Now Playing Tracks

  • Track Name

    Two Swords

  • Album

    I Just Can't Stop It! (1980)

  • Artist

    The English Beat

merelygifted:

Two Swords
The English Beat
I Just Can’t Stop It! (1980)

I’ve never been one for the punch-up
But, look, I really hate those nazis, nazis
A certain something starts to wind me up
How come I hate it all so violently?

When two swords slashing at each other
Only sharpen one another
And in the long run even he’s your brother
Said, even though that cunt’s a nazi, nazi

Always attack those things in someone else
Reflections that you can’t face in yourself
To kill fascistic precious feelings gone [?]
It makes you turn into a bigger one
Because…

Two swords slashing on each other
Only sharpen one another
And in the long run even he’s your brother
Said, even though that cunt’s a nazi, nazi

Are you fighting the Front
Or just fronting a fight?
Sometimes it’s hard to see your left from your right
Are we angry, are we looking for peace
Or just tryin’ to win the war
By killing all the enemy off?
Just to kill the enemy off…
Just to kill the enemy off…
Just to kill the enemy off…

I’ve never been one for the punch-up
But look I really hate those nazis, nazis
A certain something gets to wind me up
How could I hate it all so violently?

When two swords slashing on each other
Only sharpen one another
And in the long run even he’s your brother
Said, even though that cunt’s a nazi, nazi
Even though that cunt’s a nazi, nazi
Even though that cunt’s a nazi, nazi

the English beat don’t like fascists!

…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me. Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through. I record here the actions of optical nerves, of taste buds, of sensory perception. And, I think: I am but one more drop in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realize my existence. Of the millions, I, too, was potentially everything at birth.
Sylvia Plath, from The Journals of Sylvia Plath (via mudwerks)

Plath!

(Source: liquidnight)

Woolf often conceives of life this way: as a gift that you’ve been given, which you must hold onto and treasure but never open. Opening it would dispel the atmosphere, ruin the radiance—and the radiance of life is what makes it worth living. It’s hard to say just what holding onto life without looking at it might mean; that’s one of the puzzles of her books. But it has something to do with preserving life’s mystery; with leaving certain things undescribed, unspecified, and unknown; with savoring certain emotions, such as curiosity, surprise, desire, and anticipation. It depends on an intensified sense of life’s preciousness and fragility, and on a Heisenberg-like notion that, when it comes to our most abstract and spiritual intuitions, looking too closely changes what we feel. It has to do, in other words, with a kind of inner privacy, by means of which you shield yourself not just from others’ prying eyes, but from your own. Call it an artist’s sense of privacy.

Joshua Rothman's New Yorker essay on Virginia Woolf’s idea of privacy is the best thing I’ve read in ages. 

It rings especially poignant in the context of her own conflicted inner life, from her exuberant appreciation of the world’s beauty to her intense capacity for love to the deathly despair of her suicide letter.

Do yourself a favor and read Rothman’s full essay here.

(via explore-blog)
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