the abyss means...

OK.

Esther linked to this site which claims: "we can tell what mood you're in and what would make you feel better. Simply do our test and we'll find you some poetry to soothe your mood."

So I did the test (deciding it was probably OK as it would give me poetry at the end rather than tell me which type of washing detergent I am...) and was surprised.

Strangely, it was both a good surprise and a bad surprise...

I was happy because it generated a poem that I used to really like when I was little, but had forgotten (The Black Riders and Other Lines by Stephen Crane).

I was not so convinced by their additional claim:

"You're experiencing a bit of an existential crisis, aren't you? Here's a poem to help you through your long dark night of the soul."

OK. I might have been having a bit of a long dark tea-time of the soul recently, but existential crisis? I am not an existentialist! (OK. I may be a proponent of subjectivity but I severely lack their angst about the whole matter...)

So I would just like to state for the record: The Guardian is wrong. I am not having an existential crisis... (Insofar as I know who I am, what I am responsible for, do not feel nauseous, have no major problems with 'the other' and no major dread or anxiety about anything else thank you very much.)

Good choice of poem though.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

(III)
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting on the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered,
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

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NOTE: I am being silly and deliberately not making a cohesive (or even sensible) argument here...

joh on January 7, 2003 01:43 AM

Good to see the exact/succinct definitions of all the terms I have used too loosely for years. For a while there I was getting 'existential' about everything. Like the poem site too, although seems I'm still the teenager-in-love pining for Mr Right.
The poem was good though: Only until this cigarette is ended? by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 - 1950

boynton on January 8, 2003 05:42 AM