To test Reality, we must see it on the tight rope. When the Verities become acrobats we can judge them.

I'm glad you asked.

My point, to reiterate, was that the attempted definition of/search for the "perfect girl" is ultimately unhealthy.

And impossible, but that's beside the point. I mean, jumping into the sun is equally impossible and equally unhealthy. In fact, that's a fine metaphor for reasons I'm going to ignore in order to maintain a somewhat directed level of discussion.

Already I've gotten derailed. That's the brilliant and annoying thing about this kind of writing, it always guarantees something, just never what you really plan for.

I was saying something about girls.

I remember previously saying a few things about girls. I'm sure there is more to say. That's really the fascinating thing about them.

People sometimes get on my ass about playing the same videogames for too long. And when I say people, I mean my Shadowhalf.

This metaphor has been discontinued due to the rational half of the author wrenching back control over the flow.

I always throw the music in at the end or the beginning.
Here. Have some Norah Jones collaborating with Wax Poetic. Unexpected? Correct!



I opened this to write about girls, and now I'm writing about Oscar Wilde.
I am madly in love with just about everything Oscar Wilde says, ever.
Especially The Picture of Dorian Gray - his sole published novel.
It's the perfect outlet for everything Wilde. Each character serves only as a mouthpiece for his own (to use his own words, in fact) "wrong, fascinating, poisonous, delightful theories". Theories about life, theories about love, theories about pleasure.

Indeed, he even describes it so himself: "Basil Hallward is what I think I am: Lord Henry what the world thinks me: Dorian what I would like to be—in other ages, perhaps"

Pleasure is the only thing worth having a theory about. Pleasure is Nature's test, her sign of approval. When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy

Every line of dialogue in this book is the progenitor of bumper stickers, witty t-shirts, facebook status updates, and a million minutes of wishing you were half as clever as that.
It's fun to read. It's a confection, a wonderful conceit, sweet and tart and bad for you. It perks up your appetite and gets you addicted, it cuts your tongue and leaves you tasting granulated sugar in your next meal.

It's so perfect, it can be used to describe itself in a series of auto-quotations.

It's like a cigarette. "A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more can one want? Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit. "

It's a book written in code, like a poem written out of other, smaller poems.
It's fractal.

I could treat it like the Dao de Jing, and read a sentence of it every day until I die. Meditate on its meanings until I achieve enlightenment.

The real drawback to marriage is that it makes one unselfish. And unselfish people are colourless. They lack individuality. Still, there are certain temperaments that marriage makes more complex. they retain their egotism, and add to it many other egos. They are forced to have more than one life.

Appropriate them for my own lowly means, sharing the quotes I like and impressing strangers with brutal and witty opines.

He played with the idea, and grew wilful; tossed it into the air and transformed it; let it escape and recaptured it; made it iridescent with fancy, and winged it with paradox. The praise of folly, as he went on, soared into philosophy, and Philosophy herself became young, and catching the mad music of Pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober. Facts fled before her like frightened forest things. Her white feet trod the huge press at which wise Omar sits, till the seething grape juice rose round her bare limbs in waves of purple bubbles, or crawled in red foam over the vat's black, dripping, sloping sides.
It was an extraordinary improvisation

Fractal. Do you see?

How can I be bothered to talk about girls, caught up as I am in the heady sickly-citrus acidperfume of this brilliant, lofty, Irish bastard?