Another of Lawrence Durrell's enigmatic poems--I don't know why I read his poetry, but there's something there that fascinates me. Perhaps it's that attraction of the unsolved puzzle, one whose meaning is just out of reach.
Lesbos
The Pleiades are sinking calm as paint,
And earth's huge camber follows out,
Turning in sleep, the oceanic curve
Defined in concave like a human eye
Or cheek pressed warm in the dark's cheek,
Like dancers to a music they deserve.
This balcony, a moon-annointed shelf
Above a silent garden holds my bed,
I slept. But the dispiriting autumn moon,
In her slow expurgation of the sky
Needs company: is brooding on the dead,
And so am I now, so am I.
-- Lawrence Durrell --
from Collected Poems: Lawrence Durrell
All seems well, he is comfortable but then the " dispiriting autumn moon" rises. For him, autumn is a melancholy time for it reminds him of those who have died, and perhaps of his own mortality.
The second stanza poses a problem for me. especially the second and third lines.
"Or cheek pressed warm in the dark's cheek,
Like dancers to a music they deserve."
It seems to be a comforting situation, but I'm not sure about the "music they deserve."
Most interesting line is the first: "The Pleiades are sinking calm as paint."
Is there one that you find most interesting?
The title "Lesbos" refers to a Greek island and seems to have little to do with sexual preference. On the other hand, I may be missing something here, which is entirely possible.
Comments are welcomed and encouraged.
Monday, September 28, 2015
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Blog Problems
Folks,
Most recent and I hope the final update to the blog problem. Cheryl, see her comment below, suggested allowing third party cookies and the problem vanished, not that I understand why, but hey. . .
Three cheers and a mighty Thank You to Cheryl.
========================================================
Update on problem: I fear this may be related to my hard drive crash of a week or so ago. I lost everything and had to get a new hard drive. While my PC was down, I found that I could work here with a small Tab5.
I now have a new hard drive and have spent considerable time trying to restore my system. I've been mostly successful, but. . .
Present problem: I can create, edit, and delete my blog posts on my PC, but I cannot edit or add comments/replies to that same blog post. In addition, I find that I cannot reply on several blogs that I follow. Right now I am blocked from replying on R. T.'s blog and madamevauquer's blog. Since I find that I can reply on my own blog using the Tab, I will try this on other blogs to see if it works.
However, my replies will be much shorter than usual because I can create messages now only by laboriously tapping them out one letter at a time. How any body can spend a long time texting is beyond me.
Why I can reply on my TAB and not on my PC is beyond me.
I'm having problems responding to a number of blogs that I visit and what's most serious is that I can't even respond to comments here, on my own blog. However, I can still create blog posts, even though I can't comment on them.
Yvette, I'm not ignoring your comment to the last post on Kenko, for I have tried several times and it won't accept my comments. I don't understand what happening or why. I will return and respond to your comment here on this post.
R.T., I've also tried to leave comments on several of your recent posts, but my replies are not being accepted there either.
Most recent and I hope the final update to the blog problem. Cheryl, see her comment below, suggested allowing third party cookies and the problem vanished, not that I understand why, but hey. . .
Three cheers and a mighty Thank You to Cheryl.
========================================================
Update on problem: I fear this may be related to my hard drive crash of a week or so ago. I lost everything and had to get a new hard drive. While my PC was down, I found that I could work here with a small Tab5.
I now have a new hard drive and have spent considerable time trying to restore my system. I've been mostly successful, but. . .
Present problem: I can create, edit, and delete my blog posts on my PC, but I cannot edit or add comments/replies to that same blog post. In addition, I find that I cannot reply on several blogs that I follow. Right now I am blocked from replying on R. T.'s blog and madamevauquer's blog. Since I find that I can reply on my own blog using the Tab, I will try this on other blogs to see if it works.
However, my replies will be much shorter than usual because I can create messages now only by laboriously tapping them out one letter at a time. How any body can spend a long time texting is beyond me.
Why I can reply on my TAB and not on my PC is beyond me.
I'm having problems responding to a number of blogs that I visit and what's most serious is that I can't even respond to comments here, on my own blog. However, I can still create blog posts, even though I can't comment on them.
Yvette, I'm not ignoring your comment to the last post on Kenko, for I have tried several times and it won't accept my comments. I don't understand what happening or why. I will return and respond to your comment here on this post.
R.T., I've also tried to leave comments on several of your recent posts, but my replies are not being accepted there either.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
Kenko: Signs of a well-bred person
No. 56
How boring it is when you meet a man after a long separation and he insists on relating at interminable length everything that has happened to him in the meantime. Even if the man is an intimate, somebody you know extremely well, how can you but feel a certain reserve on meeting him again after a time? The vulgar sort of person, even if he goes on a brief excursion somewhere, is breathless with excitement as he relates as matters of great interest everything that happened to him. When the well-bred man tells a story he addresses himself to one person, even if many people are present, though the others too listen, naturally. But the ill-bred man flings out his words into the crowd, addressing himself to no one in particular, and describes what happened so graphically that everyone bursts into boisterous laughter. You can judge a person's breeding by whether he is quite impassive even when he tells an amusing story, or laughs a great deal even when relating a matter of no interest.
It is most distressing when the good and bad of somebody's appearance or the quality of a certain person's scholarship is being evaluated, for the speaker to refer to himself by way of comparison.
-- Kenko --
from Essays in Idleness
This probably sounds strange to us, but I wonder how often we make judgements like these, but we aren't aware of the standards we are applying. Of course, we don't speak of "breeding" today, but are more likely to talk about good manners or politeness or courtesy towards others.
According to Kenko, the well-bred person is rather reticent upon meeting somebody after a long separation or especially after taking a short trip. A story really should be told as if it is to one person, even if others are present and is quite reserved when telling a story, especially if it is of minor interest. And most of all, when discussing someone's appearance or scholarship, one should never use himself as a comparison.
What do you think? Would these be viewed the same way in our culture as Kenko does? What do these behaviors tell us about the individual? Do you know anyone who might commit one or more of these social "transgressions"?
How boring it is when you meet a man after a long separation and he insists on relating at interminable length everything that has happened to him in the meantime. Even if the man is an intimate, somebody you know extremely well, how can you but feel a certain reserve on meeting him again after a time? The vulgar sort of person, even if he goes on a brief excursion somewhere, is breathless with excitement as he relates as matters of great interest everything that happened to him. When the well-bred man tells a story he addresses himself to one person, even if many people are present, though the others too listen, naturally. But the ill-bred man flings out his words into the crowd, addressing himself to no one in particular, and describes what happened so graphically that everyone bursts into boisterous laughter. You can judge a person's breeding by whether he is quite impassive even when he tells an amusing story, or laughs a great deal even when relating a matter of no interest.
It is most distressing when the good and bad of somebody's appearance or the quality of a certain person's scholarship is being evaluated, for the speaker to refer to himself by way of comparison.
-- Kenko --
from Essays in Idleness
This probably sounds strange to us, but I wonder how often we make judgements like these, but we aren't aware of the standards we are applying. Of course, we don't speak of "breeding" today, but are more likely to talk about good manners or politeness or courtesy towards others.
According to Kenko, the well-bred person is rather reticent upon meeting somebody after a long separation or especially after taking a short trip. A story really should be told as if it is to one person, even if others are present and is quite reserved when telling a story, especially if it is of minor interest. And most of all, when discussing someone's appearance or scholarship, one should never use himself as a comparison.
What do you think? Would these be viewed the same way in our culture as Kenko does? What do these behaviors tell us about the individual? Do you know anyone who might commit one or more of these social "transgressions"?
Thursday, September 10, 2015
The Rubaiyat: Second Edition, Quatrain L
Second Edition: Quatrain L
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
about THE SECRET--quick about it, Friend!
A Hair, they say, divides the False and True--
And upon what, prithee, does Life depend?
Fifth Edition: Quatrain XLIX
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
about THE SECRET--quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True--
And upon what, prithee, does Life depend?
I can see no difference between the Second and the Fifth Editions, except for the third line when "they say" is replaced by "perhaps." The responsibility, if such, is transferred from the ubiquitous and ambiguous "they" to a doubtful statement in the narrator's own mind with the "perhaps." It makes this quatrain a bit more personal as he assumes responsibility for the doubtful statement.
That "spangle of Existence" seems to refer back to the previous quatrain's "One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,/ One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste--." The Poet/Narrator asks us if we wish to spend our brief time here wondering about "The Secret." This, no doubt, refers back to references in earlier quatrains about the secret of life and existence, about which no revelation was made, and more strongly, the claim that no revelation can be made. The Secret remains a secret.
In addition, should our short time here, therefore, be spent pondering questions when the distinction between "the False and True" is so negligible? How can we know which side of that "Hair" we are on? Moreover, does Life itself depend on this knowledge?
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
The Scholar and the Cat, a poem
The Scholar and the Cat
Each of us pursues his trade,
I and Pangur my comrade,
His whole fancy on the hunt,
And mine for learning ardent.
More than fame I love to be
Among my books and study,
Pangur does not grudge me it,
Content with his own merit.
When--a heavenly time!-we are
In our small room together
Each of us has his own sport
And asks no greater comfort.
While he sets his round sharp eye
On the walls of my study
I turn mine, though lost its edge
On the great wall of knowledge.
Now a mouse drops in his net
after some mighty onset
While into my bag I cram
Some difficult darksome problem.
When a mouse comes to the kill
Pangur exults, a marvel!
I have when some secret's won
My hour of exultation.
Though we worked for days and years
Neither the other hinders;
Each is competent and hence
Enjoys his skill in silence.
Master of the death of mice,
He keeps in daily practice
I too, making dark things clear,
Am of my trade a master.
-- Anonymous --
Irish/Gaelic, circa 850 AD
translated by Frank O'Conner
from World Poetry: An Anthology of Verse from Antiquity to Our Time
Editors: Katherine Washburn and John R. Major
I too have a cat, but it doesn't work exactly as it does with this scholar and Pangur. While I'm reading or on the computer, Dusky is not out there seeking prey. Instead, she is usually curled up on the bed, sofa, chair, window sill, etc. catching up on her beauty sleep. Of course, what goes on in her dreams, I have no idea.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Theodore Sturgeon: "It," a short story
Theodore Sturgeon: "It"
As I began reading, I found myself doing something strange: I was pausing more often than I usually do when reading prose. The more I looked at it, the more it struck me as poetry: a poem about the birth of a monster. These are the first two paragraphs of the story, as I saw them. Below I have added the same two paragraphs as printed in the version I have.
It walked in the woods.
It was never born.
It existed.
Under the pine needles
the fires burn,
deep and smokeless in the mold.
In heat and darkness and decay
there is growth.
There is life
and there is growth.
It grew,
but it was not alive.
It walked unbreathing
through the woods.
and thought and saw
and was hideous and strong
and it was not born
and it did not live.
It grew
and moved about
without living.
It crawled out of the darkness
and hot damp mold
into the cool of a morning.
It was huge.
It was lumped and crusted
with its own hateful substances,
and pieces of it dropped off
as it went its way,
dropped off and lay writhing
and stilled, and sank putrescent
into the forest loam.
- - - - - -
Now, the prose version as Theodore Sturgeon wrote it:
It walked in the woods.
It was never born. It existed. Under the pine needles the fires burn, deep and smokeless in the mold. In heat and darkness and decay there is growth. There is life and there is growth. It grew, but it was not alive. It walked unbreathing through the woods. and thought and saw and was hideous and strong and it was not born and it did not live. It grew and moved about without living.
It crawled out of the darkness and hot damp mold into the cool of a morning. It was huge. It was lumped and crusted with its own hateful substances, and pieces of it dropped off as it went its way, dropped off and lay writhing and stilled, and sank putrescent into the forest loam.
What do you think? Is there a difference, aside from structure of course, between the two formats? What is that difference, if any?
Several commentators have remarked on possible sources for "It," one being Frankenstein's monster, in which there is a scene similar to one in Sturgeon's tale and the other being a golem. I think there might be a third source: Genesis.
"7. And the LORD GOD formed man of the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul."
. . . . .
21. And the LORD GOD caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof;
22 And the rib, which the LORD GOD had taken from the man, made he a woman, and brought her to the man."
Genesis 2: 7, 21-22
Authorized King James Version
In Genesis, all the LORD required was a rib, whereas Sturgeon's creation of clay needed a complete skeleton.
The monster is a strange one, innocent and naive. In its innocence it is destructive, but it is neither deliberately evil nor cruel; it is not immoral, but amoral. It has no sense of right and wrong. And this, not so much its shape or appearance, is what makes it a monster.
SPOILER
As usual, Sturgeon provides a little surprise, an unexpected turn to the tale. And, in this story, it's the demise of the monster. What would be expected is a climactic struggle, with the monster resisting to the very end, perhaps even killing one or two more in its death throes. But Sturgeon goes a different route with a very different end for his monster. First is the "poetic" format, and at the end, the prose format of Sturgeon
The monster
lay in the water.
It neither liked
nor
disliked this new element.
It rested on the bottom,
its massive head
a foot beneath the surface,
and it curiously considered the facts
that it had garnered.
There was the little humming noise of Babe's voice
that sent the monster questing
into the cave.
There was the black material
of the brief case
that resisted so much more
than green things when he tore it.
There was the little two-legged one
who sang and brought him near,
and who screamed when he came.
There was this new cold moving thing
he had fallen into.
It was washing his body away.
That had never happened before.
That was interesting.
The monster decided
to stay
and observe this new thing.
It felt no urge to save itself;
it could only be curious.
The brook came laughing
down out of its spring,
ran down from its source
beckoning to the sunbeams
and embracing freshets and
helpful brooklets.
It shouted and played
with streaming little roots,
and nudged the minnows
and pollywogs about
in its tiny backwaters.
It was a happy brook.
When it came to the pool
by the cloven rock
it found the monster there,
and plucked at it.
It soaked the foul substances
and smoothed and melted the molds,
and the water below the thing
eddied darkly with its diluted matter.
It was a thorough brook.
It washed all it touched,
persistently.
Where it found filth,
it removed filth;
and if there were layer on layer of foulness,
then layer by foul layer it was removed.
It was a good brook.
It did not mind
the poison of the monster,
but took it up
and thinned it and spread it
in little rings
round rocks downstream,
and let it drift
to the rootlets
of water plants,
that they might grow
greener
and lovelier.
And the monster melted.
The monster lay in the water. It neither liked nor disliked this new element. It rested on the bottom, its massive head a foot beneath the surface, and it curiously considered the facts that it had garnered. There was the little humming noise of Babe's voice that sent the monster questing into the cave. There was the black material of the brief case that resisted so much more than green things when he tore it. There was the little two-legged one who sang and brought him near, and who screamed when he came. There was this new cold moving thing he had fallen into. It was washing his body away. That had never happened before. That was interesting. The monster decided to stay and observe this new thing. It felt no urge to save itself; it could only be curious.
The brook came laughing down out of its spring, ran down from its source beckoning to the sunbeams and embracing freshets and helpful brooklets. It shouted and played with streaming little roots, and nudged the minnows and pollywogs about in its tiny backwaters. It was a happy brook. When it came to the pool by the cloven rock it found the monster there, and plucked at it. It soaked the foul substances and smoothed and melted the molds, and the water below the thing eddied darkly with its diluted matter. It was a thorough brook. It washed all it touched, persistently. Where it found filth, it removed filth; and if there were layer on layer of foulness, then layer by foul layer it was removed. It was a good brook. It did not mind the poison of the monster, but took it up and thinned it and spread it in little rings round rocks downstream, and let it drift to the rootlets of water plants, that they might grow greener and lovelier. And the monster melted.
There is a little more after this, but I will leave that for you to discover, if you so choose to read this charming little horror tale.
As I began reading, I found myself doing something strange: I was pausing more often than I usually do when reading prose. The more I looked at it, the more it struck me as poetry: a poem about the birth of a monster. These are the first two paragraphs of the story, as I saw them. Below I have added the same two paragraphs as printed in the version I have.
It walked in the woods.
It was never born.
It existed.
Under the pine needles
the fires burn,
deep and smokeless in the mold.
In heat and darkness and decay
there is growth.
There is life
and there is growth.
It grew,
but it was not alive.
It walked unbreathing
through the woods.
and thought and saw
and was hideous and strong
and it was not born
and it did not live.
It grew
and moved about
without living.
It crawled out of the darkness
and hot damp mold
into the cool of a morning.
It was huge.
It was lumped and crusted
with its own hateful substances,
and pieces of it dropped off
as it went its way,
dropped off and lay writhing
and stilled, and sank putrescent
into the forest loam.
- - - - - -
Now, the prose version as Theodore Sturgeon wrote it:
It walked in the woods.
It was never born. It existed. Under the pine needles the fires burn, deep and smokeless in the mold. In heat and darkness and decay there is growth. There is life and there is growth. It grew, but it was not alive. It walked unbreathing through the woods. and thought and saw and was hideous and strong and it was not born and it did not live. It grew and moved about without living.
It crawled out of the darkness and hot damp mold into the cool of a morning. It was huge. It was lumped and crusted with its own hateful substances, and pieces of it dropped off as it went its way, dropped off and lay writhing and stilled, and sank putrescent into the forest loam.
What do you think? Is there a difference, aside from structure of course, between the two formats? What is that difference, if any?
Several commentators have remarked on possible sources for "It," one being Frankenstein's monster, in which there is a scene similar to one in Sturgeon's tale and the other being a golem. I think there might be a third source: Genesis.
"7. And the LORD GOD formed man of the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul."
. . . . .
21. And the LORD GOD caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof;
22 And the rib, which the LORD GOD had taken from the man, made he a woman, and brought her to the man."
Genesis 2: 7, 21-22
Authorized King James Version
In Genesis, all the LORD required was a rib, whereas Sturgeon's creation of clay needed a complete skeleton.
The monster is a strange one, innocent and naive. In its innocence it is destructive, but it is neither deliberately evil nor cruel; it is not immoral, but amoral. It has no sense of right and wrong. And this, not so much its shape or appearance, is what makes it a monster.
SPOILER
As usual, Sturgeon provides a little surprise, an unexpected turn to the tale. And, in this story, it's the demise of the monster. What would be expected is a climactic struggle, with the monster resisting to the very end, perhaps even killing one or two more in its death throes. But Sturgeon goes a different route with a very different end for his monster. First is the "poetic" format, and at the end, the prose format of Sturgeon
The monster
lay in the water.
It neither liked
nor
disliked this new element.
It rested on the bottom,
its massive head
a foot beneath the surface,
and it curiously considered the facts
that it had garnered.
There was the little humming noise of Babe's voice
that sent the monster questing
into the cave.
There was the black material
of the brief case
that resisted so much more
than green things when he tore it.
There was the little two-legged one
who sang and brought him near,
and who screamed when he came.
There was this new cold moving thing
he had fallen into.
It was washing his body away.
That had never happened before.
That was interesting.
The monster decided
to stay
and observe this new thing.
It felt no urge to save itself;
it could only be curious.
The brook came laughing
down out of its spring,
ran down from its source
beckoning to the sunbeams
and embracing freshets and
helpful brooklets.
It shouted and played
with streaming little roots,
and nudged the minnows
and pollywogs about
in its tiny backwaters.
It was a happy brook.
When it came to the pool
by the cloven rock
it found the monster there,
and plucked at it.
It soaked the foul substances
and smoothed and melted the molds,
and the water below the thing
eddied darkly with its diluted matter.
It was a thorough brook.
It washed all it touched,
persistently.
Where it found filth,
it removed filth;
and if there were layer on layer of foulness,
then layer by foul layer it was removed.
It was a good brook.
It did not mind
the poison of the monster,
but took it up
and thinned it and spread it
in little rings
round rocks downstream,
and let it drift
to the rootlets
of water plants,
that they might grow
greener
and lovelier.
And the monster melted.
The monster lay in the water. It neither liked nor disliked this new element. It rested on the bottom, its massive head a foot beneath the surface, and it curiously considered the facts that it had garnered. There was the little humming noise of Babe's voice that sent the monster questing into the cave. There was the black material of the brief case that resisted so much more than green things when he tore it. There was the little two-legged one who sang and brought him near, and who screamed when he came. There was this new cold moving thing he had fallen into. It was washing his body away. That had never happened before. That was interesting. The monster decided to stay and observe this new thing. It felt no urge to save itself; it could only be curious.
The brook came laughing down out of its spring, ran down from its source beckoning to the sunbeams and embracing freshets and helpful brooklets. It shouted and played with streaming little roots, and nudged the minnows and pollywogs about in its tiny backwaters. It was a happy brook. When it came to the pool by the cloven rock it found the monster there, and plucked at it. It soaked the foul substances and smoothed and melted the molds, and the water below the thing eddied darkly with its diluted matter. It was a thorough brook. It washed all it touched, persistently. Where it found filth, it removed filth; and if there were layer on layer of foulness, then layer by foul layer it was removed. It was a good brook. It did not mind the poison of the monster, but took it up and thinned it and spread it in little rings round rocks downstream, and let it drift to the rootlets of water plants, that they might grow greener and lovelier. And the monster melted.
There is a little more after this, but I will leave that for you to discover, if you so choose to read this charming little horror tale.
Saturday, August 22, 2015
Harper Lee: Go Set a Watchman, conclusion
Harper Lee: Go Set a Watchman
Several days ago I finished Go Set a Watchman, and I can see why some would call it a mess, probably because it can't be resolved with To Kill a Mockingbird. But, in my opinion, that's the reader's problem, not the novel's problem or failing.
Jean Louise has three confrontations: one with her Uncle Jack, one with her father, and one with Henry, her possible/potential fiance. It was not an easy process overall, for Jean Louise had grown up in the South, and she does share many of the political beliefs regarding States Rights and also the people's rights to live their lives as they wish, free from government interference (mostly Federal Government interference for nobody seems to be concerned about State Government interference which is just as intrusive, if not more so).
I find the resolution to be very satisfying, because it's the resolution the novel has been pointing to from the beginning. That is, the resolution is satisfying if one realizes that the novel is about Jean Louise and not about Atticus or Maycomb or civil rights or any of the great issues of the day. They are there, they are important, they provide the texture to the times Jean Louis lives in and the demands made upon her as a person, but they are not what the novel is about. I will repeat: the novel is about Jean Louise.
I have also come to the conclusion that To Kill a Mockingbird is a myth, a myth created by Jean Louise about her own childhood, the Myth of a Golden Age, long past. Jean Louise believes in that myth, and so one day she discovers that she couldn't remain in that myth. The real world is waiting and she must act. Perhaps the myth is related to that bit of conventional wisdom that one can't go "home" again because sometimes that "home" has changed and sometimes because that "home" never existed.
If you find my comments short, brief, and less than satisfying--Good. Go read Go Set a Watchman and then come back and argue with me.
I stated earlier that I thought that Go Set a Watchman could turn out to be one of the ten best novels that I read in 2015, and now, after having finishing the novel, I still believe the same. Moreover, it deserves to be read again.
Several days ago I finished Go Set a Watchman, and I can see why some would call it a mess, probably because it can't be resolved with To Kill a Mockingbird. But, in my opinion, that's the reader's problem, not the novel's problem or failing.
Jean Louise has three confrontations: one with her Uncle Jack, one with her father, and one with Henry, her possible/potential fiance. It was not an easy process overall, for Jean Louise had grown up in the South, and she does share many of the political beliefs regarding States Rights and also the people's rights to live their lives as they wish, free from government interference (mostly Federal Government interference for nobody seems to be concerned about State Government interference which is just as intrusive, if not more so).
I find the resolution to be very satisfying, because it's the resolution the novel has been pointing to from the beginning. That is, the resolution is satisfying if one realizes that the novel is about Jean Louise and not about Atticus or Maycomb or civil rights or any of the great issues of the day. They are there, they are important, they provide the texture to the times Jean Louis lives in and the demands made upon her as a person, but they are not what the novel is about. I will repeat: the novel is about Jean Louise.
I have also come to the conclusion that To Kill a Mockingbird is a myth, a myth created by Jean Louise about her own childhood, the Myth of a Golden Age, long past. Jean Louise believes in that myth, and so one day she discovers that she couldn't remain in that myth. The real world is waiting and she must act. Perhaps the myth is related to that bit of conventional wisdom that one can't go "home" again because sometimes that "home" has changed and sometimes because that "home" never existed.
If you find my comments short, brief, and less than satisfying--Good. Go read Go Set a Watchman and then come back and argue with me.
I stated earlier that I thought that Go Set a Watchman could turn out to be one of the ten best novels that I read in 2015, and now, after having finishing the novel, I still believe the same. Moreover, it deserves to be read again.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Harper Lee: Go Set a Watchman, Pt. 2
Harper Lee: Go Set a Watchman
I have now finished approximately two-thirds of the book. It covers the period of roughly twenty-four hours that began when Jean Louise first discovered that her father was reading racist material and that he and Henry belong to the Citizen's Council, of which her father was one of the directors.
The meeting is held in the courthouse, and Jean Louise climbs into the balcony where she remembers, long ago, watching her father defend a young black man from a false charge of rape. It is this reminiscence that is most likely the source for To Kill a Mockingbird. In this version, though, Atticus Finch wins the case, setting the young black man free.
Now she hears a speaker spew forth the most vile racist nonsense and trash, not much different, unfortunately, than what one can find on the Internet on many websites today. She is shocked, both by what the man is saying and that her father is sitting up there, condoning what was being said. And, Henry?, whom she was considering marrying, he is a staunch member of the council according to her aunt Alexandra.
Later, at home, she finds Alexandra in complete agreement about the ingratitude of the blacks, though she uses language that is far more gentle. The next day she visits Calpurnia, the black housekeeper who raised her and her brother Jem when her mother died. There is a polite welcome only, for there is now a wall between blacks and whites.
The major "problem" is the NAACP which comes in, stirring up the blacks, making them dissatisfied and, worse, ungrateful for all the whites had done to help and protect blacks from themselves. Blacks no longer know their place and are no longer happy with being second class citizens.
At this point, Jean Louise has not yet confronted her father and Henry about their beliefs. Part of this comes from her own confusion. How could such a change take place in two people she thought she knew and loved? Or was it that she had been blind all this time, and only now awakened to see the world of Maycomb as it really is? She swears to herself that, in all the years she spent growing up, she had never heard anyone refer to blacks by the "N" word. And now, she has heard it maybe a dozen times or more in the last 24 hours. Everything she believed about her past life in Maycomb with her father and her friends and relatives has now been called into question in the past twenty-four hours.
This is speculation, of course, but I expect that the last third of the novel will tell us about Jean Louise' confrontation with her father and with Henry.
I am also beginning to get the feeling that I have been reading the novel with a preconceived idea of what the novel is about. Again, I'm just guessing, of course, since I haven't finished the novel, and the last third may prove me wrong. My initial focus has been on Atticus Finch, to try to understand what happened, to understand the disparity between the Atticus of To Kill a Mockingbird and the Atticus of Go Set a Watchman. Perhaps I have missed the real core of the novel: it just may be that the novel is really about Jean Louise, and while what Atticus says and does is important, the novel is about her and her response to the destruction of her myth.
While most, no doubt, have been aware of the true focus of the novel, I'm a bit slow, but I occasionally get there, sometimes long after the train has pulled out. The real problem is that I have to read and evaluate Go Set a Watchman on its own terms and not try to fit it in with TKaM. This is not easy for the novel and the film version of TKaM came out first, and I have read the novel and watched the film a number of times, most recently being last year.
If there's any "fitting in" to be done, it must be the other way around. To Kill a Mockingbird must be reconciled, if possible, with Go Set a Watchman. I know that's obvious, but I'm a bit slow.
Time to settle down and finish Go Set a Watchman.
I have now finished approximately two-thirds of the book. It covers the period of roughly twenty-four hours that began when Jean Louise first discovered that her father was reading racist material and that he and Henry belong to the Citizen's Council, of which her father was one of the directors.
The meeting is held in the courthouse, and Jean Louise climbs into the balcony where she remembers, long ago, watching her father defend a young black man from a false charge of rape. It is this reminiscence that is most likely the source for To Kill a Mockingbird. In this version, though, Atticus Finch wins the case, setting the young black man free.
Now she hears a speaker spew forth the most vile racist nonsense and trash, not much different, unfortunately, than what one can find on the Internet on many websites today. She is shocked, both by what the man is saying and that her father is sitting up there, condoning what was being said. And, Henry?, whom she was considering marrying, he is a staunch member of the council according to her aunt Alexandra.
Later, at home, she finds Alexandra in complete agreement about the ingratitude of the blacks, though she uses language that is far more gentle. The next day she visits Calpurnia, the black housekeeper who raised her and her brother Jem when her mother died. There is a polite welcome only, for there is now a wall between blacks and whites.
The major "problem" is the NAACP which comes in, stirring up the blacks, making them dissatisfied and, worse, ungrateful for all the whites had done to help and protect blacks from themselves. Blacks no longer know their place and are no longer happy with being second class citizens.
At this point, Jean Louise has not yet confronted her father and Henry about their beliefs. Part of this comes from her own confusion. How could such a change take place in two people she thought she knew and loved? Or was it that she had been blind all this time, and only now awakened to see the world of Maycomb as it really is? She swears to herself that, in all the years she spent growing up, she had never heard anyone refer to blacks by the "N" word. And now, she has heard it maybe a dozen times or more in the last 24 hours. Everything she believed about her past life in Maycomb with her father and her friends and relatives has now been called into question in the past twenty-four hours.
This is speculation, of course, but I expect that the last third of the novel will tell us about Jean Louise' confrontation with her father and with Henry.
I am also beginning to get the feeling that I have been reading the novel with a preconceived idea of what the novel is about. Again, I'm just guessing, of course, since I haven't finished the novel, and the last third may prove me wrong. My initial focus has been on Atticus Finch, to try to understand what happened, to understand the disparity between the Atticus of To Kill a Mockingbird and the Atticus of Go Set a Watchman. Perhaps I have missed the real core of the novel: it just may be that the novel is really about Jean Louise, and while what Atticus says and does is important, the novel is about her and her response to the destruction of her myth.
While most, no doubt, have been aware of the true focus of the novel, I'm a bit slow, but I occasionally get there, sometimes long after the train has pulled out. The real problem is that I have to read and evaluate Go Set a Watchman on its own terms and not try to fit it in with TKaM. This is not easy for the novel and the film version of TKaM came out first, and I have read the novel and watched the film a number of times, most recently being last year.
If there's any "fitting in" to be done, it must be the other way around. To Kill a Mockingbird must be reconciled, if possible, with Go Set a Watchman. I know that's obvious, but I'm a bit slow.
Time to settle down and finish Go Set a Watchman.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Harper Lee: Go Set a Watchman, Pt. 1
Harper Lee: Go Set a Watchman
I am now a bit over 1/3 of the way through the novel. It is, as purported, an account of Jean Louise' trip home. I keep wanting to call her Scout. Her father, Atticus Finch, is suffering from arthritis, and she wants to see for herself just how bad it is.
We meet her Aunt Alexandra; Henry, the man in love with her and who has asked her to marry him; Atticus, her father; and various other inhabitants of Maycomb. There are, as should be expected, many "remember when" and "that was the time" reminiscences, and much catching up on what has happened since her last visit. We also learn about her relationship with Henry and about Dill, who is based on Harper Lee's friend, Truman Capote, and, of course, a bit of the history of Maycomb itself.
I am now at the point when Jean Louise discovers that Atticus reads derogatory material about blacks and that he and Henry are on their way to attend a Citizen's Council meeting (see note below). Atticus is on the board of directors, and Henry is one of its "staunchest members," according to Alexandra. "Not that we really need one. Nothing's happened here in Maycomb yet, but it's always wise to be prepared," Alexandra reassures Jean Louise. Jean Louise is shocked to hear this and is now on her way to the Citizen's Council meeting to see for herself what is going on.
I have read several derogatory reviews and heard about others, including one that called the novel "a mess." I don't see it, at least so far. Perhaps the "mess" comes later. On the other hand, it just may be that I'm insensitive to those flaws in the novel which are obvious to more astute readers who are trained to analyze and dissect literary works.
Well, there's still almost 2/3 of the novel to go.
From the Wikipedia article
"The Citizens' Councils (also referred to as White Citizens' Councils) were an associated network of white supremacist organizations in the United States, concentrated in the South. The first was formed on July 11, 1954. After 1956, it was known as the Citizens' Councils of America. With about 60,000 members across the United States, mostly in the South, the groups were founded primarily to oppose racial integration of schools, but they also supported segregation of public facilities during the 1950s and 1960s. Members used severe intimidation tactics including economic boycotts, firing people from jobs, propaganda, and occasionally violence against civil-rights activists.
By the 1970s, following passage of federal civil rights legislation in the mid-1960s and enforcement of constitutional rights by the federal government, the influence of the Councils had waned considerably. The successor organization to the White Citizens' Councils is the Council of Conservative Citizens, founded in 1985.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Citizens'_Councils
I am now a bit over 1/3 of the way through the novel. It is, as purported, an account of Jean Louise' trip home. I keep wanting to call her Scout. Her father, Atticus Finch, is suffering from arthritis, and she wants to see for herself just how bad it is.
We meet her Aunt Alexandra; Henry, the man in love with her and who has asked her to marry him; Atticus, her father; and various other inhabitants of Maycomb. There are, as should be expected, many "remember when" and "that was the time" reminiscences, and much catching up on what has happened since her last visit. We also learn about her relationship with Henry and about Dill, who is based on Harper Lee's friend, Truman Capote, and, of course, a bit of the history of Maycomb itself.
I am now at the point when Jean Louise discovers that Atticus reads derogatory material about blacks and that he and Henry are on their way to attend a Citizen's Council meeting (see note below). Atticus is on the board of directors, and Henry is one of its "staunchest members," according to Alexandra. "Not that we really need one. Nothing's happened here in Maycomb yet, but it's always wise to be prepared," Alexandra reassures Jean Louise. Jean Louise is shocked to hear this and is now on her way to the Citizen's Council meeting to see for herself what is going on.
I have read several derogatory reviews and heard about others, including one that called the novel "a mess." I don't see it, at least so far. Perhaps the "mess" comes later. On the other hand, it just may be that I'm insensitive to those flaws in the novel which are obvious to more astute readers who are trained to analyze and dissect literary works.
Well, there's still almost 2/3 of the novel to go.
From the Wikipedia article
"The Citizens' Councils (also referred to as White Citizens' Councils) were an associated network of white supremacist organizations in the United States, concentrated in the South. The first was formed on July 11, 1954. After 1956, it was known as the Citizens' Councils of America. With about 60,000 members across the United States, mostly in the South, the groups were founded primarily to oppose racial integration of schools, but they also supported segregation of public facilities during the 1950s and 1960s. Members used severe intimidation tactics including economic boycotts, firing people from jobs, propaganda, and occasionally violence against civil-rights activists.
By the 1970s, following passage of federal civil rights legislation in the mid-1960s and enforcement of constitutional rights by the federal government, the influence of the Councils had waned considerably. The successor organization to the White Citizens' Councils is the Council of Conservative Citizens, founded in 1985.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Citizens'_Councils
Friday, August 14, 2015
Wallace Stevens: The Night-Wind of August
The Night-Wind of August
The night-wind of August
Is like an old mother to me.
It comforts me.
I rest in it,
As one would rest,
If one could,
Once again--
It moves about, quietly
And attentively.
Its old hands touch me.
Its breath touches me.
But sometimes its breath is a little cold,
Just a little,
And I know
That it is only the night-wind.
-- Wallace Stevens --
from Art and Nature: An Illustrated Anthology of Nature Poetry
I rest in it,
As one would rest,
If one could,
Once again--
Does this suggest that his mother has died? He would "rest" if he "could/Once again" which I see as saying that he can no longer do this, which leaves the night-wind as a substitute and perhaps a reminder.
It is that "breath" that is a "little cold" that I wonder about. The comfort of having an old mother attentive once again is qualified by that breath that is a little cold. Is that the cold of the grave?
As usual, I find Stevens' poetry to be intriguing as well as enigmatic.
Sunday, August 9, 2015
The Rubaiyat: 2nd Edition, Quatrain XLVIII
This is another quatrain that FitzGerald introduced in his Second Edition and which remained through the succeeding editions.
Second Edition: Quatrain XLVIII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long long while the World shall last,
Which of our Comings and Departures heeds
As much as Ocean of a pebble-cast.
Fifth Edition: Quatrain XLVII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
Which of our Comings and Departures heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
Aside from a comma added in line 2, perhaps correcting a printing error, the major change occurred in the fourth line where the term "the Ocean" became "the Sea's self." My opinion is that he should have left that line alone. The "Ocean" is perfectly clear whereas I'm not sure about what is meant by "the Sea's self."
The meaning, as far as I can see, is still the same. In the World, which will last long after we have died, our arrival and departure will have about as much effect as a pebble thrown into the Ocean. This carries forth the theme introduced in the previous quatrain, that of our insignificance in the Universe: there are millions just like us and we were not especially noticed when we appeared nor will we be missed when we leave. In other words, we are not the center of the universe nor is the universe created solely as a testing device.
Second Edition: Quatrain XLVIII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long long while the World shall last,
Which of our Comings and Departures heeds
As much as Ocean of a pebble-cast.
Fifth Edition: Quatrain XLVII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
Which of our Comings and Departures heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
Aside from a comma added in line 2, perhaps correcting a printing error, the major change occurred in the fourth line where the term "the Ocean" became "the Sea's self." My opinion is that he should have left that line alone. The "Ocean" is perfectly clear whereas I'm not sure about what is meant by "the Sea's self."
The meaning, as far as I can see, is still the same. In the World, which will last long after we have died, our arrival and departure will have about as much effect as a pebble thrown into the Ocean. This carries forth the theme introduced in the previous quatrain, that of our insignificance in the Universe: there are millions just like us and we were not especially noticed when we appeared nor will we be missed when we leave. In other words, we are not the center of the universe nor is the universe created solely as a testing device.
Monday, August 3, 2015
Anthony Powell: A Dance to the Music of Time--the dance is over.
Sad to say, but I've finished Anthony Powell's magnificent work--A Dance to the Music of Time. The music has stopped, the lights are dimming, the musicians are slowly putting away their instruments, and the place is slowly emptying out. But, soon the lights will come back on and the musicians will return and, once again, dancers will gather on the floor for the ritual goings and comings, arrivals and departures, losings and findings.
As I have mentioned before, this is a four volume work. Each volume contains three novels, approximately 250 pages in length. The first two volumes cover the period between WWI and WWII. The third volume covers WWII and the four is of the post-war period, up until the 80s perhaps. Powell is not very good at providing dates.
I have seen several different names applied to the volumes: one is Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. I had found a well-used copy of Spring and purchased that on the strength of the BBC adaption of the work. I finished the first novel and decided to get the complete set. I found a new set, in which the volumes were labelled 1st Movement, 2nd Movement, 3rd Movement, and 4th Movement. This new labeling scheme seems more appropriate considering the musical nature of the title.
A Dance to the Music of Time is a first person narrative, the voice that of Nicholas Jenkins, Nick to friends and relatives. The work is not solely about Nick, but about Nick and his friends, relatives, and acquaintances. In the first novel, Nick is in his last year of school and we meet him and those about him, mostly his schoolmates as they look forward to moving on to the University the following year.
As in the real world, Nick loses track of some of his friends but maintains contact with others. He also meets and makes new friends and friends of friends and relatives, both his and those of his friends. We also meet some of his teachers. This is the format of the work: Nick meets people, loses some, gains others, and then, some who have gone, suddenly return in unexpected ways, and places. Some change, some seemingly do not as Nick goes through the university and then into the world to establish his career as a writer, and in the various occupations to support himself. This continues through his military commitment as WWII breaks out, where he meets old friends and relatives in the military.
After having read the work, my impression is that Nick is a rather ordinary person who knows some original and unusual people, the strangest of whom is Kenneth Widmerpool. No matter what Nick does and where he goes, Widmerpool always manages to appear in some way. Widmerpool is one of the most fascinating characters I have ever encountered in English fiction. There may be others whom I haven't met, but for now, Kenneth Widmerpool stands alone.
I may be doing Nick Jenkins a disservice, but when I do the next reading, I will spend more time observing Nick to see what I missed. But, it just may be that Powell deliberately keeps Nick at a low level because he wanted the focus to be on those around Nick. If Nick were too striking a character, readers may be distracted and miss Powell's theme of the recurring or cyclic nature of life, or perhaps a spiral would be more apt than a cycle. For while various characters appear, disappear, and return in Nick's life, they have changed and while their interactions may resemble past interactions in many ways, they are never the same.
This is about all I can say at the present, for there's too much here for me to make more sense of it and this, at best, can't be more than a superficial commentary. Perhaps after a second reading, I may be able to be more intelligible and coherent. For now, let's end this with the penultimate paragraph of the final novel.
Powell concludes with a quotation from Robert Burton's The Anatomy of Melancholy. Although it isn't initially apparent, it is appropriate because Nick has been writing a book about Burton and his works and because there's a shift in tone at the end of the paragraph. At first, the quotation consists of a series of lists, but then it changes into something quite different. The quotation is all in paragraph form, but when I think there's a change in tone, I change the format:
"Now come tidings of weddings, maskings, mummeries, entertainments, jubilees. . .trophies, triumphs, revels, sports, plays . . . treasons, cheating tricks, robberies, enormous villainies in all kinds, funerals, burials, deaths of Princes, new discoveries, expeditions;
now comical, then tragical matters.
Today we hear of new Lords and officers created,
tomorrow of some great men deposed,
and then again of some fresh honours conferred;
one is let loose, another imprisoned,
one purchaseth, another breaketh;
he thrives, his neighbor turns bankrupt;
now plenty, then again dearth and famine;
one runs, another rides,
wrangles, laughs, weeps, &c."
-- Robert Burton --
from Anatomy of Melancholy
Does this sound familiar to you?
As I have mentioned before, this is a four volume work. Each volume contains three novels, approximately 250 pages in length. The first two volumes cover the period between WWI and WWII. The third volume covers WWII and the four is of the post-war period, up until the 80s perhaps. Powell is not very good at providing dates.
I have seen several different names applied to the volumes: one is Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. I had found a well-used copy of Spring and purchased that on the strength of the BBC adaption of the work. I finished the first novel and decided to get the complete set. I found a new set, in which the volumes were labelled 1st Movement, 2nd Movement, 3rd Movement, and 4th Movement. This new labeling scheme seems more appropriate considering the musical nature of the title.
A Dance to the Music of Time is a first person narrative, the voice that of Nicholas Jenkins, Nick to friends and relatives. The work is not solely about Nick, but about Nick and his friends, relatives, and acquaintances. In the first novel, Nick is in his last year of school and we meet him and those about him, mostly his schoolmates as they look forward to moving on to the University the following year.
As in the real world, Nick loses track of some of his friends but maintains contact with others. He also meets and makes new friends and friends of friends and relatives, both his and those of his friends. We also meet some of his teachers. This is the format of the work: Nick meets people, loses some, gains others, and then, some who have gone, suddenly return in unexpected ways, and places. Some change, some seemingly do not as Nick goes through the university and then into the world to establish his career as a writer, and in the various occupations to support himself. This continues through his military commitment as WWII breaks out, where he meets old friends and relatives in the military.
After having read the work, my impression is that Nick is a rather ordinary person who knows some original and unusual people, the strangest of whom is Kenneth Widmerpool. No matter what Nick does and where he goes, Widmerpool always manages to appear in some way. Widmerpool is one of the most fascinating characters I have ever encountered in English fiction. There may be others whom I haven't met, but for now, Kenneth Widmerpool stands alone.
I may be doing Nick Jenkins a disservice, but when I do the next reading, I will spend more time observing Nick to see what I missed. But, it just may be that Powell deliberately keeps Nick at a low level because he wanted the focus to be on those around Nick. If Nick were too striking a character, readers may be distracted and miss Powell's theme of the recurring or cyclic nature of life, or perhaps a spiral would be more apt than a cycle. For while various characters appear, disappear, and return in Nick's life, they have changed and while their interactions may resemble past interactions in many ways, they are never the same.
This is about all I can say at the present, for there's too much here for me to make more sense of it and this, at best, can't be more than a superficial commentary. Perhaps after a second reading, I may be able to be more intelligible and coherent. For now, let's end this with the penultimate paragraph of the final novel.
Powell concludes with a quotation from Robert Burton's The Anatomy of Melancholy. Although it isn't initially apparent, it is appropriate because Nick has been writing a book about Burton and his works and because there's a shift in tone at the end of the paragraph. At first, the quotation consists of a series of lists, but then it changes into something quite different. The quotation is all in paragraph form, but when I think there's a change in tone, I change the format:
"Now come tidings of weddings, maskings, mummeries, entertainments, jubilees. . .trophies, triumphs, revels, sports, plays . . . treasons, cheating tricks, robberies, enormous villainies in all kinds, funerals, burials, deaths of Princes, new discoveries, expeditions;
now comical, then tragical matters.
Today we hear of new Lords and officers created,
tomorrow of some great men deposed,
and then again of some fresh honours conferred;
one is let loose, another imprisoned,
one purchaseth, another breaketh;
he thrives, his neighbor turns bankrupt;
now plenty, then again dearth and famine;
one runs, another rides,
wrangles, laughs, weeps, &c."
-- Robert Burton --
from Anatomy of Melancholy
Does this sound familiar to you?
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Some Short Stuff from the Early Greeks
Just some short poems and aphorisms from pre-Christian era Greece. Nothing heavy here.
Fox knows many
Hedgehog one
Solid trick.
-- Archilochus --
trans. Guy Davenport
I suppose I've missed the whole point here, but I like the fox better than the hedgehog. I've known humans who are like foxes--active, mobile, inventive--and I've know humans who are like hedgehogs--solid, immovable, imperturbable--and I like the foxes for things happen when they are around. In a situation controlled by hedgehogs, little if anything new happens, and what little energy is expended is spent on maintaining the status quo.
Mercenary
I don't give a damn if some Thracian ape strut
Proud of that first-rate shield the bushes got.
Leaving it was hell, but in a tricky spot
I kept my hide intact. Good shield can be bought.
-- Archilochus --
trans. Stuart Silverman
He's definitely not a Spartan or a poor Spartan at best, for their motto was to come home carrying their shields or on it.
Thermopylae
Go tell the Spartans, thou that passest by,
That here, obedient to their laws, we lie.
-- Simonides --
trans. by William Lyle Bowles
True Spartans here.
Because of these men's courage, no smoke rose
Skyward from Tegea's burning. They chose
To leave their children the broad land's township green
With freedom, while in the front line they went down.
-- Simonides --
trans. by Peter Jay
Perhaps not Spartans, but certainly closer in behavior than to the mercenary mentioned earlier.
The poet Hipponax lies here.
In justice, this is only fair.
His lines were never dark or deep.
Now he enjoys (like his readers) sleep.
-- Theocritus --
trans. by Fred Chappell
Hipponax doesn't seem to have been loved by all.
I've never feared the setting of the Pleiades
or the hidden reefs beneath the waves
or even the lightning at sea
like I dread friends who drink with me
and remember what we say.
-- Antipater of Thessalonica --
trans. by Sam Hamill
Dangerous friends to have.
All poems are from World Poetry: The Anthology of Verse from Antiquity to Our Time.
edited by Katherine Washburn and John S. Major, with Clifton Fadiman as General Editor
Fox knows many
Hedgehog one
Solid trick.
-- Archilochus --
trans. Guy Davenport
I suppose I've missed the whole point here, but I like the fox better than the hedgehog. I've known humans who are like foxes--active, mobile, inventive--and I've know humans who are like hedgehogs--solid, immovable, imperturbable--and I like the foxes for things happen when they are around. In a situation controlled by hedgehogs, little if anything new happens, and what little energy is expended is spent on maintaining the status quo.
Mercenary
I don't give a damn if some Thracian ape strut
Proud of that first-rate shield the bushes got.
Leaving it was hell, but in a tricky spot
I kept my hide intact. Good shield can be bought.
-- Archilochus --
trans. Stuart Silverman
He's definitely not a Spartan or a poor Spartan at best, for their motto was to come home carrying their shields or on it.
Thermopylae
Go tell the Spartans, thou that passest by,
That here, obedient to their laws, we lie.
-- Simonides --
trans. by William Lyle Bowles
True Spartans here.
Because of these men's courage, no smoke rose
Skyward from Tegea's burning. They chose
To leave their children the broad land's township green
With freedom, while in the front line they went down.
-- Simonides --
trans. by Peter Jay
Perhaps not Spartans, but certainly closer in behavior than to the mercenary mentioned earlier.
The poet Hipponax lies here.
In justice, this is only fair.
His lines were never dark or deep.
Now he enjoys (like his readers) sleep.
-- Theocritus --
trans. by Fred Chappell
Hipponax doesn't seem to have been loved by all.
I've never feared the setting of the Pleiades
or the hidden reefs beneath the waves
or even the lightning at sea
like I dread friends who drink with me
and remember what we say.
-- Antipater of Thessalonica --
trans. by Sam Hamill
Dangerous friends to have.
All poems are from World Poetry: The Anthology of Verse from Antiquity to Our Time.
edited by Katherine Washburn and John S. Major, with Clifton Fadiman as General Editor
Saturday, July 25, 2015
Robert Frost: Putting in the Seed
Putting in the Seed
You come to fetch me from my work tonight
When supper's on the table, and we'll see
If I can leave off burying the white
Soft petals fallen from the apple tree
(Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite,
Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;)
And go along with you ere you lose sight
Of what you came for and become like me,
Slave to a springtime passion for the earth.
How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed
On through the watching for the early birth
When, just as the soil tarnishes with the weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes
Shouldering its way and and shedding the earth crumbs.
-- Robert Frost --
Why do I get the feeling that there's something going on behind the words on the page?
Wednesday, July 22, 2015
Eric Hoffer: The downside of some revolutions
No. 63
The link between ideas and action is rarely direct. There is almost always an intermediary step in which the idea is overcome. De Tocqueville points out that it is at times when passions start to govern human affairs that ideas are most obviously transformed into political action. The translation of ideas into action is usually in the hands of people least likely to follow rational motives. Hence it is that action is often the nemesis of ideas, and sometimes of the men who formulated them.
One of the marks of a truly vigorous society is the ability to dispense with passion as a midwife of action--the ability to pass directly from thought to action.
-- Eric Hoffer --
from Reflections on the Human Condition
Within the past decade or so, how many popular revolutions or coups have we seen that successfully replaced dictatorships or tyrannies with regimes that are as bad or worse, in spite of the rhetoric that accompanied them?
Is Hoffer suggesting that the great majority of people can't be moved to act through reason or by intelligent thought but that they have to be stirred up by strong emotions or passion to accomplish something?
Are shouting, bullying, insulting comments, or emotionally laden slogans more likely to move people to act than calm reason and facts?
The link between ideas and action is rarely direct. There is almost always an intermediary step in which the idea is overcome. De Tocqueville points out that it is at times when passions start to govern human affairs that ideas are most obviously transformed into political action. The translation of ideas into action is usually in the hands of people least likely to follow rational motives. Hence it is that action is often the nemesis of ideas, and sometimes of the men who formulated them.
One of the marks of a truly vigorous society is the ability to dispense with passion as a midwife of action--the ability to pass directly from thought to action.
-- Eric Hoffer --
from Reflections on the Human Condition
Within the past decade or so, how many popular revolutions or coups have we seen that successfully replaced dictatorships or tyrannies with regimes that are as bad or worse, in spite of the rhetoric that accompanied them?
Is Hoffer suggesting that the great majority of people can't be moved to act through reason or by intelligent thought but that they have to be stirred up by strong emotions or passion to accomplish something?
Are shouting, bullying, insulting comments, or emotionally laden slogans more likely to move people to act than calm reason and facts?
Friday, July 17, 2015
William H. Davies: Leisure
Leisure
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
-- William H. Davies --
from Art and Nature: An Illustrated Anthology of Nature Poetry
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
A very simple poem but a profound thought, I think.
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
-- William H. Davies --
from Art and Nature: An Illustrated Anthology of Nature Poetry
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
A very simple poem but a profound thought, I think.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Ray Bradbury: The Lake
One of Ray Bradbury's strengths is that he can take the simplest elements and create a memorable tale from them: two twelve year-old children, a summer at the lake, a half-finished sand castle, a sudden parting and perhaps an equally sudden and unexpected reunion. Bradbury tells the story much better than I can, so I will give you some excerpts from this brief tale, but haunting (that may be a pun, but I'll let you decide) nevertheless.
"The wave shut me off from the world, from the birds in the sky, the children on the beach, my mother on the shore. There was a moment of green silence. Then the wave gave me back to the sky, the sand, the children yelling. I came out of the lake and the world was waiting for me, having hardly moved since I went away.
I ran up on the beach.
. . . . .
It was September. In the last days when things are getting sad for no reason. The beach was so long and lonely with only about six people on it. The kids quit bouncing the ball because somehow the wind made them sad, too, whistling the way it did, and the kids sat down and felt autumn come along the endless shore.
All of the hot dog stands were boarded up with strips of golden planking, sealing in all the mustard, onion, meat odors of the long, joyful summer. It was like nailing summer into a series of coffins. One by one the places slammed their covers down, padlocked their doors, and the wind came and touched the sand, blowing away all of the million footprints of July and August. It got so that now, in September, there was nothing but the mark of my rubber tennis shoes and Donald and Delaus Schabold's feet, down by the water curve.
. . . . .
I called her name. A dozen times I called it.
'Tally! Tally! Oh, Tally!'
. . . . .
I thought of Tally, swimming out into the water last May, with her pigtails trailing, blonde. She went laughing, and the sun was on her small twelve-year-old shoulders. I thought of the water settling quiet, of the life-guard leaping into it, of Tally's mother screaming, and of how Tally never came out. . . .
. . . . .
And now in the lonely autumn when the sky was huge and the water was huge and the beach was so very long, I had come down for the last time, alone.
. . . . .
Turning, I retreated to the sand and stood there for half an hour, hoping for one glimpse, one sign, one little bit of Tally to remember. Then, I knelt and built a sand-castle, shaping it fine, building it as Tally and I had often built so many of them. But this time, I only built half of it. Then I got up.
'Tally, if you hear me, come in and build the rest.'
. . . . .
The next day I went away on the train.
. . . . .
I lengthened my bones, put flesh on them, changed my young mind for an older one, threw away clothes as they no longer fitted, shifted from grammar to high school, to college books, to law books. And then there was a young woman in Sacramento. I knew her for a time, and we were married."
There is more to this story--a return to the lake and another half-finished castle and . . .
I won't say any more, but if you are interested--this is a link to an online version of the story. It's a short one.
http://tinyurl.com/puhzqcy
If you read it, come back and let me know what you think of it.
"The wave shut me off from the world, from the birds in the sky, the children on the beach, my mother on the shore. There was a moment of green silence. Then the wave gave me back to the sky, the sand, the children yelling. I came out of the lake and the world was waiting for me, having hardly moved since I went away.
I ran up on the beach.
. . . . .
It was September. In the last days when things are getting sad for no reason. The beach was so long and lonely with only about six people on it. The kids quit bouncing the ball because somehow the wind made them sad, too, whistling the way it did, and the kids sat down and felt autumn come along the endless shore.
All of the hot dog stands were boarded up with strips of golden planking, sealing in all the mustard, onion, meat odors of the long, joyful summer. It was like nailing summer into a series of coffins. One by one the places slammed their covers down, padlocked their doors, and the wind came and touched the sand, blowing away all of the million footprints of July and August. It got so that now, in September, there was nothing but the mark of my rubber tennis shoes and Donald and Delaus Schabold's feet, down by the water curve.
. . . . .
I called her name. A dozen times I called it.
'Tally! Tally! Oh, Tally!'
. . . . .
I thought of Tally, swimming out into the water last May, with her pigtails trailing, blonde. She went laughing, and the sun was on her small twelve-year-old shoulders. I thought of the water settling quiet, of the life-guard leaping into it, of Tally's mother screaming, and of how Tally never came out. . . .
. . . . .
And now in the lonely autumn when the sky was huge and the water was huge and the beach was so very long, I had come down for the last time, alone.
. . . . .
Turning, I retreated to the sand and stood there for half an hour, hoping for one glimpse, one sign, one little bit of Tally to remember. Then, I knelt and built a sand-castle, shaping it fine, building it as Tally and I had often built so many of them. But this time, I only built half of it. Then I got up.
'Tally, if you hear me, come in and build the rest.'
. . . . .
The next day I went away on the train.
. . . . .
I lengthened my bones, put flesh on them, changed my young mind for an older one, threw away clothes as they no longer fitted, shifted from grammar to high school, to college books, to law books. And then there was a young woman in Sacramento. I knew her for a time, and we were married."
There is more to this story--a return to the lake and another half-finished castle and . . .
I won't say any more, but if you are interested--this is a link to an online version of the story. It's a short one.
http://tinyurl.com/puhzqcy
If you read it, come back and let me know what you think of it.
Friday, July 10, 2015
That Desert Island Thing
R.T., on Beyond Eastwood, issued a challenge to come up with a six-pack of last reads. I struggled for a while and came up with six, but I'm unhappy with the list because there are so many others I want to include. In addition. I didn't include any works that I hadn't already read, or rather completely read. I'm now almost 3/4 of the way through Anthony Powell's A Dance to the Music of Time, and I've come nowhere near reading all of Frost's poetry, and I still have a few plays by Shakespeare to read.
So, I'm going to modify R.T.'s .challenge a bit and expanded it to the magic Ten, so popular among all sorts of listings. This will be my response to the Desert Island Challenge of Last Reads: Which ten books would you want to be marooned with you on that Desert Island Paradise?
Shakespeare: complete plays and poems
Proust: In Search of Lost Time
Anthony Powell: A Dance to the Music of Time
Frost: complete poems and plays
Melville: Moby Dick
Thomas Mann: The Magic Mountain
Walter van Tilburg Clark: The City of Trembling Leaves
Loren Eiseley: The Immense Journey
Jane Austen: Mansfield Park or Persuasion (a last minute decision)
Lawrence Durrell: The Alexandria Quartet
George Eliot: Middlemarch
Miklos Banffy: The Transylvanian Trilogy
This is something I'm taking a chance on as I haven't read any of the three works. However, the reviews sound interesting, and my father was born in what is now Transylvania, so I thought I would risk adding this trilogy. The work is set in pre-WWI Hungary and is the account of two cousins who followed two very different paths.
Those who are less math challenged than I am will have noted that there are twelve works listed here-not ten. Well, if one starts out with a six-pack, then it's only logical to expand to two six-packs, isn't it?
I'm now working on a third six-pack, so I'd better stop here.
So, I'm going to modify R.T.'s .challenge a bit and expanded it to the magic Ten, so popular among all sorts of listings. This will be my response to the Desert Island Challenge of Last Reads: Which ten books would you want to be marooned with you on that Desert Island Paradise?
Shakespeare: complete plays and poems
Proust: In Search of Lost Time
Anthony Powell: A Dance to the Music of Time
Frost: complete poems and plays
Melville: Moby Dick
Thomas Mann: The Magic Mountain
Walter van Tilburg Clark: The City of Trembling Leaves
Loren Eiseley: The Immense Journey
Jane Austen: Mansfield Park or Persuasion (a last minute decision)
Lawrence Durrell: The Alexandria Quartet
George Eliot: Middlemarch
Miklos Banffy: The Transylvanian Trilogy
This is something I'm taking a chance on as I haven't read any of the three works. However, the reviews sound interesting, and my father was born in what is now Transylvania, so I thought I would risk adding this trilogy. The work is set in pre-WWI Hungary and is the account of two cousins who followed two very different paths.
Those who are less math challenged than I am will have noted that there are twelve works listed here-not ten. Well, if one starts out with a six-pack, then it's only logical to expand to two six-packs, isn't it?
Sunday, July 5, 2015
The Rubaiyat: 2nd Edition, Quatrain XLVII
This is Quatrain XLVII, one of the new quatrains FitzGerald introduced with the publication of the second edition. It also appears in the Fifth Edition.
Second Edition: Quatrain XLVII
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, should lose, or know the type no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
Fifth Edition: Quatrain XLVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
Lines 1, 3, and 4 are identical, with the only changes occurring in the second line. The most significant effect is that the Poet/Narrator now includes himself along with the reader, perhaps to remove any suspicion the reader may have had that the Poet felt himself to be unique.
Overall, I would not call this a very cheerful quatrain for it argues that we all will die some day. Moreover, it dispels those fond delusions that we may have had that we are special or unique in some way, for there are millions like us who have already appeared and millions more who will follow us. And, being compared to a bubble strongly evokes the idea of the ephemeral nature of our being. Perhaps it's time for a cup of wine.
Second Edition: Quatrain XLVII
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, should lose, or know the type no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
Fifth Edition: Quatrain XLVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
Lines 1, 3, and 4 are identical, with the only changes occurring in the second line. The most significant effect is that the Poet/Narrator now includes himself along with the reader, perhaps to remove any suspicion the reader may have had that the Poet felt himself to be unique.
Overall, I would not call this a very cheerful quatrain for it argues that we all will die some day. Moreover, it dispels those fond delusions that we may have had that we are special or unique in some way, for there are millions like us who have already appeared and millions more who will follow us. And, being compared to a bubble strongly evokes the idea of the ephemeral nature of our being. Perhaps it's time for a cup of wine.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Paul Laurence Dunbar: In Summer
In Summer
Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.
And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air's soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.
I envy the farmer's boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shinning green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.
He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another's ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.
He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o'erfull heat, without aim or art;
'Tis a song of the merriest.
O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.
Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,--
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.
So. long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.
-- Paul Laurence Dunbar --
from Summer: A Spiritual Biography of the Season
The last two stanzas suggest something more is going on here than a simple paean to the joys of summer labor. Singing can do something other than just reflect one's joy at that particular moment:
Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,--
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.
So. long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.
Music bypasses the brain and goes directly to your soul. You can feel the best music in your bones. Martial music and marches and national anthems are far more effective in moving people than any lecture on patriotism. The most rousing speeches and sermons are almost sung or chanted. If you listen carefully you can hear the music underlying the words and that's what moves the listeners.
Oh, summer has clothed the earth
In a cloak from the loom of the sun!
And a mantle, too, of the skies' soft blue,
And a belt where the rivers run.
And now for the kiss of the wind,
And the touch of the air's soft hands,
With the rest from strife and the heat of life,
With the freedom of lakes and lands.
I envy the farmer's boy
Who sings as he follows the plow;
While the shinning green of the young blades lean
To the breezes that cool his brow.
He sings to the dewy morn,
No thought of another's ear;
But the song he sings is a chant for kings
And the whole wide world to hear.
He sings of the joys of life,
Of the pleasures of work and rest,
From an o'erfull heat, without aim or art;
'Tis a song of the merriest.
O ye who toil in the town,
And ye who moil in the mart,
Hear the artless song, and your faith made strong
Shall renew your joy of heart.
Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,--
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.
So. long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.
-- Paul Laurence Dunbar --
from Summer: A Spiritual Biography of the Season
The last two stanzas suggest something more is going on here than a simple paean to the joys of summer labor. Singing can do something other than just reflect one's joy at that particular moment:
Oh, poor were the worth of the world
If never a song were heard,--
If the sting of grief had no relief,
And never a heart were stirred.
So. long as the streams run down,
And as long as the robins trill,
Let us taunt old Care with a merry air,
And sing in the face of ill.
Music bypasses the brain and goes directly to your soul. You can feel the best music in your bones. Martial music and marches and national anthems are far more effective in moving people than any lecture on patriotism. The most rousing speeches and sermons are almost sung or chanted. If you listen carefully you can hear the music underlying the words and that's what moves the listeners.
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