il presente gli sfugge ad ogni momento per cadere nel passato ; l'avvenire è incerto e breve in ogni caso.

La sua vita,quanto alla forma,è un perpetuo morire."

 

Schpenhauer, "Il mondo come volontà e rappresentazione" vol IV pag 352

 

"""mi dispiace solo di non essere.."un uomo di giudizio..."..."""

 

una fantastica giornata...la vita e la morte in mano..l'ossigeno... 

vivere ancora...una vita fantastica,vivere...il mondo da scoprire...

il cielo con un dito..l'ebrezza di essere vivi..di sognare..

è ancora possibile...vivere..per sempre...

grazie...a chi l ha reso possibile..ancora...

nonostante mi fossi quasi arresa...

è ancora possibile,e sempre lo sarà..