Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed’st thy light’st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.
Shakespeare says that we desire beautiful creatures to multiply, in order to preserve their for the world. That way, when the parent dies, the child might continue its beauty. In the second quatrain, the speaker chides the young man he loves for being too self-absorbed to think of procreation: he is “contracted” to his own “bright eyes,” and feeds his light with the fuel of his own loveliness. The speaker says that this makes the young man his own unwitting enemy, for it makes and hoards all the young man’s beauty for himself. In the third quatrain, he argues that the young man may now be beautiful—he is “the world’s fresh ornament / And only herald to the gaudy spring”—but that, in time, his beauty will fade, and he will bury his “content” within his flower’s own bud (that is, he will not pass his beauty on; it will wither with him). In the couplet, the speaker asks the young man to “pity the world” and reproduce, or else be a glutton who, like the grave, eats the beauty he owes to the whole world.
Okay so I am glad I found something new to post. Teaser Tuesday is a weekly bookish meme hosted by MizB (any book lover would love this blog). So, all are welcome to participate. Just follow these steps:
- Grab your current read
- Open to a random page
- And share two teaser sentences from any page.
And as it is quite obvious don’t reveal too much to spoil the book for others. 🙂
Also share the title and author of the book.
“There seemed to be a similarly lax attitude concerning fornication on the slopes of Everest:even though they paid lip service to the prohibition, more than a few Sherpas made exceptions for their own behavior….”
– Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer
P.S. Still reading it, will review the book once I am done. !
Did you know that the paper burns at 451°F ?
I got to know this only after reading Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. The synopsis of this book will make any book lover to pick a copy of it. Why? Imagine your life without any books or even a magazine. I know it’s a sort of nightmare for somebody who eats, drinks, sleep on books and will carry one even if he or she isn’t reading it. This fiction book projects the future of the American society where books or any sort of reading material is forbidden and any house found in possession of them is burnt down by firemen. They even burn down a house with a woman who refuses to leave her home for her sheer love for books.
The protagonist of the plot – Guy Montag is also a fireman and has been a party to the team that burn down the houses with books in the first half but the character witnesses a turn around in the second half where he grows connection with the books. He starts seeking pleasure in them. But along with that the wrath of his own team who starts chasing him down for betrayal and possession of books.
I found this book slightly depressing but it does leave you with a pensive thought. The author compares Humans with the legendary Phoenix that how latter got destroyed in ashes and soared again. Similarly, humans are also a part of vicious cycle. We have a tendency to make mistakes but we also have the ability to remember them and not to repeat our old mistakes but how many of us follow that?
However my imagination takes me to another direction how I was to survive if there actually was a law to burn down books !!
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
One of the reasons to like this sonnet is that here love is so divinely compared with marriage yet defines it different from the actual ceremony. What I understand here is that love between two people (whether same gender or different) is not bound by marriage. Love which changes with time or circumstances is not actual love. Love is constant and it doesn’t change even if one of the partner is physically away. It doesn’t shake even during difficult times (“That looks on tempests”). Love is like a star that guides a lost soul. Unlike the height of the star which can be measured, the star’s worth cannot be. Love is not age specific which is limited only when the partners are young and beautiful but it stays even when the body grows old and sick. It doesn’t change with hours and weeks but remains same even to the edge of doom. And then Shakespeare says that if what he has written here can be proved wrong, then his writings mean nothing and no man has ever loved.