Thursday, November 07, 2013

Sunday, March 17, 2013

On Honor Thy father and Mother (continued)
Emily Rapp in "The Still Point of The Turning World" says as follows:
Diagnosed of Tay-Sachs disease when 9 months old whose victims usually live about 3 years the mother comes to the following hard-won wisdom:
"Roman taught me that children do not exist to honor their parents; their parents exist to honor them.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Reading is GOOD

In a very real sense, then, people who have read good literature have lived more than people who cannot or will not read. To have read Gulliver's Travels is to have had the experience, with Jonathan Swift, of turning sick at the stomach at the conduct of the human race; to read Huckleberry Finn is to feel what it is like to drift down the Mississippi River on a raft; to have read Byron is to have suffered with him his rebellions and neuroses and to have enjoyed with him his nose-thumbing at society; to have read Native Son is to know how it feels to be frustrated in the particular way in which Negroes in Chicago are frustrated. This is the great task that affirmative communication performs: it enables us to feel how others felt about life, even if they lived thousands of miles away and centuries ago. It is not true that we have only one life to live; if we can read, we  can live as many more lives and as many kinds of lives as we wish.

Extract from Language in Thought and Action - S.I. Hayakawa.1939.

Saturday, March 03, 2012

Concluding paragraph in Alice in Wonderland.

"Wake up, Alice dear!" said her sister. "Why, what a long sleep you've have had!"
"Oh, I've had such a curious dream!" said Alice, and she told her sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she finished, her kissed her, and said," It was a curious dream, dear, certainly; but now run in to your tea; it's getting late." So Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might, what a wonderful dream it had been.But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and this was her dream:

First, she dreamed about little Alice herself: once again the tiny hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking up into hers- she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that queer little toss of her head, to keep back the wandering hair that would always get into her eyes - and still as she listened, or seemed to listen, the whole place around her became alive with the strange creatures of her little sister's dream.

The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by - the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighboring pool- she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-endinh meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests o execution- once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess's knee, while plates and dishes crashed around - once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard's slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs, filled the air, mixed up with the distant sob of the miserable Mock Turtle.
So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland,though she knew she had but to open them again and all would change to dull reality- the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds-
the rattling tea-cups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen's shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd -boy - and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she knew) to the confused clamor of the busy farm-yard- while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle's heavy sobs.
Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how sh would keep through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and make their eyes bright and eager with many strange tale, perhaps even with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys, remembering her own child-life, and happy summer days.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Why I want to convert.

Wherever the Catholic sun doth shine,
There's always laughter and good red wine.
At least I've always found it so.
Benedicamus Domino (Let's Bless the Lord."
Hilaire Belloc.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

ALONE by Edgar Allan Poe

From my childhood's hour I have not been
As others were - I have not seen
As others saw - I could not bring
My passions from a common spring -
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow - I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone -
And all I lov'd - I lov'd alone -
Then - in my childhood - in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn
From evr'y depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still -
From the torrent, or the fountain -
From the red cliff of the mountain -
From the sun that round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold -
From the lighting of the sky
And it pass'd me flying by -
From the thunder,and the storm -
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view -