Just in Time!

     Today is a Sunday, which means it's my last chance to avoid screwing up the "Poem of the Week" feature.   Fortunately, I've got one.  Last weekend, I came across a painting in an exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum about French landscape painting around the end of the 18th century.  The exhibit was fairly small (only one room), and many of the pieces were pleasant scenes of Roman ruins or rustic life; there were Italian country houses at sunset, Romantic images of Apennine bandits, and one of monks milling around the door of their chapel, which I liked very much.  But one seemed unusually dark and grim: a man carrying a shroud-wrapped woman through the night.  Upon closer inspection I learned that it was inspired by the life and works of Edward Young, an English poet (and later a clergyman) who had to carry his step-daughter's corpse to a Protestant cemetery when she was denied burial in the Lyon's Catholic cemetery.  Some time later he wrote a nine-part poem called The Complaint, or Night-Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality.  I confess I have only read the first part, and I hope in time to finish the entire poem. But here it is:

Night the First

By Nature's law, what may be, may be now;

There's no prerogative in human hours:

In human hearts what bolder thought can rise,

Than man's presumption on tomorrow's dawn?

Where is tomorrow? In another world.

For numbers this is certain; the reverse

Is sure to none; and yet on this perhaps,

This peradventure, infamous for lies,

As on a rock of adamant we build

Our mountain hopes; spin out eternal schemes,

As we the fatal sisters would outspin,

And, big with life's futurities, expire.

   Not even Philander had bespoke his shroud;

Nor had he cause, a warning was denied;

How many fall as sudden, not as safe?

As sudden, though for years admonished home:

Of human ills the last extreme beware,

Beware, Lorenzo! a slow-sudden death.

How dreadful that deliberate surprise?

Be wise today, 'tis madness to defer;

Next day the fatal precedent will plead;

Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life:

Procrastination is the thief of time,

Year after year it steals, till all are fled,

And to the mercies of a moment leaves

The vast concerns of an eternal scene.

If not so frequent, would not this be strange?

That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.

   Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears

The palm, "That all men are about to live,"

For ever on the brink of being born:

All pay themselves the compliment to think

They, one day, shall not drivel; and their pride

On this reversion takes up ready praise;

At least, their own; their future selves applauds;

How excellent that life they ne'er will lead?

Time lodged in their own hands is folly's vails;

That lodged in Fate's, to wisdom they consign;

The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone;

'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool;

And scarce in human wisdom to do more:

All promise is poor dilatory man,

And that through every stage: when young, indeed,

In full content, we sometimes nobly rest,

Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,

As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise:

At thirty man suspects himself a fool;

Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;

At fifty chides his infamous delay,

Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;

In all the magnanimity of thought

Resolves, and re-resolves:then dies the same. 

(taken from The Longman Anthology of Poetry, 2006)

       I am cautious of looking for morals in this or any other work;  I think it is possible that one might  learn from a piece of art without its having taught us anything.  And this belief applies especially to something like this poems, which contains aphorisms that have become proverbs or morals.  It isn't appropriate, I think, to consider this an instructive poem simply because we are instructed by it.  Furthermore, I hardly think I am unique in being reminded by this poem not to permit myself to postpone what I must do and what I want to do, either out of laziness or because I think I will have the time to do it later.  What I find perplexing, however, is the tension between the wisdom of prompt action and the concern (not expressed in this poem, I think) that such wisdom can interfere with the enjoyment of action and can dispel the foolish but important belief of the young that their time is almost unlimited.  Not to waste time is, of course, the ideal arrangement, as is not delaying without cause.  But acting or doing from the (correct) knowledge that we are all running out of time seems... well, unsettled.  I've had periods when even a moment's inaction seemed like a terrible loss of time, but I was barely able to remember that my actions could have value in themselves, that I could profit from them enjoy them, and that I could get more satisfaction from them than simply striking them off the endless to-do list.  And what is more, maturity, adulthood, growing up - these depend in no small part on one's coming to understand that his time is limited.  It's something everyone must learn at one point or another, but I don't know whether being told that is a suitable substitute for coming to understand it oneself.  Since childhood I have been told not to procrastinate, not to delay, and that "wisdom" seemed for the most part like an invasive interference with my own arrangements. It's only in the last years, months even, that I've come to understand what it means to use my time well;  this blog is a reflection of that understanding.  But none of the admonitions of my parents or Edward Young could have brought me to this point, even though I knew they were correct.  I heard them, and I often agreed with them, but I couldn't have understood them.

King Richard's Bones

     In a previous post, I mentioned that I had all sorts of things to write about but not enough time to write about them.  In the past few days, however, as busy as I've been on account of Nemo, the blizzard, the real reason for not posting is that I have not had the presence of mind to write anything.  On my daily to-do list, I've entered "blog" for days now, and it's been transposed from list to list.  I just couldn't quiet my mind enough to think, or perhaps my mind was too quiet.  I'm not sure.  Since the one of the purposes of this project is to practice quieting my mind, I guess I failed the first test, but now that I've got the energy and the interest, I will post some of the things that have been percolating.  For organizational reasons, I'll post them discretely.
      
     To begin, I'd like to share something that is by now old news.  A week ago today, researchers confirmed that the bones discovered underneath a parking lot in Leicester are in almost certainly those of Richard Plantagenet, duke of Gloucester and later king of England.  They've been lying under the soil since the 22nd or 23rd of August, 1485.  Five hundred twenty-seven and one-half years.  For me, this discovery is somewhat more than an interesting historical development.  Almost fifteen years ago, when I was about ten years old, I attended the annual reenactment of the Battle of Bosworth Field, held on what is believed to be the site of the battle.  The thrills and regalia of such an event would have delighted any boy my age, but I was struck by the intense loyalty many of the observers showed towards Richard and the House of York.  While there has for some decades been a Richardian faction in academia, these observers, who seemed to be regular, ordinary people, had no apparent cause for attachment to Richard, and indeed they should by rights have been turned off by the centuries of defamation Richard's name has endured.  But Leicestershire was one of the strongholds of the Yorkist cause, and I have come to think that their loyalty is a touching vestige of an earlier age; that their White Rose badges, their scorn for the "Welsh milksop" are part of an atavistic sense of loyalty that had survived 500 years of political and social tumult.

    Since that reenactment,  my mind has often returned to the war between the Red Rose and the White.  That storied conflict has so captured my imagination that its participants are to me no longer simply historical figures but almost legendary ones, and the history itself is filled with the drama, the complexity, the valor, and the curious irony that fiction attempts with much effort and contrivance to imitate. When the time came to write my undergraduate thesis in History, my mind turned to the Wars of the Roses and the House of York, and though the historiographical component of thesis-writing was pleasantly diverting, it was the attainment of more information, the indulgence of my fascination with this period, that pleased me most.  And throughout my studies, I have found myself in the Yorkist camp, with Hastings and Devereux and Herbert, with the Fetlock, the White Boar, and the Sun-in-Splendor.  So as I see Richard as he is now, his bones chipped and yellowed with age, I think of him as he was 500 years ago, surrounded by Stanley's men, his crowned helmet caught in a thornbush, Sir Percival struggling to raise the Royal Banner even as his legs are hewn off, and I think of the Leicestermen who are loyal to him centuries later.  The White Rose blooms still.

Richard III Discovered

Big Bear

     It's been a few days since my last post, but for once I can say that the interval is due not to laziness or a mental drought but because I was too busy in the evenings to devote adequate time to writing worthwhile posts.  I've got a bunch of things to put up, and they'll probably get posted in a rather disjointed way.  I guess I'll start with the flashiest.

     In mid-January I flew to Los Angeles to visit family, and a few of us went skiing for us in Big Bear (elevation 8,000 ft.), which lies in the San Bernadino National Forest a few hours North-east of LA.  I'd only once skied outside the North-eastern states, and I was looking forward to the famous Western snow.  In the event I found the snow unremarkable, but the landscape was quite extraordinary, and I managed to take a few half-decent shots.

 The mountain stands above a large lake (also called Big Bear), which was largely frozen thanks to the cold snap that weekend.

 I've always loved bare conifers.

 I took this photo looking East up Bear Valley.  I was struck by how beautifully it stretched off toward the horizon, and it was a delight to drive along it on the way home.

The image here didn't resolve as clearly as I'd hoped, but in the middle of the valley was a rocky height on which were perched a number of homes.  I was very much reminded of Edoras when looking at it.

A nice glade.  I tried to ski in a bit further, but the ground didn't take to my downhill skis too well.

Looking Southwest from Big Bear.  This was at the top of the mountain, and the crest in the distance was even larger and more jagged.  I wish I'd had the time to climb up there.

     One of the most remarkable parts of the trip was the descent from San Bernadino into the Mojave Desert.  Regretfully, I was not in the frame of mind to take photographs, and so I have no record of that part of the trip, for which I kick myself now.

Two Wonderful Websites! And a New Feature.

     Here are the links to two websites that have given me much pleasure. 

Beowulf on Steorarume

The Story of Mac Dathó's Pig

     I love both of these works (Beowulf is almost meat and drink for me), and it was such a delight to find these sites, kindly put up by some well-read and public-spirited individuals.  There are a few others floating around cyberspace, and I'll post links to them as I find them.

     I've also decided to add a new feature to this blog.  Once a week, I shall post a poem I've come across, along with a few words of my own.  Since I am clever and inventive, I shall name this feature "Poem of the Week."  The only requirement is that the poem be new, that I have not read it before today.  I hope that will keep me reading during the intervals between each poem.

     This week's poem is by Archilochus of Paros, a poet of the 7th Century BC.  The Greeks considered him in the same class as Homer and Hesiod, and he was, as far as we know, one of the first Greeks to be both poet and soldier, the two vocations having been kept ritually separate theretofore.

          My ash spear is my barley bread,
          My ash spear is my Ismarian wine.
          I lean on my spear and drink. 

     I came across these lines while flipping through a textbook one of my friends recently acquired, and I was struck by their simplicity and directness.  One can picture Archilochus resting against his spear, his hide shield slung over his back, and quenching his thirst under the unrelenting Mediterranean sun.  There's something tantalizing, I think, about short poems. They're almost like photographs.  Every word carries such impact, and perhaps it's that, the force of each syllable, that brings the subject of the poem into our minds so vividly.  Or at least into my mind.  I don't mean to speak for anyone else!

Remiss Already!

     Over the past few days I have been fiddling with all the unimportant parts of the blog - templates, backgrounds, trying to re-size the masthead photograph - instead of doing what I am supposed to, which is writing.  It's startling how difficult it can be to think of something to write, really.  Often something will occur to me during the day, but when I sit down to write the ideas seem to flutter away.  The answer, I imagine, is to write more and write more often, so that any errant thoughts are likely to be caught at one point.
     I really enjoy writing.  As I put up my review up the other day, I was reminded of how much I miss writing.  The work in which I am currently involved doesn't require any real writing, but in previous years of study I wrote constantly, and I am sorry that I no longer make much use of my word processor.  I have been told a few times that I am quite critical. Too critical, even.  But I think that I criticize none so harshly as I do myself.  One might almost say that I make an effort to do so, not only from self-castigation but from the fear of being laxer with myself than with someone else.  In consequence I tend to be retrospectively dissatisfied with my work and sometimes cringe at the errors time and distance permit me to detect.  All the same, I take occasional pleasure in rereading some of what I have written in past years.  And even if I didn't, there is value in writing, or in whatever else, if it pleases me at the moment of action.
     I am seated at my IKEA desk.  To my right are an old jar with a few dessicated dahlias, cut near the end of last fall's bountiful crop, a sprig of pine with two small cones my mother gave me before I returned to school this semester, and two jars, one Colman's Mustard and the other an old spice jar, that hold earth from the two places in which I grew up.  Behind them, attached with small magnets to a steel wire, are postcards.  A king from the Lewis Chess Set stares at me, sword across his knees and eyes bulging from his head; below him, the siege of Jerusalem from the Franks Casket; at the bottom, Richard III in miniature, with his axe and crowned sallet, and Percival Thirwall behind him, bearing aloft the White Boar of Gloucester.  To my left, a banker's lamp, papers, medication, and an orange.  From the computer comes the Chanson de Guillaume.  With the blinds closed, I am severed from the world.  I could be on a spaceship, traversing the immeasurable, frigid void, my housemate's music the repetitive grumbling of the FTL engine.  I suppose that this is one of my retreats; certainly, intrusion is unwelcome, and permission to enter rarely given.  I can do little, really, to keep it sequestered when the world is determined to enter: I can fence myself in, but I cannot forever fence it out.  But few indeed are those whom I have been happy to allow in or whom I have wished were present.  Sadly, I cannot rely on it, or on any of the few other retreats I have.  I suppose the only retreat one has is the castle of one's own mind.  Music, weather, landscape, light, and the many other things people use to help themselves think or relax on their own can prepare the mind, they can soothe it and make it receptive, but in the end they are only trappings.  If the castle's gates are barred, no suppliant may enter, howsoever eloquent or desperate his pleading.  I hope, though, that with effort I can make the door-ward less reluctant to lift the portcullis.

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey

     A few days ago I posted this review of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey on a forum devoted to Middle-Earth.  I was quite pleased with it, so I thought I'd repost it here.

I guess it’s a bit late to wade into this discussion, especially since the movie has been pretty well chewed over by now. But I figure I might as well add my two cents.

I don’t think I need to quibble over the many things Jackson changed, however bothersome or irritating they may be. As Abraham Lincoln said, there are always some fleas a dog can't scratch, and no matter what Jackson changed or omitted (or left in), he was bound to upset somebody. I needn't discuss the particulars, which have already have been endlessly debated in this thread. The subject I intend to address is more general, and though some of the alterations dismayed me greatly as a purist, the real flaws with the movie lie not with Jackson's misapprehension of the vanquishing of the Witch-king or how quickly wargs can traverse the Misty Mountains but with the kind of story Jackson decided to tell. The change in the point, in what one is tempted to call the message, of Bilbo's adventure perturbs me more than whether the spiders of Mirkwood served themselves or the Necromancer.

What makes The Hobbit such an affecting book is that we as readers are so intimately acquainted with Bilbo that we cannot help but identify with him. When he sits outside his doorstep, we sit with him; when he suffers from his journey's discomforts, we share his misery; and when he is terrified or bold or clever, we feel a pulse of fear or a rush of excitement too. Bilbo is the heart of the story, and the adventure unfolds around him; it does what it must to change him as the author desires, but The Hobbit remains concentrated very much on Bilbo and only focuses on the Quest as it concerns him. It is therefore fitting that the real drama unfolds in the quiet moments when Bilbo makes small but important decisions and not during the battles and great exploits, from which Bilbo is largely absent.

Jackson's movie, on the other hand is about the Quest itself. It is about Thorin & Co., it is about the White Council and the Necromancer, and in consequence Bilbo is almost forgotten for much of the movie. In LotR, Jackson kept us close to the protagonists, and we suffered and triumphed with them because we were attached to them. Here, Jackson distracted us with fights, chases, and councils, and our hero, and by extension we ourselves, ceased to be involved in the movie's plot. The only parts of the movie met with almost universal acclaim are the Bag End sequence and the Riddle Game, and I believe they are so popular because they are the only times we really get caught up in the adventure alongside Bilbo. The rest of the movie is Bilbo-less, and lavish as it may be, it offers nobody with whom we can really empathize. To remedy this absence, Jackson invents a few twists (Bilbo's attempt to leave the company while in the cave, his defense of Thorin’s body, etc.) to draw our eyes back to Bilbo, but they are so sudden and contrived that they feel out of place.

Instead of identifying with Bilbo, we are expected to empathize with the many secondary characters whom Jackson has magnified into semi-protagonists. But most of the secondary characters in The Hobbit are intentionally flat and distant, in large part to emphasize how much Bilbo is out of his element. So Jackson has to invent, to cobble together the tiniest of references, and Jackson is no Tolkien. Many of Jackson's errors, both cinematic and "factual," are the result of his having to flesh out the barest mention of characters and character traits. I suppose the interactions between Thorin and Balin were fairly convincing, but apart from them the dwarves remained caricatures rather than characters.

As a result of all the new “dramatic” elements we are forced to endure a great deal of unnecessary dialog, some of which drags on so long that I was almost bored at times. The dwarves’ sending Bilbo to investigate the trolls’ fire, a simple idea conveyed by a sentence or two in the book, turns into five minutes of chit-chat (including a number of “jokes”), for example. This sort of elongation diminished the excitement and damaged the pacing. The same goes for the constant bickering between some of the characters, especially Thorin and Gandalf. To paraphrase Harry S. Plinkett, “people arguing is drama!”

I have come to find Jackson's work somewhat frustrating precisely because some portions of it are so well-wrought; consequently, the disappointing segments are all the more galling. The first twenty or so minutes, the dwarves' song about Smaug, the subtle references to little bits of lore, and some of Jackson's own artistic touches, like the dragon-shaped kite that flies over Dale, are wonderful; indeed, the dwarves' song is one of my favorite scenes from any movie. But these are offset by the all the flaws that other posters have mentioned. I did not dislike this movie, and I enjoyed some parts of it immensely. But I think that Jackson suffered a little bit from George Lucas syndrome. LotR was so well-received and so successful that Jackson, and everybody else, assumed that the Hobbit movies would be an automatic success, and consequently Jackson got carried away a bit. If the prolongations, digressions, and excesses had been reined in somewhat, it would have been a tighter, more effective movie, in no small part because we’d have stuck closer to Bilbo and been able to see the adventure through his eyes. In any case, I hope, as Bilbo says, that the worst part is behind us and that the next installment will be spared some of these flaws.

Once More Unto the Breach

     I've always been a poor diarist, and over the years I have been incapable of finding the presence of mind to write an entry for every week, let alone very day.  My efforts at blogs, plogs, notebooks, and all the rest have failed as well.  Something always managed to interfere with the routine I was trying to establish, which is of course another way of saying that I lacked the discipline and attention to write my entries in spite of the disruptions and distractions.  But I've always been impressed by people who've kept diaries.  It's not just the act of writing, which requires time and effort, nor need it be the style, or even the content.  It's that they managed to preserve, however busy or chaotic their lives were at the time, a few minutes in the day simply for themselves; that during these minutes they could calm their minds enough to reflect on the day's actions or thoughts, explore a subject that interested them, or simply to indulge in fantasy or speculation; and that they considered their own thoughts and comments, serious or idle, worth putting to paper, perhaps worth rereading and reevaluating. 

     It's this last point, as much as all the quotidian impediments, that has kept me from writing down what I think and think about.  My inner monologue has always seemed too unimportant or senseless to preserve; doing so would be almost presumptuous, regardless of what it actually contains.  In consequence,  I have no record of the evolution of my thoughts or imaginings other than my memory, which cannot preserve many of them for future consideration.  I sometimes find myself thinking in loops, revisiting the same ideas without carrying them further, and letting my interests and mental pursuits get stuck in the mire of under-use. 

     Apart from it being useful and helpful to write about what one thinks, I hope that by keeping a record of my thoughts, interests, and speculations I will be able to detect when they are stagnating and, by extension, when I myself stagnate mentally or fall into the patterns of thought that hold me back.  And the habit of consciously setting aside time for thought is one I'd like to acquire.  I flatter myself that anyone who reads this blog will find it diverting and worthwhile, though I can't imagine very many people will come across it; in any case I must and do write for myself and not for an audience.

     And so, in Gottes Namen, as my father sometimes says,  I begin.