The Bach-Gounod version of "Ave Maria" as sung by the late Karen Carpenter:
Thursday, January 01, 2009
January 1, 2009
Octave of Christmas; Solemnity of Mary, the Mother of God.
I may stop posting these liturgical calendar updates, except for major feasts; I think those of you who wish to, can find your way to catholicculture.org to get all the info.
Happy New Year! So far, so good ...
I may stop posting these liturgical calendar updates, except for major feasts; I think those of you who wish to, can find your way to catholicculture.org to get all the info.
Happy New Year! So far, so good ...
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
December 31, 2008
Optional memorial of St Sylvester I, pope. Seventh day in the Octave of Christmas.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Year's End
by Richard Wilbur (b. 1921)
Now winter downs the dying of the year,
And night is all a settlement of snow;
From the soft street the rooms of houses show
A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,
Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin
And still allows some stirring down within.
I've known the wind by water banks to shake
The late leaves down, which frozen where they fell
And held in ice as dancers in a spell
Fluttered all winter long into a lake;
Graved on the dark in gestures of descent,
They seemed their own most perfect monument.
There was perfection in the death of ferns
Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone
A million years. Great mammoths overthrown
Composedly have made their long sojourns,
Like palaces of patience, in the gray
And changeless lands of ice. And at Pompeii
The little dog lay curled and did not rise
But slept the deeper as the ashes rose
And found the people incomplete, and froze
The random hands, the loose unready eyes
Of men expecting yet another sun
To do the shapely thing they had not done.
These sudden ends of time must give us pause.
We fray into the future, rarely wrought
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
More time, more time. Barrages of applause
Come muffled from a buried radio.
The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow.
Now winter downs the dying of the year,
And night is all a settlement of snow;
From the soft street the rooms of houses show
A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,
Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin
And still allows some stirring down within.
I've known the wind by water banks to shake
The late leaves down, which frozen where they fell
And held in ice as dancers in a spell
Fluttered all winter long into a lake;
Graved on the dark in gestures of descent,
They seemed their own most perfect monument.
There was perfection in the death of ferns
Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone
A million years. Great mammoths overthrown
Composedly have made their long sojourns,
Like palaces of patience, in the gray
And changeless lands of ice. And at Pompeii
The little dog lay curled and did not rise
But slept the deeper as the ashes rose
And found the people incomplete, and froze
The random hands, the loose unready eyes
Of men expecting yet another sun
To do the shapely thing they had not done.
These sudden ends of time must give us pause.
We fray into the future, rarely wrought
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
More time, more time. Barrages of applause
Come muffled from a buried radio.
The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow.
another thought from Merton
That which is oldest is most young and most new. There is nothing so ancient and so dead as human novelty. The "latest" is always stillborn. It never even manages to arrive. What is really new is what was there all the time.
Thomas Merton, from "Sentences," chapter 15 of New Seeds of Contemplation (New Directions Paperbook 1091), p. 107
Thomas Merton, from "Sentences," chapter 15 of New Seeds of Contemplation (New Directions Paperbook 1091), p. 107
This week's Marianne Moore
Obscenity as a protest is better than obscenity as praise, but there is -- between the mechanics of power in a spark of feeling and the mechanics of power in a speck of obscenity -- an ocean of difference, and it does not seem sagacious for either to mistake itself for the other.
Excerpt from Marianne Moore's review of One Times One by E E Cummings; in The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 395
Excerpt from Marianne Moore's review of One Times One by E E Cummings; in The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 395
Great paragraph!
If we know how great is the love of Jesus for us we will never be afraid to go to Him in all our poverty, all our weakness, all our spiritual wretchedness and infirmity. Indeed, when we understand the true nature of His love for us, we will prefer to come to Him poor and helpless. We will never be ashamed of our distress. Distress is to our advantage whe we have nothing to seek but mercy. We can be glad of our helplessness when we really believe that His power is made perfect in our infirmity.
Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude, part one, chapter VI
Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude, part one, chapter VI
Monday, December 29, 2008
December 29, 2008
Fifth day in the Octave of Christmas: optional memorial of St Thomas Becket, bishop and martyr, who was famously murdered in the cathedral at Canterbury.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Volvox!
Just in case any fans of flagellated unicellular green algae are visiting this cyber-bailiwick ...
Friday, December 26, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
And from the archives ...
Three Christmas prayers from the eminent 20th-century Anglican Dr Eric Milner-White.
The Nativity of Christ
Thy Nativity, O Christ our God, hath revealed to the world the Light of wisdom : for in it those who worshipped the stars were taught by a star to adore thee, the Sun of Righteousness, and to know thee, the Dayspring from on high. Glory be to thee, O Lord.
The Virgin to-day giveth birth to him who is above all creation; and the earth offereth the cave to him whom none can approach unto. Angels and shepherds sing glory, and wise men journey with a star, since for our sake hath come as a new-born Child he who from all eternity is God.
from A Manual of Eastern Orthodox Prayers (SVS Press, 1999), p. 32
The Virgin to-day giveth birth to him who is above all creation; and the earth offereth the cave to him whom none can approach unto. Angels and shepherds sing glory, and wise men journey with a star, since for our sake hath come as a new-born Child he who from all eternity is God.
from A Manual of Eastern Orthodox Prayers (SVS Press, 1999), p. 32
Christmas at dawn, Sarum rite
Almighty God, who hast poured upon us the new light of thine Incarnate Word; grant that the same light enkindled in our hearts may shine forth in our lives; through Jesus Christ our Lord.
from The Oxford Book of Prayer, ed. George Appleton, prayer no. 617
from The Oxford Book of Prayer, ed. George Appleton, prayer no. 617
December 25, 2008
Solemnity of Christmas.
And let me take this opportunity to wish all visitors to dark speech upon the harp a very happy, healthy Christmas filled with blessings ...
And let me take this opportunity to wish all visitors to dark speech upon the harp a very happy, healthy Christmas filled with blessings ...
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Christmas midnight
O God who hast made this most hallowed night resplendent with the glory of the true Light; grant that we who have known the mysteries of that Light on earth, may enter into the fullness of his joys in heaven.
from The Oxford Book of Prayer, ed. George Appleton, prayer no. 615
from The Oxford Book of Prayer, ed. George Appleton, prayer no. 615
A prayer from the eastern church (2)
Christ is born, give glory. Christ comes from heaven, meet him. Christ is on earth, be exalted. O all the earth, sing unto the Lord, and sing praises in gladness, O all you people, for he has been glorified.
Wisdom and Word and Power, Christ our God is the Son and the Brightness of the Father; and unknown to the powers both above and upon the earth, he was made man, and so had won us back again: for he has been glorified.
from The Oxford Book of Prayer, ed. George Appleton, prayer no. 614
Wisdom and Word and Power, Christ our God is the Son and the Brightness of the Father; and unknown to the powers both above and upon the earth, he was made man, and so had won us back again: for he has been glorified.
from The Oxford Book of Prayer, ed. George Appleton, prayer no. 614
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
This week's Marianne Moore
[...] the devouring gorgon romantic love, toward which, as toward wine, unfaith is renewal
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 367
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 367
A prayer of the eastern church
What shall we offer thee, O Christ,
Who for our sakes hast appeared on earth as man?
Every creature made by thee offers thee thanks.
The angels offer thee a hymn;
The heavens a star;
The magi, gifts;
The shepherds, their wonder;
The earth, its cave;
The wilderness, the manger:
And we offer thee a Virgin Mother.
O God from everlasting, have mercy upon us.
From The Oxford Book of Prayer, ed. George Appleton, prayer no. 612
Who for our sakes hast appeared on earth as man?
Every creature made by thee offers thee thanks.
The angels offer thee a hymn;
The heavens a star;
The magi, gifts;
The shepherds, their wonder;
The earth, its cave;
The wilderness, the manger:
And we offer thee a Virgin Mother.
O God from everlasting, have mercy upon us.
From The Oxford Book of Prayer, ed. George Appleton, prayer no. 612
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Saturday's Marianne Moore
We look at imitation askance; but like the shell which the hermit-crab selects for itself, it has value -- the avowed humility, and the protection.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 328
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 328
Friday, December 19, 2008
Friday's Marianne Moore
One would rather disguise than travesty emotion; give away a nice thing than sell it; dismember a garment of rich aesthetic construction than degrade it to the utilitarian offices of the boneyard.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 328
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 328
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Seven random thoughts
1. They're predicting six to twelve inches of snow for metro-Boston tomorrow into Saturday morning.
2. When did people start saying "get out of Dodge"?
3. They're giving away books in Harvard Square. The little bookstand that had been selling books for $2 apiece is folding up the tent, closing shop, going out of business, so they're giving away their accumulated trove of literature. Found two books of poetry today!
4. The line in the post office was really long today.
5. I recall something Mother Angelica said long ago about December 18th having been called, "in the good old days," the Expectation of Mary. Has anyone else heard of this observance?
6. In exactly six months, I will be forty years old. Yikes!
7. How about those Celtics?
2. When did people start saying "get out of Dodge"?
3. They're giving away books in Harvard Square. The little bookstand that had been selling books for $2 apiece is folding up the tent, closing shop, going out of business, so they're giving away their accumulated trove of literature. Found two books of poetry today!
4. The line in the post office was really long today.
5. I recall something Mother Angelica said long ago about December 18th having been called, "in the good old days," the Expectation of Mary. Has anyone else heard of this observance?
6. In exactly six months, I will be forty years old. Yikes!
7. How about those Celtics?
Thursday's Marianne Moore
Nevertheless, an indebted thing does not interest us unless there is originality underneath it.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 328
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 328
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Wednesday's Marianne Moore
It is correct and unnotorious for the race to perpetuate itself; committing adultery and disclaiming obligation is the suicide of personality, and the free spirit wearies of clarity in such matters.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 298
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 298
December 17, 2008
Wednesday of the Third Week of Advent. Beginning of the "O" Antiphons: O Sapientia, O Wisdom.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Latin Christmas carols!
At Gaudium Mundo. Three versions of Rudolph! (Four, if you count the one in the combox.)
Hat tip: Enbrethiliel, commenting at For Keats' Sake!
Hat tip: Enbrethiliel, commenting at For Keats' Sake!
Tuesday's Marianne Moore
She was not a recluse, nor was her work, in her thought of it, something eternally sealed. Acquiescing in deferred publication she said, "My barefoot rank is better," because she valued her work too much to hurt it if greater stature for it could be ensured by delay.
From a review of Emily Dickinson's letters, from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 291
From a review of Emily Dickinson's letters, from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 291
Monday, December 15, 2008
Mariani's biography of Hopkins
The New York Times, in the person of reviewer Blake Bailey, gives us a glance at Paul Mariani's biography of Gerard Manley Hopkins.
Via the Poetry Foundation.
Via the Poetry Foundation.
Monday's Marianne Moore
The lurking sense of an adhered-to attitude on the part of those who regard themselves as religious, stands in the way of what they might do for one. When we get away from the mystical, however, we put ourselves under the power of nature and nature is cruel.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, pp. 284-5
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, pp. 284-5
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Sunday's Marianne Moore
If one's hands are accomplished they are not one's hands but the hands of humanity.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 283
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 283
Saturday, December 13, 2008
this is the hour when winter makes a comeback
A jotting, with pretensions toward being a poem, written some sixteen years ago.
Saturday's Marianne Moore
One can murder art by trying too hard.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 281
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 281
Friday, December 12, 2008
Requiescat in pace
Avery Cardinal Dulles, SJ, has died at 90.
The Wikipedia page about Cardinal Dulles, which relates how a tree flowering along the Charles River played a part in his conversion.
The Wikipedia page about Cardinal Dulles, which relates how a tree flowering along the Charles River played a part in his conversion.
Finished the Caitlin Thomas book
She had two abortions, the first in the sixth month of pregnancy. In her own words:
[...] the baby was already well formed, and they chopped it up as they were pulling it out, and then brought it out in chunks. I suppose I was horrified, but by that time I was expecting anything -- it was like being in a butcher's shop. They gave me a local anaesthetic. They said they couldn't put me out otherwise they wouldn't have been able to perform the operation. I was fully conscious the whole time. There was a nurse holding me down, holding my head, and two men working down at the bottom, and I was in a most undignified position with my two feet strapped in those clamps they use to keep the legs apart. I kept saying (because I wanted a girl, incidentally), 'Will you just tell me whether it's a girl?' They just didn't answer. They took no notice of me at all. They simply got on with the job, working away at the bottom of the bed, with my feet held high in the air.
Caitlin Thomas with George Tremlett, Caitlin: Life with Dylan Thomas (Henry Holt and Company, 1988), p. 152
[...] the baby was already well formed, and they chopped it up as they were pulling it out, and then brought it out in chunks. I suppose I was horrified, but by that time I was expecting anything -- it was like being in a butcher's shop. They gave me a local anaesthetic. They said they couldn't put me out otherwise they wouldn't have been able to perform the operation. I was fully conscious the whole time. There was a nurse holding me down, holding my head, and two men working down at the bottom, and I was in a most undignified position with my two feet strapped in those clamps they use to keep the legs apart. I kept saying (because I wanted a girl, incidentally), 'Will you just tell me whether it's a girl?' They just didn't answer. They took no notice of me at all. They simply got on with the job, working away at the bottom of the bed, with my feet held high in the air.
Caitlin Thomas with George Tremlett, Caitlin: Life with Dylan Thomas (Henry Holt and Company, 1988), p. 152
Friday's Marianne Moore
We perceive that there has since the time of Byron and Shelley, been a change in literary manners and are forcibly persuaded by it, of the tediously ineffective dullness of published personal invective.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 252
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 252
Thursday, December 11, 2008
René Char
Dans l'absurde chagrin de vivre sans comprendre
Écroule-moi et sois ma femme de décembre
[In the absurd chagrin of living without understanding
Tumble me down and be my December woman]
(Quoted by Thomas Merton in Learning to Love: The Journals of Thomas Merton, Volume Six, p. 116)
Écroule-moi et sois ma femme de décembre
[In the absurd chagrin of living without understanding
Tumble me down and be my December woman]
(Quoted by Thomas Merton in Learning to Love: The Journals of Thomas Merton, Volume Six, p. 116)
Caitlin: Life with Dylan Thomas
Am reading the famous widow's memoir, published in 1986, when she was in her seventies, and while it is enthralling inasmuch as it sheds some light on the personality of the poet, it reveals the widow to be a woman of a somewhat less-than-generous spirit.
An example of Mrs Thomas's prose (actually, she had a co-writer, George Tremlett, so what follows is a transcription of her spoken reminiscence):
Dylan had a great respect for N----- as a poet (although I didn't think he was half as great as Dylan made out). Although he once brought a glamorous-looking girl down to stay in Laugharne, I thought he was probably homosexual. It seemed to me that he had too much of a passion for Dylan, and that Dylan was cowed by him. One day, when I was in London as well, he invited us both to lunch at Simpsons, and then didn't say one single word to me throughout the meal. I couldn't forgive him for that.
The score-settling, fault-finding personality is presented here at its mildest. But so far, it's been a hundred pages of this sort of thing. And when someone is praised ("Nobody gives praise more than I do when it's due"), the person is usually slighted, derided, or gossiped about in the next breath.
I shudder to think how Marianne Moore would have reacted when reading this memoir.
Another example of Mrs Thomas's abrasiveness: In her youth she was the object of the unrequitable affections of a young Italian, an unfortunate man she describes as "groveling" and "a worm"; he would follow her around (not quite stalking, but still being a nuisance), and she would always "sweep past him," saying nothing. It transpired that this young Italian fellow shot himself to death, presumably because Caitlin couldn't reciprocate his affection. She admits in her memoir that her first and only thought was "thank God I've gotten rid of him!"
Being followed around like that must have been no fun; still, it causes startlement, how easily she finds herself able to speak ill of the dead!
I could come up with other examples, but more than any incident, it's the overall tone that is really, really off-putting. A friend of her mother's is "odious"; her own father is described as a "dirty old man" -- and if some of these charges are true, it's still disheartening to read what is relentlessly negative.
The People magazine blurb speaks approvingly of Mrs Thomas's "unabashed honesty" and "almost savage personality." A little too unabashed, as when she describes her marital relations with Dylan in rather clinical detail. And the adjective "savage" may need no qualifier.
An example of Mrs Thomas's prose (actually, she had a co-writer, George Tremlett, so what follows is a transcription of her spoken reminiscence):
Dylan had a great respect for N----- as a poet (although I didn't think he was half as great as Dylan made out). Although he once brought a glamorous-looking girl down to stay in Laugharne, I thought he was probably homosexual. It seemed to me that he had too much of a passion for Dylan, and that Dylan was cowed by him. One day, when I was in London as well, he invited us both to lunch at Simpsons, and then didn't say one single word to me throughout the meal. I couldn't forgive him for that.
The score-settling, fault-finding personality is presented here at its mildest. But so far, it's been a hundred pages of this sort of thing. And when someone is praised ("Nobody gives praise more than I do when it's due"), the person is usually slighted, derided, or gossiped about in the next breath.
I shudder to think how Marianne Moore would have reacted when reading this memoir.
Another example of Mrs Thomas's abrasiveness: In her youth she was the object of the unrequitable affections of a young Italian, an unfortunate man she describes as "groveling" and "a worm"; he would follow her around (not quite stalking, but still being a nuisance), and she would always "sweep past him," saying nothing. It transpired that this young Italian fellow shot himself to death, presumably because Caitlin couldn't reciprocate his affection. She admits in her memoir that her first and only thought was "thank God I've gotten rid of him!"
Being followed around like that must have been no fun; still, it causes startlement, how easily she finds herself able to speak ill of the dead!
I could come up with other examples, but more than any incident, it's the overall tone that is really, really off-putting. A friend of her mother's is "odious"; her own father is described as a "dirty old man" -- and if some of these charges are true, it's still disheartening to read what is relentlessly negative.
The People magazine blurb speaks approvingly of Mrs Thomas's "unabashed honesty" and "almost savage personality." A little too unabashed, as when she describes her marital relations with Dylan in rather clinical detail. And the adjective "savage" may need no qualifier.
Thursday's Marianne Moore
Vividness is not, however, invariably synonymous with good taste
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 253
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 253
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Elegy for a Trappist
by Thomas Merton (1915-68)
Maybe the martyrology until today
Has found no fitting word to describe you
Confessor of exotic roses
Martyr of unbelievable gardens
Whom we will always remember
As a tender-hearted careworn
Generous unsteady cliff
Lurching in the cloister
Like a friendly freight train
To some uncertain station
Master of the sudden enthusiastic gift
In an avalanche
Of flower catalogues
And boundless love
Sometimes a little dangerous at corners
Vainly trying to smuggle
Some enormous and perfect bouquet
To a side altar
In the sleeves of your cowl
In the dark before dawn
On the day of your burial
A big truck with lights
Moved like a battle cruiser
Toward the gate
Past your abandoned and silent garden
The brief glare
Lit up the grottos, pyramids and presences
One by one
Then the gate swung red
And clattered shut in the giant lights
And everything was gone
As if Leviathan
Hot on the scent of some other blood
Had passed you by
And never saw you hiding in the flowers.
:: :: ::
(Today is the 40th anniversary of Thomas Merton's death.)
Maybe the martyrology until today
Has found no fitting word to describe you
Confessor of exotic roses
Martyr of unbelievable gardens
Whom we will always remember
As a tender-hearted careworn
Generous unsteady cliff
Lurching in the cloister
Like a friendly freight train
To some uncertain station
Master of the sudden enthusiastic gift
In an avalanche
Of flower catalogues
And boundless love
Sometimes a little dangerous at corners
Vainly trying to smuggle
Some enormous and perfect bouquet
To a side altar
In the sleeves of your cowl
In the dark before dawn
On the day of your burial
A big truck with lights
Moved like a battle cruiser
Toward the gate
Past your abandoned and silent garden
The brief glare
Lit up the grottos, pyramids and presences
One by one
Then the gate swung red
And clattered shut in the giant lights
And everything was gone
As if Leviathan
Hot on the scent of some other blood
Had passed you by
And never saw you hiding in the flowers.
:: :: ::
(Today is the 40th anniversary of Thomas Merton's death.)
Wednesday's Marianne Moore
When an artist is willing that the expressiveness of his work be overlooked by any but those who are interested enough to find it, he has freedom in which to realize without interference, conceptions which he personally values.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 214
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 214
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
I've been tagged for a meme
... by Ellyn of Oblique House: the ten most fascinating Catholics of 2008. Here goes:
10. My friend S., and the others who gather for coffee after the weekday Mass at St P's (a Mass which I'm able to attend perhaps twice a week) ... what makes S. so fascinating? You'd have to know him to fully appreciate why.
9. The bishops with spine who stand up for pre-born life, esp. Abp. Chaput, who deserves a red hat.
8. Fr. C., formerly of Boston, now out west somewhere, my erstwhile confessor. Very much missed.
7. Fr. D., a parochial vicar where I attend Sunday Mass, who actually has the temerity to condemn abortion and contraception in his homilies.
6. The Holy Father.
5. His immediate predecessor, of happy memory.
4. Again, more than one here: Catholic bloggers, all and sundry. A great variety of dynamic personalities!
3. Fr. Benedict J. Groeschel, CFR.
2. Nuns who serve the poor in anonymity, and who are invariably the happiest souls on the face of the earth.
1. The saints in heaven. All right, they're the most fascinating, compelling, inspiring, challenging, celebrated Catholics not only of 2008, but of all time.
Sorry I couldn't come up with a better list! I may revise if a thought of someone else occurs to me later ...
10. My friend S., and the others who gather for coffee after the weekday Mass at St P's (a Mass which I'm able to attend perhaps twice a week) ... what makes S. so fascinating? You'd have to know him to fully appreciate why.
9. The bishops with spine who stand up for pre-born life, esp. Abp. Chaput, who deserves a red hat.
8. Fr. C., formerly of Boston, now out west somewhere, my erstwhile confessor. Very much missed.
7. Fr. D., a parochial vicar where I attend Sunday Mass, who actually has the temerity to condemn abortion and contraception in his homilies.
6. The Holy Father.
5. His immediate predecessor, of happy memory.
4. Again, more than one here: Catholic bloggers, all and sundry. A great variety of dynamic personalities!
3. Fr. Benedict J. Groeschel, CFR.
2. Nuns who serve the poor in anonymity, and who are invariably the happiest souls on the face of the earth.
1. The saints in heaven. All right, they're the most fascinating, compelling, inspiring, challenging, celebrated Catholics not only of 2008, but of all time.
Sorry I couldn't come up with a better list! I may revise if a thought of someone else occurs to me later ...
Straight No Chaser
The a cappella group was featured on ABC's World News last night. Here's the story on the ABC website.
And here is the YouTube of Straight No Chaser performing their memorable version of "The Twelve Days of Christmas":
And here is the YouTube of Straight No Chaser performing their memorable version of "The Twelve Days of Christmas":
Tuesday's Marianne Moore
If criticism is "the effect of the subjection of the product of one mind to the processes of another," is not the reviewer's own mind disparaged by him in resorting to an inconsequent and disrespectful ruade?
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 192
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 192
Monday, December 08, 2008
Monday's Marianne Moore
As is observed by a writer upon St. Francis in a recent article in The Spectator, humility is a quality which attracts us -- though not to imitation.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 177
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 177
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Sunday's Marianne Moore
In making works of art, the only legitimate warfare is the inevitable warfare between imagination and medium and one finds it impossible to convince oneself that the part of the artist's nature which is "rash and combustible" has not been tamed by the imagination, in those instances in which the result achieved is especially harmonious.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 177
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 177
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