What would I do in 1681? Mouse, I suppose, or dart desperately from booted feet. There would have been, of course, no outlet for my lamentations, my creativity, my grasping at shadows.
How did creatures do it? Existent avant l'Internet?
You might have noted the wine, the glass which reads Paris (an obsession, I will admit - the cemeteries, churches, nightlife, ennui, le metro - Paris, je t'adore).
He is so, pray pardon the expression, lame. I would love you forever, blah blah blah, but we are going to die one day, so love me now in a carnal way (ah, see? I am a poet approaching Fremlin's caliber now).
I do love "vegetable love," however. It makes me swoon a bit. Perhaps I would have been convinced by his syllogism.
But what must the maîtresse effarouché be thinking? Does she feel special, or does she see that Marvell is manipulating her, that whispers of "though we cannot make our sun / stand still, yet we will make him run" (45-46) are meant to win her complicity and (although maybe I am simply a lonely cynic) nothing else?
Does she believe their love blurs time, speeds life, perhaps even feeds existence itself?
Perhaps I shall take this wine more seriously instead.
"Rough strife?" "Iron gates?" Is Marvell hinting some kind of BDSM thing here?
vous fera bête.
I should get back to grading, back to reading. Give me some Daphne Gottlieb or even Sylvia Plath (maybe my favorite line in all of poetry: "Love set you going like a fat gold watch" from the poem "Morning Song"), but I shall instead finish this glass.
Why not? Even though Marvall was consumed by natural lust, and I may lust thusly no longer since my "fixing," still I might make my sun run. Yet I might abandon myself to this moment, and none need convincing save my own gullet.