The new Forum may be found at http://booksliterature.com/ .

The former post was removed as it violated our user agreement, or it did not add to the "Great Books" conversation in a constructive manner.

In our ongoing effort to ensure quality discussions throughout our forums, from now on only registered members may post. Spam will not be tolerated. If you would like to help moderate, please contact "jolly roger ship @ yahoo . com".

To post please register at http://jollyroger.com/greatbooksforums or at JollyRogerWest.com Great Books Forums.

We prefer Shakespearean Sonnets, reflections on Space and Time, and posts along the lines of:

CXVIII

Like as, to make our appetite more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge;
As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness when we purge;
Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding;
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
To be diseas'd, ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love, to anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assur'd,
And brought to medicine a healthful state
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cur'd;
  But thence I learn and find the lesson true,
  Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.
 	--William Shakespeare

The whole of science is nothing more than a refinement of everyday thinking. --Albert Einstein

It is our continuing goal to foster the world's greatest converstation.

In the future, please register and make all posts to http://jollyroger.com/greatbooksforums,

and/or join the forums Great Books & Philosophy Forums @ jollyrogerwest.com.

XXXI

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead;
And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things remov'd that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give,
That due of many now is thine alone:
  Their images I lov'd, I view in thee,
  And thou--all they--hast all the all of me.
 	--William Shakespeare

Best Regards,

William Einstein Shakespeare :)

April is the cruellest month. T. S. Eliot