After playing Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs, sort of an interactive novel following the kafkanian story by U.S. writer Dan Pinchbeck, and with autumn waiting on the doorstep also in sunny Spain, I feel somewhat in a literary mood and thought this might be a good occasion to post some poems for once.
Besides, what else is interesting in Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs--which is exactly what says its title--is that there are no menacing hordes of zombies or aliens but the whole horror happens more or less in the narrator's own head. Sure, there are the pigmen more pitiful than frightful, until close to the end when they are unleashed on the streets where they murder true human beings (some scenes seem to having been cut, though: http://www.eurogamer.net/articles/2013-09-27-amnesia-a-machine-for-pigs-writer-describes-disturbing-cut-content).
However, Amnesia is not really a "survival" game, either, since from the beginning one feels that exploring and further descending on the track of the different rare clues, there won't be a positive outcome--unlike most of other horror-themed games where in the end one might finally result victorious against the putrid crowd. What makes one knowingly strive forward to a negative end is yet another question: curiosity, plausibly, albeit fatal.
On the other hand the story itself is sufficiently well-written and profound to make one repeatedly stop to re-read the consecutive journal entries and found paper sheets, and just digest. Paintings, toys, tools, looking as if for torture: a game based on suggestions.
Some might remember that I had Amnesia II on my list of the "most anticipated" games for this year and in fact it turned out better even than that, and also when seeing GameSpot's gameplay demo I thought it might perhaps be a bit tedious but in fact it is not: the tension is so constant and one oneself so focused on the minimal changes in this end of the 19th century "steampunk" environment which allow to finally proceed to the next area, that on never really gets bored.
So finally, and a bit inspired by the above said, here are the poems I wanted to share, most probably already known:
The Moon (by Percy Bysshe Shelley | 1792--1822)
AND, like a dying lady lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp'd in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The mood arose up in the murky east,
A white and shapeless mass.
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
Leaves of Grass - Poem of The Child That Went Forth, and Always Goes Forth, Forever and Forever (by Walter "Walt" Whitman | 1819--1892)
THERE was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love or dread, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day...or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morningglories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the March-born lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal, and the cow's calf, and the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pondside...and the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there...and the beautiful curious liquid...and the water-plants with their graceful flat heads...all became part of him.
His own parents...he that had propelled the fatherstuff at night, and fathered him...and she that conceived him in her womb and birthed him...they gave this child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward every day...they and of them became part of him.
Affection that will not be gainsayed...The sense of what is real...the thought if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of daytime and the doubts of nighttime...the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so...Or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets...if they are not flashes and specks what are they?
The hurrying tumbling waves and quickbroken crests and slapping;
The strata of colored clouds...the long bar of maroontint away solitary by itself...the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying seacrow, the fragrance of saltmarsh and shoremud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes and will always go forth every day,
And these become of him or her that peruses them now.
Some Western Haikus (by Jean-Louis "Jack" Kérouac | 1922--1969)
Alone, in old
clothes, sipping wine
Beneath the moon
The sound of silence
is all the instruction
"As dust settles on my open eyes..."
Dust = Fine, dry particles of matter.
It doesn't matter.