Eloisa to Abelard (utdrag), by Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
(Förekommer i Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind från 2004. Regi: Michel Gondry.)
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.
Vi fortsätter med dokumentärfilmen om USA:s försvarsminister Robert S. McNamara, "The Fog of War".
Little Gidding (utdrag), by T.S. Eliot (1888-1965)
(Förekommer i The Fog of War från 2003. Regi: Errol Morris.)
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always--
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
Filmkvällen avslutas med den sanna historien om galopphästen Seabiscuit.
We never know how high we are, by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
(Förekommer i Seabiscuit från 2003. Regi: Gary Ross.)
Seabiscuit 2003 (filmklipp)
We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies—
The Heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King—