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Friday, July 3, 2009

Although my father occasionally buys 4D and TOTO, he pointed out that his gambling was not a large scale gambling process. And ironically, he thinks that gambling is bad. He was influenced by a few generations before him who gambled excessively, but luckily, he knew how to exercise self control. He quoted the chinese proverb "十赌九输" saying that gambling was a bad habit that many people lost their life savings in a greedy attempt to get more money.

Personally, I condemn gambling and lotteries. Firstly because it promotes the ideal that you can strike big without any work, just a few dollars, and you get millions of dollars. In this current economical crisis, we need people to work harder, to try to solve problems, and not turn to an unreliable source of money, where there is also a risk where they can lose their savings. Secondly, linked to the first point, you can lose your money in a extremely risky investment. The chances of winning may be limited and the possibilities of losing your money are much more greater. Gamblers often find themselves "trying to win back my losses", I quote Jonny W.

Gambling may be a way to past time, and the thrills of earning money can be very appealing to some, but certainly not appealing to me. I am not a risk-taker, and I do not believe in taking unneccessary steps that may not help you, and may harm you instead again.


ending
9:21 AM


Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Edgar Allen Poe is one of America's favourite poet. From a dream inside a dream to the raven, his poem are read all over the world. What makes his so special to him is his dramatic effect that he always inject into his poems. Are never feel tired to read his poems, as every sentence is filled with suspense.

Maybe it was his volatile childhood that moulded his successful career in literature. His parents died when he was very young. He then married his 13 year cousin, but after her early death, it may have inspired some of his writing too. His poem “The raven” was an instant sensation and made him a household name. However, he was only paid $9 for that publiction. Despite that stereotype that writers are very conserved, there were many rumours that his death was caused by a concotion of drugs and alcohol. He was the first writer to attempt to survive on his literature career.

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

A dream within a dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?


The Lake

In spring of youth it was my lot 
To haunt of the wide world a spot
 The which I could not love the less-        
So lovely was the loneliness        
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,        
And the tall pines that towered around.         
But when the Night had thrown her pall        
Upon that spot, as upon all,        
And the mystic wind went by        
Murmuring in melody-        
Then- ah then I would awake        
To the terror of the lone lake.         
Yet that terror was not fright,        
But a tremulous delight-        
A feeling not the jewelled mine        
Could teach or bribe me to define-        
Nor Love- although the Love were thine.         
Death was in that poisonous wave,        
And in its gulf a fitting grave        
For him who thence could solace bring        
To his lone imagining-        
Whose solitary soul could make        
An Eden of that dim lake.


ending
11:31 AM


Monday, June 29, 2009

Money by William Henry Davies

When I had money, money, O!
I knew no joy till I went poor;
For many a false man as a friend
Came knocking all day at my door.
Then felt I like a child that holds
A trumpet that he must not blow
Because a man is dead; I dared
Not speak to let this false world know.
Much have I thought of life, and seen
How poor men’s hearts are ever light;
And how their wives do hum like bees
About their work from morn till night.
So, when I hear these poor ones laugh,
And see the rich ones coldly frown—
Poor men, think I, need not go up
So much as rich men should come down.
When I had money, money, O!
My many friends proved all untrue;
But now I have no money, O!
My friends are real, though very few.

This poem basically describes a man having fake friends when he was rich, but after he lost his fortune, only a few friends stayed with him, which means that when he was rich, he had many unloyal friends, but when he lost his fortune and became poor, he only had a few loyal friends. Although this poem may seem very familiar, with the constant emphasis on loyalty, but this poem depicts money in a different way. Many people say that happiness comes from money, but this poem depicts money as something that can bring disloyalty and unhappiness, so this is actually a new way to look at money. So he thinks those rich men should become poorer so they can experience happiness.

2)Simile==> how their wives do hum like bees: This shows that the wives of those poor men worked busily, day and night.
Metaphor==>Then felt I like a child that holds
A trumpet that he must not blow
Symbolism==>money: In this poem, money symnbolises unhappiness and disloyalty, and is perceived to be a bad thing.

ending
8:31 AM


The prophecy

Jane glanced at the old fortune teller, who was staring into the crystal ball. After five gruelling minutes, the old gypsy stared at Jane with blood-shot eyes and only muttered a word, “Death.”

The next day, the newspaper screamed: “Young woman killed in horrible car accident!” The pale body of Jane lay in the morgue.


ending
8:07 AM


Destroyer

about yourself

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