Wild about Wilde

I am such a fool for Oscar Wilde. I think that he must of been quite a rogue. Unlike Sarah Palin, who saw being rogue as a gimmick, like a super sale at walmart. Wilde truly pushed boundries. He lived and breathed his work and the beautiful, complex, richness of life. Below is a documentary about Oscar’s life and the impact he had on modern society. He says such wild statements like, ‘one way or another I will be famous, if not famous-notorous.’


One of my favorite ideas from Wilde refers to the relationship between art and reality. To Wilde, creating beauty was more meaningful than living in the actuality of life. Art was a way to shock society with irony. It wasn’t moral, he created the idea of art was for art sake but yet it wasn’t superficial; he used art to poke at what society valued.

I wouldn’t be alone is saying Lady GaGa and Wilde had more in common than their love for men.

“When I look back on my life, it’s not that I don’t want to see things exactly as they happened; it’s just that I prefer to remember them in an artistic way. And truthfully, the lie of it all is much more honest, because I invented it.” -gaga

Oscar Wilde is one of my favorites. He would say that his job, as a writer, is to tell life in a way that is richer than reality. And he succeeds. His writing is engaging, lively and multi layered. Solidifying his triumph at developing a world in words -combined with my love for sitting at home, drinking tea, curled up with a dog-nothing makes me feel more alive than reading his works. For a man who wasn’t able to live his full expression of self, he lived in secrecy and said, “ones real life is the life one does not lead” writing was an opportunity for him to live a fuller version of life; Proust and Wilde had this in common.

Proust is a literary icon, though he exhausts me. He was sick for most of his childhood and his experiences and world is nothing I can connect to. He exaggerated the mundane aspects of life and relishes in simple, strange, pleasures. Including going on for too long about how he longs to kiss his mothers cheek! Oh he is too much! Though he and Wilde created worlds that drew from wells at emotion and sensation in their writing.

“No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me.”

Proust is talking about the infamous madeline or was he?? Some would argue that he wasn’t actually eating a madeline and was a victim of recall bias. Either way, it doesn’t matter; it just further supports art as the supreme reality.

 “All of us are in the gutter and looking at the star”-Wilde







Remember the way that time cloaked you in glitter

and you spun through the night

recall the way that you soaked up the whiskey at the bar

high on heels

higher on reels


your watch clicks in time and your headphones hide

your eyes find

someone else, lost

fighting demons in the night

picking at hangnails in the soft light

you longed to move towards the richness of destruction and

the life of creation

we walked like we are going somewhere

wishing for a place to call home

I curled up into something that smelled like memories

without knowing where I would go

you drifted off

I see you sometimes on benches, smoking cigarettes, dressed in black

your hair falls over your eyes and you don’t see me.

I stare fixated, hoping you will remember,

all of the times that night held us

and all of the times that we were going to run,

you look at me

my face yours

yet you never saw me

everything has changed

*yeah, this is me posting cheesy poetry that very much is cheeseeeee but hey if we don’t make bad stuff we can never make good stuff*

*Lady you look Lovely*

I will tell you a little secret. I like to spend a considerable amount of time shopping on-line. I love searching for the perfect color and finding the exact item I have been dreaming about. I get a kick out of pressing ‘add to cart’ and ‘continue shopping’  and then after I have found everything that I have been pining over or after I realize I have just wasted an hour (ahem two hours) of my life, I take a deep breath and I move my curser to the top right of the screen and I close my browser.

My co-workers has impeccable fashion and orders kick ass shoes on-line often. She has them delivered to work and I can’t help but glance over and think, damn I need to go that website. She reminds me of the lovely ladies of Advanced Style. 


The fact that I haven’t blogged in awhile feels like christmas as a kid. It should be bigger and better than it is; the jello doesn’t set right, the meat is dry, and I end up hanging out with my all-boy cousins who want to play video games. Then at some point it is not longer what is but what it is to me, and christmas become magical again and I, humbly, post videos about old women and fashion.


I should stop myself, but I wont. Nietzsche is my most favorite thought right now. Today I was thinking how some of his ideas are very similar to Emerson’s. I just read a complete work of Emerson and Cornell West talks very highly of Emerson (he states that a women I respect, Gloria Steinem, embodies Emerson ideals as do many other “free” thinkers).  I enjoyed pieces of Emerson’s work but I felt like he was very superficial, and lacked depth in knowing. His arguments didn’t seem to hold weight to me. The were more like words on a page that seemed very nice and good but lacked structural integrity. Also he just felt like an elitist wuss. He is like the rich kid whose moms bought him all of his clothes and lied them out on the bed for him. He said the right things and got good grades but he lacked understanding. He could tell you how to build a house but his hands lacked callouses and he had never actually built a home. That is what Emerson was to me.

This is exactly what I feel “Nietzsche expands, develops, and dramatizes insights that Emerson presents in an almost casual way” This is all about the two. Nietzsche, on the other hand, admired Emerson. I feel like Emerson is a friend that I say, “no I like her, she is great, but lets not invite her to the dinner party.”

*poetry verse philosophy*

my friend Nietzsche was talking shit about poetry today he says things like this

“Poets are shameless with their experiences: they exploit them.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche

this is from an article titled: Why Do Poets Lie Too Much? Nietzsche, Poetry and the Different Voices of Zarathustra

They lie and their lies don’t have depth, they are superficial, shallow seas; neither their thoughts nor their feelings penetrate the depths. They are guided by boredom and lust, present shallowness as depth, pose as reconcilers, but they are, in fact, mixers, bring the unmixable together and create eclectic forms. They are poor in style and mix eclectically where the form and the content remain apart, where a variety of disparate elements is not creatively appropriated, which is the mixing of modern style, or lack of style.

Verily, their spirit itself is the peacock of peacocks, and a sea of vanity!

I thought this very interesting because well Zarathustra is a poet and as I think Nietzsche is too. But really Nietzsche is getting all pompous saying certain poets are shallow and trite while HE, isn’t. He is a poet of blood, experience and life.

Here is an interesting article Nietzsche, Philosophy, & Poetry  who makes this argument ” Therefore, we cannot draw a distinction between the philosopher as a seeker after objective truths and a poet as a seeker after wholly ‘subjective’ and relativistic experiences.”
But I think that there are some distinctions that can be made between poetry and philosophy. I don’t think that there is much reason or rhyme (this is an joke to myself) in making the distinction. Perhaps poetry is an expression of what is known while philosophy is an expression of knowing and the unknown. Here is a debate on the topic.

But more so when I read poetry I look for similarities. I see pieces of myself in the work. I feel the depths of the emotion and the impact of the experience. Oscar Wilde spoke that the artist has a great responsibility to expand experiences  to make them more vibrant that the actual event. In that the act of reading about it is a greater emotional sensation that actually being in it. To me, that is what poetry strives for. Philosophy on the other hand, I read differently, I read for similarity and consistency with my own mode of thought but I also read it to breach my own experience to bring me to a place of uncertainty.

Nietzsche is a bit inconsistent from what I am gathering and he also loved poetry. His “favorite poet” was Friedrich Hölderlin he was diagnosed with extreme hypochondria and later declared “mentally unfit.” Who wants a “mentally fit” poet?

‘Another day’

Another day. I follow another path,
Enter the leafing woodland, visit the spring
Or the rocks where the roses bloom
Or search from a look-out, but nowhere

Love are you to be seen in the light of day
And down the wind go the words of our once so
Beneficent conversation…

Your beloved face has gone beyond my sight,
The music of your life is dying away
Beyond my hearing and all the songs
That worked a miracle of peace once on

My heart, where are they now? It was long ago,
So long and the youth I was has aged nor is
Even the earth that smiled at me then
The same. Farewell. Live with that word always.

For the soul goes from me to return to you
Day after day and my eyes shed tears that they
Cannot look over to where you are
And see you clearly ever again.

*hermann hesse*

Like any good college student I read a lot of Herman Hesse. I think that Hesse is an amazing and thought provoking writer and I love how he blends dualities like masculine and femininity, east and west, thinking and feeling, reality and imagined, man and animal, past and future…etc. After reading quite a bit of his work  (I am one of those kind of readers, I like to read the authors entire collection) I noticed, all of his books seemed to follow the same skeletal structure. Man longs for something different or is forced to be exposed to something different. The difference confronts who he was and or his inner demons. Usually the dualism comes into play here and he must struggle with his desires/longings/wants/isolation. There is chaos here. Then there is some sort of transcending where the newly enlightened character resolves and accepts his conflicts.

I was reading Nietzsche today and scribbled in the margin, “I wonder what Hermann Hesse thought of this?”  there are a lot of similar underlining themes, this spawned a guick-ish internet search. Fact: Hermann Hesse had a crush on Nietzsche too.

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”
Hermann Hesse

Versus Ayn Rand who thought

Philosophically, Nietzsche is a mystic and an irrationalist. His
metaphysics consists of a somewhat “Byronic” and mystically
“malevolent” universe; his epistemology subordinates reason to “will,”
or feeling or instinct or blood or innate virtues of character. But,
as a poet, he projects at times (not consistently) a magnificent
feeling for man’s greatness, expressed in emotional, not intellectual,
terms.’ *Objectivist* March 1968, p. 6

‘Nietzsche’s rebellion against altruism consisted of replacing the
sacrifice of oneself to others by the sacrifice of others to oneself.
He proclaimed that the ideal man is moved, not by reason, but by his
“blood,” by his innate instincts, feelings and will to power–that he
is predestined by birth to rule others and sacrifice them to himself,
while they are predestined by birth to be his victims and slaves–that
reason, logic, principles are futile and debilitating, that morality
is useless, that the “superman” is “beyond good and evil,” that he is
a “beast of prey” whose ultimate standard is nothing but his own whim.
Thus Nietzsche’s rejection of the Witch Doctor consisted of elevating
Attila into a moral ideal–which meant: a double surrender of morality
to the Witch Doctor.’ *For the New Intellectual* p. 36

Ayn Rand can s my d. I am at the irrational place with my love where I have decided that Nietzsche is being ironic and sort of poking fun at us all when he talks about women, and compassion. He strokes my hair and tells me “baby, I really didn’t mean it.”

To be totally honest, I don’t really like Ayn Rand, but this is a really interesting interview with her.

*I love nietzsche*

John Fante is one of my favorite authors and I have read every book he has written and at least one book about him. From his works I was first intrigued by Nietzsche. This is a piece from his book ask the dust

“I pulled the huge door open and it gave a little cry like weeping. Above the altar sputtered the blood-red eternal light, illuminating in crimson shadow the quiet of almost two thousand years. It was like death, but I could remember screaming infants at baptism too. I knelt. This was habit, this kneeling. I sat down. Better to kneel, for the sharp bite at the knees was a distraction from the awful quiet. A prayer. Sure, one prayer: for sentimental reasons. Almighty God, I am sorry I am now an atheist, but have you read Nietzsche? Ah, such a book! Almighty God, I will play fair in this. I will make You a proposition. Make a great writer out of me, and I will return to the Church. And please, dear God, one more favor: make my mother happy. I don’t care about the Old Man …”

I know it is more user friendly to have less text but I love this story so much and I can’t stand to cut out more of it.

The road to Los Angeles
They went to bed. I had the divan and they had the bedroom. When their door closed I got out the magazines and piled into bed. I was glad to be able to look at the girls under the lights of the big room. It was a lot better than that smelly closet. I talked to them about an hour, went into the mountains with Elaine, and to the South Seas with Rosa, and finally in a group meeting with all of them spread around me, I told them I played no favorites and that each in her turn would get her chance. But after a while I got awfully tired of it, for I got to feeling more and more like an idiot until I began to hate the idea that they were only pictures, flat and single-faced and so alike in color and smile. And they all smiled like whores. It all got very hateful and I thought, Look at yourself! Sitting here and talking to a lot of prostitutes. A fine superman you turned out to be! What if Nietzsche could see you now? And Schopenhauer what would he think? And Spengler! Oh, would Spengler roar at you! You fool, you idiot, you swine, you beast, you rat, you filthy, contemptible, disgusting little swine! Suddenly I grabbed the pictures up in a batch and tore them to pieces and threw them down the bowl in the bathroom. Then I crawled back to bed and kicked the covers off. I hated myself so much that I sat up in bed thinking the worst possible things about myself. Finally I was so despicable there was nothing left to do but sleep. It was hours before I dozed off. The fog was thinning in the east and the west was black and grey. It must have been three o’clock. From the bedroom I heard my mother’s soft snores. By then I was ready to commit suicide, and so thinking I fell asleep.

They wouldn’t give me a ride. He killed crabs, that fellow up there ahead. Why give him a ride? He loves paper ladies in clothes closets. Think of it! So don’t give him a ride, that Frankenstein, that toad in the road, that black spider, snake, dog, rat, fool, monster, idiot. They wouldn’t give me a ride; all right so what! And see if I care! To hell with all of you! It suits me fine. I love to walk on these God-given legs, and by God I’ll walk. Like Nietzsche. Like Kant. Immanuel Kant. What do you know about Immanuel Kant? You fools in your V-8s and Chevrolets!

It was always the park. I read a hundred books. There was Nietzsche and Schopenhauer and Kant and Spengler and Strachey and others. Oh Spengler! What a book! What weight! Like the Los Angeles Telephone Directory. Day after day I read it, never understanding it, never caring either, but reading it because I liked one growling word after another marching across pages with somber mysterious rumblings. And Schopenhauer! What a writer! For days I read him and read him, remembering a bit here and a bit there. And such things about women! I agreed. Exactly my own feelings on the matter. Ah man, what a writer!

I am currently reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra. I love it. I thought that Nietzsche would be masculine, aggressive and verbose but this book is simple and sweet. It is gentle and feels like an old, maybe slightly odd, man telling a story to a little girl. I don’t know if I am “getting it” though because everything I read about him paints him is another light, like WTF is this (besides some christian dude throwing up all over Nietzsche’s work). True, I am less than 100 pages in but so far I want to pour tea for him as he eats a cracker and I tell him, I like what he has to say and I also like his mustache.

and here is an exciting educational journey