1. Julian is back!
2. Great bbq at XW's place on Saturnight. I think the surroundings - the cool stone patio, the long narrow pool reflecting the streetlight, the quality of the food and drink - brought out the civilised part in us - no-one did anything that would necessitate some karmic payback down the road (with the possible exception of Wii boxing).
3. Yoga, as I know it, from my grand total of three classes, runs up against all my instincts - the hippy-dippy part of me is attracted to the eastern mysticism that informs the practice, the yuppie bit tempted by the studios in orchard road, and what I think of as the sane part cynical of the enterprise of yoga - the pretty studios, the motivation for physical exercise*, the gym wear sold out in the reception area, the modern interpretations (where are the ashrams and the Hindu gods?).
* to be fair to this particular studio, there's breathing too.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Saturday, July 28, 2007
FYIP
1. I've read Harry Potter 7.
2. It must be awfully difficult to pull Lear off - to have enough of a remnant of greatness in him to sustain the tragedy. I rather enjoyed the RSC Lear, despite Cordelia, who I guess was trying to be feisty and spirited but unfortunately came across as shrill and shrewish, and Edmund, who was a little too much the storybook villain.
3. I did think it was a triumph - that the energy level stayed high, the actors looked like they were really into the play, and pulled off the difficult bits with some success, and that the spear-carriers were aesthetically pleasing.
4. Somehow we seem have produced - neither the richness that a freer society might produce, where artists may have licence to experiment with thought and range and form, and political concerns do not deafen artistic concerns, nor the depth that a more oppressive society might produce, where artists may be able to bring the political cliches and distortions of the day into more human relief, and forge gold from suffering.
5. I've just finished re-reading, and marvelling at, the Northern Lights series, which is rich and complex and inventive.
2. It must be awfully difficult to pull Lear off - to have enough of a remnant of greatness in him to sustain the tragedy. I rather enjoyed the RSC Lear, despite Cordelia, who I guess was trying to be feisty and spirited but unfortunately came across as shrill and shrewish, and Edmund, who was a little too much the storybook villain.
3. I did think it was a triumph - that the energy level stayed high, the actors looked like they were really into the play, and pulled off the difficult bits with some success, and that the spear-carriers were aesthetically pleasing.
4. Somehow we seem have produced - neither the richness that a freer society might produce, where artists may have licence to experiment with thought and range and form, and political concerns do not deafen artistic concerns, nor the depth that a more oppressive society might produce, where artists may be able to bring the political cliches and distortions of the day into more human relief, and forge gold from suffering.
5. I've just finished re-reading, and marvelling at, the Northern Lights series, which is rich and complex and inventive.
"Why -" Lyra began, and found her voice weak and trembling - "Why can't I read the alethiometer anymore? Why can't I even do that? That was the one thing I could do really well, and it's just not there anymore - it just vanished as if it had never come..."
"You read it by grace," said Xaphania, looking at her, "and you can regain it by work."
"How long will that take?"
"A lifetime."
"That long..."
"But your reading will be even better then, after a lifetime of thought and effort, because it will come from conscious understanding. Grace attained like that is deeper and fuller than grace that comes freely, and furthermore, once you've gained it, it will never leave you."
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Counting
My brother came into my room as I was reading xkcd and said, have you seen the latest one? I showed that to my girlfriend today. (How sweet, I said.) She got upset with me.
He said
he went down to the beach, and let the shallow waves roll over him, and there was gold all over the place, and he missed me.
[Because I often forget.]
[Because I often forget.]
Chacun à son goût
From the BBC:
Now, though, after years of applying myself to the Chinese arts of eating, I understand the pleasure of having something slithery and bouncy in my mouth.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
3
For Sidney Bechet
by Philip Larkin
That note you hold, narrowing and rising, shakes
Like New Orleans reflected on the water,
And in all ears appropriate falsehood wakes,
Building for some a legendary Quarter
Of balconies, flower-baskets and quadrilles,
Everyone making love and going shares --
Oh, play that thing! Mute glorious Storyvilles
Others may license, grouping around their chairs
Sporting-house girls like circus tigers (priced
Far above rubies) to pretend their fads,
While scholars manques nod around unnoticed
Wrapped up in personnels like old plaids.
On me your voice falls as they say love should,
Like an enormous yes. My Crescent City
Is where your speech alone is understood,
And greeted as the natural noise of good,
Scattering long-haired grief and scored pity.
by Philip Larkin
That note you hold, narrowing and rising, shakes
Like New Orleans reflected on the water,
And in all ears appropriate falsehood wakes,
Building for some a legendary Quarter
Of balconies, flower-baskets and quadrilles,
Everyone making love and going shares --
Oh, play that thing! Mute glorious Storyvilles
Others may license, grouping around their chairs
Sporting-house girls like circus tigers (priced
Far above rubies) to pretend their fads,
While scholars manques nod around unnoticed
Wrapped up in personnels like old plaids.
On me your voice falls as they say love should,
Like an enormous yes. My Crescent City
Is where your speech alone is understood,
And greeted as the natural noise of good,
Scattering long-haired grief and scored pity.
2
Language
by W. S. Merwin
Certain words now in our knowledge we will not use again, and we will never forget them. We need them. Like the back of the picture. Like our marrow, and the color in our veins. We shine the lantern of our sleep on them, to make sure, and there they are, trembling already for the day of witness. They will be buried with us, and rise with the rest.
by W. S. Merwin
Certain words now in our knowledge we will not use again, and we will never forget them. We need them. Like the back of the picture. Like our marrow, and the color in our veins. We shine the lantern of our sleep on them, to make sure, and there they are, trembling already for the day of witness. They will be buried with us, and rise with the rest.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Archie
If you too read the Archie comics as a kid:
The Vanity Fair article
The slide show of Archie art through the years
The intro to the show
And Sugar, Sugar!
The Vanity Fair article
The slide show of Archie art through the years
The intro to the show
And Sugar, Sugar!
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Dang1 ping1
My brother just called home. From the army. At the pay phone (they give army boys free phone cards; they should really just give them spare handphone batteries). Last Thursday my whole family went with him to Tekong (where all the other boys were accompanied by hordes of family too). At Tekong, after the ferry ride, the parents and assorted relatives have to go one way, to tour the premises, and the boys another, to get their kits and a pep talk. The tour of the bunks and recreation room is conducted by a rather cute army boy, very much like the smiling Sarayon. There is an air-conditioned recreation room decorated with army propaganda and equipped with a TV, some chairs, a fooze-ball table. The guide explains that it's for rest, but since there's one room for each company, 200 boys, the boys will have to ask their commanding officers for permission to use the room. The commanding officers (the guide hastens to say) will generally agree, but sometimes they won't, for example if there's some tough training the next day, and the boys should sleep instead. Not that the training's tough; ok it is tough (tough is good, says a parent), but these boys have all passed their IPPT, so they will be ok, and if they do very well they can win the company awards. (Our guide was the best recruit, or best something, of his platoon.) Then there is a guide to army gear, with a different and less smiling host. He (the different host) has dissected a pack or whatever it's called and pinned its entrails to some billboards. He has also dug up a demonstrator dressed in full battle order (I presume; war paint on his face and unconvincing rag leaves on his helment and the new load-something-something vest on this, though not hung with grenades). Someone asks about the weight of all that gear, and is told that that varies with weapons and the amount of food the boy chooses to bring along (which seems odd). We troop into the canteen to wait (there are many groups of eager relatives shuttling into Tekong). We are called to the auditorium. The commanding officer is a middle-aged man running to fat who takes some pains to explain the training architecture of the army to the parents. An army, he says, marches on its stomach, and so we have improved the army food. The boys sit together in the middle of the auditorium; they all look small and skinny and slight. Too small to wear the army pack and carry 20kg of weapons and ammunition (my father says), to small to be away from home. The commanding officer calls the boys to take the oath, which is flashed on powerpoint (of course). He starts the oath, I, Name, NRIC number, and there is a moment of confusion as every boy speaks his own name and NRIC number, loudly of course, because they've all been told to talk the army way now. I suppose the scene is meant to be touching, and it is a little, because they're so painfully young, but mostly it brings to mind the City Watch taking their oath (I comma square bracket insert name here square bracket comma do swear by square bracket insert deity's name here square bracket...). Then he says to the boys, I want you to promise to call your parents tonight, after 9.30 pm, can you do that? YES SIR! (Their training must have already started.) Now you've promised, you must call your parents first, not your girlfriends, ok? YES SIR! The girlfriends in the audience (not that many of them) shift in their seats. The boys leave first, line up in the corridor. The parents troop out row by row and claim their son. We all go to the dining hall to taste the SAF food. The boys are restless; perhaps a little eager; perhaps a little apprehensive, but not really by much; it's probably all a little unreal at this point, like a massive school camp; there isn't much to do after we've eaten lunch (which was edible); this is just waiting time, like the time in an airport before boarding the plane. We look for the bus back to the ferry. My brother walks us there, and there are hugs all around - my father shakes his hand instead, because he is all grown up now - and last minute instructions on washing clothes, sleeping early, not exhausting the handphone battery the first day. Other boys are hugging their assorted relatives, all a little sheepishly. Call us! we say. And then we board the ferry back.
A Map of Disappointments
There's a Zadie Smith article on why writers often betray themselves in aldaily.com.
The few things I've written have felt like betrayals when I was writing them - felt like I let truth slide away in favour of more familiar phrase or thought, some word or thought that came (too) readily to hand. And after writing whatever it was I was just glad to have written something, and ready to believe that it said whatever I meant to say.
I used to think that what one really required for a great novel, or poem, or any piece of writing, was courage. Throw away the lights and the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
This follows a dinner conversation with xz when he said, I don't think you're happy at your job. What I said then, what I say to these things - I'm not unhappy. It's still interesting. There are good points. If I were better at it I would like it more; it's just a question of working harder. I have to do this, and being unhappy would just make it harder. (The last one on grimmer days.) And I thought this was a sign of growing up, of some kind of maturity; after all, being an adult is all about being sensible and letting go (even of things that used to define you) and doing things you don't want to do, isn't it? But I generally write even less when I'm fooling myself, and I haven't been able to write anything for a while now.
Which disappointments would you put into your map?
The few things I've written have felt like betrayals when I was writing them - felt like I let truth slide away in favour of more familiar phrase or thought, some word or thought that came (too) readily to hand. And after writing whatever it was I was just glad to have written something, and ready to believe that it said whatever I meant to say.
I used to think that what one really required for a great novel, or poem, or any piece of writing, was courage. Throw away the lights and the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
This follows a dinner conversation with xz when he said, I don't think you're happy at your job. What I said then, what I say to these things - I'm not unhappy. It's still interesting. There are good points. If I were better at it I would like it more; it's just a question of working harder. I have to do this, and being unhappy would just make it harder. (The last one on grimmer days.) And I thought this was a sign of growing up, of some kind of maturity; after all, being an adult is all about being sensible and letting go (even of things that used to define you) and doing things you don't want to do, isn't it? But I generally write even less when I'm fooling myself, and I haven't been able to write anything for a while now.
Which disappointments would you put into your map?
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Placeholders for memory
1. Christmas was a family affair - I think the first time in 6 years that we were all together for Christmas. We had candles, and flowers, and turkey. (I stuffed it! And cut/chopped stuff and stitched up the turkey and peered anxiously at it and all the things that kitchen helpers do.) Turkey is over-rated; next year we'll do some other meat.
2. New Year's Eve was at Changi Village - Steve reached Singapore very, very early in the morning on the last day of last year; in the afternoon, we took a bus to Changi Village, stopping some way before to peer at the military buildings (where the Changi Murals short film was shot) and walk through the old hospital. Leaving the place later on the first day of the year, we went past another film site - an old, abandoned, army building; probably a training school of some sort - with high archways and long corridors and "for glory and honour" in faded paint in what must have been the hall or assembly room. Steve said, wouldn't this be a good place for a Yo La Tengo music video?
3. Does anyone want to watch Yo La Tengo in March?
4. Dinner at S's place on the day itself, with M and R.
5. My family was in China the week just before Christmas, so I took a lot of time off from work and spent it mostly in bed reading WN's Lucifers, and not thinking.
6. When you were in the States I practised not missing you. I miss you now. (It hasn't yet sunk in that I'm not going to see you any more.)
7. This is what I used to mock: the HDB flat, the 1.25 kids, 0.25 car (or whatever the national figure is). Whether it's the recent spate of engagements and weddings (because I'm at that age now), whether it's my biological clock betraying anything I've learnt over the last 26 years and I'm reverting to type - I do want to move on to a new phase of life. (It's a terrible thing to learn about myself, that love's not enough. Enough for what?)
8. There was something, I think in aldaily.com, a while ago about how nice a person Leonard Woolf (husband of Virgina) was. It quoted a researcher on Virginia Woolf who had Leonard Woolf's photograph on her bedside table and used to write to him, especially when her research was going badly - used to write him "letters for healing, not for reading". Thank you for the letters and the photographs. That I can write to you (though my letters are tardy and uninformed) is healing enough; that you write to me is a gift.
2. New Year's Eve was at Changi Village - Steve reached Singapore very, very early in the morning on the last day of last year; in the afternoon, we took a bus to Changi Village, stopping some way before to peer at the military buildings (where the Changi Murals short film was shot) and walk through the old hospital. Leaving the place later on the first day of the year, we went past another film site - an old, abandoned, army building; probably a training school of some sort - with high archways and long corridors and "for glory and honour" in faded paint in what must have been the hall or assembly room. Steve said, wouldn't this be a good place for a Yo La Tengo music video?
3. Does anyone want to watch Yo La Tengo in March?
4. Dinner at S's place on the day itself, with M and R.
5. My family was in China the week just before Christmas, so I took a lot of time off from work and spent it mostly in bed reading WN's Lucifers, and not thinking.
6. When you were in the States I practised not missing you. I miss you now. (It hasn't yet sunk in that I'm not going to see you any more.)
7. This is what I used to mock: the HDB flat, the 1.25 kids, 0.25 car (or whatever the national figure is). Whether it's the recent spate of engagements and weddings (because I'm at that age now), whether it's my biological clock betraying anything I've learnt over the last 26 years and I'm reverting to type - I do want to move on to a new phase of life. (It's a terrible thing to learn about myself, that love's not enough. Enough for what?)
8. There was something, I think in aldaily.com, a while ago about how nice a person Leonard Woolf (husband of Virgina) was. It quoted a researcher on Virginia Woolf who had Leonard Woolf's photograph on her bedside table and used to write to him, especially when her research was going badly - used to write him "letters for healing, not for reading". Thank you for the letters and the photographs. That I can write to you (though my letters are tardy and uninformed) is healing enough; that you write to me is a gift.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Two English teachers are walking in the woods
I found a primer on writing poetry, on metre and rhyme and form, by Stephen Fry, of all people. In his foreword, Fry sympathises with anyone who has been traumatised by literature lessons in school:
"The way poetry was taught in school reminded W. H. Auden of a Punch cartoon composed, legend has it, by the poet A. E. Housman. Two English teachers are walking in the woods in springtime. The first, on hearing birdsong, is moved to quote William Wordsworth:cp would probably approve - Fry quotes Auden again, this time on free verse:
Teacher 1: Oh cuckoo, shall I call thee bird
Or but a wandering voice?
Teacher 2: State the alternative preferred
With reasons for your choice."
"The poet who writes 'free' verse is like Robinson Crusoe on his desert island: he must do all his cooking, laundry and darning for himself. In a few exceptional cases, this manly independence produces something original and impressive, but more often the result is squalor - dirty sheets on the unmade bed and empty bottles on the unswept floor."
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Narrativium
I am avoiding work in all possible ways, including reading Wintersmith twice over in a weekend (the NLB came through) and half of Light in August - and fully intending to read the other half, which surprises me, having tried and failed to read Faulkner before (I think it was Sound and Fury - the one with all the different voices going round and round, unless that describes more than one novel). I am emboldened - I have also borrowed Absalom, Absalom (on the principle that once the first Faulkner is breached the second will be easier) and might actually try to read it.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Back from Viking land
A week and a half in Stockholm and Copenhagen, to study the Nordic social security system.
Stockholm. It gets dark here (and across the Strand) by 3 pm, which is invariably depressing, even with christmas lights sparkling over the street in the old city and from every christmas tree propped up against storefront or drainpipe. We have most of one day here, to walk around the charming and deeply-touristed medieval city (Gamla Stan), which offers candles, crystal ornaments, delicate wooden ships in a bottle, plastic horned helmets. We look in vain for a Swedish restaurant; evidently, when Swedes eat out, they eat Italian or Japanese. An ostensibly Italian restaurant has a Swedish special - fried potatoes with bacon and lingonberry sauce: breakfast tastes. We take a ferry across to the Viking Museum, where the Vasa ship is housed: built by Gustavus Adolphus in the midst of the Thirty Years' War to be the pride of his navy, sunk off the cost of Stockholm after a shamefully short period of sailing, dredged up in the 1960s. There was an inquiry after the sinking: the balance of evidence suggested that the King's ambitions were too much for the ship's design (two gun decks instead of one, too little ballast for so heavy a ship), but no blame was formally assigned.
Copenhagen. I guess the Swedes and Danes can tell the difference, but I can't really. More grime than Stockholm (or the part of Stockholm we saw), more neon, more rudeness, in consequence seemingly more interesting. We spend a good deal of time wandering, often inadvertently, up and down Strogen, the pedestrianised shopping street. A mandatory trip to the Little Mermaid, a surprisingly thoughtful statue posed on a rock, the waves breaking at her feet/flippers, juxtaposed against the powerhouses and chimneys on the other side of the shore. There is time to go to the Viking Museum at Roskilde, which houses five Viking ships salvaged in the 1950s/60s. The Museum staff have reconstructed the ships, using the same tools and materials the Vikings did, and will take the warship sailing (with a 120-man crew) to Dublin next year, after the winter. Imagine that heritage.
We go to Tivoli, which is a theme park right in the middle of the city and prettily, magically lit up at night (and not even the obvious Disney comparisons can spoil the mood). There are rides even in winter, perhaps because this is the warmest winter in 40, 50 years (above-zero temperatures). We ride the flying carousel, something Turkish; we get glogg (mulled wine), hot dogs; we take pictures of the light and sound show at the lake.
We go to Christiana, which is on the edge of the city and must be a relic of the 1960s - a small piece of land that claims to follow its own laws, primarily one that allows the sale and use of soft drugs (but not hard drubs). A wooden sign at the entrance says "Welcome to Christiana"; leaving, the same sign says "You are now entering the EU". The same trappings in every hippie or hippe-type place: cafes offering beer and hash, a "free Tibet" photographic exhibition, stalls selling Bob Marley posters, bongs, colourful striped made-in-Nepal scarves. A few grubby, sad-looking men in parkas in the backyard of a closed bar. A few dogs running with the bicycles. Mostly tourists here, though there are houses further back, away from the bars and cafes and shops (they say there are a hundred families living here). It feels like Camden Town, but on a much smaller scale. What one imagines the Village might have been like, but without the energy. You would recognise it if you were there.
The Nordic social security system. There is an aesthetically pleasing correlation between the policy and its price: high taxes to pay for comprehensive social security in case of unemployment, disability, illness, retirement...though this isn't something we didn't know before. The mystery, which no-one seems to be able to solve, is why the system works at all. Or perhaps we're asking the wrong questions? The Nordics seem to have made a necessity of virtue; perhaps that should not seem as odd as it is?
Stockholm. It gets dark here (and across the Strand) by 3 pm, which is invariably depressing, even with christmas lights sparkling over the street in the old city and from every christmas tree propped up against storefront or drainpipe. We have most of one day here, to walk around the charming and deeply-touristed medieval city (Gamla Stan), which offers candles, crystal ornaments, delicate wooden ships in a bottle, plastic horned helmets. We look in vain for a Swedish restaurant; evidently, when Swedes eat out, they eat Italian or Japanese. An ostensibly Italian restaurant has a Swedish special - fried potatoes with bacon and lingonberry sauce: breakfast tastes. We take a ferry across to the Viking Museum, where the Vasa ship is housed: built by Gustavus Adolphus in the midst of the Thirty Years' War to be the pride of his navy, sunk off the cost of Stockholm after a shamefully short period of sailing, dredged up in the 1960s. There was an inquiry after the sinking: the balance of evidence suggested that the King's ambitions were too much for the ship's design (two gun decks instead of one, too little ballast for so heavy a ship), but no blame was formally assigned.
Copenhagen. I guess the Swedes and Danes can tell the difference, but I can't really. More grime than Stockholm (or the part of Stockholm we saw), more neon, more rudeness, in consequence seemingly more interesting. We spend a good deal of time wandering, often inadvertently, up and down Strogen, the pedestrianised shopping street. A mandatory trip to the Little Mermaid, a surprisingly thoughtful statue posed on a rock, the waves breaking at her feet/flippers, juxtaposed against the powerhouses and chimneys on the other side of the shore. There is time to go to the Viking Museum at Roskilde, which houses five Viking ships salvaged in the 1950s/60s. The Museum staff have reconstructed the ships, using the same tools and materials the Vikings did, and will take the warship sailing (with a 120-man crew) to Dublin next year, after the winter. Imagine that heritage.
We go to Tivoli, which is a theme park right in the middle of the city and prettily, magically lit up at night (and not even the obvious Disney comparisons can spoil the mood). There are rides even in winter, perhaps because this is the warmest winter in 40, 50 years (above-zero temperatures). We ride the flying carousel, something Turkish; we get glogg (mulled wine), hot dogs; we take pictures of the light and sound show at the lake.
We go to Christiana, which is on the edge of the city and must be a relic of the 1960s - a small piece of land that claims to follow its own laws, primarily one that allows the sale and use of soft drugs (but not hard drubs). A wooden sign at the entrance says "Welcome to Christiana"; leaving, the same sign says "You are now entering the EU". The same trappings in every hippie or hippe-type place: cafes offering beer and hash, a "free Tibet" photographic exhibition, stalls selling Bob Marley posters, bongs, colourful striped made-in-Nepal scarves. A few grubby, sad-looking men in parkas in the backyard of a closed bar. A few dogs running with the bicycles. Mostly tourists here, though there are houses further back, away from the bars and cafes and shops (they say there are a hundred families living here). It feels like Camden Town, but on a much smaller scale. What one imagines the Village might have been like, but without the energy. You would recognise it if you were there.
The Nordic social security system. There is an aesthetically pleasing correlation between the policy and its price: high taxes to pay for comprehensive social security in case of unemployment, disability, illness, retirement...though this isn't something we didn't know before. The mystery, which no-one seems to be able to solve, is why the system works at all. Or perhaps we're asking the wrong questions? The Nordics seem to have made a necessity of virtue; perhaps that should not seem as odd as it is?
Sunday, September 03, 2006
On poverty
In her latest collection Decreation, Anne Carson reproduces fragment 31 of Sappho:
He seems to me equal to gods that manAfter discussing the first four complete stanzas, Carson moves on to the last line, which seems to be the beginning of a fifth stanza:
whoever he is who opposite you
sits and listens close
to your sweet speaking
and lovely laughing - oh it
puts the heart in my chest on wings
for when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking
is left in me
no: tongue breaks and thin
fire is racing under skin
and in eyes no sight and drumming
fills ears
and cold sweat holds me and shaking
grips me all, greener than grass
I am and dead - or almost
I seem to me.
But all is to be dared, because even a person of poverty...
"All is to be dared because even a person of poverty...," says the last verse. It is a new thought. The content of the thought is absolute daring. The condition of the thought is poverty. I don't want to give the impression that I know what this verse is saying or that I see where the poem is headed from here, I don't. Overall it leaves me wondering. Sappho stages an event of ecstasy but that's not what the poem is about either, ecstasy is just a means to an end. Unfortunately we don't reach the end, the poem breaks off. But we do see Sappho begin to turn towards it, towards this unreachable end. We see her senses empty themselves, we see her Being thrown outside its own centre where it stands observing her as if she were grass or dead. At which point a speculation occurs to me: granted this is a poem all about love, do we need to limit ourselves to a reading of it that is merely or conventionally erotic? After all, Sappho is believed by some historians to have been not just a poet of love and a worshipper of Aphrodite on Lesbos but also a priest of Aphrodite's cult and a teacher of her doctrines. Perhaps Sappho's poem wants to teach us something about the metaphysics or even the theology of love. Perhaps she is posing not the usual lovesong complaint, Why don't you love me? but a deeper spiritual question, What is it that love dares the self to do? Daring enters the poem in the last verse when Sappho uses the word tolmaton: "is to be dared." This word is a verbal adjective and expresses a mood of possibility or potential. Sappho says it is an absolute potential:
pan tolmaton: all is to be dared.
Moreover she consents to it - or seems to be on the point of consenting when the poem breaks off. Why does she consent? Her explanation no longer exists. So far as it goes, it leads us back to her ecstatic condition. For when an ecstatic is asked the question, What is it that love dares the self to do? she will answer:
Love dares the self to leave itself behind, to enter into poverty."