essays on man and woman

An Essay on Man
An Essay on Woman
Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things
To low ambition, and the pride of kings.
Let us (since life can little more supply
Than just to look about us and to die)
Expatiate free o’er all this scene of man;
A mighty maze! but not without a plan;
A wild, where weeds and flow’rs promiscuous shoot;
Or garden, tempting with forbidden fruit.
Together let us beat this ample field,
Try what the open, what the covert yield;
The latent tracts, the giddy heights explore
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar;
Eye Nature’s walks, shoot folly as it flies,
And catch the manners living as they rise;
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can;
But vindicate the ways of God to man.
Awake, my Fanny, leave all meaner things;
This morn shall prove what rapture swiving brings!
Let us (since life can little more supply
Than just a few good Fucks and then we die)
Expatiate free o’er that lov’d scene of Man,
A mighty Maze! for mighty Pricks to scan;
A wild, where Paphian thorns promiscuous shoot,
Where flow’rs the monthly Rose, but yields no Fruit.
Together let us beat this ample Field,
Try what the open, what the Covert yield;
The latent Tracts, the pleasing Depths explore,
And my Prick clapp’d where thousands were before.
Observe how Nature works, and if it rise
Too quick and rapid, check it ere it flies;
Spend when we must, but keep it while we can:
Thus Godlike will be deem’d the the Ways of Man.
Say first, of God above, or man below,
What can we reason, but from what we know?
Of man what see we, but his station here,
From which to reason, or to which refer?
Through worlds unnumber’d though the God be known,
’Tis ours to trace him only in our own.
He, who through vast immensity can pierce,
See worlds on worlds compose one universe,
Observe how system into system runs,
What other planets circle other suns,
What varied being peoples ev’ry star,
May tell why Heav’n has made us as we are.
But of this frame the bearings, and the ties,
The strong connections, nice dependencies,
Gradations just, has thy pervading soul
Look’d through? or can a part contain the whole?
Is the great chain, that draws all to agree,
And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee?
Say, first of Woman’s latent Charms below,
What can we reason but from what we know?
A Face, a Neck, a Breast, are all, appear
From which to reason, or to which refer.
In ev’ry Part we heavenly beauty own,
But we can trace it only in what’s shewn.
He who the Hoop’s Immensity can pierce,
Dart thro’ the Whalebone Folds vast Universe,
Observe how Circle into Circle runs,
What courts the Eye, and what all Vision shuns,
All the wild Modes of Dress our Females wear,
May guess what makes them thus transform’d appear
But of their Cunts, the Bearings and the Ties,
The nice Connexions, strong Dependencies,
The Latitude and Longitude of each
Hast thou gone throu’, or can thy Pego reach?
Was that great Ocean, that unbounded Sea
Where Pricks like Whales may sport, fathom’d by Thee?
Presumptuous man! the reason wouldst thou find,
Why form’d so weak, so little, and so blind?
First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,
Why form’d no weaker, blinder, and no less!
Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are made
Taller or stronger than the weeds they shade?
Or ask of yonder argent fields above,
Why Jove’s satellites are less than Jove?
Presumptuous Prick! the reason would’st thou find
Why form’d so weak, so little and so blind?
First, if thou canst, the harder Reason guess
Why form’d no weaker, meaner and no less.
Ask of thy Mother’s Cunt why she was made
Of lesser Bore than Cow or hackney’d Jade?
Or ask thy raw-boned Scottish Father’s Tarse
Why larger he than Stallion or Jack Ass?
Of systems possible, if ’tis confest
That Wisdom infinite must form the best,
Where all must full or not coherent be,
And all that rises, rise in due degree;
Then, in the scale of reas’ning life, ’tis plain
There must be somewhere, such a rank as man:
And all the question (wrangle e’er so long)
Is only this, if God has plac’d him wrong?
Respecting man, whatever wrong we call,
May, must be right, as relative to all.
Of Pegos possible, if ’tis confess’d
That Wisdom infinite must form the best,
Where all must rise, or not coherent be,
And all that rises, rise in due Degree;
Then in the scale of various Pricks, ’tis plain
God-like erect, BUTE stands the foremost Man,
And all the Question (wrangle e’er so long)
Is only This, if Heaven plac’d him wrong?
Respecting him whatever wrong we call,
May, must be right, as relative to all.
In human works, though labour’d on with pain,
A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain;
In God’s, one single can its end produce;
Yet serves to second too some other use.
So man, who here seems principal alone,
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown,
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal;
’Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
When Frogs wou’d couple, labour’d on with Pain,
A thousand Wriggles scarce their purpose gain:
In Man a Dozen can his End produce,
And drench the Female with spermatic Juice.
Yet not our Pleasure seems God’s End alone,
Oft when we spend we propagate unknown;
Unwilling we may reach some other Goal,
And Sylphs and Gnomes may fuck in woman’s hole.
When the proud steed shall know why man restrains
His fiery course, or drives him o’er the plains:
When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod,
Is now a victim, and now Egypt’s God:
Then shall man’s pride and dulness comprehend
His actions’, passions’, being’s, use and end;
Why doing, suff’ring, check’d, impell’d; and why
This hour a slave, the next a deity.
When the proud Stallion knows whence ev’ry Vein
Now throbs with Lust and now is shrunk again;
The lusty Bull, why now he breaks the Clod,
Now wears a Garland, fair Europe’s God:
Then shall Man’s Pride and Pego comprehend
His Actions and Erections, Use and End.
Why at Celaenae Martyrdom, and why
At Lampsacus ador’d chief Deity.
Then say not man’s imperfect, Heav’n in fault;
Say rather, man’s as perfect as he ought:
His knowledge measur’d to his state and place,
His time a moment, and a point his space.
If to be perfect in a certain sphere,
What matter, soon or late, or here or there?
The blest today is as completely so,
As who began a thousand years ago.
Then say not Man’s imperfect, Heaven in fault,
Say rather, Man’s as perfect as he ought;
His Pego measured to the female Case
Betwixt a woman’s Thighs his proper Place;
And if to fuck in a proportion’d Sphere,
What matter how it is, or when, or where?
Fly fuck’d by Fly, may be completely so,
As Hussey’s Dutchess, or yon well-bull’d Cow.
Heav’n from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prescrib’d, their present state:
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know:
Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleas’d to the last, he crops the flow’ry food,
And licks the hand just rais’d to shed his blood.
Heav’n from all creatures hides the Book of Fate
All but the page prescribed, the present state,
From boys what girls, from girls what women know,
Or what could suffer being here below?
Thy lust the Virgin dooms to bleed today,
Had she thy reason would she ’skip and play?
Pleas’d to the last, she likes the luscious food,
And grasps the prick just rais’d to shed her blood.
Oh blindness to the future! kindly giv’n,
That each may fill the circle mark’d by Heav’n:
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl’d,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
Oh! Blindness to the Future, kindly given,
That each m’enjoy what fucks are mark’d by Heaven.
Who sees with equal Eye, as God of all,
The Man just mounting, and the Virgin’s Fall;
Prick, Cunt, and Ballocks in Convulsions hurl’d
And now a Hymen burst, and now a World.
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore!
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin’d from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Hope, humbly, then, clean Girls; nor vainly soar
But fuck the Cunt at hand, and God adore.
What future Fucks he gives not thee to know
But gives that Cunt to be thy Blessing now.

— Alexander Pope

a mash note to his people


Ты любишь Русь?”
Леонид Виноградов
«Книга эпиграфов»

В ушанке, сдвинутой на лоб.
Руководимый человеколюбцами.
Так русский выглядит народ,
великий мастер революций.
Он мастер делать также просто бунты.

Обычно же он занят хлебопашеством.

Случайным наблюдателям как будто
спокойным и беспечным он покажется.
Пускай он занят, как и весь Союз,
от понедельника вплоть до субботы,

я все равно ни капли не боюсь,
что потеряет он хоть часть свободы.
Она — его черта фамильная.
Его главнейший и особый признак.
Иметь ее всегда и в изобилии
самой своею сущностью он призван.

Владимир Иосифович Уфлянд, 1957


Do you cherish Mother Russia?”
Leonid Vinogradov
The Book of Epigraphs

A fur hat furrowing his brow,
superintended by philanthropists,
stalwart withstander of catastrophes,
the Russian bears on his plow.

His Revolutionary mastery
befits as well a free-for-all,
coming ahead in every brawl.

But most of his affairs are pastoral.

Though he might seem obtuse and indolent,
and every day his lot is put upon,
I rest secure in docile unconcern
that he might lose his freedom’s warrant,
his primary and vital quality,
innately treasured as a family trait.
He’s licensed by a deed of fate
to cherish it in lasting plenitude.

―traduced by MZ, 31 June 2009

Vassily Shulzhenko, “The Fallen”, 1990, 200x150cm

the change we need

Russian people pride themselves on their worldliness and tolerance. They are eager to point out their priority in having appointed as the head of their government a dark-skinned specimen from an oppressed colony. Such worthy sentiments underlie their recent ice cream advertising campaign:



Most memorably, Vladimir Ufliand anticipated progressive developments in American racial politics fifty years prior to Barack Obama’s election to our highest political office:

(вопрос радиослушателя)


Меняется страна Америка.
Придут в ней скоро Негры к власти.
Свободу, что стоит у берега,
под негритянку перекрасят.
Начнут посмеиваться Бедные
над всякими Миллионерами.
А некоторые будут Белые
пытаться притвориться Неграми.
И уважаться будут Негры.
А Самый Чёрный будет славиться.
И каждый Белый будет первым
при встрече с Негром
Негру кланяться.

Владимир Иосифович Уфлянд, 1958

(as asked by a radio listener)

Radio announcer:

As Russian people ought to see
America is ripe for change.
It’s poised to rouse Negrocracy,
all ranks and powers to derange.

Dame Liberty will darken trait,
inspiring Proles to jive and smirk
at Wiggers that proliferate,
and Fat Cats living off their work.

As Negroes prosper and prevail,
The Blackest One will kiss the sky,
And Sallow Masses without fail
Will bow to Black Folks passing by.

―traduced by MZ, 28 June 2009

vladimir ufliand


Что делать, если ты художник слабый?
Учиться в Лондоне, Берлине или Риме?

Что делать, если не хватает славы?

Жениться на известной балерине?
Что делать, если хочешь быть примером?
Писать руководителей портреты?
Что делать, если нет своей манеры?

Писать в чужой?
Чужой присвоить метод?
Что делать, если до тебя сто раз
писали так же? И писали то же?
Что делать?

Стоит ли стараться?
Что делать, если ты плохой художник?

Владимир Иосифович Уфлянд, 1957


What should you do when all your art is second-rate?
Make like a Roman, mimic a Berliner?
What should you do if you got snubbed by bitter fate?
Get married to a famous ballerina?
What should you do whilst striving to inspire?
Daub party brands?
                                 Portray top dogs and sturdy yokels?
What should you do for want of novel style?
Ply second-hand?
                              Toss moldy humdrum tokens?
What should you do if others long before
painted the like likewise, by hokum haunted?
What will you do?
                               Is triteness worth your while?
What will you do when all your art is wanting?

―traduced by MZ, 21 June 2009

submersible self-esteem

Inspired by his skills as an escape artist, Harry Houdini sought to help deep sea divers unable to extricate themselves from a pressure suit upon finding themselves in trouble. On 1 March 1921, he received U.S. Patent Number 1,370,316 for an new and improved diver’s suit. By comprising two halves with a locking joint in the middle, Houdini’s invention enabled the trapped deep sea diver to slip out of the suit quickly, while submerged. He would then have a chance to escape and reach the surface without assistance. The construction also enabled the diver to don and doff the suit without assistance.

Text not available

A more intimate application of Houdini’s invention went unappreciated heretofore:

Уже давным-давно замечено,
как некрасив в скафандре Водолаз.
Но несомненно есть на свете Женщина,
что и такому б отдалась.

Быть может, выйдет из воды он прочь,
обвешанный концами водорослей,
и выпадет ему сегодня ночь,
наполненная массой удовольствий.
(Не в этот, так в другой такой же раз).
Та Женщина отказывала многим.
Ей нужен непременно Водолаз.
Резиновый. Стальной. Свинцовоногий.

Вот ты,
хоть не резиновый,
но скользкий.
И отвратителен, особенно нагой.

Но Женщина ждет и Тебя.
Ей нужен именно Такой.

Владимир Иосифович Уфлянд, 1959

Well known by folk forever and a day
is the deformity of Diver in his suit.
It’s just as true, and well beyond dispute,
that Woman dreams of him, having his way.

Consider him,
sprung up in fetid spray,
festooned and fringed in glutinous seaweed.
He’s looking forward to a night of sensual play.
(If not this once, just down the road he will succeed.)
The Woman who a myriad wooers mooted,
she needs her Diver, not some substitute.
So rubbery, so steely, so lead-footed.

You there,
if not so rubbery,
yet clammy,
and sickening, seen tumid, pale and nude.

But Woman yearns for You,
craving your whammy,
for only your Kind puts her in the mood.

―traduced by MZ, 29 April 2009

Vladimir Ufliand, 21 January 1937 – 14 April 2007

amours de voyage

     cum suis vivat valeatque moechis,
quos simul complexa tenet trecentos,
nullum amans vere, sed identidem omnium
ilia rumpens;

nec meum respectet, ut ante, amorem,
qui illius culpa cecidit velut prati
ultimi flos, praetereunte postquam
tactus aratro est.

     Memoria teneo Milesiam quandam mulierem, cum essem in Asia, quod ab heredibus secundis accepta pecunia partum sibi ipsa medicamentis abegisset, rei capitalis esse damnatam; nec iniuria quae spem parentis, memoriam nominis, subsidium generis, heredem familiae, designatum rei publicae civem sustulisset.
I recall that, when I was in Asia, a certain Milesian woman was convicted of a capital crime, because she had brought on abortion by medicines, having been bribed to do so by the heirs next in line; and rightly so, inasmuch as she had abolished the hope of the father, the memory of his name, the supply of his race, the heir of his family, a prospective citizen of the republic.

 — for Rachel Yumei Wang    

City bustle. Fading light.
You’ll have company tonight.
At your service, all your men.
They will make you whole again.

Rig your hopes and tell you lies.
Bust a nut between your thighs. 
Fart and snore and pay no heed
While dreams dwindle and recede.

Others not so long ago
Lit you up and made you glow,
Nights fulfilled you, but the dawn
Found you wan and woebegone.

Lest your gloom ensued in spawn
Its conclusion got withdrawn:
Scrape the foetus from within,
Glom more solace for your skin.

City bustle. Fading light.
You will sleep alone tonight.
One good woman, no good men.
Love can’t make you whole again.

Amours de voyage I have allowed myself to call them, as distinguished from the love we may have for localities wherein our everyday lot is cast.”

— Vernon Lee, Genius Loci, 1898

plagiarism or traducement?

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)
A Psalm of Life (1839), verses 13-16

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

― Thomas Gray (1716―1771)
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard (1768), verses 53-56

Pour soulever un poids si lourd,
Sisyphe, il faudrait ton courage!
Bien qu’on ait du cœur à l’ouvrage,
L’Art est long et le Temps est court.

Loin des sépultures célèbres,
Vers un cimetière isolé,
Mon cœur, comme un tambour voilé,
Va battant des marches funèbres.

―Maint joyau dort enseveli
Dans les ténèbres et l’oubli,
Bien loin des pioches et des sondes;

Mainte fleur épanche à regret
Son parfum doux comme un secret
Dans les solitudes profondes.

― Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867), Le guignon (1852)

« Le désir d’originalité[Originalité — Désirer être SOI. Désirer d’être neuf. Mais soi et neuf font… Dix.] est le père de tous les emprunts / de toutes les imitations /. Rien de plus original, rien de plus soi que se nourrir des autres ― Mais il les faut digérer. Le lion est fait de mouton assimilé. » (1916. C, VI, 137)
― Paul Valéry, Cahiers II, Poïétique, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade / nrf Gallimard 1974, pp. 1002―1003; reproduit partiellement dans Tel Quel (1941, 1943), Choses tues (1930) II, Œuvres II, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade / nrf Gallimard 1960, p. 478

“One of the surest of tests is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different from that from which it was torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion. A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time, or alien in language, or diverse in interest. Chapman borrowed from Seneca; Shakespeare and Webster from Montaigne.”
— T.S. Eliot, “Philip Massinger”, in The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism, Methuen & Co. Ltd, p. 125

Contributed to a discussion precipitated by Алексей Цветков ([info]aptsvet)

vers d’occasion

A topical traducement:

Jai cueilli ce brin de bruyère
Lautomne est morte souviensten
Nous ne nous verrons plus sur terre
Odeur du temps Brin de bruyère
Et souvienstoi que je tattends
    ― Guillaume Apollinaire
I plucked this fading sprig of heather
Gathered in ebbing wintry gloom
Life mocks our will its baneful tether
Odor of age A sprig of heather
To forge my way towards your tomb
    ― traduced by MZ