ren on Nostr: ☃️merry chrimist☃️ ACT V >That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow! >What ...
☃️merry chrimist☃️ (npub1pt6…6mf6) ACT V
>That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow!
>What are they that do play it?
Hard-handed men that work in Athens here,
Which never labored in their minds till now,
And now have toiled their unbreathed memories
With this same play, against your nuptial.
i think often one who hasn't labored in one's mind might produce something more wonderful than one who spends all their time doing nothing but that. it can be that labor stops one from becoming neurotic; what they produce will certainly be more innocent and genuine in a sense:
>I will hear that play,
For never anything can be amiss
When simpleness and duty tender it.
also, something that's 'so bad it's good' can never come from a cynical place or one where to be seen as bad is the intended effect. it has to be a completely genuine failure to achieve that.
>O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans
For parting my fair Pyramus and me.
My cherry lips have often kissed thy stones,
Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.
they really really love this wall.
>O Pyramus, arise!
Speak, speak. Quite dumb?
Dead? Dead? A tomb
Must cover thy sweet eyes.
the quality of this play-within-a-play's writing contrasted with the quality of the rest of the play reminds me of reading an excerpt from a gnostic text and contrasting that with the bible
>For when the players are all dead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus and hanged himself in Thisbe’s garter, it would have been a fine tragedy
oh wow.
>So shall all the couples three
Ever true in loving be,
And the blots of Nature’s hand
Shall not in their issue stand.
though the world often tries to prevent love from taking its course, in the end things tend to work out.
>That you have but slumbered here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend.
nicely tying into the name and general themes of the play. all fiction is a dream that we use to distract ourselves and enjoy the feeling of these stories playing out, things we'd rarely or never experience firsthand. and when they do happen, life itself starts very much start seeming like a dream. a very sweet conclusion to the play.
>That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow!
>What are they that do play it?
Hard-handed men that work in Athens here,
Which never labored in their minds till now,
And now have toiled their unbreathed memories
With this same play, against your nuptial.
i think often one who hasn't labored in one's mind might produce something more wonderful than one who spends all their time doing nothing but that. it can be that labor stops one from becoming neurotic; what they produce will certainly be more innocent and genuine in a sense:
>I will hear that play,
For never anything can be amiss
When simpleness and duty tender it.
also, something that's 'so bad it's good' can never come from a cynical place or one where to be seen as bad is the intended effect. it has to be a completely genuine failure to achieve that.
>O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans
For parting my fair Pyramus and me.
My cherry lips have often kissed thy stones,
Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.
they really really love this wall.
>O Pyramus, arise!
Speak, speak. Quite dumb?
Dead? Dead? A tomb
Must cover thy sweet eyes.
the quality of this play-within-a-play's writing contrasted with the quality of the rest of the play reminds me of reading an excerpt from a gnostic text and contrasting that with the bible
>For when the players are all dead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus and hanged himself in Thisbe’s garter, it would have been a fine tragedy
oh wow.
>So shall all the couples three
Ever true in loving be,
And the blots of Nature’s hand
Shall not in their issue stand.
though the world often tries to prevent love from taking its course, in the end things tend to work out.
>That you have but slumbered here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend.
nicely tying into the name and general themes of the play. all fiction is a dream that we use to distract ourselves and enjoy the feeling of these stories playing out, things we'd rarely or never experience firsthand. and when they do happen, life itself starts very much start seeming like a dream. a very sweet conclusion to the play.