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October 15, 2006
Sta. Teresa de Avila
The Carmelite Saints have it a little rough this month, but as I said of St. Therese, I am sure that it is with the greatest possible pleasure that Sta. Teresa de Avila cedes her place in the calendar to our most Precious Lord and His feast--for without His, she would have no place at all.
Nevertheless, her family and friends all remember her, and plead for her intercession today--some for headaches, some for help in their prayer lives, some for needs unknown. Freed of presiding over a Feast Day for her family (you all know how Thanksgiving can get) she has more leisure time to intercede for those of us most needy.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 9:02 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
October 16, 2006
Reading List
The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop by Lewis Buzbee--The siren song for bibliomaniacs. This man truly understands booklust and all things bookish.
Doctor Illuminatus: The Alchemist's Son by Martin Booth.
Hammer and Fire Fr. Raphael Simon O.C S. O.--A book worth reading and rereading is worth reading slowly--perhaps it might sink in.
And on the e-book front--A Study in Scarlet--Sir Arthur Conan Doyle--As with many boys I discovered the charms of Sherlock Holmes early on in my literary excursions. I was deceived into thinking this a youthful infatuation and have not been back to visit in lo! these many years. I thought it time for a return, and the return is delightful. I am amazed at how very good it actually is. Doyle's prose, composed largely in the Victorian era, is not prone to Victorian excess but seems more influenced by the cadences of American writers at the time. When I read Doyle I do not hear Dickens, but more William Dean Howell, or a more serious Mark Twain. (Mind you, there's nothing whatsoever wrong with Dickens; however, his prose his fine for him and not for anyone else.)
And I have a slew of others (see Buzbee's book for the explanation of this phenomenon).
Posted by Steven Riddle at 9:43 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
A New Hymn for Bibliomaniacs
I suppose I'll have to compose it. After all there are so few of us but we are so much in need of something that brings our distinctive voices to the Church setting.
"One day within your scriptorium
heals every day alone,
O Lord, bring me to you library."
Yep, those of us who take great comfort in the word may be few in number, but we have several venerable lines of work to indulge in.
Someday I may reflect upon the great comfort books can bestow. Coming to this realization brings home one point of Poe's "The Raven"
"Eagerly I sought the morrow,
vainly I wished to borrow,
from my book surcease of sorrow,
Sorrow for the lost Lenore."
Books as class IV addictive substances. Yep. For some of us they should come with warning labels and then, perhaps, only by prescription.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 1:58 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
For Me Later, and for You Now
Of it pleases you:
The Celtic Literature Collective--sounds a bit pre-Berlin Wall, but looks like there is some good material. Part of the The Academy for Ancient Texts--I won't vouch for the translations as I haven't spent any time with them, but I offer the resource--the Welsh Text list looks quite fine.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 3:19 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Epic and Magnificent
from "Descent of the Goddess Ishtar into the Lower World
To the land of no return, the land of darkness,
Ishtar, the daughter of Sin directed her thought,
Directed her thought, Ishtar, the daughter of Sin,
To the house of shadows, the dwelling, of Irkalla,
To the house without exit for him who enters therein,
To the road, whence there is no turning,
To the house without light for him who enters therein,
The place where dust is their nourishment, clay their food.'
They have no light, in darkness they dwell.
Clothed like birds, with wings as garments,
Over door and bolt, dust has gathered.
Ishtar on arriving at the gate of the land of no return,
To the gatekeeper thus addressed herself:"Gatekeeper, ho, open thy gate!
Open thy gate that I may enter!
If thou openest not the gate to let me enter,
I will break the door, I will wrench the lock,
I will smash the door-posts, I will force the doors.
I will bring up the dead to eat the living.
And the dead will outnumber the living."
Posted by Steven Riddle at 3:31 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
Congratulations!
I'm guessing from a post on Roz's blog that Detroit won the world series. So my congratulations to all those Detroit Fans--Roz, Goodform, etc.
Now for a bit of embarrassing revelation--I didn't even know the series was going on until I glanced at her blog a week ago and then I divined only that it involved Detroit and somebody else. Talking to someone of Saturday night, I had no idea that the last game was being played.
You know, if it doesn't involve water (or books) it just doesn't seem to impinge on my consciousness at all. I suppose I should be chagrined and shame-faced over this, but I just can't muster up any shame. Never have paid attention and at this late date, doubt that I shall start.
But that doesn't stop me from congratulating all of those to whom it did matter.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 4:28 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
October 17, 2006
Reminders for the Sake of Humility
St. Therese is often noted as having said that we do not need to seek out mortifications, they are there in abundance in everyday life. And yesterday's gaffe with the World Series is just one case in point.
Also yesterday, I was reminded of the dreadful shortcomings of what was really, relatively speaking, a fine education. I discovered amidst the fuss and flurry of a bunch of research the Sarmatians and their near cousins the Alani and the the Narts.
When we think of the corners of history that we individually know so little about, it is really a prompt to humility. Sometimes it may seem like we are at the helm--but the reality is most of us are belowdecks and struggling just to keep dinner down.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 3:54 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
The Stanzaic Morte Arthur
from "The Stanzaic Morte Arthur"
Til on a time that it befell
The king in bed lay by the queen;
Of aunters they began to tell,
Many that in that land had been:
"Sir, yif that it were your will,
Of a wonder thing I wolde you mene,
How that your court beginneth to spill
Of doughty knightes all bydene;
A rough paraphrase--while the king and queen were in bed the queen said, "Hey Bozo, your court is becoming completely worthless, empty of worthy men. They're becoming a bunch of slackers."*
This little passage reminded me of the Horslips album The Tain which is a modern musical transcription of the Tain Bo Cuailgne--a little song called "The War Between the Sheets." The following gives the start of that little discussion in an English translation of the original book. (If you can, listen to the song, gets to the point a lot faster.)
from "The Cattle Raid of Cooley
ONCE of a time, that Ailill and Medb had spread their royal bed in Cruachan, the stronghold of Connacht, such was the pillow-talk that befell betwixt them:
Quoth Ailill: "True is the saying, lady, 'She is a well-off woman that is a rich man's wife.'" "Aye,that she is," answered the wife; "but wherefore opin'st thou so?" "For this," Ailill replied,"that thou art this day better off than the day that first I took thee." Then answered Medb: "As well-off was I before I ever saw thee." "It was a wealth, forsooth, we never heard nor knew of," Ailill said; "but a woman's wealth was all thou hadst, and foes from lands next thine were used to carry off the spoil and booty that they took from thee."
Not so was I," quoth Medb; "the High King of Erin himself was my sire, Eocho Fedlech ('the Enduring') son of Finn, by name, who was son of Findoman, son of Finden, son of Findguin, son of Rogen Ruad ('the Red'), son of Rigen, son of Blathacht, son of Beothacht, son of Enna Agnech, son of Oengus Turbech. Of daughters, had he six: Derbriu, Ethne and Ele, Clothru, Mugain and Medb, myself, that was the noblest and seemliest of them."
And so on. . . (for a complete English translation see here. Oh, and yes indeed, the English "Cooley" is a rough guide to the pronunciation of the insane orthography employed by the Erse.
The point is that bardic traditions appeared to borrow just about anything they could find laying around. Thus the Arthurian Mythos seems to be a rather patchwork collection of French, German, Welsh, Irish, English, and any other traditions that happened to be available to the wander Scop, Bard, troubadour. And as anyone who has done more than scratch the surface can tell you--the Arthurian tradition has a lot of traditions--from the Fisher King to Nimue.
That said, return for a moment to "The Cattle Rain of Cooley." Note the Queen's name, here render Mebd, but often transliterated Maeve, or by Shakespeare's time Mab. This is the Queen he had over the fairies, but note that she has nothing whatever to do with the fairies in the course of this story.
And while I'm on tradition--you might want to look into Alexander McCall Smith's newest book which is a series of stories in the Dream Angus (oar Oengus) tradition.
Okay, didn't really say what I started out to, but then no one really wanted a lot of talk about the Stanzaic Morte Arthur anyway, did they?
* For those who care, a glossed version might be:
Til on a time that it befell
The king in bed lay by the queen;
Of adventures they began to tell,
Many that in that land had been:
"Sir, if that it were your will,
Of a wondrous thing I wolde you tell,
How that your court beginneth to empty
Of doughty knightes all completely;
(I only changed the words that might be difficult. If you're interested find here the Complete Stanzaic Morte Arthur, and here a list of other interesting Middle English Texts on-line including Middle English lives of Katherine of Alexandria (their spelling, not mine) and Margaret of Antioch.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 9:12 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
More Middle English
Just a sampling from the relatively easy to read Stanzaic Life of Katherine:
Incipit vita sancte Katerine virginis.He that made bothe sunne and mone
In hevene and erthe for to schyne,
Brynge us to Hevene with Hym to wone
And schylde us from helle pyne!
Lystnys and I schal yow telle
The lyf of an holy virgyne
That trewely Jhesu lovede wel -
Here name was callyd Katerine.I undyrstonde, it betydde soo:
In Grece ther was an emperour;
He was kyng of landes moo,
Of casteles grete and many a tour.
The ryche men of that land
They servyd hym with mekyl honour.
Maxenceus was his name hotand,
A man he was ful sterne and stour.
The actual text which can be reached through the site referenced below has glosses on the difficult words to get you started.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 9:33 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
October 18, 2006
Did I Write This Book?
from The Yellow-Lighted Bookshop
Lewis BuzbeeMany years later, a stray memory helped me find another childhood root of my passion for bookselling. One of the true pleasures of my elementary school life was Scholastic's Weekly Reader, a newspaper distributed free to classrooms around the country. It featured brief articles on current events, sports, and nature, along with jokes, puzzles, and cartoons. The Weekly Reader was a wholly satisfying reading experience, who joy was, in part, the unexpected ownership of the publication; I was stunned to be allowed such a privilege. The ultimate delight of the Weekly Reader, however, lay in ordering and receiving my very own books from a catalogue appended to the newspaper. This catalogue, as I remember it, was four pages on newspaper stock, two-color printing with black-and-wite photographs of the books' covers. On Weekly Reader days I'd spend a good deal of our reading hour--languorous late afternoons of twenty-two buzzy, dreamy heads bend over words, the teacher nearly asleep--scanning the catalogue, looking for standout cover art, titles that promised magic, mystery, sometimes war. When I finished my first go-through, ritual dictated I return to the first page and slowly read each synopsis, weighing the many possibilities.
By dinner that evening, I would have made my choices, the three or four books I was allowed at twenty-five or thirty-five cents each, the latter more expensive because thicker. I'd mark the order form with the thickest of X's, so there'd be no mistakes, cut along the dotted line, and put it in an envelope with the coins my parents helped me count out. The next day I'd clank the order on the teacher's desk, then wait for the books to arrive. And wait. Four to six weeks is several eternities for a nine-year-old.
Precisely: accurate in every detail.
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A Beautiful Prayer
For whatever reason, I was attracted to this Middle English version of The Cloud of Unknowing and found therein a really beautiful prayer for all those who seek to live the will of God.
Goostly freende in God, I preie thee and I beseche thee that thou wilt have a besi [earnest] beholding to the cours and the maner of thi cleeping [calling]. And thank God hertely, so that thou maist thorow [through] help of His grace stonde stifly agens alle the sotil assailinges of thi bodily and goostly enemyes, and winne to the coroun [crown] of liif that evermore lasteth.
Amen.
I don't know why I find it so moving, except to think--in the communion of the Saints, I am blessed by the prayer of a person who so long ago wrote these words and who lives now in this world through them even as he pleads before the throne of God for all those who read them. One of the great mysteries revealed by God and constantly spoken of by the Church stands open to me here in a way that it does not when I read some other things. Odd--but perhaps it is the touch of that which is almost foreign, but still remains within the grasp of those who wish to understand it. The language is not my language and yet, it is close enough to know and alien enough to suggest another time, another world, another way of being.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 9:24 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
The Deception of Parliament
Don't miss the discussion of the subtleties and dangers of Parliament as revealed at Geoffrey Chaucer Hath a Blog. To wit:
Parlement Journale, Parte the Firste: Decepcioun!
O straunge worlde, for the dayes are fulle of selcouthes and no thyng is as it semeth. Alwey in my fantasie syn ich was a yonge man, ich thoghte Parlement to be a grete and noble assemblee, wher the wisdam of the reaume was spoken in the presence of oure sovereyn kynge for the sake of the commun good. But al thing in this worlde adoun is lyk vnto a cake fulle of beares– on the outsyde, it appeareth delicious and plesaunte, but inside yt is crawlinge wyth beestes that wisshe to clawe thee to deeth. For nowe ich see that Parlement is fulle of thretes and secretes, and matirs derke.
On Sundaye night, the daye bifor the grete openinge of parlement, ther was a speciale recepcioun for folk lyk myself who had come to parlement to speke for the shires. Yt was held in the halle of the exchequer, wyth the tables of rekynynges laden wyth metes and drinke. Michel de la Pole, the Earl of Suffolk and Chancellor of the reaume, frende of Kyng Richard, was ther, and he did shake the handes of al who were presente, and callid vs by oure names and bad vs drinken depe of the ale and maken murye. He yaf vs alle small billes, the whiche contayned the poyntez which we were to speken of for the good of the reaume, and he avised vs to keep the smalle billes secure.
The small billes were covered wyth thys text:
TALKYNGE POYNTEZ FOR PARLEMENT FOR THE LOIAL LIEGES OF KYNG RICHARD AND HYS CHANCELLOR MICHEL DE LA POLE
Whanne a felawe comoner of parlement or a cronicler or othir member of the media doth aske yow of the business of parlement, ye shal saye the following[and later]
“Fayre mayde, mene ye the meetinge at the exchequer wher the talkinge poyntez weren yiven vnto vs?”
“The, uh, talking points. Yeah, exactly. Good. I’m the handmaid for Sir...Roland...de Quelquechose. He was at the meeting and he, uh, well, he got a little drunk.”
“Goddes curse on men who are dronkelewe and guzzleres of ale,” ich sayde, and then burpid in a maner uncouth and my face wexed reede wyth shame. And yet the fayre wenche spoke further.
Oh, the horror, oh the shame.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 9:33 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
October 19, 2006
Harry Potter and the Communion of the Saints
In the category of preaching to the converted:
Each book of the Harry Potter series is imbued with great Christian lessons. We might argue over Rowling as stylist or Rowling as successor to Tolkien and Lewis or Rowling as literature; however, to the reader who has spent any time with the books, Rowling as devout and informed Christian is nowhere in doubt. Each book teaches something about the believer in Christ and how that believer behaves in certain circumstances.
The particular event of interest occurs at the end of the fourth book of the series, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. It is spectacularly portrayed in the movie, and caps the book off with a scene horrifying, dramatic, and stirring. Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory have both touched a device that transports them to a place where the bane of the series Lord Voldemort await the arrival of Potter. Upon arrival, Cedric is summarily dispatched and Harry's blood is used to revivify the skeletal, embryonic Voldemort.
Then ensues the duel in which Voldemort attempts to finish off what he began so many years ago--the death of Harry Potter. The two engage.
Now the remarkable instance--in the course of the engagement Harry sees Cedric, Harry's mother and father, and (in the book, if I remember correctly) a whole host of those whom Voldemort has killed over time. Harry's mother tells him, "We can only give you a little time." The host descends upon Voldemort giving time for Harry to run to Cedric's body and transport the two of them back to Harry's world.
If, in this instance, we allow Voldemort to stand-in for sin, which, as we know from St. Paul leads to death (hence the derivation Vol-de-mort or "flight of death"--which will have several meanings in the series) we can see the communion of the Saints as it works. We engage in a battle with sin, temptation. We are the combatants. The fierceness of the battle and our faith summons help from Heaven's throneroom, the Saints, who engage through prayer the powers, principalities, thrones and dominations, that trouble Heaven and our own world. As Harry's mother advises, they can only give respite, it is up to us to flee from sin--but they can and do intercede for us providing the out--we can escape if we move away (of course aided by the Saints and God's will).
This image is reinforced later when Dumbledore, unpacking the experience for Harry, reminds him, "You know, we can never bring back the dead." Harry doesn't seem to understand this for what it means, but it is very clear to the reader that we cannot bring back the dead because, in fact, they never leave us. They are a cloud of witnesses gathered about us thickly and participating in every event of our lives--those tied to us by blood, most fiercely, but aided by all the warriors of Heaven (It is my hope that, undeserving as I am, the chiefest of those warriors is the Holy Mother of God and the Great Redwood of God, St. Therese.)
Thus, embedded, entangled, and completely blended throughout her series of novels, Rowling gives us lessons and views of how Christianity really operates. "But no one ever goes to Church or prays, or anything Christian." And of course, as anyone knows, that is less than nothing as an objection because the same holds true for both Tolkien and Lewis, her forbears in the art of bringing the truth of Christianity to the unsuspecting reader.
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