“If there be such a thing as “treating” a whole nation at once for the “fear complex”, that is what we need in America to-day. All our business men need the treatment, all our politicians, all our writers, editors, and publishers, the children in our schools, and their mothers and fathers in their homes. The man in the street needs it, the preacher in the pulpit, the philanthropist in his sanctuary, the clerk at his desk. Every educational, political, or industrial danger that faces us is due to the prevalence of the fear complex. A general diminution of fear, though it were but relieving to a very small extent the secret timidities of each individual, would set every one of our problems on the road to a happy solution.” (John Jay Chapman, 1925, America’s Fear Complex)

Joseph Brodsky on W. H. Auden: “I saw him last in July 1973, at a supper at Stephen Spender’s place in London. Wystan was sitting there at the table, a cigarette in his right hand, a goblet in his left, holding forth on the subject of cold salmon. The chair being too low, two disheveled volumes of the OED were put under him by the mistress of the house. I thought then that I was seeing the only man who had the right to use those volumes as his seat.” (Brodsky, 1983, To Please a Shadow, in More Than One)

“If we know where free democracy resides and what it consists in, and if we want to preserve it, we must naturally defend our Bill of Rights and Constitution and fight war and fascism. But fully as important is our obligation to let a democratic breeze into the chambers of our own house and our own brain, for it is there that democracy begins and also there that it begins to decay. It is not enough to protest against flagrant public violations. Democracy, to maintain itself, must repeatedly conquer every cell and corner of the nation. How many of our public institutions and private businesses, our schools, hospitals, and domestic hearths, are in reality little fascist states where freedom of speech is more rigidly excluded than vermin because felt to be more dangerous? It is a constant fight to besiege these live fortresses. Death and martyrdom abroad become vivid irrelevancies compared to the guerilla fought from day to day under threat of dislike and dismissal by those in whom democracy is a practical and particular passion, and not merely an opportunity for frothy partisanship.” (Jacques Barzun, Of Human Freedom)

“The answer to difficulty never lies in theatricalism. The dilemma cannot be solved by anything but intelligent action, which means not intelligence or action by itself, but both working together at the multitude of particular problems that constitute the total difficulty. In a democracy, of all places, we must not pretend that “intelligent” is a term of praise and despise it in our hearts. If the economic realities I spoke of before are increasingly hard to get at, the political problems with which they are entangled are even more complex, and no machinery other than the human brain can cope with them. It matters little whose brains it is, provided we do not all abdicate responsibility in our neighbor’s favor. Shortly before Austria went fascist, in 1938, Schuschnigg is reported to have said that 25 per cent of the population were for him, 25 per cent for Hitler, and that the rest would go the way the cat jumped. This principle deserves the name of Schuschnigg’s Constant. The only doubt is whether he did not grossly exaggerate the number of those having opinions.” (Jacques Barzun, Of Human Freedom)

“There are some periods of great conflagration where a whole epoch is lighted up with one great flame of idea, which takes perhaps a few decades to arise, blaze, and fall; during which time it shows all men in its glare. Willy nilly they can be and are seen by this light and by no other. Willy nilly their chief interest for the future lies in their relation to this idea. In spite of themselves they are thrilling, illustrative figures, seen in lurid and logical distortion, — abstracts and epitomes of human life. Nay, they stand forever as creatures that have been caught and held, cracked open, thrown living upon a screen, burned alive perhaps by a searching and terrible bonfire and recorded in the act — as the citizens of Pompeii were recorded by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius.” (John Jay Chapman, William Lloyd Garrison)

“Opinion, we all instinctively feel, is vastly important for freedom. Nothing brings tyranny home to us so vividly as the stifling of opinion, and all the great political prisoners of history, from the Prisoner of Chillon down, have always boasted that their bodies might be in chains but their minds were free. That fact marks the superiority of a dungeon in the past over “liberty” in a modern totalitarian state.” (Jacques Barzun, Of Human Freedom)

James Michie, 1963

Don’t ask (we may not know), Leuconoe,
What ends the gods propose for me
Or you. Let Chaldees try
To read the ciphered sky;

Better to bear the outcome, good or bad,
Whether Jove purposes to add
Fresh winters to the past
Or to make this the last

Which now tires out the Tuscan sea and mocks
Its strength with barricades of rocks.
Be wise, strain clear of the wine
And prune the rambling vine

Of expectation. Life’s short. Even while
We talk Time, grudging, runs a mile.
Don’t trust tomorrow’s bough
For Fruit. Pluck this, here, now.

Burton Raffel, 1983

Leucon, no one’s allowed to know his fate,
Not you, not me: don’t ask, don’t hunt for answers
In tea leaves or palms. Be patient with whatever comes.
This could be our last winter, it could be many
More, pounding the Tuscan Sea on these rocks:
Do what you must, be wise, cut your vines
And forget about hope. Time goes running, even
As we talk. Take the present, the future’s no one’s affair.

Sir Thomas Hawkins, 1625

Strive not, Leuconoe! to know what end
The gods above to me, or thee, will send;
Nor with astrologers consult at all,
That thou may’st better know what can befall;
Whether thou liv’st more winters, or thy last
Be this, which Tyrrhen waves ‘gainst rocks do cast;
Be wise! drink free, and, in so short a space,
Do not protracted hopes of life embrace.
Whilst we are talking, envious time doth slide;
This day’s thine own, the next may be deny’d.

John Conington, 1882

Ask not (’tis forbidden knowledge), what our destined term of years,
Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your Babylonish seers.
Better far to bear the future, my Leuconoe, like the past,
Whether Jove has many winters yet to give, or this our last;
This, that makes the Tyrrhene billows spend their strength against the shore.
Strain your wine and prove your wisdom; life is short; should hope be more?
In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb’d away.
Seize the present; trust tomorrow e’en as little as you may.

Ezra Pound, 1963

Ask not ungainly askings of the end
Gods send us, me and thee, Leucothoe;
Nor juggle with the risks of Babylon,
Better to take whatever,
Several, or last, Jove sends us. Winter is winter,
Gnawing the Tyrrhene cliffs with the sea’s tooth.
Take note of flavors, and clarity’s in the wine’s manifest.
Cut loose long hope for a time.
We talk. Time runs in envy of us,
Holding our day more firm in unbelief.

David Slavitt, 2014

Don’t try to figure out the plans the gods
may have for you. Don’t pry into their secrets
with Babylonian astrology charts. No,
Leuconoe, I tell you, just endure.
This winter weakening now on the seashore rocks
could be your last. Or not. But either way,
seize the day; live its fleeting moments;
and think of the future no more than it thinks of you.

Jeffrey H. Kaimowitz, 2008

Don’t ask, you cannot know, what end for me or you
the gods have set, Leucónoë. Don’t look into
the stars. Much better to submit to what will be,
whether Jove bestows more winters or makes this
the last which pummels now the Tuscan sea against
a rocky shore. Be wise, decant your wine, prune back
long growth of hope. As we speak, begrudging time
has fled. Seize the day—and trust tomorrow least.

W. G. Shepherd, 1983

Do not inquire, we may not know, what end
the Gods will give, Leuconoe, do not attempt
Babylonian calculations. The better course
is to bear whatever will be, whether Jove allot
more winters or this is the last which exhausts
the Tuscan sea with pumice rocks opposed.
Be wise, decant the wine, prune back
your long-term hopes. Life ebbs as I speak –
so seize each day, and grant the next no credit.

Sidney Alexander, 1990

Ask not, O Leuconoe — to know is forbidden — what end
the gods have allotted either to me or to you.
Nor consult the Babylonian tables. How much better
to patiently endure whatever comes
whether Jupiter grants us more winters, or whether this one,
now crashing Tyrrhenean waves against the rocks,
shall be the last. Be wise. Water your wine.
Life is so brief: cut short far-reaching hopes.
Even as we speak, envious Time is fleeing.
Seize the day: entrusting as little as possible to tomorrow.

Heather McHugh, 2002

Don’t ask, Clarice, we’re not supposed to know
what end the gods intend for us.
Take my advice: don’t gamble so
on horoscopes of Babylon. Far better just

to take what heaven might allot us, whether
it’s winters galore, and more, until we’re stiff,
or only this one wintertime to end all others,
grinding the Tuscany Sea with its pumice of cliff.

Get wise. Get wine, and one good filter for it.
Cut that high hope down to size, and pour it
into something fit for men. Think less
of more tomorrows, more of this

one second, endlessly unique: it’s
jealous, even as we speak, and it’s
about to split again…

Anna Seward, 1799 (Paraphrased)

Leuconoe, cease presumptuous to inquire
Of grave Diviner, if successive years
Onward shall roll, ere yet the funeral pyre,
For thee and me, the hand of Friendship rears!
Ah rather meet, with gay and vacant brow,
Whatever youth, and time, health, love, and fate allow;

If many winters on the naked trees
Drop in our sight the paly wreaths of frost,
Or this for us the last, that from the seas
Hurls the loud flood on the resounding coast. —
Short since thou know’st the longest vital line,
Nurse the near hope, and pour the rosy wine.

E’en while we speak our swiftly-passing Youth
Stretches its wing to cold Oblivion’s shore;
Then shall the Future terrify, or sooth,
Whose secrets no vain foresight can explore?
The Morrow’s faithless promise disavow,
And seize, thy only boast, the golden Now.

Philip Francis, 1835

Strive not, Leuconoe, to pry
Into the secret will of fate,
Nor impious magic vainly try
To know our lives’ uncertain date;

Whether th’ indulgent power divine
Hath many seasons yet in store,
Or this the latest winter thine,
Which breaks its waves against the shore.

Thy life with wiser arts be crown’d.
Thy filter’d wines abundant pour;
The lengthen’d hope with prudence bound
Proportioned to the flying hour;

Even while we talk in careless ease,
Our envious minutes wing their flight;
Then swift the fleeting pleasure seize,
Nor trust to-morrow’s doubtful light.

David Ferry, 1996

Don’t be too eager to ask
What the gods have in mind for us,
What will become of you,
What will become of me,
What you can read in the cards,
Or spell out on the ouija board,
It’s better not to know.
Either Jupiter says
This coming winter is not
After all going to be
The last winter you have,
Or else Jupiter says
This winter that’s coming soon,
Eating away the cliffs
Along the Tyrrhcnian Sea,
Is going to be the final
Winter of all. Be mindful.
Take good care of your vineyard.
The time we have is short.
Cut short your hopes for longer.
Now as I say these words,
Time has already fled
Backwards away –
Leuconoe —
Hold on to the day.

John Herrington, 1970

You must not ask the end (to know is wickedness)
that God has set for you and me,
Lynne, my white heart: Leuconoe: you must not

search in our horoscopes. Let’s take what comes; maybe
this stormwind is the last that God
will let us feel, us together, this same wind

which even now is breaking the rampant Tuscan seas
in foam against embattled rock.
Now have some sense, pour the wine! And cut away

long ages of our hope in the brief slash of love.
While you and l are talking, were
talking, Time envies, envied, comes and went; oh

pick today’s flower! As little as you can
trust in tomorrow, Leuconoe. White heart. Lynne.

C. S. Calverley, 1861

Seek not, for thou shalt not find it, what my end, what thine shall be;
Ask not of Chaldaea’s science what God wills, Leuconoe:
Better far, what comes, to bear it. Haply many a wintry blast
Waits thee still; and this, it may be, love ordains to be thy last,
Which flings now the flagging sea-wave on the obstinate sandstone-reef.
Be thou wise: fill up the wine-cup; shortening, since the time is brief,
Hopes that reach into the future. While I speak, hath stol’n away
Jealous Time. Mistrust To—morrow, catch the blossom of To—day.

Robert Ferguson, 1773

Ne’er fash your thumb what gods decree
To be the weird o’ you or me,
Nor deal in cantrup’s kittle cunning
To speir how fast your days are running,
But patient lippen for the best,
Nor be in dowy thought opprest,
Whether we see mare winters come
Than this that spits wi’ canker’d foam.

Now moisten weel your geyzen’d wa’as
Wi’ couthy friends and hearty blaws;
Ne’er lat your hope o’ergang your days,
For eild and thraldom never stays;
The day looks gash, toot aff your horn,
Nor care yae strae about the morn.

“Writers, poets especially, have an odd relation to the public because their medium, language, is not, like the paint of the painter or the notes of the composer, reserved for their use but is the common property of the linguistic group to which they belong. Lots of people are willing to admit that they don’t understand painting or music, but very few indeed who have been to school and learned to read advertisements will admit that they don’t understand English. As Karl Kraus said: ‘The public doesn’t understand German, and in Journalese I can’t tell them so.'” (WH Auden, The Dyer’s Hand.)

“The injunction ‘Resist not evil but overcome evil with good’ may in many spheres of life be impossible to obey literally, but in the sphere of the arts it is common sense. Bad art is always with us, but any given work of art is always bad in a period way; the particular kind of badness it exhibits will pass away to be succeeded by some other kind. It is unnecessary, therefore, to attack it, because it will perish anyway. Had Macaulay never written his review of Robert Montgomery, we would not today be still under the illusion that Montgomery was a great poet. The only sensible procedure for a critic is to keep silent about works which he believes to be bad, while at the same time vigorously campaigning for those which he believes to be good, especially if they are being neglected or underestimated by the public.”

“Some books are undeservedly forgotten; none are undeservedly remembered.”

“Some critics argue that it is their moral duty to expose the badness of an author because, unless this is done, he may corrupt other writers. To be sure, a young writer can be led astray, deflected, that is, from his true path, by an older, but he is much more likely to be seduced by a good writer than by a bad one. The more powerful and original a writer, the more dangerous he is to lesser talents who are trying to find themselves. On the other hand, works which were in themselves poor have often proved a stimulus to the imagination and become the indirect cause of good work in others.”

“You do not educate a person’s palate by telling him that what he has been in the habit of eating — watery, overboiled cabbage, let us say — is disgusting, but by persuading him to try a dish of vegetables which have been properly cooked. With some people, it is true, you seem to get quicker results by telling them — ‘Only vulgar people like overcooked cabbage; the best people like cabbage as the Chinese cook it’ — but the results are less likely to be lasting.” (WH Auden, The Dyer’s Hand.)

“I have ample proof, unfortunately, that the teaching of literature in the Sorbonne and the Universities has become pathetic. The abuse of history, of the footnotes of history, has destroyed all critical sense and taste. I know a professor who spent a whole year giving a commentary on Lamartine’s ‘Le Lac.’ He traced the history of a little pink or blue notebook in which Lamartine had scrawled a few stanzas of his poem. He related what hands it passed through, he counted the pages, analyzed them… That required several lectures. When the last one came around, neither he nor his students had read the poem yet. To these so-called historians, it seems that all the artists of the past suffered, wrote, and lived only to provide matter for a few bibliographical index cards. They have confused research with education. We must have researchers. But ‘researchers’ are not professors. Let the researchers do research and the professors teach. They are two distinct functions. No one has more admiration for scholars than I do. And yet I would wish them never to lack a sense of quality, a more global approach, and never forget that there is a hierarchy of values, ideas, and facts. But it’s up to the École des Hautes Études and the scientific institutes to train them. It’s not up to the Sorbonne or the Universities. They have to train teachers who will then make men. They should awaken a great sense of curiosity in students, a sense of what is universal and human, so that later, when those students will themselves have become teachers, the fever of knowledge and a kind of human fervor become the driving force even in the smallest schools of the nation. But in the best of cases we train bookworms; from the age of twenty on, we accustom them to remain inside one drawer of index cards, we train them to compile notes and work their way through it. We cultivate petty vanity in them. For them, knowledge will always consist in adding a card to their file, like a gram to a kilo. Knowledge will distract them from their life, which it should rather enrich and govern. Their curiosity about small things will dispense them from being curious about great ones. Without critical sense, without taste, without ardor, mediocre researchers and worse teachers, they can only maintain our society of quantity in its vain illusion of being a civilization.” (Jean Guéhenno, Diary of Dark Years, 1940–1944)