More Pleasures of Reading

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  • vinteuil
    Full Member
    • Nov 2010
    • 13042

    #16
    I liked the following - not least because it must be the longest poem written in one sentence...

    OUT OF THE FRYING PAN INTO THE FIRE.

    I dreamt one night - it was a horrid dream -
    That I was dead, and made was the division
    Between the innocent flesh and guilty spirit,
    And that the former, with a white sheet wrapt round
    And nailed up in a box, was to the bottom
    Sunk of a deep and narrow pit, which straight
    Was filled to overheaping with a mixture
    Of damp clay, rotting flesh and mouldering bones,
    And lidded with a weighty stone whereon
    Was writ my name and on what days precise
    I first and last drew breath; while up the latter
    Flew, without help of wings or fins or members,
    By its mere lightness, through the air, to heaven;
    And there being placed before the judgment-seat
    Of its Maker, and most unsatisfactory
    Answer returning to the question: - "Wherefore
    Wast thou as I made thee?" was sent down
    Tumbling by its own weight, down down to Hell,
    To sink or swim or wade as best it might,
    In sulphurous fires unquenchable for ever,
    With Socrates and Plato, Aristides
    Falsely surnamed the just, and Zoroaster,
    Titus the good, and Cato and divine
    Homer and Virgil, and so many millions
    And millions more of wrongfully called good
    And wise and virtuous, that for want of sulphur
    And fire and snakes and instruments of torture
    And room in Hell, the Universal Maker
    Was by his own inherent justice forced,
    That guilt might not go scot-free and unpunished,
    To set apart so large a share of Heaven
    For penal colonies and jails and treadmills,
    That mutinies for want of flying-space
    Began t' arise among the cherubim
    And blessed spirits, and a Proclamation
    Of Martial Law in Heaven was just being read
    When, in a sweat of agony and fear,
    I woke, and found myself in Germany,
    In the close prison of a German bed,
    And at my bedside Mr. Oberkellner
    With printed list of questions in his hand:
    My name and age and birthplace and religion,
    Trade or profession, wherefore I had come,
    How long to stay, whither next bound. and so forth;
    All at my peril to be truly answered,
    And upon each a sixpence to the State.
    Which duly paid I should obtain permission
    To stay where I was so long as the State pleased,
    Without being prosecuted as a felon,
    Spy, or disturber of the public peace.

    TROMPETER-SCHLOESSCHEN, DRESDEN, April 15, 1854.

    Comment

    • PatrickOD

      #17
      Please ignore.
      Oh! You have!
      Last edited by Guest; 27-01-11, 12:41. Reason: embarassment.

      Comment

      • french frank
        Administrator/Moderator
        • Feb 2007
        • 30641

        #18
        I liked that particular poem (or part) and I'm intrigued where you might have found it, for:

        "At its best his poetry has something of the flavour of Robert Browning and Arthur Hugh Clough while at its worst it resembles the doggerel of William McGonagall. His five volumes of verse were all published at his own expense and received no critical attention either during or after his lifetime."

        Pianorak has an interesting one too. And with Amazon's lethal 'one-click' <sigh> it's on its way ...
        It isn't given us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal. A moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world.

        Comment

        • vinteuil
          Full Member
          • Nov 2010
          • 13042

          #19
          Originally posted by french frank View Post
          I liked that particular poem (or part) and I'm intrigued where you might have found it, for:

          "At its best his poetry has something of the flavour of Robert Browning and Arthur Hugh Clough while at its worst it resembles the doggerel of William McGonagall. His five volumes of verse were all published at his own expense and received no critical attention either during or after his lifetime."

          Pianorak has an interesting one too. And with Amazon's lethal 'one-click' <sigh> it's on its way ...
          Yes, the one-sentence poem: by James Henry [1798-1876] - an unfortunate name for a writer: in computer searching the poor man gets lost in the welter of references to Henry James... That poem is anthologised in The New Oxford Book of Victorian Verse ; I was so tickled by it that I went on to acquire elibron reprints of A Half Year's Poems and Poems Chiefly Philosophical. He was an interesting cove, a medical doctor, atheist, and hater of religion. But he's nowhere near the level of Clough, one of my particular heroes.

          Pianorak's #14 sounds like Norman Douglas - I'm assuming South Wind ? Haven't read it for thirty years, but I was a big fan.

          Incidentally I find that the amazon one-click set-up doesn't seem to allow me to opt for free delivery - is there a way you can have both?

          Comment

          • Pianorak
            Full Member
            • Nov 2010
            • 3128

            #20
            Originally posted by vinteuil View Post
            Pianorak's #14 sounds like Norman Douglas - I'm assuming South Wind

            Incidentally I find that the amazon one-click set-up doesn't seem to allow me to opt for free delivery - is there a way you can have both?
            You assume correctly. I think you are right, one-click = no free delivery.
            My life, each morning when I dress, is four and twenty hours less. (J Richardson)

            Comment

            • french frank
              Administrator/Moderator
              • Feb 2007
              • 30641

              #21
              Originally posted by Pianorak View Post
              You assume correctly. I think you are right, one-click = no free delivery.
              Would you get free delivery on everything, no matter how little they cost? Not, presumably on the £0.01 deals?
              It isn't given us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal. A moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world.

              Comment

              • Pianorak
                Full Member
                • Nov 2010
                • 3128

                #22
                Originally posted by french frank View Post
                Would you get free delivery on everything, no matter how little they cost? Not, presumably on the £0.01 deals?
                I don't think the free delivery applies to Amazon marketplace deals. However, I have ordered books for a penny which, even allowing for the current £2.75 for p&p, is still a bit of a bargain. Watch out for: Delivered FREE in the UK with Super Saver Delivery. Click: Add to Basket - Click: Proceed to checkout - You probably have to sign in now - Under "Choose a Delivery Speed" click FREE Super Saver Delivery. Delivery is supposed to take a bit longer - but I often have had 24 hr delivery. - Sorry, probably too much information!
                My life, each morning when I dress, is four and twenty hours less. (J Richardson)

                Comment

                • vinteuil
                  Full Member
                  • Nov 2010
                  • 13042

                  #23
                  Originally posted by PatrickOD View Post
                  Please ignore.
                  Oh! You have!
                  Patrick - and there was I, thinking one might make a nice distinction between the parataxis of your text and the hypotaxis of my text, when - blow me down! - you disappear!!

                  Comment

                  • french frank
                    Administrator/Moderator
                    • Feb 2007
                    • 30641

                    #24
                    And I was going to dig out True History of the Kelly Gang to compare the style ...
                    It isn't given us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal. A moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world.

                    Comment

                    • vinteuil
                      Full Member
                      • Nov 2010
                      • 13042

                      #25
                      XIII. Claude to Eustace.

                      Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but it IS so.
                      She doesn't like me, Eustace; I think she never will like me.
                      Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not her ways?
                      Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar wholly?
                      'Tis not her fault; 'tis her nature, her virtue, to misapprehend them:
                      'Tis not her fault; 'tis her beautiful nature, not ever to know me.
                      Hopeless it seems, - yet I cannot, though hopeless, determine to leave it:
                      She goes - therefore I go; she moves, - I move, not to lose her.


                      XIV. Claude to Eustace.

                      Oh, 'tisn't manly, of course, 'tisn't manly, this method of wooing;
                      'Tisn't the way very likely to win. For the woman, they tell you,
                      Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement hero;
                      She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul; and for knowledge, -
                      Knowledge, O ye Gods! - when did they appreciate knowledge?
                      Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not desire it.
                      Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle about me!
                      (Care about me, indeed! and do I really expect it?)
                      But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant;
                      Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels her;
                      Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite presence,
                      Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs her from me.
                      Not that I care very much! - any way I escape from the boy's own
                      Folly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy.
                      Not that I mind very much! Why should I? I am not in love, and
                      Am prepared, I think, if not by previous habit,
                      Yet in the spirit beforehand for this and all that is like it;
                      It is an easier matter for us contemplative creatures,
                      Us upon whom the pressure of action is laid so lightly;
                      We, discontented indeed with things in particular, idle,
                      Sickly, complaining, by faith, in the vision of things in general,
                      Manage to hold on our way without, like others around us,
                      Seizing the nearest arm to comfort, help, and support us.

                      Comment

                      • vinteuil
                        Full Member
                        • Nov 2010
                        • 13042

                        #26
                        "... contemplation, "which dries the brain and extinguisheth natural heat; for whilst the spirits are intent to meditation above in the head, the stomach and liver are left destitute, and thence come black blood and crudities by defect of concoction, and for want of exercise the superfluous vapours cannot exhale," &c. The same reasons are repeated by Gomesius, lib. 4, cap. 1. de sale, Nymannus orat. de imag. Jo. Voschius, lib. 2, cap. 5, de peste: and something more they add, that hard students are commonly troubled with gouts, catarrhs, rheums, cachexia, bradiopepsia, bad eyes, stone and colic, crudities, oppilations, vertigo, winds, consumptions, and all such diseases as come by overmuch sitting; they are most part lean, dry, ill-coloured, spend their fortunes, lose their wits, and many times their lives, and all through immoderate pains, and extraordinary studies. If you will not believe the truth of this, look upon great Tostatus and Thomas Aquinas's works, and tell me whether those men took pains? Peruse Austin, Hierom, &c., and many thousands besides."

                        Comment

                        • Don Basilio
                          Full Member
                          • Nov 2010
                          • 320

                          #27
                          Burton? Anatomie?

                          Comment

                          • french frank
                            Administrator/Moderator
                            • Feb 2007
                            • 30641

                            #28
                            Originally posted by Don Basilio View Post
                            Burton? Anatomie?
                            Yes, and how very dare he! "... hard students are [...] most part lean, dry, ill-coloured, spend their fortunes, lose their wits ..."

                            vinteuil, you're getting ahead of us with your reading. I've just received a copy of South, erm, Wind with a rather, erm, cheeky (cheeky? yes, I think that would be right) picture on the cover. Bit long ...

                            It isn't given us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal. A moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world.

                            Comment

                            • vinteuil
                              Full Member
                              • Nov 2010
                              • 13042

                              #29
                              Originally posted by french frank View Post
                              vinteuil, you're getting ahead of us with your reading.
                              Yes, Robert Burton, 'The Anatomy of Melancholy'. But for the real stylist of that period -

                              "Lastly, we are not Magisterial in opinions, nor have we Dictator-like obtruded our conceptions; but in the humility of Enquiries or disquisitions, have only proposed them unto more ocular discerners. And therefore opinions are free, and open it is for any to think or declare the contrary. And we shall so far encourage contradiction, as to promise no disturbance, or re-oppose any Pen, that shall Fallaciously or captiously refute us; that shall only lay hold of our lapses, single out Digressions, Corollaries, or Ornamental conceptions, to evidence his own in as indifferent truths. And shall only take notice of such, whose experimental and judicious knowledge shall solemnly look upon it; not only to destroy of ours, but to establish of his own; not to traduce or extenuate, but to explain and dilucidate, to add and ampliate, according to the laudable custom of the Ancients in their sober promotions of Learning. Unto whom notwithstanding, we shall not contentiously rejoin, or only to justifie our own, but to applaud or confirm his maturer assertions; and shall confer what is in us unto his name and honour; Ready to be swallowed in any worthy enlarger: as having acquired our end, if any way, or under any name we may obtain a work, so much desired, and yet desiderated of Truth."

                              Comment

                              • vinteuil
                                Full Member
                                • Nov 2010
                                • 13042

                                #30
                                or even more magnificently -

                                "But the Quincunx of Heaven runs low, and 'tis time to close the five ports of knowledge. We are unwilling to spin out our awaking thoughts into the phantasmes of sleep, which often continueth praecogitations, making Cables of Cobwebbes and Wildernesses of handsome Groves. Beside Hippocrates hath spoke so little, and the Oneirocriticall Masters have left such frigid Interpretations from plants, that there is little encouragement to dream of Paradise it self. Nor will the sweetest delight of Gardens afford much comfort in sleep; wherein the dulnesse of that sense shakes hands with delectable odours; and though in the Bed of Cleopatra, can hardly with any delight raise up the ghost of a Rose.
                                Night, which Pagan Theology could make the daughter of Chaos, affords no advantage to the description of order: Although no lower then that Masse can we derive its Genealogy. All things began in order, so shall they end, and so shall they begin again; according to the ordainer of order and mystical Mathematicks of the City of Heaven.
                                Though Somnus in Homer be sent to rowse up Agamemnon, I finde no such effects in these drowsie approaches of sleep. To keep our eyes open longer were but to act our Antipodes. The Huntsmen are up in America, and they are already past their first sleep in Persia. But who can be drowsie at that howr which freed us from everlasting sleep? or have slumbring thoughts at that time, when sleep it self must end, and as some conjecture all shall awake again?"

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