"what does it mean to say that all nature is spirited?" "Well, you know there is the left and the right, and Rorty is my close friend, not that I want to brag, but I really won't answer any questions."
BLOOM GETS EVERYTHING RIGHT ON EMERSON...MOST IMPORTANTLY HIS JAZZ REFERENCES; FROM WHICH I MUST ADMIT I'VE BEEN GREATLY NOURISHED; ESPECIALLY ON BUD POWELL.
Cant understand Bloom's lack of acknowledgment of Miles Davis. If you read his autobiography he is purely Bloomian. Maybe something about how we never like people who are too close to ourself...
Several videos are on YT that feature Prof. Richardson, author of the biography Emerson The Mind on Fire. The take Of Prof. Bloom here is diametrically opposed, shockingly so, please see those videos and make a comparison.
Great coversation! I love Emerson to death. As for the internet being a great grey blob? I think not. The use of discernment has always been critial to proper education. With the lack of folks to teach us discernment we just had to learn the hard way and the internet served as a spectacular crash course in the principals of discernment. Almost as if its main porpose besides dissemination of information was to rekindle discernment for those with eyes to see and ears to hear of it. The internet was the problem and the solution all in one, like i said before for those oh so few ready to take in knowledge and use it to effect wisdom. Thanks for posting!
Great insight. I can imagine the whole of human race trying to pick the right door or right path in a cave, finding themselves in the most vast library of human history with perhaps no right direction besides their ability to discern.
from CONSTANTINE THE GREAT Part One 3:15pm 28-2020 ACT 5 SCENE 2 CURTAIN. In Britannia. In an inner room in the grand palace. Curtain reveals Constantius, lying critically ill on a bed, Constantine, Hadrian, Lactantius and Chrocus. CONSTANTIUS: Dear son, upon my frame, This chronicle of scars from injuries I generally did obtain from rift, Tough scuffles in decisive battle fields And sues for triumph, made my individual health Susceptible; hence, that, accompanied With my solicitude and puff of sighs Regarding thine own safe keep in that skirt Where thy so sudden rise did coincide With the occasion of apportioning The seats of power,-- did engender in me A harsh collision of my beating heart Against my ribs-- like a disgruntled bird Within a cage-- all of it culminating Now in this death-enlisting malady That has submitted me so finally on couch. Commit to memory this prized arrede That are most nigh my ultimate spew of breath. In his subsisting excuse for summing days, And the expensive rites contained in them, Though bred and reared by the porch of a throne, The dunce should still concede the verity:-- An uninquired life is not worth its Attendance beneath the journey of the sun. For any lofty spot in hierarchy, Repute and merit should be requisite, Else the enchantment of a nightingale Shall be made equal to screech of an owl. Fly not from them;-- unruly winds and gusts Are the right circumstance that hail, from slope, The wonderful ascent of a great eagle To the exalted peak. Yet, the most gracious act One could afford the hero is offense Or hatred of what sort; for only then,-- Merely in that unsettling situation,-- Does he embody his own proper self In his remark of aught. The name for rarities, The fruition of elusive spectacles, Must be quite taken with harsh sacrifice, Be fond of sorrow, on behalf of men. Court animosity with only the great:-- The gravity of your well known detractors, The measure of their consequence and state, Is taken into knowledge by the world In its appointment of the empathy, The due appraisal and applause of its Own celebration of your rare success. However great that mountain in the world, The man can bear it who augments his head To that dimension which makes each, all yokes Seem as light as the hair upon his scalp. Heroism and worship of an hero, Is still an utmost policy for men. The man that, through act, constitutes himself A true epitome of that grandiose self, Shall, one day, worship his own self;-- assume A demi-god. If you are partial to an aim, Let it be one that sues a consequence That is not individual or parochial, But universal and eternal. (He dies.) CURTAIN. 5:01pm 28-11-2020
from: ALEXANDER part one KING PHILIP 7:15am 9-3-2020 ACT 1 SCENE 1 CURTAIN. In Mecedon, Pella, in the grand court of king Phillip. Curtain reveals Phillip. PHILIP: And since than what bedazzling face in the realm Aside herself no other was preferred As still the more authentic descendant of The feared immortals, riveting Olympias,-- Concurrent in it with me in native myth And gossiped legend of a family's line,-- Soon did assume the predilect of my Intense affection, the luring apple-heart Of Eros shaft before my captured sight. Hence, ere long, in a grandiose ceremony, Arymbas, her surviving kinsman, did Unite our hands, and made our future kisses No heresy to our avowal of hearts In the affirming view of Mecedon. That warrant gained and our flesh conjugated, Yet not the score attempted of my kisses On that inviting rose and image-face Of Aphrodite, than, by accident, Asundering the arras to our chamber, I did descry Olympias on our bed-- As I suspected in the furtive peep-- In amorous revel with a tamed asp, Supine upon her passion-twisted form. Whether, as some amidst our female folks, She was attending that mysterious rite Derived and famous made by the Edonian women, Else actually had given herself to And is the consort of a worshipped god, I could not tell; but forth that actual day I spied her as in conjugal with an asp, Detected how diminished my desire For her enchantments and delectable Exhibition of self before my sight. To quell my scruple and disquietude Regarding the inexplicable chance,-- And, more perturbing,-- sudden on my flesh Insensateness, I hastily dispatch Myself to Delphi; and from lip of the Pythia I was informed of my grave blunder in Espying-- though my wife-- an instance of The mortal and immortal in consort: Hence, as approved rebuke, was cautioned that I banquet sacred altar lavishly Betimes, still on behove of, in Olympus height, That dreadful hand that clasp and cast lightning; Else shall relinquish the particular eye That spied the sweetly concordance betwixt The earthly and ethereal personas. Upon my honour as rightful possessor Of mine own wife, I dared from breast of heaven, A thousand pitching lightning on my person, From whom it may;-- I did not acquiesce, And left the altar starved that did envisage That feast from me which deems to pacify The culpable in rapine of my wife;-- Though, as the lip of augury forecasted, The victim eye upon my face was snuffed Of vision by a piercing tool in fray, Instigated by my unsighted rival. Olympias herself, do generally say, "Phillip, her husband, falsely counterpoise Her name against the jealousy of Hera!" Yet, in a telling dream she had one night, She published that the breast of heaven parted And the great javelin of a lightning fell, Proceeded to the earth and lighted on Her pregnant womb. While speculation on The mystery-dream embattled interpreters, A further episode of it accosted Mine own deep sleep; in which I clearly saw Her pregnant womb quite fissured by the bolt Of lightning; but my intervening hand Coming to her rescue by sealing it With an insignia with a lion's face:-- The seal I used in salvage of her pregnancy, Of mine or my suspected emulator's Exultant epigraph, I could not tell. But at the instance of delivery from The grappled womb, the selfsame day it fetch Its offspring to the world;-- perhaps, as a Veracity of triumph for my loin Not any other in act of fatherhood, Three joyful tidings greeted my great court;-- The victories of my standards at Potidaea, My stallions in the great games of Olympus, And birth of that heir-obvious to my crown. Mine he is and no other's since my wife's. Hence as the contemplated future gearer Of this gold-wrought of laurels I wear as crown, I think it fitting now that he has grown And swift encroaches on the days of beard, He is availed the necessary exposure And proper rudiment for excellence. Hence have I sent for and anticipates, This moment, the arrival of-- in whole Hellas-- The peerless name in excellency of letters. (Enter Attalus, Permenion other Nobles and several other Stewards of the court.) ATTALUS: My lord, the sage has come. PHILLIP: He truly has? ATTALUS: Indeed, my lord. PHILLIP: Go usher him in, At once, before my presence; with pomp and fanfare; The strew of flowers on his path; the touch Of instruments for pleasant melody; As it becomes the entrance of a regal And stately personage, alighting our court. (The Stewards depart.) ATTALUS: It is a mere philosopher, Not actually a head with royal crown. Why all the buzz? PHILLIP: Amidst the eminent in the world, Not all such who adorn a gilted crown, Are dressed in the regalia of a royal house, Or grasp inherited sceptre; but that same man, Whose sceptre, crown and royal ornament Are in his faculty; and proudly sways The abstract jurisdiction of the globe,-- Is my most exquisite excuse for buzz. (Re-enter the Stewards with the philosopher, Aristotle, ushered in by Musicians, playing flutes and harps, and maidens strewing flowers on the floor ahead of his steps.) How well the name precedes the rarer man;-- And, ere his entrance, swift on his behalf, Adjusts the circumstance and the opinions To forms that are obsequious, not tyrant-like To what he holds. Though majestical in port, Our grand court here did clearly dwindle in size, Admitting into it the presence of-- In juxtapose-- what is unparalleled In gravity, thyself,-- Aristotle, Philosophy's sobriquet. A rarity, As much to men and gods, retains its state; Else dull-face pebbles and ubiquitous stones, Not noble gold and luminous adamant, Would stand the throne and ornament the pillars In that all-awesome court of the Olympians. ARISTOTLE: Great king, Why am I summoned forth? surely not for This general eulogy on heads famed as sage; Or for these fondled harps and lip of flutes; Else though ingenious Pan was contemplated For the main entertainer that regales This pompous court, it is hardly excusable For winning my attention from my scrolls. PHILLIP: Now, mark, Attalus, mark; Not even Pan himself, as an allurement, Should make a sage detain his character From the grave mysteries and structured thoughts Enshrined in a scroll. Now, to the business; I summoned you, great sage, here to my court, To intimate you of my honest wish For you to role the mentor, tutor and sage Behind the cultivation of the heir For sequel of my crown. It is a service-- I should suspect-- engrossing in dispatch; Hence, ere your come, I have resolve much on Ensuring that, if you concede my wish, The profit to your purse shall be that ample, It would seem your delivered duty was To Midas in the pass of his infection, Hence, your requite, that measure of his disease That makes you opulently contagious. ARISTOTLE: Not Midas himself in his infirmity, Has that peculiar kind of article That could induce me. If you talk of gold, There is no sum of it that may suffice In buying forth my time and pulling me Away from my unique call. Hence, mention not it. My duty to the world does not preclude Inculcation in others of all my finds; Hence I shall deign your call and task on me To do same for your heir. But, as reward, Not what is like bright coin shall I demand, But what is not, yet quite within your reach In execution. PHILLIP: And, what is it? ARISTOTLE: My only bargain in this: The due rebuild, restoration from ruin Of mine own homeland, Stageira; and the Recall of her displaced population Back to her soil. Do this request, great king, And I am duty bound to make your heir As wise as any sophist in whole Athens. PHILLIP: The immaterial man. Is this not like that stranger sacrifice, That grants a bag of gold to salvage the Life of a bull from a knife in the abattoir? Yet, I will honour your wish; consider it done. Ruined Stageira shall be uplifted from Her current state of desolation and shame; Her citizens shall be recalled from exile; Her terrain trampled by their native sandals Till she reclaims her former stateliness And known resplendence. ARISTOTLE: Then, I shall tutor your heir; Acquaint him much with mysteries of knowledge, Till, counterpoised with all your chests of gold, What is invaluable in him quite tilts The balance yet in favour of his skull. ATTALUS: Translated to coins, With the tremendous sum that equals his Demand on us, we can easily procure The service of a clan of sophists. PHILLIP: Each human head, To some extent, possesses the glittering gems Of faculty; but, as not all the mounts And towering peaks are legendary mines For sparkling stones, so scanty are the heads From which we can extract originality. For proper tutor of the future head For Mecedon's matchless crown, recruiting a clan Of sophists and strange speculative minds Than who is personate of their authenticity, Is much like contemplating the same vigilance And sentry-charge from hundred sighted Argos, As from a peacock's tail. Rich Nature, Unable to appoint each other man A singular skull of resourcefulness, As compensation to all, equips one man On their behalf. In our particular, Since this is the subsisting principal, He, only he, shall we hereby endorse For taming Alexander, my heir,-- heart of wild horse. CURTAIN. 12:02pm 9-3-2020
I have no idea what Bloom means when he says Allen Ginsberg is a terrible poet and couldn't write his way out of a paper bag. This is an absurd statement. "Howl" is a wonderful poem, and so is "Kaddish." Ginsberg wrote a number of excellent short poems, as well; and seeing as Bloom loves Walt Whitman so much, it baffles me that he could fail to see how wonderful Ginsberg's "A Supermarket in California" is. This poem is Ginsberg's ode to Whitman and is completely Whitmanesque in its conception and execution. Bloom is generally a wonderful critic but as regards Ginsberg his critical faculties failed him.
@@mistry6292 you have no idea what you're talking about. Ginsberg did not sleep with children. And he had a partner his own age who he lived with for his entire adulthood
Trying to compare specific taste with Bloom doesnt yield the best results imo; it's his general way of thinking about and overall apprecation for literature that is most helpful.
I don't disagree with you on that point, my friend. But like you I've been baffled at his distatse for certain authors. I read his absolute destruction of George Orwell and still disagree. Nonetheless, no one makes reading seem so awesome as Bloom, imho.
The Internet has always been in existence even before Adam. Milton downloaded from it for PARADISE LOST and others. So far there is store of information that could be accessed, in this else what other realm, IT IS THE INTERNET. Any time pick up Waldo Emerson, I fall asleep. My unconscious state now associates the recallable lines of his transcendent essays with sleep to me. I have spent too much time with Emerson's essay. Whichever part of him is quoted, half way through a phrase or sentence, I easily anticipate the particular sentiment that is about to be redressed. Emerson is like some of the greatest movies I have seen-- one of them A BEAUTIFUL MIND. I fall asleep before a quart of it is over. Than the daily doses of an essay a day i did for many years, I have deliberately left off listening to Emerson for a while now. I engage him once or twice in six months, just to capture somewhat of the animation he inspires in the initial years of my venture in his grove. I don't think Emerson made me what I am. He merely influenced me as did Shakespeare, Montaigne, Goethe and others. Perhaps he did more than others-- but definitely did not so solely. It is dissatisfying to hear great names of letters like professor Bloom referring to poets of Whitman's rank in a tone that suggest they are ANYTHING APPROXIMATE TO the advent of The American Scholar or The Poet as envisaged in those essays and others by Emerson. When The Poet arrives in the world scene, it shall be akin to the advent of the phoenix in the sky; the transcendent plume that, in ascent, can pierce the zenith of the atmosphere into space till it attains the very midst of the flaming sun. Whitman and others are far far from that. Only Shakespeare embodies it. Yet there is proof the phoenix has made its advent this century. Else somebody tell me,-- aside Shakespeare, to whom may we oppose the lines I shall send after this note of observation?
I could not get past the political posturing of the interviewer near the beginning. Guess I'm not gonna find out what Bloom had to say about Emerson. I suppose I'll have to think for myself.
@@abesapien9930 In a way Shakespeare is the father of hip hop. Lines of verse from him used to be quoted in English pubs as bawdy, like to say ''Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will, And Will to boot, and Will in overplus; More than enough am I that vex thee still'' It is a lot similar to hip hop, and how it plays on the meaning of a double-play on a word to give some phallic intention towards a lady. And then, that he is so good for women in the sack, that he ''vex thee still'' which is to say it is so sportive that his rhymes, like in the modern vernacular of one rapper dissing another, angers or irritates by slighting the skill of another rapper.
I have no idea what Bloom means when he says Allen Ginsberg is a terrible poet and couldn't write his way out of a paper bag. This is an absurd statement. "Howl" is a wonderful poem, and so is "Kaddish." Ginsberg wrote a number of excellent short poems, as well; and seeing as Bloom loves Walt Whitman so much, it baffles me that he could fail to see how wonderful Ginsberg's "A Supermarket in California" is. This poem is Ginsberg's ode to Whitman and is completely Whitmanesque in its conception and execution. Bloom is generally a wonderful critic but as regards Ginsberg his critical faculties failed him.
He is, is the poster child for the knowing of NOTHING - The great art always reflects our times - his standard of "past accomplishments" makes him the critic of rear View Mirrors. The fact he is unable to identify the great art of our time should expose his myopic academicism. That said - he can read a page of writing in 3.6 seconds
Great talk. Harold was a treasure to us all
Listening to Bloom is fun.
Too bad the sound is flawed in this interview. It's outstanding otherwise!
Hey I'm loving your new channel!! keep it up :) Glad to see you posting these literary videos.
Thanks for posting.
"what does it mean to say that all nature is spirited?" "Well, you know there is the left and the right, and Rorty is my close friend, not that I want to brag, but I really won't answer any questions."
It is fantastic.I really enjoyed it. You gave a simple definition of Success.
Thank you.
BLOOM GETS EVERYTHING RIGHT ON EMERSON...MOST IMPORTANTLY HIS JAZZ REFERENCES; FROM WHICH I MUST ADMIT I'VE BEEN GREATLY NOURISHED; ESPECIALLY ON BUD POWELL.
Cant understand Bloom's lack of acknowledgment of Miles Davis. If you read his autobiography he is purely Bloomian. Maybe something about how we never like people who are too close to ourself...
Several videos are on YT that feature Prof. Richardson, author of the biography Emerson The Mind on Fire. The take Of Prof. Bloom here is diametrically opposed, shockingly so, please see those videos and make a comparison.
The sound if only but still Thanks.
Great coversation! I love Emerson to death. As for the internet being a great grey blob? I think not. The use of discernment has always been critial to proper education. With the lack of folks to teach us discernment we just had to learn the hard way and the internet served as a spectacular crash course in the principals of discernment. Almost as if its main porpose besides dissemination of information was to rekindle discernment for those with eyes to see and ears to hear of it. The internet was the problem and the solution all in one, like i said before for those oh so few ready to take in knowledge and use it to effect wisdom.
Thanks for posting!
This is a great entry, although I hate it.
Thank you for your beautiful words. The Internet is us recognizing ourselves, if it's a big grey blob then by god so are we.
Great insight. I can imagine the whole of human race trying to pick the right door or right path in a cave, finding themselves in the most vast library of human history with perhaps no right direction besides their ability to discern.
original date please!
What is the list of those jazz artists Bloom mentions?
Bird, Mingus, Bud Powell, Gillespie, were artists he personally heard at Birdland.
Emerson as platonic guru.
Wow!!!!!!!!!!!!
24:30
from
CONSTANTINE THE GREAT
Part One
3:15pm 28-2020
ACT 5 SCENE 2
CURTAIN. In Britannia. In an inner room in the grand palace. Curtain reveals Constantius, lying critically ill on a bed, Constantine, Hadrian, Lactantius and Chrocus.
CONSTANTIUS:
Dear son, upon my frame,
This chronicle of scars from injuries
I generally did obtain from rift,
Tough scuffles in decisive battle fields
And sues for triumph, made my individual health
Susceptible; hence, that, accompanied
With my solicitude and puff of sighs
Regarding thine own safe keep in that skirt
Where thy so sudden rise did coincide
With the occasion of apportioning
The seats of power,-- did engender in me
A harsh collision of my beating heart
Against my ribs-- like a disgruntled bird
Within a cage-- all of it culminating
Now in this death-enlisting malady
That has submitted me so finally on couch.
Commit to memory this prized arrede
That are most nigh my ultimate spew of breath.
In his subsisting excuse for summing days,
And the expensive rites contained in them,
Though bred and reared by the porch of a throne,
The dunce should still concede the verity:--
An uninquired life is not worth its
Attendance beneath the journey of the sun.
For any lofty spot in hierarchy,
Repute and merit should be requisite,
Else the enchantment of a nightingale
Shall be made equal to screech of an owl.
Fly not from them;-- unruly winds and gusts
Are the right circumstance that hail, from slope,
The wonderful ascent of a great eagle
To the exalted peak. Yet, the most gracious act
One could afford the hero is offense
Or hatred of what sort; for only then,--
Merely in that unsettling situation,--
Does he embody his own proper self
In his remark of aught. The name for rarities,
The fruition of elusive spectacles,
Must be quite taken with harsh sacrifice,
Be fond of sorrow, on behalf of men.
Court animosity with only the great:--
The gravity of your well known detractors,
The measure of their consequence and state,
Is taken into knowledge by the world
In its appointment of the empathy,
The due appraisal and applause of its
Own celebration of your rare success.
However great that mountain in the world,
The man can bear it who augments his head
To that dimension which makes each, all yokes
Seem as light as the hair upon his scalp.
Heroism and worship of an hero,
Is still an utmost policy for men.
The man that, through act, constitutes himself
A true epitome of that grandiose self,
Shall, one day, worship his own self;-- assume
A demi-god. If you are partial to an aim,
Let it be one that sues a consequence
That is not individual or parochial,
But universal and eternal.
(He dies.)
CURTAIN.
5:01pm 28-11-2020
Nice.
As an example of a right-wing Emersonian he had to choose an antisemite? That says quite a lot about the honesty of the left.
from:
ALEXANDER
part one
KING PHILIP
7:15am 9-3-2020
ACT 1 SCENE 1
CURTAIN. In Mecedon, Pella, in the grand court of king Phillip. Curtain reveals Phillip.
PHILIP:
And since than what bedazzling face in the realm
Aside herself no other was preferred
As still the more authentic descendant of
The feared immortals, riveting Olympias,--
Concurrent in it with me in native myth
And gossiped legend of a family's line,-- Soon did assume the predilect of my
Intense affection, the luring apple-heart
Of Eros shaft before my captured sight.
Hence, ere long, in a grandiose ceremony,
Arymbas, her surviving kinsman, did
Unite our hands, and made our future kisses
No heresy to our avowal of hearts
In the affirming view of Mecedon.
That warrant gained and our flesh conjugated,
Yet not the score attempted of my kisses
On that inviting rose and image-face
Of Aphrodite, than, by accident,
Asundering the arras to our chamber,
I did descry Olympias on our bed--
As I suspected in the furtive peep--
In amorous revel with a tamed asp,
Supine upon her passion-twisted form.
Whether, as some amidst our female folks,
She was attending that mysterious rite
Derived and famous made by the Edonian women,
Else actually had given herself to
And is the consort of a worshipped god,
I could not tell; but forth that actual day
I spied her as in conjugal with an asp,
Detected how diminished my desire
For her enchantments and delectable
Exhibition of self before my sight.
To quell my scruple and disquietude
Regarding the inexplicable chance,--
And, more perturbing,-- sudden on my flesh
Insensateness, I hastily dispatch
Myself to Delphi; and from lip of the Pythia
I was informed of my grave blunder in
Espying-- though my wife-- an instance of
The mortal and immortal in consort:
Hence, as approved rebuke, was cautioned that
I banquet sacred altar lavishly
Betimes, still on behove of, in Olympus height,
That dreadful hand that clasp and cast lightning;
Else shall relinquish the particular eye
That spied the sweetly concordance betwixt
The earthly and ethereal personas.
Upon my honour as rightful possessor
Of mine own wife, I dared from breast of heaven,
A thousand pitching lightning on my person,
From whom it may;-- I did not acquiesce,
And left the altar starved that did envisage
That feast from me which deems to pacify
The culpable in rapine of my wife;--
Though, as the lip of augury forecasted,
The victim eye upon my face was snuffed
Of vision by a piercing tool in fray,
Instigated by my unsighted rival.
Olympias herself, do generally say,
"Phillip, her husband, falsely counterpoise
Her name against the jealousy of Hera!"
Yet, in a telling dream she had one night,
She published that the breast of heaven parted
And the great javelin of a lightning fell,
Proceeded to the earth and lighted on
Her pregnant womb. While speculation on
The mystery-dream embattled interpreters,
A further episode of it accosted
Mine own deep sleep; in which I clearly saw
Her pregnant womb quite fissured by the bolt
Of lightning; but my intervening hand
Coming to her rescue by sealing it
With an insignia with a lion's face:--
The seal I used in salvage of her pregnancy,
Of mine or my suspected emulator's
Exultant epigraph, I could not tell.
But at the instance of delivery from
The grappled womb, the selfsame day it fetch
Its offspring to the world;-- perhaps, as a
Veracity of triumph for my loin
Not any other in act of fatherhood,
Three joyful tidings greeted my great court;--
The victories of my standards at Potidaea,
My stallions in the great games of Olympus,
And birth of that heir-obvious to my crown.
Mine he is and no other's since my wife's.
Hence as the contemplated future gearer
Of this gold-wrought of laurels I wear as crown,
I think it fitting now that he has grown
And swift encroaches on the days of beard,
He is availed the necessary exposure
And proper rudiment for excellence.
Hence have I sent for and anticipates,
This moment, the arrival of-- in whole Hellas--
The peerless name in excellency of letters.
(Enter Attalus, Permenion other Nobles and several other Stewards of the court.)
ATTALUS:
My lord, the sage has come.
PHILLIP:
He truly has?
ATTALUS:
Indeed, my lord.
PHILLIP:
Go usher him in,
At once, before my presence; with pomp and fanfare;
The strew of flowers on his path; the touch
Of instruments for pleasant melody;
As it becomes the entrance of a regal
And stately personage, alighting our court.
(The Stewards depart.)
ATTALUS:
It is a mere philosopher,
Not actually a head with royal crown.
Why all the buzz?
PHILLIP:
Amidst the eminent in the world,
Not all such who adorn a gilted crown,
Are dressed in the regalia of a royal house,
Or grasp inherited sceptre; but that same man,
Whose sceptre, crown and royal ornament
Are in his faculty; and proudly sways
The abstract jurisdiction of the globe,--
Is my most exquisite excuse for buzz.
(Re-enter the Stewards with the philosopher, Aristotle, ushered in by Musicians, playing flutes and harps, and maidens strewing flowers on the floor ahead of his steps.)
How well the name precedes the rarer man;--
And, ere his entrance, swift on his behalf,
Adjusts the circumstance and the opinions
To forms that are obsequious, not tyrant-like
To what he holds. Though majestical in port,
Our grand court here did clearly dwindle in size,
Admitting into it the presence of--
In juxtapose-- what is unparalleled
In gravity, thyself,-- Aristotle,
Philosophy's sobriquet. A rarity,
As much to men and gods, retains its state;
Else dull-face pebbles and ubiquitous stones,
Not noble gold and luminous adamant,
Would stand the throne and ornament the pillars
In that all-awesome court of the Olympians.
ARISTOTLE:
Great king,
Why am I summoned forth? surely not for
This general eulogy on heads famed as sage;
Or for these fondled harps and lip of flutes;
Else though ingenious Pan was contemplated
For the main entertainer that regales
This pompous court, it is hardly excusable
For winning my attention from my scrolls.
PHILLIP:
Now, mark, Attalus, mark;
Not even Pan himself, as an allurement,
Should make a sage detain his character
From the grave mysteries and structured thoughts
Enshrined in a scroll. Now, to the business;
I summoned you, great sage, here to my court,
To intimate you of my honest wish
For you to role the mentor, tutor and sage
Behind the cultivation of the heir
For sequel of my crown. It is a service--
I should suspect-- engrossing in dispatch;
Hence, ere your come, I have resolve much on
Ensuring that, if you concede my wish,
The profit to your purse shall be that ample,
It would seem your delivered duty was
To Midas in the pass of his infection,
Hence, your requite, that measure of his disease
That makes you opulently contagious.
ARISTOTLE:
Not Midas himself in his infirmity,
Has that peculiar kind of article
That could induce me. If you talk of gold,
There is no sum of it that may suffice
In buying forth my time and pulling me
Away from my unique call. Hence, mention not it.
My duty to the world does not preclude
Inculcation in others of all my finds;
Hence I shall deign your call and task on me
To do same for your heir. But, as reward,
Not what is like bright coin shall I demand,
But what is not, yet quite within your reach
In execution.
PHILLIP:
And, what is it?
ARISTOTLE:
My only bargain in this:
The due rebuild, restoration from ruin
Of mine own homeland, Stageira; and the
Recall of her displaced population
Back to her soil. Do this request, great king,
And I am duty bound to make your heir
As wise as any sophist in whole Athens.
PHILLIP:
The immaterial man.
Is this not like that stranger sacrifice,
That grants a bag of gold to salvage the
Life of a bull from a knife in the abattoir?
Yet, I will honour your wish; consider it done.
Ruined Stageira shall be uplifted from
Her current state of desolation and shame;
Her citizens shall be recalled from exile;
Her terrain trampled by their native sandals
Till she reclaims her former stateliness
And known resplendence.
ARISTOTLE:
Then, I shall tutor your heir;
Acquaint him much with mysteries of knowledge,
Till, counterpoised with all your chests of gold,
What is invaluable in him quite tilts
The balance yet in favour of his skull.
ATTALUS:
Translated to coins,
With the tremendous sum that equals his
Demand on us, we can easily procure
The service of a clan of sophists.
PHILLIP:
Each human head,
To some extent, possesses the glittering gems
Of faculty; but, as not all the mounts
And towering peaks are legendary mines
For sparkling stones, so scanty are the heads
From which we can extract originality.
For proper tutor of the future head
For Mecedon's matchless crown, recruiting a clan
Of sophists and strange speculative minds
Than who is personate of their authenticity,
Is much like contemplating the same vigilance
And sentry-charge from hundred sighted Argos,
As from a peacock's tail. Rich Nature,
Unable to appoint each other man
A singular skull of resourcefulness,
As compensation to all, equips one man
On their behalf. In our particular,
Since this is the subsisting principal,
He, only he, shall we hereby endorse
For taming Alexander, my heir,-- heart of wild horse.
CURTAIN.
12:02pm 9-3-2020
Is this about Bloom or Emerson?
Who’s the interviewer?
Christopher Lydon
Does Bloom ever allow another to finish a sentence?
Harold Bloom seems to carry on the voice of Gore Vidal with regards to US politics?
I have no idea what Bloom means when he says Allen Ginsberg is a terrible poet and couldn't write his way out of a paper bag. This is an absurd statement. "Howl" is a wonderful poem, and so is "Kaddish." Ginsberg wrote a number of excellent short poems, as well; and seeing as Bloom loves Walt Whitman so much, it baffles me that he could fail to see how wonderful Ginsberg's "A Supermarket in California" is. This poem is Ginsberg's ode to Whitman and is completely Whitmanesque in its conception and execution. Bloom is generally a wonderful critic but as regards Ginsberg his critical faculties failed him.
Ginsberg was a pedophile
@@mistry6292 you have no idea what you're talking about. Ginsberg did not sleep with children. And he had a partner his own age who he lived with for his entire adulthood
Trying to compare specific taste with Bloom doesnt yield the best results imo; it's his general way of thinking about and overall apprecation for literature that is most helpful.
@@Cameron.Robert Did you not read to the end of my post where I said I thought he was a wonderful critic? (I never met Bloom but I did meet Ginsberg.)
I don't disagree with you on that point, my friend. But like you I've been baffled at his distatse for certain authors. I read his absolute destruction of George Orwell and still disagree. Nonetheless, no one makes reading seem so awesome as Bloom, imho.
The Internet has always been in existence even before Adam. Milton downloaded from it for PARADISE LOST and others. So far there is store of information that could be accessed, in this else what other realm, IT IS THE INTERNET.
Any time pick up Waldo Emerson, I fall asleep. My unconscious state now associates the recallable lines of his transcendent essays with sleep to me. I have spent too much time with Emerson's essay. Whichever part of him is quoted, half way through a phrase or sentence, I easily anticipate the particular sentiment that is about to be redressed. Emerson is like some of the greatest movies I have seen-- one of them A BEAUTIFUL MIND. I fall asleep before a quart of it is over. Than the daily doses of an essay a day i did for many years, I have deliberately left off listening to Emerson for a while now. I engage him once or twice in six months, just to capture somewhat of the animation he inspires in the initial years of my venture in his grove. I don't think Emerson made me what I am. He merely influenced me as did Shakespeare, Montaigne, Goethe and others. Perhaps he did more than others-- but definitely did not so solely. It is dissatisfying to hear great names of letters like professor Bloom referring to poets of Whitman's rank in a tone that suggest they are ANYTHING APPROXIMATE TO the advent of The American Scholar or The Poet as envisaged in those essays and others by Emerson. When The Poet arrives in the world scene, it shall be akin to the advent of the phoenix in the sky; the transcendent plume that, in ascent, can pierce the zenith of the atmosphere into space till it attains the very midst of the flaming sun. Whitman and others are far far from that. Only Shakespeare embodies it. Yet there is proof the phoenix has made its advent this century. Else somebody tell me,-- aside Shakespeare, to whom may we oppose the lines I shall send after this note of observation?
Kanye West breathes Emerson
I could not get past the political posturing of the interviewer near the beginning. Guess I'm not gonna find out what Bloom had to say about Emerson. I suppose I'll have to think for myself.
“The sloppy gop of hip hop” sorry, that’s when I tuned out - good thing it was at the end 😆
Calling hip hop "sloppy gop" is being far too generous..
Yes, what a philistine Bloom is! If only you were there to show him how Shakespeare and Tupac are actually equals.
@@abesapien9930 🤣
He didn't even like Rock n Roll--not even the Beatles. So there's no way he would have liked hip hop.
@@abesapien9930 In a way Shakespeare is the father of hip hop. Lines of verse from him used to be quoted in English pubs as bawdy, like to say ''Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still''
It is a lot similar to hip hop, and how it plays on the meaning of a double-play on a word to give some phallic intention towards a lady.
And then, that he is so good for women in the sack, that he ''vex thee still'' which is to say it is so sportive that his rhymes, like in the modern vernacular of one rapper dissing another, angers or irritates by slighting the skill of another rapper.
sloppy gop of hit hop
WTF
Lapses into political drivel
''Political drivel'' another term for opinions I don't agree with.
Ginsberg is not a poet! Harumph!
I have no idea what Bloom means when he says Allen Ginsberg is a terrible poet and couldn't write his way out of a paper bag. This is an absurd statement. "Howl" is a wonderful poem, and so is "Kaddish." Ginsberg wrote a number of excellent short poems, as well; and seeing as Bloom loves Walt Whitman so much, it baffles me that he could fail to see how wonderful Ginsberg's "A Supermarket in California" is. This poem is Ginsberg's ode to Whitman and is completely Whitmanesque in its conception and execution. Bloom is generally a wonderful critic but as regards Ginsberg his critical faculties failed him.
guy talking sounds so smug. he definitely thinks he knows everything about everything.
+Francisco Florimon Very good point
it's harold bloom...
He is, is the poster child for the knowing of NOTHING - The great art
always reflects our times - his standard of "past accomplishments"
makes him the critic of rear View Mirrors. The fact he is unable to
identify the great art of our time should expose his myopic academicism.
That said - he can read a page of writing in 3.6 seconds
awesome interview but awfully annoying noise interference .. thanks anyway ..