This site is dedicated to the memory of Dr. Alan William Smolowe who gave birth to the creation of this database.
Art is moral passion married to entertainment. Moral passion without entertainment is propaganda, and entertainment without moral passion is television.
Entertainment | Passion |
Curiosity is, in great and generous minds, the first passion and the last.
Passion |
Moral passion without entertainment is propaganda and entertainment without moral passion is television.
Entertainment | Passion | Propaganda |
If we seek the pleasures of love, passion should be occasional and common sense continual.
Common Sense | Passion | Sense |
Exalt your passion by directing and settling it upon an object the due con-templation of whose loveliness may cure perfectly all hurts received from mortal beauty.
The pleasures of love are for those who are hopelessly addicted to another living creature. The reasons for such addiction are so many that I suspect they are never the same in any two cases. It includes passion but does not survive by passion; it has its whiffs of the agreeable vertigo of young love, but it is stable more often than dizzy; it is a growing, changing thing, and it is tactful enough to give the addicted parties occasional rests from strong and exhausting feeling of any kind.
As I've gotten older, I find I am able to be nourished more by sorrow and to distinguish it from depression.
Distinguish | Sorrow |
When I lie waking all alone, Recounting what I have ill done, My thoughts on me then tyrannize, Fear and sorrow me surprise, Whether I tarry still or go, Methinks the time moves very slow, All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so sad as melancholy. 'Tis my sole plague to be alone, I am a beast, a monster grown,I will no light nor company, I find it now my misery. The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone, Fear, discontent, and sorrows come. All my griefs to this are folly, Naught so fierce as melancholy.
I walked a mile with Pleasure She chatted all the way But left me none the wiser For all she had to say. I walked a mile with Sorrow And neer word said she But oh the things I learned from her When Sorrow walked with me!
Roland B. Gittelsohn, fully Roland Bertram Gittelsohn
This is the grimmest, and surely the holiest task we have faced since D–day. Here before us lie the bodies of comrades and friends. Men who until yesterday or last week laughed with us, joked with us, trained with us. Men who were on the same ships with us, and went over the side with us as we prepared to hit the beaches of this island.It is not easy to do so,” He continued. Some of us have buried our closest friends here. We saw these men killed before our very eyes. Any one of us might have died in their place. Indeed some of us are alive and breathing at this very monent only because men who lie here beneath us had the courage and strength to give their lives for ours. To speak in memory of men such as these is not easy . . . No, our poor power of speech can add nothing to what these men and the other dead of our Division who are not here have already done. All we can even hope to do is follow their example. To show the same selfless courage in peace as they did in war. To swear by the grace of God and the stubborn strength and power of human will, their sons and ours will never suffer these pains again. These men have done their job well. They have paid the ghastly price of freedom. . . . “We dedicate ourselves, first, to live together in peace the way they fought and are buried in this war. Here lie men who loved America because their ancestors generations ago helped in her founding and other men who loved her with equal passion because they themselves or their own fathers escaped from oppression to her blessed shores. Here lie officers and men, Negroes and whites, rich men and poor--- together . . . . Theirs is the highest and purest democracy. Any man among us, the living, who fails to understand that will thereby betray those who lie here dead. Whoever of us lifts his hand in hate against a brother . . . . makes of this ceremony and of the bloody sacrifice it commemorates an empty, hollow mockery. To one thing more do we consecrate ourselves in memory of those who sleep beneath these crosses and stars. We shall not foolishly suppose, as did the last generation of America’s fighting men, that victory on the battlefield will automatically guarantee the triumph of Democracy at home. This war with all its frightful heartache and suffering, is but the beginning of our generations struggle for democracy . . . . Thus do we memorialize those who, have ceased living with us, now live within us. Thus do we consecrate ourselves, the living, to carry on the struggle they began. Too much pain and heartache have fertilized the earth on which we stand. We here solemnly swear: This shall not be in vain! Out of this, and from the suffering and sorrow of those who mourn this, will come—we promise – the birth of a new freedom for the sons of men everywhere.
Beginning | Birth | Ceremony | Courage | Democracy | Earth | Fighting | Freedom | God | Guarantee | Hate | Hope | Man | Memory | Men | Mourn | Nothing | Pain | Peace | Power | Price | Sacrifice | Sorrow | Speech | Strength | Struggle | War | Will | God | Blessed | Friends | Understand |
After the Dinner Party - You two sit at the table late, each, now and then, Twirling a near-empty wine glass to watch the last red Liquid blimb up the crystalline spin to the last moment when Centrifugality fails: with nothing now said. What is left to say when the last logs sag and wink? The dark outside is streaked with the casual snowflake Of winter’s demise, all guests long gone home, and you think Of others who never again can come to partake Of food, wine, laughter, and philosophy— Though tonight one guest has quoted a killing phrase we owe To a lost one whose grin, in eternal atrophy, Now in dark celebrates some last unworded jest none can know. Now a chair scrapes, sudden, on tiles, and one of you Moves soundless, as in hypnotic certainty, The length of table. Stands there a moment or two, Then sits, reaches out a hand, open and empty. How long it seems till a hand finds that hand there laid, While ash, still glowing, crumbles, and silence is such That the crumbling of ash is audible. Now naught’s left unsaid Of the old heart-concerns, the last, tonight, which Had been of the absent children, whose bright gaze Over-arches the future’s horizon, in the mist of your prayers, The last log is black, while ash beneath displays No last glow. You snuff candles. Soon the old stairs Will creak with your grave and synchronized tread as each mounts To a briefness of light, then true weight of darkness, and then That heart-dimness in which neither joy nor sorrow counts. Even so, one hand gropes out for another, again.
Eternal | Grave | Guests | Joy | Nothing | Silence | Sorrow | Old |
Robert Southwell, also Saint Robert Southwell
A VALE OF TEARS - A vale there is, enwrapt with dreadful shades, Which thick of mourning pines shrouds from the sun, Where hanging cliffs yield short and dumpish glades, And snowy flood with broken streams doth run. Where eye-room is from rock to cloudy sky, From thence to dales with stony ruins strew'd, Then to the crushèd water's frothy fry, Which tumbleth from the tops where snow is thaw'd. Where ears of other sound can have no choice, But various blust'ring of the stubborn wind In trees, in caves, in straits with divers noise; Which now doth hiss, now howl, now roar by kind. Where waters wrestle with encount'ring stones, That break their streams, and turn them into foam, The hollow clouds full fraught with thund'ring groans, With hideous thumps discharge their pregnant womb. And in the horror of this fearful quire Consists the music of this doleful place; All pleasant birds from thence their tunes retire, Where none but heavy notes have any grace. Resort there is of none but pilgrim wights, That pass with trembling foot and panting heart; With terror cast in cold and shivering frights, They judge the place to terror framed by art. Yet nature's work it is, of art untouch'd, So strait indeed, so vast unto the eye, With such disorder'd order strangely couch'd, And with such pleasing horror low and high, That who it views must needs remain aghast, Much at the work, more at the Maker's might; And muse how nature such a plot could cast Where nothing seemeth wrong, yet nothing right. A place for mated mindes, an only bower Where everything do soothe a dumpish mood; Earth lies forlorn, the cloudy sky doth lower, The wind here weeps, here sighs, here cries aloud. The struggling flood between the marble groans, Then roaring beats upon the craggy sides; A little off, amidst the pebble stones, With bubbling streams and purling noise it glides. The pines thick set, high grown and ever green, Still clothe the place with sad and mourning veil; Here gaping cliff, there mossy plain is seen, Here hope doth spring, and there again doth quail. Huge massy stones that hang by tickle stays, Still threaten fall, and seem to hang in fear; Some wither'd trees, ashamed of their decays, Bereft of green are forced gray coats to wear. Here crystal springs crept out of secret vein, Straight find some envious hole that hides their grace; Here searèd tufts lament the want of rain, There thunder-wrack gives terror to the place. All pangs and heavy passions here may find A thousand motives suiting to their griefs, To feed the sorrows of their troubled mind, And chase away dame Pleasure's vain reliefs. To plaining thoughts this vale a rest may be, To which from worldly joys they may retire; Where sorrow springs from water, stone and tree; Where everything with mourners doth conspire. Sit here, my soul, main streams of tears afloat, Here all thy sinful foils alone recount; Of solemn tunes make thou the doleful note, That, by thy ditties, dolour may amount. When echo shall repeat thy painful cries, Think that the very stones thy sins bewray, And now accuse thee with their sad replies, As heaven and earth shall in the latter day. Let former faults be fuel of thy fire, For grief in limbeck of thy heart to still Thy pensive thoughts and dumps of thy desire, And vapour tears up to thy eyes at will. Let tears to tunes, and pains to plaints be press'd, And let this be the burden of thy song,— Come, deep remorse, possess my sinful breast; Delights, adieu! I harbour'd you too long.
Art | Earth | Grief | Heart | Heaven | Hope | Little | Motives | Mourning | Music | Nature | Noise | Nothing | Order | Rest | Sorrow | Sound | Tears | Terror | Work | Art | Think |
Robert Service, fully Robert William Service
Let poets piece prismatic words, Give me the jewelled joy of birds! What ecstasy moves them to sing? Is it the lyric glee of Spring, The dewy rapture of the rose? Is it the worship born in those Who are of Nature's self a part, The adoration of the heart? Is it the mating mood in them That makes each crystal note a gem? Oh mocking bird and nightingale, Oh mavis, lark and robin - hail! Tell me what perfect passion glows In your inspired arpeggios? A thrush is thrilling as I write Its obligato of delight; And in its fervour, as in mine, I fathom tenderness divine, And pity those of earthy ear Who cannot hear . . . who cannot hear. Let poets pattern pretty words: For lovely largesse - bless you, Birds!
Ecstasy | Joy | Passion | Pity | Self | Tenderness | Worship |
Roland B. Gittelsohn, fully Roland Bertram Gittelsohn
Here lie men who loved America because their ancestors generations ago helped in her founding. And other men who loved her with equal passion because they themselves or their own fathers escaped from oppression to her blessed shores. Here lie officers and men, Negroes and Whites, rich men and poor, together. Here are Protestants, Catholics, and Jews together. Here no man prefers another because of his faith or despises him because of his color. Here there are no quotas of how many from each group are admitted or allowed. Among these men there is no discrimination. No prejudices. No hatred. Theirs is the highest and purest democracy... Whosoever of us lifts his hand in hate against a brother, or who thinks himself superior to those who happen to be in the minority, makes of this ceremony and the bloody sacrifice it commemorates, an empty, hollow mockery. To this then, as our solemn sacred duty, do we the living now dedicate ourselves: To the right of Protestants, Catholics, and Jews, of White men and Negroes alike, to enjoy the democracy for which all of them have here paid the price... We here solemnly swear this shall not be in vain. Out of this and from the suffering and sorrow of those who mourn this, will come, we promise, the birth of a new freedom for the sons of men everywhere.
Birth | Ceremony | Democracy | Faith | Freedom | Hate | Man | Men | Mourn | Oppression | Passion | Right | Sacred | Sacrifice | Sorrow | Suffering | Will | Blessed |
Putting in the Seed - Slave to a springtime passion for the earth. How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed On through the watching for that early birth When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed, The sturdy seedling with arched body comes Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.
The woods were made for the hunter of dreams, The brooks for the fishers of song; To the hunters who hunt for the gunless game The streams and the woods belong. There are thoughts that moan from the soul of pine And thoughts in a flower bell curled; And thoughts that are blown with scent of the fern Are as new and as old as the world.
Beauty | Good | Knowledge | Love | Need | Passion | Will | Woman | Words | Beauty | Child |
Salomon ibn Gabirol, aka Solomon ben Judah or Avicebron
DUOLOGUE - God: "Daughter of Zion, tried in Sorrow’s furnace, E’en as I swore thy fathers, be at rest. I swore it for My sake, and now thy crying Hath mounted to My habitation blest, And I have heard, for gracious is My breast." Israel: "Obeisance low I made, for I am feeble, Thy kindliness responds to all who yearn. Come back, dear Lord, whose name is linked with pardon, No other saviour Israel can discern, Unto his myriad families return!" God: "Where’er thy origin, whosoe’er thy master, A man shall come—nay, I—thy cause to plead, Whoever holds the bill of thy divorcement. Like wall or tower of fire I guard thy seed, Then wherefore weep or heart affrighted heed?" p. 29 Israel: "Why do I weep? Because Thou keepest silence, Though violence rages and, all uncontrolled, The mob destroys, and we as slaves to strangers, Master and man together, have been sold, And no Redeemer do our eyes behold." God: "Who art thou thus to shrink from man in terror And be dismayed because of mankind’s scorn? My angel I will send, as wrote the prophet, And gather Israel winnowed and new-born: This miracle shall be to-morrow morn." Israel: "To gather me my chieftains Thou didst promise, The day comes not and miracle is none, Nor see I Temple built nor any herald Of Peace arrive to be my Holy One— Ah, wherefore lingers Jesse’s promised son?" God: "Behold, I keep the oath I swore to gather My captives—kings shall bring their gifts to thee; Created for a witness to the nations, My holy ones shall testify to Me— Yea, Jesse’s son Mine eyes already see."
Art | Force | Heart | Hope | Kindness | Mercy | Pain | People | Sorrow | Tears | Vision | Weapons | Art |
Salomon ibn Gabirol, aka Solomon ben Judah or Avicebron
Almighty God, on lofty throne In wisdom Thou didst build the world, Thy might the firmament unfurled And Thou wast King ere kings were known. Sole King, who hung the earth on naught, In great assemblies I will cry, For every soul must testify, The Lord of hosts rules all He wrought. His seat is hid in mystery, Myriads of holy ones in dread, His ministers in lowlihead, Surround His awful Majesty. His praises in set order sing, Although all praise He hath outsoared, Declare the Kingdom of the Lord, Proclaiming that the Lord is King. The depths of sky His mercy planned, The waters are His footstools. He Their measures gave to stream and sea And poured them in with royal hand. The sea unto His bounds submits, Our King and God, so great and high, His glory covers all the sky When that upon His throne He sits. Sole King, He spreads for curtain Space, The sun uprises from the east To draw from earth a dainty feast, A strong man glad to run a race. O glorious Sovereign whom I sing, Be gracious unto us and kind, For Thine own sake, if but I find Grace in Thine eyes, my Lord and King.
Art | Day | Fear | Justice | Passion | Praise | Receive | Right | Art |