Excerpts from a recent e-mail to Fred Child, Programme Director of NPR's "Performance Today" radio broadcast:
.... [T]hanks for including the new Bach aria discovery last week (old business). Any new addition to the Bach repertoire is always welcome (and interest-provoking).
I wonder, in passing, however (and this is a general comment, not directed to you personally), whether we are not sometimes guilty of over-emphasizing every tiny jot and tittle of the music of Bach at the expense of many another, perhaps equally-worthy composer of the period. Examples of these would be Locatelli, Marcello, the Scarlattis (pere et fils), Corrette, Pergolesi, Gluck, the Benda brothers, Quantz, Boccherini, Soler, and even some of Bach's own sons--Emmanuel and Johann Christian, for example--some of these composers dating from the latter half of that century. Bach was unquestionably a giant in 18th-Century music--indeed, of all music (from our standpoint, anyway)--both intellectually and aesthetically, but if we want to be intellectually honest, we must admit that the world of such music did not begin or end with him (nor with the likes of Handel, Mozart, or Haydn--great as they admittedly were). As you will probably know (and agree), there were many others (at that time) who were far better-known and better-liked than Bach. Proper historical perspective requires that we at least acknowledge this fact.
I don't want this attempt at criticism to sound like I'm trying to devalue Bach. I actually admire and respect most, if not all, of his endeavours--even if and when I may not always find them as aesthetically-pleasing as works by other composers. Let me say, rather, that I'm only attempting to place him in proper perspective.
As to this morning's programme (about time I actually got around to the real order of business)--thanks once again, this time for the Vivaldi e-minor Violin Concerto, performed by the Venice Baroque Orchestra. I have heard this work before, from a recording by the Moscow Virtuosi, so I was familiar with it.
A word concerning this particular work, if I may:
There are from time to time moments, in the world of the fine arts, when a particular balance, harmony, and seeming-bliss of perfection is achieved. Such a moment of perfection may not always be apparent to observers at the precise instant it is revealed, but later generations (with a discerning eye) can look back and see the glorious moment of radiant perfection that was. (Schopenhauer once said something along these lines ...) Robert Schumann once described Mozart's 'great' g-minor symphony (K.550) as possessing a "Grecian lightness and grace"
(per Marc Vignal), or, as Neal Zaslaw once wrote, "the classical balance, proportions and repose of a Greek vase." This is what I'm talking about here.
The Vivaldi concerto in question here, is (in my opinion) just such a moment of perfection as I describe. I'm not a proper musicologist, so I cannot state with authority just when the work dates from, but I would guess, based on its style, that it dates from late in Vivaldi's career--i.e., the 1730s. Even if it may not, it still bears the marks of that style--a harbinger, therefore, of things to come. This work, to me, seems to be infused with the 'spiritoso' style of the 'galant' Roccoco age; it breathes a softer, more serene and contemplative air than the vigorous, virtuoso 'Baroque' Vivaldi we are accustomed to. To sum up, it is quite possibly the most sublime and elegant work I have yet heard from Vivaldi--very much worthy to be placed alongside anything by Boccherini (my true Arbiter of Elegance--even more than Haydn).
Other works I place in this same category (and not always musical examples, either) include the Parthenon in Athens, the "Winged Victory" statue of Samothrace, the "David" statue of Verrocchio (even more than the one by Michelangelo), certain poems by Keats (his "Ode on a Grecian Urn", and "To Autumn", for example), and Franz Benda's Flute Concerto in e-minor, Corrette's Flute and Keyboard Concerto (Op.26, No.6), Gluck's Reigen Seliger Geister (Dance of the Blessed Spirits) from his Orfeo ed Euridyce, Locatelli's Violin Concerto in c-minor (Op.3, No.2), Handel's Concerto Grosso in g-minor (Op.6, No.12), Marcello's Oboe Concerto in d-minor, Beethoven's 'Pastoral' Symphony (No.6), and several of Boccherini's works (too numerous to mention individually). All of these (and there are others) I consider to be profound 'high points' in our Western tradition of the arts and culture, which we have inherited from Greece and Rome. It is sad and much to be regretted, I think, that these (and other) important examples of cultural excellence in our history and tradition are so much ignored, devalued, and neglected as they are today by so many people--particularly the young, who are our future [i.e., the 'hip-hop' generation]. Mine is almost a lone voice "crying in the wilderness," I think;
a modern-day Boethius regretting the passing and loss of so much excellence, beauty and wisdom from his day and age. [Sic transit gloria mundi .... thus passes the glory of the world.]
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Friday, June 10, 2005
On the Subject of Christian Denominations
Unlike many people nowadays who call themselves "Christian," I take a very laid-back and relaxed attitude toward denominations: to me one denomination versus another is much like preferring 'this' flavour of ice-cream over 'that' flavour. Some people prefer
'Chocolate' over 'Plain Vanilla', whereas others like 'French Vanilla' instead of 'Plain Vanilla'. (Oo-La-La!!!....) Some people are really 'out there' and want 'Raspberry Truffle', or even
'Licorice' (these I compare to denominations such as the 'hard-shell' Evangelicals, or the 'Jehovah's Witnesses'). I myself can tolerate and find myself at home in just about any denomination of "Christianity" except the 'licorice' varieties--they are just too extreme, too doctrinaire, too dogmatic and intolerant for me.
And as far as these denominations (generally-speaking) go--it seems to me that 'Plain Vanilla' will fill one's belly (and provide about the same degree of nutrition) as any other, more exotic flavour. In other words, they can all of them (just about) get you to 'Heaven'--if (big if) you know how to let them do so. That is the real trick--discovering how to see through these different denominations and their respective doctrines to the essential, underlying truths they all contain to one degree or another.
Let me give you a big clue or hint: read Joseph Campbell. And then go back and re-read Joseph Campbell. And then dwell and ponder for a good long time on what it is he is saying. And then ponder some more--perhaps even several years' worth of this. For it is not until you have fully and deeply understood what it was that he was trying to teach us, that you will begin to approach 'the Truth'. For a general introduction, try the site: www.jcf.org (The web-site of the Joseph Campbell Foundation).
'Chocolate' over 'Plain Vanilla', whereas others like 'French Vanilla' instead of 'Plain Vanilla'. (Oo-La-La!!!....) Some people are really 'out there' and want 'Raspberry Truffle', or even
'Licorice' (these I compare to denominations such as the 'hard-shell' Evangelicals, or the 'Jehovah's Witnesses'). I myself can tolerate and find myself at home in just about any denomination of "Christianity" except the 'licorice' varieties--they are just too extreme, too doctrinaire, too dogmatic and intolerant for me.
And as far as these denominations (generally-speaking) go--it seems to me that 'Plain Vanilla' will fill one's belly (and provide about the same degree of nutrition) as any other, more exotic flavour. In other words, they can all of them (just about) get you to 'Heaven'--if (big if) you know how to let them do so. That is the real trick--discovering how to see through these different denominations and their respective doctrines to the essential, underlying truths they all contain to one degree or another.
Let me give you a big clue or hint: read Joseph Campbell. And then go back and re-read Joseph Campbell. And then dwell and ponder for a good long time on what it is he is saying. And then ponder some more--perhaps even several years' worth of this. For it is not until you have fully and deeply understood what it was that he was trying to teach us, that you will begin to approach 'the Truth'. For a general introduction, try the site: www.jcf.org (The web-site of the Joseph Campbell Foundation).
Thursday, June 09, 2005
A Translation From the Old English I Made at the Age of Twenty-Five
It is "Pope Gregory and the English Slave Boys," from an Anglo-Saxon version of the Venerable Bede's original Latin version of Book II, Chapter 1 of his Ecclesiastical History of the English People. After my translation, I will include another English translation (not by me) for comparison, and then the Latin original. I was unfortunately unable to easily find an online text of the Anglo-Saxon version from which I made my translation, or I would have included it here also.
In 1988, when I first made my translation, I used the Anglo-Saxon version because Latin at that time was too difficult for me to be able to attempt a translation. I was at that time more familiar with the Anglo-Saxon language. I will not now vouch for the complete accuracy of my translation; indeed, I have not even looked at it for many years, until now, nor compared it with either the Latin original, the Anglo-Saxon gloss, nor even any other English translations. So I presently have really no idea how well or poorly a job I did then. You be the judge.
________________________________
My own translation (dated Nov. 6, 1988):
It is not for us, then, to try to silence the fame and notoriety of the story which is told us by our elders concerning the blessed Gregory [and his encounter with the English slave boys]. For this cause did men greatly wonder at him, that he displayed such an eager interest in these boys, who were slaves taken from among our own kindred.
They say that on a certain day, there came to Rome new traders from Britain, who also brought with them many and various slaves and chattels for to sell in the markets. There also came at that time many to buy of the things which were brought. It then happened that Pope Gregory (among the many others) also went thither, and chanced to see, among the many other goods and chattels for sale, several beautiful boys--boys with noble, pure hair, and fair and white bodies.
As soon as he saw and beheld them, he immediately stopped and asked where they were from. A man answered and said that they were brought from Britain's island, and also informed the Pope that the rest of the people of that far-off island looked like these particular boys. After which, Pope Gregory inquired whether those same people were Christian--they who, unbeknownst to him, were yet Pagan. A man answered him and said that they were still heathen. At that reply, Pope Gregory swore strongly in his heart, and exclaimed: "Welaway! That is very sad--that such wondrously fair lives and such light and beautiful boys should be the property of the Dark Prince!"
Then he asked what the name of the people was from whom they came. A man answered and said that they were called 'Angles'. Whereupon Pope Gregory immediately remarked: "It is meet that they should be called so, for they certainly have the most angel-like of visages, and also such forms as would befit wards of heaven."
Then he questioned still further, and said: "What are the particular tribe called from whom these boys were taken?" Then answered him a man and said that they were named 'Dere'. Quoth Pope Gregory: "Well it is that they are called Dere--that is: 'de ira eruti' [from wrath saved]; they should be saved from the destruction of God's wrath, and called to Christ's mercy."
Then he went on, and asked what their king was called. And a man answered him and said that he was called 'Alle'. And then the Pope continued his game of sporting with his words by making puns on the names, and said: "Alle--Alleluia! That name is well-befitting a king of such people as these--that thus the praise and glory of God our Creator should be sung in those parts."
______________________________
(Here follows another English translation for comparison:)
Nor is the account of St. Gregory, which has been handed down to us by the tradition of our ancestors, to be passed by in silence, in relation to his motives for taking such interest in the salvation of our nation. It is reported, that some merchants, having just arrived at Rome on a certain day, exposed many things for sale in the marketplace, and abundance of people resorted thither to buy: Gregory himself went with the rest, and, among other things, some boys were set to sale, their bodies white, their countenances beautiful, and their hair very fine. Having viewed them, he asked, as is said, from what country or nation they were brought? and was told, from the island of Britain, whose inhabitants were of such personal appearance. He again inquired whether those islanders were Christians, or still involved in the errors of paganism? and was informed that they were pagans. Then fetching a deep sigh from the bottom of his heart, "Alas! what pity," said he, "that the author of darkness is possessed of men of such fair countenances; and that being remarkable for such graceful aspects, their minds should be void of inward grace." He therefore again asked, what was the name of that nation? and was answered, that they were called Angles. "Right," said he, for they have an Angelic face, and it becomes such to be co-heirs with the Angels in heaven. What is the name," proceeded he, "of the province from which they are brought?" It was replied, that the natives of that province were called Deiri. "Truly are they De ira," said he, "withdrawn from wrath, and called to the mercy of Christ. How is the king of that province called?" They told him his name was Ælla: and he, alluding to the name said, "Hallelujah, the praise of God the Creator must be sung in those parts."
From ORB's Internet Medieval Sourcebook, Paul Halsall, editor
(at http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/sbook.html )
_________________________________
(And here is Bede's Latin original:)
Nec silentio praetereunda opinio, quae de beato Gregorio traditione maiorum ad nos usque perlata est; qua uidelicet ex causa admonitus tam sedulam erga salutem nostrae gentis curam gesserit. Dicunt, quia die quadam cum, aduenientibus nuper mercatoribus, multa uenalia in forum fuissent conlata, multi ad emendum confluxissent, et ipsum Gregorium inter alios aduenisse, ac uidisse inter alia pueros uenales positos candidi corporis, ac uenusti uultus, capillorum quoque forma egregia. Quos cum aspiceret, interrogauit, ut aiunt, de qua regione uel terra essent adlati. Dictumque est, quia de Brittania insula, cuius incolae talis essent aspectus. Rursus interrogauit, utrum idem insulani Christiani, an paganis adhuc erroribus essent inplicati. Dictum est, quod essent pagani. At ille, intimo ex corde longa trahens suspiria: ‘Heu, pro dolor!’ inquit, ‘quod tam lucidi uultus homines tenebrarum auctor possidet, tantaque gratia frontispicii mentem ab interna gratia uacuam gestat!’ Rursus ergo interrogauit, quod esset uocabulum gentis illius. Responsum est, quod Angli uocarentur. At ille: ‘Bene,’ inquit; ‘nam et angelicam habent faciem, et tales angelorum in caelis decet esse coheredes. Quod habet nomen ipsa prouincia, de qua isti sunt adlati?’ Responsum est, quod Deiri uocarentur idem prouinciales. At ille: ‘Bene,’ inquit, ‘Deiri; de ira eruti, et ad misericordiam Christi uocati. Rex prouinciae illius quomodo appellatur?’ Responsum est, quod Aelli diceretur. At ille adludens ad nomen ait: ‘Alleluia, laudem Dei Creatoris illis in partibus oportet cantari.’
From the web-site http://thelatinlibrary.com/bede.html
In 1988, when I first made my translation, I used the Anglo-Saxon version because Latin at that time was too difficult for me to be able to attempt a translation. I was at that time more familiar with the Anglo-Saxon language. I will not now vouch for the complete accuracy of my translation; indeed, I have not even looked at it for many years, until now, nor compared it with either the Latin original, the Anglo-Saxon gloss, nor even any other English translations. So I presently have really no idea how well or poorly a job I did then. You be the judge.
________________________________
My own translation (dated Nov. 6, 1988):
It is not for us, then, to try to silence the fame and notoriety of the story which is told us by our elders concerning the blessed Gregory [and his encounter with the English slave boys]. For this cause did men greatly wonder at him, that he displayed such an eager interest in these boys, who were slaves taken from among our own kindred.
They say that on a certain day, there came to Rome new traders from Britain, who also brought with them many and various slaves and chattels for to sell in the markets. There also came at that time many to buy of the things which were brought. It then happened that Pope Gregory (among the many others) also went thither, and chanced to see, among the many other goods and chattels for sale, several beautiful boys--boys with noble, pure hair, and fair and white bodies.
As soon as he saw and beheld them, he immediately stopped and asked where they were from. A man answered and said that they were brought from Britain's island, and also informed the Pope that the rest of the people of that far-off island looked like these particular boys. After which, Pope Gregory inquired whether those same people were Christian--they who, unbeknownst to him, were yet Pagan. A man answered him and said that they were still heathen. At that reply, Pope Gregory swore strongly in his heart, and exclaimed: "Welaway! That is very sad--that such wondrously fair lives and such light and beautiful boys should be the property of the Dark Prince!"
Then he asked what the name of the people was from whom they came. A man answered and said that they were called 'Angles'. Whereupon Pope Gregory immediately remarked: "It is meet that they should be called so, for they certainly have the most angel-like of visages, and also such forms as would befit wards of heaven."
Then he questioned still further, and said: "What are the particular tribe called from whom these boys were taken?" Then answered him a man and said that they were named 'Dere'. Quoth Pope Gregory: "Well it is that they are called Dere--that is: 'de ira eruti' [from wrath saved]; they should be saved from the destruction of God's wrath, and called to Christ's mercy."
Then he went on, and asked what their king was called. And a man answered him and said that he was called 'Alle'. And then the Pope continued his game of sporting with his words by making puns on the names, and said: "Alle--Alleluia! That name is well-befitting a king of such people as these--that thus the praise and glory of God our Creator should be sung in those parts."
______________________________
(Here follows another English translation for comparison:)
Nor is the account of St. Gregory, which has been handed down to us by the tradition of our ancestors, to be passed by in silence, in relation to his motives for taking such interest in the salvation of our nation. It is reported, that some merchants, having just arrived at Rome on a certain day, exposed many things for sale in the marketplace, and abundance of people resorted thither to buy: Gregory himself went with the rest, and, among other things, some boys were set to sale, their bodies white, their countenances beautiful, and their hair very fine. Having viewed them, he asked, as is said, from what country or nation they were brought? and was told, from the island of Britain, whose inhabitants were of such personal appearance. He again inquired whether those islanders were Christians, or still involved in the errors of paganism? and was informed that they were pagans. Then fetching a deep sigh from the bottom of his heart, "Alas! what pity," said he, "that the author of darkness is possessed of men of such fair countenances; and that being remarkable for such graceful aspects, their minds should be void of inward grace." He therefore again asked, what was the name of that nation? and was answered, that they were called Angles. "Right," said he, for they have an Angelic face, and it becomes such to be co-heirs with the Angels in heaven. What is the name," proceeded he, "of the province from which they are brought?" It was replied, that the natives of that province were called Deiri. "Truly are they De ira," said he, "withdrawn from wrath, and called to the mercy of Christ. How is the king of that province called?" They told him his name was Ælla: and he, alluding to the name said, "Hallelujah, the praise of God the Creator must be sung in those parts."
From ORB's Internet Medieval Sourcebook, Paul Halsall, editor
(at http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/sbook.html )
_________________________________
(And here is Bede's Latin original:)
Nec silentio praetereunda opinio, quae de beato Gregorio traditione maiorum ad nos usque perlata est; qua uidelicet ex causa admonitus tam sedulam erga salutem nostrae gentis curam gesserit. Dicunt, quia die quadam cum, aduenientibus nuper mercatoribus, multa uenalia in forum fuissent conlata, multi ad emendum confluxissent, et ipsum Gregorium inter alios aduenisse, ac uidisse inter alia pueros uenales positos candidi corporis, ac uenusti uultus, capillorum quoque forma egregia. Quos cum aspiceret, interrogauit, ut aiunt, de qua regione uel terra essent adlati. Dictumque est, quia de Brittania insula, cuius incolae talis essent aspectus. Rursus interrogauit, utrum idem insulani Christiani, an paganis adhuc erroribus essent inplicati. Dictum est, quod essent pagani. At ille, intimo ex corde longa trahens suspiria: ‘Heu, pro dolor!’ inquit, ‘quod tam lucidi uultus homines tenebrarum auctor possidet, tantaque gratia frontispicii mentem ab interna gratia uacuam gestat!’ Rursus ergo interrogauit, quod esset uocabulum gentis illius. Responsum est, quod Angli uocarentur. At ille: ‘Bene,’ inquit; ‘nam et angelicam habent faciem, et tales angelorum in caelis decet esse coheredes. Quod habet nomen ipsa prouincia, de qua isti sunt adlati?’ Responsum est, quod Deiri uocarentur idem prouinciales. At ille: ‘Bene,’ inquit, ‘Deiri; de ira eruti, et ad misericordiam Christi uocati. Rex prouinciae illius quomodo appellatur?’ Responsum est, quod Aelli diceretur. At ille adludens ad nomen ait: ‘Alleluia, laudem Dei Creatoris illis in partibus oportet cantari.’
From the web-site http://thelatinlibrary.com/bede.html
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Recent e-mails to and from NPR's "Performance Today" programme
Subject:
RE: Programme of Tuesday, June 7th, 2005
Date:
Wed, 8 Jun 2005 11:08:44 -0400
From:
"Fred Child" Add to Address Book
To:
revenant1963@yahoo.com
Dear Mr. White,
Thanks for your thoughtful note about Bach and period performance
practice. We're big fans of that approach -- we were hoping to get the
Akademie fur Alte Musik from Berlin to join us in the NPR studios during
their American tour, but they couldn't quite squeeze us into their
schedule. We're always on the lookout for top-notch performances of Baroque
music, and we'll get as many as we can on the air.
All the best,
Fred Child
Host of NPR's Performance Today
---------- Original Message ----------------------------------
From: terrence White <revenant1963@yahoo.com>
Date: Tue, 7 Jun 2005 08:41:43 -0700 (PDT)
Hi--
You asked for the opinions of your listeners, so here is mine:
I definitely agree that no work from the 18th century (or earlier)
even begins to approach true 'authenticity' unless some serious
efforts are made along the lines of what is popularly
called "period performance" practices.
It is, of course, true (and almost goes without saying) that we
can never really know exactly how any piece of 'old' music truly
sounded. The recording of music, after all, didn't really begin
in earnest until the early 20th century. But this by no means
decides that performers (and conductors!) should simply 'throw in
the towel' and lazily content themselves with modern instruments
and modern performance techniques. Far from it! A great deal is
actually known today about how music was performed in earlier
centuries, and to ignore this sound (and widely-available)
scholarship is nothing but pure, willful blindness and ignorance--
similar to the proverbial 'ostrich burying its head in the sand'.
There is currently a whole world of 'period' music performances,
broadcasts, and recordings existing in Europe, which the vast
majority of (willfully?) ignorant Americans have barely, scarcely
begun to appreciate or explore. (Perhaps this is an example of
continuing colonialism, in that American tastes--or those of any
colony or former colony--lag behind those of the 'mother
countries' by several decades.) American tastes in 'classical'
music, it is plainly obvious, are still in the 1950s (to the
discomfiture of those of us who appreciate and prefer to hear real
music from the earlier centuries--or the closest modern performers
can get to it).
Let us please hear more of this 'period' or 'authentic' early
music! You cannot possibly broadcast enough of it to suit someone
like myself! (Even mid-nineteenth century music can benefit
from 'period performance' practice.)
I only wish Georgia Public Broadcasting would do this as well
(sigh).
Sincerely,
T.J. White
Thomaston, Georgia
e-mail at revenant1963@yahoo.com
RE: Programme of Tuesday, June 7th, 2005
Date:
Wed, 8 Jun 2005 11:08:44 -0400
From:
"Fred Child"
To:
revenant1963@yahoo.com
Dear Mr. White,
Thanks for your thoughtful note about Bach and period performance
practice. We're big fans of that approach -- we were hoping to get the
Akademie fur Alte Musik from Berlin to join us in the NPR studios during
their American tour, but they couldn't quite squeeze us into their
schedule. We're always on the lookout for top-notch performances of Baroque
music, and we'll get as many as we can on the air.
All the best,
Fred Child
Host of NPR's Performance Today
---------- Original Message ----------------------------------
From: terrence White <revenant1963@yahoo.com>
Date: Tue, 7 Jun 2005 08:41:43 -0700 (PDT)
Hi--
You asked for the opinions of your listeners, so here is mine:
I definitely agree that no work from the 18th century (or earlier)
even begins to approach true 'authenticity' unless some serious
efforts are made along the lines of what is popularly
called "period performance" practices.
It is, of course, true (and almost goes without saying) that we
can never really know exactly how any piece of 'old' music truly
sounded. The recording of music, after all, didn't really begin
in earnest until the early 20th century. But this by no means
decides that performers (and conductors!) should simply 'throw in
the towel' and lazily content themselves with modern instruments
and modern performance techniques. Far from it! A great deal is
actually known today about how music was performed in earlier
centuries, and to ignore this sound (and widely-available)
scholarship is nothing but pure, willful blindness and ignorance--
similar to the proverbial 'ostrich burying its head in the sand'.
There is currently a whole world of 'period' music performances,
broadcasts, and recordings existing in Europe, which the vast
majority of (willfully?) ignorant Americans have barely, scarcely
begun to appreciate or explore. (Perhaps this is an example of
continuing colonialism, in that American tastes--or those of any
colony or former colony--lag behind those of the 'mother
countries' by several decades.) American tastes in 'classical'
music, it is plainly obvious, are still in the 1950s (to the
discomfiture of those of us who appreciate and prefer to hear real
music from the earlier centuries--or the closest modern performers
can get to it).
Let us please hear more of this 'period' or 'authentic' early
music! You cannot possibly broadcast enough of it to suit someone
like myself! (Even mid-nineteenth century music can benefit
from 'period performance' practice.)
I only wish Georgia Public Broadcasting would do this as well
(sigh).
Sincerely,
T.J. White
Thomaston, Georgia
e-mail at revenant1963@yahoo.com
Some of my Favourite Thoreau
Note: Since I consider Thoreau to be one of the most important and formative influences on my life and thinking, it is only right that I include some of my favourite passages of his here.
_________________________
There are from time to time mornings, both in summer and in winter, when especially the world seems to begin anew ... The world has visibly been recreated in the night. Mornings of creation, I call them. In the midst of these marks of a creative energy recently active, while the sun is rising with more than usual splendor, I look back ... for the era of this creation, not into the night, but to a dawn for which no man ever rose early enough. A morning which carries us back beyond the Mosaic creation, where crystallizations are fresh and unmelted. It is the poet's hour. Mornings when men are new born, men who have the seeds of life in them.
Journal, January 26, 1853
But alone in distant woods or fields, in unpretending sproutlands or pastures tracked by rabbits, even in a bleak and, to most, cheerless day, like this, when a villager would be thinking of his inn, I come to myself, I once more feel myself grandly related, and that cold and solitude are friends of mine. I suppose that this value, in my case, is equivalent to what others get by church-going and prayer. I come to my solitary woodland walk as the homesick go home. ... I come out to these solitudes, where the problem of existence is simplfied. I get away a mile or two from the town into the stillness and solitude of nature, with rocks, trees, weeds, snow about me. I enter some glade in the woods, perchance, where a few weeds and dry leaves alone lift themselves above the surface of the snow, and it is as if I had come to an open window. I see out and around myself. ... This stillness, solitude, wildness of nature is a kind of thoroughwort, or boneset, to my intellect. This is what I go out to seek. It is as if I always met in those places some grand, serene, immortal, infinitely encouraging, though invisible, companion, and walked with him.
Journal, January 7, 1857
It is dry, hazy June weather. We are more of the earth, farther from heaven these days. We live in a grosser element. We [are] getting deeper into the mists of earth. Even the birds sing with less vigor and vivacity. The season of hope and promise is past; already the season of small fruits has arrived. The Indian marked the midsummer as the season when berries were ripe. We are a little saddened, because we begin to see the interval between our hopes and their fulfillment. The prospect of the heavens is taken away, and we are presented only with a few small berries.
Journal, June 17, 1854
Flint's Pond! Such is the poverty of our nomenclature. What right had the unclean and stupid farmer, whose farm abutted on this sky water, whose shores he had ruthlessly laid bare, to give his name to it? Some skin-flint, who loved better the reflecting surface of a dollar, or a bright cent, in which he could see his own brazen face; who regarded even the wild ducks which settled in it as trespassers; his fingers grown into crooked and horny talons from the long habit of grasping harpy-like;--so it is not named for me. I go not there to see him nor to hear of him; who never saw it, who never bathed in it, who never loved it, who never protected it, who never spoke a good word for it, nor thanked God that He had made it. Rather let it be named from the fishes that swim in it, the wild fowl or quadrupeds which frequent it, the wild flowers which grow by its shores, or some wild man or child the thread of whose history is interwoven with its own; not from him who could show no title to it but the deed which a like-minded neighbor or legislature gave him,--him who thought only of its money value; whose presence perchance cursed all the shore, who exhausted the land around it, and would fain have exhausted the waters within it; who regretted only that it was not English hay or cranberry meadow,--there was nothing to redeem it, forsooth, in his eyes,--and would have drained and sold it for the mud at its bottom. It did not turn his mill, and it was no privilege to him to behold it. I respect not his labors, his farm where everything has its price, who would carry the landscape, who would carry his God, to market, if he could get anything for him; who goes to market for his god as it is; on whose farm nothing grows free, whose fields bear no crops, whose meadows no flowers, whose trees no fruit, but dollars; who loves not the beauty of his fruits, whose fruits are not ripe for him till they are turned to dollars. Give me the poverty that enjoys true wealth.
Walden, 1854
(Note: I have always preferred to restate that last phrase as: "Give me the true wealth that poverty brings"--it seems so much more in the spirit of Thoreau's personality and life. TJW)
For many years I was self-appointed inspector of snow storms and rain storms, and did my duty faithfully; surveyor, if not of highways, then of forest paths and all across-lot routes, keeping them open, and ravines bridged and passable at all seasons, where the public heel had testified to their utility.
I have looked after the wild stock of the town, which gives a faithful herdsman a good deal of trouble by leaping fences; and I have had an eye to the unfrequented nooks and corners of the farm; though I did not always know whether Jonas or Solomon worked in a particular field to-day; that was none of my business. I have watered the red huckleberry, the sand cherry and the nettle tree, the red pine and the black ash, the white grape and the yellow violet, which might have withered else in dry seasons.
Walden, 1854
Finding that my fellow-citizens were not likely to offer me any room in the court-house, or any curacy or living any where else, but I must shift for myself, I turned my face more exclusively than ever to the woods, where I was better known.
Walden, 1854
What should we think of the shepherd's life if his flocks always wandered to higher pastures than his thoughts?
Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself. I have been as sincere a worshipper of Aurora as the Greeks. I got up early and bathed in the pond; that was a religious exercise, and one of the best things which I did. They say that characters were engraven on the bathing tub of king Tching-thang to this effect: "Renew thyself completely each day; do it again, and again, and forever again." I can understand that. Morning brings back the heroic ages. I was as much affected by the faint hum of a mosquito making its invisible and unimaginable tour through my apartment at earliest dawn , when I was sitting with door and windows open, as I could be by any trumpet that ever sang of fame. It was Homer's requiem; itself an Iliad and Odyssey in the air, singing its own wrath and wanderings. There was something cosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till forbidden, of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world. The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night.
Walden, 1854
Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain storms in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves. In those driving northeast rains which tried the village houses so, when the maids stood ready with mop and pail in front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat behind my door in my little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection. In one heavy thunder shower the lightning struck a large pitch-pine across the pond, making a very conspicuous and perfectly regular spiral groove from top to bottom, an inch or more deep, and four or five inches wide, as you would groove a walking-stick. I passed it again the other day, and was struck with awe on looking up and beholding that mark, now more distinct than ever, where a terrific and resistless bolt came down out of the harmless sky eight years ago. Men frequently say to me, "I should think you would feel lonesome down there, and want to be nearer to folks, rainy and snowy days and nights especially." I am tempted to reply to such,--This whole earth we inhabit is but a point in space. How far apart, think you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the breadth of whose disk cannot be appreciated by our instruments? Why should I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way? This which you put to me seems to me not to be the most important question. What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him solitary? I have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one another. What do we want most to dwell near to? Not to many men surely, the depot, the post-office, the bar-room, the meeting-house, the school-house, the gorcery, Beacon Hill, or the Five Points, where men most congregate, but to the perennial source of our life, whence in all our experience we have found that to issue, as the willow stands near the water and sends out its roots in that direction. This will vary with different natures, but this is the place where a wise man will dig his cellar. ...
Walden, 1854
The indescribable innocence and beneficence of Nature,--of sun and wind and rain, of summer and winter,--such health, such cheer, they afford forever! and such sympathy have they ever with our race, that all Nature would be affected, and the sun's brightness fade, and the winds would sigh humanely, and the clouds rain tears, and the woods shed their leaves and put on mourning in midsummer, if any man should ever for a just cause grieve. Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?
Walden, 1854
After a still winter night I awoke with the impression that some question had been put to me, which I had been endeavoring in vain to answer in my sleep, as what--how--when--where? But there was dawning Nature, in whom all creatures live, looking at my broad windows with serene and satisfied face, and no question on her lips. I awoke to an unanswered question, to Nature and daylight. The snow lying deep on the earth dotted with young pines, and the very slope of the hill on which my house is placed, seemed to say, Forward! Nature puts no question and answers none which we mortals ask. She has long ago taken her resolution. "O Prince, our eyes contemplate with admiration and transmit to the soul the wonderful and varied spectacle of this universe. The night veils without doubt a part of this glorious creation; but day comes to reveal to us this great work, which extends from earth even into the plains of the ether."
Walden, 1854
[In the last days of Thoreau's life, when he was already an invalid confined indoors,] ... Edmund Hosmer told him of seeing a spring robin, Thoreau replied, "Yes, This is a beautiful world; but I shall see a fairer." He was greatly moved by the attentions of his friends and neighbors. He "came to feel very differently toward people," one of them reported, "and said if he had known he wouldn't have been so offish."
The devotion of his friends [said his sister Sophia] was most rare and touching; his room was made fragrant by the gift of flowers from young and old; fruit of every kind which the season afforded, and game of all sorts was sent him. It was really pathetic [i.e., greatly moving] the way in which the town was moved to minister to his comfort. Total strangers sent grateful messages, remembering the good he had done for them. All this attention was fully appreciated and very gratifying to Henry; he would sometimes say, "I should be ashamed to stay in this world after so much had been done for me, I could never repay my friends." ...
When he learned that some boys in the neighborhood had been robbing birds' nests, he requested that they be called into his sickroom and asked them if they knew "what a wail of sorrow and anguish their cruelty had sent all over the fields and through the woods." ...
[Yet,] When Thoreau learned that some of the boys of the neighborhood had brought him some game to eat, he asked, "Why did you not invite them in? I want to thank them for so much they are bringing me," ...
In his last illness [recalled a child of the neighborhood] it did not occur to us that he would care to see us, but his sister told my mother that he watched us from the window as we passed, and said: "Why don't they come to see me? I love them as if they were my own." After that we went often, and he always made us so welcome that we liked to go. I remember our last meetings with as much pleasure as the old playdays. ...
During his long illness [said Sophia] I never heard a murmur escape him, or the slightest wish expressed to remain with us; his perfect contentment was truly wonderful. None of his friends seemed to realize how very ill he was, so full of life and good cheer did he seem. One friend, as if by way of consolation, said to him, "Well, Mr. Thoreau, we must all go." Henry replied, "When I was a very little boy I learned that I must die, and I set that down, so of course I am not disappointed now. Death is as near to you as it is to me."
Some of his more orthodox friends and relatives tried to prepare him for death, with but little satisfaction to themselves. When an old friend of the family asked "how he stood affected toward Christ," he replied that "a snow-storm was more to him than Christ." When his aunt asked him if he had made his peace with God, he answered, "I did not know that we had ever quarrelled, Aunt." ...
He did not lose his sense of humor. He told Sanborn that whenever his corpulent, full-faced aunt came to his chamber door to inquire about his welfare, he thought her to be "the rising full moon." When someone commented how little his hair had grayed, even in his illness, he replied: "I have never had any trouble in all my life, or only when I was about fourteen; then I felt pretty bad a little while on account of my sins, but no trouble since that I know of. That must be the reason why my hair doesn't turn gray faster. But there is Blake; he is gray as a rat." ...
[When his time to leave finally came] his mother, sister, and his Aunt Louisa watched, his breathing grew fainter and fainter, and without the slightest struggle he died at nine o'clock. Sophia said, "I feel as if something very beautiful had happened,--not death."
From American Heritage, Vol. XIV, No.1 (Dec. 1962), pp.106-112
_________________________
There are from time to time mornings, both in summer and in winter, when especially the world seems to begin anew ... The world has visibly been recreated in the night. Mornings of creation, I call them. In the midst of these marks of a creative energy recently active, while the sun is rising with more than usual splendor, I look back ... for the era of this creation, not into the night, but to a dawn for which no man ever rose early enough. A morning which carries us back beyond the Mosaic creation, where crystallizations are fresh and unmelted. It is the poet's hour. Mornings when men are new born, men who have the seeds of life in them.
Journal, January 26, 1853
But alone in distant woods or fields, in unpretending sproutlands or pastures tracked by rabbits, even in a bleak and, to most, cheerless day, like this, when a villager would be thinking of his inn, I come to myself, I once more feel myself grandly related, and that cold and solitude are friends of mine. I suppose that this value, in my case, is equivalent to what others get by church-going and prayer. I come to my solitary woodland walk as the homesick go home. ... I come out to these solitudes, where the problem of existence is simplfied. I get away a mile or two from the town into the stillness and solitude of nature, with rocks, trees, weeds, snow about me. I enter some glade in the woods, perchance, where a few weeds and dry leaves alone lift themselves above the surface of the snow, and it is as if I had come to an open window. I see out and around myself. ... This stillness, solitude, wildness of nature is a kind of thoroughwort, or boneset, to my intellect. This is what I go out to seek. It is as if I always met in those places some grand, serene, immortal, infinitely encouraging, though invisible, companion, and walked with him.
Journal, January 7, 1857
It is dry, hazy June weather. We are more of the earth, farther from heaven these days. We live in a grosser element. We [are] getting deeper into the mists of earth. Even the birds sing with less vigor and vivacity. The season of hope and promise is past; already the season of small fruits has arrived. The Indian marked the midsummer as the season when berries were ripe. We are a little saddened, because we begin to see the interval between our hopes and their fulfillment. The prospect of the heavens is taken away, and we are presented only with a few small berries.
Journal, June 17, 1854
Flint's Pond! Such is the poverty of our nomenclature. What right had the unclean and stupid farmer, whose farm abutted on this sky water, whose shores he had ruthlessly laid bare, to give his name to it? Some skin-flint, who loved better the reflecting surface of a dollar, or a bright cent, in which he could see his own brazen face; who regarded even the wild ducks which settled in it as trespassers; his fingers grown into crooked and horny talons from the long habit of grasping harpy-like;--so it is not named for me. I go not there to see him nor to hear of him; who never saw it, who never bathed in it, who never loved it, who never protected it, who never spoke a good word for it, nor thanked God that He had made it. Rather let it be named from the fishes that swim in it, the wild fowl or quadrupeds which frequent it, the wild flowers which grow by its shores, or some wild man or child the thread of whose history is interwoven with its own; not from him who could show no title to it but the deed which a like-minded neighbor or legislature gave him,--him who thought only of its money value; whose presence perchance cursed all the shore, who exhausted the land around it, and would fain have exhausted the waters within it; who regretted only that it was not English hay or cranberry meadow,--there was nothing to redeem it, forsooth, in his eyes,--and would have drained and sold it for the mud at its bottom. It did not turn his mill, and it was no privilege to him to behold it. I respect not his labors, his farm where everything has its price, who would carry the landscape, who would carry his God, to market, if he could get anything for him; who goes to market for his god as it is; on whose farm nothing grows free, whose fields bear no crops, whose meadows no flowers, whose trees no fruit, but dollars; who loves not the beauty of his fruits, whose fruits are not ripe for him till they are turned to dollars. Give me the poverty that enjoys true wealth.
Walden, 1854
(Note: I have always preferred to restate that last phrase as: "Give me the true wealth that poverty brings"--it seems so much more in the spirit of Thoreau's personality and life. TJW)
For many years I was self-appointed inspector of snow storms and rain storms, and did my duty faithfully; surveyor, if not of highways, then of forest paths and all across-lot routes, keeping them open, and ravines bridged and passable at all seasons, where the public heel had testified to their utility.
I have looked after the wild stock of the town, which gives a faithful herdsman a good deal of trouble by leaping fences; and I have had an eye to the unfrequented nooks and corners of the farm; though I did not always know whether Jonas or Solomon worked in a particular field to-day; that was none of my business. I have watered the red huckleberry, the sand cherry and the nettle tree, the red pine and the black ash, the white grape and the yellow violet, which might have withered else in dry seasons.
Walden, 1854
Finding that my fellow-citizens were not likely to offer me any room in the court-house, or any curacy or living any where else, but I must shift for myself, I turned my face more exclusively than ever to the woods, where I was better known.
Walden, 1854
What should we think of the shepherd's life if his flocks always wandered to higher pastures than his thoughts?
Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself. I have been as sincere a worshipper of Aurora as the Greeks. I got up early and bathed in the pond; that was a religious exercise, and one of the best things which I did. They say that characters were engraven on the bathing tub of king Tching-thang to this effect: "Renew thyself completely each day; do it again, and again, and forever again." I can understand that. Morning brings back the heroic ages. I was as much affected by the faint hum of a mosquito making its invisible and unimaginable tour through my apartment at earliest dawn , when I was sitting with door and windows open, as I could be by any trumpet that ever sang of fame. It was Homer's requiem; itself an Iliad and Odyssey in the air, singing its own wrath and wanderings. There was something cosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till forbidden, of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world. The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and night.
Walden, 1854
Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rain storms in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house for the afternoon as well as the forenoon, soothed by their ceaseless roar and pelting; when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in which many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves. In those driving northeast rains which tried the village houses so, when the maids stood ready with mop and pail in front entries to keep the deluge out, I sat behind my door in my little house, which was all entry, and thoroughly enjoyed its protection. In one heavy thunder shower the lightning struck a large pitch-pine across the pond, making a very conspicuous and perfectly regular spiral groove from top to bottom, an inch or more deep, and four or five inches wide, as you would groove a walking-stick. I passed it again the other day, and was struck with awe on looking up and beholding that mark, now more distinct than ever, where a terrific and resistless bolt came down out of the harmless sky eight years ago. Men frequently say to me, "I should think you would feel lonesome down there, and want to be nearer to folks, rainy and snowy days and nights especially." I am tempted to reply to such,--This whole earth we inhabit is but a point in space. How far apart, think you, dwell the two most distant inhabitants of yonder star, the breadth of whose disk cannot be appreciated by our instruments? Why should I feel lonely? is not our planet in the Milky Way? This which you put to me seems to me not to be the most important question. What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him solitary? I have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one another. What do we want most to dwell near to? Not to many men surely, the depot, the post-office, the bar-room, the meeting-house, the school-house, the gorcery, Beacon Hill, or the Five Points, where men most congregate, but to the perennial source of our life, whence in all our experience we have found that to issue, as the willow stands near the water and sends out its roots in that direction. This will vary with different natures, but this is the place where a wise man will dig his cellar. ...
Walden, 1854
The indescribable innocence and beneficence of Nature,--of sun and wind and rain, of summer and winter,--such health, such cheer, they afford forever! and such sympathy have they ever with our race, that all Nature would be affected, and the sun's brightness fade, and the winds would sigh humanely, and the clouds rain tears, and the woods shed their leaves and put on mourning in midsummer, if any man should ever for a just cause grieve. Shall I not have intelligence with the earth? Am I not partly leaves and vegetable mould myself?
Walden, 1854
After a still winter night I awoke with the impression that some question had been put to me, which I had been endeavoring in vain to answer in my sleep, as what--how--when--where? But there was dawning Nature, in whom all creatures live, looking at my broad windows with serene and satisfied face, and no question on her lips. I awoke to an unanswered question, to Nature and daylight. The snow lying deep on the earth dotted with young pines, and the very slope of the hill on which my house is placed, seemed to say, Forward! Nature puts no question and answers none which we mortals ask. She has long ago taken her resolution. "O Prince, our eyes contemplate with admiration and transmit to the soul the wonderful and varied spectacle of this universe. The night veils without doubt a part of this glorious creation; but day comes to reveal to us this great work, which extends from earth even into the plains of the ether."
Walden, 1854
[In the last days of Thoreau's life, when he was already an invalid confined indoors,] ... Edmund Hosmer told him of seeing a spring robin, Thoreau replied, "Yes, This is a beautiful world; but I shall see a fairer." He was greatly moved by the attentions of his friends and neighbors. He "came to feel very differently toward people," one of them reported, "and said if he had known he wouldn't have been so offish."
The devotion of his friends [said his sister Sophia] was most rare and touching; his room was made fragrant by the gift of flowers from young and old; fruit of every kind which the season afforded, and game of all sorts was sent him. It was really pathetic [i.e., greatly moving] the way in which the town was moved to minister to his comfort. Total strangers sent grateful messages, remembering the good he had done for them. All this attention was fully appreciated and very gratifying to Henry; he would sometimes say, "I should be ashamed to stay in this world after so much had been done for me, I could never repay my friends." ...
When he learned that some boys in the neighborhood had been robbing birds' nests, he requested that they be called into his sickroom and asked them if they knew "what a wail of sorrow and anguish their cruelty had sent all over the fields and through the woods." ...
[Yet,] When Thoreau learned that some of the boys of the neighborhood had brought him some game to eat, he asked, "Why did you not invite them in? I want to thank them for so much they are bringing me," ...
In his last illness [recalled a child of the neighborhood] it did not occur to us that he would care to see us, but his sister told my mother that he watched us from the window as we passed, and said: "Why don't they come to see me? I love them as if they were my own." After that we went often, and he always made us so welcome that we liked to go. I remember our last meetings with as much pleasure as the old playdays. ...
During his long illness [said Sophia] I never heard a murmur escape him, or the slightest wish expressed to remain with us; his perfect contentment was truly wonderful. None of his friends seemed to realize how very ill he was, so full of life and good cheer did he seem. One friend, as if by way of consolation, said to him, "Well, Mr. Thoreau, we must all go." Henry replied, "When I was a very little boy I learned that I must die, and I set that down, so of course I am not disappointed now. Death is as near to you as it is to me."
Some of his more orthodox friends and relatives tried to prepare him for death, with but little satisfaction to themselves. When an old friend of the family asked "how he stood affected toward Christ," he replied that "a snow-storm was more to him than Christ." When his aunt asked him if he had made his peace with God, he answered, "I did not know that we had ever quarrelled, Aunt." ...
He did not lose his sense of humor. He told Sanborn that whenever his corpulent, full-faced aunt came to his chamber door to inquire about his welfare, he thought her to be "the rising full moon." When someone commented how little his hair had grayed, even in his illness, he replied: "I have never had any trouble in all my life, or only when I was about fourteen; then I felt pretty bad a little while on account of my sins, but no trouble since that I know of. That must be the reason why my hair doesn't turn gray faster. But there is Blake; he is gray as a rat." ...
[When his time to leave finally came] his mother, sister, and his Aunt Louisa watched, his breathing grew fainter and fainter, and without the slightest struggle he died at nine o'clock. Sophia said, "I feel as if something very beautiful had happened,--not death."
From American Heritage, Vol. XIV, No.1 (Dec. 1962), pp.106-112
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Walt Whitman's Self-Describ'd Philosophy
(As cull'd from several of his 'songs'):
__________________________
"I believe in the flesh and the appetities ... Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. ..."
[Song of Myself, 24]
"[I am] turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding ..."
[ibid.]
"Through me forbidden voices,/Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil,/
Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigured. ..."
[ibid.]
"Voices of ... wombs and of the father-stuff. ..."
[ibid.]
"O admirers, praise not me--compliment not me--you make me wince,/I see what you do not--I know what you do not./Inside these breast-bones I lie smutch'd and choked,/Beneath this face that appears so impassive hell's tides continually run,/Lusts and wickedness are acceptable to me,/I walk with delinquents with passionate love,/I feel I am of them--I belong to those convicts and prostitutes myself,/And henceforth I will not deny them--for how can I deny myself?"
["You Felons on Trial in Courts," from Autumn Rivulets]
"The soldier camp'd or upon the march is mine,/on the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail them, ..."
[Song of Myself, 47, emphasis supplied]
"My lovers ... coming naked to me at night. ..."
[ibid., 45]
"The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived/power, but in his own right, ... [He is] wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear. ..."
[ibid., 47]
"I do not envy the generals,/Nor the President in his Presidency, nor the rich in his great house,/But when I hear of the brotherhood of lovers ... How together through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging,/long and long,/Through youth and through middle and old age, how unfaltering, how affectionate and faithful they were,/Then I am pensive--I hastily walk away fill'd with the bitterest envy."
[from Calamus]
"I am he that aches with amorous love;/Does the earth gravitate? does not all matter, aching, attract all matter?/So the body of me to all I meet or know."
["I Am He That Aches With Love," from Children of Adam]
"O you whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you,/As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,/Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me."
["O You Whom I Often And Silently Come," from Calamus]
"A glimpse through an interstice caught,/Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove/late of a winter night, and I unremark'd seated in a corner,/Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching,/and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,/A long while amid the noises of coming and going,/of drinking and oath and smutty jest,/There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word."
["A Glimpse," from Calamus]
"O tan-faced prairie-boy,/Before you came to camp came many a welcome gift,/Praises and presents came and nourishing food, till at last among the recruits,/You came, taciturn, with nothing to give--we but look'd on each other,/When lo! more than all the gifts of the world you gave me."
["O Tan-Faced Prairie-Boy," from Drum-Taps]
"Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse/unreturn'd love,/But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay is certain one way/or another, (I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return'd,/Yet out of that I have written these songs.)"
["Sometimes With One I Love," from Calamus]
"Recorders ages hence,/Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior,/I will tell you what to say of me,/Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover, ... Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love within him, and freely pour'd it forth. ..."
["Recorders Ages Hence," from Calamus; emphasis supplied]
"I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,/I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. ..."
[Song of Myself, 52]
"I know I am restless, and make others so,/I know my words are weapons full of danger, full of death,/For I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws,/to unsettle them,/I am more resolute because all have denied me than I could/ever have been had all accepted me,/I heed not and have never heeded either experience, cautions, majorities, nor ridicule,/And the threat of what is call'd hell is little or nothing to me,/And the lure of what is call'd heaven is little or nothing to me./Dear camerado! I confess I have urged you onward with me, and still urge you, without the least idea what is our/destination, or whether we shall be victorious, or utterly quell'd and/defeated."
["As I Lay with my Head in Your Lap Camerado," from Drum Taps]
"Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much evil, perhaps more. ..."
["Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand," from Calamus]
________________________
"Divine am I inside and out .../If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my/own body, or any part of it. ..."
[Song of Myself, 24]
"My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain,/The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms,/The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there. ..."
[ibid., 45]
"I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms ..."
[ibid., 24]
"Whoever degrades another degrades me,/And whatever is done or said returns at last to me ..."
[ibid.]
"the soul is not more than the body, ... And ... the body is not more than the soul. ..."
[ibid., 48]
"And nothing, not [even] God, is greater to me than one's self is. ..."
[ibid.]
"And you or I pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth ..."
[ibid.]
"And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it/may become a hero. ..."
[ibid.]
"And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes. ..."
[ibid.]
"All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me. ..."
[ibid., 44]
___________________________
"No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,/I have no chair, no church, no philosophy. ..."
[Song of Myself, 46]
"He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher. ..."
[ibid., 47]
"I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me? ..."
[ibid.]
"If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore,/The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves a key,/The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words. ..."
[ibid.]
"My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods, ..."
[ibid., 46]
"The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well,/The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with/him all day,/The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my/voice,/In vessels that sail my words sail. I go with fishermen and seamen and/love them, ..."
[ibid., 47]
"I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house,/And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her who/privately stays with me in the open air. ..."
[ibid.]
"No shutter'd room or school can commune with me,/But roughs and little children better than they. ..."
[ibid.]
__________________________
"Let judges and criminals be transposed--let the prison-keepers be/put in prison--let those that were prisoners take the keys. ..."
["Transpositions," from Autumn Rivulets]
"This is what you should do: love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, ... re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss what insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem."
[Preface, Leaves of Grass, 1855 edition; emphasis supplied]
___________________________
Editorial comment by T.J. White:
Do you understand what he is saying here? Do you UNDERSTAND WHAT HE IS SAYING HERE????!!!!! If you think you do, the chances are good that you do not.
You should go back and re-read, not just the excerpts I have included here, but his entire corpus, until you can contact me via this web-site, and say to me: "Yes, I finally know. ..."
THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT--CRUCIALLY IMPORTANT!!!
There is nobody in this life--living or dead--who can teach you more than Whitman can, if you will let him. (Not even Nietzsche, though he, too, comes very close: Nietzsche is simply too obfuscating, though he can be comprehended by one whose mind has been prepared.)
But in order for Whitman to succeed in this teaching endeavour, you must first free your mind of all previous prejudices and opinions; you must be free to follow his mind wherever he goes. And if you do, you will be amazed and astounded where he leads you--through himself and the entire world and the whole universe, indeed--right back to yourself (which is really his own self also; or in other words--"God").
It is a profound mistake to think of Whitman's writings as "just poetry." The person who does so entirely misses the point. Yes, Whitman expresses his thoughts in a most sublime, beautiful, poetic manner, but that is only his means--not his purpose. Whitman was really the first and greatest of our cosmologists--if you can understand the true depth of that term--he was a shuffling, unshaven, disshevelled, wandering man we today would basically call "homeless", and yet a man who somehow had the wisdom of Socrates and the knowledge of the secrets of the Universe.
"He that hath an ear to hear, let him hear. ..."
__________________________
"I believe in the flesh and the appetities ... Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. ..."
[Song of Myself, 24]
"[I am] turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding ..."
[ibid.]
"Through me forbidden voices,/Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil,/
Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigured. ..."
[ibid.]
"Voices of ... wombs and of the father-stuff. ..."
[ibid.]
"O admirers, praise not me--compliment not me--you make me wince,/I see what you do not--I know what you do not./Inside these breast-bones I lie smutch'd and choked,/Beneath this face that appears so impassive hell's tides continually run,/Lusts and wickedness are acceptable to me,/I walk with delinquents with passionate love,/I feel I am of them--I belong to those convicts and prostitutes myself,/And henceforth I will not deny them--for how can I deny myself?"
["You Felons on Trial in Courts," from Autumn Rivulets]
"The soldier camp'd or upon the march is mine,/on the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail them, ..."
[Song of Myself, 47, emphasis supplied]
"My lovers ... coming naked to me at night. ..."
[ibid., 45]
"The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived/power, but in his own right, ... [He is] wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear. ..."
[ibid., 47]
"I do not envy the generals,/Nor the President in his Presidency, nor the rich in his great house,/But when I hear of the brotherhood of lovers ... How together through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging,/long and long,/Through youth and through middle and old age, how unfaltering, how affectionate and faithful they were,/Then I am pensive--I hastily walk away fill'd with the bitterest envy."
[from Calamus]
"I am he that aches with amorous love;/Does the earth gravitate? does not all matter, aching, attract all matter?/So the body of me to all I meet or know."
["I Am He That Aches With Love," from Children of Adam]
"O you whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you,/As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,/Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me."
["O You Whom I Often And Silently Come," from Calamus]
"A glimpse through an interstice caught,/Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove/late of a winter night, and I unremark'd seated in a corner,/Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching,/and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,/A long while amid the noises of coming and going,/of drinking and oath and smutty jest,/There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word."
["A Glimpse," from Calamus]
"O tan-faced prairie-boy,/Before you came to camp came many a welcome gift,/Praises and presents came and nourishing food, till at last among the recruits,/You came, taciturn, with nothing to give--we but look'd on each other,/When lo! more than all the gifts of the world you gave me."
["O Tan-Faced Prairie-Boy," from Drum-Taps]
"Sometimes with one I love I fill myself with rage for fear I effuse/unreturn'd love,/But now I think there is no unreturn'd love, the pay is certain one way/or another, (I loved a certain person ardently and my love was not return'd,/Yet out of that I have written these songs.)"
["Sometimes With One I Love," from Calamus]
"Recorders ages hence,/Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior,/I will tell you what to say of me,/Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest lover, ... Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean of love within him, and freely pour'd it forth. ..."
["Recorders Ages Hence," from Calamus; emphasis supplied]
"I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,/I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. ..."
[Song of Myself, 52]
"I know I am restless, and make others so,/I know my words are weapons full of danger, full of death,/For I confront peace, security, and all the settled laws,/to unsettle them,/I am more resolute because all have denied me than I could/ever have been had all accepted me,/I heed not and have never heeded either experience, cautions, majorities, nor ridicule,/And the threat of what is call'd hell is little or nothing to me,/And the lure of what is call'd heaven is little or nothing to me./Dear camerado! I confess I have urged you onward with me, and still urge you, without the least idea what is our/destination, or whether we shall be victorious, or utterly quell'd and/defeated."
["As I Lay with my Head in Your Lap Camerado," from Drum Taps]
"Nor will my poems do good only, they will do just as much evil, perhaps more. ..."
["Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand," from Calamus]
________________________
"Divine am I inside and out .../If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my/own body, or any part of it. ..."
[Song of Myself, 24]
"My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain,/The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms,/The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there. ..."
[ibid., 45]
"I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms ..."
[ibid., 24]
"Whoever degrades another degrades me,/And whatever is done or said returns at last to me ..."
[ibid.]
"the soul is not more than the body, ... And ... the body is not more than the soul. ..."
[ibid., 48]
"And nothing, not [even] God, is greater to me than one's self is. ..."
[ibid.]
"And you or I pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth ..."
[ibid.]
"And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it/may become a hero. ..."
[ibid.]
"And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes. ..."
[ibid.]
"All forces have been steadily employ'd to complete and delight me. ..."
[ibid., 44]
___________________________
"No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair,/I have no chair, no church, no philosophy. ..."
[Song of Myself, 46]
"He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher. ..."
[ibid., 47]
"I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me? ..."
[ibid.]
"If you would understand me go to the heights or water-shore,/The nearest gnat is an explanation, and a drop or motion of waves a key,/The maul, the oar, the hand-saw, second my words. ..."
[ibid.]
"My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods, ..."
[ibid., 46]
"The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well,/The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with/him all day,/The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my/voice,/In vessels that sail my words sail. I go with fishermen and seamen and/love them, ..."
[ibid., 47]
"I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house,/And I swear I will never translate myself at all, only to him or her who/privately stays with me in the open air. ..."
[ibid.]
"No shutter'd room or school can commune with me,/But roughs and little children better than they. ..."
[ibid.]
__________________________
"Let judges and criminals be transposed--let the prison-keepers be/put in prison--let those that were prisoners take the keys. ..."
["Transpositions," from Autumn Rivulets]
"This is what you should do: love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, ... re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss what insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem."
[Preface, Leaves of Grass, 1855 edition; emphasis supplied]
___________________________
Editorial comment by T.J. White:
Do you understand what he is saying here? Do you UNDERSTAND WHAT HE IS SAYING HERE????!!!!! If you think you do, the chances are good that you do not.
You should go back and re-read, not just the excerpts I have included here, but his entire corpus, until you can contact me via this web-site, and say to me: "Yes, I finally know. ..."
THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT--CRUCIALLY IMPORTANT!!!
There is nobody in this life--living or dead--who can teach you more than Whitman can, if you will let him. (Not even Nietzsche, though he, too, comes very close: Nietzsche is simply too obfuscating, though he can be comprehended by one whose mind has been prepared.)
But in order for Whitman to succeed in this teaching endeavour, you must first free your mind of all previous prejudices and opinions; you must be free to follow his mind wherever he goes. And if you do, you will be amazed and astounded where he leads you--through himself and the entire world and the whole universe, indeed--right back to yourself (which is really his own self also; or in other words--"God").
It is a profound mistake to think of Whitman's writings as "just poetry." The person who does so entirely misses the point. Yes, Whitman expresses his thoughts in a most sublime, beautiful, poetic manner, but that is only his means--not his purpose. Whitman was really the first and greatest of our cosmologists--if you can understand the true depth of that term--he was a shuffling, unshaven, disshevelled, wandering man we today would basically call "homeless", and yet a man who somehow had the wisdom of Socrates and the knowledge of the secrets of the Universe.
"He that hath an ear to hear, let him hear. ..."
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Campbell on Society's "Outsiders"
The following excerpt is included here because of its deep relevance for myself and the overall theme and purpose of this web-site. It is Joseph Campbell [1904-1987] in The Power of Myth, in conversation with journalist Bill Moyers:
_________________________
Moyers: Why is a myth different from a dream?
Campbell: Oh, because a dream is a personal experience of that deep, dark ground that is the support of our conscious lives, and a myth is the society's dream. The myth is the public dream and the dream is the private myth. If your private myth, your dream, happens to coincide with that of the society, you are in good accord with your group. If it isn't, you've got an adventure in the dark forest ahead of you.
Moyers: So if my private dreams are in accord with the public mythology, I'm more likely to live healthily in that society. But if my private dreams are out of step with the public--
Campbell: --you'll be in trouble. If you're forced to live in that system, you'll be a neurotic.
Moyers: But aren't many visionaries and even leaders and heroes close to the edge of neuroticism?
Campbell: Yes, they are.
Moyers: How do you explain that?
Campbell: They've moved out of the society that would have protected them, and into the dark forest, into the world of fire, of original experience. Original experience has not been interpreted for you, and so you've got to work out your life for yourself. Either you can take it or you can't. You don't have to go far off the interpreted path to find yourself in very difficult situations. The courage to face the trials and to bring a whole new body of possibilities into the field of interpreted experience for other people to experience--that is the hero's deed. ...
[pages 40-41]
_________________________
Editorial commentary by T.J. White:
What Campbell was referring to here (the visionary human being who, being forced to live in a society which either does not accept him or his radically-different view of the world, or vastly undervalues or discounts the same, is thus forced to become neurotic in the expression of his central, core being) was already discussed by both Nietzsche and Fromm--in excerpts already included in this very web-site. For reference, these originals can be found at "Twilight of the Idols", 45, [for the Nietzsche; also, less directly, at "Beyond Good and Evil", 212, and "The Antichrist", preface, "Revaluation of All Values"], and "Escape From Freedom" [for the Fromm].
Suffice it for me to say that I know very well, from personal experience, exactly what Campbell, Nietzsche, and Fromm were referring to. I am just such a person as the type they were discussing (for better or worse).
_________________________
Moyers: Why is a myth different from a dream?
Campbell: Oh, because a dream is a personal experience of that deep, dark ground that is the support of our conscious lives, and a myth is the society's dream. The myth is the public dream and the dream is the private myth. If your private myth, your dream, happens to coincide with that of the society, you are in good accord with your group. If it isn't, you've got an adventure in the dark forest ahead of you.
Moyers: So if my private dreams are in accord with the public mythology, I'm more likely to live healthily in that society. But if my private dreams are out of step with the public--
Campbell: --you'll be in trouble. If you're forced to live in that system, you'll be a neurotic.
Moyers: But aren't many visionaries and even leaders and heroes close to the edge of neuroticism?
Campbell: Yes, they are.
Moyers: How do you explain that?
Campbell: They've moved out of the society that would have protected them, and into the dark forest, into the world of fire, of original experience. Original experience has not been interpreted for you, and so you've got to work out your life for yourself. Either you can take it or you can't. You don't have to go far off the interpreted path to find yourself in very difficult situations. The courage to face the trials and to bring a whole new body of possibilities into the field of interpreted experience for other people to experience--that is the hero's deed. ...
[pages 40-41]
_________________________
Editorial commentary by T.J. White:
What Campbell was referring to here (the visionary human being who, being forced to live in a society which either does not accept him or his radically-different view of the world, or vastly undervalues or discounts the same, is thus forced to become neurotic in the expression of his central, core being) was already discussed by both Nietzsche and Fromm--in excerpts already included in this very web-site. For reference, these originals can be found at "Twilight of the Idols", 45, [for the Nietzsche; also, less directly, at "Beyond Good and Evil", 212, and "The Antichrist", preface, "Revaluation of All Values"], and "Escape From Freedom" [for the Fromm].
Suffice it for me to say that I know very well, from personal experience, exactly what Campbell, Nietzsche, and Fromm were referring to. I am just such a person as the type they were discussing (for better or worse).
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