Simplex Munditiis
STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
--- Ben Jonson, date uncertain
(Unless, of course, RK knows its date of origin.... Yes, RK, I'm fishing. ;-) )
09 June 2003
A New Look
Well, as you have hopefully noticed, I've revamped the blog. I'm not sure if it looks any better or not (the jury is out for me-- but we shall see), but I'd be curious to hear what anyone thinks. This design was a bit tricky, at least for an HTML-newbie like me, because of my idiotic insistence on putting the title banner in the middle cell. But it all got done, eventually, and so we have something a bit different for a while. Probably a long while actually because I doubt I'll be rushing to commit myself to this horrible task again anytime soon. ;-) Best, as always....
Well, as you have hopefully noticed, I've revamped the blog. I'm not sure if it looks any better or not (the jury is out for me-- but we shall see), but I'd be curious to hear what anyone thinks. This design was a bit tricky, at least for an HTML-newbie like me, because of my idiotic insistence on putting the title banner in the middle cell. But it all got done, eventually, and so we have something a bit different for a while. Probably a long while actually because I doubt I'll be rushing to commit myself to this horrible task again anytime soon. ;-) Best, as always....
08 June 2003
Gift
--- Leonard Cohen (1961)
Amantium irae amoris integratio'st --- Terence, in a statement that is more often than not untrue.
You tell me that silence
is nearer to peace than poems
but if for my gift
I brought you silence
(for I know silence)
you would say
This is not silence
this is another poem
and you would hand it back to me.
--- Leonard Cohen (1961)
Amantium irae amoris integratio'st --- Terence, in a statement that is more often than not untrue.
To The Old Chaos
Thinking more and more about spiritus munditiis, and dug out the Collected Poems of Conrad Aiken. If anyone's curious, I posted at the Round Table site a selection from Aiken for comparison with a classic poem by Wallace Stevens. But that discussion is entirely different. Here, I'm just going to post some fine lines from Aiken's The Divine Pilgrim, a volume unfortunately ignored these days. Shame really. Here are some random fragments from The Charnel Rose: A Symphony.
And these are the symphony's final lines:
Aiken's a poet of good, ringing moments more than he is a poet of sustained genius or force, and he's certainly no Eliot or Stevens. But he's interesting to dig up every now and again, especially when one wonders about the question of beauty in the world.
And, archived from Dr. J's Round Table
She rose in moonlight, and stood, confronting sea,
With her bare arms uplifted,
And lifted her voice in the silence foolishly:
And her face was small, and her voice was small.
'O moon!' she cried, 'I think how you must tire
Forever circling earth, so silently;
Earth, who is dark and makes you no reply.'
But the moon said nothing, no word at all,
She only heard the little waves rush and fall;
And saw the moon go quietly down the sky.
Like a white figurehead in the seafaring wind,
She stood in the moonlight,
And heard her voice cry, ghostly and thinned,
Over the seethe of foam,
Saying, 'O numberless waters, I think it strange
How you can always shadow her face, and change
And yet never weary of her, having no ease.'
But the sea said nothing, no word at all:
Unquietly, as in sleep, she saw it rise and fall;
And the moon spread a net of silver over the foam.
She lifted her hands and let them fall again,
Impatient of the silence. And in despair,
Hopeless of final answer against her pain,
She said, to the stealthy air,
'O air, far traveller, who from the stars are blown,
Float pollen of suns, you are an unseen sea
Lifting and bearing the words, eternally.
O air, do you not weary of your task?'
-- She stood in the silence, frightened and alone,
And heard her syllables ask and ask.
And then, as she walked in the moonlight, so alone,
Lost and small in a soulless sea,
Hearing no voice make answer to her own,
From that infinity, --
Suddenly she was aware of a low whisper,
A dreadful heartless sound; and she stood still, --
There in the beach grass, on a sandy hill, --
And heard the stars, making a ghostly whisper;
And the soulless whisper of sun and moon and tree;
And the sea, rising and falling with a blind moan.
And as she faded into the night,
A glimmer of white,
With her arms uplifted and her face bowed down;
Sinking, again, into the sleep of sands,
The sea-sands white and brown;
Or among the sea-grass rustling as one more blade,
Pushing before her face her cinquefoil hands;
Or sliding, stealthy as foam, into the sea,
With a slow seethe and whisper:
Too late to find her, yet not too late to see,
Came he, who sought forever unsatisfied,
And saw her enter and shut the darkness,
Desired and swift,
And caught at the rays of the moon, yet found but darkness,
Caught at the flash of his feet, to fill his hands
With the sleepy pour of sands.
'O moon!' he said: 'was it you I followed?
You, who put silver madness into my eyes? --'
But he only heard, in the dark, a stifled laughter,
And the rattle of dead leaves blowing.
'O wind! --' he said -- 'was it you I followed?
Your hand I felt against my face? --'
But he only heard, in the dark, a stifled laughter,
And shadows crept past him. with furtive pace,
Breathing night upon him; and one by one
The ghosts of leaves flew past him, seeking the sun.
And a silent star slipped golden down the darkness,
Down the great wall, leaving no trace in the sky,
And years went with it, and worlds. And he dreamed still
Of a fleeter shadow among the shadows running,
Foam into foam, without a gesture or cry,
Leaving him there, alone, on a lonely hill.
Thinking more and more about spiritus munditiis, and dug out the Collected Poems of Conrad Aiken. If anyone's curious, I posted at the Round Table site a selection from Aiken for comparison with a classic poem by Wallace Stevens. But that discussion is entirely different. Here, I'm just going to post some fine lines from Aiken's The Divine Pilgrim, a volume unfortunately ignored these days. Shame really. Here are some random fragments from The Charnel Rose: A Symphony.
Here eyes were void, her eyes were deep:
She came like one who moved in sleep....
Roses, he thought, were kin to her,
Pure text of dust; and learning these
He might more surely win her,
Speak her own tongue to pledge and please.
What vernal kinship, then, then was this
That spoke and perished in a breath?
In leaves, she was near enough to kiss,
And yet, impalpable as death.
Spading dark earth, he tore apart
Exquisite roots: she fled from him.
I fear at the end of night our hearts must pass,
Let us drink this night while we have it, let us drink it all.
Madness for red! I devour the leaves of autumn.
I tire of the green of the world.
I am myself a mouth for blood.
Here's change, in changelessness: and we go down
Once more to the old chaos.
I will seek the eternal secret in this darkness:
The little seed that opens to gulf the world.
Now all is changed: we climb the stair;
The azure light is a pinnacled carven stair.
We are the soundless ecstasy of death.
And these are the symphony's final lines:
We are struck down. We hear no music.
The moisture of night is in our hands.
Time takes us. We are eternal.
Aiken's a poet of good, ringing moments more than he is a poet of sustained genius or force, and he's certainly no Eliot or Stevens. But he's interesting to dig up every now and again, especially when one wonders about the question of beauty in the world.
And, archived from Dr. J's Round Table
She rose in moonlight, and stood, confronting sea,
With her bare arms uplifted,
And lifted her voice in the silence foolishly:
And her face was small, and her voice was small.
'O moon!' she cried, 'I think how you must tire
Forever circling earth, so silently;
Earth, who is dark and makes you no reply.'
But the moon said nothing, no word at all,
She only heard the little waves rush and fall;
And saw the moon go quietly down the sky.
Like a white figurehead in the seafaring wind,
She stood in the moonlight,
And heard her voice cry, ghostly and thinned,
Over the seethe of foam,
Saying, 'O numberless waters, I think it strange
How you can always shadow her face, and change
And yet never weary of her, having no ease.'
But the sea said nothing, no word at all:
Unquietly, as in sleep, she saw it rise and fall;
And the moon spread a net of silver over the foam.
She lifted her hands and let them fall again,
Impatient of the silence. And in despair,
Hopeless of final answer against her pain,
She said, to the stealthy air,
'O air, far traveller, who from the stars are blown,
Float pollen of suns, you are an unseen sea
Lifting and bearing the words, eternally.
O air, do you not weary of your task?'
-- She stood in the silence, frightened and alone,
And heard her syllables ask and ask.
And then, as she walked in the moonlight, so alone,
Lost and small in a soulless sea,
Hearing no voice make answer to her own,
From that infinity, --
Suddenly she was aware of a low whisper,
A dreadful heartless sound; and she stood still, --
There in the beach grass, on a sandy hill, --
And heard the stars, making a ghostly whisper;
And the soulless whisper of sun and moon and tree;
And the sea, rising and falling with a blind moan.
And as she faded into the night,
A glimmer of white,
With her arms uplifted and her face bowed down;
Sinking, again, into the sleep of sands,
The sea-sands white and brown;
Or among the sea-grass rustling as one more blade,
Pushing before her face her cinquefoil hands;
Or sliding, stealthy as foam, into the sea,
With a slow seethe and whisper:
Too late to find her, yet not too late to see,
Came he, who sought forever unsatisfied,
And saw her enter and shut the darkness,
Desired and swift,
And caught at the rays of the moon, yet found but darkness,
Caught at the flash of his feet, to fill his hands
With the sleepy pour of sands.
'O moon!' he said: 'was it you I followed?
You, who put silver madness into my eyes? --'
But he only heard, in the dark, a stifled laughter,
And the rattle of dead leaves blowing.
'O wind! --' he said -- 'was it you I followed?
Your hand I felt against my face? --'
But he only heard, in the dark, a stifled laughter,
And shadows crept past him. with furtive pace,
Breathing night upon him; and one by one
The ghosts of leaves flew past him, seeking the sun.
And a silent star slipped golden down the darkness,
Down the great wall, leaving no trace in the sky,
And years went with it, and worlds. And he dreamed still
Of a fleeter shadow among the shadows running,
Foam into foam, without a gesture or cry,
Leaving him there, alone, on a lonely hill.
07 June 2003
Bits and Pieces
** Parents have vacated pour la nuit. Joy! Meh, probably doesn't matter anyway, as I may head down to Chester's tonight.
** Cable station TNN has decided to change its name to Spike TV, for reasons that are beyond me. But in a striking gesture of ludicrous self-absorption, Spike Lee has decided to sue the owners of the network for using his name without his permission. *smashes head against keyboard repeatedly* Yet another living proof of the value of birth control. *sigh* Then again, by that logic I think I can file a great suit against Pearl Jam; after all, that damned song of theirs caused me no end of pain and suffering....
** Spent several hours with some of my family today and am 'feeling the burn,' so to speak, not so much from the at-long-last-manifest sun but from the arduous task of playing for several hours with four children under the age of five (five if one includes the newborn who slept peacefully most of the time). My much-younger cousin (he's 19) and I spent most of the afternoon on play/supervise duty, and, frankly, it exhausted me. I just don't think I have the energy I used to have. Further argument in favour of birth control.... Don't get me wrong: I love the little darlings, but I cannot fathom the task of taking care of children constantly anymore. Six or seven years ago yeah, but not now.
** Actual Exchange:
More seriously, old friend (if you're reading this), I don't look for it-- it just seems to find me. Insanity is like Augustine's God-- it has centre everywhere and its circumference nowhere; I wonder if I know the grace of insanity as a poor substitute for God who, it seems, is on perennial vacation.
Good night, ladies, good night. Sweet ladies, good night, good night....
** Parents have vacated pour la nuit. Joy! Meh, probably doesn't matter anyway, as I may head down to Chester's tonight.
** Cable station TNN has decided to change its name to Spike TV, for reasons that are beyond me. But in a striking gesture of ludicrous self-absorption, Spike Lee has decided to sue the owners of the network for using his name without his permission. *smashes head against keyboard repeatedly* Yet another living proof of the value of birth control. *sigh* Then again, by that logic I think I can file a great suit against Pearl Jam; after all, that damned song of theirs caused me no end of pain and suffering....
** Spent several hours with some of my family today and am 'feeling the burn,' so to speak, not so much from the at-long-last-manifest sun but from the arduous task of playing for several hours with four children under the age of five (five if one includes the newborn who slept peacefully most of the time). My much-younger cousin (he's 19) and I spent most of the afternoon on play/supervise duty, and, frankly, it exhausted me. I just don't think I have the energy I used to have. Further argument in favour of birth control.... Don't get me wrong: I love the little darlings, but I cannot fathom the task of taking care of children constantly anymore. Six or seven years ago yeah, but not now.
** Actual Exchange:
Old Friend of Mine: Do you search out insanity or does it just find itself magnetically attracted to you?
Me: Through the sharp hawthorn blow the winds....
Old Friend: Huh?
Me: Poor Tom's acold.
Old Friend: What?
Me: Purr! The cat is grey.
Old Friend: What the fuck are you talking about?
Me: Do de de de, Sessa!
Old Friend: Are you pissed? I asked if....
Me: Childe Roland to the dark tower came...
Old Friend: Oh, I see. Very funny. Smart ass.
Me: Bless thy five wits.
Old Friend: You're a bastard.
Me: Fie fo and fum.
Old Friend: Fuck, you're on a roll now, aren't you?
Me: Fathom and half, fathom and half!
More seriously, old friend (if you're reading this), I don't look for it-- it just seems to find me. Insanity is like Augustine's God-- it has centre everywhere and its circumference nowhere; I wonder if I know the grace of insanity as a poor substitute for God who, it seems, is on perennial vacation.
Good night, ladies, good night. Sweet ladies, good night, good night....
06 June 2003
Think tonight will be another night of reading (with imbibements, of course) on the front porch. So much to read, so much to think about.... Summer, I'm told, is supposed to arrive at some point or another, though I'm increasing skeptical. If anyone has any suggestions on how to avoid work, I'd be pleased to hear them. It's Friday evening, after all-- there should be no such thing as work.
"You play for kittens!?!?" --- Buffy, on learning the stakes in a demon poker game.
"Her skin's so tight, I don't even know how you can look at it." --- Clem on Buffy
I hate working.... Always working.... Or procrastinating, as I guess I am right now. Grumble, grumble, grumble.
"You play for kittens!?!?" --- Buffy, on learning the stakes in a demon poker game.
"Her skin's so tight, I don't even know how you can look at it." --- Clem on Buffy
I hate working.... Always working.... Or procrastinating, as I guess I am right now. Grumble, grumble, grumble.
Another day.... Fairly dull. Completed last week's NYTimes Sunday Crossword in an hour or so, which leaves one of my regular challenges complete (and thus no other 'legitimate' distraction for the day). ;-) The puzzle was called "Hot to Trot," which, sadly, is not nearly as provocative as it sounds. In the theme clues, phrases are twisted such that "h" sounds are turned into "tr" sounds and meanings are changed. Some are clever. "White House walkway?" The answer is "Trail To The Chief." Others are less so: "Awed sequoia viewer's cry?" "What a trunk." The cleverest one by far: "DNA researcher?" Answer: "Gene Trackman." LOL. I am becoming dismayed by the quality of the clues and the puzzle construction, though. When the answers include "petcat," "ems," and "elhi," you know the puzzle composers are getting desperate. By the way, my apologies to anyone who actually does the Times, though I'm pretty sure none of the people reading this don't bother with the damned thing.
Spent most of last night thinking about who I am, what I do, how I do the things I do-- mainly in terms of my profession. This is mainly because I was going over my CV. Will likely post some of my musings on this later.
Yawn.... I feel so lazy today.... So unproductive.... Meh.... I feel like a cat lying on the pavement in the summer sun.
Spent most of last night thinking about who I am, what I do, how I do the things I do-- mainly in terms of my profession. This is mainly because I was going over my CV. Will likely post some of my musings on this later.
Yawn.... I feel so lazy today.... So unproductive.... Meh.... I feel like a cat lying on the pavement in the summer sun.
05 June 2003
BEER (AND ALCOHOL) LOGIC
... a forward from someone to remain anonymous
"Sometimes when I reflect back on all the beer I drink I feel ashamed. Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn't drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams would be shattered. Then I say to myself, "It is better that I drink this beer and let their dreams come true than be selfish and worry about my liver."
--- Jack Handy
"I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day."
--- Frank Sinatra
"An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk in order to spend time with his friends."
--- Ernest Hemingway
"When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading."
---Henny Youngman
"24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a case. Coincidence? I think not."
--- Stephen Wright
"When we drink, we get drunk. When we get drunk, we fall asleep. When we fall asleep, we commit no sin. When we commit no sin, we go to heaven. Sooooo, let's all get drunk and go to heaven!"
--- Brian O'Rourke
"Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."
--- Benjamin Franklin
"Without question, the greatest invention in the history of mankind is beer. Oh, I grant you that the wheel was also a fine invention, but the wheel does not go nearly as well with pizza."
--- Dave Barry
And, saving the best for last, as explained by Cliff Clavin, of Cheers. One afternoon at Cheers, Cliff Clavin was explaining the Buffalo Theory to his buddy Norm. Here's how it went: "Well ya see, Norm, it's like this... A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. And when the herd is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members. "In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Excessive intake of alcohol, as we know, kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine. That's why you always feel smarter after a few beers.
... a forward from someone to remain anonymous
"Sometimes when I reflect back on all the beer I drink I feel ashamed. Then I look into the glass and think about the workers in the brewery and all of their hopes and dreams. If I didn't drink this beer, they might be out of work and their dreams would be shattered. Then I say to myself, "It is better that I drink this beer and let their dreams come true than be selfish and worry about my liver."
--- Jack Handy
"I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day."
--- Frank Sinatra
"An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk in order to spend time with his friends."
--- Ernest Hemingway
"When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading."
---Henny Youngman
"24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a case. Coincidence? I think not."
--- Stephen Wright
"When we drink, we get drunk. When we get drunk, we fall asleep. When we fall asleep, we commit no sin. When we commit no sin, we go to heaven. Sooooo, let's all get drunk and go to heaven!"
--- Brian O'Rourke
"Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."
--- Benjamin Franklin
"Without question, the greatest invention in the history of mankind is beer. Oh, I grant you that the wheel was also a fine invention, but the wheel does not go nearly as well with pizza."
--- Dave Barry
And, saving the best for last, as explained by Cliff Clavin, of Cheers. One afternoon at Cheers, Cliff Clavin was explaining the Buffalo Theory to his buddy Norm. Here's how it went: "Well ya see, Norm, it's like this... A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. And when the herd is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members. "In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Excessive intake of alcohol, as we know, kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine. That's why you always feel smarter after a few beers.
Editorial Addendum: I seldom feel 'smarter' after a few beers; wittier, more amorous, more prone to silliness, yes indeed. But beer and feeling smarter? Methinks not. Irish whiskey and rye, yes; Irish Mist, definitely. Beer, alas, no.... ;-)
Thursday Thoughts
Ah, the Doctor is feeling giddy today! It's been a while. The world makes some semblance of sense again. A few brief notes:
I should stop writing on this silly thing.... Off to Mr Eliot and Mr Stevens....
Ah, the Doctor is feeling giddy today! It's been a while. The world makes some semblance of sense again. A few brief notes:
RK: Thanks for the Shakie shirt. Got it yesterday. No Holes Bard, indeed. ;-)
Anne: Another lovely chat today. For everyone else, we were having one of those 'drunken' arguments, wherein we were saying things at *exactly* the same time over and over again, not just in terms of general responses, but in terms of specific cultural references and so forth. Hilarious, as always, kiddo. I still think you should lead the charge in a new feminist revolution that would address the inconsistencies and inanities of the current, already deeply-fractured (and increasingly self-defeating) movement. In the words of Betty Friedan, "Men are not the enemy, but the fellow victims. The real enemy is women's denigration of themselves." And this one's for you....Receptionist: How do you write women so well?
Melvin: I think of a man, and I take away reason and accountability.
--- As Good As It Gets
And this one is from Groucho Marx: "Women should be obscene and not heard." LOL. Somehow, Anne, the one thing you could never be is "not heard" (but obscene, definitely). ;-) We really need a few drinks next time you're in the area, kiddo.
*Shakes head*: Apparently the ditz on Fox's Good Day Live-- a horrible, horrible excuse for a talk show-- went to Mohawk College. I find this profoundly disturbing but eminently chuckleworthy.
RP is looking for plays (theatrical pieces, that is) circa 1980 or later about addiction, but found myself only able to come up with a few odd suggestions. Any ideas, anyone? I don't know if she checks this site, but if she doens't I'll glady pass on any ideas to her.
This is interesting: we knew someone had to do it sooner or later, writing a treatise "On Bullshit." Long, exhaustive, and debatable in places-- but intriguing nonetheless. It figures, though, that it ends with a very typical conclusion. In academic parlance, black inevitably becomes white, left inevitably becomes right, and so here, too. We can never have a word mean what it means: it has to mean its opposite as well.
RK: From Robert Frost: on "T.S. Eliot and I like to play games. I like to play euchre, and he likes to play Eucharist."
From James Joyce: "Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives." No kidding: it's the seventh circle of hell.
From Oscar Wilde: "The central problem in Hamlet is whether the critics are mad or only pretending to be mad."
From Douglas Adams: "I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."
Clive James: "Arnold Schwarzenegger looks like a condom full of walnuts." He he he... right on....
And another classic: An unknown MP asked Winston Churchill, "Must you fall asleep while I'm speaking?" The reply: "No, it is purely voluntary."
Groucho Marx, again: "I've been around so long, I knew Doris Day before she was a virgin." Ah, he may have been 'a male chauvinist piglet,' as Betty Friedan put it, but he was a thousand times wittier than Friedan ever will be.
Another wonderful one from Wilde, to be used often: "How clever you are, my dear! You never mean a single word you say." (Something to write on student essays, perhaps?)
And a personal fave from Carly Simon: "You're so vain, / You probably think this song is about you, / Don't you, don't you?"
I should stop writing on this silly thing.... Off to Mr Eliot and Mr Stevens....
03 June 2003
On To The Hustings!
Dave Barry is running for President! I'm sure he'll make sure that every home has its legal entitlements of boogers and farts.
Thanks to DB as well for this link which is simply too weird to fathom. If you're going to kill yourself, at least have the decency to get out of your damned car.
For fun, I found this to alleviate tension. Killing Adam Sandler makes my day. (Yes, it's cheap and stupid, but.... I *loathe* Adam Sandler.)
Dave Barry is running for President! I'm sure he'll make sure that every home has its legal entitlements of boogers and farts.
Thanks to DB as well for this link which is simply too weird to fathom. If you're going to kill yourself, at least have the decency to get out of your damned car.
For fun, I found this to alleviate tension. Killing Adam Sandler makes my day. (Yes, it's cheap and stupid, but.... I *loathe* Adam Sandler.)
Shakespearean Death Match
In the tradition of celebritydeathmatch.com (or whatever it's site is called), I'm stewing on who would kicks whose ass in a death match. Here are my speculations:
King Lear vs Hamlet: Lear has it here, no contest. Hamlet would dilly-dally, wondering whether or not to take action against a sea of troubles, before entering the ring, and then he would be no contest for the dragon and his wrath. With a flight of rage, Lear would thrash Hamlet across the stage and stomp repeatedly on the young Dane's head until his incredible consciousness oozed out onto the boards like chocolate syrup. And, knowing Lear, he'd carry the body off stage afterwards, howling in victory.
Macbeth vs Othello: This is a tricky one: each is a skilled warrior, each relatively intelligent and agile. Each would need some persuading to get into the ring. But I suspect Macbeth has the edge here. After much scoping out of one another, Macbeth would summon up the will, and do the deed. Macbeth would discover that Othello has more blood in him than he expected.
Lady Macbeth vs Cleopatra: No doubt here: Lady M does the deed quickly, despite Cleopatra's attempt to run away from the fight at the last minute. In dying, Cleopatra makes a spectacle of herself, leaving Lady M desperately trying to get all the blood off her hands.
Prospero vs Henry V: This is a toughie. Henry's fire and alertness would make him a challenging foe, and if it came to muscles, it'd be once more into the old man. But Prospero's magic wins it here: he simply casts a spell that rounds his opponent in a sleep, and then proceeds to kill the young man precisely and artfully. Or, he'd cast a spell that would make Henry think there was no death match, and he walk away as the audience wonders what the hell is going on.
Richard III vs Richard II: Number III kills Dickie the Deuce and his entire entourage, picking them off one by one and with great dispatch. Richard III would probably even get creative about the process.
Titus vs King John: Titus in a second. But then in a wonderful series of exchanges, the Bastard Falcounbridge would rise to the stage and kick some Roman ass for a bit before Titus cuts him up too, and then bakes them both in pies.
Falstaff vs Brutus: Brutus would eventually find a way to legitimate the contest, and convince Falstaff that nothing was wrong before stabbing him in his over-bloated belly. That is, of course, if Falstaff brought himself to the death-match; he'd likely be passed out somewhere and miss the whole thing, leaving Brutus to win by default.
Romeo vs Juliet: Juliet wins this one for two reasons: one, she's smarter than he is (by a country mile); and two, she'd realize eventually that a man is just another guy and he is ultimately dispensable. Romeo, on the other hand, would fall for her obvious guiles, and then find his attention diverted to other young females in the audience, allowing Juliet to make into a meat-pie (assumedly made with a lark and a nightingale in the dark).
Shylock vs Coriolanus: Ah, Coriolanus would seem to have the edge here, but I'd give it to Shylock because Coriolanus would end up with mother-imposed stage nerves, and turn into an ineffectual wallow. Shylock would play this to his advantage, and out-think, out-maneuver and out-creep our Roman momma's boy.
The Closing Battle Royal of the Survivors: Lear's anger is immense: he throws Juliet across the stage like a wet rag, smashes Titus' head to the ground, proves to Richard III that his canny guile is useless to him and pounds him into the dirt. He dispatches Shylock soon after, then offers Brutus a not-so Roman death. His biggest foes are the Macbeths, who try to tag team him, but to no avail: he smashes their heads together in an astounding assertion of age before youth. He then looks at Prospero, getting very, very weak, and slumps to the ground, convinced Prospero is actually Cordelia, and dies of a heart attack. Prospero stands alone on the blood-littered stage, and then assures us that everything will be alright in an enchanting epilogue that makes the audience think it had watched a comedy. He throws his books among the blood, and leaves the stage, victor again.
The audience then exits, in a death march, moaning about going out into the wind and the rain....
In the tradition of celebritydeathmatch.com (or whatever it's site is called), I'm stewing on who would kicks whose ass in a death match. Here are my speculations:
King Lear vs Hamlet: Lear has it here, no contest. Hamlet would dilly-dally, wondering whether or not to take action against a sea of troubles, before entering the ring, and then he would be no contest for the dragon and his wrath. With a flight of rage, Lear would thrash Hamlet across the stage and stomp repeatedly on the young Dane's head until his incredible consciousness oozed out onto the boards like chocolate syrup. And, knowing Lear, he'd carry the body off stage afterwards, howling in victory.
Macbeth vs Othello: This is a tricky one: each is a skilled warrior, each relatively intelligent and agile. Each would need some persuading to get into the ring. But I suspect Macbeth has the edge here. After much scoping out of one another, Macbeth would summon up the will, and do the deed. Macbeth would discover that Othello has more blood in him than he expected.
Lady Macbeth vs Cleopatra: No doubt here: Lady M does the deed quickly, despite Cleopatra's attempt to run away from the fight at the last minute. In dying, Cleopatra makes a spectacle of herself, leaving Lady M desperately trying to get all the blood off her hands.
Prospero vs Henry V: This is a toughie. Henry's fire and alertness would make him a challenging foe, and if it came to muscles, it'd be once more into the old man. But Prospero's magic wins it here: he simply casts a spell that rounds his opponent in a sleep, and then proceeds to kill the young man precisely and artfully. Or, he'd cast a spell that would make Henry think there was no death match, and he walk away as the audience wonders what the hell is going on.
Richard III vs Richard II: Number III kills Dickie the Deuce and his entire entourage, picking them off one by one and with great dispatch. Richard III would probably even get creative about the process.
Titus vs King John: Titus in a second. But then in a wonderful series of exchanges, the Bastard Falcounbridge would rise to the stage and kick some Roman ass for a bit before Titus cuts him up too, and then bakes them both in pies.
Falstaff vs Brutus: Brutus would eventually find a way to legitimate the contest, and convince Falstaff that nothing was wrong before stabbing him in his over-bloated belly. That is, of course, if Falstaff brought himself to the death-match; he'd likely be passed out somewhere and miss the whole thing, leaving Brutus to win by default.
Romeo vs Juliet: Juliet wins this one for two reasons: one, she's smarter than he is (by a country mile); and two, she'd realize eventually that a man is just another guy and he is ultimately dispensable. Romeo, on the other hand, would fall for her obvious guiles, and then find his attention diverted to other young females in the audience, allowing Juliet to make into a meat-pie (assumedly made with a lark and a nightingale in the dark).
Shylock vs Coriolanus: Ah, Coriolanus would seem to have the edge here, but I'd give it to Shylock because Coriolanus would end up with mother-imposed stage nerves, and turn into an ineffectual wallow. Shylock would play this to his advantage, and out-think, out-maneuver and out-creep our Roman momma's boy.
The Closing Battle Royal of the Survivors: Lear's anger is immense: he throws Juliet across the stage like a wet rag, smashes Titus' head to the ground, proves to Richard III that his canny guile is useless to him and pounds him into the dirt. He dispatches Shylock soon after, then offers Brutus a not-so Roman death. His biggest foes are the Macbeths, who try to tag team him, but to no avail: he smashes their heads together in an astounding assertion of age before youth. He then looks at Prospero, getting very, very weak, and slumps to the ground, convinced Prospero is actually Cordelia, and dies of a heart attack. Prospero stands alone on the blood-littered stage, and then assures us that everything will be alright in an enchanting epilogue that makes the audience think it had watched a comedy. He throws his books among the blood, and leaves the stage, victor again.
The audience then exits, in a death march, moaning about going out into the wind and the rain....
A Few Short Takes
My thanks again to RK for the gift I received today in the mail-- the Ian Holm production of King Lear. Something to look forward to. Ah, Lear, the great story of self-delusion and realization. Not only does Lear face harder truths about himself and the world around him, but he'd also have taken Hamlet outside and unleashed a giant can of whoop-ass.
The bull-shit is flying and fast furiously today. And it's only early afternoon. *sigh* Sometimes I want to grab people by the scruffs of their necks and expel them of their delusions, but it's a futile emotion, ultimately. People will believe whatever they want to believe. But delusions (including lies, hypocrisies, excuses, and other forms of deception, to oneself and to others) always seem to me crutches for cowardice. We're all prone to fear; the test is how we deal with that fear, and how we act despite it.
Great bit: "You know what mom? You know what I'm gonna get you next Christmas? A big wooden cross, so every time you feel unappreciated for all your sacrifices, you can climb up and nail yourself to it." --- Kevin Spacey, with the best damned line in the very funny The Ref. God, I love that movie-- and I take no end of joy in imagining Glynis Johns nailing herself to a big wooden cross.
My thanks again to RK for the gift I received today in the mail-- the Ian Holm production of King Lear. Something to look forward to. Ah, Lear, the great story of self-delusion and realization. Not only does Lear face harder truths about himself and the world around him, but he'd also have taken Hamlet outside and unleashed a giant can of whoop-ass.
The bull-shit is flying and fast furiously today. And it's only early afternoon. *sigh* Sometimes I want to grab people by the scruffs of their necks and expel them of their delusions, but it's a futile emotion, ultimately. People will believe whatever they want to believe. But delusions (including lies, hypocrisies, excuses, and other forms of deception, to oneself and to others) always seem to me crutches for cowardice. We're all prone to fear; the test is how we deal with that fear, and how we act despite it.
That was a wonderful remark
I had my eyes closed in the dark
I sighed a million sighs
I told a million lies
to myself, to myself... --- Van Morrison
Great bit: "You know what mom? You know what I'm gonna get you next Christmas? A big wooden cross, so every time you feel unappreciated for all your sacrifices, you can climb up and nail yourself to it." --- Kevin Spacey, with the best damned line in the very funny The Ref. God, I love that movie-- and I take no end of joy in imagining Glynis Johns nailing herself to a big wooden cross.
ANNE: Thanks. I know I don't say that enough. It really is, though, a wonder why I'm not a misogynist by now. You're one of the reasons-- you're frank, supportive yet brutal, caring but not condescending-- that I believe beyond stereotypes. Take this now. I'll never, ever, ever, ever, say this again.... ;-) Thanks, kiddo.... Strange to be on your couch instead of you on mine, in the strictly psychological sense of the phrase. This too shall pass... you of all people know that as much as I may wear my heart upon my sleeve, I'll also knock back (eventually) those that gnaw on it. You've been great, and I appreciate it, kiddo.
02 June 2003
01 June 2003
Yeehaw!!!
I have the house to myself on what seems a lovely day... Parental units are off for the night to dine with friends, friends they usually hang around with quite a while.... Yeah! I can proceed to dance naked around the house with a lamp shade on my head. Well, not quite, of course.... To any of you permanently scarred by a mental image of such a thing, I remit no apology: that's what you get for visiting my blog. *smart-ass grin* Am thinking I might settle onto the front porch with a half-dozen books, tease through some more of my dissertative thoughts, drinking profuse amounts of rye as music rings through the house. To know tranquility.... Maybe the musical selection should include John Mellencamp's "Dance Naked," even if it has that horrible cover of Van Morrison's "Wild Night."
There's something invidious about blogging. It occurs to me that blogging is a lot less about communicating with others than with talking to oneself, and I'm not entirely sure whether it's a healthy thing or not. Sure, bloggers have readers, and there are things bloggers (or most of them, anyway) save for themselves.
On a more communicative note, I think I may finally have identified the lynch-pin for my dissertation. Some time ago I realized that the many of the key Modern poets were borrowing (often stealing) from the traditions of nonsense poetry even in ostensibly 'serious' verse. Eliot's poetics in Four Quartets, for example, owes a great deal to Lewis Carroll and company, but one can see Eliot's own nonsense Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats as being more significant in his poetic development than many tend to assume. It's interesting, though, how well the nonsensical provides a touchstone for considering Modern poetics in an entirely new light, or entirely new to me anyway. Critics have often wondered how to deal with fissures and paradoxes in the poems of, say, Eliot and Stevens, and they seek super-logical ways of rationalizing them (and therefore hopefully resolving paradoxes and so forth). I'm on the path, then, to identifying a relatively new way of thinking about poetry and poetics that will hopefully start to free the poems from the laborious forms of discourse and material analysis to which they've recently been subjected. It also bodes for a new way of thinking about literature in itself-- even if, in fact, the new way is really quite old, and more akin to what most poets would actually want of their readers. My task is to find the keys to the gates to this, and to articulate it. I'm sure this will lead to charges from supervisors that my reading is 'ahistorical,' 'apolitical,' and 'theoretically-naive.' So what. Who cares. There are larger issues at stake here, and I'm sufficiently iconoclastic to lead the charge. Once more unto the breach!
It's occurred to me that in the Modern age, when humanistic and Romantic notions were on the wane and the world seemed increasingly fragmentary and impersonal, the means to search out or to discover the transcendental came not in articulating statements of faith or asserting values, but in the subversion of them through the devices of nonsense. If there is no intrinsic sense to things, but there must be sense (or so we tell ourselves), then there has to be a sense beyond sense, a meaning beyond the meaning, a meaning that may not be strictly cognitive or verifiable. This helps especially with dealing with guys like Eliot and Stevens who were intensely intellectual but also made proclamations to devalue the pretensions toward determining or fixing meaning. Hence, Eliot's famous statement about the music of poetry. Hence Stevens' deliberate assertion that Ramon Fernandez wasn't meant to be the French literary critic and philosopher, but just a random Cuban 'made up of the two most Spanish names [he] could find.'
In thinking all this, I'm tending toward a total realignment in ways of thinking about Modern poetry, a realignment that embraces paradox, that deflates connotative meaning, and that brings to the reading process a kind of play and whimsy that both Eliot and Stevens, I think, would want (and other poets, too, indeed). Is it really possible that so many of our critics have, as Elito said, 'had the experience but missed the meaning'? This means -- oh my god-- I will have to create and to determine an elaborate definition of what 'meaning' is. This could be a nightmare. I'm up to the challenge. I have nothing to declare but my arrogance. ;-)
Onward & upward.
I have the house to myself on what seems a lovely day... Parental units are off for the night to dine with friends, friends they usually hang around with quite a while.... Yeah! I can proceed to dance naked around the house with a lamp shade on my head. Well, not quite, of course.... To any of you permanently scarred by a mental image of such a thing, I remit no apology: that's what you get for visiting my blog. *smart-ass grin* Am thinking I might settle onto the front porch with a half-dozen books, tease through some more of my dissertative thoughts, drinking profuse amounts of rye as music rings through the house. To know tranquility.... Maybe the musical selection should include John Mellencamp's "Dance Naked," even if it has that horrible cover of Van Morrison's "Wild Night."
There's something invidious about blogging. It occurs to me that blogging is a lot less about communicating with others than with talking to oneself, and I'm not entirely sure whether it's a healthy thing or not. Sure, bloggers have readers, and there are things bloggers (or most of them, anyway) save for themselves.
On a more communicative note, I think I may finally have identified the lynch-pin for my dissertation. Some time ago I realized that the many of the key Modern poets were borrowing (often stealing) from the traditions of nonsense poetry even in ostensibly 'serious' verse. Eliot's poetics in Four Quartets, for example, owes a great deal to Lewis Carroll and company, but one can see Eliot's own nonsense Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats as being more significant in his poetic development than many tend to assume. It's interesting, though, how well the nonsensical provides a touchstone for considering Modern poetics in an entirely new light, or entirely new to me anyway. Critics have often wondered how to deal with fissures and paradoxes in the poems of, say, Eliot and Stevens, and they seek super-logical ways of rationalizing them (and therefore hopefully resolving paradoxes and so forth). I'm on the path, then, to identifying a relatively new way of thinking about poetry and poetics that will hopefully start to free the poems from the laborious forms of discourse and material analysis to which they've recently been subjected. It also bodes for a new way of thinking about literature in itself-- even if, in fact, the new way is really quite old, and more akin to what most poets would actually want of their readers. My task is to find the keys to the gates to this, and to articulate it. I'm sure this will lead to charges from supervisors that my reading is 'ahistorical,' 'apolitical,' and 'theoretically-naive.' So what. Who cares. There are larger issues at stake here, and I'm sufficiently iconoclastic to lead the charge. Once more unto the breach!
It's occurred to me that in the Modern age, when humanistic and Romantic notions were on the wane and the world seemed increasingly fragmentary and impersonal, the means to search out or to discover the transcendental came not in articulating statements of faith or asserting values, but in the subversion of them through the devices of nonsense. If there is no intrinsic sense to things, but there must be sense (or so we tell ourselves), then there has to be a sense beyond sense, a meaning beyond the meaning, a meaning that may not be strictly cognitive or verifiable. This helps especially with dealing with guys like Eliot and Stevens who were intensely intellectual but also made proclamations to devalue the pretensions toward determining or fixing meaning. Hence, Eliot's famous statement about the music of poetry. Hence Stevens' deliberate assertion that Ramon Fernandez wasn't meant to be the French literary critic and philosopher, but just a random Cuban 'made up of the two most Spanish names [he] could find.'
In thinking all this, I'm tending toward a total realignment in ways of thinking about Modern poetry, a realignment that embraces paradox, that deflates connotative meaning, and that brings to the reading process a kind of play and whimsy that both Eliot and Stevens, I think, would want (and other poets, too, indeed). Is it really possible that so many of our critics have, as Elito said, 'had the experience but missed the meaning'? This means -- oh my god-- I will have to create and to determine an elaborate definition of what 'meaning' is. This could be a nightmare. I'm up to the challenge. I have nothing to declare but my arrogance. ;-)
Onward & upward.
Spent most of this morning watching the film version of Henry James' Washington Square with Jennifer Jason Leigh, Albert Finney and Maggie Smith. It's not bad (it's not great, either), even if looks a little too comfortably like an A&E period piece-- see, by the way, the much less periodic adaptation of James' The Wings of the Dove with Helena Bonham Carter, if you wonder what I mean by this. But I find myself thinking a few things.... that Jennnifer Jason Leigh is by no means plain enough to be Catherine Sloper.... that while Catherine may be slower witted than her father and her supposed suitor, the others, including her well-meaning aunt, succeed only in outsmarting themselves, with Catherine the tragic victim of this... that this a story about people who seek so much to fashion the world according to their own expectations, that ostensibly more important issues are treated coarsely and selfishly....
It's not a great novel, but it's a good one-- probably a good way to introduce uninitiated readeers to James. The film is so-so; the film's final scene is not well-played, and Ben Chaplin as Morris is horrible. Look for a very young Jennifer Garner (Alias) in the cast.
Don't think I've read Washington Square in almost five years. It's a short book (less than 200 pages, depending on edition), and worth a read, even if most Jamesians consider it the 'sore thumb' in his canon.
Of other matters, I once again did what had to be done and not per se what I wanted to do. When one is trapped in a situation of constant impossibility, sometimes the best one can do is steel oneself with necessity and move on, especially who one's options are pretty severely limited. My life itself seems all too often to resemble a James novel with lots of very fine thinking and feeling, but always impossibly complicated and veering toward tragic, even if the main players try to respond to that trajectory as if it were everyday occurrence.
I have an inexpicable desire to listen to Norah Jones right now. What a beautiful girl, with such a lovely voice. *sigh*
It's not a great novel, but it's a good one-- probably a good way to introduce uninitiated readeers to James. The film is so-so; the film's final scene is not well-played, and Ben Chaplin as Morris is horrible. Look for a very young Jennifer Garner (Alias) in the cast.
Don't think I've read Washington Square in almost five years. It's a short book (less than 200 pages, depending on edition), and worth a read, even if most Jamesians consider it the 'sore thumb' in his canon.
Of other matters, I once again did what had to be done and not per se what I wanted to do. When one is trapped in a situation of constant impossibility, sometimes the best one can do is steel oneself with necessity and move on, especially who one's options are pretty severely limited. My life itself seems all too often to resemble a James novel with lots of very fine thinking and feeling, but always impossibly complicated and veering toward tragic, even if the main players try to respond to that trajectory as if it were everyday occurrence.
I have an inexpicable desire to listen to Norah Jones right now. What a beautiful girl, with such a lovely voice. *sigh*
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