Lectio Estlinaris
via i : six nonlectures, p. 69
concerning [as estlin notes] this selfstyled world's greatest and most generous literary figure: who had just arrived in our nation's capitol, attired in half a GI uniform and ready to be hanged as a traitor by the only country which ever made even a pretense of fighting for freedom of speech
Re Ezra Pound -- poetry happens to be an art;and artists happen to be human beings.
An artist doesn't live in some geographical abstraction,superimposed on a part of this beautiful earth by the nonimagination of unanimals and dedicated to the proposition that massacre is a social virtue because murder is an individual vice. Nor does an artist live in some soi-disant world,nor does he live in some so-called universe,nor does he live in any number of "worlds" or in any number of "universes." As for a few trifling delusions like the "past" and "present" and "future" of quote mankind unquote,they may be big enough for a couple of billion supermechanized submorons but they're much too small for one human being.
Every artist's strictly illimitable country is himself.
An artist who plays that country false has committed suicide;and even a good lawyer cannot kill the dead. But a human being who's true to himself--whoever himself may be--is immortal;and all the atomic bombs of all the antiartists in spacetime will never civilize immortality.
Monday, December 02, 2002
I love you, George Washington
If Mr Riddle's story this morning doesn't melt your heart, I don't know what will.
If Mr Riddle's story this morning doesn't melt your heart, I don't know what will.
Poesia dal c(u)ore
Lane Core really is the master of finding forgotten late-19th early-20th century poets with three-tiered names who write unpretentiously splendid verse. Rescuing happy things from the marauding jaws of oblivion.
Check out Edith Lovejoy Pierce. Scroll down : it's the poem whose every stanza closes with a disyllabic line.
Lane Core really is the master of finding forgotten late-19th early-20th century poets with three-tiered names who write unpretentiously splendid verse. Rescuing happy things from the marauding jaws of oblivion.
Check out Edith Lovejoy Pierce. Scroll down : it's the poem whose every stanza closes with a disyllabic line.
... Our basest beggars
Are in the poorest thing superfluous
Eve Tushnet-who-rocks has given us an ample post entitled O Reason Not the Need!.
I wish I could say that I'm recommending the post on that basis alone : its name. But I've actually read a little of it, and it looks real good. Really good. I must go back to read more.
She's refuting the godawful notion that art should be, or must be, utilitarian. If I understand aright.
She is on the side of the angels. I should quote Cummings on what happens when Art is confused with propaganda -- or maybe I already have, somewhere in the archives? -- but right now, back to Eve-who-rocks, to read more.
Are in the poorest thing superfluous
Eve Tushnet-who-rocks has given us an ample post entitled O Reason Not the Need!.
I wish I could say that I'm recommending the post on that basis alone : its name. But I've actually read a little of it, and it looks real good. Really good. I must go back to read more.
She's refuting the godawful notion that art should be, or must be, utilitarian. If I understand aright.
She is on the side of the angels. I should quote Cummings on what happens when Art is confused with propaganda -- or maybe I already have, somewhere in the archives? -- but right now, back to Eve-who-rocks, to read more.
Recently added to Places Oft Visited
Under Other Sites (Poetry, Culture, Politics) :
Fred On Everything
Peggy Noonan's OpinionJournal Archive
The Paintings of E. E. Cummings
and Classical Christian Poetry
And under Orthodox Sites :
In Communion : Orthodox Peace Fellowship.
With the caveat, on that last, that it is there more for its devotional meditations than for its geopolitical thoughts.
Under Other Sites (Poetry, Culture, Politics) :
Fred On Everything
Peggy Noonan's OpinionJournal Archive
The Paintings of E. E. Cummings
and Classical Christian Poetry
And under Orthodox Sites :
In Communion : Orthodox Peace Fellowship.
With the caveat, on that last, that it is there more for its devotional meditations than for its geopolitical thoughts.
Sunday, December 01, 2002
Lady Margaret
Not Thatcher. Noonan.
A memorandum to snivelling hypocritical lefties, wincing from the vehemence with which their views are repudiated by some :
Stand up and take it like an American.
Via ELC's Blog from the Core.
Not Thatcher. Noonan.
A memorandum to snivelling hypocritical lefties, wincing from the vehemence with which their views are repudiated by some :
Stand up and take it like an American.
Via ELC's Blog from the Core.
Results of an election
A long-time incumbent has gone down to defeat
OLYMPUS (AP) -- In a recent referendum, the gods decided unanimously to retain nectar as their drink of choice, but in the area of solid comestibles, there has been a stunning upset. Long-time incumbent ambrosia has been soundly rejected by the Olympian electorate, and will no longer be known as "the food of the gods." As a source close to one high-ranking divinity noted, "They always had trouble remembering the ingredients."
Ambrosia will be replaced by figgy pudding, a choice championed by 58% of the immortals. With a well-heeled campaign and an endorsement from the ever-mercurial Hermes, enjoying his newfound role as kingmaker, figgy pudding managed to overcome an early 20-point deficit in the polls and high negative ratings due to a long-time association with Christian fundamentalists.
Figgy pudding will be inaugurated as the new food of the gods on January 1, 2003. A spokesman for the Figgy Pudding campaign was heard to say, "We're delighted. We're walking on air. Thanks be to the gods!"
Efforts to begin a write-in campaign for Country Kitchen Scotch Oatmeal Bread faltered in the early stages, due to lack of publicity and an insufficiency of capital. The perennial fringe candidate, Cheez Whiz, garnered no significant support, leading some to suggest that the product is well past its political prime.
As one long-time Olympus observer phrased the matter, "Cheez Whiz is earning a well-deserved reputation as the Harold Stassen of snack food."
A long-time incumbent has gone down to defeat
OLYMPUS (AP) -- In a recent referendum, the gods decided unanimously to retain nectar as their drink of choice, but in the area of solid comestibles, there has been a stunning upset. Long-time incumbent ambrosia has been soundly rejected by the Olympian electorate, and will no longer be known as "the food of the gods." As a source close to one high-ranking divinity noted, "They always had trouble remembering the ingredients."
Ambrosia will be replaced by figgy pudding, a choice championed by 58% of the immortals. With a well-heeled campaign and an endorsement from the ever-mercurial Hermes, enjoying his newfound role as kingmaker, figgy pudding managed to overcome an early 20-point deficit in the polls and high negative ratings due to a long-time association with Christian fundamentalists.
Figgy pudding will be inaugurated as the new food of the gods on January 1, 2003. A spokesman for the Figgy Pudding campaign was heard to say, "We're delighted. We're walking on air. Thanks be to the gods!"
Efforts to begin a write-in campaign for Country Kitchen Scotch Oatmeal Bread faltered in the early stages, due to lack of publicity and an insufficiency of capital. The perennial fringe candidate, Cheez Whiz, garnered no significant support, leading some to suggest that the product is well past its political prime.
As one long-time Olympus observer phrased the matter, "Cheez Whiz is earning a well-deserved reputation as the Harold Stassen of snack food."
Too funny. And too true.
Fred On Everything, a Washington Times columnist. On the racial & cultural chasms oft spoken about in this here space in recent days.
This guy makes Ted Nugent look like Lincoln Chafee. A pretty sharp cookie, too, despite the deliberately provocative (or should I say ... controversial ??) tone.
Do check out, if you have the appetite for it, the whole bloody archive of columns. At least, scan the titles.
Note : I have no idea why, on every Fred link, there's always a "6 items remaining" message at the bottom of one's screen.
Fred On Everything, a Washington Times columnist. On the racial & cultural chasms oft spoken about in this here space in recent days.
This guy makes Ted Nugent look like Lincoln Chafee. A pretty sharp cookie, too, despite the deliberately provocative (or should I say ... controversial ??) tone.
Do check out, if you have the appetite for it, the whole bloody archive of columns. At least, scan the titles.
Note : I have no idea why, on every Fred link, there's always a "6 items remaining" message at the bottom of one's screen.
A pair of boots is worth more than Shakespeare
Scholarly, precise, and unflinchingly incisive New Criterion article by Roger Kimball, from a decade ago, on the progenitors of the intellectual climate at your average marxist-rodhamite quotaversity -- conditions seen in the embryonic stage early in the 20th century, and opposed by essays entitled La trahison des clercs and La Défaite de la pensée.
Not easy reading, but worth a long look. Via the Lady of Shalott.
Scholarly, precise, and unflinchingly incisive New Criterion article by Roger Kimball, from a decade ago, on the progenitors of the intellectual climate at your average marxist-rodhamite quotaversity -- conditions seen in the embryonic stage early in the 20th century, and opposed by essays entitled La trahison des clercs and La Défaite de la pensée.
Not easy reading, but worth a long look. Via the Lady of Shalott.
The Bible
A meditation by Dr Eric Milner-White (1884-1963)
Grant me, O Lord, to take the Book of books
as from the hands of thine angel,
with expectancy of faith,
with brimming hope,
and with the love that kindles knowledge;
to open and reopen, read and reread,
ponder and reponder
THY WORD OF LIFE.
Convey to me, O Holy Spirit,
through the familiar phrases, fresh understanding;
through the passages passed over or unapprehended,
new treasure;
through thy grace -- insight, conviction, guidance,
revelation, glory.
Shew me, O Holy Spirit of Light, by the holy Book
all that has fellowship with light :
reveal truth, who art Truth,
illuminate divine mysteries,
make plain my duties in the eternal order;
humbling and uplifting the mind,
waking purpose in the will
and energy in the deed,
breathing devotion into the heart,
exaltation and oblation into the soul :
that I may live and move and rest in thee,
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost;
who art GOD alone,
who art love, who art life,
who art Spirit, who art a consuming fire
from everlasting, world without end.
:: :: :: :: ::
Eric Milner-White, My God, My Glory : Aspirations, Acts, and Prayers on the Desire for God, ed. Joyce Huggett (London : Triangle/SPCK, 1994), p. 120
A meditation by Dr Eric Milner-White (1884-1963)
Grant me, O Lord, to take the Book of books
as from the hands of thine angel,
with expectancy of faith,
with brimming hope,
and with the love that kindles knowledge;
to open and reopen, read and reread,
ponder and reponder
THY WORD OF LIFE.
Convey to me, O Holy Spirit,
through the familiar phrases, fresh understanding;
through the passages passed over or unapprehended,
new treasure;
through thy grace -- insight, conviction, guidance,
revelation, glory.
Shew me, O Holy Spirit of Light, by the holy Book
all that has fellowship with light :
reveal truth, who art Truth,
illuminate divine mysteries,
make plain my duties in the eternal order;
humbling and uplifting the mind,
waking purpose in the will
and energy in the deed,
breathing devotion into the heart,
exaltation and oblation into the soul :
that I may live and move and rest in thee,
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost;
who art GOD alone,
who art love, who art life,
who art Spirit, who art a consuming fire
from everlasting, world without end.
:: :: :: :: ::
Eric Milner-White, My God, My Glory : Aspirations, Acts, and Prayers on the Desire for God, ed. Joyce Huggett (London : Triangle/SPCK, 1994), p. 120
Brief passages that resonate
from a book about drinking called Drinking : A Love Story
by Caroline Knapp (1959-2002)
In an Author's Note, the late Ms Knapp makes it clear that in certain passages the names and other identifying characteristics have been changed, to protect the anonymity of the persons to whom she alludes.
p. 216 : Reality sets in at last, chips away at denial. Some of us lose our jobs, or our spouses, or our children. Some of us get into car wrecks, and are ordered by judges to go to AA. For a man I know named Richard, hitting bottom meant reaching a level of self-loathing so deep that all he wanted to do was kill himself, and then hating himself even more because he didn't have the guts to do it. For a man named Troy, hitting bottom meant looking up from his chair one day and realizing that the only two things he had in his life were a twelve-inch black-and-white TV and a bottle of gin, the props of pure isolation. For my friend Ginny it meant losing control in the most literal sense, driving too fast down a winding road in the middle of the night, careening off the road, flying through the windshield of her car, headfirst. She surrendered just before her head hit the glass. "Okay," she whispered, letting go of the wheel, "I give up." These are all people in their thirties, with good jobs and intact families. Richard is an urban planner, Troy is an English professor, Ginny is a lawyer. If you saw them on the street, even while they were drinking, you'd never know a thing. Hitting bottom is usually something that happens internally, where no one else can see it.
:: :: :: :: ::
p. 186 : I'd drink less when my life got better, when I had fewer reasons to drink. I knew I would.
"You'd drink, too, if you had my problems." That's the thinking.
"I'm not unhappy because I drink; I drink because I am unhappy."
That is the logic, and every alcoholic on the planet uses it.
[ ... ] Almost everyone I know who's quit drinking describes that feeling, the sense that life has turned stale and colorless and slowly ground to a halt.
from a book about drinking called Drinking : A Love Story
by Caroline Knapp (1959-2002)
In an Author's Note, the late Ms Knapp makes it clear that in certain passages the names and other identifying characteristics have been changed, to protect the anonymity of the persons to whom she alludes.
p. 216 : Reality sets in at last, chips away at denial. Some of us lose our jobs, or our spouses, or our children. Some of us get into car wrecks, and are ordered by judges to go to AA. For a man I know named Richard, hitting bottom meant reaching a level of self-loathing so deep that all he wanted to do was kill himself, and then hating himself even more because he didn't have the guts to do it. For a man named Troy, hitting bottom meant looking up from his chair one day and realizing that the only two things he had in his life were a twelve-inch black-and-white TV and a bottle of gin, the props of pure isolation. For my friend Ginny it meant losing control in the most literal sense, driving too fast down a winding road in the middle of the night, careening off the road, flying through the windshield of her car, headfirst. She surrendered just before her head hit the glass. "Okay," she whispered, letting go of the wheel, "I give up." These are all people in their thirties, with good jobs and intact families. Richard is an urban planner, Troy is an English professor, Ginny is a lawyer. If you saw them on the street, even while they were drinking, you'd never know a thing. Hitting bottom is usually something that happens internally, where no one else can see it.
:: :: :: :: ::
p. 186 : I'd drink less when my life got better, when I had fewer reasons to drink. I knew I would.
"You'd drink, too, if you had my problems." That's the thinking.
"I'm not unhappy because I drink; I drink because I am unhappy."
That is the logic, and every alcoholic on the planet uses it.
[ ... ] Almost everyone I know who's quit drinking describes that feeling, the sense that life has turned stale and colorless and slowly ground to a halt.
Saturday, November 30, 2002
Eucharist, eutrapelia, & Magnificat origami
a deep theological meditation
I went to daily Mass today, for the feast of Saint Andrew. I announce this as if I ran a mile in less than four minutes, because it is, alas, becoming something of a rarity. It used to be that I attended celebration of the Eucharist, on average, five times a week.
The celebrant and homilist is one of my favorite priests in the whole wide world. Eutrapelia personified.
1. Take Barry Fitzgerald from Going My Way.
2. Make him an inch or two shorter, and Italian, with a thick Italian accent.
3. Make him exuberantly happy and (on occasion) asphyxiatingly funny.
I believe this man is a living saint.
It has not been a very eucharistic, eutrapeliac month for me. There is physical, tangible, palpable evidence of this tristfulness of mood and temper, this sadness of heart and soul. The condition of my November Magnificat, the monthly booklet of Mass readings, mattins and vespers. It's in nearly perfect condition. Very few of the pages are dog-eared, and the cover has not received the benefices of the wayward elements.
Did I say "dog-eared"? When I do use Magnificat, to keep my page, I often employ a most complicated system of folding and re-folding : sometimes in triangular patterns, sometimes rectilinear. On special occasions, a given page might have more pleats and creases than an accordion. Call it the latest hobby to sweep Catholicism : Magnificat origami !!
I read yesterday morning's psalm as this morning's prayer : Psalm 69. It seemed fitting.
a deep theological meditation
I went to daily Mass today, for the feast of Saint Andrew. I announce this as if I ran a mile in less than four minutes, because it is, alas, becoming something of a rarity. It used to be that I attended celebration of the Eucharist, on average, five times a week.
The celebrant and homilist is one of my favorite priests in the whole wide world. Eutrapelia personified.
1. Take Barry Fitzgerald from Going My Way.
2. Make him an inch or two shorter, and Italian, with a thick Italian accent.
3. Make him exuberantly happy and (on occasion) asphyxiatingly funny.
I believe this man is a living saint.
It has not been a very eucharistic, eutrapeliac month for me. There is physical, tangible, palpable evidence of this tristfulness of mood and temper, this sadness of heart and soul. The condition of my November Magnificat, the monthly booklet of Mass readings, mattins and vespers. It's in nearly perfect condition. Very few of the pages are dog-eared, and the cover has not received the benefices of the wayward elements.
Did I say "dog-eared"? When I do use Magnificat, to keep my page, I often employ a most complicated system of folding and re-folding : sometimes in triangular patterns, sometimes rectilinear. On special occasions, a given page might have more pleats and creases than an accordion. Call it the latest hobby to sweep Catholicism : Magnificat origami !!
I read yesterday morning's psalm as this morning's prayer : Psalm 69. It seemed fitting.
eec
this, the 60th of his 95 poems
dive for dreams
or a slogan may topple you
(trees are their roots
and wind is wind)
trust your heart
if the seas catch fire
(and live by love
though the stars walk backward)
honour the past
and welcome the future
(and dance your death
away at this wedding)
never mind a world
with its villains or heroes
(for god likes girls
and tomorrow and the earth)
this, the 60th of his 95 poems
dive for dreams
or a slogan may topple you
(trees are their roots
and wind is wind)
trust your heart
if the seas catch fire
(and live by love
though the stars walk backward)
honour the past
and welcome the future
(and dance your death
away at this wedding)
never mind a world
with its villains or heroes
(for god likes girls
and tomorrow and the earth)
Ethiopian salutations to Mary
Found in the bimonthly periodical Catholic Near East (now called CNEWA), issue for January-February 1998. Originally blogged at error503 on July 30, 2002.
:: :: :: :: ::
Salutation unto the memorial of thy name, O thou who dost resemble a star that is seen by thy people, even when dark clouds have enveloped the light thereof ...
Salutation unto thy face, O lowly and glorious face, the splendour of which is sweeter than the splendour of the sun and the moon ...
Salutation unto thy cheeks, which are like unto roses and pomegranates, the languor thereof is fire and the tears thereof are mingled with flame; by thy covenant, O Mary, lift thou me up into the field of delight ...
Salutation unto thy mouth, the mouth of abundant blessing and the holy gate, the book. I have taken refuge, O Mary, in thy covenant, which hath been accepted; therefore let me not be put to shame ...
Salutation unto thy voice, which returned speech unto the word of the angel of mystery, Gabriel, whose apparel shone with splendour. O Mary, thou holy woman of God, the place of his power. Hail! Hail!
Salutation unto the departure of thy body into the house of life, and the making thereof anew ... I entreat thee to redeem my soul by thy covenant, and let my wounds be anointed ...
Salutation unto thee, O thou covenant of mercy, thou gold which comprehendeth all riches; thou art the storehouse of him that is poor and needy. O Mary, bestow a portion of thy blessings and make supplications unto thy good son on our behalf.
Found in the bimonthly periodical Catholic Near East (now called CNEWA), issue for January-February 1998. Originally blogged at error503 on July 30, 2002.
:: :: :: :: ::
Salutation unto the memorial of thy name, O thou who dost resemble a star that is seen by thy people, even when dark clouds have enveloped the light thereof ...
Salutation unto thy face, O lowly and glorious face, the splendour of which is sweeter than the splendour of the sun and the moon ...
Salutation unto thy cheeks, which are like unto roses and pomegranates, the languor thereof is fire and the tears thereof are mingled with flame; by thy covenant, O Mary, lift thou me up into the field of delight ...
Salutation unto thy mouth, the mouth of abundant blessing and the holy gate, the book. I have taken refuge, O Mary, in thy covenant, which hath been accepted; therefore let me not be put to shame ...
Salutation unto thy voice, which returned speech unto the word of the angel of mystery, Gabriel, whose apparel shone with splendour. O Mary, thou holy woman of God, the place of his power. Hail! Hail!
Salutation unto the departure of thy body into the house of life, and the making thereof anew ... I entreat thee to redeem my soul by thy covenant, and let my wounds be anointed ...
Salutation unto thee, O thou covenant of mercy, thou gold which comprehendeth all riches; thou art the storehouse of him that is poor and needy. O Mary, bestow a portion of thy blessings and make supplications unto thy good son on our behalf.
Thomas Campion (1567-1620)
Rose-cheekt Laura, come;
Sing thou smoothly with thy beawties
Silent musick, either other
Sweetely gracing.
Lovely forms do flowe
From concent devinely framëd :
Heav'n is musick, and thy beawties
Birth is heavnly.
These dull notes we sing
Discords neede for helps to grace them;
Only beawty purely loving
Knowes no discord;
But still mooves delight,
Like cleare springs renu'd by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-
selves eternall.
Rose-cheekt Laura, come;
Sing thou smoothly with thy beawties
Silent musick, either other
Sweetely gracing.
Lovely forms do flowe
From concent devinely framëd :
Heav'n is musick, and thy beawties
Birth is heavnly.
These dull notes we sing
Discords neede for helps to grace them;
Only beawty purely loving
Knowes no discord;
But still mooves delight,
Like cleare springs renu'd by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-
selves eternall.
Oh, yes, and in reading the post immediately herebelow, try to remember not to refrain from failing to forget the rules of St Blog's Drinking Game ...
Dante translates Dante
Dante Gabriel Rossetti's rendering of the sonnet found in section 21 of Dante Alighieri's La Vita Nuova. The seventh line is actually an improvement on the original !
:: :: :: :: ::
"Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshipper"
My lady carries love within her eyes;
All that she looks on is made pleasanter;
Upon her path men turn to gaze at her;
He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise,
And droops his troubled visage full of sighs,
And of his evil heart is then aware:
Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshipper.
O women, help to praise her in somewise.
Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well,
By speech of hers into the mind are brought,
And who beholds is blessèd oftenwhiles.
The look she hath when she a little smiles
Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought;
’Tis such a new and gracious miracle.
:: :: :: :: ::
Ne li occhi porta la mia donna Amore,
per che si fa gentil ciò ch'ella mira;
ov'ella passa, ogn'om ver lei si gira,
e cui saluta fa tremar lo core,
sì che, bassando il viso, tutto smore,
e d'ogni suo difetto allor sospira:
fugge dinanzi a lei superbia ed ira.
Aiutatemi, donne, farle onore.
Ogne dolcezza, ogne pensero umile
nasce nel core a chi parlar la sente,
ond'è laudato chi prima la vide.
Quel ch'ella par quando un poco sorride,
non si pò dicer né tenere a mente,
sì è novo miracolo e gentile.
:: :: :: :: ::
Originally blogged at error503 -- La vita nuova on September 12, 2002.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti's rendering of the sonnet found in section 21 of Dante Alighieri's La Vita Nuova. The seventh line is actually an improvement on the original !
:: :: :: :: ::
"Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshipper"
My lady carries love within her eyes;
All that she looks on is made pleasanter;
Upon her path men turn to gaze at her;
He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise,
And droops his troubled visage full of sighs,
And of his evil heart is then aware:
Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshipper.
O women, help to praise her in somewise.
Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well,
By speech of hers into the mind are brought,
And who beholds is blessèd oftenwhiles.
The look she hath when she a little smiles
Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought;
’Tis such a new and gracious miracle.
:: :: :: :: ::
Ne li occhi porta la mia donna Amore,
per che si fa gentil ciò ch'ella mira;
ov'ella passa, ogn'om ver lei si gira,
e cui saluta fa tremar lo core,
sì che, bassando il viso, tutto smore,
e d'ogni suo difetto allor sospira:
fugge dinanzi a lei superbia ed ira.
Aiutatemi, donne, farle onore.
Ogne dolcezza, ogne pensero umile
nasce nel core a chi parlar la sente,
ond'è laudato chi prima la vide.
Quel ch'ella par quando un poco sorride,
non si pò dicer né tenere a mente,
sì è novo miracolo e gentile.
:: :: :: :: ::
Originally blogged at error503 -- La vita nuova on September 12, 2002.
Poem 5
Poem 5
by Gaius Valerius Catullus (c. 84-54 BC)
VIVAMUS mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
rumoresque senum severiorum
omnes unius aestimemus assis!
soles occidere et redire possunt:
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.
da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.
dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,
conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,
aut ne quis malus invidere possit,
cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.
:: :: :: :: ::
1 Let us live, my Lesbia, and love, 2 and value at one farthing 3 all the talk of crabbed old men. 4 Suns may set and rise again. 5 For us, when the short light has once set, 6 remains to be slept the sleep of one unbroken night. 7 Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, 8 Then another thousand, then a second hundred, 9 then yet thousand, then a hundred. 10 Then, when we have made up many thousands, 11 we will confuse our counting, that we may not know the reckoning, 12 nor any malicious person blight them with evil eye, 13 when he knows that our kisses are so many.
by Gaius Valerius Catullus (c. 84-54 BC)
VIVAMUS mea Lesbia, atque amemus,
rumoresque senum severiorum
omnes unius aestimemus assis!
soles occidere et redire possunt:
nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux,
nox est perpetua una dormienda.
da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum.
dein, cum milia multa fecerimus,
conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus,
aut ne quis malus invidere possit,
cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.
:: :: :: :: ::
1 Let us live, my Lesbia, and love, 2 and value at one farthing 3 all the talk of crabbed old men. 4 Suns may set and rise again. 5 For us, when the short light has once set, 6 remains to be slept the sleep of one unbroken night. 7 Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, 8 Then another thousand, then a second hundred, 9 then yet thousand, then a hundred. 10 Then, when we have made up many thousands, 11 we will confuse our counting, that we may not know the reckoning, 12 nor any malicious person blight them with evil eye, 13 when he knows that our kisses are so many.
Opinions
Soliciting opinions
If you were asked to choose the worst day in American history between November 22, 1963 (assassination of President Kennedy) and September 11, 2001 (Islamist terrorist attacks killing over 3000 Americans), which date would you choose? Which incident, and why?
I have my candidates. But one day, one incident, stands head and shoulders above the rest for having been particularly gruesome and corrosive of national unity. I'd like to hear about six or seven possible answers to the question above, before I proffer my opinion.
If you were asked to choose the worst day in American history between November 22, 1963 (assassination of President Kennedy) and September 11, 2001 (Islamist terrorist attacks killing over 3000 Americans), which date would you choose? Which incident, and why?
I have my candidates. But one day, one incident, stands head and shoulders above the rest for having been particularly gruesome and corrosive of national unity. I'd like to hear about six or seven possible answers to the question above, before I proffer my opinion.
Friday, November 29, 2002
Minuit, chrétiens
O Holy Night
it's better in French
Minuit, chrétiens, c’est l’heure solennelle
Ou l’homme Dieu descendit jusqu’à nous,
Pour effacer la tache originelle,
Et de son Père arrêter le courroux.
Le monde entier tressaille d’espérance
A cette nuit qui lui donne un Sauveur.
Peuple, à genoux, attends ta délivrance!
Noël! Noël! Voici le Rédempteur!
Noël! Noël! Voici le Rédempteur!
De notre foi, que la lumière ardente
Nous guide tous au berceau de l’enfant,
Comme autrefois une étoile brillante
Y conduisit les chefs de l’Orient.
Le Roi de rois naît dans une humble crèche;
Puissants du jour, fiers de votre grandeur.
A votre orgueil, c’est de là qu’un Dieu prêche.
Courbez vos fronts devant le Redempteur!
Courbez vos fronts devant le Redempteur!
Le Rédempteur a brisé toute entrave,
La terre est libre et le ciel est ouvert;
Il voit un frère où n’était qu’un esclave;
L’amour unit ceux qu’enchaînait le fer :
Qui lui dira notre reconnaissance?
C’est pour nous tous qu’il naît, qu’il souffre et meurt.
Peuple, debout, chante ta délivrance.
Noël, Noël, chantons le Rédempteur!
Noël, Noël, chantons le Rédempteur!
it's better in French
Minuit, chrétiens, c’est l’heure solennelle
Ou l’homme Dieu descendit jusqu’à nous,
Pour effacer la tache originelle,
Et de son Père arrêter le courroux.
Le monde entier tressaille d’espérance
A cette nuit qui lui donne un Sauveur.
Peuple, à genoux, attends ta délivrance!
Noël! Noël! Voici le Rédempteur!
Noël! Noël! Voici le Rédempteur!
De notre foi, que la lumière ardente
Nous guide tous au berceau de l’enfant,
Comme autrefois une étoile brillante
Y conduisit les chefs de l’Orient.
Le Roi de rois naît dans une humble crèche;
Puissants du jour, fiers de votre grandeur.
A votre orgueil, c’est de là qu’un Dieu prêche.
Courbez vos fronts devant le Redempteur!
Courbez vos fronts devant le Redempteur!
Le Rédempteur a brisé toute entrave,
La terre est libre et le ciel est ouvert;
Il voit un frère où n’était qu’un esclave;
L’amour unit ceux qu’enchaînait le fer :
Qui lui dira notre reconnaissance?
C’est pour nous tous qu’il naît, qu’il souffre et meurt.
Peuple, debout, chante ta délivrance.
Noël, Noël, chantons le Rédempteur!
Noël, Noël, chantons le Rédempteur!
Out of the mouths of babes
Out of the mouths of babes
A little boy was overheard praying: "Lord, if you can't make me a better boy, don't worry about it. I'm having a real good time like I am."
A Sunday school class was studying the Ten Commandments. They were ready to discuss the last one. The teacher asked if anyone could tell her what it was. Susie raised her hand, stood tall, and quoted, "Thou shall not take the covers off the neighbor's wife."
After the christening of his baby brother in church, Jason sobbed all the way home in the back seat of the car. His father asked him three times what was wrong. Finally, the boy replied, "That preacher said he wanted us brought up in a Christian home, and I wanted to stay with you guys."
A dad had been teaching his three-year old daughter the Lord's Prayer; for several evenings at bedtime, she would dutifully repeat the lines from the prayer. Finally, she decided to go solo. The father listened with pride as she carefully enunciated each word, right up to the end of the prayer: "Lead us not into temptation," she prayed, "but deliver us some E-mail. Amen."
And one particular four-year-old prayed, "And forgive us our trash baskets as we forgive those who put trash in our baskets."
A Sunday school teacher asked her children, as they were on the way to church service, "And why is it necessary to be quiet in church?" One bright little girl replied, "Because people are sleeping."
Six-year-old Angie and her four-year-old brother Joel were sitting together in church. Joel giggled, sang, and talked out loud. Finally, his big sister had enough. "You're not supposed to talk out loud in church." "Why? Who's going to stop me?" Joel asked. Angie pointed to the back of the church and said, "See those two men standing by the door? They're hushers."
A mother was preparing pancakes for her sons, Kevin, 5, and Ryan, 3. The boys began to argue over who would get the first pancake. Their mother saw the opportunity for a moral lesson. "If Jesus were sitting here, He would say, 'Let my brother have the first pancake, I can wait.'" Kevin turned to his younger brother and said, "Ryan, you be Jesus!"
A father was at the beach with his children when the four-year-old son ran up to him, grabbed his hand, and led him to the shore, where a seagull lay dead in the sand. "Daddy, what happened to him?" the son asked. "He died and went to Heaven," the Dad replied. The boy thought a moment and then said, "Did God throw him back down?"
A wife invited some people to dinner. At the table, she turned to their six-year-old daughter and said, "Would you like to say the blessing?" "I wouldn't know what to say," the girl replied. "Just say what you hear Mommy say," the wife answered. The daughter bowed her head and said, "Lord, why on earth did I invite all these people to dinner?"
A little boy was overheard praying: "Lord, if you can't make me a better boy, don't worry about it. I'm having a real good time like I am."
A Sunday school class was studying the Ten Commandments. They were ready to discuss the last one. The teacher asked if anyone could tell her what it was. Susie raised her hand, stood tall, and quoted, "Thou shall not take the covers off the neighbor's wife."
After the christening of his baby brother in church, Jason sobbed all the way home in the back seat of the car. His father asked him three times what was wrong. Finally, the boy replied, "That preacher said he wanted us brought up in a Christian home, and I wanted to stay with you guys."
A dad had been teaching his three-year old daughter the Lord's Prayer; for several evenings at bedtime, she would dutifully repeat the lines from the prayer. Finally, she decided to go solo. The father listened with pride as she carefully enunciated each word, right up to the end of the prayer: "Lead us not into temptation," she prayed, "but deliver us some E-mail. Amen."
And one particular four-year-old prayed, "And forgive us our trash baskets as we forgive those who put trash in our baskets."
A Sunday school teacher asked her children, as they were on the way to church service, "And why is it necessary to be quiet in church?" One bright little girl replied, "Because people are sleeping."
Six-year-old Angie and her four-year-old brother Joel were sitting together in church. Joel giggled, sang, and talked out loud. Finally, his big sister had enough. "You're not supposed to talk out loud in church." "Why? Who's going to stop me?" Joel asked. Angie pointed to the back of the church and said, "See those two men standing by the door? They're hushers."
A mother was preparing pancakes for her sons, Kevin, 5, and Ryan, 3. The boys began to argue over who would get the first pancake. Their mother saw the opportunity for a moral lesson. "If Jesus were sitting here, He would say, 'Let my brother have the first pancake, I can wait.'" Kevin turned to his younger brother and said, "Ryan, you be Jesus!"
A father was at the beach with his children when the four-year-old son ran up to him, grabbed his hand, and led him to the shore, where a seagull lay dead in the sand. "Daddy, what happened to him?" the son asked. "He died and went to Heaven," the Dad replied. The boy thought a moment and then said, "Did God throw him back down?"
A wife invited some people to dinner. At the table, she turned to their six-year-old daughter and said, "Would you like to say the blessing?" "I wouldn't know what to say," the girl replied. "Just say what you hear Mommy say," the wife answered. The daughter bowed her head and said, "Lord, why on earth did I invite all these people to dinner?"
Lux et tenebræ
Lux et tenebrae : Yesterday and today
I like the yesterday me better than the today me. For some odd reason.
All this dross, all this scrap-metal, all these grudges, all this rant and rodomontade, all this fiercely incontrovertible "rightness" (in inverted commas, as Stephen Fry would say, to lend the properly disreputable air), all this unlove which is a heavenless hell and a homeless home ... really needs to be alchemized in the crucible of an intense prayer-life for which I seem to lack the inclination. Alchemized? Eliminated.
I can say with even more truth than Saint Paul, that I am very much the least of the followers of Christ, and that to recover grace, that leastness must become even less -- illum oportet crescere, me autem minui ... (cf. John 3.30).
Because those who exalt themselves -- such as dylan, your unhumble disobedient nonservant -- will be and should be flung into the depths.
Who will rescue me from this wretchedness (cf. Romans 7.24)?
Those of you who can, send kind thoughts heavenward on this poor soul's behalf.
I like the yesterday me better than the today me. For some odd reason.
All this dross, all this scrap-metal, all these grudges, all this rant and rodomontade, all this fiercely incontrovertible "rightness" (in inverted commas, as Stephen Fry would say, to lend the properly disreputable air), all this unlove which is a heavenless hell and a homeless home ... really needs to be alchemized in the crucible of an intense prayer-life for which I seem to lack the inclination. Alchemized? Eliminated.
I can say with even more truth than Saint Paul, that I am very much the least of the followers of Christ, and that to recover grace, that leastness must become even less -- illum oportet crescere, me autem minui ... (cf. John 3.30).
Because those who exalt themselves -- such as dylan, your unhumble disobedient nonservant -- will be and should be flung into the depths.
Who will rescue me from this wretchedness (cf. Romans 7.24)?
Those of you who can, send kind thoughts heavenward on this poor soul's behalf.
Which holiday are you?
You think? Oh, I think ...
What Holiday are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Damn those 65,483 pop-ups that appear as one awaits the results of the quiz. Caveat responsor!
Actually, my real holiday or holy-day has to be, has to be, has to be the Dies irae, dies illa of the Thomas a Celano sequence which Mozart set to music in his Requiem Mass :
Quantus tremor est futurus
Quando judex est venturus
Cuncta stricte discussurus!
What Holiday are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Damn those 65,483 pop-ups that appear as one awaits the results of the quiz. Caveat responsor!
Actually, my real holiday or holy-day has to be, has to be, has to be the Dies irae, dies illa of the Thomas a Celano sequence which Mozart set to music in his Requiem Mass :
Quantus tremor est futurus
Quando judex est venturus
Cuncta stricte discussurus!
Fun-house mirrors
Saint Paul at the fun-house?
For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face.
A lot of more modern Scripture translations say "in a mirror, dimly" or speak of "puzzling reflections in a mirror." but veering a little ways off the path of how the Pauline verse hereabove should be translated, I wonder if we strugglers and stragglers on earth don't spend a bit too much time in the fun-house of carnivals and state-fairs.
The fun-house with its distorting mirrors that swell our heads to the size of Ohio, or make our legs the size of thumbtacks.
How often do our attempts at living in accordance with the will of God spectacularly fail because we've over-emphasized one excellent quality and underemphasized another?
Do we exalt tolerance at the expense of veracity? Fortitude at the expense of prudence? Honesty at the expense of charity?
Do we make a point of "speaking the truth" as we see it through our tinted or blurry lenses ... but forget that of faith, hope, and love, the greatest is love? Are there times when we should be silent and let other people be "wrong"? Yes, even if they are demonstrably and utterly and obnoxiously wrong?
Are there times when we are inclined to steamroll people with invective, opprobrium and fulmination, when we should instead stop, pray ("Lord, I am not high-minded" : but am I?), and let our words be few and charitable -- to the point but not ... laceratingly to the quick?
Do we make small things large and large things small? Do we exalt ephemera and forget the Last Things (and the first things, for that matter)?
Sometimes, a blogger can "let fly" -- blast an opponent into the stratosphere -- and tell himself that it is honesty; and honesty is a virtue. Sometimes a valid, even a necessary, objection can be raised to a thought or opinion, in a way that is far from charitable. Sometimes, we can't elude W. H. Auden's line, "How wrong they are in always being right."
So how does one calibrate the response to something that inspires a vehement immediacy of disagreement? And how does one make sure that one's not looking at a fun-house mirror distortion of reality?
(Robert Graves once ended a poem "at a careless comma"; not being nearly as daring, let's let the question-mark at the end of the previous paragraph serve as our inconclusive conclusion.)
For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face.
A lot of more modern Scripture translations say "in a mirror, dimly" or speak of "puzzling reflections in a mirror." but veering a little ways off the path of how the Pauline verse hereabove should be translated, I wonder if we strugglers and stragglers on earth don't spend a bit too much time in the fun-house of carnivals and state-fairs.
The fun-house with its distorting mirrors that swell our heads to the size of Ohio, or make our legs the size of thumbtacks.
How often do our attempts at living in accordance with the will of God spectacularly fail because we've over-emphasized one excellent quality and underemphasized another?
Do we exalt tolerance at the expense of veracity? Fortitude at the expense of prudence? Honesty at the expense of charity?
Do we make a point of "speaking the truth" as we see it through our tinted or blurry lenses ... but forget that of faith, hope, and love, the greatest is love? Are there times when we should be silent and let other people be "wrong"? Yes, even if they are demonstrably and utterly and obnoxiously wrong?
Are there times when we are inclined to steamroll people with invective, opprobrium and fulmination, when we should instead stop, pray ("Lord, I am not high-minded" : but am I?), and let our words be few and charitable -- to the point but not ... laceratingly to the quick?
Do we make small things large and large things small? Do we exalt ephemera and forget the Last Things (and the first things, for that matter)?
Sometimes, a blogger can "let fly" -- blast an opponent into the stratosphere -- and tell himself that it is honesty; and honesty is a virtue. Sometimes a valid, even a necessary, objection can be raised to a thought or opinion, in a way that is far from charitable. Sometimes, we can't elude W. H. Auden's line, "How wrong they are in always being right."
So how does one calibrate the response to something that inspires a vehement immediacy of disagreement? And how does one make sure that one's not looking at a fun-house mirror distortion of reality?
(Robert Graves once ended a poem "at a careless comma"; not being nearly as daring, let's let the question-mark at the end of the previous paragraph serve as our inconclusive conclusion.)
Thursday, November 28, 2002
Creativity as surrender
Creation (creativity) as surrender, as kenosis
also : as a dialectic between expertise and inspiration
A beautifully articulated, Hammarskjöld-inspired meditation at Sainteros.
also : as a dialectic between expertise and inspiration
A beautifully articulated, Hammarskjöld-inspired meditation at Sainteros.
Also added today
Also added today
Links to various translations of Sacred Scripture (see Places Oft Visited, between "Anglican Sites" and "Other Sites") ... the King James Version & Revised Standard Version, the Vulgate, and the Crosswalk search engine.
Links to various translations of Sacred Scripture (see Places Oft Visited, between "Anglican Sites" and "Other Sites") ... the King James Version & Revised Standard Version, the Vulgate, and the Crosswalk search engine.
We gather together
A hymn for the day
We gather together to ask the Lord's blessing;
he chastens and hastens his will to make known;
the wicked oppressing now cease from distressing:
sing praises to his Name; he forgets not his own.
Beside us to guide us, our God with us joining,
ordaining, maintaining his kingdom divine;
so from the beginning the fight we were winning:
thou, Lord, wast at our side: all glory be thine!
We all do extol thee, thou leader triumphant,
and pray that thou still our defender wilt be.
Let thy congregation escape tribulation:
thy Name be ever praised! O Lord, make us free!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Words: Nederlandtsche Gedenckclanck, 1626;
trans. Theodore Baker, 1894.
We gather together to ask the Lord's blessing;
he chastens and hastens his will to make known;
the wicked oppressing now cease from distressing:
sing praises to his Name; he forgets not his own.
Beside us to guide us, our God with us joining,
ordaining, maintaining his kingdom divine;
so from the beginning the fight we were winning:
thou, Lord, wast at our side: all glory be thine!
We all do extol thee, thou leader triumphant,
and pray that thou still our defender wilt be.
Let thy congregation escape tribulation:
thy Name be ever praised! O Lord, make us free!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Words: Nederlandtsche Gedenckclanck, 1626;
trans. Theodore Baker, 1894.
St Peter Chrysologus
Saint Peter Chrysologus, Archbishop of Ravenna (d. 450)
from the Meditation for the Day, Wed. 27th, in Magnificat
... words which differ in letter and in spirit quite noticeably from the incendiary tenor of some of my more recent rhetorical flailings and thrashings ... A kindred reflection to the "war" thoughts of Peter Kreeft, proffered recently by Mr Riddle ...
He who wants to overcome vices should fight with the arms of love, not of rage. A wise man can readily see why endurance of injuries gives training to a Christian way of living. Nevertheless, there are those who fail to understand that to do what follows is indeed a mark of strength, the summit of goodness, the pinnacle of piety, something characteristic of the divine outlook rather than the human : not to resist the evil-doer, but to overcome evil with good ...
When the disease of sin, the crime that springs from vices, and the madness of impiety permeated human minds and smothered whatever knowledge, perception, and reason were present, by its insane fury it brought the nations scattered over the earth to flee from God, follow devils, worship creatures, condemn their Creator, yearn for vices, shrink in horror from virtues, live under the pressure of the sword, and fall with wounds. It brought living men to perish in death.
The result was this. Men could not be healed save by arming themselves with all the long-suffering goodness of the heavenly Physician. Thus they could stand the injuries of those who suffered from madness, bear with curses, sustain blows, and be cut to pieces with wounds, until they could lead the evil-doers back to a sobriety of outlook, to sincerity of spirit, to sanity of mind. Through all this the evil-doers were to learn to seek God, flee the devils, grow aware of their apathy, relish health, cast off vices, acquire virtues, abstain from woundings, shrink away from blood, refuse to kill, and desire continuance in life.
from the Meditation for the Day, Wed. 27th, in Magnificat
... words which differ in letter and in spirit quite noticeably from the incendiary tenor of some of my more recent rhetorical flailings and thrashings ... A kindred reflection to the "war" thoughts of Peter Kreeft, proffered recently by Mr Riddle ...
He who wants to overcome vices should fight with the arms of love, not of rage. A wise man can readily see why endurance of injuries gives training to a Christian way of living. Nevertheless, there are those who fail to understand that to do what follows is indeed a mark of strength, the summit of goodness, the pinnacle of piety, something characteristic of the divine outlook rather than the human : not to resist the evil-doer, but to overcome evil with good ...
When the disease of sin, the crime that springs from vices, and the madness of impiety permeated human minds and smothered whatever knowledge, perception, and reason were present, by its insane fury it brought the nations scattered over the earth to flee from God, follow devils, worship creatures, condemn their Creator, yearn for vices, shrink in horror from virtues, live under the pressure of the sword, and fall with wounds. It brought living men to perish in death.
The result was this. Men could not be healed save by arming themselves with all the long-suffering goodness of the heavenly Physician. Thus they could stand the injuries of those who suffered from madness, bear with curses, sustain blows, and be cut to pieces with wounds, until they could lead the evil-doers back to a sobriety of outlook, to sincerity of spirit, to sanity of mind. Through all this the evil-doers were to learn to seek God, flee the devils, grow aware of their apathy, relish health, cast off vices, acquire virtues, abstain from woundings, shrink away from blood, refuse to kill, and desire continuance in life.
Places Oft
Recently added to Places Oft Visited
Two rambunctiously political and youthfully effervescent web-sites :
Doctrinaire (a collaborative affair in which one participant, Rachel, says she wants to end rachel profiling) and the nice Republican in her 20s who has lost not one of her forty winks, Girl on the Right.
And in terms of Catholic blogs, there is (for obscurity's sake?) Vita Brevis.
Two rambunctiously political and youthfully effervescent web-sites :
Doctrinaire (a collaborative affair in which one participant, Rachel, says she wants to end rachel profiling) and the nice Republican in her 20s who has lost not one of her forty winks, Girl on the Right.
And in terms of Catholic blogs, there is (for obscurity's sake?) Vita Brevis.
Laudate Dominum
Propers for Thanks-giving
from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer of the Episcopal Church.
from Psalm 147. Laudate Dominum.
O PRAISE the LORD, for it is a good thing to sing praises unto our God; * yea, a joyful and pleasant thing it is to be thankful.
The LORD doth build up Jerusalem, * and gather together the outcasts of Israel.
He healeth those that are broken in heart, * and giveth medicine to heal their sickness.
O sing unto the LORD with thanksgiving; * sing praises upon the harp unto our God :
Who covereth the heaven with clouds, and prepareth rain for the earth; * and maketh the grass to grow upon the mountains, and herb for the use of men;
Who giveth fodder unto the cattle, * and feedeth the young ravens that call upon him.
Praise the LORD, O Jerusalem; * praise thy God, O Sion.
For he hath made fast the bars of thy gates, * and hath blessed thy children within thee.
He maketh peace in thy borders, * and filleth thee with the flour of wheat.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, * and to the Holy Ghost;
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, * world without end. Amen.
from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer of the Episcopal Church.
from Psalm 147. Laudate Dominum.
O PRAISE the LORD, for it is a good thing to sing praises unto our God; * yea, a joyful and pleasant thing it is to be thankful.
The LORD doth build up Jerusalem, * and gather together the outcasts of Israel.
He healeth those that are broken in heart, * and giveth medicine to heal their sickness.
O sing unto the LORD with thanksgiving; * sing praises upon the harp unto our God :
Who covereth the heaven with clouds, and prepareth rain for the earth; * and maketh the grass to grow upon the mountains, and herb for the use of men;
Who giveth fodder unto the cattle, * and feedeth the young ravens that call upon him.
Praise the LORD, O Jerusalem; * praise thy God, O Sion.
For he hath made fast the bars of thy gates, * and hath blessed thy children within thee.
He maketh peace in thy borders, * and filleth thee with the flour of wheat.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, * and to the Holy Ghost;
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, * world without end. Amen.
Benedictus Domine
Benedictus Domine
by Dr Eric Milner-White (1884-1963), Anglican churchman, Dean of York Minster
dylan comments : Although this is a "demanding" prayer which I could not say with complete candour and truthfulness, it is a beautiful prayer that perhaps some day I shall be able to say, and in its text, we find a salutary if implicit recognition of the world's difficulties, complexities, and adversities -- a recognition that seems absent from the more facile "Serenity Prayer."
It also seems apt for the day of thanks-giving.
Blessed be thou, O Lord, in all things that have befallen me :
Blessed be thou in my temptations, when I have continued with thee,
and in thy deliverances when I have wandered away.
Blessed be thou in thy wholesome reproofs,
in all discipline and chastisement of my pride,
and in thy lifting up, when I have sought thy face :
Blessed be thou in any advances and victories,
the whole praise whereof I ascribe unto thee
with a thankful heart :
Blessed be thou for guiding my steps, most wonderfully,
when I knew not, understood not, nor even cared :
Blessed be thou for my holy calling,
for the joy of oblation,
for communion with thyself,
for aught thou hast wrought through me :
Blessed be thou for all whom I have loved,
and who have loved me :
And for THY love, from all eternity, beyond compare or compass :
merciful, tender, unalterable, irremovable.
Blessed be thou in all things that befall me,
and that shall befall me;
O grant me this last blessing, O GOD of my praise --
to be true to thee, and close to thee,
unto the end, and without end.
E. Milner-White, My God, My Glory : Aspirations, Acts, and Prayers on the Desire for God, ed. Joyce Huggett (London : Triangle/SPCK, 1994), p. 118
by Dr Eric Milner-White (1884-1963), Anglican churchman, Dean of York Minster
dylan comments : Although this is a "demanding" prayer which I could not say with complete candour and truthfulness, it is a beautiful prayer that perhaps some day I shall be able to say, and in its text, we find a salutary if implicit recognition of the world's difficulties, complexities, and adversities -- a recognition that seems absent from the more facile "Serenity Prayer."
It also seems apt for the day of thanks-giving.
Blessed be thou, O Lord, in all things that have befallen me :
Blessed be thou in my temptations, when I have continued with thee,
and in thy deliverances when I have wandered away.
Blessed be thou in thy wholesome reproofs,
in all discipline and chastisement of my pride,
and in thy lifting up, when I have sought thy face :
Blessed be thou in any advances and victories,
the whole praise whereof I ascribe unto thee
with a thankful heart :
Blessed be thou for guiding my steps, most wonderfully,
when I knew not, understood not, nor even cared :
Blessed be thou for my holy calling,
for the joy of oblation,
for communion with thyself,
for aught thou hast wrought through me :
Blessed be thou for all whom I have loved,
and who have loved me :
And for THY love, from all eternity, beyond compare or compass :
merciful, tender, unalterable, irremovable.
Blessed be thou in all things that befall me,
and that shall befall me;
O grant me this last blessing, O GOD of my praise --
to be true to thee, and close to thee,
unto the end, and without end.
E. Milner-White, My God, My Glory : Aspirations, Acts, and Prayers on the Desire for God, ed. Joyce Huggett (London : Triangle/SPCK, 1994), p. 118
to Sir (J. P. McC.), with love ... 6/18/1942
Maybe I'm amazed
at the seeming inability of Sir Paul McCartney to write a bad song. The effortlessness with which, over a period of forty years, he has produced songs that are part of the "permanent" language of rock 'n' roll, pop music ... a medium dominated by disaffecting ephemera.
The sheer wholesomeness of the sexagenarian Beatle, the infectious exuberance, and yes, the lyrics of all those old songs which are memorable even if you haven't heard them for fifteen or twenty years.
Is it possible to be sad or mad, or anything other than glad, when you hear ... Ju-judy-judy-judyjudyjudy !! ?
Is it possible to be unmoved when you hear "The Long and Winding Road"?
Is it remotely possible to have a skeptical, cynical or bad feeling about the man who gave us "Let It Be"? Or "Blackbird"? Or "Here, There and Everywhere"?
He was one of the tetrarchs of the 1960s, part of a group that was the Shakespeare of popular music.
Comparisons to Shakespeare are always precarious adventures -- I bristled when a teacher in high school compared Woody Allen to Shakespeare -- but I'll go further and say that the Beatles were the Shakespeare, Donne, Herrick and Herbert of popular music, impossible to elude -- indebted to the very few rock 'n' roll "ancestors" that existed in their time, immeasurably improving upon all their influences, the hyperprolific superprogenitors of everyone who followed. Look at the catalogue of songs. For their universal diversity of mood, style, lyric, manner and cadence, the comparison to Shakespeare seems ... if not exactly fitting, or moderately and nicely phrased, then much less madly audacious and exaggerated than one would think at a first hearing.
And into his solo career, McCartney has excelled in producing simple unpretentious melodies that really can't be effaced or evicted from the memory. It does seem like he can do this in his sleep. (John Mellencamp, Billy Joel, Tracy Chapman ... also excel at the "basics" that most musicians find hard to achieve.)
There was a 2-hour concert on ABC this evening (yesterday evening, now that it's after 12). Among the things that I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving was the chance to see this concert, and Sir Paul, and to be reminded of how beautifully human some human beings can be.
Maybe I'm amazed
at the seeming inability of Sir Paul McCartney to write a bad song. The effortlessness with which, over a period of forty years, he has produced songs that are part of the "permanent" language of rock 'n' roll, pop music ... a medium dominated by disaffecting ephemera.
The sheer wholesomeness of the sexagenarian Beatle, the infectious exuberance, and yes, the lyrics of all those old songs which are memorable even if you haven't heard them for fifteen or twenty years.
Is it possible to be sad or mad, or anything other than glad, when you hear ... Ju-judy-judy-judyjudyjudy !! ?
Is it possible to be unmoved when you hear "The Long and Winding Road"?
Is it remotely possible to have a skeptical, cynical or bad feeling about the man who gave us "Let It Be"? Or "Blackbird"? Or "Here, There and Everywhere"?
He was one of the tetrarchs of the 1960s, part of a group that was the Shakespeare of popular music.
Comparisons to Shakespeare are always precarious adventures -- I bristled when a teacher in high school compared Woody Allen to Shakespeare -- but I'll go further and say that the Beatles were the Shakespeare, Donne, Herrick and Herbert of popular music, impossible to elude -- indebted to the very few rock 'n' roll "ancestors" that existed in their time, immeasurably improving upon all their influences, the hyperprolific superprogenitors of everyone who followed. Look at the catalogue of songs. For their universal diversity of mood, style, lyric, manner and cadence, the comparison to Shakespeare seems ... if not exactly fitting, or moderately and nicely phrased, then much less madly audacious and exaggerated than one would think at a first hearing.
And into his solo career, McCartney has excelled in producing simple unpretentious melodies that really can't be effaced or evicted from the memory. It does seem like he can do this in his sleep. (John Mellencamp, Billy Joel, Tracy Chapman ... also excel at the "basics" that most musicians find hard to achieve.)
There was a 2-hour concert on ABC this evening (yesterday evening, now that it's after 12). Among the things that I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving was the chance to see this concert, and Sir Paul, and to be reminded of how beautifully human some human beings can be.
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
Merton : the love poems
I was pleasantly surprised upon reading Volume 6 of the Journals how tender and esthetically controlled were some of the love poems he wrote to a Louisville nurse. It is to be deplored that all eighteen of the poems are not more generally available; four, or perhaps five of them, can be found in the aforementioned sixth volume of his journals, Learning to Love.
I was pleasantly surprised upon reading Volume 6 of the Journals how tender and esthetically controlled were some of the love poems he wrote to a Louisville nurse. It is to be deplored that all eighteen of the poems are not more generally available; four, or perhaps five of them, can be found in the aforementioned sixth volume of his journals, Learning to Love.
A short list
The blogger at Res et Rationes gives us a list of the only poems worth reading, according to him. Of the first three on the list, two are by the Chesterbelloc, and as wonderfully Catholic as those souls were, they are poets from whom we can manage to withhold our veneration.
He includes the irreproachable Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Walt Whitman, but we find ourself wishing he had chosen different poems, especially in Longfellow's case ("Snow-flakes," "Divina Commedia," "The Jewish Cemetery at Newport," the sonnets about Chaucer, Keats, Milton).
From S. T. Coleridge, he prefers the Rime of the Ancient Mariner to "Kubla Khan" or "Frost at Midnight" or "This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison," and he is in good company. Emma Lazarus's sonnet "The New Colossus" should be more widely known (everyone knows the Give me your tired, your poor part, but we agree with Mr Roesch : the whole thing's worth reading). Rudyard Kipling is perhaps not fashionable nowadays, but his poem "If" does have the great merit of being unforgettable ("If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance run ...", etc.)
Clement Clarke Moore rocks! And so, needless to say, does Shakespeare.
We gather from the list that Mr Roesch has an impatience with ambiguity. It is a salutary impatience, for the most part. But as Mr Cummings reminds us, poetry is not a slogan. Poetry is to ordinary language as dance is to walking : it is gloriously non-utilitarian, and the primary purpose of poetry is not didacticism, but enchantment.
All we are saying is "Give ambiguity a chance!" Three cheers for significant obscurity and meaningful obliquity!
Seriously, there is some great poetry that we'll miss if we demand that it be even more free of guile than Nathanael was. And there are some memorable poems of considerable lucidity that are missing from this otherwise excellent list.
Certainly, Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" is part of the language, oft quoted by sportswriters, especially here in Boston, when, for instance, the Red Sox have a September winning streak after being eliminated from playoff contention. "They're not going gentle into that good night!"
Shakespeare's sonnets. A few things by Cummings. In terms of a poem that is mildly obscure but still quintessentially American, what of the introductory poem to Hart Crane's The Bridge, of a momentous verbal "music" that we do not wish were more prosy :
How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest,
The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty --
Then with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away
Till elevators drop us from our day --
And so on. The punctuation might be off; am quoting from memory.
There is the poet Countee Cullen, much beloved by this blogger and a few others, the African-American poet who died in 1946, whose beautiful songs are universal in their appeal and quite gorgeous in their music.
And is there no room for anything by Emily Dickinson? And where, for humor's sake, is Ogden Nash?
For religious poetry : why the Chesterbelloc, when there is George Herbert, the hymnographers, the Christmas carols? What of Cardinal Langton's Veni, Sancte Spiritus / Et emitte coelitus / Lucis tuae radium? Thomas a Celano's Dies irae, dies illa (incorporate in Mozart's Requiem)?
These are all just suggestions. Look around. There are excellences in poetry hiding behind every corner, even if it's just the bawdy limerick or the tart satirical couplets of Martial ... or of J. V. Cunningham (1911-1985).
And to the readers of this web-log who haven't yet done so, check out the other "pointless" lists of Mr Roesch. I'm glad to have this opportunity to discuss this particular list of his, because it reminds me of how good those other lists are. The incredibly funny utterances of his teachers & professors, the list of great television shows -- complete with reasons why.
One of these shows in particular caught my eye. I silently exclaimed Yes! and made an act of thanksgiving when I saw it on the list. And I meant to write a little something about it -- but a little later, perhaps.
The blogger at Res et Rationes gives us a list of the only poems worth reading, according to him. Of the first three on the list, two are by the Chesterbelloc, and as wonderfully Catholic as those souls were, they are poets from whom we can manage to withhold our veneration.
He includes the irreproachable Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Walt Whitman, but we find ourself wishing he had chosen different poems, especially in Longfellow's case ("Snow-flakes," "Divina Commedia," "The Jewish Cemetery at Newport," the sonnets about Chaucer, Keats, Milton).
From S. T. Coleridge, he prefers the Rime of the Ancient Mariner to "Kubla Khan" or "Frost at Midnight" or "This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison," and he is in good company. Emma Lazarus's sonnet "The New Colossus" should be more widely known (everyone knows the Give me your tired, your poor part, but we agree with Mr Roesch : the whole thing's worth reading). Rudyard Kipling is perhaps not fashionable nowadays, but his poem "If" does have the great merit of being unforgettable ("If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds' worth of distance run ...", etc.)
Clement Clarke Moore rocks! And so, needless to say, does Shakespeare.
We gather from the list that Mr Roesch has an impatience with ambiguity. It is a salutary impatience, for the most part. But as Mr Cummings reminds us, poetry is not a slogan. Poetry is to ordinary language as dance is to walking : it is gloriously non-utilitarian, and the primary purpose of poetry is not didacticism, but enchantment.
All we are saying is "Give ambiguity a chance!" Three cheers for significant obscurity and meaningful obliquity!
Seriously, there is some great poetry that we'll miss if we demand that it be even more free of guile than Nathanael was. And there are some memorable poems of considerable lucidity that are missing from this otherwise excellent list.
Certainly, Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" is part of the language, oft quoted by sportswriters, especially here in Boston, when, for instance, the Red Sox have a September winning streak after being eliminated from playoff contention. "They're not going gentle into that good night!"
Shakespeare's sonnets. A few things by Cummings. In terms of a poem that is mildly obscure but still quintessentially American, what of the introductory poem to Hart Crane's The Bridge, of a momentous verbal "music" that we do not wish were more prosy :
How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest,
The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty --
Then with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away
Till elevators drop us from our day --
And so on. The punctuation might be off; am quoting from memory.
There is the poet Countee Cullen, much beloved by this blogger and a few others, the African-American poet who died in 1946, whose beautiful songs are universal in their appeal and quite gorgeous in their music.
And is there no room for anything by Emily Dickinson? And where, for humor's sake, is Ogden Nash?
For religious poetry : why the Chesterbelloc, when there is George Herbert, the hymnographers, the Christmas carols? What of Cardinal Langton's Veni, Sancte Spiritus / Et emitte coelitus / Lucis tuae radium? Thomas a Celano's Dies irae, dies illa (incorporate in Mozart's Requiem)?
These are all just suggestions. Look around. There are excellences in poetry hiding behind every corner, even if it's just the bawdy limerick or the tart satirical couplets of Martial ... or of J. V. Cunningham (1911-1985).
And to the readers of this web-log who haven't yet done so, check out the other "pointless" lists of Mr Roesch. I'm glad to have this opportunity to discuss this particular list of his, because it reminds me of how good those other lists are. The incredibly funny utterances of his teachers & professors, the list of great television shows -- complete with reasons why.
One of these shows in particular caught my eye. I silently exclaimed Yes! and made an act of thanksgiving when I saw it on the list. And I meant to write a little something about it -- but a little later, perhaps.
DHMO
A website which warns us of the omnipresent danger of Dihydrogen Monoxide.
It astonishes us that this substance has not yet been banned in all civilized nations. When you consider the internecine capacity for death and mayhem that this lethal compound can cause ... some maniac could put it in our lakes and streams and reservoirs ... what would become of us then?
A website which warns us of the omnipresent danger of Dihydrogen Monoxide.
It astonishes us that this substance has not yet been banned in all civilized nations. When you consider the internecine capacity for death and mayhem that this lethal compound can cause ... some maniac could put it in our lakes and streams and reservoirs ... what would become of us then?
With apologies to Céline
Every night in my house
It's freezing
I'm sneezing
How I hope my heat will come on
I should pay my gas bill
It's five months
Outstanding
Then they'll let my heat come back on
It's ... cold ...
This house is so old
And I pray that my heat will go on
Heat's dead?
Use blankets instead!
I will stay in my bed
Till my heat comes back on and on
Every night in my house
It's freezing
I'm sneezing
How I hope my heat will come on
I should pay my gas bill
It's five months
Outstanding
Then they'll let my heat come back on
It's ... cold ...
This house is so old
And I pray that my heat will go on
Heat's dead?
Use blankets instead!
I will stay in my bed
Till my heat comes back on and on
A political parable by Edward Estlin Cummings (1894-1962)
from the book Etcetera, poems published for the first time in 1983
come from his gal's
alf whistle song
meet frankiegang
"join us or else"
"what for i should"
alf drop like dead
gang grow&grow
grab all the dough
everyone give
who want to live
we small it strong
it right we wrong
so goodbye alf
you just a bum
go fug yoseself
because freedumb
means no one can
dare to be man
:: :: :: :: ::
Cummings is so straightforward he needs to be explained. This is a parable of an individual (alf) being murdered by a gang of collectivists (the frankiegang). The editor of Etcetera mentions that this poem was on Cummings' desk on the day of his death in 1962, but the first draft or version of the poem might have existed as much as 25 years earlier. Recall, that in the 1936 election, the presidential candidates of the two major US political parties were named Alf Landon and Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Cummings was not a man to whom hatred came easily, but it's fair to say that he despised FDR, as a crypto-socialist, a friend of Stalin's, the prime progenitor of the modern American progressivism -- which states that the human being is dependent upon government for his validity, his rights, his authenticity, his "social" "security." Recall, too, in 1937, that Roosevelt tried to expand the Supreme Court from nine to fifteen -- a move which appeared to allies and opponents alike as an obvious grab for greater, almost plenipotentiary, political power. Cummings saw the "progressive socialism" in Russia, and knew it to be a murderous and vile thing where the individual was assassinated, in effect, before he was even born.
Some folks dismiss Cummings' lowercase "i" as a sophomoric typographical quirk, but he ably defended it on the grounds that in virtually every other foreign language, the first-person pronoun is not capitalized unless it begins a sentence. But more : Cummings saw the "i" -- the small and vulnerable, perpetually imperilled individual -- as constantly being menaced by "hypergangs of superthugs" (like the Soviets). He knew that "sorrow is a system" : the five-year or ten-year or thousand-year plans intended to bring us secular salvation, the schemes of Marxists and other systematizers, invariably brought nothing but misery and inhumane treatment.
This political parable has inspired us to ask ourselves (and any others who might be eavesdropping) a series of vitally important, lethally trivial questions :
Why be an individual when you can be a category?
Why be a man when you can be a millionth of a "march," a semi-quadruped, an anthropoid particle lost and adrift in the swarming drowning Whole?
Why, for Christ's sake, dare to be a human being, when you can be a statistic, a demographical datum, a filler of quotas, a "thing" that is set aside?
Why be an adult when you can sit forever in a toddler's high chair of affirmative passivity?
Why "dive for dreams" -- to quote saint estlin yet again -- when it's so much easier to let a slogan topple you?
Why be you -- why decide things for yourself -- why deign or dare to think independently or to feel personally -- when you can sit like a lump on a bog breathing in the hallowed vapours of incense emitted by television?
You needn't answer. We were just wondering.
from the book Etcetera, poems published for the first time in 1983
come from his gal's
alf whistle song
meet frankiegang
"join us or else"
"what for i should"
alf drop like dead
gang grow&grow
grab all the dough
everyone give
who want to live
we small it strong
it right we wrong
so goodbye alf
you just a bum
go fug yoseself
because freedumb
means no one can
dare to be man
:: :: :: :: ::
Cummings is so straightforward he needs to be explained. This is a parable of an individual (alf) being murdered by a gang of collectivists (the frankiegang). The editor of Etcetera mentions that this poem was on Cummings' desk on the day of his death in 1962, but the first draft or version of the poem might have existed as much as 25 years earlier. Recall, that in the 1936 election, the presidential candidates of the two major US political parties were named Alf Landon and Franklin D. Roosevelt.
Cummings was not a man to whom hatred came easily, but it's fair to say that he despised FDR, as a crypto-socialist, a friend of Stalin's, the prime progenitor of the modern American progressivism -- which states that the human being is dependent upon government for his validity, his rights, his authenticity, his "social" "security." Recall, too, in 1937, that Roosevelt tried to expand the Supreme Court from nine to fifteen -- a move which appeared to allies and opponents alike as an obvious grab for greater, almost plenipotentiary, political power. Cummings saw the "progressive socialism" in Russia, and knew it to be a murderous and vile thing where the individual was assassinated, in effect, before he was even born.
Some folks dismiss Cummings' lowercase "i" as a sophomoric typographical quirk, but he ably defended it on the grounds that in virtually every other foreign language, the first-person pronoun is not capitalized unless it begins a sentence. But more : Cummings saw the "i" -- the small and vulnerable, perpetually imperilled individual -- as constantly being menaced by "hypergangs of superthugs" (like the Soviets). He knew that "sorrow is a system" : the five-year or ten-year or thousand-year plans intended to bring us secular salvation, the schemes of Marxists and other systematizers, invariably brought nothing but misery and inhumane treatment.
This political parable has inspired us to ask ourselves (and any others who might be eavesdropping) a series of vitally important, lethally trivial questions :
Why be an individual when you can be a category?
Why be a man when you can be a millionth of a "march," a semi-quadruped, an anthropoid particle lost and adrift in the swarming drowning Whole?
Why, for Christ's sake, dare to be a human being, when you can be a statistic, a demographical datum, a filler of quotas, a "thing" that is set aside?
Why be an adult when you can sit forever in a toddler's high chair of affirmative passivity?
Why "dive for dreams" -- to quote saint estlin yet again -- when it's so much easier to let a slogan topple you?
Why be you -- why decide things for yourself -- why deign or dare to think independently or to feel personally -- when you can sit like a lump on a bog breathing in the hallowed vapours of incense emitted by television?
You needn't answer. We were just wondering.
A poem by John Berryman (1914-1972)
The Poet's Final Instructions
Dog-tired, suisired, will now my body down
near Cedar Avenue in Minneap,
when my crime comes. I am blazing with hope.
Do me glory, come the whole way across town.
I couldn't rest from hell just anywhere,
in commonplaces. Choiring & strange my pall!
I might not lie still in the waste of St Paul
or buy DAD's root beer; good signs I forgive.
Drop here with honour due, my trunk & brain
among the passioning of my countrymen
unable to read, rich, proud of their tags
and proud of me. Assemble all my bags!
Bury me in a hole, and give a cheer
near Cedar on Lake Street, where the used cars live.
:: :: :: :: ::
First Quatrain :
No one but Berryman could have given us this quirky-jerky, clumsily acrobatic, jam-packed, punning, dublintendering 24- or 25-syllable first sentence. "Suisired" catches our eye and ear simultaneously and immediately :
(1) tired to the point of suicide
(2) sired by himself; or, most likely and most aptly,
(3) sired by a man who committed suicide.
"Will now my body down." The "will" is so emphatic as to be shouted, seeming less a future auxiliary verb than an imperative. Of course, you can't avoid the echo of "last will and testament," as this sonnet itself is something of a "will," giving final instructions. Also, as Berryman foresaw, he willed his own death, he willed that his body go down. The sound of "body" in the line is much less emphatic than the sounds of "will" and "down."
"Near Cedar Avenue in Minneap." There's a winsome particularity and pecularity about the line. Cedar Avenue : his Minneapolis readers will doubtless say, Oh, yes, near the used car dealership. And readers who have never been to Minneapolis will try to picture Cedar Avenue. But let's look longer at "Minneap." A lot of cities have nicknames that are abbreviations (Balto, LA, Philly, San Antone, San Fran), but I don't think "Minneap" was used before or since Berryman (Mpls, maybe). Did he stop on the third syllable because the line reached the limit of ten syllables at that point? Or is this another foreshadowing? Just as the poet cuts off "Minneapolis" before its natural end, years later the poet will abbreviate his own life. Or perhaps, 'tis to consider too curiously to consider so.
"When my crime comes." Not "when my time comes." Why? Well, perhaps the poet has spent much of his time doing things he feels guilty about, so his time on earth has been a crime. But this "crime" is his death, and again, the poet is seeing into the future, we can't help but feel, when he will commit the crime -- according to the laws of God and of his Church (Berryman was a Catholic) -- of taking his own life.
"I am blazing with hope." Suitably deadpan. Reading this, you want to laugh at the poet and say, "Oh, sure you are! Big time." But there is the "hope" that at this point, as he is being buried, he will be free of pain and torment. "Do me glory, come the whole way across town." He wants this obsequy to be a momentous moment, "Do me glory." Can one read the line without picturing a brass band playing "When the Saints Come Marching In"? (Or, a more recent and perhaps not universally known cultural reference, Tracy Chapman's song, "Say Hallelujah" describing an atmosphere of Lord-praising good cheer when "the bucket is kicked, the body is gone.")
Second Quatrain :
"I couldn't rest from hell just anywhere, in commonplaces." Rest from hell. That is, rest from the torment of this earthly life. And he can't do it just anywhere, because (like each and every one of us) he's special, he's unique. For heaven's sake, he's a poet! He's giving us a poem telling us what to do, and where to put him! So listen up. "Commonplaces" can either be "common places," or the commonplace book, an anthology of one's favorite quotations. Will Berryman be quoted after his death in someone's commonplace book? If so, it's because his words are uncommon. His words, like his "pall," are "Choiring & Strange"! (And of course, there's an echo, with common, of the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, which Berryman almost certainly encountered, although he wasn't Anglican.)
He might not lie still in the waste of St Paul, because he is a restless soul. Energetic and quirky. His lines, sometimes, are like those of Cummings; they'll do just about anything (somersaults, entrechats) to get your attention. "DAD's root beer." The DAD of the root beer is, again, a reminder of his own father's suicide, but he can "forgive" the advertisement, because it is a "good sign," only trying to sell root beer, and not aimed directly at the poet's painful memory.
Sestet :
"Drop here, with honour due, my trunk & brain." Drop, with honor. If I may employ an abstruse critical term from the apparatus of post-hermeneutical lexico-exegesis : Gotta love it. The gracelessness of "drop" next to the grace of "honour." Awesome. Splendid. Way cool. Notice it's not his soul or his mind that's being dropped, but his very heavy, very substantial, almost burdensome "trunk" and "brain." The brain which has given him his just fame as a litterateur, and the trunk which has gotten him into trouble. This battered clumsy old thing. Of course, "trunk" anticipates the used cars in the last line.
"among the passioning of my countrymen, unable to read, rich" : His countrymen's "passions" are by and large, trivial pursuits. We're a rich nation, with a lot of silly hobbies, and some of us are "unable to read" not because of illiteracy, but because our silly pastimes get in the way. Passioning -- and here this amateur critic is telling you what you already know -- also suggests "passion and death," the Passion : passus et sepultus est. The countrymen are proud of their "tags" (price tags of their houses and yachts and cars? their Boy Scout or other kind of merit badges? their medals of valor?), but gauche as his countrymen sometimes are, they also have the good taste to be "proud of me," John Berryman.
"Assemble all my bags!" He can't wait to go on this trip. His bags are just about all packed. And here's another one of those wonderfully paradoxical juxtapositions, "Bury me in a hole, and give a cheer."
If you read it aloud, you can't help but be startled by the arresting phonemic similarity of "Bury me" with the poet's own name, Berryman. "Berryman's in a hole! So give a cheer!" It's almost scary how much fun the poet is having, burying Berryman. The brute bluntness of "in a hole." Then the hip-hip-hooray at the end of the line. And back to the particularity : "near Cedar on Lake Street," and one final genius of a paradoxical strangeness, "where the used cars live." Used cars don't live, do they? Those last few little words are really incredible. He might have said, where the dead cars live.
John Berryman is a vexingly uneven poet, but this very strange and gleeful sonnet about his own death has been justly rewarded with anthologization, most notably in Hayden Carruth's 1970 capaciously generous selection The Voice That Is Great Within Us, still widely available in paperback.
The Poet's Final Instructions
Dog-tired, suisired, will now my body down
near Cedar Avenue in Minneap,
when my crime comes. I am blazing with hope.
Do me glory, come the whole way across town.
I couldn't rest from hell just anywhere,
in commonplaces. Choiring & strange my pall!
I might not lie still in the waste of St Paul
or buy DAD's root beer; good signs I forgive.
Drop here with honour due, my trunk & brain
among the passioning of my countrymen
unable to read, rich, proud of their tags
and proud of me. Assemble all my bags!
Bury me in a hole, and give a cheer
near Cedar on Lake Street, where the used cars live.
:: :: :: :: ::
First Quatrain :
No one but Berryman could have given us this quirky-jerky, clumsily acrobatic, jam-packed, punning, dublintendering 24- or 25-syllable first sentence. "Suisired" catches our eye and ear simultaneously and immediately :
(1) tired to the point of suicide
(2) sired by himself; or, most likely and most aptly,
(3) sired by a man who committed suicide.
"Will now my body down." The "will" is so emphatic as to be shouted, seeming less a future auxiliary verb than an imperative. Of course, you can't avoid the echo of "last will and testament," as this sonnet itself is something of a "will," giving final instructions. Also, as Berryman foresaw, he willed his own death, he willed that his body go down. The sound of "body" in the line is much less emphatic than the sounds of "will" and "down."
"Near Cedar Avenue in Minneap." There's a winsome particularity and pecularity about the line. Cedar Avenue : his Minneapolis readers will doubtless say, Oh, yes, near the used car dealership. And readers who have never been to Minneapolis will try to picture Cedar Avenue. But let's look longer at "Minneap." A lot of cities have nicknames that are abbreviations (Balto, LA, Philly, San Antone, San Fran), but I don't think "Minneap" was used before or since Berryman (Mpls, maybe). Did he stop on the third syllable because the line reached the limit of ten syllables at that point? Or is this another foreshadowing? Just as the poet cuts off "Minneapolis" before its natural end, years later the poet will abbreviate his own life. Or perhaps, 'tis to consider too curiously to consider so.
"When my crime comes." Not "when my time comes." Why? Well, perhaps the poet has spent much of his time doing things he feels guilty about, so his time on earth has been a crime. But this "crime" is his death, and again, the poet is seeing into the future, we can't help but feel, when he will commit the crime -- according to the laws of God and of his Church (Berryman was a Catholic) -- of taking his own life.
"I am blazing with hope." Suitably deadpan. Reading this, you want to laugh at the poet and say, "Oh, sure you are! Big time." But there is the "hope" that at this point, as he is being buried, he will be free of pain and torment. "Do me glory, come the whole way across town." He wants this obsequy to be a momentous moment, "Do me glory." Can one read the line without picturing a brass band playing "When the Saints Come Marching In"? (Or, a more recent and perhaps not universally known cultural reference, Tracy Chapman's song, "Say Hallelujah" describing an atmosphere of Lord-praising good cheer when "the bucket is kicked, the body is gone.")
Second Quatrain :
"I couldn't rest from hell just anywhere, in commonplaces." Rest from hell. That is, rest from the torment of this earthly life. And he can't do it just anywhere, because (like each and every one of us) he's special, he's unique. For heaven's sake, he's a poet! He's giving us a poem telling us what to do, and where to put him! So listen up. "Commonplaces" can either be "common places," or the commonplace book, an anthology of one's favorite quotations. Will Berryman be quoted after his death in someone's commonplace book? If so, it's because his words are uncommon. His words, like his "pall," are "Choiring & Strange"! (And of course, there's an echo, with common, of the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, which Berryman almost certainly encountered, although he wasn't Anglican.)
He might not lie still in the waste of St Paul, because he is a restless soul. Energetic and quirky. His lines, sometimes, are like those of Cummings; they'll do just about anything (somersaults, entrechats) to get your attention. "DAD's root beer." The DAD of the root beer is, again, a reminder of his own father's suicide, but he can "forgive" the advertisement, because it is a "good sign," only trying to sell root beer, and not aimed directly at the poet's painful memory.
Sestet :
"Drop here, with honour due, my trunk & brain." Drop, with honor. If I may employ an abstruse critical term from the apparatus of post-hermeneutical lexico-exegesis : Gotta love it. The gracelessness of "drop" next to the grace of "honour." Awesome. Splendid. Way cool. Notice it's not his soul or his mind that's being dropped, but his very heavy, very substantial, almost burdensome "trunk" and "brain." The brain which has given him his just fame as a litterateur, and the trunk which has gotten him into trouble. This battered clumsy old thing. Of course, "trunk" anticipates the used cars in the last line.
"among the passioning of my countrymen, unable to read, rich" : His countrymen's "passions" are by and large, trivial pursuits. We're a rich nation, with a lot of silly hobbies, and some of us are "unable to read" not because of illiteracy, but because our silly pastimes get in the way. Passioning -- and here this amateur critic is telling you what you already know -- also suggests "passion and death," the Passion : passus et sepultus est. The countrymen are proud of their "tags" (price tags of their houses and yachts and cars? their Boy Scout or other kind of merit badges? their medals of valor?), but gauche as his countrymen sometimes are, they also have the good taste to be "proud of me," John Berryman.
"Assemble all my bags!" He can't wait to go on this trip. His bags are just about all packed. And here's another one of those wonderfully paradoxical juxtapositions, "Bury me in a hole, and give a cheer."
If you read it aloud, you can't help but be startled by the arresting phonemic similarity of "Bury me" with the poet's own name, Berryman. "Berryman's in a hole! So give a cheer!" It's almost scary how much fun the poet is having, burying Berryman. The brute bluntness of "in a hole." Then the hip-hip-hooray at the end of the line. And back to the particularity : "near Cedar on Lake Street," and one final genius of a paradoxical strangeness, "where the used cars live." Used cars don't live, do they? Those last few little words are really incredible. He might have said, where the dead cars live.
John Berryman is a vexingly uneven poet, but this very strange and gleeful sonnet about his own death has been justly rewarded with anthologization, most notably in Hayden Carruth's 1970 capaciously generous selection The Voice That Is Great Within Us, still widely available in paperback.
Monday, November 25, 2002
JFK
not that one
An article in this morning's Boston Herald lets us know about, and summarizes the contents of, a piece in the 12/2 issue of The New Yorker on our junior senator, John F. Kerry, likelier than likely candidate for president in twenty oh four.
Am charmed by some of what he says here. Wouldn't vote for him if you paid me, but still :
Apparently eager to dispel his aloof, overly earnest image as he preps for a White House run, Kerry, 58, also makes a fleeting admission about his footloose younger days.
``Look, I was a very serious guy except for when I was a non-serious guy,'' he said. ``I knew how to have a lot of fun, sometimes too much. There were plenty of times when I was disengaged, frivolous, four sheets to the wind on a weekend.''
not that one
An article in this morning's Boston Herald lets us know about, and summarizes the contents of, a piece in the 12/2 issue of The New Yorker on our junior senator, John F. Kerry, likelier than likely candidate for president in twenty oh four.
Am charmed by some of what he says here. Wouldn't vote for him if you paid me, but still :
Apparently eager to dispel his aloof, overly earnest image as he preps for a White House run, Kerry, 58, also makes a fleeting admission about his footloose younger days.
``Look, I was a very serious guy except for when I was a non-serious guy,'' he said. ``I knew how to have a lot of fun, sometimes too much. There were plenty of times when I was disengaged, frivolous, four sheets to the wind on a weekend.''
Sunday, November 24, 2002
From i : six nonlectures
by e***** e***** c*******
some of the bolder sentences have been emboldened by the blogger for emphasis
You will perhaps pardon me, as a nonlecturer, if I begin my second nonlecture with an almost inconceivable assertion : I was born at home.
For the benefit of those of you who can't imagine what the word "home" implies, or what a home could possibly have been like, I should explain that the idea of home is the idea of privacy.
But again -- what is privacy? You probably never heard of it.
Even supposing that (from time to time) walls exist around you, those walls are no longer walls; they are merest pseudosolidities, perpetually penetrated by the perfectly predatory collective organs of sight and sound. Any apparent somewhere which you may inhabit is always at the mercy of a ruthless and omnivorous everywhere. The notion of a house, as one single definite particular and unique place to come into, from the anywhereish and everywhereish world outside -- that notion must strike you as fantastic. You have been brought up to believe that a house, or a universe, or a you, or any other object, is only seemingly solid :
really (and you are realists, whom nobody and nothing can deceive)
each seeming solidity is a collection of large holes -- and, in the case of a house, the larger the holes the better; since the principal fucntion of a modern house is to admit whatever might otherwise remain outside. You haven't the least or feeblest conception of being here, and now, and alone, and yourself. Why (you ask) should anyone want to be here, when (simply by pressing a button) anyone can be in fifty places at once? How could anyone want to be now, when anyone can go whening all over creation at the twist of a knob? What could induce anyone to desire aloneness, when billions of soi-disant dollars are mercifully squandered by a good and great government lest anyone anywhere should ever for a single instant be alone? As for being yourself -- why on earth should you be yourself; when instead of being yourself you can be a hundred, or a thousand, or a hundred thousand thousand, other people? The very thought of being oneself in an epoch of interchangeable selves must appear supremely ridiculous.
Fine and dandy : but, so far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was and is and forever will be a question of individuality. If poetry were anything -- like dropping an atombomb -- which anyone did, anyone could become a poet merely by doing the necessary anything; whatever that anything might or might not entail.
But (as it happens) poetry is being, not doing.
If you wish to follow, even at a distance, the poet's calling (and here, as always, I speak from my own totally biased and entirely personal point of view) you've got to come out of the measurable doing universe into the immeasurable house of being. I am quite aware that, wherever our socalled civilization has slithered, there's every reward and no punishment for unbeing. But if poetry is your goal, you've got to forget all about punishments and all about rewards and all about selfstyled obligations and duties and responsibilities etcetera ad infinitum and remember only one thing only : that it's you -- nobody else -- who determine your destiny and decide your fate. Nobody else can be alive for you; nor can you be alive for anybody else.
Toms can be Dicks and Dicks can be Harrys, but none of them can ever be you.
There's the artist's responsibility; and the most awful responsibility on earth. If you can take it, take it -- and be. If you can't, cheer up and go about other people's business; and do (or undo) till you drop.
by e***** e***** c*******
some of the bolder sentences have been emboldened by the blogger for emphasis
You will perhaps pardon me, as a nonlecturer, if I begin my second nonlecture with an almost inconceivable assertion : I was born at home.
For the benefit of those of you who can't imagine what the word "home" implies, or what a home could possibly have been like, I should explain that the idea of home is the idea of privacy.
But again -- what is privacy? You probably never heard of it.
Even supposing that (from time to time) walls exist around you, those walls are no longer walls; they are merest pseudosolidities, perpetually penetrated by the perfectly predatory collective organs of sight and sound. Any apparent somewhere which you may inhabit is always at the mercy of a ruthless and omnivorous everywhere. The notion of a house, as one single definite particular and unique place to come into, from the anywhereish and everywhereish world outside -- that notion must strike you as fantastic. You have been brought up to believe that a house, or a universe, or a you, or any other object, is only seemingly solid :
really (and you are realists, whom nobody and nothing can deceive)
each seeming solidity is a collection of large holes -- and, in the case of a house, the larger the holes the better; since the principal fucntion of a modern house is to admit whatever might otherwise remain outside. You haven't the least or feeblest conception of being here, and now, and alone, and yourself. Why (you ask) should anyone want to be here, when (simply by pressing a button) anyone can be in fifty places at once? How could anyone want to be now, when anyone can go whening all over creation at the twist of a knob? What could induce anyone to desire aloneness, when billions of soi-disant dollars are mercifully squandered by a good and great government lest anyone anywhere should ever for a single instant be alone? As for being yourself -- why on earth should you be yourself; when instead of being yourself you can be a hundred, or a thousand, or a hundred thousand thousand, other people? The very thought of being oneself in an epoch of interchangeable selves must appear supremely ridiculous.
Fine and dandy : but, so far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was and is and forever will be a question of individuality. If poetry were anything -- like dropping an atombomb -- which anyone did, anyone could become a poet merely by doing the necessary anything; whatever that anything might or might not entail.
But (as it happens) poetry is being, not doing.
If you wish to follow, even at a distance, the poet's calling (and here, as always, I speak from my own totally biased and entirely personal point of view) you've got to come out of the measurable doing universe into the immeasurable house of being. I am quite aware that, wherever our socalled civilization has slithered, there's every reward and no punishment for unbeing. But if poetry is your goal, you've got to forget all about punishments and all about rewards and all about selfstyled obligations and duties and responsibilities etcetera ad infinitum and remember only one thing only : that it's you -- nobody else -- who determine your destiny and decide your fate. Nobody else can be alive for you; nor can you be alive for anybody else.
Toms can be Dicks and Dicks can be Harrys, but none of them can ever be you.
There's the artist's responsibility; and the most awful responsibility on earth. If you can take it, take it -- and be. If you can't, cheer up and go about other people's business; and do (or undo) till you drop.
and finally
a third sonnet from this foolishwise proudhumble citizen of ecstasies because
some devils are only driven out by prayer, fasting, and edward estlin cummings
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::
let's,from some unworld's most rightful wrong
climbing,my love(till mountains speak the truth)
enter a cloverish silence of thrushsong
(and more than every miracle's to breathe)
wounded us will becauseless ultimate
earth accept and primeval whyless sky;
healing by our immeasurable night
spirits and with illimitable day
(shrived of that nonexistence millions call
life, you and i may reverently share
the blessed eachness of all beautiful
selves wholly which and innocently are)
seeming's enough for slaves of space and time
--ours is the now and here of freedom. Come
a third sonnet from this foolishwise proudhumble citizen of ecstasies because
some devils are only driven out by prayer, fasting, and edward estlin cummings
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::
let's,from some unworld's most rightful wrong
climbing,my love(till mountains speak the truth)
enter a cloverish silence of thrushsong
(and more than every miracle's to breathe)
wounded us will becauseless ultimate
earth accept and primeval whyless sky;
healing by our immeasurable night
spirits and with illimitable day
(shrived of that nonexistence millions call
life, you and i may reverently share
the blessed eachness of all beautiful
selves wholly which and innocently are)
seeming's enough for slaves of space and time
--ours is the now and here of freedom. Come
you know who two
yes another sonnet
luminous tendril of celestial wish
(whying diminutive bright deathlessness
to these my not themselves believing eyes
adventuring, enormous nowhere from)
querying affirmation;virginal
immediacy of precision:more
and perfectly more most ethereal
silence through twilight's mystery made flesh--
dreamslender exquisite white firstful flame
--new moon!as(by the miracle of your
sweet innocence refuted)clumsy some
dull cowardice called a world vanishes,
teach disappearing also me the keen
illimitable secret of begin
yes another sonnet
luminous tendril of celestial wish
(whying diminutive bright deathlessness
to these my not themselves believing eyes
adventuring, enormous nowhere from)
querying affirmation;virginal
immediacy of precision:more
and perfectly more most ethereal
silence through twilight's mystery made flesh--
dreamslender exquisite white firstful flame
--new moon!as(by the miracle of your
sweet innocence refuted)clumsy some
dull cowardice called a world vanishes,
teach disappearing also me the keen
illimitable secret of begin
you know who (1894-1962)
unlove's the heavenless hell and homeless home
of knowledgeable shadows(quick to seize
each nothing which all soulless wraiths proclaim
substance;all heartless spectres,happiness)
lovers alone wear sunlight. The whole truth
not hid by matter;not by mind revealed
(more than all dying life,all living death)
and never which has been or will be told
sings only--and all lovers are the song.
Here(only here)is freedom:always here
no then of winter equals now of spring;
but april's day transcends november's year
(eternity being so sans until
twice I have lived forever in a smile)
unlove's the heavenless hell and homeless home
of knowledgeable shadows(quick to seize
each nothing which all soulless wraiths proclaim
substance;all heartless spectres,happiness)
lovers alone wear sunlight. The whole truth
not hid by matter;not by mind revealed
(more than all dying life,all living death)
and never which has been or will be told
sings only--and all lovers are the song.
Here(only here)is freedom:always here
no then of winter equals now of spring;
but april's day transcends november's year
(eternity being so sans until
twice I have lived forever in a smile)
And on cold leather seats, well, it suddenly struck me
I just might die with a smile on my face after all.
Compared to the mood of the tenebrous one, your average Smiths song is the Partridge Family theme.
I just might die with a smile on my face after all.
Compared to the mood of the tenebrous one, your average Smiths song is the Partridge Family theme.
Wil Haygood's Dec. 2000 article on the 44th President of the United States, as some have called her.
Saturday, November 23, 2002
here is estlin
yet again
if seventy were young
and death uncommon
(forgiving not divine,
to err inhuman)
or any thine a mine
--dingdong:dongding--
to say would be to sing
if broken hearts were whole
and cowards heroes
(the popular the wise,
a weed a tearose)
and every minus plus
--fare ill:fare well--
a frown would be a smile
if sorrowful were gay
(today tomorrow,
doubting believing and
to lend to borrow)
or any foe a friend
--cry nay:cry yea--
november would be may
that you and i'd be quite
--come such perfection--
another i and you,
is a deduction
which(be it false or true)
disposes me to shoot
dogooding folk on sight
yet again
if seventy were young
and death uncommon
(forgiving not divine,
to err inhuman)
or any thine a mine
--dingdong:dongding--
to say would be to sing
if broken hearts were whole
and cowards heroes
(the popular the wise,
a weed a tearose)
and every minus plus
--fare ill:fare well--
a frown would be a smile
if sorrowful were gay
(today tomorrow,
doubting believing and
to lend to borrow)
or any foe a friend
--cry nay:cry yea--
november would be may
that you and i'd be quite
--come such perfection--
another i and you,
is a deduction
which(be it false or true)
disposes me to shoot
dogooding folk on sight
Went to Mass today
and for reasons that might seem obvious, I didn't pray the Our Father.
But I did hear an asphyxiatingly funny sermon from the living saint of a priest at my favorite chapel. About the woman who, in this life, had seven husbands. Whose wife will she be, the Sadducees mockingly asked the Lord, at the Resurrection?
The priest imagined a scenario where these seven men are pulling at her every limb, literally brawling over her. And imagined the Sadducees asking, will she be cut up, divided into seven equal parts, and each husband gets exactly one-seventh of the poor woman?
Seventy-plus-year-old Italian priest, with a thick accent. And I believe, a living saint.
And you really need to hear this sermon with the accent, and the animated gestures, and the wonderful vocal inflections.
and for reasons that might seem obvious, I didn't pray the Our Father.
But I did hear an asphyxiatingly funny sermon from the living saint of a priest at my favorite chapel. About the woman who, in this life, had seven husbands. Whose wife will she be, the Sadducees mockingly asked the Lord, at the Resurrection?
The priest imagined a scenario where these seven men are pulling at her every limb, literally brawling over her. And imagined the Sadducees asking, will she be cut up, divided into seven equal parts, and each husband gets exactly one-seventh of the poor woman?
Seventy-plus-year-old Italian priest, with a thick accent. And I believe, a living saint.
And you really need to hear this sermon with the accent, and the animated gestures, and the wonderful vocal inflections.
The cutest girl in the world
There's a street person, a man who sits on milk-crates near one of the subway-stations in the big bean, who has got a fairly neat way of getting passersby's (is that the correct genitive plural of passerby?) attention : Placards that list celebrity birthdays.
The other day his placard announced that Goldie Hawn was 57.
Goldie Hawn. 57.
Slowly trying to absorb this. Zowie.
Gave him a quarter, and said "I can't believe she's 57."
"I know, she's the cutest girl in the world ..."
There's a street person, a man who sits on milk-crates near one of the subway-stations in the big bean, who has got a fairly neat way of getting passersby's (is that the correct genitive plural of passerby?) attention : Placards that list celebrity birthdays.
The other day his placard announced that Goldie Hawn was 57.
Goldie Hawn. 57.
Slowly trying to absorb this. Zowie.
Gave him a quarter, and said "I can't believe she's 57."
"I know, she's the cutest girl in the world ..."
Friends and foes and countrymen, yesterday was my first drink-free day since the presidency of Chester Alan Arthur. Actually, perhaps my 2nd or 3rd dry day since Labor Day. I can't tell you the last time I strung together two straight days of teetotalling. Today will be Day 2, if I get through.
Slept from 10.30 to 6.30 -- eight hours, soundly. Wow. It's possible! Huzzah! Let there be sung Non nobis and Te Deum.
Slept from 10.30 to 6.30 -- eight hours, soundly. Wow. It's possible! Huzzah! Let there be sung Non nobis and Te Deum.
Howie Carr to Tom Daschle
the South Dakota conspiracy theorist
The senator alleges that Democratic losses lead to more strident rhetoric on Republican talk-radio shows, which leads to an increase in threats against Demmie pols. The Herald columnist politely urges the sonn-to-be-quondam majority leader : Stick a sock in it.
the South Dakota conspiracy theorist
The senator alleges that Democratic losses lead to more strident rhetoric on Republican talk-radio shows, which leads to an increase in threats against Demmie pols. The Herald columnist politely urges the sonn-to-be-quondam majority leader : Stick a sock in it.
Uh, oh. Big mistake.
They're moving the Miss World pageant to London.
Expect all those high-Church Anglican archdeacons to take to the streets ... and the low-church evangelical types, who think the swimsuits are immoral ... the liberal gay Anglicans who protest the blatant heterosexism of the whole thing ... Mark my words, there will be riots ... altar boys wielding thuribles ... suffragan bishops thwacking people on the head with croziers ... you see, the Church of England is not a religion of peace ...
They're moving the Miss World pageant to London.
Expect all those high-Church Anglican archdeacons to take to the streets ... and the low-church evangelical types, who think the swimsuits are immoral ... the liberal gay Anglicans who protest the blatant heterosexism of the whole thing ... Mark my words, there will be riots ... altar boys wielding thuribles ... suffragan bishops thwacking people on the head with croziers ... you see, the Church of England is not a religion of peace ...
Friday, November 22, 2002
estlinarians of the world, unite and take over!
[This is Cummings, yet again, from his introduction to the 1934 edition of The Enormous Room. Quotation found via i : six nonlectures.]
Russia,I felt,was more deadly than war:when nationalists hate,they hate by merely killing and maiming human beings;when internationalists hate,they hate by categorying and pigeonholing human beings.
[This is Cummings, yet again, from his introduction to the 1934 edition of The Enormous Room. Quotation found via i : six nonlectures.]
Russia,I felt,was more deadly than war:when nationalists hate,they hate by merely killing and maiming human beings;when internationalists hate,they hate by categorying and pigeonholing human beings.
Thursday, November 21, 2002
The Waking
by Theodore Roethke (1908-63)
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
by Theodore Roethke (1908-63)
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
Wow
Like a dope-slap to the psyche. A salutary cold splash of water on the fuming and fulminating soul.
This proverb, found at 6/22/[early60s?] (I mean, Video meliora, proboque; deteriora sequor -- yet another contender for Title of My Autobiography).
The question of whether God exists is less important than whether he is love.
Speaking of titles, I remember Christopher Buckley (son of the venerable WFB) in the preface of his splendidly naughty collection Wry Martinis. I took it out of the library, don't have it on hand, so quotation is from memory, & almost certainly inexact :
"I thought of calling this book Oeuvre to You. The first word is French for 'work,' as in your life's work, and to pronounce it correctly, you have to make a sound much like a dyspeptic diner at a French restaurant about to throw up a plateful of choucroute garnie. I cabled this suggestion to my father, who cabled back NO ! ! ! -- a somewhat cryptic message which I interpreted to mean NO ! ! !"
Like a dope-slap to the psyche. A salutary cold splash of water on the fuming and fulminating soul.
This proverb, found at 6/22/[early60s?] (I mean, Video meliora, proboque; deteriora sequor -- yet another contender for Title of My Autobiography).
The question of whether God exists is less important than whether he is love.
Speaking of titles, I remember Christopher Buckley (son of the venerable WFB) in the preface of his splendidly naughty collection Wry Martinis. I took it out of the library, don't have it on hand, so quotation is from memory, & almost certainly inexact :
"I thought of calling this book Oeuvre to You. The first word is French for 'work,' as in your life's work, and to pronounce it correctly, you have to make a sound much like a dyspeptic diner at a French restaurant about to throw up a plateful of choucroute garnie. I cabled this suggestion to my father, who cabled back NO ! ! ! -- a somewhat cryptic message which I interpreted to mean NO ! ! !"
6/18/42
with lyrics that seem suited to the temper of 6/18/69
When you were young and your heart was an open book,
You used to say, "live and let live,"
(You know you did, you know you did, you know you did) ...
Yes. This is my theme song. And the title of the song is another possible title for my autobiography.
with lyrics that seem suited to the temper of 6/18/69
When you were young and your heart was an open book,
You used to say, "live and let live,"
(You know you did, you know you did, you know you did) ...
Yes. This is my theme song. And the title of the song is another possible title for my autobiography.
I am so glad to have found this article online
I read it in the non-virtual edition of the National Review three years ago.
Here is a prediction about her: If she becomes secretary of state or even something lesser, she will be big. Rock-star big. A major cultural figure, adorning the bedroom walls of innumerable kids and the covers of innumerable magazines.
And :
She has enjoyed “a wonderful life, a great life,” graced by ideal parents, and “I have a very, very powerful faith in God. I'm a really religious person, and I don't believe that I was put on this earth to be sour, so I'm eternally optimistic about things.”
But then :
She is loath “to criticize any black person for how he or she has wanted to navigate being black in America, whether it's Clarence Thomas or Maxine Waters.”
How wonderfully, thrillingly, bracingly ... inclusive.
I read it in the non-virtual edition of the National Review three years ago.
Here is a prediction about her: If she becomes secretary of state or even something lesser, she will be big. Rock-star big. A major cultural figure, adorning the bedroom walls of innumerable kids and the covers of innumerable magazines.
And :
She has enjoyed “a wonderful life, a great life,” graced by ideal parents, and “I have a very, very powerful faith in God. I'm a really religious person, and I don't believe that I was put on this earth to be sour, so I'm eternally optimistic about things.”
But then :
She is loath “to criticize any black person for how he or she has wanted to navigate being black in America, whether it's Clarence Thomas or Maxine Waters.”
How wonderfully, thrillingly, bracingly ... inclusive.
Frederica Mathewes-Green
On contemporary poetry. An article which might be of interest to some regular readers of this weblog.
Ah, the joys of Jorie Graham!
On contemporary poetry. An article which might be of interest to some regular readers of this weblog.
Ah, the joys of Jorie Graham!
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
estlin yet again
Note : In one of his letters, the poet counselled a reader that, when reciting this poem aloud, the capital letters are not uttered or voiced.
:: :: :: :: :: :: ::
sonnet entitled how to run the world)
A always don't there B being no such thing
for C can't casts no shadow D drink and
E eat of her voice in whose silence the music of spring
lives F feel opens but shuts understand
G gladly forget little having less
with every least each most remembering
H highest fly only the flag that's furled
(sestet entitled grass is flesh or swim
who can and bathe who must or any dream
means more than sleep as more than know means guess)
I item i immaculately owe
dying one life and will my rest to these
children building this rainman out of snow
Note : In one of his letters, the poet counselled a reader that, when reciting this poem aloud, the capital letters are not uttered or voiced.
:: :: :: :: :: :: ::
sonnet entitled how to run the world)
A always don't there B being no such thing
for C can't casts no shadow D drink and
E eat of her voice in whose silence the music of spring
lives F feel opens but shuts understand
G gladly forget little having less
with every least each most remembering
H highest fly only the flag that's furled
(sestet entitled grass is flesh or swim
who can and bathe who must or any dream
means more than sleep as more than know means guess)
I item i immaculately owe
dying one life and will my rest to these
children building this rainman out of snow
Tracy
Say Hallelujah
Throw up your hands
The bucket is kicked
The body is gone
Close your eyes
And bow your head
To rest your soul
And to praise the dead
Say Hallelujah
Throw up your hands
The bucket is kicked
The body is gone
Dry your eyes
And stand upright
Put a smile on your face
He wouldn’t want us to cry
The sun will rise
The stars will shine
Turning day to dusk
And night to dawn
We’ll pass on
But until that time
Say Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Say Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Say Hallelujah
Throw up your hands
The bucket is kicked
The body is gone
Have mercy
It’s a wonderful life
Eternal rest for the weary
Mourners party tonight
Say Hallelujah
Throw up your hands
The bucket is kicked
The body is gone
Wave your hands
But don’t say goodbye
We’re all gonna meet you
On the other side
Say Hallelujah
Throw up your hands
The bucket is kicked
The body is gone
Close your eyes
And bow your head
To rest your soul
And to praise the dead
Say Hallelujah
Throw up your hands
The bucket is kicked
The body is gone
Dry your eyes
And stand upright
Put a smile on your face
He wouldn’t want us to cry
The sun will rise
The stars will shine
Turning day to dusk
And night to dawn
We’ll pass on
But until that time
Say Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Say Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Say Hallelujah
Throw up your hands
The bucket is kicked
The body is gone
Have mercy
It’s a wonderful life
Eternal rest for the weary
Mourners party tonight
Say Hallelujah
Throw up your hands
The bucket is kicked
The body is gone
Wave your hands
But don’t say goodbye
We’re all gonna meet you
On the other side
Tracy, three-dux
All right. I'm having a 4th (I think) listen to Let It Rain, Tracy Chapman's newest compact disc ... and it's really beginning to grow on me. Especially "Say Hallelujah" ... There are now two songs I really really like, and three or four I kinda sorta like. So, we've got an album that's better (much) than New Beginning, but still, nowhere near Telling Stories. But improving with each listening.
A little too subdued on the whole, for my liking. "Say Hallelujah," a wonderfully exuberant ditty, is one of her masterpieces. So, a tentative rating of 3.3 stars out of five.
All right. I'm having a 4th (I think) listen to Let It Rain, Tracy Chapman's newest compact disc ... and it's really beginning to grow on me. Especially "Say Hallelujah" ... There are now two songs I really really like, and three or four I kinda sorta like. So, we've got an album that's better (much) than New Beginning, but still, nowhere near Telling Stories. But improving with each listening.
A little too subdued on the whole, for my liking. "Say Hallelujah," a wonderfully exuberant ditty, is one of her masterpieces. So, a tentative rating of 3.3 stars out of five.
Why do I get the feeling
that I'd be most unwelcome in any church that declares with ostentatiously cultivated good cheer and liberally applied rouges of bonhomie, ALL ARE WELCOME ?
For example, right here in the big bean, there's the extremely "friendly" and "open" and "tolerant" Jesuit palazzo on Harrison Avenue. Their church bulletin had, the last time I wandered thereinto, a MISSION STATEMENT that declared -- in a tone that sounded more menacing than mellow, more Lieutenant Worf than Stuart Smalley :
WE ARE KNOWN AS A PLACE OF WELCOME.
Right. So if you're not a welcoming sort, stay away, keep out.
If you're not cheered to the cockles and sub-cockles of your heart by seeing the crucifix above the main altar shrouded in a rainbeaux drapeaux for the week of the Pride parade, then be so kind as to (forgive me) bugger off.
Unusually cheerful today, aren't I?
that I'd be most unwelcome in any church that declares with ostentatiously cultivated good cheer and liberally applied rouges of bonhomie, ALL ARE WELCOME ?
For example, right here in the big bean, there's the extremely "friendly" and "open" and "tolerant" Jesuit palazzo on Harrison Avenue. Their church bulletin had, the last time I wandered thereinto, a MISSION STATEMENT that declared -- in a tone that sounded more menacing than mellow, more Lieutenant Worf than Stuart Smalley :
WE ARE KNOWN AS A PLACE OF WELCOME.
Right. So if you're not a welcoming sort, stay away, keep out.
If you're not cheered to the cockles and sub-cockles of your heart by seeing the crucifix above the main altar shrouded in a rainbeaux drapeaux for the week of the Pride parade, then be so kind as to (forgive me) bugger off.
Unusually cheerful today, aren't I?
In case you were wondering
(warning : readers may lose their lunch)
here are the lyrics to Eminem's "Criminal." There may be a pop-up or two on the page.
Wow. Tell me how you like the leaden levity about the slain Gianni Versace checking the mail/male. ("Get it?" the rapper prods.)
Uh, no, we don't get it, Mr Mathers. Your formidable dexterity at constructing homophonous paranomasia is far too recondite for our feeble wit to grasp.
(warning : readers may lose their lunch)
here are the lyrics to Eminem's "Criminal." There may be a pop-up or two on the page.
Wow. Tell me how you like the leaden levity about the slain Gianni Versace checking the mail/male. ("Get it?" the rapper prods.)
Uh, no, we don't get it, Mr Mathers. Your formidable dexterity at constructing homophonous paranomasia is far too recondite for our feeble wit to grasp.
A strange train of thought
Fisking, frisky, Steve Martin, movies that mock celibacy
In a post from quite early this morning, I wondered if I was using the word "fisking" correctly. And of course, the word "fisking" sounds like "frisky" -- which reminded me of Steve Martin in the recent remake of The Out-of-Towners. Through no fault of his own, his character finds himself tripping on acid. And in the middle of this trip, he discovers how delightful it is to say the word "frisky." And encourages other people to say the word "frisky" with him.
I'd almost recommend the film on the basis of that scene alone, but there is an earlier scene where Steve Martin & Goldie Hawn stumble into what is ostensibly a 12-step-type meeting for sex addicts. Which brings us back, by a most convenient and commodious circumiteration, to the point of Mr Lugardo's post that was a fisking of an Australian journalist's article on elected celibacy.
What the bloody hell is so threatening about celibacy or chastity? From a depressingly worldly limited perspective, one can think of innumerable instances where celibacy would have saved a lot of people a lot of pain, suffering, heartache, and trouble.
Sure. It's difficult, it's countercultural -- but at one time, not too long ago, it was universally considered normative for the as-yet-unmarried. To say nothing of those who hadn't yet reached the age of, oh, 16.
Are these really happier, nobler, more enlightened days? Was the late Robert Mal-plethora-therapy really a liberator of the soul, and is the author of Love & Responsibility really little more than a scowling prude out to ruin everyone's fun? Are people better off when they follow the ethics of the Catechism or of the bathhouses?
Just a few sloppy inchoate malformed meditations on four hours' sleep.
Fisking, frisky, Steve Martin, movies that mock celibacy
In a post from quite early this morning, I wondered if I was using the word "fisking" correctly. And of course, the word "fisking" sounds like "frisky" -- which reminded me of Steve Martin in the recent remake of The Out-of-Towners. Through no fault of his own, his character finds himself tripping on acid. And in the middle of this trip, he discovers how delightful it is to say the word "frisky." And encourages other people to say the word "frisky" with him.
I'd almost recommend the film on the basis of that scene alone, but there is an earlier scene where Steve Martin & Goldie Hawn stumble into what is ostensibly a 12-step-type meeting for sex addicts. Which brings us back, by a most convenient and commodious circumiteration, to the point of Mr Lugardo's post that was a fisking of an Australian journalist's article on elected celibacy.
What the bloody hell is so threatening about celibacy or chastity? From a depressingly worldly limited perspective, one can think of innumerable instances where celibacy would have saved a lot of people a lot of pain, suffering, heartache, and trouble.
Sure. It's difficult, it's countercultural -- but at one time, not too long ago, it was universally considered normative for the as-yet-unmarried. To say nothing of those who hadn't yet reached the age of, oh, 16.
Are these really happier, nobler, more enlightened days? Was the late Robert Mal-plethora-therapy really a liberator of the soul, and is the author of Love & Responsibility really little more than a scowling prude out to ruin everyone's fun? Are people better off when they follow the ethics of the Catechism or of the bathhouses?
Just a few sloppy inchoate malformed meditations on four hours' sleep.
another sonnet by estlin
for all the budding and inveterate estlinarians out there!
so many selves(so many fiends and gods
each greedier than every)is a man
(so easily one in another hides;
yet man can,being all,escape from none)
so huge a tumult is the simplest wish:
so pitiless a massacre the hope
most innocent(so deep's the mind of flesh
and so awake what waking calls asleep)
so never is most lonely man alone
(his briefest breathing lives some planet's year,
his longest life's a heartbeat of some sun;
his least unmotion roams the youngest star)
--how should a fool that calls him "I" presume
to comprehend not numerable whom?
Quite apart from the gist of this sonnet (a lowercase, less stentorian version of "I am large, I contain multitudes"), there is its gorgeous sound. Especially in the sestet, the unobtrusively prominent alliterations and vowel-echoes -- "briefest breathing" "longest life" "motion roams" and the quadrupilcate "oo" in the last 2 lines : fool, presume, numerable, whom.
Anyone who thinks you can't have fun in rhymed pentameters ... take note!
I might have to blog on the theme of reconcilable contradictions a bit further.
In the meantime, no one commented upon my thesis that these apparently contradictory statements are both true :
There is too little beauty in the world.
There is too much beauty in the world.
And of course, the question of why we seem to credit the possessors of beauty with having created that beauty. That topic could be explored for eons.
for all the budding and inveterate estlinarians out there!
so many selves(so many fiends and gods
each greedier than every)is a man
(so easily one in another hides;
yet man can,being all,escape from none)
so huge a tumult is the simplest wish:
so pitiless a massacre the hope
most innocent(so deep's the mind of flesh
and so awake what waking calls asleep)
so never is most lonely man alone
(his briefest breathing lives some planet's year,
his longest life's a heartbeat of some sun;
his least unmotion roams the youngest star)
--how should a fool that calls him "I" presume
to comprehend not numerable whom?
Quite apart from the gist of this sonnet (a lowercase, less stentorian version of "I am large, I contain multitudes"), there is its gorgeous sound. Especially in the sestet, the unobtrusively prominent alliterations and vowel-echoes -- "briefest breathing" "longest life" "motion roams" and the quadrupilcate "oo" in the last 2 lines : fool, presume, numerable, whom.
Anyone who thinks you can't have fun in rhymed pentameters ... take note!
I might have to blog on the theme of reconcilable contradictions a bit further.
In the meantime, no one commented upon my thesis that these apparently contradictory statements are both true :
There is too little beauty in the world.
There is too much beauty in the world.
And of course, the question of why we seem to credit the possessors of beauty with having created that beauty. That topic could be explored for eons.
Orgasmic dithyrambs of praise
for the talentless Mr Mathers
Zadie Smith, here :
But let’s settle on the bald facts: Eminem has secured his place in the rap pantheon. Tupac, Biggie, and Pun are gone, and right now there just isn’t anyone else but Eminem who can rhyme 14 syllables a line, enrage the U.S. Senate, play the dozens, spin a tale, write a speech, push his voice into every register, toy with rhythm, subvert a whole goddamn genre, get metaphorical, allegorical, political, comical, and deeply, deeply personal—all in one groove of vinyl.
Andrew Sullivan, here :
Eminem's music is some of the most challenging, inventive and lyrically brilliant in recent times. His movie -- and this became the conventional reviewing wisdom -- was an excellently written and directed product. There's no mystery why it did so well. And the timing is irrelevant. Eminem's commercial power has been proven for years now.
(This, from a man whose stock in trade is criticizing the Catholic Church for its heaux meaux pheauxbia.)
How to phrase this delicately.
Eminem is a cancer-cell. His fans are cancer-cells. The genre in which he works is the epitome of all things cancerous and malignant.
for the talentless Mr Mathers
Zadie Smith, here :
But let’s settle on the bald facts: Eminem has secured his place in the rap pantheon. Tupac, Biggie, and Pun are gone, and right now there just isn’t anyone else but Eminem who can rhyme 14 syllables a line, enrage the U.S. Senate, play the dozens, spin a tale, write a speech, push his voice into every register, toy with rhythm, subvert a whole goddamn genre, get metaphorical, allegorical, political, comical, and deeply, deeply personal—all in one groove of vinyl.
Andrew Sullivan, here :
Eminem's music is some of the most challenging, inventive and lyrically brilliant in recent times. His movie -- and this became the conventional reviewing wisdom -- was an excellently written and directed product. There's no mystery why it did so well. And the timing is irrelevant. Eminem's commercial power has been proven for years now.
(This, from a man whose stock in trade is criticizing the Catholic Church for its heaux meaux pheauxbia.)
How to phrase this delicately.
Eminem is a cancer-cell. His fans are cancer-cells. The genre in which he works is the epitome of all things cancerous and malignant.
Quick!
Somebody save us from the virgins!
Chris Lugardo at Rosa Mystica points us in the direction of a clueless, condescending article (by Rebecca Fowler in the Sydney Morning Herald) which looks at chastity through a jaundiced eye.
How jaundiced? Well, Fr Groeschel's book The Courage to be Chaste is called terrifying.
Groeschel paints a terrifying portrait of the chaste diving for cover in a world bombarded by sex and populated by "fleshpots" luring them back.
Sigh. But be sure to read Rosa Mystica on the subject. Don't know if I'd call it a fisking, but it's something just as satisfying.
Somebody save us from the virgins!
Chris Lugardo at Rosa Mystica points us in the direction of a clueless, condescending article (by Rebecca Fowler in the Sydney Morning Herald) which looks at chastity through a jaundiced eye.
How jaundiced? Well, Fr Groeschel's book The Courage to be Chaste is called terrifying.
Groeschel paints a terrifying portrait of the chaste diving for cover in a world bombarded by sex and populated by "fleshpots" luring them back.
Sigh. But be sure to read Rosa Mystica on the subject. Don't know if I'd call it a fisking, but it's something just as satisfying.
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
a poem by estlin cummings
there are possibly 2½ or impossibly 3
individuals every several fat
thousand years. Expecting more would be
neither fantastic nor pathological but
dumb. The number of times a wheel turns
doesn't determine its roundness:if swallows tryst
in your barn be glad; nobody ever earns
anything,everthing little looks big in a mist
and if(by Him Whose blood was for us spilled)
than all mankind something more small occurs
or something more distorting than socalled
civilization i'll kiss a stalinist arse
in hitler's window on Wednesday next at 1
E.S.T. bring the kiddies let's all have fun
there are possibly 2½ or impossibly 3
individuals every several fat
thousand years. Expecting more would be
neither fantastic nor pathological but
dumb. The number of times a wheel turns
doesn't determine its roundness:if swallows tryst
in your barn be glad; nobody ever earns
anything,everthing little looks big in a mist
and if(by Him Whose blood was for us spilled)
than all mankind something more small occurs
or something more distorting than socalled
civilization i'll kiss a stalinist arse
in hitler's window on Wednesday next at 1
E.S.T. bring the kiddies let's all have fun
Yes, Mr Rothwell!
... and Fr Nichols ...
On Anglican-Catholic ecumenical dialogue.
Other names that could be mentioned among the orthodox Anglicans : William Law and Thomas Traherne of earlier centuries, Eric Milner-White, Austin Farrer, and (Archbishop of Canterbury 1961-74) Michael Ramsey in our own time.
... and Fr Nichols ...
On Anglican-Catholic ecumenical dialogue.
Other names that could be mentioned among the orthodox Anglicans : William Law and Thomas Traherne of earlier centuries, Eric Milner-White, Austin Farrer, and (Archbishop of Canterbury 1961-74) Michael Ramsey in our own time.
Kat Lively's right
direct link not working : check today at 10:43 am
In many of his roles, he played an unlovable sort, but in interviews he seemed to be a sweet guy.
direct link not working : check today at 10:43 am
In many of his roles, he played an unlovable sort, but in interviews he seemed to be a sweet guy.
Mark Steyn (via JWR)
on the differences between Muslim fundamentalists and Christian fundamentalists, differences routinely ignored by the deep thinkers at the New York Times. From October.
on the differences between Muslim fundamentalists and Christian fundamentalists, differences routinely ignored by the deep thinkers at the New York Times. From October.
Morrissey really loved disco, didn't he?
Chanson par les Smiths. We can apply the more memorable lyrics to so many different things ...
Chanson par les Smiths. We can apply the more memorable lyrics to so many different things ...
With a REB-el yell
or, We aren't family : Reprimanding the translators of the Revised English Bible
Consider the first epistle of Saint John, chapter 2, verses 9 ff., as rendered in the REB :
9 Whoever says, 'I am in the light,' but hates his fellow-Christian, is still in darkness. 10 He who loves his fellow-Christian dwells in light : there is no cause of stumbling in him. 11 But anyone who hates his fellow is in darkness; he walks in the dark and has no idea where he is going, because the darkness has made him blind.
No, no, no, no, no. Not!
You see, make the passage inclusive if you like ... "his brother or sister," "his kinfolk," what have you. ... But don't eliminate the familial dimension of "brother" for the sake of gender-inclusivity.
It's like the Gomer Pyle version of "Let there be peace on earth" : Neighbors all are we. Gag.
Are we really just a community? No kinship? We aren't family? We're just another one of those associations, the teacher's union, the New England Poetry Club, the Boston Symphony Orchestra, the Gay & Lesbian Alliance? We have fellow members, but not brothers and sisters?
And a few verses later, the REB impairs euphony and defies concision (1 John 2.16), with the classic :
Everything in the world, all that panders to the appetites or entices the eyes, all the arrogance based on wealth, these spring not from the Father but from the world.
I guess "the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life" had a bit too much oomph, or was impenetrably obscure.
or, We aren't family : Reprimanding the translators of the Revised English Bible
Consider the first epistle of Saint John, chapter 2, verses 9 ff., as rendered in the REB :
9 Whoever says, 'I am in the light,' but hates his fellow-Christian, is still in darkness. 10 He who loves his fellow-Christian dwells in light : there is no cause of stumbling in him. 11 But anyone who hates his fellow is in darkness; he walks in the dark and has no idea where he is going, because the darkness has made him blind.
No, no, no, no, no. Not!
You see, make the passage inclusive if you like ... "his brother or sister," "his kinfolk," what have you. ... But don't eliminate the familial dimension of "brother" for the sake of gender-inclusivity.
It's like the Gomer Pyle version of "Let there be peace on earth" : Neighbors all are we. Gag.
Are we really just a community? No kinship? We aren't family? We're just another one of those associations, the teacher's union, the New England Poetry Club, the Boston Symphony Orchestra, the Gay & Lesbian Alliance? We have fellow members, but not brothers and sisters?
And a few verses later, the REB impairs euphony and defies concision (1 John 2.16), with the classic :
Everything in the world, all that panders to the appetites or entices the eyes, all the arrogance based on wealth, these spring not from the Father but from the world.
I guess "the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life" had a bit too much oomph, or was impenetrably obscure.
On the basis of this bit o' blogging alone, I'm thinking of adding the Oligarch to places oft visited.
Catullus! The sparrow! Huzzah!
Catullus! The sparrow! Huzzah!
From Daily Readings in Orthodox Spirituality (ed. P. Bouteneff, Templegate, 1996, 94 pp)
p 42 The Struggle and the Kingdom
Amma Theodora said, "Let us strive to enter through the narrow gate. Just as the trees, if they have not stood before the winter's storms cannot bear fruit, so it is with us; the present age is a storm and it is only through many trials and temptations that we can obtain an inheritance in the kingdom of heaven."
Amma Synclectica said, "Great endeavors and hard struggles await those who are converted, but afterwards inexpressible joy. If you want to light a fire, you are troubled at first by smoke, and your eyes water. But in the end you achieve your aim. Now it is written : 'Our God is a consuming fire.' So we must light the divine fire in us with tears and struggle."
:: :: :: :: :: ::
p 43 Temptation and Humility
Abba Anthony said to Abba Poemen, "This is the great work of a man : always to take the blame for his own sins before God and to expect temptation to his last breath."
He also said, "Whoever has not experienced temptation cannot enter into the Kingdom of Heaven." He even added, "Without temptations, no one can be saved."
He also said, "I saw all the snares that the enemy spreads out over the world and I said groaning, 'What can get one through such snares?' Then I heard a voice saying to me, 'Humility.'"
p 42 The Struggle and the Kingdom
Amma Theodora said, "Let us strive to enter through the narrow gate. Just as the trees, if they have not stood before the winter's storms cannot bear fruit, so it is with us; the present age is a storm and it is only through many trials and temptations that we can obtain an inheritance in the kingdom of heaven."
Amma Synclectica said, "Great endeavors and hard struggles await those who are converted, but afterwards inexpressible joy. If you want to light a fire, you are troubled at first by smoke, and your eyes water. But in the end you achieve your aim. Now it is written : 'Our God is a consuming fire.' So we must light the divine fire in us with tears and struggle."
:: :: :: :: :: ::
p 43 Temptation and Humility
Abba Anthony said to Abba Poemen, "This is the great work of a man : always to take the blame for his own sins before God and to expect temptation to his last breath."
He also said, "Whoever has not experienced temptation cannot enter into the Kingdom of Heaven." He even added, "Without temptations, no one can be saved."
He also said, "I saw all the snares that the enemy spreads out over the world and I said groaning, 'What can get one through such snares?' Then I heard a voice saying to me, 'Humility.'"
R. I. P., James Coburn
August 31, 1928 - November 18, 2002
Associated Press story from the Fox News website.
Coburn died of a heart attack at home while listening to music with his wife, said his manager, Hillard Elkins.
I remember best his part in Charade, and oddly, the beer commercial in the late 1970s for which, as it was widely reported at the time, he received $500K for two syllables of dialogue ("Schlitz Light").
I haven't seen The Magnificent Seven or In Like Flint or Affliction.
August 31, 1928 - November 18, 2002
Associated Press story from the Fox News website.
Coburn died of a heart attack at home while listening to music with his wife, said his manager, Hillard Elkins.
I remember best his part in Charade, and oddly, the beer commercial in the late 1970s for which, as it was widely reported at the time, he received $500K for two syllables of dialogue ("Schlitz Light").
I haven't seen The Magnificent Seven or In Like Flint or Affliction.
Monday, November 18, 2002
Former Bay State governor William Weld
explains his sense of kinship with the armadillo :
In the bottom corner of Weld's portrait is the small image of an armadillo, a nod to a stuffed armadillo Weld kept on his desk from his days in the U.S. Attorney's office.
''They're slow and stupid,'' Weld, now a lawyer in New York, said of armadillos. ''I'm a guy who never made the basketball team and this reminded me why.''
explains his sense of kinship with the armadillo :
In the bottom corner of Weld's portrait is the small image of an armadillo, a nod to a stuffed armadillo Weld kept on his desk from his days in the U.S. Attorney's office.
''They're slow and stupid,'' Weld, now a lawyer in New York, said of armadillos. ''I'm a guy who never made the basketball team and this reminded me why.''
Tracy Chapman redux
I've heard the first six tracks of Let It Rain, the new disc. And it pains me to say : non mi piace.
With the notable exception of "You're the One," the obvious single, it is (so far) unremittingly lugubrious in an unenticing way. I think the best comparison would be to New Beginning, on which only "Give Me One Reason" is tolerable.
I do recommend Telling Stories. Have recommended, and will continue to recommend.
I've heard the first six tracks of Let It Rain, the new disc. And it pains me to say : non mi piace.
With the notable exception of "You're the One," the obvious single, it is (so far) unremittingly lugubrious in an unenticing way. I think the best comparison would be to New Beginning, on which only "Give Me One Reason" is tolerable.
I do recommend Telling Stories. Have recommended, and will continue to recommend.
Do I contradict myself?
Very well, I contradict myself,
I am large, I contain multitudes.
Both of these statements are true
There is not enough beauty in the world.
There is too much beauty in the world.
Discuss.
Also, a deep philosophical question :
Why do we tend to think that a beautiful person is somehow responsible for his or her own beauty? (There is a sense in which this is true, but that requires unpacking the several meanings and implications of the word "beauty.") But let's use Dante and Beatrice as the names here. Did Beatrice make herself? Did she say, "Hmm. I've got the choice between being beautiful and average. I'll choose beautiful." Is Beatrice's beauty her own accomplishment?
But it strikes one how inevitably, how ineluctably, how instinctively, we think along those lines. Is there a justification for so thinking? Discuss.
Very well, I contradict myself,
I am large, I contain multitudes.
Both of these statements are true
There is not enough beauty in the world.
There is too much beauty in the world.
Discuss.
Also, a deep philosophical question :
Why do we tend to think that a beautiful person is somehow responsible for his or her own beauty? (There is a sense in which this is true, but that requires unpacking the several meanings and implications of the word "beauty.") But let's use Dante and Beatrice as the names here. Did Beatrice make herself? Did she say, "Hmm. I've got the choice between being beautiful and average. I'll choose beautiful." Is Beatrice's beauty her own accomplishment?
But it strikes one how inevitably, how ineluctably, how instinctively, we think along those lines. Is there a justification for so thinking? Discuss.
Quotidian meanderings & explorations of the blogosphere
Discovered whilst scanning the oft-visited list of Doxos : this blog-spot, which appears to be one of intellectual alertness, sagacity, and a salutary skepticism toward all things trendy : Religious Left Watch.
Discovered whilst scanning the oft-visited list of Doxos : this blog-spot, which appears to be one of intellectual alertness, sagacity, and a salutary skepticism toward all things trendy : Religious Left Watch.
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