#john wilmot

[majestativa]

Let me be bold and die for my desire: A phoenix likes to perish in the fire.

— John Wilmot/Earl of Rochester, Selected Works, (2004)

[derangedrhythms]

My life’s a thousand deaths.

John Wilmot Earl of Rochester, from ‘To His Mistress’

[mandoreviews]

📽️ The Host (2013)

Having recently reread the book, I can honestly say that the book is WAY better than this movie. I actually watched the movie years ago before i had ever read the book, and I loved the movie. That’s actually why I ended up reading the book. After I read the book, though, I realized the movie actually kinda sucks. Now, if you’ve never read the book, it’s a good movie. My sister has never read the book, and she likes the movie. I’m not saying I don’t like the movie, but it absolutely sucks compared to the book. Some of the lines are straight from the book, but they’re delivered so badly in the movie that they just fall flat and end up sounding corny. The way they did Melanie’s voice all echo-y was weird, although, granted, there weren’t a whole lot of ways they could’ve done that part of the plot. I also feel like the whole relationship with Ian was not given justice in the movie. It’s so much deeper in the book. It just wasn’t developed well in the movie. To wrap it up, this is a good movie for someone who hasn’t read the book. But if you’ve read the book, don’t expect to love the movie.

Sex/nudity: 2/10 (kissing/making out, implied sex, mild sexual dialogue)

Language: 1/10 (very mild, hardly any)

Violence: 4/10 (several fight scenes, some death, not a ton of blood shown, some injuries shown from various sources)

Overall rating: 4/10

[burningvelvet]

So anyway I've been reading about Restoration era writers & also learned that in Jane Eyre, Mr. Rochester may have been partly inspired by the Restoration era poet John Wilmot Earl of Rochester, rambunctious sex legend & asshole extraordinaire. I totally support this theory & may include a reference to it in my Jane Eyre fic if I ever update it.

Interesting finds from John Wilmot and Mr. Rochester by Murray G. H. Pittock:

"Mr. Rochester is to an as yet unappreciated degree based upon the character and reputation of his namesake, John Wilmot, the second Earl of Rochester, whose career as it was popularly recorded is the model for the rakehell and penitent phases underlying the development of Mr. Rochester's character." (P 462)

"the Earl's mother 'was a daughter of Sir John St. John, an ancient family of Wiltshire.' The coincidence of the name with that of the alter hero of Jane Eyre is of course striking. This tract also contains an extended passage concerning Wilmot's propensity for disguise, a common feature of the religious Lives." (P 464)

"In both the real man and the fictional character, cynicism and misanthropy turn to faith. As early as Etherege, then, John Wilmot had become a literary archetype, the "devil-angel" of the wicked rake. But he was also, in the alternative tradition of the religious tracts, an archetype of the repentant sinner. Wilmot's pious end made him respectable, and he was in every sense an ideal figure on which to model his fictional namesake." (P 469)

"It is Mr. Rochester who characteristically uses Christian imagery to describe erotic feelings [..]" (P 462)

"Mr. Rochester associates himself with the devil. Quoting from Paradise Lost, he asks Jane 'not to attribute to me any such bad eminence' (p. 166)." (P 463)

i didn't know this but i mention paradise lost in my fic! even tho in her novel shirley, charlotte disses milton's depiction of eve (which i 100% agree with; my last semester i took an english renaissance class wherein i wrote about paradise lost & eve's oppression lol). heathcliff is also miltonian as i acknowledged in a prior post!!!

"Such talk of heaven and hell in the interests of passion are echoes in fact of Mr. Rochester's famous namesake." (P 463)

"The material that Bronte would use in creating the hero of Jane Eyre from his namesake was freely available at the time, and not only through the means of pious hearsay. Burnet's own account is based on interviews with the dying Earl, and because Wilmot's death was finally a pious one, the less risqué of his poems were often found in print. So thoroughly was Wilmot's profligate life associated in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries with his deathbed conversion, that it comes as no surprise to find his poems published in 1821 alongside those of Dr. Spratt, the Bishop of Rochester, in a one-volume collection enticingly titled The Cabinet of Love? Moreover, Burnet's Life was long popular, as its several editions testify, even in the "best" literary circles. Both Horace Walpole and Samuel Johnson wrote critiques which were incorporated into the edition issued in 1820. Such widely disseminated tales of reformed rakes and deathbed conversions were an important part of the literary culture of Brontes youth, reinforced by the Methodism introduced into the family circle by Aunt Branwell. It was not at all unusual, then, that Bronte should turn to John Wilmot in creating her own Mr. Rochester." (P 464)

"Passion untamed by religion until the moment of crisis is a mark of Charlotte Brontes fiction, and to make that mark, who better than a famous rake and a famous convert, John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester?" (P 469)

From John Wilmot, Mr Rochester and William Harrison Ainsworth by Robert Dingley:

"it is also possible that she drew hints from the Earl's depiction in William Harrison Ainsworth's bestselling novel Old St. Paul's (1841), where the Restoration rake displays a chameleon-like facility in disguise and twice attempts to entrap the woman by whom he is obsessed (and who in turn loves him) in spurious wedding ceremonies."

[potatostoreon]

NOTE: Just because I am interested in someone, does not mean I agree with their actions. I do find some of the people listed above attractive (in case you want to gush about them with me). I dont do politics and I dont speculate on dead people's sexuality, gender, etc. I am open to "headcanons" if you wish to discuss within measure. I do not name and shame so please be assured that if I am uncomfortable interacting with you, Ill POLITELY let you know, so if you are shy, do not hesitate to dm me. People looking for drama/hate will be blocked.

Talk to me if you are interested in:

Please check the tags on my blog, the list has gotten waaaay too big to fit in here.

Have a nice day/night! 🌈

[shakespeare-official-account]

shakespeare what is your opinion on john wilmot earl of rochester’s poetry? (he was after your time but i am very curious) (my favorite poem of his is the imperfect enjoyment)

i hath read the imperfect enjoyment, 'tis quite interesting ToT i suppose 18th century smut is cool

[poemoftheday]

Poem of the Day 26 April 2024

A Song of a Young Lady to Her Ancient Lover

BY JOHN WILMOT EARL OF ROCHESTER

Ancient person, for whom I 

All the flattering youth defy, 

Long be it ere thou grow old, 

Aching, shaking, crazy, cold; 

But still continue as thou art, 

Ancient person of my heart. 

On thy withered lips and dry, 

Which like barren furrows lie, 

Brooding kisses I will pour 

Shall thy youthful [heat] restore 

(Such kind showers in autumn fall, 

And a second spring recall); 

Nor from thee will ever part, 

Ancient person of my heart. 

Thy nobler part, which but to name 

In our sex would be counted shame, 

By age’s frozen grasp possessed, 

From [his] ice shall be released, 

And soothed by my reviving hand, 

In former warmth and vigor stand. 

All a lover’s wish can reach 

For thy joy my love shall teach, 

And for they pleasure shall improve 

All that art can add to love. 

Yet still I love thee without art, 

Ancient person of my heart.

[hernakedmuse]

The Poet's Rusalka

Synopsis: Marina Czerwonka is a young Romani woman from a little village in Poland, after her mother dies her path changes drastically , dreams of ink stained fingers and green eyes, friends with beguiling strangers and an altercation that cements her course at a London tavern. She meets a rogueish lord and eventually wins the heart of not only the rake but a British monarch.

This is a Hal story, some things have been changed and its nothing like The King. This takes place during the restoration era of England in the 17th century, instead of Charles II being king its Hal, but he's Henry X not the V. Historical characters like the rebel poet John Wilmot, Nell Gwynn, and etc. Play huge parts in this story and I don't own them.

Big disclaimer, this is a very mature story and could be offensive.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

Chapter I: A Fish out of Water

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

Most Men are Cowards, all Men should be Knaves.

The Difference lies, as far as I can see,

Not in the thing it self, but the Degree.

-John Wilmot

🥀

It's been one year since I left Karpacz, one year since I buried my mother, and one year since my life changed forever.

I arrived in England only knowing Polish and Russian. I hardly had anything with me, and I took what I could of what was important. 

Traveling in November through Eastern Europe to western is no easy feat.

I traveled through horses and carriages, it wasn't easy dodging shifty characters, but I've managed.  My shawl and jewelry easily allowed everyone to know I am Romani, naturally I've been treated like a common whore, a thief, or both. A witch too, constantly but that's been my whole life.

When I made it to Paris, I was lucky enough to run into fellow Romani, Django Delort. He was handsome, tall and lanky and dark with laughing brown eyes, a thin mustache, and long, satin auburn curls he always had tied back with a purple ribbon. I stayed with him and his sister, Penelope, and her kindly husband Antoine. They were newly weds and pregnant with their first child.  The family is very kind and didn't mind sharing their caravan with me and their food, so I made sure to be plenty of help. They taught me French, luckily Django and Penelope are fluent in Russian due to a maternal lineage.

Django was always full of laughter and jokes. He's an actor for the stage and inspired my interest in the theater, seeing such emotion and becoming somebody else was inspiring.

He wanted to marry me though, despite the constant attention he gains from the female population of Paris, and I couldn't have that. One, Django falls in love at least once a week, and I do not love him, and I won't marry for less.

"I don't want you to feel used, Django, you're my dearest friend in the world, a difficult feat in this world. Our bond is strong but unromantic, I am undeserving of your affections." I spoke to him in French as he helped me board the boat to London.

He stroked my cheek with such benign affection, his reddish brown ringlets blowing ardently in the May winds of Northern France. I gazed upon his cognac colored eyes that usually held so much joy and laughter, but now bathed in longing and despair. And I was the cause of that.

"You are more deserving than any prisoner of this realm, mon cherie, I am not good enough for you and that is why Cupid decided not to relinquish your heart to me. I understand this now, although it leaves me bitter. Do you have to leave for dreary old England? With people colder than your Polish winters?" He returned, in his native tongue.

I blinked away tears saltier than the sea, and stroked my friend's Motley colored scarf. "I know it's silly, but I've been dreaming visions of it. As a fellow Romani, you'd understand that can't you?"

"Ah yes, your dreams of long ink stained fingers and hooded green eyes in the shadows…our mother's would rise from the grave if we ignored such dreams." He brushed his fingers through my loose hair. 

"Mon ami, this isn't forever this isn't goodbye, I love Paris. I will return to Paris, I will return to you and Penelope, and Antoine, and their child and children yet to come. "

He shoved me away but it was gentle and he took a large intake of breath, as if he found even something as natural as breathing unbearably difficult to pursue. "I want this to be as undemanding as possible, ma belle. Just go before I demand more than you can give." His voice was heavy with tears and I nodded mutely before boarding.

He didn't leave once I was on, but he didn't look my way either. He just gave me his back to gaze upon as I sailed off and away to the unknown, saying goodbye to the only friend I've ever known.

[][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][][]

Current Day, The Three Crowns, London, 1674

Jane was the first to be kind to me.

She found me struggling to speak English.  I had only known hello and thank you, she could tell I was in search of a position. Although she knew not Polish, Russian, or French, she had pulled me by my arm to a slender, beautiful young man who was sitting on the lap of an intoxicated and pawing excuse of a man. She said something in English and he immediately spoke French to me. A heavy weight was lifted off of my chest, and the fair young man had introduced himself as Jem. We spoke in French and he had explained to me his father was an English navy man who knocked up a French lady of the night, his mother. He had informed me that she died of syphilis when he was only ten. I offered most empathetic condolences, and both of us bonded over the loss of our mother and growing up in the world as bastards.

Growing up as Roma, you learn that you do not have the privilege to judge others, I didn't turn my nose up at prostitutes, it's not always easy finding work. Jem and Jane had spoken to the owner of The Three Crowns on my behalf, and Thom Pugh the owner took one look at me, desperate to make me one of his working girls. Jem had told me my exotic gypsy features and amethyst eyes made the man eager to make a bit of coin off of me. But Jem had assured me Jane persuaded Mr. Pugh to take me on as just a serving wench as well as a laundress for his rooms. I was safe due to the generosity of my newfound friends…for now.

Jem was teaching me English and he and Jane loved when I would read their palms and show them how to tell people's fortunes. It was all about trusting instinct and getting to know the person. I read people well, which is why I know Mr. Pugh isn't a man of his word and I made sure to stay out of sight as often as I could.

It was hard keeping the customers hands and eagerness away but I managed, I wasn't going to be a shaking little doe, like animals, people smell fear.

I helped Jem and Jane how to keep up with their hygiene as well, with that you could really see how beautiful the two are. Jane stands at a petite stature with curves of a noble lady, wide hips and a full bust she always has falling out of her bodice. Her coloring is pretty in a wild exotic way, sun-kissed like my people. Her eyes remind me of a sly cat, and they're a pretty blue-green, her full lips are always painted with Rouge like her cheeks and her jawline is squared off like a member of the gentry, whoever Jane's real parents were, they did her terribly wrong leaving her in the gutter. Her hair is like dark gold and bounces down her back in coils, she's the most sought after girl here for a reason, and not just on beauty alone. She's never in a foul mood, always laughing and bringing sunlight in wherever she goes, jesting and pulling pranks along with Jem. When I felt homesick and longed for my mother who now lived buried deep in the Earth and my father who was a slave to the seas, she made me forget with her warmth and her smiles.

Jem too is so very beautiful for this Saxon underworld, tall and lean like an interpretation of David. Porcelain like the statue too, with freckles beaming like stars across his upturned nose, eyes so blue you swore he was part sea-folk, lips so full and red and pretty for a man, and his hair fell in youthful and boyish raven waves. He has the most enchanting smile, and tempted those who thought their desires relied solely on the softer sex.

He always made sure I ate, and asked me everyday if anyone bothered me, the answer was always no.

In half a year I was speaking English comfortably, although my accent didn't hide that I'm a foreigner and had people assuming that I'm empty-headed, but I minded not.

"Jem, you speak English so well, proper. Better than everyone else here, why is that?"

He was drawing black kohl around his eyes, he reminded me of my people when he did that. I smiled and took the kohl from him to help. "Oh you mean why don't I sound like a common whore?" He asked with humor in his voice. 

"I would never say it like that."

"No of course not, you're too sweet. The only one in this rotten little world God has dealt us with to not look upon my kind with revulsion." He handed me the rouge so I could paint his lips and high cheeks.

"We Romani are treated like mud beneath the wheels of a carriage, and my father is a pirate, I am not wealthy enough to judge."

He smiled. "There's a kindly gentleman, I'm to his liking. He brings me poems and oranges and lessons. I can read now too.''

There was something akin to love in his powder blue eyes, my friend is in love. I opened my mouth to speak on it but Jane burst in, in just a yellow corset with half her laces undone, a hiked up green skirt, exposing her red hosiery. "Jem, we've got someone for yeh." She smiled "oh look at that, pretty as a lady yeh are. Marina yeh so good at making us look more than we're worth somethin'." She took Jem's hand, dragging him out.

I cleaned up behind Jem and washed my hands in the wash bowl, humming an old song my mother would sing to me as a child. 

The door creaked open, it was probably one of the girls asking for something. I have a basket full of nicely folded laundry.

"I'll be right there." I called as I bent over to pick up the basket.  But forceful hands prevented me from doing so.

My heart clenched, my blood froze. I couldn't even breathe, foul breath perfumed my senses. I felt dizzy with illness.  Something hard pressed into my backside. "Not a sound you Slavic whore!" 

He started ripping at my bodice with a knife and I swallowed back tears, oh God this  was really happening. There was nothing I could do about it and no one would care. I attempted still, to wriggle myself free as he pushed up my skirt and he slapped me in the face so hard I tasted blood as he tugged on my hair. "Oi! Stop that–Aye!"

His assault had come to stop when he was torn away from me, I gathered myself trying to hold together my torn bodice and sleeve and my hair that was now loose at my hips.

"My-my lord-"

At that I sharply turned around to face my rescuer. Jane stood beside a tall, slender nobleman. I noticed his handsome beauty as he had an opulent cane raised above my assailant who was now cowering on the floor. With his rags it made my rescuer look all the more every bit of title and income I am positive he has. His jawline is sharper than a knife, his chin and nose proud and his pretty, far set, gray eyes even wore a nasty haughty lidding. But there was disgust that colored his eyes. He wore a long, curly brown wig with the hats of style upon his head, adorn with ostrich feathers. "Are you so pathetic and hideous as well as oafish, so utterly incapable of being loved and I dare say–tolerated, that you feel like your only choice is to force yourself upon this tiny creature?" He laughed and didn't allow my attacker to speak, he waved his cane in the air and hit the drunkard in the nose. There was a sickening Crack and crimson poured like paint from his nose. "I assume you're from a beginning akin to fenced pigs, I assume it is common practice to take someone from behind and force miserable tiny cocks like yours there into any hole. Even if it's a hole in the fence, I daresay you don't care if it splinters your smelly foreskin as long as it's a hole any hole will do, I imagine that's how you got here. Your mother methinks was just any hole, a sweaty unappealing sow being forced into the mud by pungent boars. How many were there during your conception?" The lord sneered. 

My mouth fell open in shock, my insides tickled in amusement, and I took dark delight in how thorough and detailed he insulted this man. Jane was having the time of her life laughing at the lord's cruel and entertaining words.

The lesser man had the audacity to look insulted and opened his mouth to answer, but the cruel and handsome lord didn't allow it. He took his cane and bashed the head into the rotten teeth of the pub crawler. His mouth overflowed with blood. The lord looked positively perturbed at the gory stain on his cane and with an irritated sigh, took out a pale green handkerchief to wipe it off. "I should cut your little porky cock off right now, it's far too small to be rendered useful. And even if your size was comparable to an adequate blade of pleasure and breeding, it'd still be without purpose for you haven't the slightest inkling how to use it." He grinned cruelly as his richly heel pressed down on the rapist's groin. The man wailed so boisterous in bloodcurdling pain that all who were present at the tavern had gathered around to watch the scene displayed. 

It was perverse how people gawked and took great pleasure in watching violence. "It's quite pathetic with how incredibly old you are that you still can't use this little cheese knife correctly. If your ignorant inbred brain understood the meaning of consent, that'd  be a start." He removed his plum velvet heel from the abused crotch.

It was finally the moment when my eyes met the stormy gray pair of my hero. Although taking in his slightly intoxicated eyes, his cruel tongue and where he was, I wondered if hero was the right word.

Mr. Pugh was outraged but at me, yelling at me about causing such trouble. He was ranting about how the only way to possibly recover from causing his establishment such reputation, which caused me to snort since its glorified brothel with a menu. The only way I could make up for it was to become a working girl. I opened my mouth to defend myself but my dark antihero had taken up for me once again. 

"Mr. Pugh, you're so adamant about this woman using her beauty for a bit of coin one might easily imply that you yourself had arranged this…well whatever this was." The lord smirked but it lacked humor.

I had such delicious joy watching my employer fumble with his words as if English wasn't his first language. But I felt sick knowing the attempted thievery of my virtue was a plot, a means to an end. "Mm, well Miss…" His eyes focused on me, he almost looked curious. 

He was asking me my name, I was flustered as I was in delay in answering.  "Czerwonka, Marina Czerwonka. "

His perfectly arched brow rose. "Czerwonka, is that Polish?"

I nodded attempting to pull my tattered bodice back together.

To my surprise, the dark lord took off his velvet cape to wrap around me. "If you would prefer the employment of the spider who trapped you like a fly in his web, over being under my employment with very little play but a warm bed in the country. Then by all means stay behind." With that he turned to the door and kissed Jane's hand. "Another time Jane. " 

She winked. "A pleasure as always Johnny. "

The lord she was so informal with left the room, I sputtered. "J-Jane, who was that?"

She grinned. "That's right, you're still so new…that was the infamous Lord John Wilmot, the 2nd Earl of Rochester."

I had no idea what these English titles meant. "What is he infamous for?"

She grinned and bumped my hip with hers. "The worst things."

"Could you help me pack  before his carriage leaves?"

"Thatta girl." Jane guided me to my room, and I couldn't stop thinking about Lord Rochesters ink stained fingers…

@sufferingstarlight @meetmyothersouls

[sittingonfilm]

A Satyr Against Reason And Mankind

By John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

Edited and annotated by Jack Lynch

Were I (who to my cost already am One of those strange, prodigious 1  creatures, man) A spirit free to choose, for my own share What case of flesh and blood I pleased to wear, I’d be a dog, a monkey, or a bear, [5] Or anything but that vain animal, Who is so proud of being rational. 2 

   The senses are too gross, 3  and he’ll contrive A sixth, to contradict the other five, And before certain instinct, will prefer [10] Reason, which fifty times for one does err; Reason, an ignis fatuus 4  of the mind, Which, leaving light of nature, sense, behind, Pathless and dangerous wand’ring ways it takes Through error’s fenny bogs and thorny brakes; [15] Whilst the misguided follower climbs with pain Mountains of whimseys, heaped in his own brain; Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down Into doubt’s boundless sea where, like to drown, Books bear him up awhile, and make him try [20] To swim with bladders 5  of philosophy; In hopes still to o’ertake th’ escaping light; The vapour dances in his dazzling 6  sight Till, spent, it leaves him to eternal night. Then old age and experience, hand in hand, [25] Lead him to death, and make him understand, After a search so painful and so long, That all his life he has been in the wrong. Huddled in dirt the reasoning engine 7  lies, Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise. [30]

   Pride drew him in, as cheats their bubbles 8  catch, And made him venture to be made a wretch. His wisdom did his happiness destroy, Aiming to know that world he should enjoy. And wit was his vain, frivolous pretense [35] Of pleasing others at his own expense. For wits are treated just like common whores: First they’re enjoyed, and then kicked out of doors. The pleasure past, a threatening doubt remains That frights th’ enjoyer with succeeding pains. [40] Women and men of wit are dangerous tools, And ever fatal to admiring fools: Pleasure allures, and when the fops escape, ’Tis not that they’re beloved, but fortunate, And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate. [45]

   But now, methinks, some formal band 9  and beard Takes me to task. Come on, sir; I’m prepared.

   “Then, by your favor, anything that’s writ Against this gibing, jingling knack called wit Likes me 10  abundantly; but you take care [50] Upon this point, not to be too severe. Perhaps my muse were fitter for this part, For I profess I can be very smart On wit, which I abhor with all my heart. I long to lash it in some sharp essay, [55] But your grand indiscretion bids me stay And turns my tide of ink another way.

   “What rage ferments in your degenerate mind To make you rail at reason and mankind? Blest, glorious man! to whom alone kind heaven [60] An everlasting soul has freely given, Whom his great Maker took such care to make That from himself he did the image take And this fair frame in shining reason dressed To dignify his nature above beast; [65] Reason, by whose aspiring influence We take a flight beyond material sense, Dive into mysteries, then soaring pierce The flaming limits of the universe, Search heaven and hell, Find out what’s acted there, [70] And give the world true grounds of hope and fear.”

   Hold, mighty man, I cry, all this we know From the pathetic pen of Ingelo; From Patrick’s Pilgrim, Sibbes’ soliloquies, 11  And ’tis this very reason I despise: [75] This supernatural gift, that makes a mite Think he’s an image of the infinite, Comparing his short life, void of all rest, To the eternal and the ever blest; This busy, puzzling stirrer-up of doubt [80] That frames deep mysteries, then finds ’em out, Filling with frantic crowds of thinking fools Those reverend bedlams, colleges and schools; Borne on whose wings, each heavy sot can pierce The limits of the boundless universe; [85] So charming ointments make an old witch fly 12  And bear a crippled carcass through the sky. ’Tis this exalted power, whose business lies In nonsense and impossibilities, This made a whimsical philosopher [90] Before the spacious world, his tub prefer, 13  And we have modern cloistered coxcombs who Retire to think ’cause they have nought to do.

   But thoughts are given for action’s government; Where action ceases, thought’s impertinent: [95] Our sphere of action is life’s happiness, And he that thinks beyond, thinks like an ass. Thus, whilst against false reasoning I inveigh, I own 14  right reason, which I would obey: That reason which distinguishes by sense [100] And gives us rules of good and ill from thence, That bounds desires, with a reforming will To keep ’em more in vigour, not to kill. Your reason hinders, mine helps to enjoy, Renewing appetites yours would destroy. [105] My reason is my friend, yours is a cheat; Hunger calls out, my reason bids me eat; Perversely, yours your appetite does mock: This asks for food, that answers, “What’s o’clock?” This plain distinction, sir, your doubt secures: [110] ’Tis not true reason I despise, but yours.

   Thus I think reason righted, but for man, I’ll ne’er recant; defend him if you can. For all his pride and his philosophy, ’Tis evident beasts are, in their own degree, [115] As wise at least, and better far than he. Those creatures are the wisest who attain, By surest means, the ends at which they aim. If therefore Jowler finds and kills the hares Better than Meres 15  supplies committee chairs, [120] Though one’s a statesman, th’ other but a hound, Jowler, in justice, would be wiser found.

   You see how far man’s wisdom here extends; Look next if human nature makes amends: Whose principles most generous are, and just, [125] And to whose morals you would sooner trust. Be judge yourself, I’ll bring it to the test: Which is the basest creature, man or beast? Birds feed on birds, beasts on each other prey, But savage man alone does man betray. [130] Pressed by necessity, they kill for food; Man undoes man to do himself no good. With teeth and claws by nature armed, they hunt Nature’s allowance, to supply their want. But man, with smiles, embraces, friendship, praise, [135] Inhumanly his fellow’s life betrays; With voluntary pains works his distress, Not through necessity, but wantonness.

   For hunger or for love they fight and tear, Whilst wretched man is still in arms for fear. [140] For fear he arms, and is of arms afraid, From fear, to fear successively betrayed; Base fear, the source whence his best passions came: His boasted honor, and his dear-bought fame; The lust of power, to which he’s such a slave, [145] And for the which alone he dares be brave; To which his various projects are designed; Which makes him generous, affable, and kind; For which he takes such pains to be thought wise, And screws his actions in a forced disguise, [150] Leading a tedious life in misery Under laborious, mean hypocrisy. Look to the bottom of his vast design, Wherein man’s wisdom, power, and glory join: The good he acts, the ill he does endure, [155] ’Tis all from fear, to make himself secure. Merely for safety, after fame we thirst, For all men would be cowards if they durst. 16 

   And honesty’s against all common sense: Men must be knaves, ’tis in their own defence. [160] Mankind’s dishonest; if you think it fair Among known cheats to play upon the square, You’ll be undone. Nor can weak truth your reputation save: The knaves will all agree to call you knave. [165] Wronged shall he live, insulted o’er, oppressed, Who dares be less a villain than the rest.

   Thus sir, you see what human nature craves: Most men are cowards, all men should be knaves. The difference lies, as far as I can see, [170] Not in the thing itself, but the degree, And all the subject matter of debate Is only: Who’s a knave of the first rate?

   All this with indignation have I hurled At the pretending part of the proud world, [175] Who, swollen with selfish vanity, devise False freedoms, holy cheats, and formal lies Over their fellow slaves to tyrannize.

   But if in Court so just a man there be (In Court, a just man, yet unknown to me) [180] Who does his needful flattery direct, Not to oppress and ruin, but protect (Since flattery, which way soever laid, Is still a tax on that unhappy trade); If so upright a statesman you can find, [185] Whose passions bend to his unbiased mind, Who does his arts and policies apply To raise his country, not his family, Nor, whilst his pride owned avarice withstands, 17  Receives close bribes through friends’ corrupted hands— [190]

   Is there a churchman who on God relies; Whose life, his faith and doctrine justifies? Not one blown up with vain prelatic pride, Who, for reproof of sins, does man deride; Whose envious heart makes preaching a pretense, [195] With his obstreperous, saucy eloquence, To chide at kings, and rail at men of sense; None of that sensual tribe whose talents lie In avarice, pride, sloth, and gluttony; Who hunt good livings, but abhor good lives; [200] Whose lust exalted to that height arrives They act adultery with their own wives, And ere a score of years completed be, Can from the lofty pulpit proudly see Half a large parish their own progeny; [205] Nor doting bishop, who would be adored For domineering at the council board, A greater fop in business at fourscore, Fonder of serious toys, affected more, Than the gay, glittering fool at twenty proves [210] With all his noise, his tawdry clothes, and loves;

   But a meek, humble man, of honest sense, Who preaching peace, does practice continence; Whose pious life’s a proof he does believe Mysterious truths, which no man can conceive. [215] If upon earth there dwell such God-like men, I’ll here recant my paradox to them, Adore those shrines of virtue, homage pay, And, with the rabble world, their laws obey.

   If such there be, yet grant me this at least: [220] Man differs more from man, than man from beast.

▬▬ι══════════ι▬▬

Notes

1. Prodigious, “monstrous” or “unnatural.”

2. A common definition going back to Aristotle insisted that homo est animal rationalis, “Man is the reasoning animal.”

3. Gross, “imprecise.”

4. Ignis fatuus, “Will with the wisp; Jack with the lanthorn” (Johnson). A “false fire,” known to lead travelers astray.

5. Bladders, “floats” or “water-wings.”

6. Dazzling, “dazzled.”

7. Engine, “Any mechanical complication, in which various movements and parts concur to one effect” (Johnson).

8. Bubbles, “dupes.”

9. Formal band, a “Geneva band,” worn by many clergymen.

10. Likes me, “I like” (like meant “please”; compare Spanish me gusta).

11. Nathaniel Ingelo, author of Bentivolio and Urania; Simon Patrick, author of The Parable of the Pilgrim; and Richard Sibbes. All were authors of popular religious works.

12. Witches were supposed to anoint themselves in order to be able to fly. Charming here means “magical.”

13. Diogenes the Cynic, an ancient Greek philosopher who argued that virtue consisted in avoiding pleasure. He spent much of his life in a bathtub.

14. Own, “admit” or “acknowledge.”

15. Sir Thomas Meres, a politician.

16. Durst, “dare.”

17. “Nor, while his pride withstands admitted avarice.”

[savagewildnerness]

Last one.

Oh no, I don’t like an improvisation that literally references music in a positive way, as now I feel this has to be beautiful & it will surely sound like a cat on a hook, ALAS! Oh well, here goes. 💀

Also, do I want this music to be innocent or to convey the horrors?! I decided a few seconds on innocent, but let’s entwine The Horrors! (Much like life, eh! Never innocent for long! Here come The Horrors! 😂😩💀) Because despite the description of the music… this improvisation is about the horror of meaninglessness…

(I thought innocence-the horrors-innocence… THE HORRORS!)

"”Play again," I said. "The music is innocent."

Nicolas smiled and nodded. Pamper the madman.

And I knew it wasn't going to pass, and nothing for the moment could make me forget, but what I felt was inexpressible gratitude for the music, that in this horror there could be something as beautiful as that.

You couldn't understand anything; and you couldn't change anything. But you could make music like that. And I felt the same gratitude when I saw the village children dancing, when I saw their arms raised and their knees bent, and their bodies turning to the rhythm of the songs they sang. I started to cry watching them.

I wandered into the church and on my knees I leaned against the wall and I looked at the ancient statues and I felt the same gratitude looking at the finely carved fingers and the noses and the ears and the expressions on their faces and the deep folds in their garments, and I couldn't stop myself from crying.

At least we had these beautiful things, I said. Such goodness.

But nothing natural seemed beautiful to me now! The very sight of a great tree standing alone in a field could make me tremble and cry out. Fill the orchard with music.

And let me tell you a little secret. It never did pass, really.

What caused it? Was it the late night drinking and talking, or did it have to do with my mother and her saying she was going to die? Did the wolves have something to do with it? Was it a spell cast upon the imagination by the witches' place?

I don't know. It had come like something visited upon me from outside. One minute it was an idea, and the next it was real. I think you can invite that sort of thing, but you can't make it come.

Of course it was to slacken. But the sky was never quite the same shade of blue again. I mean the world looked different forever after, and even in moments of exquisite happiness there was the darkness lurking, the sense of our frailty and our hopelessness.

Maybe it was a presentiment. But I don't think so. It was more important than that, and frankly I don't believe in presentiments.”

Interesting though.. a presentiment regarding how Lestat will be pulled from all that is natural: The Earth & the seas & the grass & the sky & humanity… and into monstrousness. But perhaps, Mon Cher, you can still find beauty & goodness & meaning in art? Or even, dare I suggest, within your immortal soul? Your body is no longer human, no. But your soul is the same as it ever was & ever shall be. And maybe there’s some metaphor in here about how we mostly struggle to imagine anything other than that some essence of our selves is eternal?

Truth, though? Dead, we become the lumber of the world, eh?

“After Death nothing is, and nothing, death,

The utmost limit of a gasp of breath.

Let the ambitious zealot lay aside

His hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride;

Let slavish souls lay by their fear

Nor be concerned which way nor where

After this life they shall be hurled.

Dead, we become the lumber of the world,

And to that mass of matter shall be swept

Where things destroyed with things unborn are kept.

Devouring time swallows us whole.

Impartial death confounds body and soul.

For Hell and the foul fiend that rules

God's everlasting fiery jails

(Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools),

With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door,

Are senseless stories, idle tales,

Dreams, whimsey's, and no more.”

Lestat’s existential crisis though… while I agree (as if it were about that) & feel the content of it, I feel almost opposite about it to him. I’ve heard people say that to look at the stars terrifies them as it makes them feel small & insignificant & meaningless… and for Lestat, he is horrified by the concept of life being utterly meaningless. Not just his own, but every life. But for me? I find that truth (which I agree with) comforting. We’re all but specks of dust & so our greatest joy; our greatest sorrow; our wonder; our horror; our suffering; our significance or lack thereof in any way matters not. Everything will tend through Lestat’s chaos & will eventually end in total nothingness. Even the music of Mozart, the history of all humanity will one day be lost to the vast chasm of nothingness as if it never existed.

Have a lovely day folks, contemplating non-existence!

But y’know… now I know my own feelings on such matters I ache because I want Nicolas & Lestat to discuss how there can exist a comfort in non-existence… because when life is all there is, all there is to do is to live it to the fullest you can. And Lestat knows all about that. And Nicolas - if only you could believe that, maybe you could have found some reason to exist too? I see why Nicolas doesn’t have it in him to comfort Lestat this way though as in this, Nicolas is even farther from myself - the chaos destroys him.

Rereading TVL I notice how often Lestat himself speaks of The Chaos.

xxxxx

[majestativa]

Her eyes that feed my love.

— John Wilmot/Earl of Rochester, Selected Works, (2004)

[derangedrhythms]

Absent from thee, I languish still;

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, from ‘The Complete Poems of John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester’

[scarlettdixon]

Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye,

The dead man's life. On thee my hopes rely:

If I but them remove, I surely die.

From :To His Mistress by Lord john wilmot/Earl of Rochester

[artisthomes]

Ditchley Park, birthplace of John Wilmot, located near Charlbury in Oxfordshire, England

[havithreatendub4]

#Hollywood Vampires #june 12 2023 #june 2023 #Sofia #Bulgaria #cane #The Libertine #Earl of Rochester #John Wilmot #character #scenes

[egoschwank]

al things considered — when i post my masterpiece #1252

fo

lavinia fontana -- "bianca degli utili maselli, holding a dog and surrounded by six of her children" (ca. 1600?)

"it was said that a new person had appeared on the sea-front: a lady with a little dog" … anton chekhov

"all the ladies of the city would compete in wishing to have her close to them, treating her and embracing her with extraordinary demonstrations of love and respect, considering themselves fortunate to have seen her on the street […] the greatest thing that they desired would be to have her paint their portraits" … carlo cesare malvasia [on lavinia fontana]

"before i got married i had six theories about raising children; now, i have six children and no theories" … john wilmot

"it's not my husband but myself i have deceived" … anna sergeyevna

"i think orange just might be the new black" … al janik