Ceres Securigera

To contact us Click HERE
The goddess Demeter, also known as Ceres, punished Erysichthon for cutting down trees in her sacred grove. Callimachus and Ovid tell the story. Yet Ceres herself on another occasion cut down trees in a grove sacred to Jupiter, to make torches with which to hunt for her lost daughter Proserpine. See Claudian, Rape of Proserpine 3.330-381 (tr. Maurice Platnauer):

So spake she and glides down upon Etna's familiar slopes, there to fashion torches to aid her night-wandering labours.

[332] There was a wood, hard by the stream of Acis, which fair Galatea oft chooses in preference to Ocean and cleaves in swimming with her snowy breast—a wood dense with foliage that closed in Etna's summit on all sides with interwoven branches. 'Tis there that Jove is said to have laid down his bloody shield and set his captured spoil after the battle. The grove glories in trophies from the plain of Phlegra and signs of victory clothe its every tree. [339] Here hang the gaping jaws and monstrous skins of the Giants; affixed to trees their faces still threaten horribly, and heaped up on all sides bleach the huge bones of slaughtered serpents. Their stiffening sloughs smoke with the blow of many a thunderbolt, and every tree boasts some illustrious name. This one scarce supports on its down-bended branches the naked swords of hundred-handed Aegaeon; that glories in the murky trophies of Coeus; this bears up the arms of Mimas; spoiled Ophion weighs down those branches. [349] But higher than all the other trees towers a pine, its shady branches spread wide, and bears the reeking arms of Enceladus himself, all powerful king of the Earth-born giants; it would have fallen beneath the heavy burden did not a neighbouring oak-tree support its wearied weight. [353] Therefore the spot wins awe and sanctity; none touches the aged grove, and 'tis accounted a crime to violate the trophies of the gods. No Cyclops dares pasture there his flock nor hew down the trees, Polyphemus himself flies from the hallowed shade.

[357] Not for that did Ceres stay her steps; the very sanctity of the place inflames her wrath; with angry hand she brandishes her axe, ready to strike Jove himself. She hesitates whether to cut down pines or lay low knotless cedars, scans likely trunks and lofty trees and shakes their branches with vigorous hand. [363] Even so when a man, fain to carry merchandise over distant seas, builds a ship on dry land and makes ready to expose his life to the tempest, he hews down beech and elm and marks the diverse utility of the yet growing forest; the lofty tree he selects as yardarms for the swelling sail; the strong he prefers as a mast; the pliant will make good oars; the waterproof is suitable for the keel.

[370] Two cypresses in the grass hard by raised their inviolate heads to heaven; Simois looks not on such in amaze amid the crags of Ida, nor does Orontes water their like, Orontes that feeds Apollo's grove and harbours rich cities on his banks. You would know them for sisters for they tower equal in height and look down upon the wood with twin tops. [376] These she would have as torches; she attacks each with vigorous blows, her gown girt back, her arms bared and armed with the axe. First one she strikes, then the other, and rains blows upon their trembling trunks with might and main. Together they crash to the ground, lay their foliage in the dust and lie upon the plain, wept of Fauns and wood-nymphs.

Claudian's Latin:

Haec fatur notaeque iugis illabitur Aetnae        330
noctivago taedas informatura labori.

Lucus erat prope flumen Acin, quod candida praefert
saepe mari pulchroque secat Galatea natatu,
densus et innexis Aetnaea cacumina ramis
qua licet usque tegens. illic posuisse cruentam       335
aegida captivamque pater post proelia praedam
advexisse datur. Phlegraeis silva superbit
exuviis totumque nemus victoria vestit.
hic patuli rictus et prodigiosa Gigantum
tergora dependent, et adhuc crudele minantur       340
adfixae truncis facies immaniaque ossa
serpentum passim cumulis exsanguibus albent,
et rigidae multo suspirant fulmine pelles;
nullaque non magni iactat se nominis arbor:
haec centumgemini strictos Aegaeonis enses       345
curvata vix fronde levat; liventibus illa
exsultat Coei spoliis; haec arma Mimantis
sustinet; hos onerat ramos exutus Ophion.
altior at cunctis abies umbrosaque late
ipsius Enceladi fumantia gestat opima,       350
summi terrigenum regis, caderetque gravata
pondere, ni lassam fulciret proxima quercus.
inde timor numenque loco nemorisque senectae
parcitur aetheriisque nefas nocuisse tropaeis.
pascere nullus oves nec robora laedere Cyclops       355
audet et ipse fugit sacra Polyphemus ab umbra.

Non tamen hoc tardata Ceres. accenditur ultro
religione loci vibratque infesta securim
ipsum etiam feritura Iovem: succidere pinus,
haud magis enodes dubitat prosternere cedros       360
exploratque habiles truncos rectique tenorem
stipitis et certo pertemptat brachia nisu.
sic, qui vecturus longinqua per aequora merces
molitur tellure ratem vitamque procellis
obiectare parat, fagos metitur et alnos       365
et varium rudibus silvis accommodat usum:
quae longa est, tumidis praebebit cornua velis;
quae fortis, clavo potior, quae lenta, favebit
remigio; stagni patiens aptanda carinae.

Tollebant geminae capita inviolata cupressus       370
caespite vicino: quales non rupibus Idae
miratur Simois, quales non divite ripa
lambit Apollinei nemoris nutritor Orontes.
germanas adeo credas: sic frontibus aequis
exstant et socio despectant vertice lucum.       375
hae placuere faces. pernix invadit utramque
cincta sinus, exserta manus, armata bipenni
alternasque ferit totisque obnixa trementes
viribus impellit. pariter traxere ruinam
et pariter posuere comas campoque recumbunt,       380
Faunorum Dryadumque dolor.

The Phenomenon of Man

To contact us Click HERE
Excerpts from P.B. Medawar, review of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, The Phenomenon of Man, in Mind, New Series, Vol. 70, No. 277 (January 1961) 99-106:

P. 99:

The Phenomenon of Man stands square in the tradition of German Naturphilosophie, which does not seem even by accident (though there is a great deal of it) to have contributed anything of permanent value to the storehouse of human thought. French is not a language that lends itself naturally to the opaque and ponderous idiom of nature-philosophy, and Teilhard has accordingly resorted to the use of that tipsy, euphoric prose-poetry which is one of the more tiresome manifestations of the French spirit.

P. 100:

Teilhard is for ever shouting at us: things or affairs are, in alphabetical order, astounding, colossal, endless, enormous, fantastic, giddy, hyper-, immense, implacable, indefinite, inexhaustible, inextricable, infinite, infinitesimal, innumerable, irresistible, measureless, mega-, monstrous, mysterious, prodigious, relentless, super-, ultra-, unbelievable, unbridled or unparalleled. When something is described as merely huge we feel let down.

P. 105:

We must not underestimate size of the market for works of this kind, for philosophy-fiction. Just as compulsory primary education created a market catered for by cheap dailies and weeklies, so the spread of secondary and latterly of tertiary education has created a large population of people, often with well-developed literary and scholarly tastes, who have been educated far beyond their capacity to undertake analytical thought.

Computer translation of 'Ships with Butterfly Wings'

To contact us Click HERE
Une larme tombe pour le sableVagues et vent soupirent en deuilAu-dessus de la mer dans un pays lointainJusqu'à l'horizon, puis une pauseEt puis il est partiLa chaleur du soleil n'a jamais cesséCris plaintif de goélands sans causeEspoir, desesperee, ne s'arrête jamais de chanterClignotant dans l'éblouissement, elle attendLe résultat doit avoir une causeLorsque les navires avec papillon ailesBat dans le vent sur une quête fineAmants déchirés pendant un certain tempsPersonne ne peut dire le pourquoi de ces chosesLes liaisons ont été libérés Chacun est libre d'être leur propreC'est une graine qui doit être seméeEt personne ne peut dire à son destinParfois, il n'y a aucun moyen de gagnerMais seulement à endurer.Lorsque les navires avec papillon ailesCoups dans le ventTransporter votre cœur à travers l'océanC'est tout que vous pouvez faire, parfoisD'attendre et de présenter un grief et à prier.

Art for art's sake.

To contact us Click HERE



































As a boy, I wanted to be a great painter.
Even now canvases like Monet’s “Water Lilies,” impress my soul although there’s not much clarity. I can even paint – I have sketches like old naval victories, paintings in the style of Picasso or Cezanne,  Thompson, although Rembrandt’s detailed soul-analysis is a stretch. It’s not even that hard. Not really.

Where is the market? I mean, why bother?
Art teachers, jealous as they were, always assumed I was some kind of expert, a “ringer” who just showed up to show off and make fun of the untalented but sincere persons who take lessons and pay the bills.
They were right. Like the guy who can really play the drums, but makes a living selling shoes – not enough courage to get out there in the trenches, or get one’s head stomped in by critics and fans alike. I figure in order to succeed, i.e. make money, one would have to grab the world’s attention and hold it long enough for someone important to decide you are “in fashion” as a painter. That you are “marketable,” and “collectible” and “in vogue.” Like as in “Good Investment.” Maybe I was just too lazy to do it—to put the time into learning the craft.
Hey! If I was to get some frames, and stretch huge expanses of white cotton over them. Rent the Public Library and Art Gallery – how much could it cost? Bolt or screw them up on the walls, put paint in pots on tables, or on the floor in buckets. O.K. I know what you’re thinking. “It’s already been done! Lots of artists have public participation in their painting projects, and the Old Masters had half of their work done by apprentices…and so called installation art consisting of neat rows of bricks, toilet seats, or even buckets of paint on a table is old hat.”
Yeah, you’re right. But then…you always are. (I’ve never heard you ask a question, or even express an opinion. You know everything.) It is abstract, and expressionistic, and therefore derivative. It’s even nihilistic, and therefore anti-Canadian.
The very first guy that walks in there and says, “Bleep! Any bleep-bleep could do that!” I’m going to grab him by the scruff of the neck, dip his head in the paint pot and bounce the mouthy bleep off the bleeping walls for a while.
It may not be entirely original. One heck of a piece of performance art, eh?
“I couldn’t do it without your help.” Eventually we’ll get this work of art finished.
I may even be able to sell a couple of them. But that’s not really important right now. 
Try to think of it as “art for art’s sake,” and you have to admit; the medium of performance art has really been lacking in some essential quality lately. You know – like violence? Think of it as a great naval victory without the water; ships and smoke and stuff.
                                                     From quiet contemplation comes chaos.

Coming November 1. 'The Art of Murder.'

To contact us Click HERE
Marketing image for my new mystery novel, 'The Art of Murder,' which will be published November 1/2012.

I would love a critique, an impression, a scathing commentary, a few words on a related subject,* for someone to go off on a tangent, or even a few unsolicited compliments on this, my first attempt at a marketing image.

Ahem. That bein' said, (and I'm just sayin',) please tell me all about how bad covers don't sell good books, and all that short-story long crap.

Hello to all of you in Russia. Russia is a great country, and I hope you all learn English very, very soon, so that you all can read a whole bunch of my books. Spacebo comrades.

More on this later.

Thank you very much and good day. Oh, and I promise to put the skull back in the ROM tomorrow before Curly the minimum-wage unarmed security guard wakes up just in time to go home.) -louis


P.S. Yes I know my signature begins with a lower case letter. It's like a little peccadillo.

*But I ain't going to get it, am I?

This is the end of this post. Stop reading it.

Coming November 1. 'The Art of Murder.'

To contact us Click HERE
Marketing image for my new mystery novel, 'The Art of Murder,' which will be published November 1/2012.

I would love a critique, an impression, a scathing commentary, a few words on a related subject,* for someone to go off on a tangent, or even a few unsolicited compliments on this, my first attempt at a marketing image.

Ahem. That bein' said, (and I'm just sayin',) please tell me all about how bad covers don't sell good books, and all that short-story long crap.

Hello to all of you in Russia. Russia is a great country, and I hope you all learn English very, very soon, so that you all can read a whole bunch of my books. Spacebo comrades.

More on this later.

Thank you very much and good day. Oh, and I promise to put the skull back in the ROM tomorrow before Curly the minimum-wage unarmed security guard wakes up just in time to go home.) -louis


P.S. Yes I know my signature begins with a lower case letter. It's like a little peccadillo.

*But I ain't going to get it, am I?

This is the end of this post. Stop reading it.

Fernando de Herrera's Ode to Sleep

To contact us Click HERE
Fernando de Herrera (1534-1597), Ode to Sleep (tr. Thomas Roscoe):

Sweet Sleep, that through the starry path of night,
With dewy poppies crowned, pursu'st thy flight!
Stiller of human woes,
That shedd'st o'er Nature's breast a soft repose!
Oh, to these distant climates of the West
Thy slowly-wandering pinions turn,
And with thy influence blest
Bathe these love-burdened eyes, that ever burn
And find no moment's rest,
While my unceasing grief
Refuses all relief!
Oh, hear my prayer! I ask it by thy love,
Whom Juno gave thee in the realms above.

Sweet Power, that dost impart
Gentle oblivion to the suffering heart,
Beloved Sleep, thou only canst bestow
A solace for my woe!
Thrice happy be the hour
My weary limbs shall feel thy sovereign power!
Why to these eyes alone deny
The calm thou pour'st on Nature's boundless reign?
Why let thy votary all neglected die,
Nor yield a respite to a lover's pain?
And must I ask thy balmy aid in vain?
Hear, gentle Power, oh, hear my humble prayer,
And let my soul thy heavenly banquet share!

In this extreme of grief, I own thy might.
Descend, and shed thy healing dew;
Descend, and put to flight
The intruding Dawn, that with her garish light
My sorrows would renew!
Thou hear'st my sad lament, and in my face
My many griefs may'st trace:
Turn, then, sweet wanderer of the night, and spread
Thy wings around my head!
Haste, for the unwelcome Morn
Is now on her return!
Let the soft rest the hours of night denied
Be by thy lenient hand supplied!

Fresh from my summer bowers
A crown of soothing flowers,
Such as thou lov'st, the fairest and the best,
I offer thee; won by their odors sweet,
The enamoured air shall greet
Thy advent: oh, then, let thy hand
Express their essence bland,
And o'er my eyelids pour delicious rest!
Enchanting Power, soft as the breath of Spring
Be the light gale that steers thy dewy wing!
Come, ere the sun ascends the purple east,—
Come, end my woes! So, crowned with heavenly charms,
May fair Pasithea take thee to her arms!

In Spanish:

Süave Sueño, tú, que en tardo vuelo
las alas perezosas blandamente
bates, de adormideras coronado,
por el puro, adormido y vago cielo,
ven a la última parte de Ocidente,
y de licor sagrado
baña mis ojos tristes, que cansado
y rendido al furor de mi tormento,
no admito algún sosiego,
y el dolor desconorta al sufrimiento;
ven a mi humilde ruego,
ven a mi ruego humilde, ¡oh amor de aquella,
que Juno te ofreció, tu ninfa bella!

Divino Sueño, gloria de mortales,
regalo dulce al mísero afligido,
Sueño amoroso, ven a quien espera
cesar del ejercicio de sus males,
y al descanso volver todo el sentido.
¿Cómo sufres que muera,
lejos de tu poder quien tuyo era?
¿No es dureza olvidar un solo pecho
en veladora pena,
que sin gozar del bien que al mundo has hecho,
de tu vigor se ajena?
Ven, Sueño alegre; Sueño, ven dichoso;
vuelve a mi alma ya, vuelve el reposo.

Sienta yo en tal estrecho tu grandeza,
baja y esparce líquido el rocío,
huya la alba que en torno resplandece;
mira mi ardiente llanto y mi tristeza
y cuánta fuerza tiene el pesar mío,
y mi frente humedece,
que ya de fuegos juntos el sol crece.
Torna, sabroso Sueño, y tus hermosas
alas suenen ahora,
y huya con sus alas presurosas
la desabrida Aurora,
y lo que en mí faltó la noche fría
termine la cercana luz del día.

Una corona, ¡oh Sueño!, de tus flores
ofrezco; tú produce el blando efeto
en los desiertos cercos de mis ojos,
que el aire entretejido con olores
halaga, y ledo mueve en dulce afeto;
y destos mis enojos
destierra, manso Sueño, los despojos.
Ven, pues, amado Sueño, ven liviano,
que del rico Orïente
despunta el tierno Febo el rayo cano.
Ven ya, Sueño clemente,
y acabará el dolor. Así te vea
en brazos de tu cara Pasitea.

Another translation, by Mary Anna E. Charnock:

Oh, gentle Sleep! thou who in noiseless flight
Beatest so lazily thy downy wings,
Thy brow with blushing wreath of poppies crowned,
When the pure, fragrant, placid air of night
O'er all the earth its dreamy influence flings,
Come from the distant west's remotest bound,
    And with thy sacred balm,
Oh soothe my aching eyes, and gently calm
The anguish of my heart—assuage my grief—
    Grant me release from care—
Thou who alone canst bring desired relief,
    Come to my humble prayer—
Come to my humble prayer, oh gentle Sleep!
And in profound repose my senses steep.

Oh blessed Sleep, thou choicest boon of heaven!
Thou refuge sweet from misery, and pain!
Beloved Sleep, to whose entrancing power,
Forgetfulness of all our woes is given!
Who still'st the busy workings of the brain,
And giv'st severest pain one tranquil hour!
    How we suffer—even die—
Mysterious Sleep, when thou dost from us fly!
How hard it is to banish from the mind
    One grief when thou art gone!
What joy in earth's possessions can we find
    When thou hast from us flown?
Then come, oh gentle, and beloved Sleep!
And in profound repose my senses steep.

I know how swiftly thy benignant sway
Departs, when morning's pearly dew appears,
And the bright sunrise throws its radiant blaze
On all around.—How oft the early day
Has heard my sighs, and seen my burning tears,
And marked the overwhelming care that weighs,
    Upon my aching brow!
Then, gentle Sleep! thy blessed influence throw
Over my couch! oh wave thy downy wing,
    Upon soft zephyrs borne!
And come, before the hours, swift passing, bring
    The bright unwelcome morn!
Come, whilst the cool night breeze remains, oh Sleep!
And in profound repose my senses steep.

A wreath, oh Sleep! of thy most favourite flowers
I offer thee, that thou should'st o'er me fling
Thy soothing spell, and on my weary eyes
Let the soft breezes play, whose balmy powers
Are gathered from the sweetest blooms of spring,
And whilst they o'er me breathe their fragrant sighs,
    Banish the last remains
Of my worn spirits never ceasing pains.
Then come! come speedily—oh tranquil Sleep!
    Ere, from the east, the sun
Shall rise, in youthful splendour, o'er the deep.
    Then come, thou gentlest one!—
Oh heal my heart's deep wounds, beloved Sleep!
And in profound repose my senses steep.

Related posts:

• Sleep
• More on Sleep
• Hymn to Sleep
• Paean to Sleep
• Prayer for an Insomniac
• Benedetto Accolti's Ode to Sleep
• Accolti's Ode to Sleep Revisited

Epitaph of Servius Sulpicius Similis

To contact us Click HERE
Cassius Dio 69.19.2 (tr. Earnest Cary):

Moreover, he assumed the command of the Praetorians reluctantly, and after assuming it resigned it. Having with difficulty secured his release, he spent the rest of his life, seven years, quietly in the country, and upon his tomb he caused this inscription to be placed: "Here lies Similis, who existed so-and‑so many years, and lived seven."

καὶ τὴν τῶν δορυφόρων ἀρχὴν ἄκων τε ἔλαβε καὶ λαβὼν ἐξίστατο, μόλις τε ἀφεθεὶς ἐν ἀγρῷ ἥσυχος ἑπτὰ ἔτη τὰ λοιπὰ τοῦ βίου διήγαγε, καὶ ἐπί γε τὸ μνῆμα αὑτοῦ τοῦτο ἐπέγραψεν ὅτι Σίμιλις ἐνταῦθα κεῖται βιοὺς μὲν ἔτη τόσα, ζήσας δὲ ἔτη ἑπτά.

Inappropriate Grinning

To contact us Click HERE
Catullus 39.1-8 (tr. Roy Arthur Swanson):

Because Egnatius has white teeth, he smiles
without a stop. And should it come to trials
where lawyers move the court to tears, he smiles.
Suppose a mother mourns her only son,
he smiles. Whatever it is, whatever he's done,
wherever it is, he smiles. It's a disease,
not elegance, I think, nor does it please.

Egnatius, quod candidos habet dentes,
renidet usque quaque. si ad rei ventum est
subsellium, cum orator excitat fletum,
renidet ille; si ad pii rogum fili
lugetur, orba cum flet unicum mater,
renidet ille. quidquid est, ubicumque est,
quodcumque agit, renidet: hunc habet morbum,
neque elegantem, ut arbitror, neque urbanum.

Hat tip: Joe B.

A Zealous Friend of Matrimony

To contact us Click HERE
James Hurnard (1808-1881), The Setting Sun, 3rd ed. (London: Saml. Harris & Co., 1878), pp. 71-72:

Although I am a crusty bachelor,
I am a zealous friend of matrimony;
If I should ever be the king of England
I will lay down some very spanking laws;—
Every young man of the age of five-and-twenty
Shall have a loving wife to comfort him,
And every girl who wishes for a husband
Shall have a manly breast to lay her head on.
  'Tis sweet for loving hearts to come together!
The pleasant lottery of matrimony
Is not like other doubtful lotteries,
For here the law of chances is reversed,
The blanks are few, the prizes plentiful.
Women are not like heartless birds of passage
That share with us the summer of our joy,
But leave us in the winter of our sorrow;
They are the robins that cling round our homes.
Marriage is oft delayed by far too long;
We lose our prime in waiting to be blest;
Youth is the special time for happiness;
Neglected, only gleaning ears are left,
Instead of the full harvest of enjoyment.
We want some easier way of getting married—
Promoting marriage in a business manner.
How many sweet, retiring, modest girls,
With bosoms bursting for connubial joys,
Pass on through life in wasting loneliness,
Unknown, unheeded, unappreciated,
Unintroduced to honourable hearts
That might have loved them and have wedded them,
And thus are left in sadness to consume!

Computer translation of 'Ships with Butterfly Wings'

To contact us Click HERE
Une larme tombe pour le sableVagues et vent soupirent en deuilAu-dessus de la mer dans un pays lointainJusqu'à l'horizon, puis une pauseEt puis il est partiLa chaleur du soleil n'a jamais cesséCris plaintif de goélands sans causeEspoir, desesperee, ne s'arrête jamais de chanterClignotant dans l'éblouissement, elle attendLe résultat doit avoir une causeLorsque les navires avec papillon ailesBat dans le vent sur une quête fineAmants déchirés pendant un certain tempsPersonne ne peut dire le pourquoi de ces chosesLes liaisons ont été libérés Chacun est libre d'être leur propreC'est une graine qui doit être seméeEt personne ne peut dire à son destinParfois, il n'y a aucun moyen de gagnerMais seulement à endurer.Lorsque les navires avec papillon ailesCoups dans le ventTransporter votre cœur à travers l'océanC'est tout que vous pouvez faire, parfoisD'attendre et de présenter un grief et à prier.

Art for art's sake.

To contact us Click HERE



































As a boy, I wanted to be a great painter.
Even now canvases like Monet’s “Water Lilies,” impress my soul although there’s not much clarity. I can even paint – I have sketches like old naval victories, paintings in the style of Picasso or Cezanne,  Thompson, although Rembrandt’s detailed soul-analysis is a stretch. It’s not even that hard. Not really.

Where is the market? I mean, why bother?
Art teachers, jealous as they were, always assumed I was some kind of expert, a “ringer” who just showed up to show off and make fun of the untalented but sincere persons who take lessons and pay the bills.
They were right. Like the guy who can really play the drums, but makes a living selling shoes – not enough courage to get out there in the trenches, or get one’s head stomped in by critics and fans alike. I figure in order to succeed, i.e. make money, one would have to grab the world’s attention and hold it long enough for someone important to decide you are “in fashion” as a painter. That you are “marketable,” and “collectible” and “in vogue.” Like as in “Good Investment.” Maybe I was just too lazy to do it—to put the time into learning the craft.
Hey! If I was to get some frames, and stretch huge expanses of white cotton over them. Rent the Public Library and Art Gallery – how much could it cost? Bolt or screw them up on the walls, put paint in pots on tables, or on the floor in buckets. O.K. I know what you’re thinking. “It’s already been done! Lots of artists have public participation in their painting projects, and the Old Masters had half of their work done by apprentices…and so called installation art consisting of neat rows of bricks, toilet seats, or even buckets of paint on a table is old hat.”
Yeah, you’re right. But then…you always are. (I’ve never heard you ask a question, or even express an opinion. You know everything.) It is abstract, and expressionistic, and therefore derivative. It’s even nihilistic, and therefore anti-Canadian.
The very first guy that walks in there and says, “Bleep! Any bleep-bleep could do that!” I’m going to grab him by the scruff of the neck, dip his head in the paint pot and bounce the mouthy bleep off the bleeping walls for a while.
It may not be entirely original. One heck of a piece of performance art, eh?
“I couldn’t do it without your help.” Eventually we’ll get this work of art finished.
I may even be able to sell a couple of them. But that’s not really important right now. 
Try to think of it as “art for art’s sake,” and you have to admit; the medium of performance art has really been lacking in some essential quality lately. You know – like violence? Think of it as a great naval victory without the water; ships and smoke and stuff.
                                                     From quiet contemplation comes chaos.

Coming November 1. 'The Art of Murder.'

To contact us Click HERE
Marketing image for my new mystery novel, 'The Art of Murder,' which will be published November 1/2012.

I would love a critique, an impression, a scathing commentary, a few words on a related subject,* for someone to go off on a tangent, or even a few unsolicited compliments on this, my first attempt at a marketing image.

Ahem. That bein' said, (and I'm just sayin',) please tell me all about how bad covers don't sell good books, and all that short-story long crap.

Hello to all of you in Russia. Russia is a great country, and I hope you all learn English very, very soon, so that you all can read a whole bunch of my books. Spacebo comrades.

More on this later.

Thank you very much and good day. Oh, and I promise to put the skull back in the ROM tomorrow before Curly the minimum-wage unarmed security guard wakes up just in time to go home.) -louis


P.S. Yes I know my signature begins with a lower case letter. It's like a little peccadillo.

*But I ain't going to get it, am I?

This is the end of this post. Stop reading it.

Fernando de Herrera's Ode to Sleep

To contact us Click HERE
Fernando de Herrera (1534-1597), Ode to Sleep (tr. Thomas Roscoe):

Sweet Sleep, that through the starry path of night,
With dewy poppies crowned, pursu'st thy flight!
Stiller of human woes,
That shedd'st o'er Nature's breast a soft repose!
Oh, to these distant climates of the West
Thy slowly-wandering pinions turn,
And with thy influence blest
Bathe these love-burdened eyes, that ever burn
And find no moment's rest,
While my unceasing grief
Refuses all relief!
Oh, hear my prayer! I ask it by thy love,
Whom Juno gave thee in the realms above.

Sweet Power, that dost impart
Gentle oblivion to the suffering heart,
Beloved Sleep, thou only canst bestow
A solace for my woe!
Thrice happy be the hour
My weary limbs shall feel thy sovereign power!
Why to these eyes alone deny
The calm thou pour'st on Nature's boundless reign?
Why let thy votary all neglected die,
Nor yield a respite to a lover's pain?
And must I ask thy balmy aid in vain?
Hear, gentle Power, oh, hear my humble prayer,
And let my soul thy heavenly banquet share!

In this extreme of grief, I own thy might.
Descend, and shed thy healing dew;
Descend, and put to flight
The intruding Dawn, that with her garish light
My sorrows would renew!
Thou hear'st my sad lament, and in my face
My many griefs may'st trace:
Turn, then, sweet wanderer of the night, and spread
Thy wings around my head!
Haste, for the unwelcome Morn
Is now on her return!
Let the soft rest the hours of night denied
Be by thy lenient hand supplied!

Fresh from my summer bowers
A crown of soothing flowers,
Such as thou lov'st, the fairest and the best,
I offer thee; won by their odors sweet,
The enamoured air shall greet
Thy advent: oh, then, let thy hand
Express their essence bland,
And o'er my eyelids pour delicious rest!
Enchanting Power, soft as the breath of Spring
Be the light gale that steers thy dewy wing!
Come, ere the sun ascends the purple east,—
Come, end my woes! So, crowned with heavenly charms,
May fair Pasithea take thee to her arms!

In Spanish:

Süave Sueño, tú, que en tardo vuelo
las alas perezosas blandamente
bates, de adormideras coronado,
por el puro, adormido y vago cielo,
ven a la última parte de Ocidente,
y de licor sagrado
baña mis ojos tristes, que cansado
y rendido al furor de mi tormento,
no admito algún sosiego,
y el dolor desconorta al sufrimiento;
ven a mi humilde ruego,
ven a mi ruego humilde, ¡oh amor de aquella,
que Juno te ofreció, tu ninfa bella!

Divino Sueño, gloria de mortales,
regalo dulce al mísero afligido,
Sueño amoroso, ven a quien espera
cesar del ejercicio de sus males,
y al descanso volver todo el sentido.
¿Cómo sufres que muera,
lejos de tu poder quien tuyo era?
¿No es dureza olvidar un solo pecho
en veladora pena,
que sin gozar del bien que al mundo has hecho,
de tu vigor se ajena?
Ven, Sueño alegre; Sueño, ven dichoso;
vuelve a mi alma ya, vuelve el reposo.

Sienta yo en tal estrecho tu grandeza,
baja y esparce líquido el rocío,
huya la alba que en torno resplandece;
mira mi ardiente llanto y mi tristeza
y cuánta fuerza tiene el pesar mío,
y mi frente humedece,
que ya de fuegos juntos el sol crece.
Torna, sabroso Sueño, y tus hermosas
alas suenen ahora,
y huya con sus alas presurosas
la desabrida Aurora,
y lo que en mí faltó la noche fría
termine la cercana luz del día.

Una corona, ¡oh Sueño!, de tus flores
ofrezco; tú produce el blando efeto
en los desiertos cercos de mis ojos,
que el aire entretejido con olores
halaga, y ledo mueve en dulce afeto;
y destos mis enojos
destierra, manso Sueño, los despojos.
Ven, pues, amado Sueño, ven liviano,
que del rico Orïente
despunta el tierno Febo el rayo cano.
Ven ya, Sueño clemente,
y acabará el dolor. Así te vea
en brazos de tu cara Pasitea.

Another translation, by Mary Anna E. Charnock:

Oh, gentle Sleep! thou who in noiseless flight
Beatest so lazily thy downy wings,
Thy brow with blushing wreath of poppies crowned,
When the pure, fragrant, placid air of night
O'er all the earth its dreamy influence flings,
Come from the distant west's remotest bound,
    And with thy sacred balm,
Oh soothe my aching eyes, and gently calm
The anguish of my heart—assuage my grief—
    Grant me release from care—
Thou who alone canst bring desired relief,
    Come to my humble prayer—
Come to my humble prayer, oh gentle Sleep!
And in profound repose my senses steep.

Oh blessed Sleep, thou choicest boon of heaven!
Thou refuge sweet from misery, and pain!
Beloved Sleep, to whose entrancing power,
Forgetfulness of all our woes is given!
Who still'st the busy workings of the brain,
And giv'st severest pain one tranquil hour!
    How we suffer—even die—
Mysterious Sleep, when thou dost from us fly!
How hard it is to banish from the mind
    One grief when thou art gone!
What joy in earth's possessions can we find
    When thou hast from us flown?
Then come, oh gentle, and beloved Sleep!
And in profound repose my senses steep.

I know how swiftly thy benignant sway
Departs, when morning's pearly dew appears,
And the bright sunrise throws its radiant blaze
On all around.—How oft the early day
Has heard my sighs, and seen my burning tears,
And marked the overwhelming care that weighs,
    Upon my aching brow!
Then, gentle Sleep! thy blessed influence throw
Over my couch! oh wave thy downy wing,
    Upon soft zephyrs borne!
And come, before the hours, swift passing, bring
    The bright unwelcome morn!
Come, whilst the cool night breeze remains, oh Sleep!
And in profound repose my senses steep.

A wreath, oh Sleep! of thy most favourite flowers
I offer thee, that thou should'st o'er me fling
Thy soothing spell, and on my weary eyes
Let the soft breezes play, whose balmy powers
Are gathered from the sweetest blooms of spring,
And whilst they o'er me breathe their fragrant sighs,
    Banish the last remains
Of my worn spirits never ceasing pains.
Then come! come speedily—oh tranquil Sleep!
    Ere, from the east, the sun
Shall rise, in youthful splendour, o'er the deep.
    Then come, thou gentlest one!—
Oh heal my heart's deep wounds, beloved Sleep!
And in profound repose my senses steep.

Related posts:

• Sleep
• More on Sleep
• Hymn to Sleep
• Paean to Sleep
• Prayer for an Insomniac
• Benedetto Accolti's Ode to Sleep
• Accolti's Ode to Sleep Revisited

Aurum ex Stercore

To contact us Click HERE
"Meet the Bacteria That Produces Pure Gold," Slate (October 4, 2012):

Scientists have discovered bacteria that eats toxic material and, well, poops pure gold. This microbial magician, named Cupriavidus metallidurans, when placed in a minilab full of gold chloride, a nasty toxin, gobbled up the poison and, in about a week, processed it out as 24-karat nuggets of the precious yellow metal.

This reminds me of a passage in Donatus' Life of Vergil:

When Vergil was holding [a book by] Ennius in his hand and was asked what he was doing, he answered that he was collecting gold from the dung of Ennius.

cum Ennium in manu haberet rogareturque, quidnam faceret, respondit se aurum colligere de stercore Ennii.

See also Cassiodorus, Institutes of Divine and Secular Learning 1.1.8 (my translation):

While Vergil was reading Ennius, he was asked by someone what he was doing and he answered, "I'm searching for gold in dung."

Vergilius, dum Ennium legeret, a quodam quid faceret inquisitus, respondit: aurum in stercore quaerere.

I haven't seen Georges Folliet, "La fortuna du dit de Virgile Aurum colligere de stercore dans la littérature chrétienne," Sacris Erudiri 41 (2002) 31-53, but the saying is discussed in Renzo Tosi, Dictionnaire des sentences latines et grecques, tr. Rebecca Lenoir (Grenoble: Jérôme Millon, 2010), #1188 (pp. 879-880). Not mentioned by Tosi are three Latin epigrams by John Owen (1564-1622), all translated by me:

3.83:

Vergil gathers gold from the dung of Ennius,
  A heretic gathers dung from gold.

Aurum Virgilius de stercore colligit Enni,
  Ex auro stercus colligit haereticus.

4.199:

Vergil gathers gold from the dung of Ennius.
  Vergil did what a doctor also does.

Aurum Virgilius de stercore colligit Enni.
  Fecit Virgilius, quod facit et medicus.

6.24:

The renter of privies collects gold from dung,
  As do two others as well: the peasant and the doctor.

Conductor foricarum ex stercore colligit aurum,
  Et duo praeterea, rusticus et medicus.

The doctor is said to "gather gold from dung" because he charges a fee to inspect the feces of his patients, for diagnostic purposes.

St. Jerome in his letters employs a similar expression, but substitutes mud for dung:

54.11.1 (ed. Hilberg, CSEL LIV, p. 478, tr. F.A. Wright):

When you are eating, remember that immediately afterwards you will have to pray and read. Take a fixed number of verses from the Holy Scripture and show them up as your task to your Lord; and do not lie down to rest until you have filled your heart's basket with this precious yarn. After the Holy Scriptures, read the treatises that have been written by learned men, provided, of course, that they are persons of known faith. You need not seek for gold amid the mire: with many pearls buy the one pearl of price.

quando comedis, cogita, quod statim tibi orandum, ilico legendum sit. de scripturis sanctis habeto fixum versuum numerum; istud pensum domino tuo redde nec ante quieti membra concedas, quam calathum pectoris tui hoc subtegmine impleveris. post scripturas sanctas doctorum hominum tractatus lege, eorum dumtaxat, quorum fides nota est. non necesse habes aurum in luto quaerere: multis margaritis unam redime margaritam.

98.22.1 (ed. Hilberg, CSEL LV, p. 207, a translation by Jerome of one of Theophilus of Alexandria's letters, tr. Norman Russell):

Therefore those who delight in Origen's errors should not despise the preaching of the Lord's feast. Nor should they seek ointments, gold and pearls in the mire.

unde, qui Origenis erroribus delectantur, festivitatis dominicae non spernant praeconia nec unguenta, aurum et margaritas quaerant in luto.

107.12.3 (ed. Hilberg, CSEL LV, p. 303, tr. W.H. Fremantle):

Let her avoid all apocryphal writings, and if she is led to read such not by the truth of the doctrines which they contain but out of respect for the miracles contained in them, let her understand that they are not really written by those to whom they are ascribed, that many faulty elements have been introduced into them, and that it requires infinite discretion to look for gold in the midst of dirt.

caveat omnia apocrypha et, si quando ea non ad dogmatum veritatem, sed ad signorum reverentiam legere voluerit, sciat non eorum esse, quorum titulis praenotantur, multaque his admixta vitiosa et grandis esse prudentiae aurum in luto quaerere.

Gold from mud also appears in Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867), planned epilogue to Flowers of Evil (my translation):

Angels dressed in gold, purple, and hyacinth,
O you, be witnesses that I have done my duty
Like a perfect chemist and a holy soul.
For from each thing I extracted its quintessence,
You gave me your mud, and I made gold out of it.

Anges revêtus d'or, de pourpre et d'hyacinthe,
O vous, soyez témoins que j'ai fait mon devoir
Comme un parfait chimiste et comme une âme sainte.
Car j'ai de chaque chose extrait la quintessence,
Tu m'as donné ta boue, et j'en ai fait de l'or.

Hat tip: Jim K.

Coming November 1. 'The Art of Murder.'

To contact us Click HERE
Marketing image for my new mystery novel, 'The Art of Murder,' which will be published November 1/2012.

I would love a critique, an impression, a scathing commentary, a few words on a related subject,* for someone to go off on a tangent, or even a few unsolicited compliments on this, my first attempt at a marketing image.

Ahem. That bein' said, (and I'm just sayin',) please tell me all about how bad covers don't sell good books, and all that short-story long crap.

Hello to all of you in Russia. Russia is a great country, and I hope you all learn English very, very soon, so that you all can read a whole bunch of my books. Spacebo comrades.

More on this later.

Thank you very much and good day. Oh, and I promise to put the skull back in the ROM tomorrow before Curly the minimum-wage unarmed security guard wakes up just in time to go home.) -louis


P.S. Yes I know my signature begins with a lower case letter. It's like a little peccadillo.

*But I ain't going to get it, am I?

This is the end of this post. Stop reading it.

Fernando de Herrera's Ode to Sleep

To contact us Click HERE
Fernando de Herrera (1534-1597), Ode to Sleep (tr. Thomas Roscoe):

Sweet Sleep, that through the starry path of night,
With dewy poppies crowned, pursu'st thy flight!
Stiller of human woes,
That shedd'st o'er Nature's breast a soft repose!
Oh, to these distant climates of the West
Thy slowly-wandering pinions turn,
And with thy influence blest
Bathe these love-burdened eyes, that ever burn
And find no moment's rest,
While my unceasing grief
Refuses all relief!
Oh, hear my prayer! I ask it by thy love,
Whom Juno gave thee in the realms above.

Sweet Power, that dost impart
Gentle oblivion to the suffering heart,
Beloved Sleep, thou only canst bestow
A solace for my woe!
Thrice happy be the hour
My weary limbs shall feel thy sovereign power!
Why to these eyes alone deny
The calm thou pour'st on Nature's boundless reign?
Why let thy votary all neglected die,
Nor yield a respite to a lover's pain?
And must I ask thy balmy aid in vain?
Hear, gentle Power, oh, hear my humble prayer,
And let my soul thy heavenly banquet share!

In this extreme of grief, I own thy might.
Descend, and shed thy healing dew;
Descend, and put to flight
The intruding Dawn, that with her garish light
My sorrows would renew!
Thou hear'st my sad lament, and in my face
My many griefs may'st trace:
Turn, then, sweet wanderer of the night, and spread
Thy wings around my head!
Haste, for the unwelcome Morn
Is now on her return!
Let the soft rest the hours of night denied
Be by thy lenient hand supplied!

Fresh from my summer bowers
A crown of soothing flowers,
Such as thou lov'st, the fairest and the best,
I offer thee; won by their odors sweet,
The enamoured air shall greet
Thy advent: oh, then, let thy hand
Express their essence bland,
And o'er my eyelids pour delicious rest!
Enchanting Power, soft as the breath of Spring
Be the light gale that steers thy dewy wing!
Come, ere the sun ascends the purple east,—
Come, end my woes! So, crowned with heavenly charms,
May fair Pasithea take thee to her arms!

In Spanish:

Süave Sueño, tú, que en tardo vuelo
las alas perezosas blandamente
bates, de adormideras coronado,
por el puro, adormido y vago cielo,
ven a la última parte de Ocidente,
y de licor sagrado
baña mis ojos tristes, que cansado
y rendido al furor de mi tormento,
no admito algún sosiego,
y el dolor desconorta al sufrimiento;
ven a mi humilde ruego,
ven a mi ruego humilde, ¡oh amor de aquella,
que Juno te ofreció, tu ninfa bella!

Divino Sueño, gloria de mortales,
regalo dulce al mísero afligido,
Sueño amoroso, ven a quien espera
cesar del ejercicio de sus males,
y al descanso volver todo el sentido.
¿Cómo sufres que muera,
lejos de tu poder quien tuyo era?
¿No es dureza olvidar un solo pecho
en veladora pena,
que sin gozar del bien que al mundo has hecho,
de tu vigor se ajena?
Ven, Sueño alegre; Sueño, ven dichoso;
vuelve a mi alma ya, vuelve el reposo.

Sienta yo en tal estrecho tu grandeza,
baja y esparce líquido el rocío,
huya la alba que en torno resplandece;
mira mi ardiente llanto y mi tristeza
y cuánta fuerza tiene el pesar mío,
y mi frente humedece,
que ya de fuegos juntos el sol crece.
Torna, sabroso Sueño, y tus hermosas
alas suenen ahora,
y huya con sus alas presurosas
la desabrida Aurora,
y lo que en mí faltó la noche fría
termine la cercana luz del día.

Una corona, ¡oh Sueño!, de tus flores
ofrezco; tú produce el blando efeto
en los desiertos cercos de mis ojos,
que el aire entretejido con olores
halaga, y ledo mueve en dulce afeto;
y destos mis enojos
destierra, manso Sueño, los despojos.
Ven, pues, amado Sueño, ven liviano,
que del rico Orïente
despunta el tierno Febo el rayo cano.
Ven ya, Sueño clemente,
y acabará el dolor. Así te vea
en brazos de tu cara Pasitea.

Another translation, by Mary Anna E. Charnock:

Oh, gentle Sleep! thou who in noiseless flight
Beatest so lazily thy downy wings,
Thy brow with blushing wreath of poppies crowned,
When the pure, fragrant, placid air of night
O'er all the earth its dreamy influence flings,
Come from the distant west's remotest bound,
    And with thy sacred balm,
Oh soothe my aching eyes, and gently calm
The anguish of my heart—assuage my grief—
    Grant me release from care—
Thou who alone canst bring desired relief,
    Come to my humble prayer—
Come to my humble prayer, oh gentle Sleep!
And in profound repose my senses steep.

Oh blessed Sleep, thou choicest boon of heaven!
Thou refuge sweet from misery, and pain!
Beloved Sleep, to whose entrancing power,
Forgetfulness of all our woes is given!
Who still'st the busy workings of the brain,
And giv'st severest pain one tranquil hour!
    How we suffer—even die—
Mysterious Sleep, when thou dost from us fly!
How hard it is to banish from the mind
    One grief when thou art gone!
What joy in earth's possessions can we find
    When thou hast from us flown?
Then come, oh gentle, and beloved Sleep!
And in profound repose my senses steep.

I know how swiftly thy benignant sway
Departs, when morning's pearly dew appears,
And the bright sunrise throws its radiant blaze
On all around.—How oft the early day
Has heard my sighs, and seen my burning tears,
And marked the overwhelming care that weighs,
    Upon my aching brow!
Then, gentle Sleep! thy blessed influence throw
Over my couch! oh wave thy downy wing,
    Upon soft zephyrs borne!
And come, before the hours, swift passing, bring
    The bright unwelcome morn!
Come, whilst the cool night breeze remains, oh Sleep!
And in profound repose my senses steep.

A wreath, oh Sleep! of thy most favourite flowers
I offer thee, that thou should'st o'er me fling
Thy soothing spell, and on my weary eyes
Let the soft breezes play, whose balmy powers
Are gathered from the sweetest blooms of spring,
And whilst they o'er me breathe their fragrant sighs,
    Banish the last remains
Of my worn spirits never ceasing pains.
Then come! come speedily—oh tranquil Sleep!
    Ere, from the east, the sun
Shall rise, in youthful splendour, o'er the deep.
    Then come, thou gentlest one!—
Oh heal my heart's deep wounds, beloved Sleep!
And in profound repose my senses steep.

Related posts:

• Sleep
• More on Sleep
• Hymn to Sleep
• Paean to Sleep
• Prayer for an Insomniac
• Benedetto Accolti's Ode to Sleep
• Accolti's Ode to Sleep Revisited

Senicide, Part V

To contact us Click HERE
Caesar, Gallic War 7.7 (speech of Critognatus to the Gauls beseiged in Alesia, tr. H.J. Edwards):

What, then, is my counsel? To do what our forefathers did in the war, in no wise equal to this, with the Cimbri and Teutones. They shut themselves into the towns, and under stress of a like scarcity sustained life on the bodies of those whose age showed them useless for war, and delivered not themselves to the enemy. And if we had not had a precedent for this, I should still have judged it a most glorious thing for the sake of liberty to set such a one and to hand it down to posterity.

quid ergo mei consili est? facere quod nostri maiores nequaquam pari bello Cimbrorum Teutonumque fecerunt; qui in oppida compulsi ac simili inopia subacti eorum corporibus qui aetate ad bellum inutiles videbantur vitam toleraverunt neque sc hostibus tradiderunt. cuius rei si exemplum non haberemus, tamen libertatis causa institui et posteris prodi pulcherrimum iudicarem.

Procopius, Gothic War 2.14.2-5 (on the Eruli or Heruli, tr. H.B. Dewing):

[2] And they observed many customs which were not in accord with those of other men. For they were not permitted to live either when they grew old or when they fell sick, but as soon as one of them was overtaken by old age or by sickness, it became necessary for him to ask his relatives to remove him from the world as quickly as possible. [3] And these relatives would pile up a quantity of wood to a great height and lay the man on top of the wood, and then they would send one of the Eruli, but not a relative of the man, to his side with a dagger; [4] for it was not lawful for a kinsman to be his slayer. And when the slayer of their relative had returned, they would straightway burn the whole pile of wood, beginning at the edges. [5] And after the fire had ceased, they would immediately collect the bones and bury them in the earth.

[2] νόμοις δὲ πολλοῖς οὐ κατὰ ταὐτὰ τοῖς ἀνθρώπων ἑτέροις ἐχρῶντο. οὔτε γὰρ γηράσκουσιν οὔτε νοσοῦσιν αὐτοῖς βιοτεύειν ἐξῆν, ἀλλ' ἐπειδάν τις αὐτῶν ἢ γήρᾳ ἢ νόσῳ ἁλῴη, ἐπάναγκές οἱ ἐγίνετο τοὺς ξυγγενεῖς αἰτεῖσθαι ὅτι τάχιστα ἐξ ἀνθρώπων αὐτὸν ἀφανίζειν. [3] οἱ δὲ ξύλα πολλὰ ἐς μέγα τι ὕψος ξυννήσαντες καθίσαντές τε τὸν ἄνθρωπον ἐν τῇ τῶν ξύλων ὑπερβολῇ, τῶν τινα Ἐρούλων, ἀλλότριον μέντοι, ξὺν ξιφιδίῳ παρ' αὐτὸν ἔπεμπον· [4] ξυγγενῆ γὰρ αὐτῷ τὸν φονέα εἶναι οὐ θέμις. Ἐπειδὰν δὲ αὐτοῖς ὁ τοῦ ξυγγενοῦς φονεὺς ἐπανῄει, ξύμπαντα ἔκαιον αὐτίκα τὰ ξύλα, ἐκ τῶν ἐσχάτων ἀρξάμενοι. [5] παυσαμένης τε αὐτοῖς τῆς φλογὸς ξυλλέξαντες τὰ ὀστᾶ ἐν τῷ παραυτίκα τῇ γῇ ἔκρυπτον.

Paradoxographus Vaticanus 65 Keller (Rerum Naturalium Scriptores Graeci Minores, vol. I, p. 115) = 59 Giannini (Paradoxographorum Graecorum Reliquiae, p. ?), tr. Jacob Stern in Stephan Heilen, ed., In Pursuit of Wissenschaft: Festschrift für William M. Calder III zum 75. Geburtstag (Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 2008), pp. 437-466 (at 450):

When their parents are no longer useful because of their old age, the Ligurians throw them off a cliff.

Λίγυες τοὺς γονεῖς, ὅταν μηκέτι ὦσι διὰ γῆρας χρήσιμοι, κατακρημνίζουσιν.

I owe these references to Tim G. Parkin, Old Age in the Roman World: A Cultural and Social History (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), p. 261, with n. 109 on p. 431.

Related posts:

• Senicide, Part I
• Senicide, Part II
• Senicide, Part III
• Senicide, Part IV

Domestic Affections

To contact us Click HERE
William Wordsworth, letter to Charles James Fox (January 14, 1801):

In the two poems, 'The Brothers,' and 'Michael,' I have attempted to draw a picture of the domestic affections, as I know they exist among a class of men who are now almost confined to the north of England. They are small independent proprietors of land here called statesmen, men of respectable education who daily labour on their own little properties. The domestic affections will always be strong amongst men who live in a country not crowded with population, if these men are placed above poverty. But if they are proprietors of small estates, which have descended to them from their ancestors, the power which these affections will acquire amongst such men is inconceivable by those who have only had an opportunity of observing hired labourers, farmers, and the manufacturing poor. Their little tract of land serves as a kind of permanent rallying point for their domestic feelings, as a tablet upon which they are written which makes them objects of memory in a thousand instances when they would otherwise be forgotten. It is a fountain fitted to the nature of social man, from which supplies of affection, as pure as his heart was intended for, are daily drawn. This class of men is rapidly disappearing.

Text and Commentary

To contact us Click HERE
Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860), Lebensweisheit V.B.8, from Parerga und Paralipomena, tr. T. Bailey Saunders:

Experience of the world may be looked upon as a kind of text, to which reflection and knowledge form the commentary. Where there is great deal of reflection and intellectual knowledge, and very little experience, the result is like those books which have on each page two lines of text to forty lines of commentary. A great deal of experience with little reflection and scant knowledge, gives us books like those of the editio Bipontina where there are no notes and much that is unintelligible.

Auch läßt die eigene Erfahrung sich ansehn als der Text; Nachdenken und Kenntnisse als der Kommentar dazu. Viel Nachdenken und Kenntnisse, bei wenig Erfahrung, gleicht den Ausgaben, deren Seiten zwei Zeilen Text und vierzig Zeilen Kommentar darbieten. Viel Erfahrung, bei wenig Nachdenken und geringen Kenntnissen, gleicht den bipontinischen Ausgaben, ohne Noten, welche Vieles unverstanden lassen.

Related posts:

• The Sauce and the Fish
• Footnotes

A Fantastical Scholar

To contact us Click HERE
John Webster (1580-1634), The Duchess of Malfi 3.3.40-46:

I knew him in Padua, a fantastical scholar, like such who study to know how many knots was in Hercules' club, of what colour Achilles' beard was, or whether Hector were not troubled with the tooth-ache. He hath studied himself half blear-eyed to know the true symmetry of Caesar's nose by a shoeing-horn; and this he did to gain the name of a speculative man.

J.J. Grandville, Le Bibliomane
Related posts:

• Pleasures of Pedantry
• Earle's Antiquary
• An Antiquary
• Old Cronies of Solon and Lycurgus

Trees in the Century of Commerce

To contact us Click HERE
William Morris (1834-1896), "The Beauty of Life," Hopes and Fears for Art. Five Lectures Delivered in Birmingham, London, and Nottingham, 1878-1881 (London: Ellis & White, 1882), pp. 71-113 (at 102-103, footnote omitted):

Again, I must ask what do you do with the trees on a site that is going to be built over? do you try to save them, to adapt your houses at all to them? do you understand what treasures they are in a town or a suburb? or what a relief they will be to the hideous dog-holes which (forgive me!) you are probably going to build in their places? I ask this anxiously, and with grief in my soul, for in London and its suburbs we always begin by clearing a site till it is as bare as the pavement: I really think that almost anybody would have been shocked, if I could have shown him some of the trees that have been wantonly murdered in the suburb in which I live (Hammersmith to wit), amongst them some of those magnificent cedars, for which we along the river used to be famous once.

But here again see how helpless those are who care about art or nature amidst the hurry of the Century of Commerce.

Pray do not forget, that any one who cuts down a tree wantonly or carelessly, especially in a great town or its suburbs, need make no pretence of caring about art.

Ivan Shishkin (1832-1898), Cutting of Wood
Hat tip: Andrew Rickard, who quotes another passage from Morris' lecture.

Related post: Hornbeams.

Computer translation of 'Ships with Butterfly Wings'

To contact us Click HERE
Une larme tombe pour le sableVagues et vent soupirent en deuilAu-dessus de la mer dans un pays lointainJusqu'à l'horizon, puis une pauseEt puis il est partiLa chaleur du soleil n'a jamais cesséCris plaintif de goélands sans causeEspoir, desesperee, ne s'arrête jamais de chanterClignotant dans l'éblouissement, elle attendLe résultat doit avoir une causeLorsque les navires avec papillon ailesBat dans le vent sur une quête fineAmants déchirés pendant un certain tempsPersonne ne peut dire le pourquoi de ces chosesLes liaisons ont été libérés Chacun est libre d'être leur propreC'est une graine qui doit être seméeEt personne ne peut dire à son destinParfois, il n'y a aucun moyen de gagnerMais seulement à endurer.Lorsque les navires avec papillon ailesCoups dans le ventTransporter votre cœur à travers l'océanC'est tout que vous pouvez faire, parfoisD'attendre et de présenter un grief et à prier.