At the seaside. Faust and Mephistopheles.
Demon, I’m bored.
What’s to be done,
Faust? Man’s not without limits, is he?
And to be bored, like it or not,
Is every rational being’s lot:
Some are too idle, some too busy,
Have too much or too little faith;
Some find no joy, while some are dizzy
With it, enjoying themselves to death.
You yawn your lives out, till you fall
Into the grave that yawns for all.
Why shouldn’t you yawn too?
Is stale. Distraction’s what I want,
So find me some.
Just be content
With reason’s proof. Write in your book
This little album verse that goes:
Fastidium est quies—boredom
Is nothing but the soul’s repose.
I ask you, psychologist that I am,
(Ah, there’s a science!) when indeed
Alan Shaw recently finished translating Pushkin’s little tragedies, and is currently working on Boris Godunov
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