quarta-feira, novembro 03, 2010

Oh Moll, you sweet wise child...

«There is nothing so absurd, so surfeiting, so ridiculous, as a Man heated by Wine in his Head, and wicked Gust in his Inclination together; he is in the possession of two Devils at once, and can no more govern himself by his Reason than a Mill can Grind without Water; His Vice tramples upon all that was in him that had any good in it, if any such thing there was; nay, his very Sense is blinded by its own Rage, and he acts Absurdities even in his View; such as Drinking more, when he is Drunk already; picking up a common Woman, without regard to what she is, or who she is; whether Sound or rotten, Clean or Unclean; whether Ugly or Handsome, whether Old or Young, and so blinded, as not really to distinguish; such a Man is worse than Lunatick; prompted by his vicious corrupted Head he no more knows what he is doing than this Wretch of mine knew when I pick'd his Pocket of his Watch and his Purse of Gold.»

Moll Flanders, Daniel Defoe, Penguin Books, 1989.

Sem comentários: