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 Post subject: Don Juan
PostPosted: Tue Jul 08, 2003 9:37 am 
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Dose anyone know or have the opening passgae of Don Juan? I was at a musem that had a copy of the book and it was opend to like the very first page and I loved the passage but did not have any way to write it down there but I would like to have it.

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PostPosted: Tue Jul 08, 2003 6:24 pm 
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I am making a huge assumption that you are referring to Byron's:

I WANT a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I 'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan-
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

~ Don Juan by Byron
http://www.textfiles.com/etext/FICTION/


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 Post subject: Don Juan
PostPosted: Tue Jul 08, 2003 7:35 pm 
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That is nice I like it though I am not sure if it is the one I was thinking of. I wish I could remeber more about it or paid more attention when I saw it. It was a couple weeks ago. I just remeber that there was like this like first additon Don Juan book laying open on dispalay and on the page it was turend to there was this passage printed and I really liked it. It was not very long just sort of like a short poem.

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Every man carries a circle of hell around his head like a halo. Every man, every man has to go through hell to reach his paradise.
Robert De Niro, Cape Fear


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PostPosted: Wed Jul 09, 2003 10:11 am 
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Well, if it was Lord Byron's, the entire work is a poem.
So it looks like you're going to have to read the entire thing, which wouldn't be a bad thing.
http://www.textfiles.com/etext/FICTION/ ... on-315.txt


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 Post subject: Don Juan
PostPosted: Wed Jul 09, 2003 11:19 am 
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Yes I know that and I have been kind of interested in reading it. I enjoy poetry and old liteature but seems like what I saw was not a part of the actual story. I have been trying to look it up on the internet with no luck. Seems like I am just going to have to go back to that museum some day.

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Every man carries a circle of hell around his head like a halo. Every man, every man has to go through hell to reach his paradise.
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PostPosted: Sat Jul 12, 2003 2:32 pm 
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Maybe this would be a better website to explore at
http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Delphi/7086/donjuan.htm

It has the full dedication.

"There is a Thorn--it looks so old,
In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey...."
~ "The Thorn" by Wordsworth
referred to in the preface to "Don Juan" by Byron
http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Delphi/7086/preface.htm

Don Juan: DEDICATION.
[The Dedication was not published with any edition of Don Juan during Byron's life. The first two cantos were published anonymously, and Byron was not willing to, as he put it, "attack the dog in the dark."]
I
Bob Southey! You're a poet -- Poet-laureate,
And representative of all the race,
Although 't is true that you turn'd out a Tory at
Last, -- yours has lately been a common case;
And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like "four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;
II
"Which pye being open'd they began to sing"
(This old song and new simile holds good),
"A dainty dish to set before the King,"
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food; --
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, --
Explaining metaphysics to the nation --
I wish he would explain his Explanation.
III
You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know,
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,
And be the only Blackbird in the dish;
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
And tumble downward like the flying fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,
And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry, Bob!
IV
And Wordsworth, in a rather long Excursion
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages),
Has given a sample from the vasty version
Of his new system to perplex the sages;
'T is poetry -- at least by his assertion,
And may appear so when the dog-star rages --
And he who understands it would be able
To add a story to the Tower of Babel.
V
You -- Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion
From better company, have kept your own
At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion
Of one another's minds, at last have grown
To deem as a most logical conclusion,
That Poesy has wreaths for you alone:
There is a narrowness in such a notion,
Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.
VI
I would not imitate the petty thought,
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
Since gold alone should not have been its price.
You have your salary; was 't for that you wrought?
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.
You're shabby fellows -- true -- but poets still,
And duly seated on the immortal hill.
VII
Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows --
Perhaps some virtuous blushes; -- let them go --
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs --
And for the fame you would engross below,
The field is universal, and allows
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow:
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe will try
'Gainst you the question with posterity.
VIII
For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
Contend not with you on the winged steed,
I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
The fame you envy and the skill you need;
And recollect a poet nothing loses
In giving to his brethren their full meed
Of merit, and complaint of present days
Is not the certain path to future praise.
IX
He that reserves his laurels for posterity
(Who does not often claim the bright reversion)
Has generally no great crop to spare it, he
Being only injured by his own assertion;
And although here and there some glorious rarity
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,
The major part of such appelants go
To -- God knows where -- for no one else can know.
X
If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time,
If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs,
And makes the word `Miltonic' mean `sublime,'
He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime;
He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son,
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.
XI
Think'st thou, could he -- the blind Old Man -- arise
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more
The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
Or be alive again -- again all hoar
With time and trials, and those helpless eyes,
And heartless daughters -- worn -- and pale -- and poor;
Would he adore a sultan? he obey
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?
XII
Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!
Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,
Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore,
The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want,
With just enough of talent, and no more,
To lengthen fetters by another fix'd,
And offer poison long already mix'd.
XIII
An orator of such set trash of phrase
Ineffably -- legitimately vile,
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,
Nor foes -- all nations -- condescend to smile, --
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze
From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,
That turns and turns to give the world a notion
Of endless torments and perpetual motion.
XIV
A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
And botching, patching, leaving still behind
Something of which its masters are afraid,
States to be curb'd and thoughts to be confined,
Conspiracy or Congress to be made --
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind --
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
With God and man's abhorrence for its gains.
XV
If we may judge of matter by the mind,
Emasculated to the marrow It
Hath but two objects, how to serve and bind,
Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
Eutropius of its many masters, -- blind
To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
Fearless -- because no feeling dwells in ice,
Its very courage stagnates to a vice.
XVI
Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds,
For I will never feel them? -- Italy!
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee --
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds,
Have voices, tongues to cry aloud for me.
Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies still,
And Southey lives to sing them very ill.
XVII
Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate,
In honest simple verse, this song to you.
And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate,
'T is that I still retain my "buff and blue;"
My politics as yet are all to educate:
Apostasy 's so fashionable, too,
To keep one creed's a task grown quite Herculean;
Is it not so, my Tory, ultra-Julian?


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PostPosted: Mon Jul 18, 2005 4:39 pm 
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camus wrote about don juan in "sysphos"


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