You Must Change Your Life

In You Must Change Your Life, Rachel Corbett elucidates the unlikely friendship between French sculptor Auguste Rodin and Bohemian-Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke.  Not only was Rodin 35 years Rilke’s senior, but their personalities were polar opposites. Rilke was sensitive, delicate, refined, while Rodin was robust and carnal.  At the time of their meeting in 1902, Rodin was famous and admired, while Rilke was still unknown. his poetic gifts unformed.   Their meeting was transformative for them both.  Rilke was transfixed by the older artist, and they developed a master-disciple relationship that lasted until Rodin’s death.

rainer_maria_rilke_1900
Photograph of Rainer Maria Rilke Photographer unknown

You Must Change Your Life provides a sketch of both artists’ biographies.  Corbett includes information on the most significant relationships of the two men’s lives, especially the women who surrounded them.  (I wrote a previous blog post here on one of these

NPG x6573; Auguste Rodin by George Charles Beresford
Photo of Auguste Rodin by George Charles Beresford

fascinating women: Lou Andreas-Salome.) Corbett is most interested, however, in exploring the process of creativity and artistic development.  In doing so, she delves into the intellectual and artistic currents of late 19th century in order to explain to readers the influences on both Rilke and Rodin.  She explores not only aesthetic theories, but also on other intellectual currents such as philosophy, psychoanalysis, and the newly explored concept of empathy.  Corbett also illuminates the significance of particular places in creativity—especially the city of Paris, which has been the incubator of so many artists.

Of all the many influences on Rilke, Rodin was one of the most important. Rilke allowed himself to be like clay in his master’s hands, yearning to be shaped into something memorable.   He learned many things from the sculptor, especially “the meaning of structure.  [Rodin] had given [Rilke] the blueprint to build his poetry like a carpenter builds four walls around him” (246).  Learning structure was immensely valuable to the poet.

However, Rilke also misunderstood some of Rodin’s advice, much to his detriment.  Rodin urged Rilke to “travailler, toujours travailler” (work, always work).   Unfortunately, Rilke followed this advice literally, sacrificing close relationships and many of the pleasures of his life in order to pursue his art more fervently.  “He had sat around empty hotel rooms, stared at cathedral towers and caged lions, slept in empty beds.  But deep within the body of this lifelong observer was the trace of a ‘still feelable heart’ that had been ‘painfully buried-alive by images,’” observes Corbett.  Rilke had abandoned life “in anticipation of future payoff” (247).

It was only later that Rilke realized that “Rodin had not made any of the sacrifices that he, Rilke, had.  Rodin was no martyr for his art.  How did he live? Full of pleasure, and exactly as he pleased, it turned out” (247).   At first, Rilke felt disillusioned when he realized his mentor was not what he thought he was.   Eventually, though, Rilke realized that nobody, no master, could tell their disciple how to live.  The artist has to figure it out for themselves.  The important thing about art, Rilke realized later in his life, is that “there was never anything waiting on the other side: There was no god, no secret thing, and in most cases no reward.  There was only the doing” (247).   Rilke does, of course, become a great poet.  Corbett does not suggest that Rodin was the only reason for Rilke’s greatness.  He was, nonetheless, a pivotal figure in Rilke’s artistic development.

I found Corbett’s book fascinating.  I would recommend it to readers who are interested in the arts, in creativity, in the cultural and intellectual currents of late 19th century Europe, or even in the city of Paris.  The book contains a number of different “threads,” of which I only touched on a few here.  Perhaps one could fault Corbett for trying to cover too many different topics, leaving a somewhat “meandering” feel to the book.  I, however, enjoyed her excursions into some of the facets of fin-de-siecle European art.

Teaser Tuesday

The Purple Booker hosts a weekly meme known as Teaser Tuesday.  Here is my tease:

Parisians seemed to feel the will to live more keenly than others.  Rushing commuters “made no detour around me but ran over me full of contempt,” as if Rilke were a pothole in the street, he wrote.  (80)

This is from Rachel Corbett’s nonfiction book You Must Change Your Life, about the friendship between sculptor Auguste Rodin and the poet Rainer Maria Rilke in the late 19th-early 20th century.  Corbett illumines the two artists’ struggles with what it means to be an artist and how an artist should live.  It is an intellectual history that explores creativity, aesthetics, urban living, modernity, friendship, empathy, and much more.

What are you reading?

ERVL0016505

Corbett, Rachel.  You Must Change Your Life.  New York: Norton, 2016.

Here is more information on Teaser Tuesday:

• Grab your current read
• Open to a random page
• Share two (2) “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page
• BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! (make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away! You don’t want to ruin the book for others!)
• Share the title & author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their TBR Lists if they like your teasers! Everyone loves Teaser Tuesday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dante’s Man Crush on Virgil

Dante and Virgil
Dante and Virgil

In the past few weeks, I wrote a few blog posts on Dante’s Inferno, the great medieval Italian depiction of hell.  As it happened, I was in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts the other day, and I stumbled upon this wonderful sculpture of Dante and Virgil.  I had not been previously aware of this 1862 sculpture by Baron Henri de Triqueti.  (For more information on this work, click here.).

I was, though, aware of the serious “man-crush” Dante Alighieri had on Publius Vergilius Maro, more commonly known as Virgil.  Virgil was a Roman poet who lived from 70 – 19 B.C., while Dante was a Florentine who lived from 1265-1321 A.D,  Obviously, then, they never met.  This sculpture is a product of Triqueti’s imagination.

Virgil was most famous for epic poem The Aeneid, which was in many ways a rewriting of Homer’s The Odyssey and The Iliad,  but from the point of view of the Trojans who eventually became the Romans who, at the time of Aeneid’s writing, were a powerful empire controlling a good chunk of the world.

Dante thought Virgil was awesome, the bees knees, the greatest thing since sliced bread, the top of the charts, quite simply the best.  Dante thought Virgil was so cool, in fact, that he put him in his poem.  Virgil in The Inferno symbolizes the epitome of human reason, the best that humans are capable of without the light of God.  (Virgil was a pagan.)  Unfortunately, Virgil lives in hell because he was pre-Christian.   However, he lives in the best section of it, along with the other virtuous pagans.  Nothing really bad happens to the virtuous pagans.  They are simply without hope of heaven.

Having quite a bit of spare time on his hands, Virgil agrees to guide Dante through hell.  He explains who is who, what is what, and why they sinners are punished the way they are.  Without Virgil, Dante would not have been able to make it through hell and come out on the other end.  Without Virgil as his poetic guide, he would not have been able to write the masterpiece of The Divine Comedy, either.

What about you?  If you were writing an epic poem in which you were featured as the hero or heroine, who would you choose as your guide?  Do you have a man-crush or woman-crush on an author, dead or alive?

 

The Dante’s Inferno Weight-Loss Plan

In Dante Alighieri’s medieval poem The Inferno, the third circle of hell is reserved for the gluttons.   Everything in this circle is like a huge garbage dump.  The dead gluttons lie in a “putrid slush” while being deluged with “huge hailstones, dirty water, and black snow.”  This landscape sounds almost as bad as Minnesota in March.

(For more information on The Inferno, see my previous post here.)

Illustration of Canto 6 by Stradanus
Illustration of Canto 6 by Stradanus

But that’s not all!  Added to this frozen rain of hell is the punishment inflicted by the triple-headed dog Cerberus, who “howls through his triple throats like a mad dog / over the spirits sunk in that foul paste. / His eyes are red, his beard is greased with phlegm / his belly is swollen, and his hands are claws/ to rip the wretches and flay and mangle them”  (Canto VI, Circle 3, lines 14 – 18).  These gluttonous souls are buried like garbage, and the mad dog Cerberus devours them like so much leftover meat.

Dante believed the gluttons deserved such punishment because when they were alive, they could think of nothing better to do with their God-given gifts than to wallow in food and drink.  They thus deserve to spend eternity “rotting like a swollen log.”

In the past, whenever I read this description of the gluttons in hell, my first reaction was to think, “oh, crap.  I really need to give up those Snickers bars before I end up here.”  This time, though, reading about the Third Circle gave me a business idea.  I am going to create and promote the Dante’s Inferno Weight Loss Plan.  First, I will open up a chain of weight-loss centers across the nation.    My plan will work a bit like Weight Watchers.  Clients will agree to follow a reduced-calorie diet, and will meet once a week for a weigh-in.   If they lose weight, all is well.

However, if they do not lose weight, they will then be sent immediately (through a trap door) to  Dante’s Third Circle of hell, where they will remain for a week.  After being slobbered over and gnawed at for a week by Cerberus, they will probably become so nauseated and disgusted that they will not be able to eat much. They will come back after their “adventure” a few pounds lighter, but more important they will be motivated to stay on their diets forever, in order to avoid such punishment again.

With The Inferno plan, my clients will not only lose pounds, but they will lose the weight of their sins as well and can move on directly to Purgatory.

What do you think of my plan?  It’s brilliant, right?  All I need to make it work is a partner who is willing to invest a few billion dolllars to help build a replica of The Inferno.   (We could probably have it double as a theme park as well, now that I think of it.)

Are you in?

————

Want to know which circle of hell you belong in?  Click here to find out.

http://www.4degreez.com/misc/dante-inferno-test.mv

What Fresh Hell Is This? Dante’s “Inferno:

Sandro Botticelli, Portrait of Dante
Sandro Botticelli, Portrait of Dante

 

Medieval Italian poet Dante Alighieri wrote probably the most famous depiction of hell of all times.  In his Inferno, he wrote very detailed descriptions of the nine levels of hell.  For him, sins are not all created equal.  The first circle of hell is reserved for those who were not bad in life, just unbaptized.  The second circle is for those who succumb to lust.  The third is for gluttony, and so forth.  Each sin has its own punishment designed specifically for it.  For example, the lustful are forced to be blown about in a violent storm because they succumbed to the violent storm of lust  in real life.

Which level do you belong in?
Which level do you belong in?

At the center of hell lies Satan.  Although we tend to think of hell as a fiery place, Dante’s Satan is encased in ice, denoting his soul that is frozen to the love of God.

William Bougureau, painting of Dante's Inferno
William Bougureau, painting of Dante’s Inferno

Dante lived in the 14th century, so his conception of various sins was colored by the times in which he lived.  I think we need to update his map of hell for the present times.

I need your help for this.  If you were to create a map of hell as you see it, what/who would you put in the various levels?

For example, I teach at the college level.  If I were to make a map of academic sins, I might include the following:

–1st circle:  students who continually ask questions like, “When is this paper due?” or “What are we doing tomorrow” when all of this information is found on my carefully planned and copiously distributed syllabus.

–2nd circle:  students who missed class and ask the next day, “Did I miss anything in class yesterday?”

–3rd circle:  students who spend the entire class period looking down at their crotches, texting on their phones.

–8th circle:  Plagiarizers.

–9th circle:  Administrators who think people do not need to study literature.

(Obviously, this is a work in progress.)

Tell me about your levels of hell!

Anne Bradstreet: Badass Puritan Poet

Anne Bradstreet
Anne Bradstreet

Because Thanksgiving season is upon us and because I will soon be travelling to Boston, I am continuing my series highlighting early American writers.  Yesterday, I wrote about the literary duel between Thomas Morton (the bad boy of early New England settlers) and William Bradford, the long-time governor of Plymouth Bay Colony.

Today, I am focusing upon the first English-speaking poet published in America:  Anne Bradstreet.  As you might guess from her name, she was a woman.  She was also a devout Puritan who married at age 16 and raised eight children in the howling wilderness of Massachusetts Bay Colony.

Managing to become the first published poet of North American while being a female Puritan makes Anne Bradstreet distinctly Badass, in my humble opinion.  Bradstreet lived from 1612-1672, and she published her collection of poetry called The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America in 1650.

let us now praise badass women

During this time period, women—to put it mildly—were considered inferior to men and were expected to conform to female duties of running a household and raising children.  They were not expected to become published poets.

To give a example of the cultural attitudes that the prevailed, one historical document suggested to women readers that they should “derive their ideas of God from the contemplations of her husband’s excellencies.”

[Excuse me while I gag.]

So it was against strong odds that Bradstreet managed to publish a book of poetry.  It helped that her brother-in-law was a strong advocate of her work; he took a copy of her work to London to get it published.

The preface her brother-in-law wrote to the book explains much about the attitudes of the time:

.. .the worst effect of his [the reader’s] reading will be unbelief, which will make him question whether it be a woman’s work, and ask, is it possible?  If any do, take this as an answer from him that dares avow it; it is the work of a woman, honored, and esteemed where she lives, for her gracious demeanor, her eminent parts, her pious conversation, her courteous disposition, her exact diligence in her place, and discreet managing of her family occasions, and more than so, these poems are the fruit but of some few hours, curtailed from her sleep and other refreshments(my emphasis)

In other words, it is hard to believe that a woman could write poetry.  It is also rather disgraceful.  But, since the woman still managed to be well-behaved and did her domestic duties, I guess we can allow it.

Bradstreet tended to write about issues dear to many women’s hearts:  her husband, her children, her home, and her struggle to reconcile her faith with her more worldly desires.  People today who read her work out of context probably find it conventional and unremarkable.  (I know that was my first reaction to it.)

However, given her time period and her context as a Puritan settler in North America, her choice of subject matter was actually quite rebellious.  The Puritans in America were generally quite literate and promoted reading and writing—up to a point.  The only subject matter they really approved of was religious subject matter.  If a person was going to write poetry, they should be sure to write poetry in praise of God.  There was no other point in writing.

Bradstreet was a religious woman and she did often write about God.  But she also wrote about private, domestic matters.  For many of her fellow Puritans, such topics were considered frivolous or inappropriate. But that did not stop Anne Bradstreet.

In one of her poems, for example, “Before the Birth of One of Her Children,” she wrote a poetic letter to husband.  In this poem, she expressed her fears that she might die in childbirth (a realistic fear at the time) and hoped that her husband would remember her lovingly.  She also hoped that he would raise their children well, and not let any wicked stepmother abuse them:

“And when they loss shall be repaid with gains,

Look to my little babes, my dear remains.

And if thou love thy self, or loved’st me,

These O protect from step-dame’s injury”

Other topics of her poetry include love poems to her husband, poems in memory of a deceased young grandchild, and even a poem lamenting the loss of her house to fire.  She often wrote about her faith, but when she did so, she highlighted the very real struggles she often faced in trying to understand why thing happened the way they did.

Despite the centuries that separate contemporary readers from the 1600s, I think most women can relate to at least some of Bradstreet’s poems.  Reading her poetry helps me to understand early Puritans as full-blooded human beings, rather than just one-sided symbols of early America.

National Blog Posting Month
National Blog Posting Month

Io, is that You?

Io?
Io?

 

This photo is in honor of Io, the woman from Ovid’s Metamorphoses who was turned into a cow.  The Metamorphoses is the ancient Roman poet Ovid’s compendium of Greek and Roman myths.  All of these myths are linked together so that the poem tells the story of the world, from the creation to the then-present time of Roman Empire.  Linking each story is the process of transformation: people get transformed into animals; animals get transformed into stars, and so forth.

While Ovid was a brilliant writer, I find this poem rather painful to read at times because there is so much abuse of the humans by the gods.  In particular, the male gods (especially Jove/Jupiter) have a habit of lusting after female humans and raping them.  These women are then transformed (usually against their will) into another creature.

The myth of Io and Juno provides one example.  Io was a lovely young woman.  Jove had a “thing” for lovely young women and started pursuing her, literally.  Io most certainly was not interested in having sex with Jove, but he chased her “until she entered the shady groves of Lyrcea / And there, cloaked by a sudden thundercloud / Jove overcame her scruples and her flight.” (Book I, p 48).

As if being overtaken by a thunderbolt-wielding lust-crazed god wasn’t enough, there was more.  Jove’s wife Juno guessed what was going on between her husband and Io, and tried to stop them.  However, Jove realized Juno was coming, so he turned Io into a cow.  It’s as if he said, “Who me?  Raping a virgin?  I would never do that.  I’m just hanging out with this pretty little cow.”

So Io, who was just going about her business, not only get raped, but she also gets transformed into a cow in order to appease the angry wife.  How fair is that?  Unfortunately, Greek and Roman mythology is full of similar stories of male gods being entranced by human females, with the women usually having to pay a heavy price for being attractive.

We talk today about living in a rape culture.  I would remind readers that this culture is nothing new.  We only have to glance at classic literature to see it displayed full force.

 

http://markbialczak.com/2014/10/27/team-pepper-gets-spicy-right-here-nano-poblano

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Should I Stay Or Should I Go? Tennyson’s “Ulysses”

Armand Assante as Odysseus in the  1997 made-for-TV movie version directed by Andrei Konchalovsky
Armand Assante as Odysseus in the 1997 made-for-TV movie version directed by Andrei Konchalovsky

In my World Literature class, we are finishing up Homer’s The Odyssey.  Odysseus has finally made it home to Ithaca after being away for 20 years—ten in the Trojan War, and ten lost at sea on the way home.  He is greeted not by the warm embrace of his people, but by a band of snarling suitors who want to kill him, as well as a wife who isn’t sure who he is.

In the end, though, Odysseus prevails.  He gets his kingdom, his wife, and his son back.  He is home.  He and his family will live happily ever after, right?

Well, not according to Lord Alfred Tennyson.  He wrote a poem called “Ulysses” in 1833 and published it in 1842.   This poem is based on the myth of Odysseus/Ulysses as it appears not just in Homer’s Odysseus, but also in Dante’s rendition of Ulysses in his Inferno.)

In Tennyson’s poem, reproduced below, Ulysses is far from living happily-ever-after with his family.  On the contrary, he laments being stuck at home.  He is bored with his job (being king!) and with the yahoos he rules.  Worse yet, his wife is aged. After hanging out with all the sex-starved nymphs he met on his travels, Ulysses probably finds Penelope rather unappealing.  So he decides to light out for the territory again.

I have mixed feelings when I read this poem.  On the one hand, this is a blog devoted to travel and other forms of exploration.  How could I not love lines such as these:

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’

Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades

For ever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!

 

This is a gorgeous poem, no doubt about it.  But although I understand the travel bug infecting Ulysses, I can’t help but think about his family, especially Penelope.   She waited faithfully for twenty freaking years, and now he wants to leave again? It’s enough to drive a woman to drink with the swineherds.  Did it not even occur to him to ask her if she wanted to accompany him?  Aaarrrgh!

Tennyson’s poem reminds me of my own pendulum swing between home-travel-home-travel home.  Personally, I like having a solid home base.  It’s wonderful to travel, but it’s always great to come home as well.

But Maybe that’s a woman thing.  Classic literature is bereft of male heroes who are content with their domestic fires.  They are much more inclined to be “strong in will / To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

 

What about you?  Would you spend all your time travelling and exploring if you had the option?  Or would you come home to Penelope and stay put?

 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d

Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when

Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’

Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades

For ever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!

As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains: but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

 

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

‘T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

 

Minnesota Couch Warmer’s Guide to China, Part 4: I Wanna Party With This Guy!

 

Li Bo (aka Li Bai)
Li Bo (aka Li Bai)

Li Bo

Li Bo (a.k.a. Li Bai), was a Chinese poet who lived in the 700s, during the Tang Dynasty. Spanning the years 618-907 A.D, the Tang Dynasty is known as the Golden Age of Chinese culture. During this era, poetry flourished; Tang poets are among the most revered figures of Chinese literature.

I don’t know about you, but when I read terms like “Golden Age of Poetry,” “Tang Dynasty,” and so forth, it all sounds rather stuffy and forbidding, like starched silk (if there is such a thing).  I assumed the poetry would be highly formal and concerned with paying the proper respects to one’s elders and correctly using chopsticks at the dinner table.

Therefore, I was pleasantly surprised to discover how fresh and modern Li Bo’s poems seem to me. (One reason they seem modern is because they influenced Anglo-American literary modernism via Ezra Pound, but that’s another story.)

Far from being a stuffed-shirt, Li Bo was known as a free-spirit who wrote poems in praise of wine and nudity. He reminds me a little bit of Walt Whitman in his free-spiritedness, although his style is much more imagistic and controlled.

Li Bo played up his “fun party guy” image because it helped him professionally. According to Stephen Owen, a specialist in Chinese literature, the powerful people of the Tang Dynasty liked having a few free-spirited poetic types around to liven up their parties. Owen notes that “It was considered sort of nice to have one [a wild and free poet]. They entertained you.” Asian Topics: An Online Resource for Asian History and Culture.

Who knew a person could make a living cavorting drunkenly in front of the moon for the ruling class?  I wonder if Obama would hire me for such a position….

In any case, here are a few of Li Bo’s poems for you to enjoy.  Let me know what you think!

Poems by Li Bo (aka Li Bai)

Summer Day in the Mountains

Lazily waving a fan of white feathers,
stripped naked here in the green woods.
I take off my headband hang it on a cliff
my bare head splattered by winds through pines.

Amusing Myself

Facing my wine, I did not see the dusk,
Falling blossoms have filled the folds of my clothes.
Drunk, I rise and approach the moon in the stream,
Birds are far off, people too are few.

Autumn Air

The autumn air is clear,
The autumn moon is bright.
Fallen leaves gather and scatter,
The jackdaw perches and starts anew.
We think of each other- when will we meet?
This hour, this night, my feelings are hard.

Drinking Alone under the Moon

Among the flowers, a single jug of wine;
I drink alone. No one close to me.
I raise my cup, invite the bright moon;
facing my shadow, together we make three.
The moon doesn’t know how to drink;
and my shadow can only follow my body.
But for a time I make moon and shadow my companions;
taking one’s pleasure must last until spring.
I sing — the moon wavers back and forth.
I dance — my shadow flickers and scatters.
When I’m sober we take pleasure together.
When I’m drunk, we each go our own ways.
I make an oath to journey forever free of feelings,
making an appointment with them to meet in the Milky Way afar.

[Translation by Paul Rouzer]