How To Live With Indeterminate Passion


Ever let the fancy roam

Pleasure never is at home

Keats, Fancy.1 (Get the book)

Love in a hut with water and crust ,

is love-for giveus love-cinders ashes and dust;

love in a palace is perhaps at last

more grievous torment than a hermit’s fast.

Lamia.11 Keats (Get the book)

“Alady’s imagination is very rapid;

It jumps from admiration to love from love

To matrimony in a moment.”

Austen, pride and prejudice ch.6 (Get the book)

Blessed are those who are constant, steadfast with their feet fixed in the earth who are a known quantity, they have the privilege of being created with balanced faculties .

They are like a warm night in the month of May on the other side there are those saddled with the unfortunate quality which goes by the name of “the imaginative possibility” they are special set of people.

often with good human qualities and distinctive attributes, they start their lives in auspicious circumstances that augurs happiness and good luck in their lives.

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They are normally attractive people especially women: and as luck would have it they marry at a comparatively younger age.

They begin to raise a family with two children and maybe three with a cozy little home in the country.

An LO! temptation heaves its head; the tempting bait is that same imaginative possibility in the guise of a vague and indeterminate possibility that promises full and satisfying alternative style of life.

This shadowy thought erupts with a hidden violence from the deepest human dream of the perfect bliss; which is accompanied with a painful and angry disdam from a comparison between what is at hand and that what might have been.

When I was a small boy in our village

There was a woman. An old woman.

who sells mangos; the simple merchandise is not perfect .

There are someones with a black and overripe sides and she as a saleswoman hides this side.

I Picked one such mango and asked her:

“-How much this one?”

“-Piaster and a halt”.

She added magnanimously:

-“take it for one Piaster.”

I took the piece and turned it over and detected the blackish hole;

I at once remarked

“-but it is stricken!”

she said,

“-don’t mind the stricken side, use the intact side”

-“Nothing is perfect son!”

This listless feeling toward what is at hand is the same cloack in which hides that old mythic imaginative possibility.

Thomas Mann’s great novella “dertod in venedig” is a classic example of this force that perplexes, up roots, and like a storm wrecks what might as well have been a rewarding life.

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