May 23




Mar 04


Introverted iNtuitive Thinking Judging

To outsiders, INTJs may appear to project an aura of “definiteness”, of self-confidence. This self-confidence, sometimes mistaken for simple arrogance by the less decisive, is actually of a very specific rather than a general nature; its source lies in the specialized knowledge systems that most INTJs start building at an early age. When it comes to their own areas of expertise — and INTJs can have several — they will be able to tell you almost immediately whether or not they can help you, and if so, how. INTJs know what they know, and perhaps still more importantly, they know what they don’t know.

INTJs are perfectionists, with a seemingly endless capacity for improving upon anything that takes their interest. What prevents them from becoming chronically bogged down in this pursuit of perfection is the pragmatism so characteristic of the type: INTJs apply (often ruthlessly) the criterion “Does it work?” to everything from their own research efforts to the prevailing social norms. This in turn produces an unusual independence of mind, freeing the INTJ from the constraints of authority, convention, or sentiment for its own sake.

INTJs are known as the “Systems Builders” of the types, perhaps in part because they possess the unusual trait combination of imagination and reliability. Whatever system an INTJ happens to be working on is for them the equivalent of a moral cause to an INFJ; both perfectionism and disregard for authority may come into play, as INTJs can be unsparing of both themselves and the others on the project. Anyone considered to be “slacking,” including superiors, will lose their respect — and will generally be made aware of this; INTJs have also been known to take it upon themselves to implement critical decisions without consulting their supervisors or co-workers. On the other hand, they do tend to be scrupulous and even-handed about recognizing the individual contributions that have gone into a project, and have a gift for seizing opportunities which others might not even notice.

In the broadest terms, what INTJs “do” tends to be what they “know”. Typical INTJ career choices are in the sciences and engineering, but they can be found wherever a combination of intellect and incisiveness are required (e.g., law, some areas of academia). INTJs can rise to management positions when they are willing to invest time in marketing their abilities as well as enhancing them, and (whether for the sake of ambition or the desire for privacy) many also find it useful to learn to simulate some degree of surface conformism in order to mask their inherent unconventionality.

Personal relationships, particularly romantic ones, can be the INTJ’s Achilles heel. While they are capable of caring deeply for others (usually a select few), and are willing to spend a great deal of time and effort on a relationship, the knowledge and self-confidence that make them so successful in other areas can suddenly abandon or mislead them in interpersonal situations.

This happens in part because many INTJs do not readily grasp the social rituals; for instance, they tend to have little patience and less understanding of such things as small talk and flirtation (which most types consider half the fun of a relationship). To complicate matters, INTJs are usually extremely private people, and can often be naturally impassive as well, which makes them easy to misread and misunderstand. Perhaps the most fundamental problem, however, is that INTJs really want people to make sense. :-) This sometimes results in a peculiar naivete’, paralleling that of many Fs — only instead of expecting inexhaustible affection and empathy from a romantic relationship, the INTJ will expect inexhaustible reasonability and directness.

Probably the strongest INTJ assets in the interpersonal area are their intuitive abilities and their willingness to “work at” a relationship. Although as Ts they do not always have the kind of natural empathy that many Fs do, the Intuitive function can often act as a good substitute by synthesizing the probable meanings behind such things as tone of voice, turn of phrase, and facial expression. This ability can then be honed and directed by consistent, repeated efforts to understand and support those they care about, and those relationships which ultimately do become established with an INTJ tend to be characterized by their robustness, stability, and good communications.

Functional Analysis
by Joe Butt

Introverted iNtuition

INTJs are idea people. Anything is possible; everything is negotiable. Whatever the outer circumstances, INTJs are ever perceiving inner pattern-forms and using real-world materials to operationalize them. Others may see what is and wonder why; INTJs see what might be and say “Why not?!” Paradoxes, antinomies, and other contradictory phenomena aptly express these intuitors’ amusement at those whom they feel may be taking a particular view of reality too seriously. INTJs enjoy developing unique solutions to complex problems.

Extraverted Thinking

Thinking in this auxiliary role is a workhorse. Closure is the payoff for efforts expended. Evaluation begs diagnosis; product drives process. As they come to light, Thinking tends, protects, affirms and directs iNtuition’s offspring, fully equipping them for fulfilling and useful lives. A faithful pedagogue, Thinking argues not so much on its own behalf, but in defense of its charges. And through this process these impressionable ideas take on the likeness of their master.

Introverted Feeling

Feeling has a modest inner room, two doors down from the Most Imminent iNtuition. It doesn’t get out much, but lends its influence on behalf of causes which are Good and Worthy and Humane. We may catch a glimpse of it in the unspoken attitude of good will, or the gracious smile or nod. Some question the existence of Feeling in this type, yet its unseen balance to Thinking is a cardinal dimension in the full measure of the INTJ’s soul.

Extraverted Sensing

Sensing serves with a good will, or not at all. As other inferior functions, it has only a rudimentary awareness of context, amount or degree. Thus INTJs sweat the details or, at times, omit them. “I’ve made up my mind, don’t confuse me with the facts” could well have been said by an INTJ on a mission. Sensing’s extraverted attitude is evident in this type’s bent to savor sensations rather than to merely categorize them. Indiscretions of indulgence are likely an expression of the unconscious vengeance of the inferior.

Famous INTJs:

Susan B. Anthony
Lance Armstrong
Arthur Ashe, tennis champion
Augustus Caesar (Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus)
Jane Austen (Pride and Prejudice)
Dan Aykroyd (The Blues Brothers)
William J. Bennett, “drug czar”
William F. Buckley, Jr.
Raymond Burr (Perry Mason, Ironsides)
Chevy Chase (Cornelius Crane) (Fletch)
Katie Couric
Phil Donahue
Michael Dukakis, governor of Mass., 1988 U.S. Dem. pres. candidate
Richard Gere (Pretty Woman)
Rudy Giuliani, former New York City mayor
Greg Gumbel, television sportscaster
Hannibal, Carthaginian military leader
Emily Bronte, author of Wuthering Heights
Angela Lansbury (Murder, She Wrote)
Orel Leonard Hershiser, IV
Peter Jennings
Charles Everett Koop
Ivan Lendl
C. S. Lewis (The Chronicles of Narnia)
Joan Lunden
Edwin Moses, U.S. olympian (hurdles)
Martina Navratilova
Michelle Obama
General Colin Powell, former US Secretary of State
Charles Rangel, US Representative, D-N.Y.
Pernell Roberts (Bonanza)
Donald Rumsfeld, former US Secretary of Defense
Hillary Clinton, US Secretary of State
Arnold Schwarzenegger, Governor of California
Josephine Tey (Elizabeth Mackintosh), mystery writer (Brat Farrar)

U.S. Presidents:
Chester A. Arthur
Calvin Coolidge
Thomas Jefferson
John F. Kennedy
James K. Polk
Woodrow Wilson


Cassius (Julius Caesar)
Mr. Darcy (Pride and Prejudice)
Gandalf the Grey (J. R. R. Tolkein’s Middle Earth books)
Hannibal Lecter (Silence of the Lambs)
Professor Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes’ nemesis
Horatio Hornblower
Ensign Ro (Star Trek–the Next Generation)
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (Hamlet)
George Smiley, John le Carre’s master spy
Clarice Starling (Silence of the Lambs)

Copyright © 1996-2011 by Marina Margaret Heiss and Joe Butt

There are at least three forums for INTJs:
The INTJ List
Chat with fellow INTJs at the INTJ forum by PersonalityCafe.


Nov 01

The Graveyard By The Sea

Le cimetière marin

Paul Valéry

Ce toit tranquille, où marchent des colombes,
Entre les pins palpite, entre les tombes;
Midi le juste y compose de feux
La mer, la mer, toujours recommencee
O récompense après une pensée
Qu’un long regard sur le calme des dieux!Quel pur travail de fins éclairs consume
Maint diamant d’imperceptible écume,
Et quelle paix semble se concevoir!
Quand sur l’abîme un soleil se repose,
Ouvrages purs d’une éternelle cause,
Le temps scintille et le songe est savoir.

Stable trésor, temple simple à Minerve,
Masse de calme, et visible réserve,
Eau sourcilleuse, Oeil qui gardes en toi
Tant de sommeil sous une voile de flamme,
O mon silence! . . . Édifice dans l’ame,
Mais comble d’or aux mille tuiles, Toit!

Temple du Temps, qu’un seul soupir résume,
À ce point pur je monte et m’accoutume,
Tout entouré de mon regard marin;
Et comme aux dieux mon offrande suprême,
La scintillation sereine sème
Sur l’altitude un dédain souverain.

Comme le fruit se fond en jouissance,
Comme en délice il change son absence
Dans une bouche où sa forme se meurt,
Je hume ici ma future fumée,
Et le ciel chante à l’âme consumée
Le changement des rives en rumeur.

Beau ciel, vrai ciel, regarde-moi qui change!
Après tant d’orgueil, après tant d’étrange
Oisiveté, mais pleine de pouvoir,
Je m’abandonne à ce brillant espace,
Sur les maisons des morts mon ombre passe
Qui m’apprivoise à son frêle mouvoir.

L’âme exposée aux torches du solstice,
Je te soutiens, admirable justice
De la lumière aux armes sans pitié!
Je te tends pure à ta place première,
Regarde-toi! . . . Mais rendre la lumière
Suppose d’ombre une morne moitié.

O pour moi seul, à moi seul, en moi-même,
Auprès d’un coeur, aux sources du poème,
Entre le vide et l’événement pur,
J’attends l’écho de ma grandeur interne,
Amère, sombre, et sonore citerne,
Sonnant dans l’âme un creux toujours futur!

Sais-tu, fausse captive des feuillages,
Golfe mangeur de ces maigres grillages,
Sur mes yeux clos, secrets éblouissants,
Quel corps me traîne à sa fin paresseuse,
Quel front l’attire à cette terre osseuse?
Une étincelle y pense à mes absents.

Fermé, sacré, plein d’un feu sans matière,
Fragment terrestre offert à la lumière,
Ce lieu me plaît, dominé de flambeaux,
Composé d’or, de pierre et d’arbres sombres,
Où tant de marbre est tremblant sur tant d’ombres;
La mer fidèle y dort sur mes tombeaux!

Chienne splendide, écarte l’idolâtre!
Quand solitaire au sourire de pâtre,
Je pais longtemps, moutons mystérieux,
Le blanc troupeau de mes tranquilles tombes,
Éloignes-en les prudentes colombes,
Les songes vains, les anges curieux!

Ici venu, l’avenir est paresse.
L’insecte net gratte la sécheresse;
Tout est brûlé, défait, reçu dans l’air
A je ne sais quelle sévère essence . . .
La vie est vaste, étant ivre d’absence,
Et l’amertume est douce, et l’esprit clair.

Les morts cachés sont bien dans cette terre
Qui les réchauffe et sèche leur mystère.
Midi là-haut, Midi sans mouvement
En soi se pense et convient à soi-même
Tête complète et parfait diadème,
Je suis en toi le secret changement.

Tu n’as que moi pour contenir tes craintes!
Mes repentirs, mes doutes, mes contraintes
Sont le défaut de ton grand diamant! . . .
Mais dans leur nuit toute lourde de marbres,
Un peuple vague aux racines des arbres
A pris déjà ton parti lentement.

Ils ont fondu dans une absence épaisse,
L’argile rouge a bu la blanche espèce,
Le don de vivre a passé dans les fleurs!
Où sont des morts les phrases familières,
L’art personnel, les âmes singulières?
La larve file où se formaient les pleurs.

Les cris aigus des filles chatouillées,
Les yeux, les dents, les paupières mouillées,
Le sein charmant qui joue avec le feu,
Le sang qui brille aux lèvres qui se rendent,
Les derniers dons, les doigts qui les défendent,
Tout va sous terre et rentre dans le jeu!

Et vous, grande âme, espérez-vous un songe
Qui n’aura plus ces couleurs de mensonge
Qu’aux yeux de chair l’onde et l’or font ici?
Chanterez-vous quand serez vaporeuse?
Allez! Tout fuit! Ma présence est poreuse,
La sainte impatience meurt aussi!

Maigre immortalité noire et dorée,
Consolatrice affreusement laurée,
Qui de la mort fais un sein maternel,
Le beau mensonge et la pieuse ruse!
Qui ne connaît, et qui ne les refuse,
Ce crâne vide et ce rire éternel!

Pères profonds, têtes inhabitées,
Qui sous le poids de tant de pelletées,
Êtes la terre et confondez nos pas,
Le vrai rongeur, le ver irréfutable
N’est point pour vous qui dormez sous la table,
Il vit de vie, il ne me quitte pas!

Amour, peut-être, ou de moi-même haine?
Sa dent secrète est de moi si prochaine
Que tous les noms lui peuvent convenir!
Qu’importe! Il voit, il veut, il songe, il touche!
Ma chair lui plaît, et jusque sur ma couche,
À ce vivant je vis d’appartenir!

Zénon! Cruel Zénon! Zénon d’Êlée!
M’as-tu percé de cette flèche ailée
Qui vibre, vole, et qui ne vole pas!
Le son m’enfante et la flèche me tue!
Ah! le soleil . . . Quelle ombre de tortue
Pour l’âme, Achille immobile à grands pas!

Non, non! . . . Debout! Dans l’ère successive!
Brisez, mon corps, cette forme pensive!
Buvez, mon sein, la naissance du vent!
Une fraîcheur, de la mer exhalée,
Me rend mon âme . . . O puissance salée!
Courons à l’onde en rejaillir vivant.

Oui! grande mer de delires douée,
Peau de panthère et chlamyde trouée,
De mille et mille idoles du soleil,
Hydre absolue, ivre de ta chair bleue,
Qui te remords l’étincelante queue
Dans un tumulte au silence pareil

Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre!
L’air immense ouvre et referme mon livre,
La vague en poudre ose jaillir des rocs!
Envolez-vous, pages tout éblouies!
Rompez, vagues! Rompez d’eaux rejouies
Ce toit tranquille où picoraient des focs!

The Graveyard By The Sea

Translated by C. Day Lewis

This quiet roof, where dove-sails saunter by,
Between the pines, the tombs, throbs visibly.
Impartial noon patterns the sea in flame –
That sea forever starting and re-starting.
When thought has had its hour, oh how rewarding
Are the long vistas of celestial calm!What grace of light, what pure toil goes to form
The manifold diamond of the elusive foam!
What peace I feel begotten at that source!
When sunlight rests upon a profound sea,
Time’s air is sparkling, dream is certainty –
Pure artifice both of an eternal Cause.

Sure treasure, simple shrine to intelligence,
Palpable calm, visible reticence,
Proud-lidded water, Eye wherein there wells
Under a film of fire such depth of sleep –
O silence! . . . Mansion in my soul, you slope
Of gold, roof of a myriad golden tiles.

Temple of time, within a brief sigh bounded,
To this rare height inured I climb, surrounded
By the horizons of a sea-girt eye.
And, like my supreme offering to the gods,
That peaceful coruscation only breeds
A loftier indifference on the sky.

Even as a fruit’s absorbed in the enjoying,
Even as within the mouth its body dying
Changes into delight through dissolution,
So to my melted soul the heavens declare
All bounds transfigured into a boundless air,
And I breathe now my future’s emanation.

Beautiful heaven, true heaven, look how I change!
After such arrogance, after so much strange
Idleness — strange, yet full of potency –
I am all open to these shining spaces;
Over the homes of the dead my shadow passes,
Ghosting along — a ghost subduing me.

My soul laid bare to your midsummer fire,
O just, impartial light whom I admire,
Whose arms are merciless, you have I stayed
And give back, pure, to your original place.
Look at yourself . . . But to give light implies
No less a somber moiety of shade.

Oh, for myself alone, mine, deep within
At the heart’s quick, the poem’s fount, between
The void and its pure issue, I beseech
The intimations of my secret power.
O bitter, dark, and echoing reservoir
Speaking of depths always beyond my reach.

But know you — feigning prisoner of the boughs,
Gulf which cats up their slender prison-bars,
Secret which dazzles though mine eyes are closed –
What body drags me to its lingering end,
What mind draws it to this bone-peopled ground?
A star broods there on all that I have lost.

Closed, hallowed, full of insubstantial fire,
Morsel of earth to heaven’s light given o’er –
This plot, ruled by its flambeaux, pleases me –
A place all gold, stone, and dark wood, where shudders
So much marble above so many shadows:
And on my tombs, asleep, the faithful sea.

Keep off the idolaters, bright watch-dog, while –
A solitary with the shepherd’s smile –
I pasture long my sheep, my mysteries,
My snow-white flock of undisturbed graves!
Drive far away from here the careful doves,
The vain daydreams, the angels’ questioning eyes!

Now present here, the future takes its time.
The brittle insect scrapes at the dry loam;
All is burnt up, used up, drawn up in air
To some ineffably rarefied solution . . .
Life is enlarged, drunk with annihilation,
And bitterness is sweet, and the spirit clear.

The dead lie easy, hidden in earth where they
Are warmed and have their mysteries burnt away.
Motionless noon, noon aloft in the blue
Broods on itself — a self-sufficient theme.
O rounded dome and perfect diadem,
I am what’s changing secretly in you.

I am the only medium for your fears.
My penitence, my doubts, my baulked desires –
These are the flaw within your diamond pride . . .
But in their heavy night, cumbered with marble,
Under the roots of trees a shadow people
Has slowly now come over to your side.

To an impervious nothingness they’re thinned,
For the red clay has swallowed the white kind;
Into the flowers that gift of life has passed.
Where are the dead? — their homely turns of speech,
The personal grace, the soul informing each?
Grubs thread their way where tears were once composed.

The bird-sharp cries of girls whom love is teasing,
The eyes, the teeth, the eyelids moistly closing,
The pretty breast that gambles with the flame,
The crimson blood shining when lips are yielded,
The last gift, and the fingers that would shield it –
All go to earth, go back into the game.

And you, great soul, is there yet hope in you
To find some dream without the lying hue
That gold or wave offers to fleshly eyes?
Will you be singing still when you’re thin air?
All perishes. A thing of flesh and pore
Am I. Divine impatience also dies.

Lean immortality, all crêpe and gold,
Laurelled consoler frightening to behold,
Death is a womb, a mother’s breast, you feign
The fine illusion, oh the pious trick!
Who does not know them, and is not made sick
That empty skull, that everlasting grin?

Ancestors deep down there, O derelict heads
Whom such a weight of spaded earth o’erspreads,
Who are the earth, in whom our steps are lost,
The real flesh-eater, worm unanswerable
Is not for you that sleep under the table:
Life is his meat, and I am still his host.

‘Love,’ shall we call him? ‘Hatred of self,’ maybe?
His secret tooth is so intimate with me
That any name would suit him well enough,
Enough that he can see, will, daydream, touch –
My flesh delights him, even upon my couch
I live but as a morsel of his life.

Zeno, Zeno, cruel philosopher Zeno,
Have you then pierced me with your feathered arrow
That hums and flies, yet does not fly! The sounding
Shaft gives me life, the arrow kills. Oh, sun! –
Oh, what a tortoise-shadow to outrun
My soul, Achilles’ giant stride left standing!

No, no! Arise! The future years unfold.
Shatter, O body, meditation’s mould!
And, O my breast, drink in the wind’s reviving!
A freshness, exhalation of the sea,
Restores my soul . . . Salt-breathing potency!
Let’s run at the waves and be hurled back to living!

Yes, mighty sea with such wild frenzies gifted
(The panther skin and the rent chlamys), sifted
All over with sun-images that glisten,
Creature supreme, drunk on your own blue flesh,
Who in a tumult like the deepest hush
Bite at your sequin-glittering tail — yes, listen!

The wind is rising! . . . We must try to live!
The huge air opens and shuts my book: the wave
Dares to explode out of the rocks in reeking
Spray. Fly away, my sun-bewildered pages!
Break, waves! Break up with your rejoicing surges
This quiet roof where sails like doves were pecking.


Nov 01

The Lake

The Lake

By Alphonse de Lamartine
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

In 1816, at Aix-les Bains near Lake Bourget, Lamartine made the acquaintance of one Julie Charles. The following year, he came back to the lake, expecting to meet her there again. But he waited in vain, and initially thought she had stood him up. A month later he learned that she had taken ill and died. The “she” in this semi-autobiographical poem refers to Julie. The “voice I adore” which speaks the lines of stanzas 6-9 is also meant to be understood as Julie’s voice.

Thus driven forth forever to new shores,
Born toward Eternal Night and never away,
Sailing the Sea of Ages, can we not
Drop anchor for one day?

O Lake! The year has scarcely spun its course.
Now, by the waves she meant to see again,
Watch how I sit, alone, upon this stone
On which you saw her then.

You lowed as now below those plunging cliffs.
As now, you broke about their riven flanks.
As now, the wind flung your foam forth to wash
Her feet which graced your banks.

One evening we two roamed -remember?- in silence:
On waves and under heaven, far and wide,
No sound came save the cadence of the oarsmen
Stroking your tuneful tide.

Then sudden tones, unfathomed on this earth,
Resounded round the echoing, spellbound shore.
The tide turned heedful; and I heard these words
From the voice I adore:

Suspend your trek O Time! Suspend your flights
O favoring hours, and stay!
Let us pause, savoring the quick delights
That fill the dearest day.

Unhappy crowds cry out to you in prayers.
Flow, Time, and set them free.
Run through their days and through their ravening cares!
But leave the happy be.

In vain I ask for hours to linger on
And Time slips into flight.
I tell this night: “Be slower!” and the dawn
Undoes the raveled night.

Let’s love, then! Love, and feel while feel we can
The moment on its run.
There is no shore of Time, no port of Man.
It flows, and we go on.

Covetous Time! Our mighty drunken moments
When love pours forth huge floods of happiness;
Can it be that they fly from us no faster
Than days of wretchedness?

Why can’t we keep some trace of them, at least?
Why lost forever? Why beyond recall?
Will Time that gave them, Time that now destroys them
Not bring them back at all?

Eternity, naught, past, dark gulfs: what do
You do with days of ours which you devour?
Speak! Will you not bring back those sublime things?
Return the raptured hour?

O Lake! Caves! Speechless ledges! Gloaming glades!
You whom Time shields or can bring back to light,
Beautiful Nature, keep the memory-
The memory of that night:

Memory in your stillness and your storms,
Fair Lake, in your cavorting sloping sides,
In the black firtrees, in the savage rocks
Rising above your tides;

Memory in the breathings of the zephyr,
In shore whose sounds resound to shore each night,
And in the silver visage of the star
Touching you with soft light.

Let the bewailing winds and sighing reeds,
Let the light balm you blow through cliff and grove,
Let all that man can hear, behold or breathe
All say: “They were in love.”

The Original:

Le Lac
Alphonse de Lamartine

En 1816, à Aix-les-Bains, près du lac du Bourget, Lamartine fit la connaissance de Julie Charles. L’année suivante il revint au paysage qui avait été témoin de leur bonheur, mais seul, cette fois, contre son attente. Il pensa d’abord qu’elle lui avait posé un lapin, mais apprit un mois plus tard qu’elle était tombée malade et puis mourut. Le pronom féminin dans ce poème partiellement autobiographique fait référence à ladite Julie. D’ailleurs, la “voix qui m’est chère” est celle de Julie, interlocutrice des strophes 6-9.

Ainsi toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages,
Dans la nuit éternelle emportés sans retour,
Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l’océan des âges
Jeter l’ancre un seul jour?

O lac! l’année à peine a fini sa carrière,
Et près des flots chéris qu’elle devait revoir
Regarde! je viens seul m’asseoir sur cette pierre
Où tu la vis s’asseoir!

Tu mugissais ainsi sous ces roches profondes;
Ainsi tu te brisais sur leurs flancs déchirés:
Ainsi le vent jetait l’écume de tes ondes
Sur ses pieds adorés.

Un soir, t’en souvient-il? nous voguions en silence;
On n’entendait au loin, sur l’onde et sous les cieux,
Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence
Tes flots harmonieux.

Tout à coup des accents inconnus à la terre
Du rivage charmé frappèrent les échos;
Le flot fut attentif, et la voix qui m’est chère
Laissa tomber ces mots:

“O temps, suspends ton vol! et vous, heures propices,
Suspendez votre cours!
Laissez-nous savourer les rapides délices
Des plus beaux de nos jours!

“Assez de malheureux ici-bas vous implorent:
Coulez, coulez pour eux;
Prenez avec leurs jours les soins qui les dévorent;
Oubliez les heureux.”

Mais je demande en vain quelques moments encore,
Le temps m’échappe et fuit;
je dis à cette nuit: “Sois plus lente”; et l’aurore
Va dissiper la nuit.

Aimons donc, aimons donc! de l’heure fugitive,
Hâtons-nous, jouissons!
L’homme n’a point de port, le temps n’a point de rive;
Il coule, et nous passons!

Temps jaloux, se peut-il que ces moments d’ivresse,
Où l’amour à longs flots nous verse le bonheur,
S’envolent loin de nous de la même vitesse
Que les jours de malheur?

Hé quoi! n’en pourrons-nous fixer au moins la trace?
Quoi! passés pour jamais? quoi! tout entiers perdus?
Ce temps qui les donna, ce temps qui les efface,
Ne nous les rendra plus?

Éternité, néant, passé, sombres abîmes,
Que faites-vous des jours que vous engloutissez?
Parlez: nous rendrez-vous ces extases sublimes
Que vous nous ravissez?

O lac! rochers muets! grottes! forêt obscure!
Vous que le temps épargne ou qu’il peut rajeunir,
Gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature,
Au moins le souvenir!

Qu’il soit dans ton repos, qu’il soit dans tes orages,
Beau lac, et dans l’aspect de tes riants coteaux,
Et dans ces noirs sapins, et dans ces rocs sauvages
Qui pendent sur tes eaux!

Qu’il soit dans le zéphyr qui frémit et qui passe,
Dans les bruits de tes bords par tes bords répétés,
Dans l’astre au front d’argent qui blanchit ta surface
De ses molles clartés!

Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire,
Que les parfums légers de ton air embaumé,
Que tout ce qu’on entend, l’on voit ou l’on respire,
Tout dise: “Ils ont aimé!”


Nov 01



J’ai perdu ma force et ma vie,
Et mes amis et ma gaieté;
J’ai perdu jusqu’à la fierté
Qui faisait croire à mon génie.

Quand j’ai connu la Vérité,
J’ai cru que c’était une amie ;
Quand je l’ai comprise et sentie,
J’en étais déjà dégoûté.

Et pourtant elle est éternelle,
Et ceux qui se sont passés d’elle
Ici-bas ont tout ignoré.

Dieu parle, il faut qu’on lui réponde.
Le seul bien qui me reste au monde
Est d’avoir quelquefois pleuré.


I lost my strength and my life,
My friends and my joy;
I lost till the pride
That made my genius believable.

When I knew Truth,
I thought she was a friend;
When I understood and felt her,
I was already disgusted by her.

Although, she is eternal,
And those who did without her
On this Earth didn’t understand anything.

God is speaking, we must answer him.
The only good I still have in this world
Is to have cried sometime


Nov 01


假使恋爱是人生的必需,那未,友谊只能算是一种奢侈;所以,上帝垂怜阿大(Adam)的孤寂,只为他造了夏娃,并未另造个阿二。我们常把火焰来比恋爱, 这个比喻有 我们意想不到的贴切。恋爱跟火同样的贪滥,同样的会蔓延,同样的残忍,消灭了坚牢结实的原料,把灰烬去换光明和热烈。像拜伦,像哥德,像缪塞,野火似的卷 过了人生一世,一个个白色的,栗色的,棕色的情妇(Une blonde, Chataigne ou brune mati tresse缪塞的妙句)的血淋淋的红心,白心,黄心(孙行者的神通),都烧炙成死灰, 只算供给了燃料。情妇虽然要新的才有趣,朋友还让旧的好。时间对于友谊的磨蚀,好比水流过石子,反把它洗琢得光洁了。因为友谊不是尖利的需要,所以在好朋友间,极少发生那厌倦的先驱,一种厣足的情绪,像我们吃完最后一道菜,放下刀叉,靠着椅背,准备叫侍者上咖啡时的感觉,还当然不可一概而论,看你有的是什么朋友。

西谚云:“急需或困乏时的朋友才是真正的朋友”,不免肤浅。我们有急需的时候,是最不需要朋友的时候。朋友有钱,我们需要他的钱;朋友有米,我们缺乏的是他的米。那时节,我们也许需要真正的朋友,不过我们真正的需要并非朋友。我们讲交情,揩面子,东借西挪,目的不在朋友本身,只是把友谊作为可利用的工具,顶方便的法门。常时最知情识趣的朋友,在我们穷急时,他的风趣,他的襟抱,他的韵度,我们都无心欣赏了。两袖包着清风,一口咽着清水,而云倾听良友清谈,可忘饥渴,即清高到没人气的名士们,也未必能清苦如此。此话跟刘孝标所谓势交利交的一派牢骚,全不相干,朋友的慷慨或吝啬,肯否排难济困,这是一回事;我们牢不可破的成见,以为我和某人既有朋友之分,我有困难,某人理当扶助,那是另一回事。尽许朋友疏财仗义,他的竟算是我的,在我穷急告贷的时节,总是心存不良,满口亲善,其实别有作用。试看世间有多少友谊,因为有求不遂,起了一层障膜;同样,假使我们平日极瞧不起、最不相与的人,能在此时帮忙救急,反比平日的朋友来得关切,我们感激之余,可以立刻结为新交,好几年积累的友谊,当场转移对象。在困乏时的友谊,是最不值钱了——不,是最可以用钱来估定价值了!我 常感到,自《广绝交论》以下,关于交谊的诗文,都不免对朋友希望太奢,批评太刻,只说做朋友的人的气量小,全不理会我们自己人穷眼孔小,只认得钱类的东 西,不认得借未必有、有何必肯的朋友。古尔斯密(Goldsmith)的东方故事《阿三痛史》(The Trage of Asem),颇少人知,1877年出版的单行本,有一篇序文,中间说,想创立一种友谊测量表(Philometer),以朋友肯借给他的钱多少,定友谊的 高下。这种沾光揩油的交谊观,甚至雅人如张船山,也未能免除,所以他要怨什么“事能容俗犹嫌傲,交为通财渐不亲”。《广绝交论》只代我们骂了我们的势利朋 友,我们还需要一篇《反绝交论》,代朋友来骂他们的势利朋友,就是我们自己。《水浒》里写宋江刺配江州,戴宗向他讨人情银子, 宋江道:“人情,人情,在人情愿!”真正至理名言,比刘孝标、张船山等的见识,高出万倍。说也奇怪,这句有“恕”道的话,偏出诸船火儿张横所谓“不爱交情 只爱钱”,打家劫舍的强盗头子,这不免令人摇头叹息了:第一叹来,叹惟有强盗,反比士大夫辈明白道理!然而且慢,还有第二叹;第二叹来,叹明白道理,而不 免放火杀人,言行不符,所以为强盗也!

从物质的周济说到精神的补助,我们便想到孔子所谓直谅多闻的益友。这个漂白的功利主义,无非说,对于我们品性和智识有利益的人,不可不与结交。我的偏见, 以为此等交情,也不甚巩固。孔子把直谅的益友跟“便僻善柔”的损友反衬,当然指那些到处碰得见的,心直口快,规过劝善的少年老成人。生就斗蟋蟀般的脾气, 一搠一跳,护短非凡,为省事少气恼起见,对于喜管闲事的善人们,总尽力维持着尊敬的距离。不过,每到冤家狭路,免不了听教训的关头,最近涵养功深,子路闻 过则喜的境界,不是区区夸口,颇能做到。听直谅的“益友”规劝,你万不该良心发现,哭丧着脸;他看见你惶恐觳触的表情,便觉得你邪不胜正,长了不少气势,带骂带劝,说得你有口难辩,然后几句甜话,拍肩告别,一路上忻然独笑,觉得替天行道,做了无量功德。反过来,你若一脸堆上浓笑,满口承认;他说你骂人,你便说像某某等辈,不但该骂,并且该杀该剐,他说你刻毒,你就说,岂止刻毒,还想下毒,那时候,该他拉长了像烙铁熨过的脸,哭笑不得了。大 凡最自负心直口快,喜欢规过劝善的人,像我近年来所碰到的基督教善男信女,同时最受不起别人的规劝。因此,你不大看见直谅的人,彼此间会产生什么友谊;大 约直心肠颇像几何学里的直线,两条平行了,永远不会接合。照我想来,心直口快,无过于使性子骂人,而这种直谅的。“益友”从不骂人,顶反对你骂人。他们找 到他们认为你的过失,绝不痛痛快快的骂,只是婆婆妈妈的劝告,算是他们的大度包容。骂是一种公道的竞赛,对方有还骂的机会;劝却不然,先用大帽子把你压 住,无抵抗的让他攻击,卑怯不亚于打落水狗。他们喜欢规劝你,所以,他们也喜欢你有过失,好比医生要施行他手到病除的仁心仁术,总先希望你害病。这样的居 心险恶,无怪基督教为善男信女设立天堂。真的,没有比进天堂更妙的刑罚了;设想四周围都是无暇可击,无过可规的善人,此等心直口快的“益友”无所施其故 技,心痒如有臭虫叮,舌头因不用而起铁锈的苦痛。泰勒(A·E·Taylor)《道学先生的信仰》(Faith of a Moralist)书里说,读了但丁《神曲天篇》,有一个印象,觉得天堂里空气沉闷,诸仙列圣只希望下界来个陌生人,谈话消遣。我也常常疑惑,假使天堂好 玩,何以但丁不像乡下人上城的东张西望,倒失神落魄,专去注视琵雅德丽史的美丽的眼睛,以至受琵雅德丽史婉妙的数说:“回过头去罢!我的眼睛不是唯一的天 堂(che non pur ne’miei occhi eparadiso)” [B。天堂并不如史文朋(Swinburne)所说,一个玫瑰花园,充满了浪上人火来的姑娘(A rose garden full ofStunners),浪上人火来的姑娘,是裸了大腿,跳舞着唱“天堂不是我的分”的。史文朋一生叛教,哪知此中底细?古法文传奇《乌开山与倪高来情 史》(Aucassin et Nicolette)说,天堂里全是老和尚跟残废的叫化子;风流武侠的骑士反以地狱为归宿。雷诺(Renan)《自传续编》(Feuilles detachees)序文里也说,天堂中大半是虔诚的老婆子(vieilles devotes),无聊得要命;雷诺教士出身,说话当然靠得住。假使爱女人,应当爱及女人的狗,那么,真心结交朋友,应当忘掉朋友的过失。对于人类应负全责的上帝,也只能捏造——捏了泥土创造,并不能改造,使世界上坏人变好;偏是凡夫俗子倒常想改造朋友的品胜,真是岂有此理。一切罪过,都是一点未凿的天真,一角消毁不尽的个性,一条按压不住的原始的行动,脱离了人为的规律,归宁到大自然的老家。抽象地想着了罪恶,我们也许会厌恨;但是罪恶具体地在朋友的性格里衬托出来,我们只觉得他的品性产生了一种新的和谐,或者竟说是一种动人怜惜的缺陷,像古磁上一条淡淡的裂缝,奇书里一角缺页,使你心窝里涌出加倍的爱惜。心 直口快的劝告,假使出诸美丽的异性朋友,如闻裂帛,如看快刀切菜,当然乐于听受。不过,照我所知,美丽的女郎,中外一例,说话无不打着圈儿挂了弯的;只有 身段缺乏曲线的娘们,说话也笔直到底。因此,直谅的“益友”,我是没有的,我也不感到“益友”的需要。无友一身轻,威斯娄(Whistler)的得意语, 只算替我说的。

多闻的“益友”,也同样的靠不住。见闻多,己诵广的人,也许可充顾问,未必配做朋友,除非学问以外,他另有引人的魔力。德白落斯(President de Brosses)批评伏尔泰道:“别人敬爱他,无非为他做的诗好。确乎他的诗做得不坏,不过,我们只该爱他的诗(Mais ce sont ses vers qu’il fautadmiter)”——言外之意,当然是,我们不必爱他的人。我去年听见一句话,更为痛快。一位男朋友怂恿我为他跟一位女朋友撮合,生平未做媒 人,好奇的想尝试一次。见到那位女朋友,声明来意,第一项先说那位男朋友学问顶好,正待极合科学方法的数说第二项第三项,那位姑娘轻冷地笑道:“假使学问 好便该嫁他,大学文科老教授里有的是鳏夫。”这两个例子,对于多闻的“ 益友”,也可应用。譬如看书,参考书材料最丰富,用处最大,然而极少有人认它为伴侣的读物。颐德(Andre Gide)《日记》(Pages de Journal l929-1932)有个极妙的测验;他说,关于有许多书,我们应当问:这种书给什么人看(Qui peut leslire)?关于有许多人,我们应该问:这种人能看什么书(Que peu-vent-i1s lire)?照此说法,多闻的“益友”就是专看参考书的人。多闻的人跟参考书往往同一命运,一经用过,仿佛挤干的柠檬,嚼之无味,弃之不足惜。并且,打开天窗说亮话,世界上没有一个人不在任何方面比我们知道得多,假使个个要攀为朋友,哪里有这许多情感来分配?伦 敦东头自告奋勇做向导的顽童,巴黎夜半领游俱乐部的瘪三,对于垢污的神秘,比你的见闻来得广博,若照多闻益友的原则,几个酒钱,还够不上朋友通财之谊。多 闻的“多” 字,表现出数量的注重。记诵不比学问;大学问家的学问跟他整个的性情陶融为一片,不仅有丰富的数量,还添上个别的性质;每一个琐细的事实,都在他的心血里 沉浸滋养,长了神经和脉络,是你所学不会,学不到的。反过来说,一个参考书式的多闻者(章实斋所谓横通),无论记诵如何广博,你总能把他吸收到一干二净。 学校里一般教师,授完功课后的精神的储蓄,缩挤得跟所发讲义纸一样的扁薄了!普通师生之间,不常发生友谊,这也是一个原因。根据多闻的原则而产出的友谊, 当然随记诵的增减为涨缩,不稳固可想而知。自从人工经济的科学器具发达以来,“多闻”之学似乎也进了一个新阶段。唐李渤间归宗禅师云:“芥子何能容须弥 山?”师言:“学士胸藏万卷书,此心不过如椰子大,万卷书何处著?”记得王荆公《寄蔡天启诗》、袁随园《秋夜杂诗》,也有类似的说法。现在的情形可大不相 同了,时髦的学者不需要心,只需要几只抽屉,几百张白卡片,分门别类,做成有引必得的“引得”,用不着头脑更去强记。但得抽屉充实,何妨心腹空虚。最初把 抽屉来代替头脑,久而久之,习而俱化,头脑也有点木木然接近抽屉的质料了。我敢预言,在最近的将来,木头或阿木林等谩骂,会变成学者们最尊敬的称谓,“朴 学”一个名词,将发生新鲜的意义。

这并不是说,朋友对于你毫无益处;我不过解释,能给你身心利益的人,未必就算朋友。朋友的益处,不能这样拈斤播两的讲。真正的友谊的形成,并非由于双方有意的拉拢,带些偶然,带些不知不觉。在意识层底下,不知何年何月潜伏着一个友谊的种子;咦!看它在心面透出了萌芽。在温暖固密,春夜一般的潜意识中,忽然偷偷的钻进了一个外人,哦!原来就是他!真正友谊的产物,只是一种渗透了你的身心的愉快。没有这种愉快,随你如何直谅多闻,也不会有友谊。接触着你真正的朋友,感觉到这种愉快,你内心的鄙吝残忍,自然会消失,无需说教似的劝导。 你没有听过穷冬深夜壁炉烟囱里呼啸着的风声么?像把你胸怀间的郁结体贴出来,吹荡到消散,然而不留语言文字的痕迹、不受金石丝竹的束缚。百读不厌的黄山谷 《茶词》说得最妙:“恰如灯下故人,万里归来对影;口不能言,心下快活自省”。以交友比吃茶,可谓确当,存心要交“益友”的人,便不像中国古人的品茗,而 颇像英国人下午的吃茶了:浓而苦的印度红茶,还要方糖牛奶,外加面包牛油糕点,甚至香肠肉饼子,干的湿的,热闹得好比水陆道场,胡乱填满肚子完事。在我一 知半解的几国语言里,没有比中国古语所谓。“素交”更能表出友谊的骨髓。一个“素”字把纯洁真朴的交情的本体,形容尽致。素是一切颜色的基础,同时也是一 切颜色的调和,像白日包含着七色。真正的交情,看来像素淡,自有超越死生的厚谊。假使交谊不淡而腻,那就是恋爱或者柏拉图式的友情了。中国古人称夫妇为“腻友”,也是体贴入微的隽语,外国文里找不见的。所以,真正的友谊,是比精神或物质的援助更深微的关系。蒲 伯(Pope)对鲍林白洛克(Bolingbroke)的称谓,极有斟酌,极耐寻味:“哲人,导师,朋友”(Phi1osopher,Guide ,Friend)。我有大学时代五位最敬爱的老师,都像蒲伯所说,以哲人导师而更做朋友的;这五位老师以及其他三四位好朋友,全对我有说不尽的恩德;不 过,我跟他们的友谊,并非由于说不尽的好处,倒是说不出的要好。孟太尼(Montaigne)解释他跟拉白哀地(La Boetie )生死交情的话,颇可借用:“因为他是他,因为我是我”,没有其他的话可说。素交的素字已经把这个不着色相的情谊体会出来了;“口不能言”的快活也只可采 取无字天书的作法去描写罢。

还有一类朋友,与素交略有不同。这一等朋友大多数是比你年纪稍轻的总角交。说你戏弄他,你偏爱他;说你欺侮他,你却保护他,仿佛约翰生和鲍斯威儿的关系。 这一类朋友,像你的一个小小的秘密,是你私有,不大肯公开,只许你对他嘻笑怒骂。素交的快活,近于品茶;这一类狎友给你的愉快,只能比金圣叹批西厢所谓隐 处生疥,闭户痛搔,不亦快哉。颐罗图(Jean Giraudoux)《少女求夫记》(Juliette au pays des hommes)有一节妙文,刻画微妙舒适的癣痒(Un Chatouille-ment exquis,un eczema ,incomparahle,uue adorablement,d’elicieuse gale)也能传出这个感觉。

本来我的朋友就不多,这三年来,更少接近的机会,只靠着不痛快的通信。到欧洲后,也有一二个常过往的外国少年,这又算得什么朋友?分手了,回到中国,彼此 间隔着“惯于离间一回的大海”(Estranging seas),就极容易的忘怀了。这个种族的门槛,是跨不过的。在国外的友谊,在国外的恋爱,你想带回家去么?也许是路程太远了,不方便携带这许多行李;也 许是海关大严了,付不起那许多进出口税。英国的冬天,到一二月间才来,去年落不尽的树叶,又籁籁地随风打印浦室的窗。想一百年前的穆尔(Thomas Moore)定也在同样萧瑟的气候里,感觉到手“故友如冬叶,萧萧四落稀”的凄凉(When l remember all The friends so link’Likeleaves in wintry Weatjer.)。对于秋冬萧杀的气息,感觉顶敏锐的中国诗入自卢照邻高瞻直到沈钦圻陈嘉淑,早有一般用意的名句。金冬心的“故人笑比庭中树,一日秋风 一日疏”,更觉染深了冬夜的孤寂。然而何必替古人们伤感呢!我的朋友个个都好着,过两天是星期一,从中国经西伯利亚来的信,又该到牛津了,包你带来朋友的 消息。


Nov 01

Ode To Joy

Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805)

translated by William F. Wertz

Joy, thou beauteous godly lightning,
Daughter of Elysium,
Fire drunken we are ent’ring
Heavenly, thy holy home!
Thy enchantments bind together,
What did custom stern divide,
Every man becomes a brother,
Where thy gentle wings abide.

Be embrac’d, ye millions yonder!
Take this kiss throughout the world!
Brothers—o’er the stars unfurl’d
Must reside a loving Father.}

Who the noble prize achieveth,
Good friend of a friend to be;
Who a lovely wife attaineth,
Join us in his jubilee!
Yes—he too who but {one} being
On this earth can call {his} own!
He who ne’er was able, weeping
Stealeth from this league alone!


He who in the great ring dwelleth,
Homage pays to sympathy!
To the stars above leads she,
Where on high the {Unknown} reigneth.}

Joy is drunk by every being
From kind nature’s flowing breasts,
Every evil, every good thing
For her rosy footprint quests.
Gave she {us} both {vines} and kisses,
In the face of death a friend,
To the worm were given blisses
And the Cherubs God attend.


Fall before him, all ye millions?
{Know’st} thou the Creator, world?
Seek above the stars unfurl’d,
Yonder dwells He in the heavens.}

Joy commands the hardy mainspring
Of the universe eterne.
Joy, oh joy the wheel is driving
Which the worlds’ great clock doth turn.
Flowers from the buds she coaxes,
Suns from out the hyaline,
Spheres she rotates through expanses,
Which the seer can’t divine.


As the suns are flying, happy
Through the heaven’s glorious plane,
Travel, brothers, down your lane,
Joyful as in hero’s vict’ry.}

From the truth’s own fiery mirror
On the searcher {doth} she smile.
Up the steep incline of honor
Guideth {she} the suff’rer’s mile.
High upon faith’s sunlit mountains
One can see {her} banner flies,
Through the breach of open’d coffins
{She} in angel’s choir doth rise.


Suffer on courageous millions!
Suffer for a better world!
O’er the tent of stars unfurl’d
God rewards you from the heavens.}

Gods can never be requited,
Beauteous ’tis, their like to be.
Grief and want shall be reported,
So to cheer with gaiety.
Hate and vengeance be forgotten,
Pardon’d be our mortal foe,
Not a teardrop shall him dampen,
No repentance bring him low.


Let our book of debts be cancell’d!
Reconcile the total world!
Brothers—o’er the stars unfurl’d
God doth judge, as we have settl’d.}

Joy doth bubble from this rummer,
From the golden blood of grape
Cannibals imbibe good temper,
Weak of heart their courage take—
Brothers, fly up from thy places,
When the brimming cup doth pass,
Let the foam shoot up in spaces:
To the goodly Soul this glass!


Whom the crown of stars doth honor,
Whom the hymns of Seraphs bless,
{To the goodly Soul this glass}
O’er the tent of stars up yonder!}

Courage firm in grievous trial,
Help, where innocence doth scream,
Oaths which sworn to are eternal,
Truth to friend and foe the same,
Manly pride ’fore kingly power—
Brothers, cost it life and blood,—
Honor to whom merits honor,
Ruin to the lying brood!


Closer draw the holy circle,
Swear it by this golden wine,
Faithful to the vow divine,
Swear it by the Judge celestial!}

Rescue from the tyrant’s fetters,
Mercy to the villain e’en,
Hope within the dying hours,
Pardon at the guillotine!
E’en the dead shall live in heaven!
Brothers, drink and all agree,
Every sin shall be forgiven,
Hell forever cease to be.


A serene departing hour!
Pleasant sleep beneath the pall!
Brothers—gentle words for all
Doth the Judge of mortals utter!}


Nov 01

I don’t pity, don’t call, don’t cry…

Poetry of Sergey Aleksandrovich Yesenin

Translated by Lyuba Coffey

I don’t pity, don’t call, don’t cry,

All will be gone, like haze from the white apple trees.

Seized by the gold of withering,

I will never be young again.

My heart touched by the chill within,

You will not beat as before,

And the cotton birches of the countryside

No more will lure me to gad about barefoot.

Wandering spirit! Less and less

Do you stir the flame of my lips.

Oh, gone, my freshness,

Stormy eyes, high water of feelings.

Now, I’ve become tame in my wishes,

Life of mine? Did you come in dreams to me?

As if at an echo-filled early Spring hour

I rode by on a rose-colored stallion.

We all, we all decay in this world,

The copper flows quietly from the maple trees.

Let it be in centuries blessed,

That it happened to me to bloom and die.



Oct 31

My Enneagram Type Indicator Sampler Results (RHETI Version 2.0)

Huh…I got quite different test results this time.

The following numerical scores are calculated from your answers to the Sampler questionnaire. The highest score in any type is 8. You may want to print this page for reference before leaving the page, as you cannot return to the results (except with the “Back” button) without retaking the test.

Type 1 Type 2 Type 3 Type 4 Type 5 Type 6 Type 7 Type 8 Type 9
2 3 6 4 7 3 1 4 6


Oct 31


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