By fate, not option, frugal Nature gave
One scent to hyson and to wall-flower,
One sound to pine-groves and to waterfalls,
One aspect to the desert and the lake.
It was her stern necessity: all things
Are of one pattern made; bird, beast and flower,
Song, picture, form, space, thought and character
Deceive us, seeming to be many things,
And are but one. Beheld far off, they part
As God and devil; bring them to the mind,
They dull its edge with their monotony.
To know one element, explore another,
And in the second reappears the first.
The specious panorama of a year
But multiplies the image of a day,—
A belt of mirrors round a taper’s flame;
And universal Nature, through her vast
And crowded whole, an infinite paroquet,
Repeats one note.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, Xenophanes.
Montaigne
Quintilian once said 'the senses are less afflicted by physical suffering than by the thought of it.' Certainly for most men the preparation for death has been more tormenting than the pangs themselves. To contemplate a future death calls for a courage that is slow, and consequently difficult to acquire. The truth is we only have to prepare ourselves against our preparations for death. If you do not know how to die, never mind—nature will give you full and adequate instruction in the fullness of time. It is not for death that we should prepare ourselves; it is too momentary. A quarter of an hour's suffering, without any negative consequences to follow, does not deserve special attention. The proper study of life is itself.
—Michel de Montaigne, Essays, On Physiognomy, p329.
—Michel de Montaigne, Essays, On Physiognomy, p329.
King Sheave
In days of yore out of deep Ocean
to the Longobards, in the land dwelling
that of old they held amid the isles of the North,
a ship came sailing, shining-timbered
without oar and mast, eastward floating.
The sun behind it sinking westward
with flame kindled the fallow water.
Wind was wakened. Over the world's margin
clouds greyhelmed climbed slowly up
wings unfolding wide and looming,
as mighty eagles moving onward
to eastern Earth omen bearing.
Men there marvelled, in the mist standing
of the dark islands in the deeps of time:
laughter they knew not, light nor wisdom;
shadow was upon them, and sheer mountains
stalked behind them stern and lifeless,
evilhaunted. The East was dark.
The ship came shining to the shore driven
and strode upon the strand, till its stem rested
on sand and shingle. The sun went down.
The clouds overcame the cold heavens.
In fear and wonder to the fallow water
sadhearted men swiftly hastened
to the broken beaches the boat seeking,
gleaming-timbered in the grey twilight.
They looked within, and there laid sleeping
a boy they saw breathing softly:
his face was fair, his form lovely,
his limbs were white, his locks raven
golden-braided. Gilt and carven
with wondrous work was the wood about him.
In golden vessel gleaming water
stood beside him; strung with silver
a harp of gold neath his hand rested;
his sleeping head was soft pillowed
on a sheaf of corn shimmering palely
as the fallow gold doth from far countries
west of Angol. Wonder filled them.
The boat they hauled and on the beach moored it
high above the breakers; then with hands lifted
from the bosom its burden. The boy slumbered.
On his bed they bore him to their bleak dwellings
darkwalled and drear in a dim region
between waste and sea. There of wood builded
high above the houses was a hall standing
forlorn and empty. Long had it stood so,
no noise knowing, night nor morning,
no light seeing. They laid him there,
under lock left him lonely sleeping
in the hollow darkness. They held the doors.
Night wore away. New awakened
as ever on earth early morning;
day came dimly. Doors were opened.
Men strode within, then amazed halted;
fear and wonder filled the watchmen.
The house was bare, hall deserted;
no form found they on the Hoor lying,
but by bed forsaken the bright vessel
dry and empty in the dust standing.
The guest was gone. Grief o'ercame them.
In sorrow they sought him, till the sun rising
over the hills of heaven to the homes of men
light came bearing. They looked upward
and high upon a hill hoar and treeless
the guest beheld they: gold was shining
in his hair, in hand the harp he bore;
at his feet they saw the fallow-golden
cornsheaf lying. Then clear his voice
a song began, sweet, unearthly,
words in music woven strangely,
in tongue unknown. Trees stood silent
and men unmoving marvelling hearkened.
Middle-earth had known for many ages
neither song nor singer; no sight so fair
had eyes of mortal, since the earth was young,
seen when waking in that sad country
long forsaken. No lord they had,
no king nor counsel, but the cold terror
had dwelt in the desert, the dark shadow
that haunted the hills and the hoar forest.
Dread was their master. Dark and silent,
long years forlorn, lonely waited
the hall of kings, house forsaken
without fire or food.
Forth men hastened
from their dim houses. Doors were opened
and gates unbarred. Gladness wakened.
To the hill they thronged, and their heads lifting
on the guest they gazed. Greybearded men
bowed before him and blessed his coming
their years to heal; youths and maidens,
wives and children welcome gave him.
His song was ended. Silent standing
he looked upon them. Lord they called him;
king they made him, crowned with golden
wheaten garland, white his raiment,
his harp his sceptre. In his house was fire,
food and wisdom; there fear came not.
To manhood he grew, might and wisdom.
Sheave they called him, whom the ship brought them,
a name renowned in the North countries
ever since in song. For a secret hidden
his true name was, in tongue unknown
of far countries where the falling seas
wash western shores beyond the ways of men
since the world worsened. The word is forgotten
and the name perished.
Their need he healed,
and laws renewed long forsaken.
Words he taught them wise and lovely -
their tongue ripened in the time of Sheave
to song and music. Secrets he opened
runes revealing. Riches he gave them,
reward of labour, wealth and comfort
from the earth calling, acres ploughing,
sowing in season seed of plenty,
hoarding in garner golden harvest
for the help of men. The hoar forests
in his days drew back to the dark mountains;
the shadow receded, and shining corn,
white ears of wheat, whispered in the breezes
where waste had been. The woods trembled.
Halls and houses hewn of timber,
strong towers of stone steep and lofty,
golden-gabled, in his guarded city
they raised and roofed. In his royal dwelling
of wood well-carven the walls were wrought;
fair-hued figures filled with silver,
gold and scarlet, gleaming hung there,
stories boding of strange countries,
were one wise in wit the woven legends
to thread with thought. At his throne men found
counsel and comfort and care's healing,
justice in judgement. Generous-handed
his gifts he gave. Glory was uplifted.
Far sprang his fame over fallow water,
through Northern lands the renown echoed
of the shining king, Sheave the mighty.
Seven sons he begat, sires of princes,
men great in mind, mighty-handed
and high-hearted. From his house cometh
the seeds of kings, as songs tell us,
fathers of the fathers, who before the change
in the Elder Years the earth governed,
Northern kingdoms named and founded,
shields of their peoples: Sheave begat them:
Sea-danes and Goths, Swedes and Northmen,
Franks and Frisians, folk of the islands,
Swordmen and Saxons, Swabes and English,
and the Langobards who long ago
beyond Myrcwudu a mighty realm
and wealth won them in the Welsh countries
where Ælfwine Eadwine's heir
in Italy was king. All that has passed.
—J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lost Road.
to the Longobards, in the land dwelling
that of old they held amid the isles of the North,
a ship came sailing, shining-timbered
without oar and mast, eastward floating.
The sun behind it sinking westward
with flame kindled the fallow water.
Wind was wakened. Over the world's margin
clouds greyhelmed climbed slowly up
wings unfolding wide and looming,
as mighty eagles moving onward
to eastern Earth omen bearing.
Men there marvelled, in the mist standing
of the dark islands in the deeps of time:
laughter they knew not, light nor wisdom;
shadow was upon them, and sheer mountains
stalked behind them stern and lifeless,
evilhaunted. The East was dark.
The ship came shining to the shore driven
and strode upon the strand, till its stem rested
on sand and shingle. The sun went down.
The clouds overcame the cold heavens.
In fear and wonder to the fallow water
sadhearted men swiftly hastened
to the broken beaches the boat seeking,
gleaming-timbered in the grey twilight.
They looked within, and there laid sleeping
a boy they saw breathing softly:
his face was fair, his form lovely,
his limbs were white, his locks raven
golden-braided. Gilt and carven
with wondrous work was the wood about him.
In golden vessel gleaming water
stood beside him; strung with silver
a harp of gold neath his hand rested;
his sleeping head was soft pillowed
on a sheaf of corn shimmering palely
as the fallow gold doth from far countries
west of Angol. Wonder filled them.
The boat they hauled and on the beach moored it
high above the breakers; then with hands lifted
from the bosom its burden. The boy slumbered.
On his bed they bore him to their bleak dwellings
darkwalled and drear in a dim region
between waste and sea. There of wood builded
high above the houses was a hall standing
forlorn and empty. Long had it stood so,
no noise knowing, night nor morning,
no light seeing. They laid him there,
under lock left him lonely sleeping
in the hollow darkness. They held the doors.
Night wore away. New awakened
as ever on earth early morning;
day came dimly. Doors were opened.
Men strode within, then amazed halted;
fear and wonder filled the watchmen.
The house was bare, hall deserted;
no form found they on the Hoor lying,
but by bed forsaken the bright vessel
dry and empty in the dust standing.
The guest was gone. Grief o'ercame them.
In sorrow they sought him, till the sun rising
over the hills of heaven to the homes of men
light came bearing. They looked upward
and high upon a hill hoar and treeless
the guest beheld they: gold was shining
in his hair, in hand the harp he bore;
at his feet they saw the fallow-golden
cornsheaf lying. Then clear his voice
a song began, sweet, unearthly,
words in music woven strangely,
in tongue unknown. Trees stood silent
and men unmoving marvelling hearkened.
Middle-earth had known for many ages
neither song nor singer; no sight so fair
had eyes of mortal, since the earth was young,
seen when waking in that sad country
long forsaken. No lord they had,
no king nor counsel, but the cold terror
had dwelt in the desert, the dark shadow
that haunted the hills and the hoar forest.
Dread was their master. Dark and silent,
long years forlorn, lonely waited
the hall of kings, house forsaken
without fire or food.
Forth men hastened
from their dim houses. Doors were opened
and gates unbarred. Gladness wakened.
To the hill they thronged, and their heads lifting
on the guest they gazed. Greybearded men
bowed before him and blessed his coming
their years to heal; youths and maidens,
wives and children welcome gave him.
His song was ended. Silent standing
he looked upon them. Lord they called him;
king they made him, crowned with golden
wheaten garland, white his raiment,
his harp his sceptre. In his house was fire,
food and wisdom; there fear came not.
To manhood he grew, might and wisdom.
Sheave they called him, whom the ship brought them,
a name renowned in the North countries
ever since in song. For a secret hidden
his true name was, in tongue unknown
of far countries where the falling seas
wash western shores beyond the ways of men
since the world worsened. The word is forgotten
and the name perished.
Their need he healed,
and laws renewed long forsaken.
Words he taught them wise and lovely -
their tongue ripened in the time of Sheave
to song and music. Secrets he opened
runes revealing. Riches he gave them,
reward of labour, wealth and comfort
from the earth calling, acres ploughing,
sowing in season seed of plenty,
hoarding in garner golden harvest
for the help of men. The hoar forests
in his days drew back to the dark mountains;
the shadow receded, and shining corn,
white ears of wheat, whispered in the breezes
where waste had been. The woods trembled.
Halls and houses hewn of timber,
strong towers of stone steep and lofty,
golden-gabled, in his guarded city
they raised and roofed. In his royal dwelling
of wood well-carven the walls were wrought;
fair-hued figures filled with silver,
gold and scarlet, gleaming hung there,
stories boding of strange countries,
were one wise in wit the woven legends
to thread with thought. At his throne men found
counsel and comfort and care's healing,
justice in judgement. Generous-handed
his gifts he gave. Glory was uplifted.
Far sprang his fame over fallow water,
through Northern lands the renown echoed
of the shining king, Sheave the mighty.
Seven sons he begat, sires of princes,
men great in mind, mighty-handed
and high-hearted. From his house cometh
the seeds of kings, as songs tell us,
fathers of the fathers, who before the change
in the Elder Years the earth governed,
Northern kingdoms named and founded,
shields of their peoples: Sheave begat them:
Sea-danes and Goths, Swedes and Northmen,
Franks and Frisians, folk of the islands,
Swordmen and Saxons, Swabes and English,
and the Langobards who long ago
beyond Myrcwudu a mighty realm
and wealth won them in the Welsh countries
where Ælfwine Eadwine's heir
in Italy was king. All that has passed.
—J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lost Road.
Intimacy
Two women who have secrets are fond of chattering together about them. This brought them closer together; and Thérèse, by dividing her attentions, sometimes caused me to feel that I was alone, for I could no longer regard as a society the relations between us three. Had she been furnished with a store of knowledge it would have filled up her time and my own agreeably, and prevented us from ever noticing the length of a tête-à-tête. Not that our conversation ever flagged, or that she showed any signs of weariness during our walks; but we had not a sufficient number of ideas in common to make a great stock. We could no longer speak incessantly of our plans, which henceforth were limited to plans of enjoyment. The objects around us inspired me with reflections which were beyond her comprehension. An attachment of twelve years had no longer need of words; we knew each other too well to be able to find anything fresh. The only resource left was gossip, scandal, and feeble jokes. It is in solitude especially that one feels the advantage of living with someone who knows how to think. I had no need of this resource to amuse myself in her society; but she would have needed it, in order to be able always to amuse herself in mine. I felt under restraint in my own house – this is saying everything. The atmosphere of love ruined simple friendship. We enjoyed an intimate intercourse without living in intimacy.
—The Confessions of Jean-Jacques Rousseau
—The Confessions of Jean-Jacques Rousseau
Idealism
Go through with the drama in hand as best you can, and don't spoil it
all just because you happen to think of another one that would be
better. For it is impossible to make everything good unless all men are
good, and that I don't expect to see for quite a few years yet.
—Sir Thomas More, Utopia, Part I, p36.
—Sir Thomas More, Utopia, Part I, p36.
Timeless Social Issues
"First, suppress every form of parasite. Three-quarters of the soil is waste land; clear up France. Put an end
to useless pastures, divide the communal lands. Let every man have a
piece of ground, and every piece of ground have a man. It would multiply
the products of society a hundredfold. France, at the present time,
only gives her peasants meat four days in the year; if well cultivated,
she ought to feed three hundred millions of men,—all Europe. Utilize
nature, that great auxiliary so much scorned. Make all the winds, all
the waterfalls, all the magnetic effluvia work for you. The globe has a
network of subterranean veins; in this network there is a prodigious
circulation of water, oil, and fire; pierce the veins of the globe, and
let this water gush forth for your fountains, this oil for your lamps,
this fire for your hearths. Reflect on the motion of the waves, the flux
and reflux, the ebb and flow of the tides. What is the ocean? An
enormous force wasted. How stupid the earth is not to make use of the
ocean."
"And woman—what use do you make of her?"
"Let her be what she is, the servant of man."
"Yes. On one condition, that man shall be the servant of woman."
"That is to say that you want for man and for woman──"
"Equality."
"Are you dreaming? The two beings are different."
"I said equality. I did not say identity."
"You go too fast."
"Perhaps it is because I am somewhat pressed for time," said Gauvain, with a smile.
—Victor Hugo, Ninety-Three, translated by A. L. Burt Company [Lowell Blair's is better but not online].
"And woman—what use do you make of her?"
"Let her be what she is, the servant of man."
"Yes. On one condition, that man shall be the servant of woman."
"That is to say that you want for man and for woman──"
"Equality."
"Are you dreaming? The two beings are different."
"I said equality. I did not say identity."
"You go too fast."
"Perhaps it is because I am somewhat pressed for time," said Gauvain, with a smile.
—Victor Hugo, Ninety-Three, translated by A. L. Burt Company [Lowell Blair's is better but not online].
Germany is winning the third world war
I often wonder why Germany was so foolishly impatient as to go to war. If domination was all she wanted, she could have had it without shedding a drop of blood, by merely waiting long enough and trusting to the avarice of mankind. Patience, cunning, and the appeal to avarice could bring the whole world into economic subjection by a slow interior corruption.
—Dorothy L. Sayers, 1941.
—Dorothy L. Sayers, 1941.
Conscience
If men's consciences were fully enlightened, if they were delivered from being confined to a private sphere, and brought to view, and consider things in general, and delivered from being stupefied by sensual objects and appetites, as they will be at the day of judgment, they would approve nothing but true virtue, nothing but general benevolence, and those affections and actions that are consistent with it, and subordinate to it—yet without possessing it in their hearts.
—Jonathan Edwards, The Nature of True Virtue.
—Jonathan Edwards, The Nature of True Virtue.
Erasure
Erasure is as important as writing.... Prune what is turgid, elevate what is commonplace, arrange what is disorderly, introduce rhythm where the language is harsh, modify where it is too absolute.... The best method of correction is to put aside for a time what we have written, so that when we come to it again it may have an aspect of novelty, as of being another man's work; in this way we may preserve ourselves from regarding our writings with the affection that we lavish upon a newborn child.
—Quintilian, Institutes of Oratory X.iv.1,2, quoted in Leonard Wibberly, Something to Read.
—Quintilian, Institutes of Oratory X.iv.1,2, quoted in Leonard Wibberly, Something to Read.
She felt
Life and human beings are very important, and everybody is lonely, and nobody really knows much about anybody else.
—Nancibel, in The Feast, by Margaret Kennedy.
—Nancibel, in The Feast, by Margaret Kennedy.
Appeal to Generosity
H. showed me three pages of intelligent sympathy from P., beginning, "Of course I had foreseen the difficulty," and ending, "Either your pride or mine will have to be sacrificed—I can only appeal to your generosity to let it be yours." H. said, "P. can always see the difficulty—that's what's so disarming." Agree heartily—can't stand people who "can't see what the fuss is about." H. now meekly prepared to accept.
Alone
Of late, lying awake in darkness and misery, I have asked if this be life, whether an immortal existence is not a curse to be feared, rather than a blessing to be hoped, and if the wretchedness we fear in the eternal world can be worse than what we sometimes suffer now,—such sinking of heart, such helplessness of fear, such a vain calling for help that never comes.
We are in ourselves so utterly helpless,—life is so hard and inexplicable, that we stand in perishing need of some helping hand, some sensible appreciable connection with God. How many hours have I gone round and round this dreary track,—chilled, weary, shivering, seeing no light, and hearing no voice! Now a divine ray has shone upon me, and all the burdens on my soul have gone at the sight of the Cross down into the sepulchre, to be seen no more. There is One who does love me,—the One Friend, whose love, like the sunshine, can be the portion of each individual of the human race, without exhaustion. This is the great mystery of faith.
Speak to me! tell me your innermost thoughts, as I have told you mine. Is not life short and sad and bitter enough, that those who could help each other should neglect the few things they can do to make it tolerable? Why do we travel side by side, lonely and silent,—each, perhaps, hiding in that silence the word of life the other needs?
—from Harriet Beecher Stowe, Oldtown Folks ch19, quoting 'New England Ministers', Atlantic Monthly, 1 (1858): 485-492.
We are in ourselves so utterly helpless,—life is so hard and inexplicable, that we stand in perishing need of some helping hand, some sensible appreciable connection with God. How many hours have I gone round and round this dreary track,—chilled, weary, shivering, seeing no light, and hearing no voice! Now a divine ray has shone upon me, and all the burdens on my soul have gone at the sight of the Cross down into the sepulchre, to be seen no more. There is One who does love me,—the One Friend, whose love, like the sunshine, can be the portion of each individual of the human race, without exhaustion. This is the great mystery of faith.
Speak to me! tell me your innermost thoughts, as I have told you mine. Is not life short and sad and bitter enough, that those who could help each other should neglect the few things they can do to make it tolerable? Why do we travel side by side, lonely and silent,—each, perhaps, hiding in that silence the word of life the other needs?
—from Harriet Beecher Stowe, Oldtown Folks ch19, quoting 'New England Ministers', Atlantic Monthly, 1 (1858): 485-492.
Autobiography
It has always been a favorite idea of mine, that there is so much of the human in every man, that the life of any one individual, however obscure, if really and vividly perceived in all its aspirations, struggles, failures, and successes, would command the interest of all others. Besides this, every individual is part and parcel of a great picture of the society in which he lives and acts, and his life cannot be painted without reproducing the picture of the world he lived in. This is my only apology for offering my life as an open page to the reading of the public.
—Harriet Beecher Stowe, Oldtown Folks, ch1.
—Harriet Beecher Stowe, Oldtown Folks, ch1.
Depth of Meaning
The meaning of a story does not begin except at a depth where adequate motivation and psychology and determinism has been exhausted. Its interest resides in what we don't understand rather than in what we do, in possibility rather than in probability, in characters who are forced out of themselves to meet evil and grace and to act on trust.
—after Flannery O'Connor, The Grotesque in Southern Fiction.
—after Flannery O'Connor, The Grotesque in Southern Fiction.
Who is Tom Bombadil?
Tom Bombadil is just as he is. Just an odd ‘fact’ of that world. He
won’t be explained, because as long as you are (as in this tale you are
meant to be) concentrated on the Ring, he is inexplicable. But he’s
there – a reminder of the truth (as I see it) that the world is so large
and manifold that if you take one facet and fix your mind and heart on
it, there is always something that does not come in to that
story/argument/approach, and seems to belong to a larger story. But of
course in another way, not that of pure story-making, Bombadil is a
deliberate contrast to the Elves who are artists. But B. does not want
to make, alter, devise, or control anything: just to observe and take
joy in the contemplating the things that are not himself. The spirit of this earth made aware of itself. He
is more like science (utterly free from technological blemish) and
history than art. He represents the complete fearlessness of that spirit
when we can catch a little of it. But I do suggest that it is possible
to fear (as I do) that the making artistic sub-creative spirit (of Men
and Elves) is actually more potent, and can ‘fall’, and that it could in
the eventual triumph of its own evil destroy the whole earth, and
Bombadil and all.
—J.R.R. Tolkien, to Nevill Coghill, August 21, 1954. ©2014 The Tolkien Estate Limited, published at http://wayneandchristina.wordpress.com/2014/12/30/tom-bombadil-addenda-corrigenda
—J.R.R. Tolkien, to Nevill Coghill, August 21, 1954. ©2014 The Tolkien Estate Limited, published at http://wayneandchristina.wordpress.com/2014/12/30/tom-bombadil-addenda-corrigenda
I Find Him Not
I found Him in the shining of the stars,
I marked Him in the flowering of His fields,
But in His ways with men I find Him not.
I fought for Him, and now I pass and die.
Wherefore O God above is all below
As if some lesser god had made the world,
But had not force to shape it as he would,
Until High God behold it from beyond,
And enter it, and make it beautiful?
Or else as if the world were wholly fair,
But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,
And have not power to see it as it is—
Perchance, because our shadow darkens it;—
I thought I could accomplish all His will,
And have but stricken with the sword in vain;
And all whereon I leaned in wife and friend
Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm
Reels back into the beast, and is no more.
My God, thou hast forgot me in my death!
Nay—Jesu Christ—I pass but shall not die.
—Alfred Lord Tennyson, Idylls of the King, The Passing of Arthur, p242.
I marked Him in the flowering of His fields,
But in His ways with men I find Him not.
I fought for Him, and now I pass and die.
Wherefore O God above is all below
As if some lesser god had made the world,
But had not force to shape it as he would,
Until High God behold it from beyond,
And enter it, and make it beautiful?
Or else as if the world were wholly fair,
But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,
And have not power to see it as it is—
Perchance, because our shadow darkens it;—
I thought I could accomplish all His will,
And have but stricken with the sword in vain;
And all whereon I leaned in wife and friend
Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm
Reels back into the beast, and is no more.
My God, thou hast forgot me in my death!
Nay—Jesu Christ—I pass but shall not die.
—Alfred Lord Tennyson, Idylls of the King, The Passing of Arthur, p242.
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