The Eagle and Child

A Child of Body and Blood's Delight

2011-01-07T18:07:00.000-08:00

Remember you were born of night,
The fruit of knowledge rent by seduction,
A child of body and blood’s delight.

With tissues broken by a bite,
Your innocence let to prostitution,
Remember you were born of night.

The skin alone succumbs to blight—
The seed encasing through contrition
A child of body and blood’s delight.

Deceitful is the serpentine rite
Slashing soul from life in desperation.
Remember you were born of night.

Breath, water, and dust unite.
From earth arises in regeneration
A child of body and blood’s delight.

Drawn at last from death’s appetite,
You may embrace the spirit’s unction.
Remember you are reborn of light
A child of body and blood’s delight.

On Denominational Differences

2010-02-21T19:12:00.000-08:00

The setting: a Methodist church, waiting for the conductor to start Haydn's Creation oratorio. The conversation-starter: a Methodist hymnbook. The question posed to me by my friend: What difference have you noticed between the Episcopal hymnbook and the one we use at [a Southern-Baptist-background church]?

I have noticed a difference in attitude towards the second person of the Trinity, best described as the difference between the names "Jesus" and "Christ." Jesus is the Person who walked in Galilee, Who could be touched and hugged, and Who could heal and befriend. Christ is the Lord, God's Anointed, Who is coming in glory to judge the living and the dead.

It has been distinctly odd to come from a Baptist/Bible-church background into the Episcopal Church. Almost every Sunday I am singing songs I have never heard before. Some of them do have weird theology, but then what sort of theology is expressed by the hymn "In the Garden"? The overall impression is that Episcopal hymnody emphasizes much more the Christ, whereas Baptist hymnody emphasizes the Jesus. The one depicts a sovereign and lofty Lord; the other, a perfect and saving Friend.

My experience of the differing architectures and clothing styles has been the same, though admittedly my architectural experience is extremely limited. Episcopal churches (here I am not talking about churches that rent facilities) have a specific place for each function--Scripture readings, the sermon, Eucharist. There is a specific place that is holy. Worshipers bow towards it. Baptists do follow structural patterns, but their biggest issue (from Protestant roots) is that the pulpit be front and center. The only specially sacred places are the reserved pews that are never labeled but always respected. The atmosphere is much more casual. Instead of special vestments that distinguish the clergy and lay leaders, Baptist pastors wear suits (in formal churches) or good clothes (in informal churches). Admittedly, both denominations have their choirs wear robes--but that is more along the line of school uniforms.

These elements describe two different ways to understand our Savior: focusing more on His deity, or more on His humanity. I told my friend that I have been especially blessed to come into the Episcopal Church from a generally Baptist background. I have both the personal Jesus and the sovereign Christ. That is supposed to be the pattern no matter what church one attends, but as humans we have limited capacity for focus. There is a reason that Paul and other New Testament writers constantly refer to "our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ."

East Coker- Section 2

2010-01-11T15:30:00.001-08:00

At the end of the last segment, the poet was reconciled, though reluctantly, to the interminable present. Here, he seems to have domiciled until he leaves the dancing days of summer and enters the natural chaos of November—a month that, in semi-temperate England, anything is possible. Summer creatures still thrive, snowdrops not yet risen from their summer deathbeds, late roses that battle with early snow. It is the verdant version of the eternal all-times the poet sang of in Burnt Norton.

This dance of all seasons is not limited to the earth. The stars turn in their courses, fighting to get one last glimpse of the earth they got to see so briefly. Scorpio, a constellation that bespeaks suffering and malaise is ordered by the Sun, the bringer of all-life, to wind his way thither. The pestilence fights and flees the light. The Sun and the Moon in time eclipse each other, and deprived of their light, comets weep as they cannot find either the sky or the plains. “Whirled in a vortex that shall bring / The world to that destructive fire / Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.” The sun rules the stars but it cannot rule the earth. An earth that is still under death sentence—the whirling dance of the stars brings life, but the passage of time only brings the world closer to the day when it shall pass into dust by ice and flame.

I would be remiss if I did not mention at this point that I have not a clue what I am talking about. And, unlike Cicero, I mean it. I am no Eliot scholar, nor particularly well-read. So, I write my thoughts and speculations firmly in the hope that the reader will forgive my inanities and deepen my expositions.

Now, onward to clueless speculations. The second stanza of the poem is to my mind, inscrutable. The poet seems to be unsatisfied with his own words, “A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion, / Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle / With words and meanings.” He’s attempted to expound the mysteries of the universe in poetry and he has failed.

He asks, “What was to be the value of the lone looked forward to, / Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity / And the wisdom of the age?” What is the point of the hoped for future? Of the calm days before the death of winter? Is the lie in the voice of the wisdom, or is the wisdom itself utterly deceived? “Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?”

Eliot seems to spend the next few lines waffling between a despair of the value of all old knowledge and a condemnation of his ability to see it. In the phrase, “At best, only a limited value / In the knowledge derived from experience. / The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies, / For the pattern is new in every moment.” He makes up his mind, he may not be able to grasp, or even trust, eternal truth, but the dance of life moves too quickly to trust more concrete, experience-won knowledge. He speaks again of deceiving, but only to say that the eternal wisdom only undeceives us of that which wasn’t worth knowing.

Yet, in this maze of deceiving and undeceiving, he steps once more into the wood between the worlds, and in that world “On the edge of the grimpen, where is no secure foothold, / And menaced by monsters, fancy lights, / Risking enchantment.” It is in this wood he finds his answer to the conflicts of many wisdoms. The secret is not lost in time, it is not found in experience or in the accomplishments of all sages. Rather, it is found in their folly, and through their folly, their humility.

Unlike all human strengths and musings, “humility is endless.”

When all the houses have fallen to dust, when all the dancers leave the wood, humility is all that remains.

Modesty

2010-01-07T12:55:00.000-08:00

There has been a question that has puzzled me for some time.

Why are so many religions so concerned with the behavior, dress, and morals of their women? The only two religions I can speak conclusively about are Islam and Christianity, so I shall stick with those.

In both these religions, women’s behavior, in some ways, define the virtue of the family. Islam sets the rules very strictly. A woman’s dishonor, even a woman’s momentary immodesty leads to the dishonor of her whole family. Because of this, codes for proper feminine behavior are extremely strict: clothes, occupations, speech, nothing escapes the law of order. Reading the Koran, it is easy to see how this set of behaviors came about. Three rules appear to govern the matter: 1) women are much more inclined to sin than men, 2) men are easily led into sin by women, and 3) all hope of heaven rests in one’s good deeds outweighing one’s bad deeds. Given this paradigm, it makes perfect sense that father’s and husbands guard their women’s dress and behavior ceaselessly lest a moment’s inattention damns both their daughter’s soul and the souls of the men around them. The best of the Muslim community insists on the modesty and proper behavior of their women for their own protection, honor, and care.

The best of the Christian emphasis on women’s behavior—specifically dress and modesty, I believe shares similar sentiments. Fathers love their daughters and want to spare them the humiliation of being ogled or thought little of. Yet, this simple assumption of fatherly concern does not explain the constant parade of sermons, books, articles, and even dire warnings about the never-ceasing importance of a lady’s modesty. In fact, the only Scripture that readily comments on the issue is fairly innocuous and merely forbids obvious signs of intemperance or (in context) lewd lifestyle. 1 Timothy 2:9-10 says, “Likewise also that women should adorn themselves in respectable apparel, with modesty and self-control, not with braided hair and gold or pearls or costly attire, but what is proper for women who profess godliness—with good works.” Even the model of all godly womanhood, the Proverbs 31 woman has no great mention made of her modesty. Rather it says she is clothed in strength and that all her household is garbed in the finest quality.

So, if the Scripture is vague—forbidding only extravagant or obviously lewd apparel, seeming even to commend a woman who can wear quality garments, why the sovereign importance laid on the issue in Christian circles? Especially evangelical ones?

I believe there are two primary reasons.

First, Protestantism in general and the Evangelical movement in particular are reactionary churches. They see a problem in the presiding church and community and take the opposite road. In the old Baptist movement, this meant a refusal to partake in things like alcohol, dancing, smoking, or cards. In the newer Evangelical movement, it has led to an emphasis on political action, specifically defending conservative values. This success in the political realm, depends, in large scale, in proving that it works. Conservative marriage, godly education, pro-life lifestyle, all these must be proved to function not only well, but better than the prevailing opinion. All of these functions depend largely on women: they must marry sensibly and for life, they must be prepared to raise up their children godly and conservative, and they must not sleep around or especially get pregnant, if they do, they must responsibly raise these children as well. In all, Christian daughters are the showcase on which the whole depends.

Second, it is a sexually promiscuous and dangerous age. There are countless ways for even the most innocent young woman to run into trouble. Children, boys and girls, are reaching sexual maturity younger and younger. Yet, with the evangelical emphasis on responsible, godly, and model marriage Christian youth are being required to delay marriage, and therefore, sexual gratification, longer and longer. Therefore, to keep all sexual purity and to further the cause of making the proper godly society, it is imperative that women do nothing to further provocate the already much worn masculine population. The Cause of righteousness and a good society are much too important to risk trusting the youth to behave morally when Christian and Secular society collude to make it as difficult as possible—keeping sexual images and acts always before young people’s minds while simultaneously telling them that for one sensible and moral reason or another that they may not marry.

De Tocqueville best summarizes the entire question. Tocqueville makes the case that women are primarily ruled by good principles, and as such, they are the ones that make the mores (or demeanor and attitude) of the culture. Women make order, and from that order comes prosperity. Conservatives realize this fact and therefore attempt to train their young women assiduously.

Yet, it should be noted, that Tocqueville says the greatest strength of American women is not that they are so strictly reared and guarded, but they that are taught to love virtue and live prudently for its own sake. Along with this, they are taught about the dangers of the world so that they are equipped to navigate it sensibly.

Christians, especially the conservative movement, highlights women’s modesty because they cannot complete their model of holiness or their mission for the culture. They have astutely realized De Tocqueville’s principle: women shape the mores. If Christianity can train their women thoroughly in their ideal model, they will eventually win. Therefore, Christians stress modesty far beyond any biblical backing for their interest.

East Coker -- II

2010-01-06T06:28:00.000-08:00

II

What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.

That was a way of putting it - not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us,
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge inposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
but all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rahter of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill.

East Coker I -- text

2010-01-04T06:14:00.001-08:00

I

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

East Coker I -- Marriage and the Mystery

2010-01-04T06:11:00.000-08:00

At the end of Burnt Norton, Eliot binds past, present, and future into one glorious Present. Yet, in the beginning of East Coker, he seems to reach a spiritual crisis—in sum, as he reconciles himself to a beginning he sees it as a death sentence. “In my beginning is my end” is the poet’s first cry, and from there he dissects the entire material world into their unbeautiful base elements.

It is a dismal picture—houses, homes, even in their genesis are reduced to dust. Old stone bows to the recycling of time and become earth, and all is reduced to “flesh, fur, and faeces.” He ends the first stanza in a depressed recitation of Ecclesiastes:

Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And a time to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots
And the shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto

It’s not pretty.

Yet, in the midst of this dim reflection on the ultimate death of all things the author has not given up hope. He faces this specter of death and works methodically towards the jobs and joys of this doomed moment. First, by breaking himself loose from the present vision he allows himself to once more hear the music of the spheres. “If you do not come to close, / On a summer midnight, you can hear the music / Of the weak pipe and the little drum.”

This music leads him to one of the most, arguably the most important human duty to the present life, “dancing around the bonfire, / The association of man and woman / in dausinge, signifying matrimonie-- / a dignified and commodious sacrament.” It is interesting to note that Eliot chose to refer to the ancient rite of marriage through the words of Edmund Spenser...a poet who in his Faerie Queen made it a point to ally the human dance of man and wife with the heavenly dance of Christ and Church. In “this two and two, necessarye coniunction,” Eliot sees both the hope for the present and the point of the future. United in earth, we live to be united with Christ. We unite in earth to show us how to unite in Christ.

This concord is born of the greatest of all celestial delights, yet is spun of the lowliest of earthly joys. Rustic joys: clumsy dancing and good earth, keeping the time and tasks of the seasons. Only here, does the author acquire the proper Ecclesiastical spirit where there is “the time of the seasons and the constellations / the time of milking and the time of harvest.”

In the single day of existence, he realizes there is always the hope of the new dawn. There is a preparation for the end, but even as he faces wrinkles and old age, Eliot says, “I am here / Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.”

Technique of Delight ( in"A Clear Midnight" )

2009-11-20T20:18:00.000-08:00

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,

Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,

Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,

Night, sleep, death, and the stars.

Walt Whitman, “A Clear Midnight”

From its first phrase, “A Clear Midnight” builds an aura of wonder. Whitman carefully develops the mood to lift the soul in contemplation. But, how does this short poem so easily move one to quiet meditation? The answer is elemental. Every letter is perfectly chosen to fit the mood of its line. After establishing the poem’s quiet, elevated mood in the first line, the next three lines move the reader from the excitement of activity to the peace of meditation. As a true master, Whitman uses the elements of sound and rhetorical devices to delight and inspire the reader’s own soul.

From the first clause, Whitman creates a hushed setting. Entirely lacking mute consonants, “This is thy hour O Soul” (line 1) impresses the reader with a quiet and gentle ambiance. While the liquid letters establish a peaceful tone for the poem, the words inspire a meditative mood in the reader. Whitman begins contemplation of abstract truth with a direct address to the intangible soul. Combined with soft sounds of the consonants and long vowels, the elevated language of “O Soul” works from the quiet setting and lifts the reader into meditation.

The rise is punctuated and confirmed by the emphasis on “flight.” In the first line, only “flight” ends with a consonantal mute, while the other words are full of vowels, liquids and semivowels. Even the other two stops in “into” and “wordless” are softened by vowels and gentler consonants. According to Mary Oliver, “Within a line, use of a mute sound is like a tiny swoon, a mini-caesura” (Oliver 61). As the reader is forced to pause at the end of the word, he is given time to picture the implied metaphor. The alliteration in “free flight” ties the words together and brings up the traditional metaphor of the soul as a dove. By using slightly more powerful letters in the second phrase, Whitman and further lifts the reader’s thoughts builds up his exhilaration.

The second line builds off this energy to move the reader out of pressures and distractions. With a long vowel in “away,” Whitman places a distance between the soul and the business of the day. This is also emphasized his avoidance of mentioning the word “soul” in the line. Without even a pronoun reference, the soul is completely disconnected from both the line and the demanding work it represents. Whitman establishes the day’s agitation with heavy mutes in “books” and “art.” The oppressive consonants build the feeling that if the soul does not escape, books and art will trample it. Whitman demonstrates this detachment with the line’s ending. As the d’s enclose “day erased,” one can see the whole day closed and put away just like a book. At midnight, the soul leaves all distractions and finishes the day. Even so, another mute consonant in “done” emphasizes the break from stress while the liquid n closes both the line and the reader’s mouth. Whitman builds up the antagonistic energy with the power of mutes and uses the visual absence of the soul to argue that, as in the line, the soul must break with the day’s pressure and fly away to the quiet of midnight to meditate.

After establishing the flight from the cares of the day, Whitman transitions back to the soul and its meditation by returning to the softer voiced “Thee” and “thou.” With the opening vowels and consonant clusters he presents a fall from the forceful energy in the second line. Mary Oliver explains that liquids “suggest softness, fluency, motion” while a mute “is an enforcer of the self-containment, and so the certainty, of what has been said” (Oliver 61). Thus, the rest of the line returns to the initial sense of quiet elation by swelling the energy from the opening th’s to the gentler g’s within “emerging” to the hard t’s closing “lovest best.” In the description of the soul, one word stands out from the parallel –ing suffixes. “Silent” is not only set apart from the balance, but its t ending also helps to elevate it above the rest of the line. Like “wordless” from the first line, it hits on the poem’s main point. When the soul is engaged in meditation, it has no words to describe the beauty it contemplates.

As it rebuilds a meditative mood, the third line also returns to a more cheerful attitude. Whitman develops the thoughtfulness by using increasingly more forceful words. Yet, even with more stops, as in “gazing” and “pondering,” only the t’s particularly stand out. As the line ends, several technical devices focus the reader’s attention on the last two words. Once again, the reader lingers over the words because of the mutes’ natural pause. Furthermore, the slight rhyme ties together “lovest best” and multiplies the impact of the pleasant word and positive superlative. These devices effect a happy feeling as the soul fully embarks on its journey of wondering meditation.

The poem’s upward flight reaches its crescendo in Whitman’s final line. Fittingly, each of the beginning three words has a natural punch from a consonantal mute. Since they are the substance of the soul’s contemplation, “night,” “sleep,” and “death” rightly stand out from the rest of the poem. The hard consonants, however, also set them apart from the rest of the line and emphasize their significance. But, the stops only symbolize the weight that each word carries in its own meaning and the silence inherent in each. Although the first few words of the line hit the reader with their quiet heaviness, Whitman does not leave the reader depressed and weighed down. Rather, he ends the poem on a pleasant note.

The very last word perfectly encapsulates Whitman’s excellent use of words and sounds. In the end, Whitman again lightens and elevates the mood by metaphorically lifting the reader’s gaze to “the stars.” The final word inspires the soul in its meditative hour to think of great things outside itself. Here is the full culmination of the poem as the reader saying the last a in “stars” physically drops his jaw like the soul in silent wondering meditation in “A Clear Midnight.” Thus, Whitman proves his masterful use of sounds and letters, which gives the poem its inspirational power and encourages the reader to join the soul’s contemplative wonder.

Works Cited

Oliver, Mary. Rules for the Dance: A Handbook for Writing and Reading Metrical Verse. Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1998.

Whitman, Walt. “A Clear Midnight.” From Leaves of Grass, 1900. Bartleby. 17 April 2006. http://www.bartleby.com/142/283.html

Happy Memories

2009-10-07T19:06:00.000-07:00

When Father Carves the Duck

E. V. Wright

We all look on with anxious eyes
When father carves the duck,
And mother almost always sighs
When father carves the duck;

Then all of us prepare to rise,
And hold our bibs before our eyes,
And be prepared for some surprise,
When father carves the duck.

He braces up and grabs a fork
Whene'er he carves a duck,
And won't allow a soul to talk
Until he's carved the duck.

The fork is jabbed into the sides,
Across the breast the knife he slides,
While every careful person hides
From flying chips of duck.

The platter's always sure to slip
When father carves a duck,
And how it makes the dishes skip!
Potatoes fly amuck!

The squash and cabbage leap in space,
We get some gravy in our face,
And father mutters a Hindoo grace
Whene'er he carves a duck.

We then have learned to walk around
The dining room and pluck
From off the window-sills and walls
Our share of father's duck.

While father growls and blows and jaws
And swears the knife was full of flaws,
And mother laughs at him because
He couldn't carve a duck.

HT: To Kristen, who introduced me to this poem.

Ten reasons to be in academia

2009-09-28T12:28:00.001-07:00

I will post something educational-philosophically-related one of these days, but a conversation earlier today inspired the following list (not in order of importance, necessarily):

Constant immersion in ideas (good, bad, or indifferent) from the wide range of human experience
Constant contact with people who also have constant contact with those ideas (meaning that one can actually converse with them instead of having to explain everything)
A heightened appreciation for ever-subtler jokes (mostly puns – and then there is Bales, which is not a purely intellectual reference)
Having the pleasure of talking about the stuff one enjoys every week while school is in session
Related to that, the pleasure of having people pay attention to what one says (mostly)
For those who tend towards the sadistic, there is the pleasure of wielding power embodied in the red pen
Professors have .edu email addresses. That sort of email address can get lots of fees lowered.
One can justify favorite books because “I’m doing research.” (provided one doesn’t have a mid-life crisis in the middle of a semester)
One can justify having shelves and shelves of books – they’re one’s livelihood, after all
One has access to ILL services!

The Venerable Bede

2009-09-16T13:57:00.000-07:00

I used to wonder what he ever did to earn that title, but after reading his book, I think I knew. Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People is a very precise, very accurate, sometimes dry, but also mystical exploration of the Church’s founding and history.

Bede’s history is rich in all the historical details—who was king when, which people groups moved where and when, who executed whom. But the real beauty of the work is the miraculous. The book is mystically top-heavy. Without the knowledge that Bede personally authenticated all his recorded accounts, and the knowledge that modern historians have been unable to discount any of them, one would assume that he was simply making up stories.

Incorruptible corpses, chips from tombs that cure diseases of all kinds, springs that burst forth from the ground where martyrs were slain, all occur repeatedly within its pages. In many ways it is an optimist’s version of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. It is a book about death, but an intrinsically hopeful view of death. Most of those mentioned die of natural causes—many of extreme old age. Most have lived lives of great piety and virtue, most are given visions of the exact time of their deaths. Their friends and compatriots are given visions of them escorted to heaven by angels of Christ himself. Death is inevitable, but it is either the gateway to eternal and everlasting beauty, or it is the gateway to misery beyond any human comprehension.

Amid the constant visions of heaven, one is forced to consider, do I take heaven seriously enough. Am I living as if I seriously consider that there is heaven and not reaching it is quite literally, “a fate worse than death.”

The more irreverent might wonder, “did those old Christians do anything besides die?” Well, they say “the blood of the saints is the seed of the Church” and Bede would prove them right. Every peaceful death of every Abbess, abbot, chaste queen, king turned monk, bishop, and eccentric laymen spurred on a new concentration of devotion and piety. Tentative lesson? Your manner of leaving life might be just as important as how you lived it. Now that is a thought to make one shudder.

We know how the saints died, but, how did they live? According to Bede, they lived by a code of constant self-denial, humility, chastity, study, and asceticism. In his praise of their lives there is a strong influence, and the accompanying weaknesses of Old-School Catholicism (such as if everyone was perfectly chaste producing the next generation might be a problem). But in a model that presents men and women who pursued the study of the world and Christ with never-ending fervor and willingly gave up meals two days a week to pray, at the very least one can’t complain about a measly getting up at 7:00 to go to church again. Protestants are quite amazing about how saying asceticism is unnecessary to true faith, but in reading Bede’s history I am forced to wonder what we are missing. Can 2000 years of church history be entirely wrong?

Bede’s work is readable, well-researched, convicting, and a thoroughly good read for anyone with any interest in church history or the balance between faith and reason.

Burnt Norton, Section V

2009-09-14T13:11:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it is a mistake to try and unravel the magic of Eliot in stages. He is complex, he is abstract, and one must believe that the imagery is consistent, but it is difficult to maintain that consistency when one is analyzing in long-separated sequences. However, we try.

Throughout this segment of the poem, Eliot has been working with the divided cohesion of time. All time, past, present and future, are all gathered together in one picture, one glimpse, in the now. This last segment continues that thread.
“Words move, music moves/Only in time.” With the abstract nature of the examples, he identifies objects that possess an odd immortality, yet the epitome of a temporal life form. Words and music live only as long as the breath that summons them. Only in print can they live beyond, and even that is dependent on the book that holds them and the eyes that read them. They live, like humans, but they can live beyond, much like an antiquity, such as a Chinese jar.

Does this analysis have a point? Good question. I’d love to hear the answer. Yet, with words and music and antiquity, “Only by the form, the pattern,/Can words or music reach the stillness” dare I say? Of eternity? Yet, how does one grasp those living words that stretch into eternity. Not the “still of the violin, while the note lasts” but the stillness of a co-existence that ties the present to eternity. Words, and lives, without this binding to eternity break, crack, and crumble unto the burden of finding and upholding meaning.

Yet, like any works of art, words of import cannot be fully at rest. They are active, and as they are active, they are strained—the more important the word, the greater the strain. “Shrieking voices/Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,/Always assail them. The Word in the desert/Is most attacked by voices of temptation”

In the last two stanzas, Eliot once more binds himself to the overarching theme of the dances of time—a dance that encompasses the beautiful, the terrible, and the ever changing, the “disconsolate chimera.”

This dance of time is solved and made in the manner of the movement. It isn’t the pattern, it is the steps. I do not have an understanding of the ten steps. It is the perfect number, perhaps the Ten Commandments, perhaps the ten steps to heaven of Jacob’s Ladder. Desire makes a pattern but it does not define the pattern, love cannot move, it must be acted on within the will, and the motive of the will is what dictates its movement in the dance. In the words of Eliot: ends do not justify the means, ends determine the value of the means.

The pattern of the movement, left to itself, is dead, it is limited by its entrapment in a single dimension. It is unbeing and being, and therefore stuck. One must see the forward and backward movement of time, but one cannot treat it like an ancient vase trapped in the present in a museum case that will stolidly be sent forward in time. The movement of time is not a still picture of academic interest. No, rather to live, it is like a “Sudden shaft of sunlight/Even while the dust moves/There rises the hidden laughter.” It is a lively, intricate, joyful and beautiful dance that we enter as children. Left as an academic exercise it is “Ridiculous the waste sad time/Stretching before and after.” But, it has the trademark of "hidden laughter/of children in the foliage."

Where is Eliot going and what was he doing? In Burnt Norton, Eliot stripped away the reader's unimaginative acceptance of the mere present. He challenges them to see the present as a rich continuation of the past, and both binding the future. In short, everything one does echoes all of the past and all of the future. No pressure. He furthers the challenge. Do not be burdened by this and be like the cowardly servant that was given a talent and then buried it. Rather approach this mysterious, powerful, and utterly beautiful whirligig of time like a dance, like a note on a violin, like dust motes in the a beam of light. Knowing this, is successfully reaching childhood.

The paradox, all we do has eternal weight, yet we cannot know all of what we do. As to the Eliot's own continuation? That waits for East Coker.

Without Excuse

2009-09-12T09:45:00.000-07:00

For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of men, who by their unrighteousness suppress the truth. For what can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made. So they are without excuse. For although they knew God, they did not honor him as God or give thanks to him, but they became futile in their thinking, and their foolish hearts were darkened. Claiming to be wise, they became fools, and exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images resembling mortal man and birds and animals and reptiles. (Romans 1:18-23, ESV)

In my Omnibus class this month, we are studying portions of Genesis, Exodus, the Epic of Gilgamesh, and the Code of Hammurabi, as well as some Egyptian history. My students, I am happy to report, are horrified at the wickedness of the ancient nations and are constantly pointing out how different the pagans are from the Jews. However, my reaction has been a little different. It is amazing how close the Egyptians and Mesopotamians were to the truth, and yet how far they strayed from it.

During our study of Genesis, we read the flood narratives from the book of Genesis and from The Epic of Gilgamesh. In The Epic of Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh meets Utnapishtim, who is the Noah figure of Sumerian mythology. The story of Utnapishtim and the flood is obviously mythical: Utnapishtim is warned about the flood by a god whispering through the reeds of his house, it takes Utnapishtim only one week to build his ark with the help of all his neighbors, and the earth was flooded for seven days. On the other hand, the story is a close parallel to the story of Noah, and many details are similar.

The part of the story that struck me the most came at the end of the flood, when Utnapishtim sends out three birds to look for dry land: first a dove, then a swallow, and finally a raven, who finds land and never comes back. Noah sends out a raven first, who does not return, and then he sends out a dove twice. The similarity of the detail is too striking: there are three birds, one of which is a dove and one of which is a raven. The Sumerians knew so much and were so far from God. Truly, they understood the significance of the flood, but they still refused to turn to the true God for salvation. They were without excuse and followed the foolish desires of their hearts.

Between Genesis and Exodus, we learned about the beliefs of the Egyptians in the Old Kingdom, who built the pyramids. The ancient Egyptians believed so strongly in life after death that their earthly life became a great preparation for the world to come. According to these people, each person had a ba (a soul) and a ka (a spiritual copy of the body). In order for a person to have a happy life in the afterworld, the body was mummified so that the ba and ka could recognize the person after death. Today, people think very little about life after death, and cremations are a popular option at funeral homes. However, as Christians we know that our bodies will be resurrected and perfected at Christ’s second coming. We have more authority than the Egyptians on life in the world to come, and yet we care less about our heavenly future and resurrection bodies.

Next week, my class will be comparing the law of Moses from Exodus with The Code of Hammurabi. The Code of Hammurabi, given by the king of Babylon around 1800 B.C., is famous for being the first written law code. Many of Hammurabi’s laws are similar to the laws in Exodus, reminding us of the passage in Romans 2:14-16:

“For when Gentiles, who do not have the law, by nature do what the law requires, they are a law to themselves, even though they do not have the law. They show that the work of God is written on their hearts, while their conscience also bears witness, and their conflicting thoughts accuse or even excuse them on that day when, according to my gospel, God judges the secrets of men by Christ Jesus.”

Even though Hammurabi did not receive a special revelation of the law from God like Moses did, he still saw much of the same truth, leaving him and his people without excuse.

Through all these instances, God has left knowledge of himself in the hearts of men. The Epic of Gilgamesh shows how oral histories passed down the story of the flood in Sumerian culture. The Egyptians realized the importance of the physical body in the world to come, and Hammurabi showed that God’s law is written on the hearts of men. Although the ancient peoples chose to ignore this knowledge of God, the signs are still there.

This summer, I was lamenting that I did not get to read medieval literature with my students. I enjoy medieval literature, because it is a Christian response to pagan literature and philosophy. However, I have realized in the last month that ancient literature still has a connection to Christianity: it shows the world that Christ came to save, and it shows clearly that men are without excuse. Once again, I am excited to be teaching about the ancient world.

Burnt Norton, Section 5

2009-08-28T19:19:00.000-07:00

V

Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.

The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always—
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.

Hear ye, hear ye!

2009-08-16T20:50:00.001-07:00

Announcing the boldest move in remembered history since 1066 (and all that). Little Audrey and friends have been working for years and are now prepared to publish A Memorable Philosophy: Containing the briefest summary of sophistry a sophomore can instantaneously recall.

Here's how it works, guys, choose your favorite (or anti-favorite) philosopher and write up a precise on his life and works. Usually discouraged, sources may be used if necessary to avoid plagiarism. Wit is preferred, but accuracy is not required. Tag post or comment submissions with the line "Memorable Philosophy." Dueling entries will be handed a pair of foils. Submissions will be evaluated, critiqued, and edited by a team of highly sophisticated professionals. The results will be compiled for the authors' pleasure. If it is any good, the editors will consider more lucrative options for publication.

If you have any questions, ask away.

This should give you the general idea:

Socrates

Socrates is the father of philosophy because, like any good founder, patriarch, or ancestor, he is best known for dying (thus initiating a long and glorious tradition of discussing the meaning of life).

Early in life, Socrates heard an oracle declaring him the wisest man. Convinced that this was wrong, Socrates set about to prove it right. Through the dialectic method, he succeeded in demonstrating both his ability to ask pointed questions and his talent for confusing the original point.

After hearing him declare, “One thing only I know, and that is that I know nothing,” the Athenians promptly convicted him of atheism and corrupting Nietzsche. Socrates appealed by asking for money and calling himself a fly, clearly showing that he had never known the man. Since the Athenians did not believe in executing the insane, they merely asked him to have a drink.

Unfortunately, Socrates later drank himself to death. Upon his deathbed Socrates revealed the nature of the human soul, secrets of the after life, and the first rule of morality, “et tu brute,” meaning “eat true bread” (often mistranslated “drat you brute!”). The most important of these insights were, however, lost with the island of Atlantis.

Burnt Norton, Section III, and IV

2009-08-11T13:41:00.000-07:00

Long overdue they are, but here be the analysis of Burnt Norton Sections III and IV.  Good news, we are almost to East Coker.

A recurring theme of the work seems to be “time present and time past” the contemplation of the past accompanied, or inspired by, the swift-flowing insolvency of the present. While the present is vivid, it is moving too swiftly to provide rest or answers. The past, is captured in staccato images—images that mix the beatific with the mundane, “garlic and sapphires in the mud.” Artistically, there is nothing to capture the poet in the past or the present; he must chase the future. Here, “is a place of disaffection…neither daylight / investing form with lucid stillness / nor darkness to purify the soul.” The scene is reminiscent of Dante’s Paradise for Pagans. There is a loveliness to it, but the scene is haunted by an incompleteness, a sense that so much more beauty would be possible, if you could only see the Sun. But, there is hope, this poet can and will strive for the Son. In an almost Siddharthic cleansing, the empty whirl of time and image are “emptying the sensual with deprivation / cleansing affection from the temporal / neither plenitude nor vacancy.”

Also, as in Limbo, the poet is not alone. In the congestion of nothing he is accompanied by people—or is it memories?—all filled with the same yearning, yet chasing it in different directions. “Distracted from distraction by distraction” like an over-caffeinated student writing a paper in the early morning, they get distracted from the bunny trails to chase the bunny trails, all the while forgetting that they were supposed to be hunting bear. They are reduced to “Men and bits of paper, whirled by a cold wind / that blows before and time after.” They yearn for the future, they can’t escape the past, but they so frantically chase the present that they drive themselves into the echoing dark. The wind of the present sweeps through London, consequently through all the world. Yet still, it is not an entirely unfriendly wind, or an empty darkness, “this twittering world” is still alive.

As the wind leaves London, so the poet leaves the present, physical world. He leaves the crowd, leaves the light, and descends from Limbo to the world that isn’t even a world—one might even say hell—the place of no light, no substance, no senses, no company, no spirit, not even an imagination—truly hell for the poet. The hell is not like Dante’s, not one of an excess of sensitivity, but an absence of all things. By an absolute stillness “while the world moves / in appetency, on its metalled ways / of time past and time future.”

But while the poet descends to the depths, where is “the twittering world”? It continues on, by custom and the natural order, where “time and the bell have buried the day.” This nightfall of sunfall will not follow the poet into the Stygian depths. The sunflower does not worship the ground, and the clematis clings only to the tallest trees. Yew, the ever-faithful wood, even it refuses to follow. Yet one thing of the natural world remains….the light still remains.

Sir Walter Scott

2009-08-10T11:37:00.000-07:00

For your amusement, we present two short passages from Sir Walter Scott. This first excerpt is from Ivanhoe.

"Wert thou not in presence yester-even," said De Bracy, "when we heard the Prior Aymer tell us a tale in reply to the romance which was sung by the Minstrel?—He told how, long since in Palestine, a deadly feud arose between the tribe of Benjamin and the rest of the Israelitish nation; and how they cut to pieces well-nigh all the chivalry of that tribe; and how they swore by our blessed Lady, that they would not permit those who remained to marry in their lineage; and how they became grieved for their vow, and sent to consult his holiness the Pope how they might be absolved from it; and how, by the advice of the Holy Father, the youth of the tribe of Benjamin carried off from a superb tournament all the ladies who were there present, and thus won them wives without the consent either of their brides or their brides' families."

"I have heard the story," said Fitzurse, "though either the Prior or thou has made some singular alterations in date and circumstances."

The second excerpt is from The Talisman, and is a footnote appended to an Islamic hymn. HT to Kristen for suggesting the passage.

The worthy and learned clergyman by whom this species of hymn has been translated desires, that, for fear of misconception, we should warn the reader to recollect that it is composed by a heathen, to whom the real causes of moral and physical evil are unknown, and who views their predominance in the system of the universe as all must view that appalling fact who have not the benefit of the Christian revelation. On our own part, we beg to add, that we understand the style of the translator is more paraphrastic than can be approved by those who are acquainted with the singularly curious original. The translator seems to have despaired of rendering into English verse the flights of Oriental poetry; and, possibly, like many learned and ingenious men, finding it impossible to discover the sense of the original, he may have tacitly substituted his own.

Burnt Norton, Section III, and IV

2009-07-16T11:26:00.000-07:00

Analysis to follow, by the Grace of God.

III

Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.

Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Desiccation of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movement; while the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.

IV

Time and the bell have buried the day,
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?

Chill
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.

The Seven Mechanical Arts

2009-07-15T14:23:00.000-07:00

Hugh of St. Victor explains the Seven Mechanical Arts in his book, Didascalion: Concerning the Art of Reading. Basically, the Didascalion is the How to Read a Book of the twelfth century. In it, Hugh provides instruction for the students entering the school of the monastery of St. Victor in Paris. The first half of the work covers the twenty-one arts, how to study them, and what to read concerning them. The second half of the work deals with Scripture and other sacred writings. Among the twenty-one arts, Hugh includes the Seven Mechanical Arts: fabric making, armament, commerce, agriculture, hunting, medicine, and theatrics.

Fabric making is all kinds of weaving, braiding, sewing, twisting, etc. with materials of wool, flax, hemp, jute, hide, etc. to make clothes, sails, coverings, sacks, etc. (This is the short summary; Hugh’s list is quite extensive.)

Armament originally meant weapons, but through a lengthy etymology, Hugh shows that this science applies to the making of all tools or instruments. Thus, armament has two divisions: constructional and craftly. Constructional armament includes building houses and walls. Craftly armament includes everything that is made in the forge or foundry.

Next up is commerce. It’s just what you think it is: all buying and selling of goods both foreign and domestic.

Moving on to agriculture, we find four types of land: arable, used for sowing; plantation, used for trees and vineyards; pastoral, used for sheep and cattle; and floral, used for gardens and roses.

All hunting is divided into three parts: gaming, fowling, and fishing. Hugh also includes all preparation of food by cooking. He notes that there are two kinds of food: bread and side dishes (everything else).

The two studies of medicine are occasions and operations. Occasions are the six reasons for good or bad health: air, motion and quiet, emptiness and satiety, food and drink, sleep and wakefulness, and reactions of the soul. All operations are interior (medicine) or exterior (surgery).

Finally, Hugh comes to theatrics. Theatrics contains all types of public entertainment, including sports.

The Seven Mechanical Arts are so-called because they contain all things produced by human artifice. Hugh sees these arts as lesser than the Seven Liberal Arts because the Liberal Arts require the use of the mind, whereas the Mechanical Arts require the use of the body. For Hugh, the body is inherently inferior to the mind, and the great goal in life is to move beyond the body (he does lean towards Gnosticism). Hugh recommends the study of the Mechanical Arts, but prefers the Liberal Arts, since he believes that they renew the image of God in man.

Work Cited

Hugh of St. Victor. The Didascalion of Hugh of St. Victor: A Medieval Guide to the Arts. Translated by Jerome Taylor. New York: Columbia University Press, 1991.

Delights of "A Clear Midnight"

2009-07-10T19:59:00.000-07:00

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,

Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,

Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,

Night, sleep, death, and the stars.

Walt Whitman, “A Clear Midnight”

From its first phrase, “A Clear Midnight” builds an aura of wonder. Whitman carefully develops the mood to lift the soul in contemplation. But, how does this short poem so easily move one to quiet meditation? Elements are the key. Every letter is perfectly chosen to fit the mood of a line. After establishing the poem’s quiet, elevated mood in the first line, the next three move the reader from the excitement of activity to the peace of meditation. A true master, Whitman uses the elements of sound and rhetorical devices to delight and inspire the reader’s own soul.

In the first clause, Whitman creates a hushed setting. Entirely lacking mute consonants, “This is thy hour O Soul” (line 1) impresses the reader with a quiet and gentle ambiance. While the liquid letters establish a peaceful tone for the poem, the words inspire a meditative mood in the reader. Whitman begins contemplation of abstract truth with a direct address to the intangible soul. Combined with soft sounds of the consonants and long vowels, the elevated language of “O Soul” works from the quiet setting and lifts the reader into meditation.

Works Cited

Oliver, Mary. Rules for the Dance: A Handbook for Writing and Reading Metrical Verse. Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1998.

Whitman, Walt. “A Clear Midnight.” From Leaves of Grass, 1900. Bartleby. 17 April 2006. http://www.bartleby.com/142/283.html

The Tragicomedy of Victor Hugo

2009-07-08T10:01:00.000-07:00

I have not yet read Les Miserables in its entirety. This probably counts as a personal failing for a Literature major, but there stands the awful truth. I have, however, read most of it and listened to the musical several dozen times. I’ve just finished reading The Hunchback of Notre Dame, Victor Hugo’s other great work. While Les Mis is celebrated in music, verse, and movies, Hunchback exists in relative obscurity. Some argue it was written simply because Hugo wanted an excuse to write a travel book for Paris and the Bell Ringer of Notre Dame had a useful perspective.

Yet, as I read it, it occurred to me that they are almost the same story, yet one is driven by virtue and ends as a comedy, while the other is driven by vice and ends as a tragedy. Both figure the rejects of society. Jean Valjean, a convict, and Quasimodo, a cripple with little power of speech—both are feared and despised, and both, coincidently, are given shelter by churchmen. Yet while the bishop forgives Valjean his faults and urges him towards a higher life and serve humanity, the priest of Hunchback urges Quasimodo to shun the world, to seek only his company and to flee his humanity.

This is the first great break of the novel. Valjean’s sense of his forgiveness and love of people leads him to compassion for Fantine, to adopt Cossete, and save Marius’ life. Quasimodo’s inexperience and fear starves him of affection so deeply that when he loves, he loves as one obsessed, he has no way to form friendship with either the priest or Phoebus, the young soldier, and as a result dooms the one he loves, the dancer Esmeralda.

Esmeralda stands as the equivalent of Cossete. But where Cossete chooses to obey her father and submit to an external rule. Esmeralda is entirely guided by her passions—most powerfully, her infatuated love of Phoebus. But where Cossete recognizes a higher law than that love, Esmeralda will sacrifice honor, family, and culture for Phoebus’ whim. Cossete is rewarded with a loving husband and a good marriage, while Esmeralda meets tragedy. Fantine and Esmeralda’s mother also have interesting parallels, but I would hate to reveal all the plot twists.

Finally, there are the young men of the story. Phoebus is a young braggart who lives only for his own pleasure. He seduces Esmeralda in the night, but refuses to acknowledge her existence by daylight. Even when she stands falsely accused for his attempted murder. He wants a rich wife to secure his own comfort and promotion-he knows no higher goal. Marius, though young and headstrong, lives to serve: his country, his family, and soon, Cossete. While Phoebus only takes, Marius can’t wait to offer up his own life.

There are numerous other parallels, Javier and Frollo’s sense of justice, the convict versus the gypsy in society, the treatment of fallen and holy women and the similarities thereof, but those I leave to your discovery.

Five Favorite Picture Books

2009-06-26T13:23:00.000-07:00

Inspired by a book meme and my recent trip down memory lane to the children’s section of the public library, here are my five favorite children’s picture books:

1. Roxaboxen. Written by Alice McLerran and illustrated by Barbara Cooney.

Barbara Cooney is quite possibly my favorite children’s illustrator of all time. Her vivid watercolors evoke a sense of a better world in days gone by. However, Alice McLerran’s story is the real reason I love this book. A small group of children create an imaginary town in the desert, complete with stores, currency, and a mayor. I always wanted to live in Roxaboxen and have my own house, edged with white stones and desert glass.

2. Tikki Tikki Tembo. Retold by Arlene Mosel and illustrated by Blair Lent.

I first remember hearing Tikki Tikki Tembo at the age of five years old, when my teacher at BSF read it to our class. This retelling of a Chinese legend quickly became a household favorite. After all, who wouldn’t want to repeat Tikki-tikki tembo-no sa rembo-chari bari ruchi-pip peri pembo over and over again? We always made our babysitter read it to us and gave her a copy when she got married last summer.

3. Bored—Nothing to Do! Written and illustrated by Peter Spier.

I think Bored—Nothing to Do! is my mom's favorite children’s book. Illustrated in detailed watercolors, Peter Spier tells the story of two brothers who were bored and end up tearing the house apart to build an airplane. I always marveled at the number of toys the boys had strewn all over their room and yard – how could they still be bored? Sadly, this book is now out of print and nearly impossible to find.

4. The Tooth-Gnasher Superflash. Written and illustrated by Daniel Pinkwater.

If you’re starting to get the impression that we watched too much Reading Rainbow as kids, you’re right. The Tooth-Gnasher Superflash sat on our shelf until our grandpa came to visit and gave each of the characters a funny voice. The book became an instant hit, as we went around the house chanting in high voices, “Buy it, Daddy, buy it!” (the five little Popsnorkles) and remarking in an airhead voice “It is a lovely color” (Mrs. Popsnorkle). Besides enjoying the characters, we thought it would be cool to have a car that turned into a giant chicken, too.

5. Could Be Worse! Written and illustrated by James Stevenson.

This tale of a fantastic nightmare has the refrain, “Could be worse!” Another of our read-aloud favorites, we made our babysitter read it over and over again. As she got to the familiar refrain, we would always chime in, “Could be worse!” (Our babysitter probably said this often to herself as my siblings and I climbed on each other and locked ourselves in closets for protection.)

What were some of your favorite picture books?

Playing with alliteration

2009-06-13T06:08:00.000-07:00

(Because I don't know when I will gather time to write the post I've had in mind about women, Yeats, and Memoirs of a Geisha.)

Sunday Meditation

Laud love's last work--
cross-crushed king cast
low, lately come and
quickly coming, crowned
conqueror. Long labors
laid by in lasting keep
of quickened creatures
let loose to love's labors laud.

Meadowlark Lane

2009-06-11T12:45:00.000-07:00

The policemen put a speed trap
next to the hills beside the Hamilton exit,
so I always hit the brakes when I see the sign
for Meadowlark Lane.

It's the "T" that runs from the frontage road
along business 7 into the little dell
with five houses, two stables,
and a stone footbridge.

When I get caught in a traffic jam during
the evening commute, my mind often wanders,
passing the time by planning a picnic
on a new-mown lawn.

I found the lane once with a friend
as we drifted a little farther than usual
down the walking trail after dinner
on a Sunday afternoon.

One day, I hope we'll drive over
to buy the house with the stone footbridge
so we can have our tea on Meadowlark Lane
where time travels by footsteps.

Criticism welcome.

Roma Aeterna

2009-06-09T06:47:00.000-07:00

In this final sonnet, Longfellow skillfully portrays Dante’s dual vision of salvation. Influenced by Virgil, Dante dreams of a political salvation that comes from Rome and spreads over the world. However, Dante also looks for a spiritual salvation (portrayed in the sestet) that comes from God through the Roman Catholic Church.

In this sonnet, the octave refers primarily to political salvation. Political strife is a dominant theme of the Comedy, running from the disreputable Florentines in Inferno to a prophecy of Dante’s exile in Paradiso. The earliest expression of Dante’s political vision is found in the works of Virgil. In the Aeneid, Aeneas’ mission is to return to the home of his ancestors (Italy) and found a new Troy. This Troy will be greater than the former city, conquering the Greeks, Carthaginians, and all the peoples of the world.

Virgil believed that the might of Rome would usher in a Golden Age, where peace would reign and wars would be no more. He first wrote of this age in his Fourth Eclogue, which speaks of the birth of a child who would bring peace to the world. This theme is continued in Book VI of the Aeneid, where the child is given a name – Marcellus. In the underworld, Aeneas sees the future glory and heroes of Rome.

Virgil is especially fit to be Dante’s guide – not just because he has written about a journey to the underworld before, but because he and Dante share a similar vision of political salvation. Peace will spread from Rome to Italy and then over the whole earth.

This vision of political salvation was particularly poignant in Longfellow’s day. After the fall of Rome in 476 A.D., Italy was divided into several kingdoms. These kingdoms were frequently at war with each other, and although Dante and others dreamed of a unified Italy, this dream did not come to fruition until the middle of the nineteenth century. Longfellow was among the first to see the fulfillment of Dante’s political vision.

Closely tied to Dante’s political salvation is the spiritual salvation shown through the Roman Catholic Church. This comes from the book of Acts, which chronicles the spread of the early church. In Acts 1:8, Christ tells the apostles, “But ye shall receive power, after that the Holy Ghost is come upon you; and ye shall be witnesses unto me both in Jerusalem, and in all Judea, and in Samaria, and unto the uttermost part of the earth” (KJV). In Acts 2, the Holy Spirit enters the apostles at Pentecost, and they preach to all the peoples gathered at Jerusalem, each in his own tongue. This spiritual salvation is reflected in the sestet, where Longfellow uses images of wind to represent the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. The last three lines of the sestet describe the preaching of God’s word, which brings spiritual salvation to the nations (VI.12-14).

Dante’s vision of salvation is both political and spiritual. In one sense, he is seeking to create heaven on earth, with peace spreading from Rome as the new Jerusalem. He is trying to recreate the Holy Roman Empire of Constantine, where the world is united under one government and one religion. However, Dante’s vision of salvation is not limited to this present life, for he also looks for the spiritual kingdom that will be established in the second coming of Christ (VI.4). Both these kingdoms, Dante believes, will bring peace to the world.

Sonnet VI: Paradiso

2009-06-08T06:58:00.000-07:00

O star of morning and of liberty!
O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines
Above the darkness of the Apennines,
Forerunner of the day that is to be!
The voices of the city and the sea,
The voices of the mountains and the pines,
Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines
Are footpaths for the thought of Italy!

Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights,
Through all the nations, and a sound is heard,
As of a mighty wind, and men devout,
Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes,
In their own language hear thy wondrous word,
And many are amazed and many doubt.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Review - Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt, and Christ the Lord: The Road to Cana

2009-06-05T08:08:00.000-07:00

Anne Rice is living proof that studying vampires leads to Christ. At least, that is a simplistic way of describing this contemporary author's spiritual and literary journey. Rice is well credentialed in historic fiction through a plethora of books dripping with vampires, blood, and intense sense experiences.[*] But, according to her testimony,[†] this research expertise helped her move back from a liberal and almost atheistic perspective to a spiritual reconciliation with the church. As her research focus moved back in time, Rice realized that her inquiries revolved around the development of Christianity. "Ultimately, the figure of Jesus Christ was at the heart of this obsession."[‡] Within the last few years, she published two novels in a series on Christ The Lord, namely, Out of Egypt, and The Road to Cana. Together they present a well-known character writer's foray into the fathomless question, "Who is Christ the Lord?"

For the most reliable history of Jesus' life on earth, the gospels would certainly make a better start. This is fiction, after all. Well researched, and grounded, yes, but not a systematic theology. As fiction, Christ the Lord reveals at least as much about the character of its author as its subject. The series is richly draped with literary, emotional, and historic development. Coming from a liberal academic social climate, Rice encompassed the remotest regions of doctrine and speculation in her research. No source could be too avant-guarde, too bizzare, or too traditional, not even Islamic authors. Unfortunately, like the Lord she portrays, Rice suffers some theological confusion in her steps to reconciliation. While her open perspective on research allows her to incorporate a variety of creative situations, the incorporation of apocryphal stories and substantial hint of Roman Catholic doctrine both provide footholds for denominational criticism. Nevertheless, a reasonable suspension of disbelief and some Christian charity can open the door to the depth of insight Rice offers.

Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt just slightly outdoes its sequel in establishing a living context with the major events in Jesus' early life. Rice's research and conjecture take her plot far beyond the meager facts of Scripture. She easily weaves in obscure gospel personalities to create the intricacy and intimacy of ancient family relationships. Then she spins the plot through the most formative events Jesus might have encountered as a child. Embarking from Alexandria, Rice's characters face the challenge of moving out of the base Hellenistic philosophy back into the pervasive Hebrew culture. The natural change from Greek to Hebrew or Aramaic dialogue is one notably historical and appropriate literary device she uses in the transition. Through dozens of other references, allusions, and events, the characters proceed to reveal the detail and meaning for rituals, contemporary strains of philosophy, and the political problems of the day. Thus, Rice helps the modern reader to a better understanding of tumultuous Jewish life.

Like the first book, Christ the Lord: The Road To Cana builds from a thorough grounding in ancient Hebrew customs and values. With more Scriptural details about his later life, however, the sequel naturally adds another level of theological development. In Out of Egypt Rice delves into the progressive recognition the Christ child might have experienced in discovering himself. Though on the border of orthodoxy, Rice's Jesus performs miracles, struggles with obedience, and even suffers disease, all in the most realistic vision of growing "in wisdom and in stature, and in favor with God and men." The Road To Cana adds a more mature perspective appropriate for the one who is fully God and fully man. Though the protagonist is unlike any other, Anne Rice is one of the few authors capable of making this divinity truly human. And, it is this profound insight into the godhead that makes her story particularly worth reading.

With good reason Rice is also a popular author. Having developed a talent for narrating intense sensory experience, she uses the full gift to develop scenes of temptation and reveal the intellectual and spiritual power in Christ's character. Even if one knows how it will all play out, this emotional development adds an engaging layer over the books' dry facts of lifestyle and theology. A mature believer may well appreciate this spicy crust covering the hefty meat. For a casual seeker, on the other hand, Rice's vibrant mental and material worlds may be the one temptation to taste more serious questions. Either way, it would be worthwhile, if only because it makes one continue to ponder, "Who is Christ the Lord?"

[*] "It's been my delight that no matter how many supernatural elements were involved in the story, and no matter how imaginative the plot and characters, the background would be thoroughly historically accurate." Anne Rice, “Author’s Note” in Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt (Ballantine Books: New York, 2006), 321.
[†] Ibid.
[‡] Ibid.

Planet Narnia

2009-06-02T17:16:00.003-07:00

This particular post may go down in history as a case study in “why one should not attempt to write sensible things while sick.” But then again, it may not, so we shall see how it turns out.

Let it be known in advance that virtually nothing I am about to say is original to me. All thoughts were called from Matthew Ward’s article in Touchstone entitled, “Narnia’s Secret: The Seven Heavens of the Chronicles Revealed.” If you want to read more by him, I suggest his book, Planet Narnia.

In his article, Ward is attempting to explain a question that has been puzzling Lewis critics for years—what is the central theme that ties all the Chronicles together? Lewis was a powerful and organized writer, more he was a medievalist, all things tie together in a universal system. Yet, he drew from all sorts of classical traditions and myths: Father Christmas, a snow queen, E. Nesbit, classical mythology, even a few Norse symbols. Critics have argued for several binding themes: an analysis of the seven deadly sins, the seven Roman Catholic sacraments, and a miniaturized version of the Faerie Queen. None of them have been particularly convincing. Lewis himself said that the entire series was about Christ –an assertion that has led to more than a little confusion. Ward argues for a different interpretation—that the theme that binds all seven books together is nothing more than and extension of the gods of the seven heavens of medieval cosmology.

“Wait,” one might ask, “how does a set of pagan gods show Christ?” Well, that gets a little complicated. One of the major extension of Lewis’ writing is the essentialness of God—his overlookability. To Lewis, Christ is in all things; Christ is the obvious center of the entire world, the element that allows us to enjoy anything, to think about God, to see any beauty. Christ is, in fact, so utterly obvious that we are oblivious to his presence. Add to this, his theory of what made excellent literature was not its characters or stories, but how successfully it wove its atmosphere. An essential part of this atmosphere, to him, was a hidden element, a kappa stone that binds the entire work together. This hidden element may be nothing, but it is everything to the work. Finally, Lewis wrote a treatise on how to convey Christianity in literature, one of the methods he argued for was a pattern of transferred classicism, in which Christ is portrayed in the manner of a mere god of classical tradition. Christ is God, above all gods, but can also be portrayed within the pattern of the classical deities. Hopefully, that was not excessively tangential.

Ward presents quite a compelling picture for viewing each of the Chronicles as manifesting a specific planetary deity. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe portrays Jupiter, or Jove. Prince Caspian personifies Mars, and The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is the Sun. The Silver Chair shows the Moon, while Horse and His Boy shows Mercury. Finally, the prequel and the sequel, The Magician’s Nephew and The Last Battle display Venus and Saturn respectively.

First, Jove. Jove is the king of all gods and from his name comes the English word “jovial.” He is a merry master of all. In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, the line of Narnian kings is established once and for all. “Once a king or queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen of Narnia. Those that take the thrones reign eternally. Jupiter is also the god that punishes winter. Jove is the one that beats it back to its cage and brings the joy of spring. The way this motif manifests in the books should be fairly obvious.
There is also the concept of death and blood for redemption—namely Aslan’s death for Edmund. Jupiter is called “the bleeding planet” because winter and darkness are exiled through Jove’s giving of his own blood. Through his sacrifice, the world is redeemed. In the Arthurian cycle, Jove gave of his body to defend Pellets. It is in this spirit if Joviality that Lewis brings in Father Christmas, the sacrificial death of Aslan, and even Peter’s exclamation, “By Jove!” when he first enters Narnia.

Don’t worry, gentle reader, all seven won’t take quite that long. In Prince Caspian the story is about a rightful king taking his take back his kingdom by force—appropriately, Mars is the god of war. Also, Mars is Mars Silvanus the god of the woods, maybe even the woods that the children both appeared from and spent most of the book travelling through. Arboreal imagery appears throughout the novel. Silvans, a beast that appear in no other book, appear at the final battle, Miraz frets over his martial o policy, Reepicheep is the most martial of all creatures, and the object that proves that children are in Narnia? A knight.

Voyage of the Darn Treader is a quest towards the rising run: Aslan appears out of a sun to Lucy, Aslan as an albatross flies out of a sunbeam. God, the metal of the sun, appears throughout the story--a man turned into gold and Eustace trapped by a gold armband. Even the dying dragons are taken from Apollo, the sun god, and lizard slayer.

Fittingly, the book that shows the Moon follows on the heels of the book on the Sun. In The Silver Chair, Aslan only appears in his own country, on earth he can only be known by signs and dreams, automatically making the night mistress of the day for a time. The moon in Latin is luna root of our word “lunatic.” Prince Rilian is a lunatic who must be freed from silver chair—silver being the metal of the moon. Even the names of the horses, Coalblack and Snowflake, are drawn from the names of the horses that pull the Moon’s chariot in Spenser’s Faerie Queen. Even more complicated, the whole book portrays the medieval model of the great divide between the realm of certainty and the realm of confusion, a divide shown in their travels in the overland and the underworld.

The Horse and His Boy is Mercury, the messenger of the gods. It concerns a tale of two twins, “meeting selves, same but sundered.” Twins who is recognizable as Castor and Pollux, the Horseman and the Boxer of Homer’s Iliad and The Twins, a constellation in the house of Mercury. Lewis even takes the time to let us know that the helmet of one of the Narnian lord’s helmet is marked with the sign Mercury, a metal helmet with wings on either side.

As the only lady of the deific constellation, Venus is the goddess over the book of life, The Magician’s Nephew. The book speaks of laughter and joy in the creation of the world and the fun of “The First Joke.” Motherhood, as Digory fights to save his mother, and Helen is the first queen, and in some ways, the mother of Narnia. Even her name, Helen, harkens back to Helen of Troy, whose troubles began with Venus. Warmth and beauty are in the Wood Between the Worlds and the new-born Narnia. Also, the apples that give life hearken back to the Apple of Hesperides. More ominously, Jadis is the anti-Venus, she is in the model of Ishtar, a goddess who reigned by a powerful use of her sex and pride. Charn in described as “the great city” an allusion to Nineveh, the stronghold of Ishtar’s worship.

Finally, there is The Last Battle and if you are still reading, my hat is off to you. The Last Battle is ruled by Saturn, the god of ill-chance, treachery, and death. Aslan does not appear until all the main characters are dead. Here, God is portrayed as the God who is seen most clearly in abandonment and loss. In this story, Father Time, who was originally based on Saturn, is the great leveler. In this book, loyalty costs life, and betrayal brings madness. In this book, righteousness bears the ultimate price.

Whether it is a true analysis or not, I do not know, I am re-reading the series to find out. But in any case, it fits the medieval pattern that C.S. Lewis both knew, and was known to respect. It is in any case, very interesting and illuminating.

Ubi Caritas et Amor

2009-06-02T07:17:00.000-07:00

Now that Dante has ascended to heaven, Longfellow looks up to the stained glass windows of the church. In medieval times, stained glass windows were used to teach the common people Bible stories, since the commoners often could not read. The saints in heaven teach Dante about Christian love and virtue. Longfellow, instead of seeing the saints in heaven, sees them in the stained glass windows and imagines that he is hearing their stories.

The centerpiece of the cathedral is the rose window, which depicts the glorification of Christ. In the primum mobile, the outermost sphere of Dante’s Paradise, the saints are arranged in the shape of a rose. This rose, and indeed all of heaven, blazes with a glorious light. Beatrice ascends to join her place in the rose, and smiles on Dante at last – he could not bear the bliss and glory of her heavenly smile before.

After describing the sights of heaven in the octave, Longfellow describes the sounds of heaven in the sestet. All the saints and all creation join in praise to God. Their worship is supported by organ and choir and bells, all united to proclaim the mystery and wonder of Christ’s sacrifice. This sestet demonstrates a portion of the bliss, joy, and excitement experienced by the communing saints in heaven.

In keeping with his ecclesiastical theme, Longfellow echoes the order of the liturgy in his sonnets.* Sonnets III and IV both contain a confession of sins and God’s pardon. Liturgical services begin with a public confession, followed by a plea for God’s mercy in the Kyrie. Not only is this order fitting for a cathedral service, but it is the pattern of all Christian life. Confession ought always to precede salvation and thanksgiving to God.

The Kyrie is followed by praise to God in the Gloria. Longfellow depicts the joyful praise of the church in V.9-11. Although Longfellow does not specifically mention the Gloria, he is probably thinking of it, because this service is full of Latin hymns (V.10). Latin hymns appear quite often in Dante – most particularly in Purgatory when the souls sing psalms as they ascend the mount of Purgatory. In the ordinary of the mass, the Gloria is followed by the Credo – a recitation of the Nicene Creed. This is also a confession – not of sin, but of belief in God.

The high point of the mass is the celebration of the Eucharist. After praying over the bread and wine, the priest lifts them to heaven (“the elevation of the Host,” V.14). All the bells ring as the Sanctus is sung. The Sanctus is a hymn, taken from heavenly worship services in Isaiah 6 and Revelation 4. It is a fitting close to this first sonnet on Paradise.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth!
Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria tua.
Hosanna in excelsis!

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts!
Heaven and earth are full of your glory.
Hosanna in the highest!

* HT to Emily for asking about speech patterns in the sonnets, which made me think about a liturgical order.

Sonnet V: Paradiso

2009-06-01T15:23:00.000-07:00

I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze
With forms of Saints and holy men who died,
Here martyred and hereafter glorified;
And the great Rose upon its leaves displays
Christ's Triumph, and the angelic roundelays,
With splendor upon splendor multiplied;
And Beatrice again at Dante's side
No more rebukes, but smiles her words of praise.

And then the organ sounds, and unseen choirs
Sing the old Latin hymns of peace and love
And benedictions of the Holy Ghost;
And the melodious bells among the spires
O'er all the house-tops and through heaven above
Proclaim the elevation of the Host!

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Beata Beatrix

2009-05-28T07:00:00.000-07:00

Of all the sonnets, the fourth sonnet is most specific to a scene in the Divine Comedy. This sonnet describes Dante’s meeting with Beatrice, at the climax of Purgatory. In the third sonnet, Dante watched the other sinners ascend the mount of Purgatory and confess their sins. Now it is time for Dante to internalize his lessons and confess his own sins.

Like the other sonnets, the distinction between the octave and the sestet is significant. The octave depicts Beatrice in all her heavenly glory, calling Dante to confession. She reminds him of his sins, and Dante weeps in anguish. In the sestet, Dante repents and receives pardon for his sins. Now that the burden of sin has been lifted, he is free to ascend with Beatrice to the heights of heaven.

Unlike the other sonnets, this sonnet contains four notable pairs of concepts: the veil and flame, the passion and woe, Lethe and Eunoe, and pardon and peace.

The first pair is fond in line 1: “With snow-white veil and garments as of flame.” This description of Beatrice as she stands before Dante is taken directly from the Comedy. John Ciardi notes that Beatrice’s garments symbolize the three theological virtues: faith is white, hope is green, and love is red (Ciardi 552). It is Beatrice’s faith and love that cause her to rebuke Dante, and faith and love allow Dante to confess his sins.

Next comes the “passion and the woe” of the young poet Dante (IV.3). Dante is Longfellow’s Virgil in these sonnets (cf. III.2), and Longfellow is taking a typically Dantean digression to praise his master. Longfellow also praised Dante’s passion and woe earlier in the second sonnet: “What passionate outcry of a soul in pain, / Uprose this poem of the earth and air, / This mediæval miracle of song!” (II.12-14) Dante’s love for God and his grief over sin led him to produce his masterpiece.

In line 12, Longfellow refers to the mythical streams Lethe and Eunoe. Lethe caused forgetfulness in Greek mythology, and the souls who went to Hades drank from it to forget their former lives. In Canto XXXI, Matilda plunges Dante into Lethe so that his sins are remembered no more (“the forgotten sorrow”, IV.13). Eunoe, a river of Dante’s own invention, increases his love for the good – “the remembered dream” (IV.12).

Finally, Dante gains “That perfect pardon which is perfect peace” (IV.14). As in the last lines of the third sonnet, God’s forgiveness of sins is announced. This is a fitting close to Purgatory – Dante is now inside the church, with the redeemed, and can raise his eyes to heaven. Now that the peccata have been erased, the light of heaven dawns on his lifted forehead (IV.11). Since his sins are no longer remembered or counted against him, Dante is able to love freely and to rise to the stars.

* The painting is Beata Beatrix by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

Sonnet IV: Purgatorio

2009-05-27T18:23:00.000-07:00

With snow-white veil and garments as of flame,
She stands before thee, who so long ago
Filled thy young heart with passion and the woe
From which thy song and all its splendors came;
And while with stern rebuke she speaks thy name,
The ice about thy heart melts as the snow
On mountain heights, and in swift overflow
Comes gushing from thy lips in sobs of shame.

Thou makest full confession; and a gleam,
As of the dawn on some dark forest cast,
Seems on thy lifted forehead to increase;
Lethe and Eunoë -- the remembered dream
And the forgotten sorrow -- bring at last
That perfect pardon which is perfect peace.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Wash All My Sins Away

2009-05-25T16:32:00.000-07:00

As Dante enters Purgatory, Longfellow steps inside the cathedral. Both are now inside the church – the realm of the saved. Like the first sonnet, the third sonnet is somber and reflective. This is Purgatory, and here the souls mourn their sins.

To create the solemn mood, the octave of the sonnet sets up an atmosphere of sanctity. There is an otherworldly quality that greets all the senses – the smell of incense, the light of the candles, and the sound of whispered Latin prayers. In the book of Revelation, incense symbolizes the prayers of the saints. In Catholic churches, votive candles are often lit as prayers are offered. The incense, candles, and whisperings are the prayers of the souls as they gradually ascend the mount of Purgatory.

Inside the church, Longfellow is surrounded by the dead souls who are buried in tombs along the aisles and down below in the crypt. Longfellow pictures himself as hearing the life stories of the Christians in his cathedral, who are still working their way into heaven. This is like Dante, who is encircled by a cloud of souls in Purgatory—souls who are gradually being released from the weight of sin.

Longfellow’s mood invites contemplation and introspection. For him, Purgatory is the place of repentance, not of rejoicing. His rejoicing will be saved for the time when the burden of sin is lifted and the soul is free to rise to God.

In the sestet, Longfellow describes the process of repentance more specifically. He hears “rehearsals of forgotten tragedies / And lamentations from the crypt below.” (10-11) The dead souls confess their sins to Longfellow, just like they do to Dante. Longfellow learns and profits from by their example. Additionally, these confessions may serve a similar purpose as the whip and the rein found on each step of Purgatory. The rein shows negative examples of each of the seven deadly sins, warning Dante not to commit these sins; the whip displays positive examples of the corresponding virtues, spurring the poet on to love and good works.

While the dead souls confess their sins, their confessions and prayers rise upwards to God. This parallels the soul’s ascent in Purgatory: as each sin is rubbed away, the soul rises higher to God, love, and holiness.

This sonnet ends with the emotional announcement of God’s pardon (13-14). Longfellow is quoting Isaiah 1:18, but he is also referring to Dante’s “baptism” in the garden. As Matilda plunges Dante into Lethe, he hears her quote from Psalm 51: “Asperges me hyssopo, et mundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor” (Ciardi 560). Like the poet David, Dante is washed clean as he repents from his sins. Once the poet has confessed, God grants his pardon. Rejoicing now replaces repentance.

Sonnet III: Purgatorio

2009-05-25T05:43:00.000-07:00

I enter, and I see thee in the gloom
Of the long aisles, O poet saturnine!
And strive to make my steps keep pace with thine.
The air is filled with some unknown perfume;
The congregation of the dead make room
For thee to pass; the votive tapers shine;
Like rooks that haunt Ravenna's groves of pine
The hovering echoes fly from tomb to tomb.

From the confessionals I hear arise
Rehearsals of forgotten tragedies,
And lamentations from the crypts below;
And then a voice celestial that begins
With the pathetic words, "Although your sins
As scarlet be," and ends with "as the snow."

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Doctrine of Substituted Love

2009-05-21T11:08:00.000-07:00

Hopefully, my co-author will forgive me for putting a break in her stream of sonnets.

The phrase causes an instant doubletake. "What on earth does that doctrine mean? Is it a variation on works-based salvation? A spin-off of the whole Eucharist debate? Or maybe it is just another term for Christ’s death. Yes, that's it!" The confusing doctrine is well in keeping with its author or identifier, Charles Williams.

Charles Williams was once quoted as saying that his novels always went better after he had dispensed with space and time. Descent Into Hell, widely considered his best novel, is a striking proof of this claim. I won't try and explain the novel: two reasons, first, it would rob you of all the fun of figuring it out for yourself, and two, after three re-reads, I am quite positive I don't understand it all.

But, I do want to take a few minutes to dwell on the doctrine of substituted love that he presents in the novel. It stems from the daring idea of taking Christ's words literally. Specifically, His command to "bear one another's burdens." The crux of the problem is our heroine, Pauline, who lives in the grip of debilitating fear. Peter Stanhope, a poet and the leading man of the piece, explains the doctrine of substituted love and offers to bear her burden of fear:

"'but you'll [to Pauline] be free of all distress because you can pass it on to me. Haven't you heard it said we ought to bear one another’s burdens?'

'But that means--she began, and stopped.

'I know,' Stanhope said. 'It means listening sympathetically, and thinking unselfishly, and being anxious about, and so on. Well, I don't say a word against all that; no doubt it helps. But I think when Christ or St. Paul, or whoever said bear, or whatever he Aramaically said instead of bear, he meant something much more like carrying a parcel instead of something else. To bear a burden is precisely to carry it instead of, if you're still carrying yours, I’m not carrying it for you--however sympathetic I may be."

Pauline is skeptical, but she accepts the offer in the end, and in the freedom of growth she experiences, she is able to bear the burden of others and free them as she has been freed.

There is room to exploit this theory as a way to justify excessively clingy human relationships. You know the one's of which I speak--where one party simply cannot live without the other and they become an amorphous blob of characteristics surpassed only by their "togetherness" For a visual representation, see richandamy.

That is the negative extreme: an extreme that has been re-enacted before our eyes so often that there is now a tendency to resist any dependence or interaction on another human being. But that that idea also leads to dreadful consequences. This also is illustrated in Descent Into Hell as one of the characters locks himself away from the world and chooses his delusions of a preferred reality over Reality. In the end, he becomes so isolated that he cannot bear people at all, and is self-damned.

Man can never be all for another man, no man can atone for another’s sin, or give him salvation. But, I think in this Doctrine of Substituted love, that Williams gives us another powerful picture of how much man needs, and is required to join, the "Body of Christ." A Body that is not merely a metaphor for our happy-togetherness as believers, but is a very real picture of just how much each believer relies upon another to live, to grow, and to function. We cannot rely fully on our fellow man--he is a fallen creature and will break under the strain, and/or let you down. But God, in his blessing and wisdom, gave us the Church, to help bear our burdens, so, in turn, we can bear anothers.

This World, with Devils Filled

2009-05-19T07:00:00.000-07:00

As mentioned previously, Longfellow wrote six sonnets on Dante’s Divina Commedia. The first two are about Inferno, the middle two about Purgatorio, and the final two about Paradiso. In these sonnets, Longfellow describes his impression of an emotion or theme in the poem, rather than a reaction to a specific scene. Thus, Longfellow’s first sonnet on the Inferno covers the first canto, when the middle-aged Dante is walking through the wood. The first sonnet’s theme is the idea of pilgrimage through life. The second sonnet moves on to Inferno proper, with a primary focus on Dante’s reaction to the souls in torment. In this sonnet, Longfellow is more impressionistic than specific in his commentary on Dante.

Sonnet II sets up the dichotomy between the world and the church, between the lost and the saved. We often speak of people being “outside the church,” meaning that they are not saved. Longfellow is literally outside the church, where sin reigns in the actions of the world. “The loud vociferations of the street” of Sonnet I refer to the cacophony and confusion of Hell (I.7).* Only inside the church can the pilgrim find salvation and rest (I.9-14, III.12-14).

The octave of the first sonnet describes the exterior of the cathedral that Longfellow is visiting. From the later sonnets, it appears that the exterior of the cathedral, as well as the world outside, symbolizes Hell. In lines 1-5, Longfellow admires the carvings of saints and sinners on the facade of the Gothic cathedral. In lines 6-8, it appears that one of these scenes is the crucifixion of Christ, with Judas watching from a corner of the picture. “The traitor Judas lowers!” and this alludes to Dante’s placement of Judas at the bottom of hell, in the circle reserved for the traitors (II.8). The “living thieves” could refer to an earlier circle of hell, but more likely refers to sinners in general (II.7). The grotesque gargoyles around the sides of the church are likely the demons who torment the sinners in Hell (II.6). They look down on the people on the street, the people who never enter the cathedral, and remind them of the anguish to come.**

While the octave describes the grotesqueness of hell, the sestet shows us Dante’s reaction to the horrors of Inferno. Longfellow effectively portrays the mingled pity and horror, the glee and hatred that Dante experiences as he travels down through the circles. Several scenes from Inferno immediately spring to mind while reading lines 9-11. First, there is the famous story of Paolo and Francesca, the lovers who were killed by a jealous husband. As Dante listens to her pathetic tale, he is moved to tears and faints at the end of Canto 5. Virgil rebukes him for his weakness, say that he must learn to scorn sin. Dante is an apt pupil, and by the ninth circle, he mocks and torments Bocca degli Abbati, frozen in the ice. Dante sees the horror and sadness of hell with human eyes at first, but he learns to look on it with God’s eyes of justice.

Finally, Longfellow concludes the sonnet by praising Dante’s artistry and passion (II.11-14). Dante did not just write the Divine Comedy as an academic exercise (though there is much that is academic in his song). He wrote it out of human passion and feeling, with vivid descriptions of the earth and the air, so that we might feel and partake in his journey.

*Tchaikovsky’s symphonic poem Francesca da Rimini is based on Canto V of Dante’s Inferno and provides a fascinating musical commentary on the noise and chaos of hell, balanced by the pity that Dante feels in hearing her story.

** Longfellow also makes a subtle reference in lines 3-4 to the liturgical year. Dante descends into Hell on Holy Saturday, the day before Easter. Flowers bloom and birds make their nests in springtime, the season of Easter. Since the parvis (portico) and portal are mentioned as being especially adorned, perhaps Longfellow is visiting the cathedral himself on Holy Saturday in order to follow Dante’s pilgrimage more closely.

Sonnet II: Inferno

2009-05-18T07:00:00.000-07:00

How strange the sculptures that adorn these towers!
This crowd of statues, in whose folded sleeves
Birds build their nests; while canopied with leaves
Parvis and portal bloom like trellised bowers,
And the vast minster seems a cross of flowers!
But fiends and dragons on the gargoyled eaves
Watch the dead Christ between the living thieves,
And, underneath, the traitor Judas lowers!

Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,
What exultations trampling on despair,
What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,
Uprose this poem of the earth and air,
This mediæval miracle of song!

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Come Unto Me, and I Will Give You Rest

2009-05-14T15:28:00.000-07:00

This post begins a new series on Longfellow’s six Dante sonnets. NB: Large portions of the explication of this sonnet are taken from a paper which I wrote for Linguistics.

While Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was translating Dante’s Divine Comedy, he wrote six sonnets to be prefixed to his translation. In these sonnets, he compares the structure of the Divine Comedy to the architecture of a Gothic cathedral. The first two sonnets are prefixed to Inferno and describe Longfellow the pilgrim’s entrance into the cathedral. Longfellow achieves a reverent mood in this first sonnet by a skillful use of linguistic devices, such as syntactic structure in the sonnet form, word choice, and word placement, to center his poem around prayer.

This sonnet is written in the Italian style, so that the octave describes the entrance of an ordinary laborer and the sestet depicts the entrance of Longfellow the pilgrim. Longfellow skillfully uses syntactic structures of sentences within the sonnet form to convey his meaning. In the octave, the first two lines set up the scene before the cathedral, both for the workman and for Longfellow the pilgrim. Line three shows the laborer laying down his burden, then entering the cathedral in line four.

The sestet reverses this description, as Longfellow the pilgrim enters the cathedral in line nine and leaves his burden in line ten. This chiastic structure is repeated later between the octave and sestet, when the business of the outside world (lines 7-8, 12-13) is enclosed by the silence of waiting (6, 14).

The central lines of the octave and sestet come in lines five and eleven. “Kneel to repeat his paternoster o’er” and “Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray” both emphasize the devotional aspect of the poem (5, 11). Reverent prayer, the theme of this sonnet, is significantly placed at the center of the octave and sestet. The chiastic arrangement of the clauses in the sentences serves to emphasize Longfellow’s larger theme in the poem.

Longfellow’s word choices also serve to convey his meaning. Most of the words in the poem are only one or two syllables long. Words such as laborer, reverent, and eternal, while containing three syllables are elided to sound as two. This short length enables the reader to pause and breathe after every word, contributing to the slow and reverent mood of the poem. The four words with the most syllables – vociferations, undistinguishable, disconsolate, and inarticulate – emphasize the confusion and heaviness of the world outside. Inside the cathedral, all is quiet, brief, and restful.

In both the octave and sestet, the poet emphasizes burden at the same point in the meter. This shows the similarity between the laborer and Longfellow. These two men have a similar need for the rest and reverence of the cathedral. This can only be achieved by laying aside their burdens of the cares, noises, and disruptions of the world and entering the cathedral.

Another device Longfellow employs is accented and alliterative pairs. One of these is “day to day,” found in the first line of the sestet. It accents the pilgrim’s continual need for rest from the busy world outside. The other accented and alliterative pair closes the sestet with “watch and wait” (14). This last pair once again reminds the reader of the reverent nature of the poem. As he kneels in prayer, the pilgrim should “watch and wait” in the silence of the cathedral for God to speak.

Through syntactic structures, Longfellow builds his poem around a central theme of prayer. By using short words, he enables the reader to pause and rest in the silence of the cathedral. The meter emphasizes the pilgrim’s burden, and alliterative pairs to show how much the pilgrim needs peace. These elements of syntactic structure, word choice, and word placement combine to form a poem emphasizing reverence and rest.

What point, suffering?

2009-05-14T11:46:00.000-07:00

“Yet the patience of God still invites the wicked to penitence, just as God’s chastisement trains the good in patient endurance. God’s mercy embraces the good for their cherishing, just as his severity chastens the wicked for their punishment.”

~St. Augustine, Book 1, Chapter 8

The modern encapsulation of the problem of evil is “why do bad things happen to good people.” I find Augustine’s take blessedly clear and oddly comforting. Essentially, bad happens because the world fell. The suffering exists by man’s action and God’s allowance—in some mysterious sense, we as man cannot know. But, none of this suffering is in vain, to the unrepentant, suffering is both a punishment and a severe mercy to bring them back to God. For the believer, the supposed “good person,” suffering is a means of grace to teach us patience, and will ultimately bring us close to the heart of God. I feel a sense of probably-evil pleasure knowing that Satan’s tool for destroying us, suffering, actually is one of God’s greatest opportunities of bring us to himself. Pardon me.

Sonnet I: Inferno

2009-05-13T15:16:00.000-07:00

Oft have I seen at some cathedral door
A laborer, pausing in the dust and heat,
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet
Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor
Kneel to repeat his paternoster o’er;
Far off the noises of the world retreat;
The loud vociferations of the street
Become an undistinguishable roar.

So, as I enter here from day to day,
And leave my burden at this minster gate,
Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray,
The tumult of the time disconsolate
To inarticulate murmurs dies away,
While the eternal ages watch and wait.

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Truth is in the Laughter?

2009-05-11T19:22:00.000-07:00

There are numerous verses in the Bible that baffle me as to why they exist: some I think are just extraneous detail, some I think are just there to confuse mankind, and some I think are there just for poetic effect. This is one of the latter…the Proverbs 31 verse about the virtuous woman that laughs at the day to come. I used to think that was just a poetic figure—a way to describe her lighthearted take on life and its challenges. Then I entered the real world. My world is periodically quite distressing. Cars break, my financial plan blows up because I forgot a $29.00 charge, and I discover house hunting can be a challenge. Yet, I read of the Proverbs 31 woman, and she not only worships God and manages her household, but she also laughs at all the challenges to come. She neither worries not frets, but treats them with a casual unconcern that is utterly confident that the future will be managed by God, and his management will be good. This woman has such faith in a time and a place where “the days to come” may very well bring a horde of angry Amorites pouring over the hills to slaughter the town. I had accepted the sign that laughter shows a truly joyful heart, but the connection that laughter demonstrates a heart fully surrendered to the will of God had escaped me before. New area of sanctification—the discipline and faith of laughter.

A Pebble off the Touchstone

2009-05-11T08:06:00.000-07:00

"To paraphrase Charles Williams, if there is one law in the life of a Christian, it is this: My life for yours. The answer to the great question of natural evil is neither syllogism nor argument, it is the life of a member of the Lord's body, a life willing to take up its cross and pour itself out completely so that others might live. It is a life of sacrifice, lived in imitation of the Master."

~Aaron W. Calhoun

Latest Loveliness of Alfred Lord Tennyson

2009-04-20T05:24:00.001-07:00

COME into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 5
And the musk of the rose is blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky, 10
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d 15
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, “There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay. 20
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.”
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 25
The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, “The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine? 30
But mine, but mine,” I sware to the rose,
“For ever and ever, mine.”

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash’d in the hall:
And long by the garden lake I stood, 35
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs 40
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake 45
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake
As the pimpernel doz’d on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me; 50
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh’d for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 55
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate. 60
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near;”
And the white rose weeps, “She is late;”
The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear;” 65
And the lily whispers, “I wait.”

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed; 70
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

Some Thoughts on Burnt Norton, Section 2

2009-04-14T20:47:00.000-07:00

When I first read this section, I knew I had no idea what it was talking about: so, please take all my speculations with a grain of salt. However, there are some things I am reasonably confident about. For example, the essential Christological meaning wrapped up in this poem. As before, we will approach the poem, more or less, line by line.

First, “garlic and sapphires in the mud / Clot the bedded axel-tree” Take garlic, a seasoning and preservative, also, almost a universal sign against evil, specifically, evil that feeds on the inherent life of mankind, namely the blood. Mix this with sapphires, the stone that signifies integrity and perfect truth. After this, you have these muddy sapphire garlics supporting, clotting, the machine of the world. Nothing can move without an axel. The axel is the center of the wheel, and without the wheel, nothing can move. In all, you begin with a very vivid, abstract picture of a great and profound….what? The mystery is reveled in the rest of the stanza. “Wire in the blood” that “sings below the inveterate scars.” The “circulation of the lymph” “figured in the drift of stars,” both images of a man, a man perpetually scarred who stands as the axel, the center of the world—a world he must serve from the mud as the embodiment of Perfect Truth and the one Ward against an evil as essential as our blood. The implications are stunning, and quickly narrow the field to one man.

Yet, Eliot is only beginning. We “ascend to summer in the tree.” Why summer? (Here we depart into crazed speculation.) I propose summer, because summer is a time of peace that exists to anticipate death. Crops grow quickly because soon the cold will kill them, babies grow, become strong, because soon the cold will test them, animals consume the plenty because soon there will be paucity. There, climbing the tree in the summer, he climbs knowing that by the time he reaches the top, he will face Death. In the “light upon the lighted leaf” we observe the world, “boarhound and boar” predator and prey living as they have done for hundreds of years—predatory killing prey to survive, sacrifice laid down for the more important life, essentially, life as the world was Fallen to be. A way of the world, that through this man’s climb to the tree is to be “reconciled among the stars."

The first stanza is a promise of a perfect man, yet a perfect man who is debased, muddied, and beating signs of an ancient fight. This man is scarred, he has both won the fight and also approaching it in the ascent to the tree. He is out of time, and yet in it. In the garlic and the sapphire he is an abstract symbol of cleansing and integrity, yet in the lymph and the arteries, he is essentially human. Bound and boundless in time, fully man and fully spirit—this is the character conjured by Eliot.

The second stanza is where things get a little weird. At the peak of the tree, “at the still point of the turning world” we lose all “normal” links. There is no flesh nor lack of it, no stillness or movement, neither a past nor a future, and yet it is everything, rather than nothing. It is at this still point where the earth comes fully alive in a dance, “Except for the point, the still point, there would be no dance, and there is only the dance.” It is a not-place in time that no one can define, and yet somehow, defines all of life. There can be only one center, one center of the world, time, and not-time, and that center is the axel-tree, the one clotted with much ascending to the tree. And this ascent, this scarred man on the tree, serves as both the center of all time and defines all time in one glorious, mysterious, and timeless dance.

The third stanza is glorious, and I use that almost as a technical term. It is in this stanza Eliot approaches an explanation of the mystery of the Incarnation. In this incarnation of a perfect man and yet wholly other: concrete and abstract, you have a man that is fully free from every human need, and yet is surrendered to them. In this “release from action and suffering, release from the inner and outer compulsion, yet surrendered” he becomes both “without motion, concentration, without elimination” and yet is human enough to be “made explicit, understood,” to complete this “partial ecstasy.” Yet how does this man complete the ecstasy? Become the white light, still and moving that surpasses and surrenders to all human desires? He surrenders to “The resolution of its partial horror.” Only “in the weakness of a changing body” can this perfect man bind “the enchantment of past and future” binding all of time and all of humankind to one common action—an action that will save, in one man and one act, from “heaven and damnation / which flesh cannot endure.” For human-kind can never bear damnation, and human-kind in its mud-touched state cannot bear the beauty of heaven, but in the binding of time to the consummation of the new Adam, man can be brought to a moment before the Fall where he can escape hell and endure the beauty of heaven—the rose garden.

The fourth stanza harkens back to the first part of Burnt Norton. “Time past and time future,” we go back to the snapshot of the timeless we all dance within. The timeless is not for us, the mortal man, for only in time can we reach “the moment in the rose-garden, / the moment in the arbour where the rain beat.” Only in time, did the perfect man conquer time, and buy us heaven and “the moment in the draughty church at smokefall.”

One of the things that most eludes me…is how this section follows the preceding section. I am missing the internal cohesion of the work. I would especially appreciate illumination on that regard. Otherwise, I just welcome any and all commentary on my 1000 word essay on Burnt Norton, Section 2.

Some Thoughts on Reading

2009-04-07T12:42:00.000-07:00

First thought, I know next to nothing about anything I say on this blog. I am a perpetual student, and one of my recurring lessons is that there is way more to learn about everything. I still waffle on the issue of whether anyone under the age of 50 has any right to speak in public.

Anyhow, on Reading. Specifically, reading great books, or classics.

First, reading classics does not start fun--even for the whiz kid that has been reading at the college level since age 6. Philosophy is dense and boring, epic poetry takes 16 lines to say "Patrocles died," and history comes in 18 volumes to every particular bias of the writer. Reading great books in the beginning is straight, unvarnished, hard work. The joy of the thing though, is that is does not remain hard work. It is hard to see the progress, but be faithful in tackling the hard books and change will occur. I read The Republic in my Junior year of college, and it was one of the most dreadful dull books I had ever read. I learned nothing but facts and I decided I hated Plato. A year and a half later, I read Plato's Phaedrus, and I laughed at the jokes and got quite a bit out of his arguments. It was in fact, a pleasure to read. Trick to reading: persistence.

Second thing about reading. Books are not written in a vacuum. Every great or influential book in history was, well, influential. In other words, it actively interacted with the cultural and historical atmosphere. It was born of history and in turn, was the midwife of history. It is not necessary to have a profound understanding of the English Revolution to read Milton, but even a cursory knowledge of the times will make him much more clear. If you are confused, read a bit of the history of the time and it will help you appreciate the great book, and may even help your confusion. In a similar vein, Cliff Notes are your friend. Cliff Notes are not the equal of the great literature, but there are an excellent way to give the reader a general outline of what is going to happen and why it matters, thus freeing him to concentrate on the truly great and irreplacable parts of the work.

Third thing, if you are trying to read a great book for fun, read a great book you honestly want to read. Granted, it makes you look brilliant to be seen reading Les Miserables in public, but if it is putting you to sleep, there really isn't much point in reading it at this phase. Unless of course you are one of those people that can admit they don't find something interesting yet still give it its due. But, when browsing the shelves, looking for something impressive to read, pick something that actually sounds interesting. Having read numerous books just because I ought to read them, and getting absolutely nothing out of them, it really is a waste of time.

Fourth, some books just need and certain kinds of experience to understand. If you hate all things pertaining to the sea, you will hate Moby Dick, it has, roughly, 100 pages of marine biology, and 75 more on how to maintain a ship. Great Expectation needs an understanding of pain, lost hope, and ambition. Dostoevsky needs an understanding of suffering and the ability to grasp the brilliant agony of insanity. If you read a classic, and everything but the characters make sense, give it ten years and try again. It just may not make sense because you haven't lived enough yet to be able to hear it.

Fifth, some great books are not worth it. If the book is driving you insane, to gut-wrenching tears, or any other excessively damaging reaction, it is alright to put it away and never read it again. There are some great classics that exact an unbearable amount of confusion and pain for the sake of the story, and that story, objectively, may not be worth it for you. I will never read Tess of the D'Urberville's again, and Finnegan's Wake is never going to happen.

Reading is an art. It is an art for everyone, but it is not an art for everyone to approach in entirely the same way. When attempting the canon, give yourself space, acknowledge the masters, and bear in mind that there is a delicate balance between letting the work expand your horizons and forcefeeding yourself bricks the hard way. Give it time, and reading the greats will become a great pleasure.

Burnt Norton, Part 2

2009-04-02T07:09:00.000-07:00

Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
And reconciles forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear below the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.

The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Ehrebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.

Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.

Holy Sonnet 14, John Donne

2009-03-30T13:52:00.000-07:00

I just love this sonnet. I will not even attempt to explain it.

Batter my heart, three-person'd God ; for you
As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

The Best Way is Tolerance

2009-03-28T07:04:00.000-07:00

Or is it?

"What is culpable is when those whose life is different and who abhor the deeds of the wicked are nevertheless indulgent to the sins of others, which they ought to reprehend and reprove, because they are concerned to avoid giving offense to them, in case they should harm themselves in respect of things which may be rightly and innocently enjoyed by good men, but which they desire more than is right for those who are strangers in this world and who fix their hope on the heavenly county." City of God, Book I, Chapter 9

Plainly, living one's own life in peace and isolation without regard to the actions of those around you, is not the answer. At least from Augustine's point of view. As a great example, I remember Lot and his tolerance of his neighbours in Sodom and Gomorrah.

And Life's Wheel Turns Upon its Axis

2009-03-26T10:30:00.000-07:00

I have never liked Chaucer. But, since I have pretensions to being a medievalist, I decided I owed it to his eminence that I at least read the Canterbury Tales. Oddly enough, I find they are an excellent read. I don't particularly enjoy the stories per se. They are crude, lewd, and enough of the humor is based on a thorough understanding of their world that I miss at least half of them. However, withal, the stories are engaging, and the poetry is catchy.

There are, moreover, two reasons why I am enjoying Chaucer. First, they are an excellent cure for condemnation of the present in favor of the past. I read xanga's featured blogs, they tell me how the world battles with feminism, racism, abuse, and sexual matters of all kinds. They show me that a major chunk of the world finds bodily function humor simply to die for and would choose the $10 dollar Hollywood flick over a good book any day, and cannot seem to fathom that sex may be a private matter. I read them, and I am tempted to think, "ugh, modern culture is a puerile joke, how could we come to this?! If only we had a predominately Christian culture this would never happen!" Well, first, given aside the fact that I keep reading featured xanga blogs, so that makes me party to it, the old world, the predominately culturally Christian one of medieval England is, almost without exception, made up of people exactly like us. Chaucer's Canterbury Tales are full of bedroom humor, bathroom humor, and good humor. The Wife of Bath preaches the doctrine of husband management--surely she is qualified having caught, pleased, and left five. The Miller tells a tale of the idiot carpenter who's wife betrays him for the love of the parish priest. The Carpenter in the group gets upset and tells a worse tale of similar vein, and the Knight leads off with a tale of two boys who love each other like brothers, until they fall for the same girl, and eventually, kill each other to win her. The characters are by turns, merry, petty, brave, cowardly, spiteful, and given to joking and considering all the concepts we struggle with today, from feminism to homosexuality. They remind me that it is not era you are in that dictates what you can do and how you should live. All era's are tainted by sin, and for better or for worse, humankind returns to the same sins over and over again. If the Evangelical church swept across America and all converted, we would still have bad comedy-because there will always be human. So, it makes no good for me to pine for the old days when Christ and learning were at the fore, or to pine for the future when we will win or lose this fight for a "Christian culture" (whatever that actually is) but, to do my best in the time and era I have been placed in.

The Second Reason I like Chaucer is less deep. He has a genius for identifying people thoroughly and vividly. In three lines he can give you a picture of both an icon from a prior age who is yet an individual character in his own right. This gives him the play to mock the stereotype while still keeping familiar affections for his character. The Wife of Bath is of questionable virtue, but she is an endearing woman in all of it. This type of satire tutors me in charity. It is all well and good to pillory a bad ideology or group, but within every group there is a trace or tendency of good, and as an author or poet it is as much or more my duty to find that kernel of goodness and make much of it even as I try to undermine the evil. Straight satire may be cathartic, but will it hold true throughout the centuries? Is it winsome enough to snare the attentions of the audience beyond making them merely snicker at folly?

Here closeth a fount of thoughts upon Chaucer.

Explicating Elliot (part 1.1)

2009-03-23T10:37:00.000-07:00

I made the mistake of asking a very good friend what I should write about, and she, blessed me with the assignment of writing on any section of T.S. Elliot's Four Quartets. Being a literalist, I took the first part of the first section. Over time, I hope to do the whole work.

I do not understand Elliot. I would like to meet someone who does. It could be a very enlightening experience. Burnt Norton, Section 1, seems to be a long explanation on the relationship of time and memory. He begins with "time present and time past/Are both perhaps present in time future." He is collating all of time and experience into the present experience and memory of the individual. In this combination of time past, present, and future, "what might have been an abstraction.../What might have been and what has been/Point to one end, which is always present." In other words, all that was, is, and will be, can be captured in the memory and treated, not as a speculation or an abstraction, but what actually Is. I don't consider it too far a leap to posit that he is setting up a field by which things can be evaluated not by the traits one can casually observe, but rather by their Form. Not quite in the manner of the Platonic Form, but similar, but their Divine Essence. This may be a difference with no true distinction, but that is what you get for asking a disciple of the literary cannon to speak on a Master.

Once time and space are one, Elliot moves into the castle of his own creation. He steps into memory "Footfalls echo in the memory/Down the passage which we did not take/Towards the door we never opened/Into the rose garden." Elliot's use of rose imagery is its own tome. Here, he uses his oneness of time to explore all the everything that might have been. I think, he chose a rose garden as a place of protection and as the stepping stone to divine understanding and favor a la Dante's ascension to Paradise. Like Dante, Elliot, once in the memory fears to enter fully. "What am I doing?" "Is this worth it?" Seem to be the questions at hand. If I am going to knock on heaven's door, "disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves" am I doing it with the right questions? For the right purpose?

But, like Hansel and Gretel following a bird to salvation, so Elliot follows a bird into the garden in pursuit of an as-yet-unknown prize. Once committed to the chase, the author seem to enter a Dantean labyrinth of symbolism and ever-increasing understanding. At the first level of understanding he is faced with a thrush. Thrush are practical, common birds, with no great virtue to them, except a talent for survival. They are birds known for placing their eggs in the nests of other, more industrious birds, to be raised by them. Here "into the first world" let us take the thrush to symbolize a pragmatic, common-sense, human understanding of the world. They answer the question, "but how does it help me?"

The second level is past the rush for one's own gain, "there they were, dignified, invisible/Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves/In the autumn heat." No bird is mentioned at this level, yet there is a significant season. Autumn is the time when the earth begins to die yet before the world must fight for survival in winter. A warm autumn is a time of no great growth, yet no great threat. In this season, man can simply exist, drift, without the undignified scramble for gain or understanding. This is the level of blase meditation with no urgency for an answer.

The third level is an area of aesthetic delight yet no understanding. The bird summons us to "unheard music hidden in the shrubbery/And the unseen eyebeams crossed, for the roses./Had the look of flowers that are looked at." At this level, the individual cares for an appreciates beauty, but he appreciates it with no knowledge of what it is about it that is lovely. The flowers are beautiful, for they delight to be looked at, and the music hidden in the shrubbery is sweet, but no one can truly hear it. Art is merely accepting and accepted with no real effort made or received to fathom the wealth of Beauty. The observer is content to leave the music in the bushes and merely gaze upon the roses.

The fourth level is perhaps the most complicated. Here is the seeker observes structure, form, a pattern for beauty. Yet, rather than one form and pattern, it is all forms and patterns played upon each other in all their fullness, "and they, in a formal pattern,/Along the empty valley, into the box circle." The end of this maze of form and meaning is an aesthetic conundrum, "Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,/And the pool was filled with water and out of sunlight,/And the lotus rose, quietly, quietly." Is it a secret that the lotus, the symbol of ultimate revelation stands at the heart of this picture of a barren well and a well full to overflowing? It seems as if at the center of all understanding, one must come to grips with the secret of peace in the midst of waste and plenty. This pool, at once so dry and so full, is the true home of the lotus of wisdom, and only by learning the lessons of both are were rewarded with the sight of it. Is this the last level? I don't think so, but it is the last for now.

For the bird bids us away, we are being watched, "for the leaves were full of children,/Hidden excitedly, containing laughter." Remember, we are still in the memory. One might be tempted to think that our own speculations are private, they bear no witness but our own, yet this reminder of the bird hints at the cloud of witnesses that surround every thought and action. Even more, these are children that surround us. Is it too much of a leap to say that this word of the bird, "human kind/Cannot bear very much reality" is a warning for man to be careful how far he goes within himself to seek wisdom lest he forever give up his chance to learn "like a little child?"

After having dug deep into the mind and heart for the path to wisdom, Elliot returns to reality with a restatement of his collation of time and space, but, with an interesting twist. "Time past and time future/What might have been and what has been/Point to one end, which is always present." What was an is, do not merely have the potential to come together, but, rather, all of time has and always will point to one single end--the present.

There, that is a students attempt to make sense of Burnt Norton, Part 1. Full text is below for the curious.

Burnt Norton, Section 1

2009-03-20T22:19:00.000-07:00

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

A Child for Victory

2009-03-13T10:33:00.000-07:00

Agamemnon, sacker of Troy--he lives in history as a a Conqueror. Yet, also, he bears a more shameful legacy. He is the man that was told by the gods that he could not sail for Troy until he had offered the perfect sacrifice. For this honor, he chose his daughter, Iphigenia. Luring her to the beach with a promise of marriage, he married her to Death. The end of the story comes soon after the Trojan hiatus. Agamemnon returns from the wars only to be murdered by his wife, Clytaemnestra, in vengeance for the death of her daughter.

Her fury is eloquently stated in the line, "Memory womb of Fury child-avenging Fury!" For the memory her body bears Iphigenia the mother, Clytaemnestra would commit murder, overset tradition, and bear herself as a man. And history condemns her for it. Yet in all her evil, there is an edge of proper fury, of righteous anger, of a mother wounded and at bay. The rage of a mother whose child was unjustly betrayed and murdered for a lesser cause--victory.

As the world's womb has aged has it lost it's memory? Women have always murdered their own children, yet now, throughout the world, infants are being sacrificed for victory. Save the environement, decrease the surplus population! Save the state, decrease the cost of the unproductive! Save the woman, decrease her burden in the home. Let us lure our children to the beach with the promise of birth and instead give them a birth to death. Where is the mother's fury at this betrayal of her world that murders her children?

Aware: D. H. Lawrence

2009-03-12T19:36:00.001-07:00

Slowly the moon is rising out of the muddy haze,
Divesting herself of her golden shift, and so
Emerging white and exquisite; and I in amaze
See in the sky before me, a woman I did not know
I loved, but there she goes, and her beauty hurts my heart;
I follow her down the night, begging her not to depart.

The Art Makes the Man

2009-03-10T17:02:00.000-07:00

Timothy Zahn, perhaps the best of the authors in the Star Wars Cannon, presents us with a very interesting character--Grand Admiral Thrawn. One of the quirks of this character is that his military genius comes from his ability to detect the strengths and weaknesses of a culture by studying and understanding their art. I used to view this hypothesis--the art portrays the cultural soul of the culture--with a sort of admiring skepticism. "Nice idea, plausible enough for fiction, but no one could ever do that in real life." Then, I started reading Paul Johnson's "Art: A New History." In it, he explores the mores of the various cultures as logical extensions of their art. Unfortunately, I am only at the Romans at the moment, so I can't expand the thought too far at this point, but don't worry, more is coming. And his arguments today seem sound. Such as, Egyptian art shows the strong divides between classes as each strata of society had very specific rules as to how they could be portrayed in art. Religion was the center of life--the most rigerous outpourings of artistic endeaver were wrapped around religious iconography. Even dishes of workers were inscribed with the symbols of gods and goddesses. Contrast the Egyptians with the Medes and Persians, who swept through the ancient world assimilating and conquering numerous countries, their art is a collection and incorporation of all the cultures they met. Contrast this to the Babylonian Empire. Their art varies with each king, as kings were replaced quickly by bloody revolution and each new king was anxious to seperate his mark from the previous regime. Similarly, their sculptures and mosaics were all about showing the fierceness and power of the king, no time or motive for grace and gentleness in these kings of Babylon.

It is a fascinating question, "how much can visual art tell about a people?" And, I find myself wondering, what other artistic venues could you use to find the "pulse" of a society? I have also thought that a cultures fairy tales would reveal its soul, but, again this is an ancient venue. Societies have moved from producing fairy tales to endlessly repeating them, whereas visual art still is created. So, question for the reader, do you think American Society is united enough that you could find the "soul" of the American people in our modern art? And do you think there is a specific venue of written literature that could provide this same purpose?

When I was a Child

2009-02-19T16:40:00.000-08:00

I have a vivid memory from sophomore year--in my very first literature class, I walked in, set my books on the desk, and at the first opportunity, announced I was a cynic. My old, wise, literature professor reacted as I never would have expected. He let the comment slide, asked me too his office afterwards, and gave me an hour-long chat on the evils of cynicism. Namely, cynicism poisons the soul. A cynic is "a person who believes that only selfishness motivates human actions and who disbelieves in or minimizes selfless acts or disinterested points of view." A fixation on cynicism closes the mind to the very ability to recognize good. It separates the individual from the good of humanity and leaves them only able to look for a way to appreciate the spectacle of everyone else's ridiculousness. Oscar Wilde is good for a laugh, but he wasn't very personable.

Life is funny. I have been a cynic for most of my thinking life, yet now I find myself in a position of thinking that one should know life is hard, people are evil, and happy endings are not inevitable, and yet "laugh at the days to come." A position of knowing optimism. Whether this is the correct way to view the world, I don't know. It is entirely possible that I merely swung from one extreme to another. But for now, I do know this. Life is much happier as an optimist than as a cynic.

Faith, Reason, and Murder.

2009-02-14T09:42:00.000-08:00

Sometime ago I was introduced to the TV Series Bones. I promptly became a devotee. The show has its downsides: sex is hardly monogamous, and there is a fair bit of gore. On the whole, it appears to be an excellent examination of Faith and Reason in the modern world. On the side of Reason there is Dr. Temperance Brennen, a forensic anthropologist who helps the FBI solve murders by identifying people, how they were murdered, and the likely suspect by the marks left on their bones (this is where the gore enters.) The lady has no patience for God, intuition, faith, or anything that cannot be empirically proved. God is a construct of primitive humanity who need the supernatural to explain what they can't. Science is the only hope for truth and security. Her partner is FBI Agent Booth, Agent of Faith: Catholic, intuitive, go-with-your-gut, compassionate. A mix between a white knight and the psychic. They get along like fire and water, and I first expected the usual, they fall in love, they have a little illicit sex, and Booth goes over to the side of God-hating Reason, but the opposite it true. Booth and Brennen grow to love each other deeply, but they love as partners, co-workers, honorable fellow knights--yet neither forgets the gender of the other. Brennen is fully a woman and fully a partner, where Booth is classically a man, makes no apology for the fact, and uses it for the best of those around him. Even more surprising, it is Brennen that bends, not Booth. Constant exposure to Booth and his love of people and faith in God forces Brennen to realize there is more than science, there is something she cannot put in a test tube that may matter more than life itself. And yet, this acceptance of a "more" does not make her less excellent at her job, rather it makes her more proficient. She moves from being a woman who finds puzzles in corpses to being a woman who has a passion for justice, one who will give her all to serve those who are in agony because their loved one is dead and they have no idea who did it, one who loves.

Lest I sound like too much of a geek, there are other merits to the show. Having had a copious experience with hospitals, I enjoy the medical jargon. It is also very witty in it's dialogue and has a nice balance of black and good humor. And thne there is Angela, but she is a discussion for another day.

That's Medieval!

2009-02-10T06:17:00.000-08:00

(In case you wondered, I blog to help me organize my thoughts, so, I make no claim that everything will always make sense.)

I am not an evolutionist. I don't think man is improving, rather, I think man is tending to regress as he gets farther and farther from the moment of Creation and the Fall has more time to work its evil. I have heard a lot of other people espouse this opinion as well. But, I am wondering if the people that espouse this opinion really apply it to social issues, and does it really matter? The thing that brings context to this discussion is medieval punishments: dismemberment, hanging, cutting off hands, stocks, drownings, beheadings, burning at the stake, and quartering are only some of the most common of the medieval world's sentences for crimes ranging from theft to treason. In the modern world, these punishments are held as barbaric, inhuman, a violation of human rights, and people call for more "humane" punishments. Now, put this attitude alongside the concept that man is regressing since the Fall and you have a contradiction. If we are to be consistent, then we have to say that there may be something to the harsh punishments of the medieval era. Add to this confusion, early America also practiced many of these punishments, and the farther we go in becoming a secular nation the more lenient the penal codes become.

However, a few things obstruct a simple answer of "fine, go back to those punishments." First, the age old question of the balance of justice and mercy. Second, the equally old question of the proper measure of punishment for sin on earth in light of the Old and New Testament. Finally, there is one culture that does practice that manner and degree of punishment, Sharia Law under Islam is quite that severe. One could argue that Sharia is not a part of the question because it is a religious law as much as a social law, and without a Incarnate Savior they have every reason to practice the "eye for an eye" law that was the standard before the Old Testament was written.

So, my question is, are we consistant in saying that man is degrading and yet agreeing that the medieval era possessed a barbaric justice system, or is there something to be said for their notion of how to punish evil. And as a corollary, if you dare, where does Sharia Law fit into the discussion?

Princess

2009-02-06T10:49:00.000-08:00

It's ironic. Homeschool girls are mocked and ridiculed for wearing ankle-length skirts, and if you wear one, you darn well better have the body and style to pull it off. Yet, most if not all Disney princesses wear long skirts and are held up as the epitome of beauty. Could be just a cultural thing, Beauty would look odd in a miniskirt, and Pocohantas certainly doesn't wear a long skirt, but I wonder if, culturally, we are more traditional than we like to admit. In older times, little girl's wore short skirts and wore their hair long, and when they became women they wore long skirts and pinned their hair up. Have we perhaps switched the roles? Little girls may idolize long skirts but women bear the right to take off the inches? And the long skirts of the Disney princess must be cast aside along with all other childish things, like, perhaps, love of romance, idealism, and a black and white view of the world, also traits that characterize the homeschooled girl and the Disney princess?

Vampires and Unrequited Love

2009-02-04T16:46:00.001-08:00

I think, should I ever become a heroin addict, that I shall start by taking 1-6 very conservative shots and then accidentally killing myself with a seventh overdose. I am a somewhat addictive. Fortunately, I limit my addictions to books and tea. The latest bibliographic addiction is the Twilight Series. I am done 2, working on number 3, and I think I understand why they are so rabidly popular, now I need to figure out if I approve.

Bella Swan is a very weak, feminine, human girl. She is afraid of blood, gets motion sick, has the grace of a drunk centipede, she has lousy self-esteem, and struggles with school. A typical young woman with no pressing reason for anyone to fall passionately and self-sacrificingly in love with her. Yet, here comes Edward Cullen, who loves her deeply, loves her so deeply that he cannot leave her and will not drink her blood. Even though her blood is more sweet to him than anything else on the planet.

Here you have it girls. The perfect boyfriend. He will never leave, he can never leave her. He also loves her enough to put her good before his own--he wants to drink her blood and kill her, but he will never hurt her, and in fact drops everything in his life to protect her from all harm. The comparison is fairly obvious, he has a raging lust for her blood yet controls it for her good, contrast this an average stereotype of a boy who has a raging lust for sex, and can either choose to guilt the infatuated girl into sleeping with him or he can not sleep with her, risk losing her, and generally make himself miserable for her sake. To add to this boyfriend's general perfection, he is no wimp. Far from it, he is a perfectly designed killing machine: fast, strong, precise. So, here is a man who who has perfect self-control, has the ability to destroy every living thing in the town if he chose, and is wise enough to fall for a girl who isn't really pretty and has all the feebleness of your average human girl.

In all this, I can see why it is so appealing to large portions of the teen population--though I do admit I have no idea why it is so appealing to boys. But, while painting a beautiful picture of what should be the case in relationships, I wonder if they aren't tainting the the expectations of youth and presenting just too clear a picture of what the reader will not have. I am not sure what I think--but it appears to be a very pleasing lie.

Why do people hate life so much?

2009-02-02T08:19:00.000-08:00

You know....the more I read articles like this, http://www.xanga.com/lotta_valdez/690703603/i-really-really-dislike-the-duggars/

The more I think it may be my duty to the mores of the nation to have a zillion kids.

Favorite Romantic Memories from College

2009-01-30T13:53:00.000-08:00

The two single roommates dancing around the room to the song "She's in Love" from The Little Mermaid on Broadway, and just as the chorus starts:

"She's in lo-o-ove, she's in lo-ove"

Our third roommate walks into the room in a daze to announce her boy loves her.

Irony is sublime.

On Strength and Sexuality

2009-01-27T17:18:00.000-08:00

Don't worry, I won't get too explicit.

As part of studying for the GRE, I am reading the Norton Anthology of Women Writers. I know the editors, so I suppose I should have expected what I got--a fairly comprehensive set of feminist complaints about male domination. I will admit these women have a point, but I find myself wanting to disagree with them simply because I am ticked. Perhaps I would give them a more fair reading if they didn't constantly belittle my gender by insisting on our never-ending victimhood. To read a feminist history, one would suppose that all women were oppressed sows who have no more desire in life than to bare the breast and neck to our subhuman male oppressors, except for the few, lucky, educated and wealthy women who manage to break the glass crucifix and put them men-folk in their place. I personally object to this.

Anyhow, I disgress in my manifestation of dislike of feminist literary criticism. Two things really stood out to me especially in their examination of medieval literature. First, the introduction claimed that women were oppressed by the threat of childhood, a threat brought to them solely by their demanding husbands and clerics who insisted their only salvation was through childbirth. Goodness knows, I read history, kings tortured wives in the quest for a son. Priests told women it was their duty to bear children and bear sons, and yes, girls got married at 12. But then, the average time of a woman's death was 40, they had to live twice as fast as modern women. As to "threat of childbirth" disease, bad sanitation, incompatible blood types, poverty, and all manner of things killed children and mothers at great rates, aside from spontaneously discovering most of modern technology, I can't see off-hand what the men could have done to save their wives, apart, perhaps, from total celibacy, which may have had a negative effect on the population. Also, women were constantly threatened by childbirth, what about the men? The men who were constantly threatened with war, death by overwork, and disease? How about the dreadful oppression of men by the women who insisted on getting pregnant and raising children and thus forcing the men to work to even feed them?

As to the second, thing--Female sexuality. The authors both condemn the men for showing women as divine, arguing that this makes them mere objects, even if they are objects of worship. It also bashes the men of the times for portraying women as overly sexual. Using their sex in bestial, man-like, or aggressive ways--examples being Lady Macbeth and Chaucer's Wife of Bath. These women also bash men for their excessive misogyny and exercising their right to physically manhandle and abuse their women. And in this, I think the feminists have made one good point, women use sexuality as a weapon throughout time. The only difference, is now we call it femine power, free love, or otherwise using men for our pleasure. Men, as they point out, constantly face the temptation to misuse their greater strength, only now, where women are given a license to seduce, men are drugged, caged, and coached out of any ability or desire to use their strength in any way. Perhaps in the medieval age, they were merely honest enough to point out the greatest weapon of both genders and condemn the abuse of it as wrong, while modern women are not strong enough to admit they may be wrong and need to be strong enough to control their power.

It's Snowing!

2009-01-27T10:56:00.000-08:00

I know, it is kind of obvious. But hey! Someone has to uphold tradition somewhere.

I love the feeling of slowly coming back to life. The cold saps your feeling, there is no life to your cheeks, nose, fingers, if it is cold enough, legs and arms, and then you come inside. The blood moves quicker, the heat hits your face, and slowly, creepingly, sometimes painfully, every nerve in the frozen areas wakes up, smiles, and proclaims "I'm Alive!" There is no better way I know of to remind myself that I am alive, and it is good.

On Incredible Spy Kids

2009-01-25T11:13:00.001-08:00

If you ever want your brain to implode, or, you want to give yourself a great deal of impetus to be a good parent, I suggest you watch The Incredibles and Spy Kids back to back. It was quite the contrast. First, you have the fathers. Mr. Incredible is a smart, talented, and compassionate man who in his good moments is a dedicated family man, and in his bad moments seeks to re-live the glory days. He is blessed, his life clearly loves him, his children respect and obey him, and like all good American heroes, his boss despises him. Through the film he is refined and his selfishness is shown as such, and his love for his family is shown as good. He learns to serve and allow himself to be served, and in such, he becomes a man. Compare this to Gregorio Cortez. Gregorio Cortez is a smart and successful former spy, who makes it plain that "he is a consultant, not a spy" entirely, of course, for the sake of the children. Yet, as soon as a chance to dive back into the action is offered, he throws caution, parental responsibility, and sense to the winds in the chance to go "be a man!"

In even greater contrast, stands the ladies of the house. Ingrid Cortez' maternal affection is confined to the rose-tinted realm of telling her romance to her daughter and worrying incessently about them when she thoughtlessly abadons them to go be the sexy, secret agent. In contrast, there is Elastigirl, who moves rapidly from insisting she is at the top of her game and she will never give that up to have a family, to marriage, to suburban house-wife. She vacuums, she births mutliple children, she cares for and instructs her children, and when she thinks her husband is unfaithful and in danger, she considers the matter, and rushes to his rescue. He may be a creep, but he is her husband, and she loves him.

Finally, there are the kids. The spy kids start the movie as infernal brats. Not so surprising, every movie needs drama, the trouble arises when you realize that they end the movie, not grown, but vindicated. They begin the movie as bratty children--left home while their parents go off to war, and only begin their career as spies to save their parents when kidnappers come to call. They end the movie as the adults. They are asked to go on adventures it is is they who take dominance and set the moral of the story as they insist that "no, we will not go unless you let our parents come along too." Essentially, "family is important, so we insist you acknowledge our parents at our level." Violet and Dash of the Incredibles also start the movie as your typical bratty children. Violet has a temper and a crush on the local teen-age hottie, and Dash is a prankster with a taste for tormenting his sister. But, even at the beginning their is a depth to their relationship with each other and their parents that is totally absent in Spy Kids. For one thing, the kids respect their parents authority. Not perfectly, but they obey and honor them. To the Spy Kids, learning of their parent's achievements as spies earned their professional, if not personal respect. To the Incredible children, seeing their parents in action impresses them far less than watching their father confess that he did wrong and go forth and do rightly. For another thing, the kids love and affirm each other. Dash mocks his sister's crush, and Violet thinks her brother is an annoying creep, but there is no evidence of the constant belittling that is the sound track of Spy Kids, and the children work well in partnership when the pressure is on. Indicating that they have a trusting and stable relationship the rest of the time. In Spy Kids, the children bungle and funble their way to survival because they have no basis of trust, affection, or mutual competance on which to build.

Spy Kids shows that everyone should have the freedom to do what they think right, the result is the family is upside down with the parents are the bottom. The Incredibles insists that everyone has the duty to do the right thing, both to the family and to the community, and the movie ends with a bond of love, respect and authority. Spy Kids confirms my idiot notion that only the insane bear children, and The Incredibles makes me believe that "children are a blessing, he who has a quiver full of them is fortunate."

2009-01-22T20:12:00.000-08:00

I suddenly understand why it is so hard to pick a name for your child. I sit here, suveying my new friend and responsibility, Mr. or Ms. Laptop, and I have no idea what kind of entity it is. Will it be like my first computer, named Jaundice (please guess why!), or will it be more like my schizophrenic-but-loyal laptop who gyrated between being Lady Jane Grey and Ivan the Terrible? I don't even know what its gender is!! But, saint or sinner, my baby has arrived and now I must figure out who and what it is and how to deal with it in a sane and responsible manner.

Any name ideas?

"Smart People"

2009-01-21T07:51:00.000-08:00

In Shakespeare class we had to read articles by all sorts of mindnumbingly brilliant people who nonetheless managed to write 20 page articles of things of absolutely no importance: like, say, why there is a bear in one .2 second scene, or why it was imperative that Juliet kill herself with a specific dagger. It never really made sense. I suggest:

1) It is the day of the resume. It is not enough to be " a smart person." This requires evidence on hard copy. So, you must do "smart things": play chess, read the right books, sneeer at the right topics, etc. In the case of these articles, you must find points that no one else has ever discovered before, or, cite umpteen "smart books" to back up a point everyone else has noticed, just to prove that you, in fact, read "the smart books."

2) It is a pragmatic era. It is not enough to be a documented "smart person." You have to be a useful smart person. So, not only must you have a 20 page paper to document a 5 page point on a Shakespeare play. You have to justify the fact that you both read Shakespeare and wrote a paper about it. Therefore, any original comment you have managed to dredge out of Shakespeare must be pertinent to a percentage of modern society: Ethnic groups, feminists, the racism question, gays, even Christians. You have to prove to them that you are the smart person who brought them yet more fuel in their battle to prove They are top school of thought.

3) Data breeds. So, papers must prove you are smart and be pragmatic. Also, there is space, endless space. Back in the day, knowledge proliferation was limited by such simple factors as cost of paper, circulations difficulties, and lack of readership. Now, in the era of mass manufacturing and endless internet space, there is no block on the amount of verbage a single individual can produce except the strength of his fingers. So, papers that could be cut to a single page carry, rambling on, for five, ten, and twenty pages. We have no reason to believe anymore that "brevity is the soul of wit." So, pointless verbage, like this blog post, go on forever with no salvation in sight.