tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72668734901471628382024-02-19T02:34:04.325-08:00The PennycandystoreA delectable array of literary thought.CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-37006349847881130592009-04-24T08:12:00.000-07:002009-04-24T08:13:40.631-07:00It's the Anniversary of the 1916 Easter Rebellion in DublinFor Dr. O'Hare<br /><br />Easter, 1916<br />By W.B. Yeats<br /><br />I have met them at close of day<br />Coming with vivid faces<br />From counter or desk among grey<br />Eighteenth-century houses.<br />I have passed with a nod of the head<br />Or polite meaningless words,<br />Or have lingered awhile and said<br />Polite meaningless words,<br />And thought before I had done<br />Of a mocking tale or a gibe<br />To please a companion<br />Around the fire at the club,<br />Being certain that they and I<br />But lived where motley is worn:<br />All changed, changed utterly:<br />A terrible beauty is born.<br /><br />That woman's days were spent<br />In ignorant good-will,<br />Her nights in argument<br />Until her voice grew shrill.<br />What voice more sweet than hers<br />When, young and beautiful,<br />She rode to harriers?<br />This man had kept a school<br />And rode our winged horse;<br />This other his helper and friend<br />Was coming into his force;<br />He might have won fame in the end,<br />So sensitive his nature seemed,<br />So daring and sweet his thought.<br />This other man I had dreamed<br />A drunken, vainglorious lout.<br />He had done most bitter wrong<br />To some who are near my heart,<br />Yet I number him in the song;<br />He, too, has resigned his part<br />In the casual comedy;<br />He, too, has been changed in his turn,<br />Transformed utterly:<br />A terrible beauty is born.<br /><br />Hearts with one purpose alone<br />Through summer and winter seem<br />Enchanted to a stone<br />To trouble the living stream.<br />The horse that comes from the road.<br />The rider, the birds that range<br />From cloud to tumbling cloud,<br />Minute by minute they change;<br />A shadow of cloud on the stream<br />Changes minute by minute;<br />A horse-hoof slides on the brim,<br />And a horse plashes within it;<br />The long-legged moor-hens dive,<br />And hens to moor-cocks call;<br />Minute by minute they live:<br />The stone's in the midst of all.<br /><br />Too long a sacrifice<br />Can make a stone of the heart.<br />O when may it suffice?<br />That is Heaven's part, our part<br />To murmur name upon name,<br />As a mother names her child<br />When sleep at last has come<br />On limbs that had run wild.<br />What is it but nightfall?<br />No, no, not night but death;<br />Was it needless death after all?<br />For England may keep faith<br />For all that is done and said.<br />We know their dream; enough<br />To know they dreamed and are dead;<br />And what if excess of love<br />Bewildered them till they died?<br />I write it out in a verse -<br />MacDonagh and MacBride<br />And Connolly and Pearse<br />Now and in time to be,<br />Wherever green is worn,<br />Are changed, changed utterly:<br />A terrible beauty is born.CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-64625429879036879792009-03-20T18:08:00.000-07:002009-03-20T18:26:36.596-07:00Just for funA week or two ago I saw a post on <a href="http://boingboing.net/">Boing Boing</a> about the first book in author <a href="http://www.temeraire.org/">Naomi Novik's</a> <i>Temeraire</i> series being available as a free eBook at <a href="http://www.suvudu.com/freelibrary/">Suvudu Free Book Library.</a> Though I've never read any fantasy (unless you count Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter), I decided to give it a try, since my friend Karley is constantly hassling me to get into series like <i>Twilight</i> and <i>Eragon</i>. Well, I read the book, <i>His Majesty's Dragon</i> (yes, it's a crappy title), and I loved it so much I immediately went to the library and checked out the second book in the series, <i>Throne of Jade</i>. I am having so much fun reading these books--and, despite my recent Fitzgerald binge, coincidentally had so little fun reading <i>This Side of Paradise</i>--I haven't had any great literary thoughts to share here. So, if you're bored enough to check my blog for updates, do yourself a favor and go <a href="http://www.suvudu.com/freelibrary/">download <i>His Majesty's Dragon</i></a> and have a little fun.<br /><br />Oh, and give me a pat on the back for manually formatting the html in this post. I'm learning.CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-11802344509274334662009-02-25T08:21:00.000-08:002009-02-25T08:22:16.953-08:00Ash Wednesdayby T.S. Eliot<br /> I<br /><br />Because I do not hope to turn again<br />Because I do not hope<br />Because I do not hope to turn<br />Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope<br />I no longer strive to strive towards such things<br />(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)<br />Why should I mourn<br />The vanished power of the usual reign?<br /><br />Because I do not hope to know<br />The infirm glory of the positive hour<br />Because I do not think<br />Because I know I shall not know<br />The one veritable transitory power<br />Because I cannot drink<br />There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again<br /><br />Because I know that time is always time<br />And place is always and only place<br />And what is actual is actual only for one time<br />And only for one place<br />I rejoice that things are as they are and<br />I renounce the blessèd face<br />And renounce the voice<br />Because I cannot hope to turn again<br />Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something<br />Upon which to rejoice<br /><br />And pray to God to have mercy upon us<br />And pray that I may forget<br />These matters that with myself I too much discuss<br />Too much explain<br />Because I do not hope to turn again<br />Let these words answer<br />For what is done, not to be done again<br />May the judgement not be too heavy upon us<br /><br />Because these wings are no longer wings to fly<br />But merely vans to beat the air<br />The air which is now thoroughly small and dry<br />Smaller and dryer than the will<br />Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.<br /><br />Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death<br />Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.<br /><br /><br />II<br />Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree<br />In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity<br />On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained<br />In the hollow round of my skull. And God said<br />Shall these bones live? shall these<br />Bones live? And that which had been contained<br />In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:<br />Because of the goodness of this Lady<br />And because of her loveliness, and because<br />She honours the Virgin in meditation,<br />We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled<br />Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love<br />To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.<br />It is this which recovers<br />My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions<br />Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn<br />In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.<br />Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.<br />There is no life in them. As I am forgotten<br />And would be forgotten, so I would forget<br />Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said<br />Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only<br />The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping<br />With the burden of the grasshopper, saying<br /><br />Lady of silences<br />Calm and distressed<br />Torn and most whole<br />Rose of memory<br />Rose of forgetfulness<br />Exhausted and life-giving<br />Worried reposeful<br />The single Rose<br />Is now the Garden<br />Where all loves end<br />Terminate torment<br />Of love unsatisfied<br />The greater torment<br />Of love satisfied<br />End of the endless<br />Journey to no end<br />Conclusion of all that<br />Is inconclusible<br />Speech without word and<br />Word of no speech<br />Grace to the Mother<br />For the Garden<br />Where all love ends.<br /><br />Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining<br />We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,<br />Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,<br />Forgetting themselves and each other, united<br />In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye<br />Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity<br />Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.<br /><br /><br /><br />III<br /><br />At the first turning of the second stair<br />I turned and saw below<br />The same shape twisted on the banister<br />Under the vapour in the fetid air<br />Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears<br />The deceitul face of hope and of despair.<br /><br />At the second turning of the second stair<br />I left them twisting, turning below;<br />There were no more faces and the stair was dark,<br />Damp, jaggèd, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair,<br />Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.<br /><br />At the first turning of the third stair<br />Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit<br />And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene<br />The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green<br />Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.<br />Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,<br />Lilac and brown hair;<br />Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind<br />over the third stair,<br />Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair<br />Climbing the third stair.<br /><br /><br />Lord, I am not worthy<br />Lord, I am not worthy<br /><br /> but speak the word only.<br /><br />IV<br />Who walked between the violet and the violet<br />Whe walked between<br />The various ranks of varied green<br />Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,<br />Talking of trivial things<br />In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour<br />Who moved among the others as they walked,<br />Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs<br /><br />Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand<br />In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour,<br />Sovegna vos<br /><br />Here are the years that walk between, bearing<br />Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring<br />One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing<br /><br />White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.<br />The new years walk, restoring<br />Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring<br />With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem<br />The time. Redeem<br />The unread vision in the higher dream<br />While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.<br /><br />The silent sister veiled in white and blue<br />Between the yews, behind the garden god,<br />Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word<br /><br />But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down<br />Redeem the time, redeem the dream<br />The token of the word unheard, unspoken<br /><br />Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew<br /><br />And after this our exile<br /><br /><br />V<br />If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent<br />If the unheard, unspoken<br />Word is unspoken, unheard;<br />Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,<br />The Word without a word, the Word within<br />The world and for the world;<br />And the light shone in darkness and<br />Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled<br />About the centre of the silent Word.<br /><br />O my people, what have I done unto thee.<br /><br />Where shall the word be found, where will the word<br />Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence<br />Not on the sea or on the islands, not<br />On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,<br />For those who walk in darkness<br />Both in the day time and in the night time<br />The right time and the right place are not here<br />No place of grace for those who avoid the face<br />No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice<br /><br />Will the veiled sister pray for<br />Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,<br />Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between<br />Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait<br />In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray<br />For children at the gate<br />Who will not go away and cannot pray:<br />Pray for those who chose and oppose<br /><br />O my people, what have I done unto thee.<br /><br />Will the veiled sister between the slender<br />Yew trees pray for those who offend her<br />And are terrified and cannot surrender<br />And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks<br />In the last desert before the last blue rocks<br />The desert in the garden the garden in the desert<br />Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.<br /><br /><br />O my people.<br /><br /><br />VI<br />Although I do not hope to turn again<br />Although I do not hope<br />Although I do not hope to turn<br /><br />Wavering between the profit and the loss<br />In this brief transit where the dreams cross<br />The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying<br />(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things<br />From the wide window towards the granite shore<br />The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying<br />Unbroken wings<br /><br />And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices<br />In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices<br />And the weak spirit quickens to rebel<br />For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell<br />Quickens to recover<br />The cry of quail and the whirling plover<br />And the blind eye creates<br />The empty forms between the ivory gates<br />And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth<br /><br />This is the time of tension between dying and birth<br />The place of solitude where three dreams cross<br />Between blue rocks<br />But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away<br />Let the other yew be shaken and reply.<br /><br />Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,<br />Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood<br />Teach us to care and not to care<br />Teach us to sit still<br />Even among these rocks,<br />Our peace in His will<br />And even among these rocks<br />Sister, mother<br />And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,<br />Suffer me not to be separated<br /><br />And let my cry come unto Thee.<br /><br />(http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ash-wednesday/)CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-50250107355000394512009-01-23T14:02:00.000-08:002009-02-16T13:52:12.105-08:00The Beautiful and DamnedI've been spending many a rainy, foggy afternoon lately reading F. Scott Fitzgerald's <span style="font-style:italic;">The Beautiful and Damned</span>. It is Fitzgerald's second novel, and it is fantastic; however, to read it is to fall in love with the characters and then watch them disintegrate before your eyes. They are young and happy, they fall in love, and then they are subjected to the horrors of life and time as their youth, beauty, money, and dreams evaporate. If it were not by Fitzgerald, and perhaps <span style="font-style:italic;">about</span> Fitzgerald, I'd call it a reform novel of the prohibitionist era. But the reader concludes the tale of drinking, decadence, and depravity with no handy axioms on the drunkard's demise. Instead, the protagonists get exactly what they want, but time and tragedy have irreparably tarnished their long-sought treasure. They go through hell and back, but they emerge from the trials all the worse for wear. Far from tragic heroes, Anthony and Gloria are pitiable creatures who happen to be at the center of the story. <br /><br />Here are a few passages I really enjoyed:<br />(This one is from early in the novel, when Anthony is just beginning to fall in love with Gloria. [One could fill volumes with speculation over whether Gloria ever falls in love with Anthony, or simply marries him because he properly worships her.])<br /><blockquote>After another day the turmoil subsided and Anthony began to exercise a measure of reason. He was in love--he cried it passionately to himself. The things that a week before would have seemed insuperable obstacles, his limited income, his desire to be irresponsible and independent, had in this forty hours become the merest chaff before the wind of his infatuation. If he did not marry her his life would be a feeble parody on his own adolescence. To be able to face people and to endure the constant reminder of Gloria that all existence had become, it was necessary for him to have hope. So he built hope desperately and tenaciously out of the stuff of his dream, a hope flimsy enough, to be sure, a hope that was cracked and dissipated a dozen times a day, a hope mothered by mockery, but, nevertheless, a hope that would be brawn and sinew to his self-respect.</blockquote><br /><br />(Fitzgerald keeps building our hopes for the lovers in passages such as this one, a description of their engagement.)<br /><blockquote>Halcyon days like boats drifting along slow-moving rivers; spring evenings full of a plaintive melancholy that made the past beautiful and bitter, bidding them look back and see that the loves of other summers long gone were dead with the forgotten waltzes of their years. Always the most poignant moments were when some artificial barrier kept them apart: in the theatre their hands would steal together, join, give and return gentle pressures through the long dark; in crowded rooms they would form words with their lips for each other's eyes--not knowing that they were but following in the footsteps of dusty generations but comprehending dimly that if truth is the end of life happiness is a mode of it, to be cherished in its brief and tremulous moment. </blockquote><br /><br />(Fitzgerald's focus in this and most of his other novels is on the American leisure class: wealthy young men who consider themselves somewhat above taking an occupation, and instead spend their days seeking novelty, amusement, beauty, and sensation. Anthony and his closest friends are members of this "class" at the beginning of the novel, but they eventually choose to <span style="font-style:italic;">do</span> something with their time while Anthony waits, without ever really knowing for what he is waiting. The following passage is from the musing of Anthony's friend Maury, on the subject of his education in literature.)<br /><br /><blockquote>"And so I turned, canny for my years, from the professors to the poets, listening--to the lyric tenor of Swinburne and the tenor robusto of Shelley, to Shakespeare with his first bass and his fine range, to Tennyson with his second bass and his occasional falsetto, to Milton and Marlow, bassos profundo. I gave ear to Browning chatting, Byron declaiming, and Wordsworth droning. This, at least, did me no harm. I learned a little of beauty--enough to know that it had nothing to do<br />with truth--and I found, moreover, that there was no great literary tradition; there was only the tradition of the eventful death of every literary tradition...</blockquote><br /><br />(The following also comes from Maury's rambling speech on society's institutions; this time, he tells a wry anecdote on the origin of religion.)<br /><br /><blockquote>"Once upon a time all the men of mind and genius in the world became of one belief--that is to say, of no belief. But it wearied them to think that within a few years after their death many cults and systems and prognostications would be ascribed to them which they had never meditated nor intended. So they said to one another:<br />"'Let's join together and make a great book that will last forever to mock the credulity of man. Let's persuade our more erotic poets to write about the delights of the flesh, and induce some of our robust journalists to contribute stories of famous amours. We'll include all the most preposterous old wives' tales now current. We'll choose the keenest satirist alive to compile a deity from all the deities worshipped by mankind, a deity who will be more magnificent than any of them, and yet so weakly human that he'll become a byword for laughter the world over--and we'll ascribe to him all sorts of jokes and vanities and rages, in which he'll be supposed to indulge for his own diversion, so that the people will read our book and ponder it, and there'll be no more nonsense in the world.<br />"'Finally, let us take care that the book possesses all the virtues of style, so that it may last forever as a witness to our profound scepticism and our universal irony.'<br />"So the men did, and they died.<br />"But the book lived always, so beautifully had it been written, and so astounding the quality of imagination with which these men of mind and genius had endowed it. They had neglected to give it a name, but after they were dead it became known as the Bible."</blockquote><br />(Source for all above quotes: http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext06/8batd10.txt)CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-17205998590205829452009-01-15T17:40:00.000-08:002009-01-15T18:25:28.282-08:0082I started reading <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hocus_Pocus_(novel)">Hocus Pocus</a> as we were flying home for the holidays. I like to read Vonnegut on planes because his writing leaves me with a compassionate, if exasperated, outlook towards the walls of humanity surrounding me. I finished it just this afternoon, as I was sitting on my kitchen counter. Why the counter? The sheer pleasure I get from acting abnormally around my neighbors notwithstanding, there's a huge set of windows over the counter that look onto the vineyard in our back yard, and it really is the best seat in the house in the late afternoon, as the sun is setting over the mountains in its obscene technicolor glory. It's been like an early summer out here for the past few days, too. So: stunning view, balmy weather, satirical humanism--a truly winning combination. <br /><br />I like Vonnegut's narrator's description of the Freethinkers, a group I'm sure Vonnegut associated himself with philosophically:<br /><blockquote>I have looked up who the Freethinkers were. They were members of a short-lived sect, mostly of German descent, who believed, as did my Grandfather Willis, that nothing but sleep awaited good and evil persons alike in the Afterlife, that science had proved all organized religions to be baloney, that God was unknowable, and that the greatest use a person could make of his or her lifetime was to improve the quality of life for all in his or her community. (185)</blockquote><br /><br />Since Vonnegut's narrator is former "war hero," such optimism is frequently countered throughout the novel by morbid images of some of the worst atrocities in human history--say, concentration camps and atom bombs, to name a few. Vonnegut's narrator constantly daydreams about the infinite possibilities of what the world could be like, and of the ultimate purpose of human existence, and concludes, "Just because some of us can read and write and do a little math, that doesn't mean we deserve to conquer the Universe" (324).CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-7510377720226207852009-01-08T19:52:00.000-08:002009-01-08T19:52:50.324-08:00Belated wishes for a happy winer solstice from snowy California<a href='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-pzFAV4cwrDfLZ8H-iwYHestg_-29SoTsdHP8WNh6oJ4bK5tqtIGnOezlh6iTBrIJqyheIpKNV2_ny8JN-GhUas9rT7NDeyj5oPCpQqwxBx05oyppsFR8yzhjFJzVcuMmM0PEKmt0qmr/s1600-h/DSC_0162.JPG'><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-pzFAV4cwrDfLZ8H-iwYHestg_-29SoTsdHP8WNh6oJ4bK5tqtIGnOezlh6iTBrIJqyheIpKNV2_ny8JN-GhUas9rT7NDeyj5oPCpQqwxBx05oyppsFR8yzhjFJzVcuMmM0PEKmt0qmr/s400/DSC_0162.JPG' border='0' alt=''style='clear:both;float:left; margin:0px 10px 10px 0;' /></a> <div style='clear:both; text-align:LEFT'><a href='http://picasa.google.com/blogger/' target='ext'><img src='http://photos1.blogger.com/pbp.gif' alt='Posted by Picasa' style='border: 0px none ; padding: 0px; background: transparent none repeat scroll 0% 50%; -moz-background-clip: initial; -moz-background-origin: initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: initial;' align='middle' border='0' /></a></div>CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-35410086314228894942009-01-08T19:44:00.000-08:002009-01-08T19:51:03.607-08:00My wish is grantedAs noted numerous times during the brief existence of this blog, I am a fan of the writings of Ken Kesey. I also mentioned that I'd like a copy of his absolutely psychedelic-looking jail journal. Well, since I married a wonderful man who not only tolerates but actually encourages my interest in such *ahem* non-traditional literature, I now own a copy of <span style="font-style:italic;">Kesey's Jail Journal</span> in all its glossy, illustrated glory. Please forgive my holiday posting negligence and prepare for some lovely tidbits from my new book!CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-84981206246315649452008-11-30T11:57:00.000-08:002008-11-30T11:58:42.838-08:00Six Billion PeopleI really enjoyed today's Writer's Almanac poem, and I thought you would, too.<br /><br />Six Billion People<br /><br />by Tom Chandler<br /><br />And all of you so beautiful<br />I want to bring you home with me<br />to sit close on the couch.<br /><br />My invitation inserted in six billion bottles,<br />corked with bark from the final forest<br />and dropped in the ocean of my longing.<br /><br />We would speak the language of no words,<br />pass the jug of our drunken joy<br />at being babies growing into death.<br /><br />Sometimes, I know, life is stupid, pointless,<br />beside the point, but here's the point <br />maybe we would fall<br /><br />in love, settle down together,<br />share the wine, the bills,<br />the last of the oxygen and the remote.<br /><br />"Six Billion People" by Tom Chandler, from Toy Firing Squad. © Wind Publications, 2008. Reprinted with permission.CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-20101546211304256042008-11-25T07:34:00.000-08:002008-11-25T07:42:12.704-08:00Zen in the MorningI keep a little Pocket Poets book of Zen poems on my desk at the office. Sometimes I read one as I'm starting my day, and I like to think they give me a better perspective on life and work. Here's one of my favorites:<br /><br />Green Creek<br />To get right down to Yellow Flower River<br />I often follow the waters of Green Creek.<br />They wind around the mountains endlessly--<br />A path straight there would run a few score miles.<br /><br />There are sounds of water crashing on tumbled stones;<br />Scenes of silence deep within the pines.<br />Water chestnut and water fringe float on the ripples;<br />Still limpid waters mirror the reeds.<br /><br />My mind is unencumbered now, <br />Clear and tranquil, as the river is.<br />Come, stay a while, rest here upon this stone--<br />Cast out a fishing line and let things be.<br /><br />Wang Wei<br />Trans. Peter Harris<br /><br />I remember this poem when I am overwhelmed with the petty details of day to day life, and I offer it to others when they seem to be feeling overwhelmed as well. Perhaps when we pause to reflect we ultimately make better decisions and lead happier lives.CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-20713196601007025592008-11-12T07:35:00.000-08:002008-11-14T20:34:07.574-08:00"A Faint Tracing on the Surface of Mystery"I, along with my husband and two cats, live on top of a mountain in one of the most beautiful parts of the country I have ever seen. Our living quarters aren't elegant, but they are set in the midst of exquisite natural beauty. Living in such a place, I feel more connected than ever with the aptly named "Nature Writers;" how could I not, living only a short trip away from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muir_woods">John Muir's Woods</a> or the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Louis_Stevenson_State_Park">state park named for Robert Louis Stevenson</a>?<br />Lately I've been reading Annie Dillard's <span style="font-style:italic;">Pilgrim at Tinker Creek</span>. I suppose I haven't posted about it because I haven't been able to pick out a single passage to post--every word of the first chapter is an integral part of the overall message. To exclude the smallest conjunction would be to risk obfuscating the beauty of Dillard's prose. However, the Heresy of the Ellipsis (close cousin to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heresy_of_paraphrase">Heresy of Paraphrase</a>) will be only one more literary heresy heaped upon my head when the great day of English Major Reckoning comes. So here I go: <br /><blockquote>I used to have a cat, an old fighting tom, who would jump through the open window by my bed in the middle of the night and land on my chest. I'd half-awaken. He'd stick his skull under my nose and purr, stinking of urine and blood. Some nights he kneaded my bare chest with his front paws, powerfully, arching his back, as if sharpening his claws, or pummeling a mother for milk. And some mornings I'd wake in daylight to find my body covered with paw prints in blood; I looked as though I'd been painted with roses.<br /><br />It was hot, so how the mirror felt warm. I washed before the mirror in a daze, my twisted summer sleep still hung about me like sea kelp. What blood was this, and what roses? It could have been the rose of union, the blood of murder, or the rose of beauty bare and the blood of some unspeakable sacrifice or birth. The sign on my body could have been an emblem or a stain, the keys to the kingdom or the mark of Cain. I never knew. I never knew as I washed, and the blood streaked, faded, and finally disappeared, whether I'd purified myself or ruined the blood sign of the passover. We wake, if we ever wake at all, to mystery, rumors of death, beauty, violence. . . . "Seem like we're just set down here," a woman said to me recently, "and don't nobody know why." <br /></blockquote><br />(These are the opening lines of the book--it just gets better from here!)<br /><br />[Dillard describes watching a frog be deflated by a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giant_water_bug">giant water bug</a>]. <br /><blockquote>That it's rough out there and chancy is no surprise. Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended emergency bivouac. But at the same time we are also created. In the Koran, Allah asks, "The heaven and earth and all in between, thinkest thou I made them <span style="font-style:italic;">in jest</span>?" It's a good question. What do we think of the created universe, spanning an unthinkable void with an unthinkable profusion of forms? Or what do we think of nothingness, those sickening reaches of time in either direction? If the giant water bug was not made in jest, was it then made in earnest? Pascal uses a nice term to describe the notion of the creator's, once having called forth the universe, turning his back to it: <span style="font-style:italic;">Deus Absconditus</span>. Is this what we think happened? Was the sense of it there, and God absconded with it, ate it, like a wolf who disappears round the edge of the house with the Thanksgiving turkey? "God is subtle," Einstein said, "but not malicious." Again, Einstein said that "nature conceals her mystery by means of her essential grandeur, not by her cunning." It could be that God has no absconded but spread, to a fabric of spirit and sense so grand and subtle, so powerful in a new way, that we can only feel blindly of its hem. In making the thick darkness a swaddling band for the sea, God "set bars and doors" and said, "Hitherto shalt thou come, but no further." But have we come even that far? Have we rowed out to the thick darkness, or are we all playing pinochle in the bottom of the boat? (Dillard. <span style="font-style:italic;">Pilgrim at Tinker Creek</span>. "Heaven and Earth in Jest." 1985 Perennial Library ed., p.1-2, 6-7.) </blockquote>CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-79326574895233996792008-10-26T22:43:00.000-07:002008-11-01T13:04:21.947-07:00The Rainy Season BeginsIn California, it either rains or doesn't rain. The land was parched all summer as the sun matured the thirsty grapes, bestowing complex flavors in exchange for all their pains. Now it is winter, and the barren vines drink their fill. <br /><br />I finished reading <span style="font-style:italic;">The Last Tycoon</span>--the part the Fitzgerald actually wrote, anyway. The editors have created a summary of what they think Fitzgerald had in mind for the end of the novel, but I'm actually considering skipping it. I'm usually the sort of person who demands closure, who will not rest until knowing "how the story ends;" however, the writing style is strikingly different than Fitzgerald's , and I could never be sure if the artificially constructed ending is actually what Fitzgerald himself would have written. After all, who can emulate the man who wrote <span style="font-style:italic;">The Great Gatsby</span>, or (one of my favorites) <span style="font-style:italic;">Tender is the Night</span>? I'll just have to be satisfied with these rough sketches of the polished portrait he intended to paint.<br /><blockquote><br />The strongest guard is placed at the gateway to nothing. . . Maybe because the condition of emptiness is too shameful to be divulged. (Fitzgerald. <span style="font-style:italic;">Tender is the Night</span>.) </blockquote>CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-48430048928813948672008-10-22T23:43:00.000-07:002008-10-23T00:48:03.284-07:00PilgrimageToday I did something I've been dying to do since moving to California: I visited Ken Kesey's house at La Honda. If you haven't read <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Electric_Kool_Aid_Acid_Test">The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test</a>, please make tonight's post your excuse to read it at once. It's a trippy / fun introduction to the world of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gonzo_journalism">Gonzo Journalism</a>, and it paints an spectacular "landscape" of the counterculture as a whole in the 1960s, as well as some exceptional "portraits" of a few of its giant<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVtcWIxAPCCgjsoF8_TqBHa6fFHgXniezgC0AL7FrwFY659WNub4dKbEPCxxqS4wmC3qSH7OwI28rV7bc30sSMqHAKT9J9wfEY0BwpbL3ioYxWSHUbFeoRNu01tsP8WAHfWGR3MMCL0L2/s1600-h/IMG_3504.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVtcWIxAPCCgjsoF8_TqBHa6fFHgXniezgC0AL7FrwFY659WNub4dKbEPCxxqS4wmC3qSH7OwI28rV7bc30sSMqHAKT9J9wfEY0BwpbL3ioYxWSHUbFeoRNu01tsP8WAHfWGR3MMCL0L2/s200/IMG_3504.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260242958540430706" border="0" /></a>s like Kesey and Neal Cassady.<br /><br /><br /><br />Preparations for the trip were minimal. After searching on the internet for, oh, 10 minutes without finding the address of the La Honda ranch, I was beginning to worry that I'd never find it. Then I saw someone's off-hand comment that Kesey's house is about a mile west of <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/apple-jacks-inn-la-honda">Applejack's Saloon</a>. Go on, check out the reviews on this fine establishment. It's a fantastic dive. It looks like someone had their wedding reception there and posted pictures of it on the review site. . . let me just note that those pictures make it look a bit nicer inside than it really is. But it was unquestionably a fantastic stop, and we were very luc<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQV_4KhcFUO8zQJQvOKW61TYKbkLFalXOYGC1hrQ1uh2fvPVpYZ7Wk6sgppU1DucupqfJQ5d5BY7CQyTPntpLfJuCAn0IFwHcsBXlIyFPSiqny_wqaPMllvw2qfjFEVOu55PXAXdz4yqpF/s1600-h/IMG_3514.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQV_4KhcFUO8zQJQvOKW61TYKbkLFalXOYGC1hrQ1uh2fvPVpYZ7Wk6sgppU1DucupqfJQ5d5BY7CQyTPntpLfJuCAn0IFwHcsBXlIyFPSiqny_wqaPMllvw2qfjFEVOu55PXAXdz4yqpF/s200/IMG_3514.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260243695458171170" border="0" /></a>ky to find a friendly if spaced out bartender in a tye-dye t-shirt who was more than happy to tell us that not only did he know where the Kesey house was, he had ALMOST bought it. He said once when he was talking to Kesey on the phone (presumably about the house) he asked, "How are ya, Ken?" And Kesey replied, "Feelin blue." The two words came out like poetry.<br /><br />So we drove down the road about a mile, and there it was, just as the bartender said it would be, just as it was in the book. I'd post the address here since it doesn't seem to be available anywhere else, but I think that to find the house without asking directions at Applejack's would be to waste the entire experience. There were no drug-addled Pranksters, Beats, or bikers around; only a few pilgrims come to see where it all happened so many years ago.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbs3It-Jd6RuE8mhd3xlFnVmL7i1DnN-NofwRc9f3ZdrMt69VOBVJfbxyUJiBQf7s6xmGG_UKjMaj2AqJdI3ACEs7azsAjNu2wu5i-6glyj4r12MTzY-zWUA5KXYyC2LWyXE7HLHnS9kK/s1600-h/IMG_3507.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYbs3It-Jd6RuE8mhd3xlFnVmL7i1DnN-NofwRc9f3ZdrMt69VOBVJfbxyUJiBQf7s6xmGG_UKjMaj2AqJdI3ACEs7azsAjNu2wu5i-6glyj4r12MTzY-zWUA5KXYyC2LWyXE7HLHnS9kK/s200/IMG_3507.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260243414743929490" border="0" /></a>CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-51255980947944503182008-10-14T09:54:00.000-07:002008-10-14T10:17:35.144-07:00Something Triumphantly AmericanI'm currently reading F. Scott Fitzgerald's unfinished novel, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Tycoon"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Last Tycoon</span></a>. Because it is unfinished, there are little gaps where the editors explain that Fitzgerald meant to come back to a certain point in the story and introduce a character or something important like that. One such gap, in my opinion, makes the story even more amusing in its absurdiuty--I can't imagine how Fitzgerald was going to work in this introduction:<br /><blockquote><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">[Stahr <span style="font-size:85%;">(my note: a producer, the protagonist)</span> was to have received the Danish Prince Agge. who "wanted to learn about pictures from the beginning" and who was in the author's cast of characters as an "early Fascist."]</span><br /> "Mr. Marcus calling from New York," said Miss Doolan.<br /> "What do you mean?" demanded Stahr. "Why, I saw him here last night."<br /> "Well, he's on the phone--it's a New York call and Miss Jacobs' voice. It's his office."<br /> Stahr laughed.<br /> "I'm seeing him at lunch," he said. "There's no aeroplane fast enough to take him there."<br /> Miss Doolan returned to the phone. Stahr lingered to hear the outcome.<br /> "It's all right," said Miss Doolan presently. "It was a mistake. Mr. Marcus called East this morning to tell them about the quake and the flood on the back lot, and it seems he asked them to ask you about it. It was a new secretary who didn't understand Mr. Marcus. I think she got mixed up."<br /> "I think she did," said Stahr grimly.<br /> Prince Agge did not undertand either of them, but, looking for the fabulous, he felt it was somethinng triumphantly American. Mr. Marcus, whose quarters could be seen across the way, had called his New York office to ask Stahr about the flood. The Prince imagined some intricate relationship without realizing that the transaction had taken place entirely within the once brilliant steel-trap mind of Mr. Marcus, which was intermittenly slipping. (Scribner 1969 ed., p.55-6)<br /></blockquote>CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-28093044427279957992008-10-12T21:18:00.000-07:002008-10-13T09:15:22.833-07:00Pondering "The Precious"I haven't posted in a few days, but I <span style="font-style: italic;">have</span> been using my time wisely: I just finished watching the extended versions of <span style="font-style: italic;">Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Two Towers</span>. Each film is about four hours long . . .<br />So the film reminded me of one particular session in my Nature Writers class. We were discussing e. e. cummings' "In Just" when one of the girls in my class found that the poem took on deeper shades of meaning--and was way creepier--when she read it in the voice of Gollum from the <span style="font-style: italic;">Lord of the Rings</span> films. Imagine the desperate, schizophrenic, terrified, gritty voice of the balloonman uttering the following lines<br /><br />in Just-<br />spring when the world is mud-<br />luscious the little lame baloonman<br /><br /><br />whistles far and wee<br /><br /><br />and eddyandbill come<br />running from marbles and<br />piracies and it's<br />spring<br /><br /><br />when the world is puddle-wonderful<br /><br /><br />the queer<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcAOD3HrsiETQ0Cl6YCKs7BaBINm2Wo-pjZeVuSh8aBjjwm-nXcKTeIFyOayjBJv04KnunDig5pzCFKjXQQkRS0u9RI0ICV92jMMbiCYZ7C4jnBt16-OqbKQhyphenhyphenfiRirZPF2ySYfBqK9nWT/s1600-h/balloonman.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcAOD3HrsiETQ0Cl6YCKs7BaBINm2Wo-pjZeVuSh8aBjjwm-nXcKTeIFyOayjBJv04KnunDig5pzCFKjXQQkRS0u9RI0ICV92jMMbiCYZ7C4jnBt16-OqbKQhyphenhyphenfiRirZPF2ySYfBqK9nWT/s320/balloonman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256494867197680434" border="0" /></a><br />old baloonman whistles<br />far and wee<br />and bettyandisbel come dancing<br /><br /><br />from hop-scotch and jump-rope and<br /><br /><br />it's<br />spring<br />and<br />the<br />goat-footed<br /><br />baloonMan whistles<br />far<br />and<br />wee<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">(To illustrate her version of the poem, she drew the picture above)<br /></div><br />This reading always made me wonder if Gollum and the baloonman are similar in some other way, since the voice of one seems to lend insight to the character of another. When the poem is read as cummings wrote it, pausing at the larger spaces and hurrying through words squashed together, it seems that the children are moving with the speed of youthful excitement, but the (lame/queer old/ goat-footed) baloonman trudges behind with the determination of a killer in a horror movie. No matter how fast the children run, he knows he will catch them. He whistles eerily as he goes, confident he will get what he is after in the end. The poem itself does not indicate that the baloonman is moving at all--I didn't get that idea until my classmate read in in Gollum's voice. Now I picture the baloonman following the children as Gollum follows his Precious. And what is the baloonman's Precious? It's dancing, laughing children in springtime. It's innocence.<br /><br /><blockquote>and<br />the<br />goat-footed<br /><br /><br />baloonMan whistles<br />far<br />and<br />wee</blockquote>CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-73141019033297098592008-10-03T22:37:00.000-07:002008-10-03T22:42:01.937-07:00New Historicist Stephen Greenblatt on the Colbert Report!<object width="512" height="296"><param name="movie" value="http://www.hulu.com/embed/v8IafZG-lOB-yX1xo6iUBQ"></param><embed src="http://www.hulu.com/embed/v8IafZG-lOB-yX1xo6iUBQ" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="512" height="296"></embed></object>CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-20610818514261870052008-09-29T21:38:00.000-07:002008-10-05T23:22:19.003-07:00Kesey's Great Notion, My Humble OnesThis summer I trudged my way through Ken Kesey's <span style="font-style: italic;">Sometimes a Great Notion</span>, the novel he wrote after <span style="font-style: italic;">One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest</span> made him famous, but before the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Electric_Kool-Aid_Acid_Test">Acid Tests</a> made him infamous. It was a slow but ultimately rewarding read, with some real gems that show off Kesey's vast literary knowledge--he did go to Stanford, after all.<br /><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;">Look . . . Reality is greater than the sum of its parts, and a damn sight holier. And the lives of such stuff as dreams are made of may be rounded with a sleep but they are not tied neatly with a red bow. Tr</span><span style="font-style: italic;">uth doesn't run on time like a commuter train, though time may run on truth. And the Scenes Gone By and the Scenes to Come flow blending together in the sea-green deep while Now spreads in circles on the surface. (Bantam 1965 ed., p.14)<br /></span></blockquote>Here's a little self- referential snippet I was excited to find: Leland Stamper, the emotionally unstable academic, recalls his mother's suicide, then remarks dismissively, "Besides, there are some things that can't be the truth even if they<span style="font-style: italic;"> did</span> happen" (p.70). Compare Leland's statement to Chief Bromden's famous claim about his visions in <span style="font-style: italic;">One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest</span>: "It's the truth even if it didn't happen."<br /><br />It's been almost a year now since I graduated with a B.A. in English and Philosophy. I can still remember exactly how I felt that night after commencement--like I hadn't spent as much time as I should have on anything, hadn't poured my heart and soul into anything. Sure, I chose my majors and I loved them, but I wished I had spent more time reading just because I was interested, or that I had written an essay weeks in advance because I was so excited about the subject. It seemed that even when I was studying something I loved, I became bogged down in the day-to-day, and the rules and rigor of academia too quickly drained my enthusiasm for literature. As Leland is discussing his college days with Viv, his seductee-to-be, he expresses some of the same sentiment I felt:<br /> <blockquote>"Lee, if it isn't prying . . . was it always dull, your studies? Or did something happen to take the life out of it?" . . . .<br /> "No, it wasn't always dull. Not at first. When I first discovered the worlds that came before our world, other scenes in other times, I thought the discovery so bright and blazing I wanted to read everything ever written about these worlds,<span style="font-style: italic;"> in</span> these worlds. Let it teach me, then me teach it to <span style="font-style: italic;">every</span>body. But the more I read . . . after a while . . . I began to find they were all writing about that same thing, this same dull old here-today-gone-tomorrow scene . . . Shakespeare, Milton, Matthew Arnold, even Baudelaire, even this cat whoever he was that wrote <span style="font-style: italic;">Beowulf</span> . . . the same scene for the same reasons and to the same end, whether it was Dante with his pit of Baudelaire with his pot: . . . the same dull old scene . . . "<br /> "What scene is that? I don't understand."<br /> "What? Oh, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to come on so jaded. What scene? <span style="font-style: italic;"> This</span> one, the rain, those geese up there with their hard-luck stories . . . this, this same world. They all tried to do something with it. Dante did his best to build himself a hell because a hell presupposes a heaven. Baudelaire scarfed hashish and looked inside. Nothing there. Nothing but dreams and delusion. They all were driven by the need for something else. But when the drive was over, and the dreaming and the deluding worn out, they all ended up with the same dull old scene. But look, you see, Viv, they had an advantage with their scene, they had something we've lost . . . .<br /> "They had a limitless supply of tomorrows to work with. If you didn't make your dream today, well there was always more days coming, more dreams full of more sound and fury and future: what if today was a hassle? There was always tomorrow to find the River Jordan, or Valhalla, or that special providence in the fall of a sparrow . . . we could believe in the Great Gettin'-up Morning coming someday because if it didn't make it today there was always tomorrow."<br /> "And there isn't any more?"<br /> I looked up at her and grinned. "What do you think?"<br /> "I think it's pretty likely . . . that the alarm will go off at four-thirty, and I'll be down making pancakes and coffee, just like yesterday." (Bantam 1965 ed., p.414-5)</blockquote>I do miss the days where I could always say, "I'll do it tomorrow. I'll research tomorrow. I'll write tomorrow. I'll reach literary nirvana sometime Tuesday evening." And then all of a sudden my tomorrows were gone, I was done with school, and I had not only no more tomorrows but nothing to postpone. Sure, I don't get up at four-thirty, but I do find myself doing the same thing one day as I did the day before, without really considering the search for my personal Valhalla. This blog is an attempt to make use of my todays and tomorrows and to recover my enthusiasm for literature before re-entering the academic world.<br /><br />Ah, poor Kesey. He lost the respect of the his fellow scholars when he stepped outside the bounds of fiction into the world of drug-induced art and poetry.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span> Sure it may have worked for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Taylor_Coleridge">Coleridge</a>, but Kesey lived in a different era. His reputation as a literary giant was unfairly maligned for the publication of the following fascinating works:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/n3/n17125.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/images/n3/n17125.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Kesey's Garage Sale</span>. There's a signed first edition of this on Amazon for $300. Would someone buy it for me?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.key-z.com/jailjournbig.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://www.key-z.com/jailjournbig.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I saw this at City Lights Books and was absolutely mesmerized by the art. Kesey went from Stanford writing student to psychedelic activist in a matter of a few years. Did LSD expand his mind or simply warp it? The debate continues.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Your Ginsberg-of-the-day: [From <span style="font-style:italic;">Howl</span>]<br /> "who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot <br /> for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks <br /> fell on their heads every day for the next decade"CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-88710759923283369612008-09-27T21:20:00.000-07:002008-09-27T21:32:09.877-07:00The stars are close and dear<blockquote>And always, if he had a little money, a man could get drunk. The hard edges gone, and the warmth. Then there was no loneliness, for a man could people his brain with friends, and he could find his enemies and destroy them. Sitting in a ditch, the earth grew soft under him. Failure dulled and the future was no threat. And hunger did no skulk about, but the world was soft and easy, and a man could reach the place he started for. The stars came down wonderfully close and the sky was soft. Death was a friend, and sleep was death's brother. . . .And the stars down so close, and sadness and pleasure so close together, really the same thing. Like to stay drunk all the time. Who says it's bad? Who dares to say it's bad? Preachers--but they got their own kinda drunkenness. Thin, barren women, but they're too miserable to know. Reformers--but they don't hit deep enough into living to know. No--the stars are close and dear and I have joined the brotherhood of the worlds. And everything's holy--everything, even me.<br />(Steinbeck. The Grapes of Wrath. 1972 Bantam ed., p.362)</blockquote>Sometimes literature speaks for itself and needs no explanation. And sometimes it speaks for our own hearts, and it can have no explanation.CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-40179806787463633182008-09-26T09:59:00.000-07:002008-09-26T10:06:14.934-07:00Happy Birthday, T.S. EliotIn honor of one of my favorite poets (my cats <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span> named <span style="font-weight: bold;">Bustopher Jones</span> and Edmund <span style="font-weight: bold;">Growltiger</span>), here's a little poem to brighten your day.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >Cousin Nancy</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">by T.S. Eliot</span><br />Miss Nancy Elliott<br />Strode acrsss the hills and broke them,<br />Rose across the hills and broke them--<br />The barren New England hills--<br />Riding to hounds<br />Over the cow-pasture.<br /><br />Miss Nancy Elliott smoked<br />And danced all the modern dances;<br />And her aunts were not quite sure how they felt about itt,<br />But they knew that it was modern.<br /><br />Upon the glazen shelves kept watch<br />Matthew and Waldo, guardians of the faith,<br />The army of unalterable law.<br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">The Complete Poems and Plays</span>, 1971 ed., p.17-18)CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-37216757594785832792008-09-25T21:51:00.000-07:002008-09-26T09:56:35.779-07:00Holy! Holy! Holy!Here's another passage from <span style="font-style: italic;">The Grapes of Wrath</span> that resonated with something in my own soul.<br /><blockquote>"I'm gonna work in the fiel's, in the green fiel's, an' I'm gonna be near to folks. I ain't gonna try to teach 'em nothin. I'm gonna try to learn. Gonna learn why the folks walks in the grass, gonna hear 'em talk, gonna hear 'em sing. Gonna listen to kids eatin' mush. Gonna hear husban' an' wife a-poundin' the mattress in the night. Gonna eat with 'em an' learn." His eyes were wet and shining. "Gonna lay in the grass, open an' honest with anybody that'll have me. Gonna cuss an' swear an' hear the poetry of folks talkin'. All that's holy, all that's what I didn't understan'. All them things is the good things. (Bantam 1972 ed., p.101-2)</blockquote>The image of Casy lying "open an' honest" in the grass and working in the fields with the people brought to mind Whitman's recurring image of grass, not only in <span style="font-style: italic;">Leaves of Grass</span>, but especially in <span style="font-style: italic;">Song of Myself</span>:<br /><p> </p><blockquote><p>6<br />A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;<br />How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more<br />than he. </p><p> I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green<br />stuff woven. </p><p> Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,<br />A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,<br />Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see<br />and remark, and say Whose? </p><p> Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the<br />vegetation. </p><p> Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,<br />And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,<br />Growing among black folks as among white,<br />Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I<br />receive them the same. </p><p> And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. </p><p> Tenderly will I use you curling grass,<br />It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,<br />It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,<br />It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out<br />of their mothers' laps,<br />And here you are the mothers' laps. </p><p> This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,<br />Darker than the colorless beards of old men,<br />Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. </p><p> O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,<br />And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for<br />nothing. </p><p> I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and<br />women,<br />And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken<br />soon out of their laps. </p><p> What do you think has become of the young and old men?<br />And what do you think has become of the women and children? </p><p> They are alive and well somewhere,<br />The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,<br />And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the<br />end to arrest it,<br />And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. </p><p> All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,<br />And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.<br /></p><p>(Thanks, www.princeton.edu, for the easy access copy&paste!)<br /></p></blockquote><p></p>To Whitman, the grass is a symbol of all men--especially of the men who work the land--and of the great equality we find in Death, when we are all turned to grass. I think Steinbeck was certainly using grass as a symbol of the men who worked the land, whom Casy desired to be close to, and if we consider Casy's monologue in light of Whitman's multi-dimensional symbolism of the grass, then the passage becomes even richer than it seemed to be at first glance.<br /><br />Finally, I couldn't possibly end this entry without recognizing another tie-in to Ginsberg. When Casy deems "folks" and everything about them to be "holy," my minds turns to the "Footnote to Howl."<br /><blockquote>Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!<br /> Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!<br />The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!<br /> The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand<br /> and asshole holy!<br />Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is<br /> holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an<br /> angel!<br />The bum's as holy as the seraphim! the madman is<br /> holy as you my soul are holy!<br />The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is<br /> holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!<br />Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy<br /> Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-<br /> sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering<br /> beggars holy the hideous human angels!<br />Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the cocks<br /> of the grandfathers of Kansas!<br />Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop<br /> apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana<br /> hipsters peace & junk & drums!<br />Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy<br /> the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the<br /> mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!<br />Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the<br /> middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-<br /> ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!<br />Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &<br /> Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow<br /> Holy Istanbul!<br />Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the<br /> clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy<br /> the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!<br />Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the<br /> locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucina-<br /> tions holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the<br /> abyss!<br />Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!<br /> bodies! suffering! magnanimity!<br />Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent<br /> kindness of the soul!<br />(Thanks, www.fort.org)<br /></blockquote>The holiness of all aspects of human existence is a strong theme in all three of these selections. I think I love them so much and remember them so well because this is how I feel, too, on my better days. As a humanist, if I can truly celebrate everything about humanity, perhaps I will find the joy and beauty in everyday life that these three authors did.CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-58320904670557482562008-09-25T09:38:00.000-07:002008-09-25T19:21:47.709-07:00The Pennycandystore Beyond the ElThis poem was featured on the Writer's Almanac yesterday, and my friend Old Bull Lee forwarded it to me. I love it because it's more than the sum of it's parts. The pennycandystore is so many images tied together, creating an overwhelming sensory buffet of potential meaning.<br /><h2></h2><h2>The Pennycandystore Beyond the El</h2><p class="author">by <a href="http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/author.php?auth_id=1360">Lawrence Ferlinghetti</a></p><br /><!-- END list work, authors, books --><p>The Pennycandystore beyond the El<br />is where I first<br />fell in love<br />with unreality<br />Jellybeans glowed in the semi-gloom<br />of that september afternoon<br />A cat upon the counter moved among<br />the licorice sticks<br />and tootsie rolls<br />and Oh Boy Gum<br /><br />Outside the leaves were falling as they died<br /><br />A wind had blown away the sun<br /><br />A girl ran in<br />Her hair was rainy<br />Her breasts were breathless in the little room<br /><br />Outside the leaves were falling<br />and they cried<br />Too soon! too soon! </p>"The Pennycandystore Beyond the El" by Lawrence Ferlinghetti from <em>A Coney Island of the Mind</em>. © New Directions Publishing, 1958. Reprinted with permission.CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7266873490147162838.post-513225913345373862008-09-24T20:44:00.000-07:002008-09-25T09:43:40.742-07:00The Grapes of Wrath : Nietzsche, the Buddha, and the BeatsI stumbled across some fascinating and beautiful passages as I read <span style="font-style: italic;">The Grapes of Wrath</span> recently. Perhaps I simply view literature through too skewed a beat/existential lens, but it seemed as though Steinbeck himself was musing on humanity beyond good and evil.<br /><br /><blockquote>Well, I was layin' under a tree when I figured that out, and I went to sleep. And it come night, an' it was dark when I come to. They was a coyote squawkin' near by. Before I knowed it, I was sayin' out loud, "The hell with it! There ain't no sin and there ain't no virtue. There's just stuff people do. It's all part of the same thing. And some of the things folks do is nice, and sone ain't nice, but that's as far as any man got a right to say.' " He paused and looked up from the palm of his hand, where he had laid down the words. . . .<br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Casy spoke again, and his voice rang with pain and confusion. "I says, 'What's this call, this sperit?' An' I says, 'It's love. I love people so much I'm fit to bust, sometimes.' An' I says, 'Don't you love Jesus?' Well I thought an' thought, an' finally I says, 'No, I don't know nobody name' Jesus. I know a bunch of stories, but I only love people. An' sometimes I love 'em fit to bust, an' I want to make 'em happy.' An' then--I been talkin' a hell of a lot. Maybe you wonder about me using bad words. Well, they ain't bad to me no more. They're jus' words folks use, an' they don't mean nothing bad with 'em. Anyways, I'll tell you one more thing I thought out; an' from a preacher it's the most unreligious thing, and I can't be a preacher no more because I thought it an' I believe it. . . ."</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">"I figgered about the Holy Sperit and that Jesus road. I figgered, "Why do we got to hang it all on God or Jesus? Maybe,' I figgered, 'maybe it's all men an' all women we love; maybe that's the Holy Sperit--the human sperit--the whole shebang. Maybe all men got one big soul ever'body's a part of.' Now I sat there thinkin' it, an' all of a suddent--I knew it. I knew it so deep down that it was true, and I still know it." (Bantam 1972 ed., p.24-25)<br /></span></blockquote><span style="font-family:georgia;">Casy, a former country preacher, comes to spitirual enlightenment under a tree, just as Gautama Buddha did. After Casy's Bodhi tree revelation, he no longer finds faith in an intangible God or the morality He/his followers created. Instead he finds that there is neither sin nor virtue in the world, only human action. Did Steinbeck read Nietzsche's <span style="font-style: italic;">Beyond Good and Evil</span>?<br /><blockquote>He, however, has discovered himself who says, “This is my good and evil”; with that he has reduced to silence the mole and dwarf who say “Good for all, evil for all.”</blockquote>To be part of a universal soul is certainly a Hindu/Buddhist concept, though to attribute the concept man's rise above morality solely to Nietzsche may be a stretch. But years after Steinbeck Allen Ginsberg echoed Casy's sentiment of loving people "fit to bust," refusing to believe that man is an imperfect creature but instead celebrating every element of human existence:<br /><blockquote>You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!<br />And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!<br />So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,<br />and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul too, and anyone who'll listen,<br />--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed by our own seed & golden hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly evening sitdown vision. (City Lights Books, Pocket Poet Series, p.38)</blockquote><br /><br /><br /></span>CourtneyKhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11166097243185191483noreply@blogger.com0