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Post by leecrowell on Dec 10, 2011 22:27:26 GMT -5
No Rembrandt, Picasso, or Van Gogh, no Whistler’s Mother, Mona Lisa or Sistine Chapel eclipses the sight of daisies in bloom or the view of a misty sunrise.
No Beethoven’s 5th, Mozart concerto or Sinatra croon pierces the air with the freshness of a whippoorwill, vibrates the stillness of midnight like a barn owl’s hoot.
No skyscrapers of New York, Hong Kong or Dubai match the magnitude of a Grand Canyon or the spired peaks of Patagonia.
No mere atomic explosion exceeds the torrent of a rain from Katrina, the force of a Mount Saint Helens or Krakatoa.
May the critics of the world backpack the trails of a continental divide, navigate a sail between Caribbean islands, traverse the Klondike on cross country skis. May they wear out their soles on the hellish side of a street, may they share in the burden of mass graves. Then tell us how the senses perceive beauty and the passion of a wrenched gut.
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Post by Dunstan Attard on Dec 15, 2011 5:34:37 GMT -5
great topic expressed with such emotion that the flow is robust and solid with little mystery yet superb contrasting imagery
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Post by Don Schaeffer on Dec 16, 2011 11:43:04 GMT -5
Lee: A strong statement of an existentialism. Only the genuine will do alright.
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