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These forums are being phased out. The new, improved Surrealism Forum is at classicalmusicforums.com.

Ahoy fellow travelers and Great Books lovers!

The former post was deleted as it violated our user agreement, or it did not add to the "Classical Music & Art" conversation in a constructive manner.

The new Surrealism Forum may be found at http://classicalmusicforums.com/forumdisplay.php?f=71 .

To foster quality discussion forums throughout Classicals.com, 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".

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We prefer deep reflections on Philosophy, Shakespearean Sonnets, and tender musings along the lines of:

Beauty is a primeval phenomenen, which itself never makes its appearance, but the reflection of which is visible in a thousand different utterances of the creative mind, and is as various as nature itself. -Goethe, April 18, 1827

XXX

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
  But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
  All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
 	--William Shakespeare

It is our continuing goal to foster the world's greatest converstation regarding all higher pursuits.

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

Great spirits have often encountered violent opposition from weak minds. --Albert Einstein

All The Best,

William Einstein Shakespeare :)

CXXIV

If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd,
As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.
No, it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of short-number'd hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic, 
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers.
  To this I witness call the fools of time,
  Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.
 	--William Shakespeare