Saturday, December 03, 2005


The Eternal Fascist

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the fascist,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his masters' eyebrow. Then a draftdoger,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in dishonour, sudden and quick in flight,
Seeking the bottle reputation
Even in the bottleā€™s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,Full of old bullshit and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shiftsInto the lean
and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his small bitchy voice,
Turning as usual toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange uneventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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