Saturday, January 10, 2015
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Fish Sauce
Fish Sauce is Anhthao Bui's second book. Coming soon!
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Anhthao Bui's English Writing All rights reserved
Anhthao Bui's hero: ABRAHAM LINCOLN
Anhthao Bui's favorite quotes:
“He who conquers other is strong;
He who conquers himself is mighty.” (Laotzu)
“Self-reverence, self- knowledge, self-control.
These three alone lead life to sovereign power.”
(Alfred, Lord Tennyson)
"The inclination to exchange thoughts with one another is probably an original impulse of our nature. If I be in pain, I wish to let you know it and to ask your sympathy and assistance; and my pleasurable emotions also, I wish to communicate to, and share with you."
(Abraham Lincoln, Feb 11, 1859)
"People will forget what you said.
People will forget what you did
But people will never forget how you made them feel."
(Maya Angelou)
“Genius is nothing, but a greater aptitude for patience.” (Comte de Buffon)
“It doesn’t matter who you are, there are some things you can do and some things you cannot do. It’s about ability, not disability.” (Christopher Reeve)
“Others may hate you, but they don’t win unless you hate them back, and then you destroy yourself.”
(Richard Nixon)
“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you've imagined."
(Henry David Thoreau)
"Coming together is beginning, staying together is progress, and working together is success." (Henry Ford)
“The last temptation is the greatest treason: to do the right deed for the wrong reason." (T.S. Eliot)
“The more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mid who creates.” (T.S. Eliot)
"The reading of poetry is an emotional experience, like listening to music that can be impeded by the exercise of one’s powers of reasoning. The best poetry is unconscious memorable; it arises from, builds on, and relates to a rhythm in the unconscious." (T.S. Eliot.)
“Imagination is more important than knowledge.”
(Albert Einstein)
Anhthao Bui's favorite quotes:
“He who conquers other is strong;
He who conquers himself is mighty.” (Laotzu)
“Self-reverence, self- knowledge, self-control.
These three alone lead life to sovereign power.”
(Alfred, Lord Tennyson)
"The inclination to exchange thoughts with one another is probably an original impulse of our nature. If I be in pain, I wish to let you know it and to ask your sympathy and assistance; and my pleasurable emotions also, I wish to communicate to, and share with you."
(Abraham Lincoln, Feb 11, 1859)
"People will forget what you said.
People will forget what you did
But people will never forget how you made them feel."
(Maya Angelou)
“Genius is nothing, but a greater aptitude for patience.” (Comte de Buffon)
“It doesn’t matter who you are, there are some things you can do and some things you cannot do. It’s about ability, not disability.” (Christopher Reeve)
“Others may hate you, but they don’t win unless you hate them back, and then you destroy yourself.”
(Richard Nixon)
“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you've imagined."
(Henry David Thoreau)
"Coming together is beginning, staying together is progress, and working together is success." (Henry Ford)
“The last temptation is the greatest treason: to do the right deed for the wrong reason." (T.S. Eliot)
“The more perfect the artist, the more completely separate in him will be the man who suffers and the mid who creates.” (T.S. Eliot)
"The reading of poetry is an emotional experience, like listening to music that can be impeded by the exercise of one’s powers of reasoning. The best poetry is unconscious memorable; it arises from, builds on, and relates to a rhythm in the unconscious." (T.S. Eliot.)
“Imagination is more important than knowledge.”
(Albert Einstein)
Labels
Abraham Lincoln Portrait
ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S FAVORITE POEM
Abraham Lincoln was interested in both reading and writing poetry.
Mortality by William Knox was one of Abraham Lincoln’s favorite poems.
MORTALITY by William Knox
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, the low and the high,
Shall molder to dust, and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband, that mother and infant who blessed;
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure - her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep,
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint, who enjoyed the communion of Heaven,
The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes - like the flower or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes - even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.
For we are the same that our fathers have been;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, we feel the same sun,
And run the same course that our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging, they also would cling -
But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.
They loved - but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned - but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved - but no wail from their slumber will come;
They joyed - but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died - aye, they died - we things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'Tis the wink of an eye - 'tis the draught of a breath -
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
To Rosa,
You are young, and I am older;
You are hopeful, I am not —
Enjoy life, ere it grows colder
Pluck the roses ere they rot.
(Abraham Lincoln)
Abraham Lincoln
his hand and pen
he will be good but
god knows When
(Abraham Lincoln)
Abraham Lincoln is my nam[e]
And with my pen I wrote the same
I wrote in both hast and speed
and left it here for fools to read
(Abraham Lincoln
Mortality by William Knox was one of Abraham Lincoln’s favorite poems.
MORTALITY by William Knox
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, the low and the high,
Shall molder to dust, and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband, that mother and infant who blessed;
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure - her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep,
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint, who enjoyed the communion of Heaven,
The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes - like the flower or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes - even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.
For we are the same that our fathers have been;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, we feel the same sun,
And run the same course that our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging, they also would cling -
But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.
They loved - but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned - but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved - but no wail from their slumber will come;
They joyed - but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died - aye, they died - we things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'Tis the wink of an eye - 'tis the draught of a breath -
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
To Rosa,
You are young, and I am older;
You are hopeful, I am not —
Enjoy life, ere it grows colder
Pluck the roses ere they rot.
(Abraham Lincoln)
Abraham Lincoln
his hand and pen
he will be good but
god knows When
(Abraham Lincoln)
Abraham Lincoln is my nam[e]
And with my pen I wrote the same
I wrote in both hast and speed
and left it here for fools to read
(Abraham Lincoln
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