Ensamblando tu reproductor de música con IA
Sencillo / Pista
De Profundis
Letras
People point to Reading Gaol and say
That is where the artistic life leads a man
Well, it might lead to worse places
Mechanical people to whom life is a shrewd speculation
Depending on calculation always know where they are going
And go there
They start with the ideal desire of being the parish beadle
And they succeed in being the parish beadle and no more
A man whose desire is to be something separate from himself
Succeeds in being what he wants to be
That is his punishment
Those who want a mask have to wear it
But with the dynamic forces of life it is different
People who desire self-realization never know where they are going
They can't know
To recognize that the soul of a man is unknowable
Is the ultimate achievement of wisdom
The final mystery is oneself
When one has weighed the sun in the balance
And measured the steps of the moon
And mapped out the seven heavens
There still remains oneself
Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?
We are the zanies of sorrow
We are clowns whose hearts are broken
We are specially designed to appeal to the sense of humor
On November 13th, 1895
I was brought down here from London
From two o'clock till half past two on that day
I had to stand on the center platform of Clapham Junction
In convict dress and handcuffed for the world to look at
When people saw me they laughed
Each train swelled the audience
Nothing could exceed their amusement
That was before they knew who I was
As soon as they had been informed
They laughed still more
For half an hour I stood there
In the gray November rain
Surrounded by a jeering crowdFor a year I wept every day
At the same hour and for the same space of time
In prison tears are a part of every day's experience
A day in prison on which one does not weep
Is a day on which one's heart is hard
Not a day on which one's heart is happy
Morality does not help me
I am one of those who are made for exceptions
Religion does not help me
The faith that others give to what is unseen
I give to what one can touch and look at
It tells me that the laws under which I am convicted
And the system under which I have suffered
But somehow I have got to make both of these things
I have got to make everything that has happened to me
The plank bed, the loathsome food
The hard ropes, the harsh orders
The dreadful dress that makes sorrow
The silence, the solitude, the shame
Each and all of these things
I had to transform into a spiritual experience
There is not a single degradation of the body
Which I must not try and make into
A spiritualizing of the soul
I have no desire to complain
One of the many lessons that one learns in prison isThat
Things are what they are and will be what they will be
Suffering is one very long moment
We cannot divide it by seasons
We can only record its moods and chronicle their return
With us time itself does not progress
It seems to circle round one center of pain
For us there is only one season
The very sun and moon seem taken from us
Outside the day may be blue and gold
But the light that creeps down through the thick
Glass of the small iron-barred window is gray
It is always twilight in one cell
As it is always twilight in one's heart
And in the sphere of thought no less than in the sphere of time
We who live in prison and in whose lives there is no event but sorrow
Have to measure time by throbs of
Pain and the record of bitter moments
We have nothing else to think of
Suffering is the means by which we exist
Because it is the only means by which we become conscious of existing
And the remembrance of suffering in the past is necessary to us
As the evidence of our continued identity
Between myself and the memory of joy lies a gulf no less
Deep than that between myself and joy in its actuality
So much in this place do men live by pain
That my friendship with you, in the
Way in which I am forced to remember it
Appears to me always as a prelude consonant
With those varying modes of anguish
Which each day I have to realize
As though my life had been a symphony of sorrow
Passing through its rhythmically linked
Movements to its certain resolution
The memory of our friendship is the shadow that walks with me
That seems never to leave me, that wakes me up at night to tell
The same story over and over. At dawn it begins again. It follows
Me into the prison yard and makes me talk to myself as I tramp round
Each detail that accompanied each dreadful moment I am forced to
Recall. There is nothing that happened in those ill-starred years
That I cannot recreate in that chamber of the brain which is set
Apart for grief or for despair. Every strained note of your voice
Every twitch and gesture of your nervous hands, every bitter word
Every poisonous phrase comes back to me. I remember the street or
River down which we passed, the wall or woodland that surrounded
Us, at what figure on the dial stood the hands of the clock
Which way went the wings of the wind, the shape and color of the moon
There is such a thing as leaving mankind alone. There is no such
Thing as governing mankind. All forms of government are failures
The gods are strange. It is not our vices only they make instruments
To scourge us. They bring us to ruin through what in us is
Good, gentle, humane, loving. Love of some kind is the only
Possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering
That there is in the world. If the world has been built
Of sorrow, it has been built by the hands of love, because
In no other way could the soul of man reach perfection
One can see the city of God
That it seems as if a child could reach it
But with me and such as me
One can realize a thing in a single moment
But one loses it in the long hours
That follow with leaden feet
But we move slowly through time
With us who lie in prison
I hope to live long enough
And to produce work of such character
At the end of my days to say
The artistic life leads a man"
For the last seven or eight months
In spite of a succession of great troubles
Reaching me from the outside world
Almost without intermission
I have been placed in direct contact
That has helped me beyond words
So that while for the first year
Of my imprisonment I did nothing else
And can remember doing nothing else
But wring my hands in despair
What an appalling ending"
Now I try to say to myself
When I am not torturing myself
What a wonderful beginning"