It’s no surprise that so many influential thinkers and creative types have come from the ranks of these intellectual revolutionaries. Organized religion tends to reward people not for thinking creatively or critically, but for reciting and defending the dogmas of the previous generation. Throughout human history, it has consistently been true that hidebound theocracies have been mired in poverty, backwardness and intellectual stagnation, whereas the most dramatic advances have come about in times and places where people had the freedom to think for themselves, to freely question and debate. The lives of the men and women recounted here bear testimony to this.
The first thing you have to do when confronting Shakespeare is break down the wall of resistance that has been constructed between you and him by a cultural atmosphere fraught with willful misunderstanding. For instance, how many times have you heard someone say that Shakespeare wrote in Old English or Middle English? That right there might be enough to put you off. But both of those claims are patently false.
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Shakespeare wrote in Modern English, the same language that we speak today. [. . .] Your problem with understanding Shakespeare is due to his language being poetic. Most of your everyday discourse has become so pedestrian that your ears have become unable to tune in to language that aspires to greater heights. This may or may not be your fault. We all are aware that the state of education in this country is woefully bleak. But why submit to the prevailing philistine attitude without a fight?
This is a poem I wrote for my mom who is a Christian. I wrote it about a week after I told her I was bi and she expressed her bigoted view on the subject. I read it to her already, but it still didn’t affect her in any way. I figured I may not be the only one out there that has this problem, so maybe this would help someone else. Feel free to share with anyone you think this would help. . . . If you can’t understand the poem [the lyrics may be found here by clicking "Show more" below the video].
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused – nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear – no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
The 18th century was a time of opulence and privilege for some. Europe was dominated by the twin authority of the Church and King – but beneath the surface, new forces were gathering to challenge their absolute rule.
Mitt Romney regularly incorporates lyrics from “America the Beautiful” into his stump speeches. Little does he probably realize that the hymn was written by a progressive feminist lesbian who composed it to critique country’s greed, excess, and growing economic inequality. The original third-verse lyrics Katharine Lee Bates wrote in 1894 were as follows:
America! America!
God shed his grace on thee
Till selfish gain no longer stain
The banner of the free!
Christian Johann Heinrich Heine (13 December 1797 – 17 February 1856)
German Poet, Journalist, Essayist, Literary Critic. His verse and prose is distinguished by its satirical wit and irony. His radical political views led to many of his works being banned.
Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings.
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