I post something a bit old because the words radical traditionalists were used in the FBI memos regarding surveillance of Catholics. We don’t endorse radicalism, but we accept tradition. The phrase is an oxymoron. Words are misused today, and I urge English teachers and history teachers to correct the situation.
I spend an enormous amount of time with Alexander (nine) and with myself to understand literal and connotative meanings of words. Literal language means exactly what it says, while figurative language does not. Have this for free, teachers- Rhetorical Devices Includes eight Figures of Speech – A word or phrase used in a non-literal sense for vivid effect, marked F of S F of S Oxymoron – Two opposite ideas joined to create an effect “awfully good” F of S Idiom – A group of words having a meaning not deducible from the individual words, such as, “It’s raining cats and dogs.” F of S Onomatopoeia – A word formed to mimic the sound, such as “sizzle” and “buzz’ F of S Metaphor – Saying one thing IS another thing F of S Simile – Saying one thing is LIKE or AS another thing F of S Personification – Giving a nonhuman, human qualities F of S Allusion – A reference to a book, movie, song, etc. F of S Hyperbole – Exaggeration Ethos – An appeal to authority aiming to establish the credibility of a speaker or source. For example, a writer might say “As a veterinarian…” or “a Harvard University study…” or “a constitutional scholar…” Pathos – An appeal to the reader’s emotions. They’re trying to make you FEEL something. Angry. Guilty. Sad. Logos – An appeal to logic. When the author makes logical connections between ideas, that’s logos. IF this happens, THEN this happens. Anecdote – A short, personal story Testimony – Quoting from people who have something to say about an issue Statistics and Data – Facts and figures, often accompanied by logos Rhetorical Questions – Asking questions to make the reader think; no answer sought Imagery – Language that appeals to the five senses, most often visual Diction – Word choice. Can be HIGH/fancy or LOW/informal. Writers use specific words for DENOTATIVE (dictionary definition) meanings or CONNOTATIVE (associative) meanings. Slang – A type of informal diction, often regional Jargon – Specialized language, such as legal Alliteration – Several words that share the same first letter Assonance – Repeated vowel sounds (Syntax is sentence structure.) Repetition – Mentioning a word or phrase several times Anaphora – Refers to lines beginning with the same word or phrase Parallelism – Writing constructed in a symmetrical manner Juxtaposition – Holding two things up to compare or contrast them Antithesis – Mentioning one thing and its opposite Analogy – A comparison between two things, typically to explain function – Usually, one thing is complicated, and the other is simple and common. Inclusive Language – Words that make the reader feel part of a group – “we” is an obvious one Tone – The way the author’s voice sounds. Is the author being silly? Sarcastic? Desperate? Humor – Jokes and funny language Irony – situational: The opposite thing happens from what is expected. Irony – dramatic: The reader knows more than the characters. Irony – verbal: saying one thing and meaning the opposite Symbolism – One thing represents something else. Antimetabole – Repetition of words in successive clauses, but in transposed order – “Fair is foul, and foul is fair.” Antithesis – Opposition or contrast of ideas expressed by parallelism of words that are the opposites of each other – “Man proposes, God disposes.” Apostrophe – Talking to an object or idea as if it were human Metonymy – A thing or concept is referred to by the name of something closely associated with that thing or concept. The Pentagon refers to the whole US military. The press (printing press) now refers to the entire group of news reporters. “The pen is mightier than the sword.” – The pen represents all writers, and the sword represents all soldiers. Paradox – Contradictory statement that might be true “He has discovered that stepping back from the task has increased the rewards.” “I can resist anything but temptation.” (Oscar Wilde) Pun – Word play that exploits multiple meanings of a term Synecdoche – A part made to represent the whole or vice versa, “all hands on deck” Understatement – Making a situation seem less important than it is – “On winning the lottery, the winner said, ‘I’m delighted.’” Adynaton – An impossible or unlikely story used for emphasis. “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” is a story about telling lies.
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I am a competent writer, not great. About NYC Publishers Why did I ever think they would publish an American of Northwestern European descent, rather conservative, and a practicing Catholic? About Catholic Publishers Why did I ever think they would publish a man who writes realism and about scandal and has non-Catholic characters and some characters who swear? About Christian Publishers Why did I ever think they would publish eighty-seven thousand words from a Catholic, and then many more words? Approved Words My secular newspaper stories were published, and my words on tax for a non-fiction publisher were approved. Offer Recently, I got an offer to publish online with a Catholic outfit. I’m not willing to subject myself to review by strangers. Through this blog, and through any other fiction I write, which will be edited by paid professionals, I can give my take on the world, without earning any income, but freely. And giving help to my student, who will turn out to be a brilliant writer – he is so original – is enough. image courtesy of 23andMe
The snow is fled: the trees their leaves put on,
The fields their green: Earth owns the change, and rivers lessening run Their banks between. Naked the Nymphs and Graces in the meads The dance essay: “No 'scaping death” proclaims the year, that speeds This sweet spring day. Frosts yield to zephyrs; Summer drives out Spring, To vanish, when Rich Autumn sheds his fruits; round wheels the ring,-- Winter again! Yet the swift moons repair Heaven's detriment: We, soon as thrust Where good Aeneas, Tullus, Ancus went, What are we? dust. Can Hope assure you one more day to live From powers above? You rescue from your heir whate'er you give The self you love. When life is o'er, and Minos has rehearsed The grand last doom, Not birth, nor eloquence, nor worth, shall burst Torquatus' tomb. Not Dian's self can chaste Hippolytus To life recall, Nor Theseus free his loved Pirithous From Lethe's thrall. Footnote: Lethe is one of the rivers of Hades or Hell; lethal derives from Lethe. Diffugere nives, redeunt iam gramina campis arboribusque comae; mutat terra vices et decrescentia ripas flumina praetereunt; Gratia cum Nymphis geminisque sororibus audet ducere nuda choros. Inmortalia ne speres, monet annus et almum quae rapit hora diem. Frigora mitescunt zephyris, ver proterit aestas interitura, simul pomifer autumnus fruges effuderit, et mox bruma recurrit iners. Damna tamen celeres reparant caelestia lunae; nos ubi decidimus, quo pius Aeneas, quo Tullus dives et Ancus, pulvis et umbra sumus. Quis scit an adiciant hodiernae crastina summae tempora di superi? Cuncta manus avidas fugient heredis, amico quae dederis animo. Cum semel occideris et de te splendida Minos fecerit arbitria, non, Torquate, genus, non te facundia, non te restituet pietas; Infernis neque enim tenebris Diana pudicum liberat Hippolytum, nec Lethaea valet Theseus abrumpere caro vincula Pirithoo. Courtesy of antiquitatem.com Horace (65 BC – 8 BC). The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. John Conington. trans. London. George Bell and Sons. 1882. A general rule in prose writing is to avoid repetition, but not in poetry, not in music, not in the Bible, and not at Mass (read The Last Gospel and Prayers at the Foot of the Altar.) Edgar Allan Poe makes use of repetition with great effect in “The Bells,” “The Raven,” and “Annabel Lee.”
It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love-- I and my Annabel Lee-- With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me-- Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we-- Of many far wiser than we-- And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea-- In her tomb by the sounding sea. Kilmer, an American Catholic convert and father of five, was killed on July 30, 1918, age 31. For his valor, Kilmer was posthumously awarded the Croix de Guerre (War Cross) by the French Republic.
Did you ever look at the walls and ceiling of your bedroom while lying in bed when you were a child and imagine horrible things were really there? Once I jokingly called a girl crazy, and she got mad. She was crazy. Oscar had two children of his own and made a grave error and was imprisoned and shunned. He was received into the Catholic Church on his deathbed by Father Cuthbert Dunne, a Passionist from Ireland, and thus was saved. Some seem to have forgotten that. It would be good for them who are bound for Hell to confess, but I am afraid they will never see their own faults and will find themselves down there, alone.
Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly-- Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo! That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout, A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out—out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, “Man,” And its hero, the Conqueror Worm. Edgar Allan Poe This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fear’d by their breed and famous by their birth, Renowned for their deeds as far from home, For Christian service and true chivalry, As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry, Of the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son, This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now leased out, I die pronouncing it, Like to a tenement or pelting farm: England, bound in with the triumphant sea Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame, With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds: That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life, How happy then were my ensuing death! John of Gaunt Shakespeare, Richard II, Act II, Scene I THE YEAR WAS 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren't only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General.
Some things about living still weren't quite right, though. April for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron's fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away. It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn't think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn't think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains. George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel's cheeks, but she'd forgotten for the moment what they were about. On the television screen were ballerinas. A buzzer sounded in George's head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a burglar alarm. "That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did," said Hazel. "Huh" said George. "That dance-it was nice," said Hazel. "Yup," said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren't really very good-no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were burdened with sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in. George was toying with the vague notion that maybe dancers shouldn't be handicapped. But he didn't get very far with it before another noise in his ear radio scattered his thoughts. George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas. Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself, she had to ask George what the latest sound had been. "Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball peen hammer," said George. "I'd think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds," said Hazel a little envious. "All the things they think up." "Um," said George. "Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?" said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman named Diana Moon Glampers. "If I was Diana Moon Glampers," said Hazel, "I'd have chimes on Sunday-just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion." "I could think, if it was just chimes," said George. "Well-maybe make 'em real loud," said Hazel. "I think I'd make a good Handicapper General." "Good as anybody else," said George. "Who knows better than I do what normal is?" said Hazel. "Right," said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that. "Boy!" said Hazel, "that was a doozy, wasn't it?" It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling, and tears stood on the rims of his red eyes. Two of of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were holding their temples. "All of a sudden you look so tired," said Hazel. "Why don't you stretch out on the sofa, so's you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch." She was referring to the forty-seven pounds of birdshot in a canvas bag, which was padlocked around George's neck. "Go on and rest the bag for a little while," she said. "I don't care if you're not equal to me for a while." George weighed the bag with his hands. "I don't mind it," he said. "I don't notice it any more. It's just a part of me." "You been so tired lately-kind of wore out," said Hazel. "If there was just some way we could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. Just a few." "Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out," said George. "I don't call that a bargain." "If you could just take a few out when you came home from work," said Hazel. "I mean-you don't compete with anybody around here. You just sit around." "If I tried to get away with it," said George, "then other people'd get away with it-and pretty soon we'd be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing against everybody else. You wouldn't like that, would you?" "I'd hate it," said Hazel. "There you are," said George. The minute people start cheating on laws, what do you think happens to society?" If Hazel hadn't been able to come up with an answer to this question, George couldn't have supplied one. A siren was going off in his head. "Reckon it'd fall all apart," said Hazel. "What would?" said George blankly. "Society," said Hazel uncertainly. "Wasn't that what you just said? "Who knows?" said George. The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn't clear at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, "Ladies and Gentlemen." He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read. "That's all right-" Hazel said of the announcer, "he tried. That's the big thing. He tried to do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying so hard." "Ladies and Gentlemen," said the ballerina, reading the bulletin. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful, because the mask she wore was hideous. And it was easy to see that she was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers, for her handicap bags were as big as those worn by two-hundred pound men. And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. "Excuse me-" she said, and she began again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive. "Harrison Bergeron, age fourteen," she said in a grackle squawk, "has just escaped from jail, where he was held on suspicion of plotting to overthrow the government. He is a genius and an athlete, is under-handicapped, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous." A police photograph of Harrison Bergeron was flashed on the screen-upside down, then sideways, upside down again, then right side up. The picture showed the full length of Harrison against a background calibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly seven feet tall. The rest of Harrison's appearance was Halloween and hardware. Nobody had ever born heavier handicaps. He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H-G men could think them up. Instead of a little ear radio for a mental handicap, he wore a tremendous pair of earphones, and spectacles with thick wavy lenses. The spectacles were intended to make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches besides. Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds. And to offset his good looks, the H-G men required that he wear at all times a red rubber ball for a nose, keep his eyebrows shaved off, and cover his even white teeth with black caps at snaggle-tooth random. "If you see this boy," said the ballerina, "do not - I repeat, do not - try to reason with him." There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges. Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set. The photograph of Harrison Bergeron on the screen jumped again and again, as though dancing to the tune of an earthquake. George Bergeron correctly identified the earthquake, and well he might have - for many was the time his own home had danced to the same crashing tune. "My God-" said George, "that must be Harrison!" The realization was blasted from his mind instantly by the sound of an automobile collision in his head. When George could open his eyes again, the photograph of Harrison was gone. A living, breathing Harrison filled the screen. Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood - in the center of the studio. The knob of the uprooted studio door was still in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians, and announcers cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die. "I am the Emperor!" cried Harrison. "Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody must do what I say at once!" He stamped his foot and the studio shook. "Even as I stand here" he bellowed, "crippled, hobbled, sickened - I am a greater ruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!" Harrison tore the straps of his handicap harness like wet tissue paper, tore straps guaranteed to support five thousand pounds. Harrison's scrap-iron handicaps crashed to the floor. Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlock that secured his head harness. The bar snapped like celery. Harrison smashed his headphones and spectacles against the wall. He flung away his rubber-ball nose, revealed a man that would have awed Thor, the god of thunder. "I shall now select my Empress!" he said, looking down on the cowering people. "Let the first woman who dares rise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!" A moment passed, and then a ballerina arose, swaying like a willow. Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snapped off her physical handicaps with marvelous delicacy. Last of all he removed her mask. She was blindingly beautiful. "Now-" said Harrison, taking her hand, "shall we show the people the meaning of the word dance? Music!" he commanded. The musicians scrambled back into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their handicaps, too. "Play your best," he told them, "and I'll make you barons and dukes and earls." The music began. It was normal at first-cheap, silly, false. But Harrison snatched two musicians from their chairs, waved them like batons as he sang the music as he wanted it played. He slammed them back into their chairs. The music began again and was much improved. Harrison and his Empress merely listened to the music for a while-listened gravely, as though synchronizing their heartbeats with it. They shifted their weights to their toes. Harrison placed his big hands on the girls tiny waist, letting her sense the weightlessness that would soon be hers. And then, in an explosion of joy and grace, into the air they sprang! Not only were the laws of the land abandoned, but the law of gravity and the laws of motion as well. They reeled, whirled, swiveled, flounced, capered, gamboled, and spun. They leaped like deer on the moon. The studio ceiling was thirty feet high, but each leap brought the dancers nearer to it. It became their obvious intention to kiss the ceiling. They kissed it. And then, neutraling gravity with love and pure will, they remained suspended in air inches below the ceiling, and they kissed each other for a long, long time. It was then that Diana Moon Glampers, the Handicapper General, came into the studio with a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun. She fired twice, and the Emperor and the Empress were dead before they hit the floor. Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musicians and told them they had ten seconds to get their handicaps back on. It was then that the Bergerons' television tube burned out. Hazel turned to comment about the blackout to George. But George had gone out into the kitchen for a can of beer. George came back in with the beer, paused while a handicap signal shook him up. And then he sat down again. "You been crying" he said to Hazel. "Yup," she said. "What about?" he said. "I forget," she said. "Something real sad on television." "What was it?" he said. "It's all kind of mixed up in my mind," said Hazel. "Forget sad things," said George. "I always do," said Hazel. "That's my girl," said George. He winced. There was the sound of a riveting gun in his head. "Gee - I could tell that one was a doozy," said Hazel. "You can say that again," said George. "Gee-" said Hazel, "I could tell that one was a doozy." "Harrison Bergeron" is copyrighted by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., 1961. By the shore of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water, At the doorway of his wigwam, In the pleasant Summer morning, Hiawatha stood and waited. All the air was full of freshness, All the earth was bright and joyous, And before him, through the sunshine, Westward toward the neighboring forest Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo, Passed the bees, the honey-makers, Burning, singing In the sunshine. Bright above him shone the heavens, Level spread the lake before him; From its bosom leaped the sturgeon, Sparkling, flashing in the sunshine; On its margin the great forest Stood reflected in the water, Every tree-top had its shadow, Motionless beneath the water. From the brow of Hiawatha Gone was every trace of sorrow, As the fog from off the water, As the mist from off the meadow. With a smile of joy and triumph, With a look of exultation, As of one who in a vision Sees what is to be, but is not, Stood and waited Hiawatha. Toward the sun his hands were lifted, Both the palms spread out against it, And between the parted fingers Fell the sunshine on his features, Flecked with light his naked shoulders, As it falls and flecks an oak-tree Through the rifted leaves and branches. O'er the water floating, flying, Something in the hazy distance, Something in the mists of morning, Loomed and lifted from the water, Now seemed floating, now seemed flying, Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. Was it Shingebis the diver? Or the pelican, the Shada? Or the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah? Or the white goose, Waw-be-wawa, With the water dripping, flashing, From its glossy neck and feathers? It was neither goose nor diver, Neither pelican nor heron, O'er the water floating, flying, Through the shining mist of morning, But a birch canoe with paddles, Rising, sinking on the water, Dripping, flashing in the sunshine; And within it came a people From the distant land of Wabun, From the farthest realms of morning Came the Black-Robe chief, the Prophet, He the Priest of Prayer, the Pale-face, With his guides and his companions. And the noble Hiawatha, With his hands aloft extended, Held aloft in sign of welcome, Waited, full of exultation, Till the birch canoe with paddles Grated on the shining pebbles, Stranded on the sandy margin, Till the Black-Robe chief, the Pale-face, With the cross upon his bosom, Landed on the sandy margin. Then the joyous Hiawatha Cried aloud and spake in this wise: "Beautiful is the sun, O strangers, When you come so far to see us! All our town in peace awaits you, All our doors stand open for you; You shall enter all our wigwams, For the heart's right hand we give you. "Never bloomed the earth so gayly, Never shone the sun so brightly, As to-day they shine and blossom When you come so far to see us! Never was our lake so tranquil, Nor so free from rocks, and sand-bars; For your birch canoe in passing Has removed both rock and sand-bar. "Never before had our tobacco Such a sweet and pleasant flavor, Never the broad leaves of our cornfields Were so beautiful to look on, As they seem to us this morning, When you come so far to see us!" And the Black-Robe chief made answer, Stammered In his speech a little, Speaking words yet unfamiliar: "Peace be with you, Hiawatha, Peace be with you and your people, Peace of prayer, and peace of pardon, Peace of Christ, and joy of Mary!" … XXII. Hiawatha’s Departure Longfellow 1855 Read every sentence in trochaic tetrameter, and emphasize the first syllable of every line to get the right rhythm because children like that, and I shortened the poem for them and for you. There is no good recording; maybe this is your opportunity to record the Departure for YouTube. What is the theme? It is expressed in the line, “When you come so far to see us!” and every time I hear that, my eyes water. You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk. But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.” That is Baudelaire, recited today from memory by Mickey, St. Ignatius HS four-year mate and loyal friend. He started to recite in French and asked if I needed the English translation. “Yeah,” I said. Wearied arm and broken sword
Wage in vain the desperate fight: Round him press a countless horde, He is but a single knight. Hark! a cry of triumph shrill Through the wilderness resounds, As, with twenty bleeding wounds, Sinks the warrior, fighting still. Now they heap the fatal pyre, And the torch of death they light: Ah! ’tis hard to die of fire! Who will shield the captive knight? Round the stake with fiendish cry Wheel and dance the savage crowd, Cold the victim’s mien, and proud. And his breast is bared to die. Who will shield the fearless heart? Who avert the murderous blade? From the throng, with sudden start, See there springs an Indian maid. Quick she stands before the knight, “Loose the chain, unbind the ring, I am daughter of the king, And I claim the Indian right!” Dauntlessly aside she flings Lifted axe and thirsty knife; Fondly to his heart she clings, And her bosom guards his life! In the woods of Powhattan, Still ’tis told by Indian fires, How a daughter of their sires Saved the captive Englishman. William Makepeace Thackeray 1811 – 1863 She is buried at Gravesend, England. The poem is almost trochaic tetrameter, here four beats per line with first, third, fifth, and seventh syllables accented, and must be read that way if drum sounds are desired, and children like that! For want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe the horse was lost. For want of a horse the rider was lost. For want of a rider the battle was lost. For want of a battle the kingdom was lost. And all for the want of a horseshoe nail. by Anon recited spontaneously from memory by Alexander, nine There is some Albatross blood on my soul, but I will remember those forgotten men when I could not ask to be remembered. This is the greatest poem ever written. Get a book with this poem and these pictures in it and read one chapter a night to your young children in bed. Once all done, they will understand the warning and want to hear it again. Every time I hear the poem, my eyes fill with guilt. Coleridge was an Anglican.
A novelist is a failed short story writer, and a short story writer is a failed poet. -William Faulkner It will shock you. Non-Catholics cannot understand that our saints live with us. Diane recommended I listen. More than one of us wound up at Saint Stephen after wayward ways. We find out about ourselves, parents, siblings, relatives, and friends in Teresa.
In my case, my father could let go of me, and it was my mother who could not, or maybe it was the other way round. God will let me know when He is ready. Later on, the Inquisition examined her! Her painter is Francois Gérard (1770 – 1837), so indeed this is his perception of her beauty, though it is well-known.
Contraction for phone snubbing, phubbing is snubbing someone by your side in favor of your phone. It wreaks havoc with the basic needs listed above. Many people report being phubbed more than once a day. This one time I saw a very handsome couple, 30s, dressed well, maybe bf/gf or married, walking on New Montgomery Street in SF, and they were phubbing each other, his phone in his right hand, her phone in her left hand. It would have been “sweller” to see them holding hands. Ghost stories that interest me focus on moral questions facing the characters. See my Reading List (More Tab) for short stories. Below is a novel by English priest Benson.
Dante 1265-1312 Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso Representing the summit of human knowledge, Virgil guides Dante through the descending circles of the pit of Hell. Passing Satan at the pit’s bottom, at dead center, Dante and Virgil then emerge on the beach of the island mountain called Purgatory. Repentant sinners are being purged, and Virgil departs, having led Dante as far as human knowledge can.
Now, at the threshold of Paradise, Dante meets Beatrice. She embodies the knowledge of the divine mysteries bestowed by Grace, who leads him through the successive ascending levels of Heaven to the Empyrean, and there he is allowed to glimpse the glory of God, but only for a moment. I read one of three: Inferno. Reading grade level is about 12.8, 12th grade or college freshman. On April 30, 1921, Pope Benedict XV promulgated an encyclical, In praeclara summorum, naming Dante as one “of the many celebrated geniuses of whom the Catholic faith can boast” and the “pride and glory of humanity”. Praeclara means excellent. |
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