On This Fateful Day

"Beware the ides of March."

  - Soothsayer, Julius Caesar, 1.2

This Democracy of Clouds in Full Hurricane

"These waves; this ebb and flow; this terrible go-and-come; this noise of every gust; these lights and shadows; these vegetations belonging to the gulf; this democracy of clouds in full hurricane; these eagles in the foam; these wonderful gatherings of stars reflected in one knows not what mysterious crowd by millions of luminous specks, heads confused with the innumerable; those grand errant lightnings which seem to watch; these huge sobs; these monsters glimpsed at; this roaring, disturbing these nights of darkness; these furies, these frenzies, these tempests, these rocks, these shipwrecks, these fleets crushing each other, these human thunders mixed with divine thunders, this blood in the abyss; then these graces, these sweetnesses, these fêtes these gay white veils, these fishing-boats, these songs in the uproar, these splendid ports, this smoke of the earth, these towns in the horizon, this deep blue of water and sky, this useful sharpness, this bitterness which renders the universe wholesome, this rough salt without which all would putrefy, these angers and assuagings, this whole in one, this unexpected in the immutable, this vast marvel of monotony inexhaustibly varied, this level after that earthquake, these hells and these paradises of immensity eternally agitated, this infinite, this unfathomable,—all this can exist in one spirit..."

Victor Hugo
1864

William Shakespeare's Birthday Anniversary

Tab 1 Feature:

26 April 2016
A Birthday Anniversary

William Shakespeare
The Bard
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)

Earl Wrightson
Baritone

1964

- It Was a Lover and His Lass 2'08"
from "As You Like It"
Act V, Scene III
(Shakespeare, arr. Hyman)
See lyrics below.

~*~

Tab 2 Feature:

26 April 2016
A Birthday Anniversary

William Shakespeare
The Bard
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)

Earl Wrightson
Baritone

1964

- O Mistress Mine 2'43"
from "Twelfth Night"
Act II, Scene III
(Shakespeare, arr. Hyman)
See lyrics below.


This MP3 post expired on 05-07-2016.
Click or tap here to play the current selections.

Selected Shakespeare lyrics:

As You Like It
ACT V SCENE III
"It Was a Lover and His Lass"

It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o'er the green corn-field did pass

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet lovers love the spring.

Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino
These pretty country folks would lie,

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet lovers love the spring.

This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet lovers love the spring.

And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino;
For love is crowned with the prime

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding:
Sweet lovers love the spring.


Twelfth Night
Act II Scene III
"O Mistress Mine"

O mistress mine! where are you roaming?
O! stay and hear; your true love’s coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man’s son doth know.

What is love? ’tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What’s to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

Books Read May 2014

Fiction Western - William W. Johnstone, "Hell Town"

Non-Fiction - Rosaria Champagne Butterfield, "The Secret Thoughts of an Unlikely Convert: an English Professor's Journey into Christian Faith"

I am think of doing a book review on this tenured post-modern English professor's testimony of her salvation.

Book Read in April 2014

Fiction Thriller - Vince Flynn, "Transfer of Power."

Book Read in November 2013

Christian Writings - Charles H. Spurgeon, "A Defense of Calvinism."

Books Read in September 2013

Mystery/Thriller - Dan Brown, "Inferno."
Science Fiction - Jack Campbell, "Beyond the Frontier: Guardian."

Books Read in August 2013

Fiction Fantasy - Audrey Niffenegger, "The Time Traveler's Wife."

Fiction Historical - William Napier, "Attila."

Fiction Historical - C.S. Forester, "The Good Shepherd."

Books Read in June 2013

Western - William Johnstone, "The Drifter."

Modern Classic - Wilson Rawls, "Where the Red Fern Grows."

Science Fiction - David Weber, "Mission of Honor."

Laurie Lee's Three-Book Autobiography

Laurie Lee's autobiographical triology has to be one of my favorite books housed on my library book shelves (see the uploaded image of the hardbound which the authored signed in 1992). Lee died in 1997.

His inimitble writing permeated with such lyrical warmth and beauty; so a while back I wrote a book review for Amazon on the second book of his three-volumne biography, "As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning.' That was during the time before Kindle and the proliferation of mobile devices with book reader apps.

I now have a digital version of this book installed on my iOS devices. Surely, it will be read again.

Starting New Book Reading List for 2013

I have downloaded this e-book by Butterfield from the Amazon Prime Lender Library.
Dunnett's first of an 8-book series paperback. Dorothy Dunnett's books, for me, must be read in traditionally printed formats either as paperback or hardbound book.

Soyez hardis en joye mis,
Chacun s’assaisonne,
La fleur de lys,
Fleur de hault pris
Y est en personne.
Suivez Françoys!
Suivez la couronne!
Sonnez, trompettes et clairons
Pour resjouyr les coms, les coms, les compaignons.
    --La Bataille de Marignan

Indeed, I am following Francis in Dunnett's last book on the Lymond Chronicles. In the previous Book 5, as the Supreme General to Ivan the Terrible, Crawford modernized the Russian military to fight against the Tartars. This time, Francis Crawford is fighting for France to stave off a pincer invasion by Mary Tutor from across the English Channel, and the Spanish force lead by her Spanish husband King Phillip II of the Habsburg Dynasty.

The Lymond Chronicles, Book 5

After almost four months of slacking since I began this book in July, tonight I finished reading this most excellent Book Four of the Lymond Chronicle, "Pawn in Frankincense."

And how could I love my leman without longing?

When the soul has what it loves: it is without longing.

With medieval literary gems such as the preceding two lines strewn about in Book Four, I long to begin reading the next book in the chronicles. So onward to Book Five I am, "The Ringed Castle."

Finally, the Lymond Chronicles, Book 4

After months of meandering and dawdling in the literature canyon, this afternoon I finally emerged holding in my hand triumphantly a finished read of 'The Disorderly Knight'; this book being Dorothy Dunnett's third book of a six-book series nicknamed the Lymond Chronicles.

Déjà le ciel aux Indes rougissoit
Et l'aulbe encor' de ses tresses tant blondes
Faisant gresler mille perlettes rondes
De ses trésors les prez enrichissoit

There it is. Onward to book four of the series, 'Pawn in Frankincense'.

Pilate's Monolgue

Pilate's Monolgue
[This monologue of Pilate to Herod takes place a few days after the resurrection at the home of Pontius Pilate. Pilate and Herod are standing on the east porch of the Governor's mansion in Jerusalem, looking toward the Mount of Olives. The time is just at sunset.]

Oh! Herod, couldst thou find no fault in Him—
The Man of Galilee? Clearly He
Belonged within thy jurisdiction. Didst
Thou fear to do thy duty? Still I blame
Thee not—the mob was clamorous for blood!
I questioned Him, but like a lamb before
His shearers He was dumb and answered me
No word. Was not His silence proof of guilt?
But even then I offered to release
Him, till the rabble shouted, "Crucify
This Man: set free Barabbas, if thou wilt,
But we demand the life of Jesus whom
They call the Christ." Oh! dost thou think His blood
Can be upon my head? I washed my hands
Before the multitude and told them I
Was innocent of any crime toward Him.
I scourged Him, it is true, but that was all.
They stripped Him and bedecked Him with a robe
Of scarlet cloth, and placed a crown of thorns
Upon His head, and then they mocked and jeered
And spat upon Him, hailing Him as King!
I can not think that this was right, but still
They say He blasphemed and deserved to die.
But what is blasphemy?

Oh, Herod, I can never rid my dreams of Jesus' look.
He turned His eyes upon me as I dipped
My fingers in the bowl—a glance that seemed
More fraught with love and pity than with hate.
He blessed the people as He hung upon
The cross in agony of pain, and prayed
His God to pardon them because they knew
Not what they did. Thou canst not, Herod, think
This Nazarene was more than man? It can't
Be possible that He whom Pilate scourged
Was Christ indeed! But could a man forgive
His murderers? They say the tomb is burst
And that His body is no longer there!
I might endure His curse. My pen has stabbed
To death a thousand men and never felt
Compunction for the deed, because I knew
They hated me. But now the voice that haunts
My sleep asks only blessings on my head.
They say He wept for men because of sin,
And yet no guile was found in Him. If I
Could close my eyes and see that face no more
I might find peace again.

Three nights I have not slept.
I hear that Judas hanged himself!
And now no guard that watched before
The sepulchre can anywhere be found.
Had I but set the Galilean free!
But did he not insult my majesty?
He must have known I ruled in Cæsar's stead.
What if my wife was troubled in a dream
And suffered many things on His account?
A Roman governor must be a man!
They say the temple's veil was rent in twain—
The sky was darkened and the sun was hid.
He said I had no power to crucify
Except that it be given from above.
He did not know the strength of Pilate's arm!
'Tis said He cried, "My God, my God, why hast
Thou now forsaken me?" The earth did quake,
The tombs were cracked, and then the shrouded dead
Stalked ghost-like through the fields and open streets!
Look! Look! What is yon robe of shining white?
Behold the Man—the Man of Galilee!
With outstretched arms He stands on Olivet,
The shadows purpling o'er Gethsemane.
I hear Him cry in agony of soul,
"How often would I, O Jerusalem,
Have gathered unto Me thy children as
A hen her brood beneath her wing, but ye
Would not come." Herod, canst thou hear His voice?
It is impossible! It can not be!
He must not know that I am Pilate! Still
He calls my name! I can not, dare not go!
What would the people think? I will
Be free. There is no blood upon my hands.
See, I wash them clean and am myself
Again. Oh! Now the spell is gone. Though not
The king, I am governor of the Jews!

-- Cotton Noe (1916)

Resurrection Heralded

Easter had come; the season of light and refreshment for universal nature! Winter, as he departed, had shrouded himself in a veil of gloomy mist, and spring followed close after fleeing abysmal clouds. She had sent forth the blasts, her messengers, to arouse the earth from its slumber; they roared above meadow and plain, waved their wings around the mighty summits of the mountain ranges, and stirred the sea to its depths. There was a savage conflict and turmoil in the air, whence issued, nevertheless, a note as of victory. The blasts were those of spring, and were instinct with life,--they heralded a resurrection.

E. Werner, 1901

Books Galore

I have a number of books I am reading. Here are some of them:

* E-book:

- The Jackdaw...I have been reading this one for years on my PDA.

- Gone with the Wind ...ditto.

- Out of Africa...ditto.

- Room with a View...ditto.

* Paperbacks:

- The Lymond Chronicles...I am now reading book 2 of 6.

* Audio Books:

- Genghis...am listening to book 3 of 3

* On hold at the city library:

- The Brenner Assignment

The Eyes of March Are Upon You

Caesar:
Who is it in the press that calls on me?
I hear a tongue shriller than all the music
Cry "Caesar!" Speak, Caesar is turn'd to hear.

Soothsayer:
Beware the ides of March.

Caesar:
What man is that?

Brutus:
A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

Julius Caesar Act 1, scene 2, 15–19
-Shakespeare


From my 2005 post, on this Ides of March word play:

For what it is worth, Julius Caesar's cronies conspired and stabbed him to death on this day in 44 B.C.

There is a surgical procedure, an abdominal incision, for the delivery of a baby named after this Roman emperor's legendary birth; the Caesaren-Section.

One way or another, Julius Caesar was on the cutting edge of history.

A Rose By Another Name

We have a staff officer from another unit assigned to our services until the end December. Her name is very uncommon. Yet, in English and Romance languages speaking countries, the name would be recognized instantly.

Several days ago I sauntered into her office during a Folger coffee moment. After we exchanged the pleasantries and the three Ws, I teased her with a literary game. It was one of the ways I used to break the ice. Especially with her surname, this game was well suited.

"Shakespeare, I have a mission for you." I eyed her with a mischievous grin. Nonchalantly, she smiled back thus tacitly agreed to the take on this quest. I tossed her this clincher, "If you should fail to meet half of the assigned objectives, you'll have to change your family name." She wasn't fazed by the condition nor by not knowing what the rules of the game were.

Later that afternoon, I returned to her with a print of The Shakepearean Fantasy by James Christensen. It was then she knew this thing came out of the left field. She walked right into it.

Any Shakespeare worthy of his word, as it were, must uphold the family marque and the reputation of ancestor Bill. Her subdued deportment had not lessen her resolve. Perhaps she did not want to give me the satisfaction. With what I thought was a fleeting wry smile, she listened to the instructions and began to scrutinize the Christensen drawing.

Two days later I saw her again at another Folger coffee moment. She was methodically transferring the contents from one old purse to a new one. What she engaged in at that intersect of space and time was mission critical. With the purse being a women's life essentials, I dared not risked the consequences of diverting her attention during a purse-transplant. Out of deference to her finishing the task, I watched the operation from a distance. Her hands danced between the two purses like bees interrogated the clovers of the field.

"I could only identify six of the plays," she finally looked over my way. As I walked over to her table, she got up and unceremoniously threw the old purse in the trash bin. "Frankly, I think your having deciphered six of the eighteen plays is better than what I'd expected from anyone in this department." I eyed her newly organized purse briefly. Her easily accessible sidearm should be inside the purse as well.

"Tell you what. I will give you the answers to the plays. Would you like that?" She is already married and soon a mother to be. The wager was moot from the start. She knew it as well. She gleamed a radiant smile very becoming of an expectant mother, "Yes, I would."

A Shakespeare by another name would still be a Shakespeare.

Leave it to the Beavers

Rather than an allegorial tale, The Chronicles of Narnia is a Christ infused story. In chapter 7 of 'Narnia', the four children are referred by Mr. Beaver as the 'Sons and Daughters of Eve' (cf Psalms 144:3; 8:3-4). Mr. and Mrs. Beaver are the keepers of the prophetic word. Their place is a refuge of hope (i.e. the interpretive Word) filled with warmth and hot food.

Excerpts from Chapter 7, 'The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe':
A Day With The Beavers.

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"Here we are, Mrs Beaver," said Mr Beaver, "I've found them. Here are the Sons and Daughters of Adam and Eve'- and they all went in.

The first thing Lucy noticed as she went in was a burring sound, and the first thing she saw was a kindlooking old she-beaver sitting in the corner with a thread in her mouth working busily at her sewing machine, and it was from it that the sound came. She stopped her work and got up as soon as the children came in.

"So you've come at last!" she said, holding out both her wrinkled old paws. "At last! To think that ever I should live to see this day! The potatoes are on boiling and the kettle's singing and I daresay, Mr Beaver, you'll get us some fish."

"That I will," said Mr Beaver, and he went out of the house (Peter went with him), and across the ice of the deep pool to where he had a little hole in the ice which he kept open every day with his hatchet. They took a pail with them. Mr Beaver sat down quietly at the edge of the hole (he didn't seem to mind it being so chilly), looked hard into it, then suddenly shot in his paw, and before you could say Jack Robinson had whisked out a beautiful trout. Then he did it all over again until they had a fine catch of fish.

Meanwhile the girls were helping Mrs Beaver to fill the kettle and lay the table and cut the bread and put the plates in the oven to heat and draw a huge jug of beer for Mr Beaver from a barrel which stood in one corner of the house, and to put on the frying-pan and get the dripping hot. Lucy thought the Beavers had a very snug little home though it was not at all like Mr Tumnus's cave. There were no books or pictures, and instead of beds there were bunks, like on board ship, built into the wall. And there were hams and strings of onions hanging from the roof, and against the walls were gum boots and oilskins and hatchets and pairs of shears and spades and trowels and things for carrying mortar in and fishing-rods and fishing-nets and sacks. And the cloth on the table, though very clean, was very rough.

Just as the frying-pan was nicely hissing Peter and Mr Beaver came in with the fish which Mr Beaver had already opened with his knife and cleaned out in the open air. You can think how good the new-caught fish smelled while they were frying and how the hungry children longed for them to be done and how very much hungrier still they had become before Mr Beaver said, "Now we're nearly ready." Susan drained the potatoes and then put them all back in the empty pot to dry on the side of the range while Lucy was helping Mrs Beaver to dish up the trout, so that in a very few minutes everyone was drawing up their stools (it was all three-legged stools in the Beavers' house except for Mrs Beaver's own special rockingchair beside the fire) and preparing to enjoy themselves. There was a jug of creamy milk for the children (Mr Beaver stuck to beer) and a great big lump of deep yellow butter in the middle of the table from which everyone took as much as he wanted to go with his potatoes, and all the children thought - and I agree with them - that there's nothing to beat good freshwater fish if you eat it when it has been alive half an hour ago and has come out of the pan half a minute ago. And when they had finished the fish Mrs Beaver brought unexpectedly out of the oven a great and gloriously sticky marmalade roll, steaming hot, and at the same time moved the kettle on to the fire, so that when they had finished the marmalade roll the tea was made and ready to be poured out. And when each person had got his (or her) cup of tea, each person shoved back his (or her) stool so as to be able to lean against the wall and gave a long sigh of contentment.

"And now," said Mr Beaver, pushing away his empty beer mug and pulling his cup of tea towards him, "if you'll just wait till I've got my pipe lit up and going nicely - why, now we can get to business. It's snowing again," he added, cocking his eye at the window. "That's all the better, because it means we shan't have any visitors; and if anyone should have been trying to follow you, why he won't find any tracks."
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