SERVING THE QUANTITATIVE FINANCE COMMUNITY

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March 15th, 2009, 7:07 pm

Enigmas You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with his golden feet?I reply, the ocean knows this.You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent bell? What is it waiting for?I tell you it is waiting for time, like you.You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms?Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know.You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal, and I reply by describinghow the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies.You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers,which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides?Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on the crystal architectureof the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now?You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean spines?The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks?The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched outin the deep places like a thread in the water?I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its jewel boxesis endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure,and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the petalhard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of lightand untied its knot, letting its musical threads fallfrom a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl.I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on aheadof human eyes, dead in those darknesses,of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudeson the timid globe of an orange.I walked around as you do, investigatingthe endless star,and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked,the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.by Pablo Neruda Translated by Robert Bly
 
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exneratunrisk
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March 16th, 2009, 7:19 am

Sorry. my Monday morning mood in the crisis.Blixa Bargeld (bandleader, Einstützende Neubauten) reads the catalogue of a home worker market.Hornbach
 
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March 16th, 2009, 7:47 am

BURNT NORTON(No. 1 of 'Four Quartets')T.S. EliotITime present and time pastAre both perhaps present in time future,And time future contained in time past.If all time is eternally presentAll time is unredeemable.What might have been is an abstractionRemaining a perpetual possibilityOnly in a world of speculation.What might have been and what has beenPoint to one end, which is always present.Footfalls echo in the memoryDown the passage which we did not takeTowards the door we never openedInto the rose-garden. My words echoThus, in your mind. But to what purposeDisturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leavesI do not know. Other echoesInhabit the garden. Shall we follow?Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,Round the corner. Through the first gate,Into our first world, shall we followThe deception of the thrush? Into our first world.There they were, dignified, invisible,Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,And the bird called, in response toThe unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the rosesHad the look of flowers that are looked at.There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,Along the empty alley, into the box circle,To look down into the drained pool.Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,The surface glittered out of heart of light,And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.Go, go, go, said the bird: human kindCannot bear very much reality.Time past and time futureWhat might have been and what has beenPoint to one end, which is always present.IIGarlic and sapphires in the mudClot the bedded axle-tree.The trilling wire in the bloodSings below inveterate scarsAppeasing long forgotten wars.The dance along the arteryThe circulation of the lymphAre figured in the drift of starsAscend to summer in the treeWe move above the moving treeIn light upon the figured leafAnd hear upon the sodden floorBelow, the boarhound and the boarPursue their pattern as beforeBut reconciled among the stars.At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.The inner freedom from the practical desire,The release from action and suffering, release from the innerAnd the outer compulsion, yet surroundedBy a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,Erhebung without motion, concentrationWithout elimination, both a new worldAnd the old made explicit, understoodIn the completion of its partial ecstasy,The resolution of its partial horror.Yet the enchainment of past and futureWoven in the weakness of the changing body,Protects mankind from heaven and damnationWhich flesh cannot endure. Time past and time futureAllow but a little consciousness.To be conscious is not to be in timeBut only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,The moment in the draughty church at smokefallBe remembered; involved with past and future.Only through time time is conquered.IIIHere is a place of disaffectionTime before and time afterIn a dim light: neither daylightInvesting form with lucid stillnessTurning shadow into transient beautyWith slow rotation suggesting permanenceNor darkness to purify the soulEmptying the sensual with deprivationCleansing affection from the temporal.Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flickerOver the strained time-ridden facesDistracted from distraction by distractionFilled with fancies and empty of meaningTumid apathy with no concentrationMen and bits of paper, whirled by the cold windThat blows before and after time,Wind in and out of unwholesome lungsTime before and time after.Eructation of unhealthy soulsInto the faded air, the torpidDriven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not hereNot here the darkness, in this twittering world. Descend lower, descend onlyInto the world of perpetual solitude,World not world, but that which is not world,Internal darkness, deprivationAnd destitution of all property,Desiccation of the world of sense,Evacuation of the world of fancy,Inoperancy of the world of spirit;This is the one way, and the otherIs the same, not in movementBut abstention from movement; while the world movesIn appetency, on its metalled waysOf time past and time future.IVTime and the bell have buried the day,The black cloud carries the sun away.Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematisStray down, bend to us; tendril and sprayClutch and cling? ChillFingers of yew be curledDown on us? After the kingfisher's wingHas answered light to light, and is silent, the light is stillAt the still point of the turning world.VWords move, music movesOnly in time; but that which is only livingCan only die. Words, after speech, reachInto the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,Can words or music reachThe stillness, as a Chinese jar stillMoves perpetually in its stillness.Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,Not that only, but the co-existence,Or say that the end precedes the beginning,And the end and the beginning were always thereBefore the beginning and after the end.And all is always now. Words strain,Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,Will not stay still. Shrieking voicesScolding, mocking, or merely chattering,Always assail them. The Word in the desertIs most attacked by voices of temptation,The crying shadow in the funeral dance,The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera. The detail of the pattern is movement,As in the figure of the ten stairs.Desire itself is movementNot in itself desirable;Love is itself unmoving,Only the cause and end of movement,Timeless, and undesiringExcept in the aspect of timeCaught in the form of limitationBetween un-being and being.Sudden in a shaft of sunlightEven while the dust movesThere rises the hidden laughterOf children in the foliageQuick now, here, now, always—Ridiculous the waste sad timeStretching before and after.
 
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exneratunrisk
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Selected Poems - International

March 16th, 2009, 8:59 am

Als Das Kind Kind War - Peter Handke
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Anthis
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March 16th, 2009, 10:54 am

I was too lazy to make translation, here are some I ve found translated on the google.KaryotakisKavadiasKavafis
 
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rmax
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March 16th, 2009, 11:01 am

Nobunaga says: "Nightingale, if you do not sing, I shall kill you."Hideyoshi says: "Nightingale, if you do not sing, I shall make you."Ieyasu says: "Nightingale, if you do not sing now, I shall wait until you do."
 
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rmax
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March 16th, 2009, 11:07 am

Naming of Parts Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday, We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning, We shall have what to do after firing. But today, Today we have naming of parts. Japonica Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens, And today we have naming of parts. This is the lower sling swivel. And this Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see, When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, Which in your case you have not got. The branches Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, Which in our case we have not got. This is the safety-catch, which is always released With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see Any of them using their finger. And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: They call it easing the Spring. They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt, And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance, Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards, For today we have naming of parts. Henry Reed
 
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March 16th, 2009, 11:42 am

Beautiful - and the nightingales ones too - wisdom there.There is a good spring poem by William Carlos Williams - Spring Strains. Will put it up later.Going to look at Egyptian scarabs and cat mummies now...
Last edited by trackstar on March 15th, 2009, 11:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
 
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March 16th, 2009, 11:43 am

dupe
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Anthis
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March 16th, 2009, 12:38 pm

Kemal by Nikos GatsosQuoteListen to the story of Kemala young prince of the Eastdescendant of Sinbad the Sailorwho thought he could change the world.But bitter is the will of Allahand dark the souls of men.In the lands of the East once upon a timethe purse was empty and the water stagnant.In Mosul and Basra on the old coconut treethe children of the desert now cry bitter tears.And a young man of an old and royal linehears the lament and heads that way.the Bedouins look at him sadlyand he gives them an oath in Allah's name, that times will change.When the lords heard of the lad's fearlessnessthey set out with wolf's teeth and lion's skinfrom Tigris to Euphrates, from the earth to the heavensthey hunt for the deserter, to capture him alive.The horde descends upon him like rabid dogsand take him to the Caliph to place the noose [around his neck]black honey and black milk he drank that morningbefore he left his last breath on the gallows.The Prophet awaits before the Gates of Heavenwith two elderly camels and a red horse.They now go hand in hand and it's cloudybut the star of Damascus kept them company.In a month and a year they see Allah before themand from his high throne he says to the simple Sinbad:"my beaten smart-alec, times do not change,the world always moves on by fire and the sword"Goodnight Kemal, this world will never change.Goodnight...
 
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Cuchulainn
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March 16th, 2009, 12:50 pm

Maybe we can buy the CD for Bernie Madoff...for all that QuoteYe see yon birkie ca'd a lord, Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, His ribband, star, an' a' that, The man o' independent mind He looks an' laughs at a' that....A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that; But an honest man's abon his might, Gude faith, he maunna fa' that! For a' that, an' a' that, Their dignities an' a' that; The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that. Maybe ppauper should start a new thread HONESTY TEST 2
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Anthis
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March 16th, 2009, 1:15 pm

Fata Morgana
 
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Wilfrid
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March 16th, 2009, 2:02 pm

QuoteOriginally posted by: mackbarBeauiful - and the nightgales ones too - wisdom there.There is a good spring poem by William Carlos Williams - Spring Strains. Will put it up later.Going to look at egyptian scarabs and cat mummies now...British Museum, what?
I learned two things at drama school. First, that I couldn't act; second, that it didn't matter.
 
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rmax
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March 16th, 2009, 2:10 pm

QuoteOriginally posted by: mackbarBeauiful - and the nightgales ones too - wisdom there.There is a good spring poem by William Carlos Williams - Spring Strains. Will put it up later.Going to look at egyptian scarabs and cat mummies now...Sorry to break into the thread, but the Nightingale poems are even better when there is an explanation:In Japan it is popular to have poetry competitions around Haiku. Legend has it that the three warlords were given the lines Nobunaga says: "Nightingale, if you do not sing " and to finish off the poem. They each replied with their answers.Nobunga was the first warlord who united Japan (Hideyoshi and Iesasyau were his general) - however he was murdered before he could consolidate his rule.Hideyoshi took over from Nobunga and won a number of victories. He implemented the rigid class structure of the Samurai. He died leaving an underage son.Ieyasu fought on, and defeated Hideyoshi son, claimed the title of Shogun (making the emporer a figurehead) and ensured that his legacy (the Tokugawa clan) lasted for around 300 years until the Meji restoration.I am sure the story is apocryphal, however it sums up a significant portion of Japanese history succinctly and gives a great insight into their character and motivation. If you are going to the British Museam then check out their display of Samurai swords (always used to be tucked away on the top floor).
Last edited by rmax on March 15th, 2009, 11:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
 
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March 16th, 2009, 2:11 pm

Just returned to my room - really excellent visit - prob. will go back tomorrow. Saw the scarabs, the mummified cats (and falcons, and small alligators, and a baboon) and so many other things. I have some good pictures, but I need a USB cable.One things that made me laugh - and this is an exhibit design problem in many museums - when you go though the Celtic, Viking, Medieval Europe rooms from 800 - 1400, the displays are very coherent and more or less chronological. Then you exit into a small display room packed with **19th century decorative ware**. So it is a visual shock to go from swords, shields, and big bronze and silver goblets to oh-so-delicate (Limogues?) tea sets in pretty pastels. Once you pass through that room, you are back in Europe 1500-1800 and there are some great guns at the back of the gallery (I have some photos for HOOK of some very ornate, but lethal muskets from the 1500s.)But your warrior train of thought has been interrupted by your brief sojourn in the Dutchess' parlor.
Last edited by trackstar on March 15th, 2009, 11:00 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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