Eyes Reddened from Reading too Much Romantic Poetry

My eyes are reddened from too much reading.

I fail to comprehend how much Coleridge, Shelley, Wordsworth, Blake, Byron and Shakespeare I read within the last few days.

I have no idea how many hours sleep I sacrificed. Ok… I am an insomniac, so it is not really a sacrifice. I like reading. The eye-scan of texts fulfills me. I like mentally connecting with new stories and ideas. Reading is also a way to kill the night hours.

Sadly, my love has wounded my eyes. I feel like dunking my eyes in cold, ice-water. I think the damage caused from my deep and long reading was worth the strain for the quality and depth of the poems, though.

Well…the effort was worth the time and eyestrain for the lyrical quality and inspiration.

I love reading the Romantic poets. I prefer them to the Victorians. I think Romantic poets hold more lyrical power.

Shelly may be my favorite. Sadly, he died young. He lived five more years than Keats, though.

I wonder why they died so early. I should Wikipedia my query to find out his cause of death. The information may be trivial, but it does perk my interest.

The quality of Keats’s and Shelly’s poems is profound. The structure and versification is breathtaking. The young age both composed their poems is also a wonder.

I read the poems on my Kindle. I found myself growing impatient and shrinking the text to see more of the poems. Sadly, this shrinkage of text does nothing for eye comfort, but promotes eyestrain.

I need to curb the text-shrink habit a bit.


“Red Wind,” Review

“Red Wind,” first edition cover

“Red Wind,” is a short noir story written by Raymond Chandler. I read it out of a short story collection, which collects five of Chandler’s Phillip Marlow short stories. The short stories average over 50 pages.

Each story is almost a novella in length or close to a novella. Hence, the stories contain several chapters within them.

“Red Wind,” concerns Philip Marlow’s search of a lost set of pearls.

Marlow is the famous whiskey drinking detective of “The Big Sleep.” Film fans will remember Humphrey Bogart staring as the wise-cracking sleuth in the Hollywood movie adaption of the novel.

“Red Wind,” contains the usual tropes expected from a Chandler piece: stickups, guns, double-dealing, wise-cracks and rye whiskey.

The prose is sparse but good. It is not of Hemmingway excellence, in sparse and good elevation and evaluation, but the word choice and application is good, nonetheless.

“Red Wind’s,” narrative is entertaining. However, the story is segmented and tangled. So, it is hard to comprehend as a whole.

One gets the overall narrative-gist at one reading. Remembering detail of the overall happenings is harder to ingest.

Plot-point events in the story, however, get a playback from interviews Marlow gives and has with various characters he confronts and is confronted by.

The playback-plot-point-interview-retread is an atypical Chandler device.

The device works, but those familiar with Chandler’s Marlow stories can find the method tiring, after reading several of his novels or stories.

Marlow’s search in “Red Wind,” ends without success. Marlow does not find the lost pearls. The pearls Marlow searches for have been replaced with fakes. The story ends with the plot-threads still loose.

The story ends with Marlow flicking the fake pearls one-by-one into the sea, as seagulls dash at the splashes the faux-pearls make on the water.

Town Square Visitation (poem)

I walked into town square.

I gazed into shop windows.

I eyed those

Placed on

Side walks

And adjacent streets.

I saw many standing,






Each at verse in usual conversing,

Each in tune with his own and peeking into others business,

Each attempting to impress to their limits,

Each skilled at repressing a theatrical desire,

Each covering his or her own fire,

Each in smiles,

Each suited up for the occasion,

Each knowing the rules and limits of his station,

Each within their circle,

Each in sway with the usual diurnal.

I found myself unimpressed.

I found it meaningless.

I found myself enclosed,


Within the fusing of my own musing,

As I listened to the music through the speakers,

My sphere of internal,



Melodied music orchestrated

And piped

Its mental waves through

My neural,

And Personal regions.




At times frustrated,

Was alighted,


And was satisfied.

Emerson on Skepticism

The new statement will comprise the skepticisms as well as the faiths of society, and out of unbeliefs a creed shall be formed. For skepticisms are not gratuitous or lawless, but are limitations of the affirmative statement, and the new philosophy must take them in and make affirmations outside of them, just as much as it must include the oldest beliefs.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo (2011-03-30). Essays — Second Series (p. 27). . Kindle Edition.

Emerson Quote

When I converse with a profound mind, or if at any time being alone I have good thoughts, I do not at once arrive at satisfactions, as when, being thirsty, I drink water; or go to the fire, being cold; no! but I am at first apprised of my vicinity to a new and excellent region of life. By persisting to read or to think, this region gives further sign of itself, as it were in flashes of light, in sudden discoveries of its profound beauty and repose, as if the clouds that covered it parted at intervals and showed the approaching traveller the inland mountains, with the tranquil eternal meadows spread at their base, whereon flocks graze and shepherds pipe and dance. But every insight from this realm of thought is felt as initial, and promises a sequel. I do not make it; I arrive there, and behold what was there already.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo (2011-03-30). Essays — Second Series (p. 26). . Kindle Edition.

Passing the Night

We pass the night hours with head spent in books and fingers spent at keyboard.

Sips of whisky serve as refreshment, after several pages of prose ,

as we spend time alone,

in search of our own and separate lost times,

which reel and re-reel mental images set to auto-playback.

A liquor shot in the glass and down the throat serves to pause the cerebral theater.

What would Proust say of our condition?

What would he muse upon, in bed, in his sound-proofed chamber – insomniazed, as we?

How many comma and semicolon strings would he place between our strings and flows of mental-sentenced-thoughts,

our desires,



Would he lay bear our paranoia?

Would he advertise our personal fears and lacks of trust?