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Post by tannis on Jul 29, 2008 12:06:21 GMT
There is a similarity between Eat The music and Hounds Of Love, isn't there? Except in HOL there seems to be more of a death-fear, a fear of being swallowed up and taken apart by the ravenous and glorious force of love - whereas in ETM there is a feeling of the greater ecstasy within all the 'splitting open.' Hounds Of Love seems to somewhat arrive at that feeling in the end, though. Yes, Rosa, I agree! Hounds Of Love does seem to deal with a "death-fear" and a loss of self to intimacy. In HOL, the protagonist's fears of intimacy evoke in her mind bloodsports and childhood paranoia. However, as you say, Hounds Of Love also seems to arrive at a feeling of ecstasy within the 'splitting open', as expressed in Eat The Music. There's a neat expansion of the HOL chorus, and the protagonist cries "Don't let me go! Hold me down!", like she's ready for the hounds of love to 'rip her to pieces with sticky fingers and have her guts all over the floor!' ...
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Post by Barry SR Gowing on Jul 30, 2008 11:08:30 GMT
It seems both literal and metaphoric. The literal side concerning itself with sticky fingers and being opened up, and the metaphoric side being the discovery of another person - so "he's a woman at heart", "rip their heart out", "insides out all is revealed". Plus there's the duality of intimacy leading not only to romance and eroticism but also to knowledge, completion and a sense of fulfillment. The paradox of being torn apart in order to feel whole.
In a way the same is true of Hounds of Love "hold me down", "help me darling", help me please". Asking her lover to "protect" her from the hounds of love is paradoxical because he IS one of the hounds of love. She needs to surrender in order to escape her fears.
Hounds of Love is the recognition of this, but Eat the Music is a celebration of this realisation.
--Paul--
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Post by tannis on Sept 24, 2009 5:27:19 GMT
EPIGRAMS
XII. The glass violin is broken And we can't eat the music Think how many times our hearts Have given us the stomachache.
~ Charles Henri Ford, Sleep in a Nest of Flames (1949)
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