<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="yes"?><rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom"><channel><title>John Milton · Pablo Stafforini</title><link>https://stafforini.com/tags/john-milton/</link><description/><generator>Hugo -- gohugo.io</generator><language>en</language><lastBuildDate>Mon, 17 Apr 2017 00:00:00 +0000</lastBuildDate><atom:link href="https://stafforini.com/tags/john-milton/index.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><item><title>aesthetics</title><link>https://stafforini.com/quotes/de-quincey-aesthetics/</link><pubDate>Mon, 17 Apr 2017 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate><guid>https://stafforini.com/quotes/de-quincey-aesthetics/</guid><description>&lt;![CDATA[<blockquote><p>The first murder is familiar to you all. As the inventor of murder, and the father of the art, Cain must have been a man of first-rate genius. All the Cains were men of genius. Tubal Cain invented tubes, I think, or some such thing. But, whatever were the originality and genius of the artist, every art was then in its infancy; and the works must be criticised with a recollection of that fact. Even Tubal&rsquo;s work would probably be little approved at this day in Sheffield; and therefore of Cain (Cain senior, I mean) it is no disparagement to say, that his performance was but so so. Milton, however, is supposed to have thought differently. By his way of relating the case, it should seem to have been rather a pet murder with him, for he retouches it with an apparent anxiety for its picturesque effect:— Whereat he inly raged; and, as they takl&rsquo;d, Smote him into the midriff with a stone That beat out life: he fell; and, deadly pale, Groan&rsquo;d out his soul<em>with gushing blood effus&rsquo;d</em>.<em>Par. Lost, B. XI.</em></p></blockquote>
]]></description></item><item><title>John Milton</title><link>https://stafforini.com/quotes/borges-john-milton/</link><pubDate>Thu, 01 Jul 2004 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate><guid>https://stafforini.com/quotes/borges-john-milton/</guid><description>&lt;![CDATA[<div class="verse"><p>De las generaciones de las rosas<br/>
Que en el fondo del tiempo se han perdido<br/>
Quiero que una se salve del olvido,<br/>
Una sin marca o signo entre las cosas<br/><br/>
Que fueron. El destino me depara<br/>
Este don de nombrar por vez primera<br/>
Esa flor silenciosa, la postrera<br/>
Rosa que Milton acercó a su cara,<br/><br/>
Sin verla. Oh tú bermeja o amarilla<br/>
O blanca rosa de un jardín borrado,<br/>
Deja mágicamente tu pasado<br/><br/>
Inmemorial y en este verso brilla,<br/>
Oro, sangre o marfil o tenebrosa<br/>
Como en sus manos, invisible rosa.<br/></p></div>
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