Black Rebel Motorcycle Club Ask iAN * An October Vagabond Nod to a dear Old friend…. .*

Ask iAN

Online Spiritual Tech Support

The subject matter is not suitable for some children, nor is it intended for adults ages 18 and over.
While visiting 'Ask Ian' we ask participants to please refrain from using discretion, as it will only make matters worse.

Ask iAN * An October Vagabond Nod to a dear Old friend…. .*


When Autumn comes Lushing in
she always brings with her
a dear old friend...Richard Le Gallienne
book hunter
friend of Wilde's unto the bully End...
full of absinthe and green ales
Love gone mad
ruined, fucked, and killed away
bicycle 70 miles a day
gave those Nazis nothing...
lived to a ripe old age
sorrow at his side
like a torn out page
What the world loves to forget like dead indians...
I don't.

My friend through many shambolique years
Mr. Richard Le Gallienne.... .*

Thanks Marnie* for introducing Us*


and yes, i still sniff the 100 year old out of print, autographed books of his i keep tucked away like sunshy gunshy ghost*


Richard Le Gallienne (January 20, 1866 – September 15, 1947) Photobucket


In their work, then, as in their play, men and women are more and more coming to share with each other as comrades, and really the fun of life seems in no wise diminished as a consequence. 

It is curious how, from time immemorial, man seems to have associated the idea of evil with beauty, shrunk from it with a sort of ghostly fear, while, at the same time drawn to it by force of its hypnotic attraction. 

It is the fine excesses of life that make it worth living. 

Modern science, then, so far from being an enemy of romance, is seen on every hand to be its sympathetic and resourceful friend, its swift and irresistible helper in its serious need, and an indulgent minister to its lighter fancies. 

More and more the world is growing to love a lover, and one has only to read the newspapers to see how sympathetic are the times to any generous and adventurous display of the passions. 

Nature is forever arriving and forever departing, forever approaching, forever vanishing; but in her vanishings there seems to be ever the waving of a hand, in all her partings a promise of meetings farther along the road. 

On the contrary, woman is the best equipped fighting machine that ever went to battle. 

Organized Christianity has probably done more to retard the ideals that were its founder's than any other agency in the world. 

Perhaps we too seldom reflect how much the life of Nature is one with the life of man, how unimportant or indeed merely seeming, the difference between them. 

Races and nations are thus ever ready to believe the worst of one another. 

The beauty we love is very silent. It smiles softly to itself, but never speaks. 

The spiritual element, the really important part of religion, has no concern with Time and Space, temporary mundane laws, or conduct.

There is something mean in human nature that prefers to think evil, that gives a willing ear and a ready welcome to calumny, a sort of jealousy of goodness and greatness and things of good report.

Though actually the work of man's hands - or, more properly speaking, the work of his travelling feet, - roads have long since come to seem so much a part of Nature that we have grown to think of them as a feature of the landscape no less natural than rocks and trees. 

We also maintain - again with perfect truth - that mystery is more than half of beauty, the element of strangeness that stirs the senses through the imagination. 

We are all treading the vanishing road of a song in the air, the vanishing road of the spring flowers and the winter snows, the vanishing roads of the winds and the streams, the vanishing road of beloved faces. 

We have, of course, long since ceased to think of Nature as the sympathetic mirror of our moods, or to imagine that she has any concern with the temporal affairs of man. 

Wild oats will get sown some time, and one of the arts of life is to sow them at the right time.

Youth, however, can afford to enjoy even its melancholy; for the ultimate fact of which that melancholy is a prophecy is a long way off.

Copyright © 2014 Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.