Due to spam and off-topic content, these forums are being phased out and replaced with new great books forums. Please join us! Ahoy fellow book lovers!

The former post was removed as it violated our user agreement, or it did not add to the "Great Books" conversation in a constructive manner.

The new F. Scott Fitzgerald Forum may be found at http://killdevilhill.com/fitzgeraldchat/wwwboard.html .

To foster quality discussion forums, from now on only registered members may post. Spam will not be tolerated. If you would like to help moderate, please contact "jolly roger ship @ yahoo . com".

To post please register at http://jollyrogerwest.com.

We prefer deep reflections on Philosophy, Shakespearean Sonnets, and tender musings along the lines of:

LXXXIV

Who is it that says most, which can say more,
Than this rich praise,--that you alone, are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
  You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
  Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
 	--William Shakespeare

They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty. -Oscar Wild, 1891

It is our continuing goal to foster the world's greatest converstation.

In the future, please register and make all posts to http://jollyrogerwest.com,

and/or join the forums at Great Books & Philosophy Forums @ jollyroger.com/greatbooksforums.

VII

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty; 
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
  So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon:
  Unlook'd, on diest unless thou get a son.
 	--William Shakespeare

All The Best,

William Einstein Shakespeare :)

Science without religion is lame. Religion without science is blind. --Albert Einstein