TheProgtologist wrote: I never said I liked Ayn Rand,I think her books are sh*t.But Peart really likes her work.

He gave up on her philosophy in '82 after he found out she disdained rock music.

Blacksword wrote: jitu wrote: Dick Heath wrote: Zanadu was original written by an opium addict...... xanadu I'm not usually one to be pedantic, but spelling Xanadu with a Z should be punishable by law in prog land!  I sentance Dick Heath to be subjected to the entire ELP back catalogue for the rest of the day.

You're right - I must have been thinking of Olivia Neutron Bomb & ELO and their take on the subject - Hearst's palace not Kubla Khan's - at that moment and slipped by one key. But can I have a reprieve from that sentence, for good behaviour (no forget that) well, something.....................?

However, if we are going to be extremely pedantic,  shouldn't the word Xanadu be printed in Arabic or some such??

Sentance

(pot and kettle.........)

In the summer of the year 1797, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in Purchas's Pilgrimage: ``Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall.'' The Author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awakening he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter!

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover !
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,

That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

jitu wrote: Dick Heath wrote: Zanadu was original written by an opium addict...... xanadu

I'm not usually one to be pedantic, but spelling Xanadu with a Z should be punishable by law in prog land!  I sentance Dick Heath to be subjected to the entire ELP back catalogue for the rest of the day.

^ pff Ayn Rand what a schmuck, anyways.....

I don't think so, he has some of the best lyrics in prog, very well thought out and lucid, not like that silly Yes crap.