NP: featherless bipeds and whatnot

[alice wellintown]

O, that this too too solid flesh would melt
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, (135)
Seem to me all the uses of this world!
Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,
That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature
Possess it merely.


I have of late, (but wherefore
 I know not) lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises;
 and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition;
 that this goodly frame the earth, seems to me a sterrill
 promontory; this most excellent canopy the air,
 look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this Majesticall roofe,
 fretted with golden fire: why, it appeares no other thing
 to me, then a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
 What a piece of work is a man! How noble in
 reason, how infinite in faculty! in form and moving
 how express and admirable! In action how like an Angel!
 in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
 world! the paragon of animals! And yet to me, what is
 this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me.

How much more profitable are all the uses of this Earth today
If One dimentional Man puts not away his childish things?
Meaning is lost.
Being is to Be and not to Not Be.
And Knowing a curse, an anatomy of melancholy

But Hamlet, with his wors, words, words, acting, writing,  is too
little in the Sun.

Ah, but the Catskill Eagle!

http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Moby-Dick/Chapter_96