[The subtitle of this (originally the title, but it may not fit so well now "Fantasia on a Theme by Dylan 618" (apologies to Ralph Vaughn Williams. (Had to use the 618 to approximate the title more accurately--and I do think of this Tallis theme along with "The Lark Ascending" as some of the most beautiful bucolic music of the Twentieth Century. So much so, in fact, that I shall put them on as I compose to guide composition. Below starts the real beginning, so best to hop back up the title, skip this bracketed paragraph and continue as if I had never intruded. This is the Julio Cortazar Corner of my blog.]
Actually, probably not, but Dylan provided me with a wonderful springboard into a theory of poetry. So I quote his entire comment here for constant reference and comment. Thanks Dylan!
Comments by Dylan Yes, bash Hill's Triumph of Love if you must, & do so with my blessing ... The further I get, the more it disaffects. It is erratic, arrhythmic prose.
Much of this poem is senseless post-modernist dreck. I can't wait to get a copy of the earlier poetry to see if there are more lovely poems like the one I posted earlier this week.
I don't mind poems being obscure or fragmented, if there's a heartbeat within the obscurity, if each individual fragment implicates the mind and heart in the writer's own perspective. Heck, I'll read Clark Coolidge from time to time (not all that often) for the sheer fun of the sounds of the words -- as Stephen Fry would say, "Hoversmack tender estimate."And then there's the jollity of nonsense.
Absolutely concur. I don't mind meaningful fragmentation. I do not mind the obvious disjunctions in Prufrock. What I despise are the deliberately obscure chunks of arcane literature dropped wholesale into the middle of the Wasteland. Wordsworth had no need of this to express the feeling and distress of his time. I do not read huge slabs of incomprehensible work in Browning (because there aren't any). Modern sensibility does not require the fragmentation of the psyche required to understand The Waste Land. One could, in fact, stop with the title of the poem and accept that as the final statement and without much trouble skip much of the rest of the poem. As Dylan has pointed out elsewhere, there are some lovely pieces within the bloat of pretension. One needs to cut down through the blubber and find the muscle--it is there--but why would anyone suffer this much to look for it? There is enough suffering in life already. There is enormous depth in other poems--some of those of Mr. Cummings, even those of Sylvia Plath (if you can get past the constant telegrams of her forthcoming/latest suicide attempts) have some incredible, beautiful depths. "Lady Lazarus," which I half-hate, has some powerful indictments of the intellects that allow for things like the holocaust. It is a brilliant poem marred only by the self-obsession of the later work.
As to nonsense--Lear, Nash, Belloc (yes I said Belloc, his work can be on par with that of one of the great artists of the Twentieth Century, Ogdred Weary [here (do see F, H, and N) and here])and others show us that poetry is marvelous vehicle for the conveyance of much amusement. Lewis Carroll and even some of the very lovely rhymes for Children by Roethke and Kennedy are wonderful examples whereof you speak.
But Hill's lines in Triumph do seem tired, & tiring after a while. It is not "diction that is galvanized against inertia" (Marianne Moore's phrase). The 65th joke about typographical errors, well, after a while it's like those French Connection UK signs that say, "vive le fcuk! [acronym of French Connection UK]" Gets old quite fast.
Oh, the exquisite kindness of this understatement. The work is endlessly self-referential and self aggrandizing. It is a constant melody written on one string--and one that is pitched at a nerve-wracking shrillness.
Good Sir Geoffrey can't be judged, personally, too harshly. He's gotten quite a few laudatory reviews & blurbs, and under the influence of such praise one can start to think that one's every scrawl and scribble is divinely inspired. Plus, all writers (I think) have to experiment -- even at the risk of momentous failure or just plain silliness. The poet's mind must be kept alive, and agile -- think of a great Shakespearean actor doing funny voices, or reciting naughty limericks.
In fact, I don't hold the artist all that responsible for the reasons delineated above and others. The entire critical world is directed toward keeping a poet from his or her rightful audience--the entire world. If one keeps it in the post-modernist, relativist Ivory Tower, then it is an exclusive domain, no one else invited. We can feel good about ourselves because we can wrest meanings from deep hollows, where I suspect little to none actually exists. Much of modern scholarship is a matter of "The Emperor's New Clothes." I have pointed out before the utter preposterousness of concepts such as the (I-kid-you-not: Googilize "Judith Butler""Lesbian Phallus" [in order to protect you from who-knows-what filth]) Lesbian Phallus. Poetry has, in large part, been taken captive, and it is up to the present poets to free it. I think that is one of the reasons I extol Dana Gioia to the point I do. His lyrics have depth, meaning, and beauty (two of the three seem always lacking in some of the much-lauded poetry of his contemporaries). He has indicated a way out of the morass, and I would love to be able to follow it.
Okay, so I didn't even begin to do what I wanted to. But this gives you something to read to start as I continue ruminations. I was thinking about something like "Poetry as Apologetics" or "Poetry as Evangelism" and a continuation of the question of the Epic. Tangential, but integral to the theory I'm constructing in my head.
A Deliberate Misquote
Those of you who are fans know that I misquoted the famous song below. Those who do not probably haven't a clue to what I refer. However, it is important to emphasize that the misquote is deliberate. I want it painted black, but I sure as heck don't want to do it--there are lots of people out there with spray cans at ready, I'll just be the Tom Sawyer of this door painting and charge everyone for the privilege. Anybody got a June Bug with five legs or some jumping beans?
Exhausting Day
Trying to help people make St. John of the Cross relevant in their lives, trying to restructure our current meeting to help us take advantage of the year of the Rosary, inducting one new member and getting another started on serious formation, all before breakfast.
Add to that a breakdown at 4:15 p.m. Cause a dead battery (old battery installed October 2001). A wait for a jump. Of course the car can't be fixed before Monday as the dealer only has service until noon on Saturday--(because the battery is under warranty and there's no point in spending centibucks to have it repaired).
Then blogger ate this post three times. Devouring mercilessly.
You'd think that would make for a bad day. But you know, it doesn't really. Some friends came out to help us, we're taught a little bit about detachment from material things, as we may not be able to start the car up tomorrow to get it to Church, so I'll have to hitch a ride or walk the three or four miles (hope we don't have a Florida rain for the time period). But all is well. This could have happened at a much worse time. We could be waiting on the edge of the road in Georgia or South Carolina and not know anyone for hundreds of miles in any direction. You get the drift. God has been grand to us today, and though I am tired, and to some degree stressed, I am also much less alarmed than I might have been last year at this time. So I've either grown in grace or become so jaded nothing gets through my tanned hide. Given my choice, I prefer the former (as an explanation). What a glorious day!
Reminder to Self
This afternoon or evening, whichever permits of time, a comment on and elaboration to Dylan's wonderful post on the Epic in Modern literature. Contents: Diatribe concerning modernism and its excesses, ecstasy over Omeros, a trifle of Hill-bashing, some speculations on Dickinson as Interior Epic--Whitman v. Dickinson, and other jewels of less-than-half-baked thought. Hope this is rather more tantlizing than nauseous.
Oh, and in case you were wondering this is a "I see a red door and I want it painted black" sort of day. Perhaps I need to mellow a bit before our ceremony, so I'll need my Cranberries CD, or perhaps better Loreena McKennitt or Aine Minogue--her version of Across the Universe is worth the price of admission.
And one other
Written about a trip made to the wonderful city of Victoria, British Columbia--certainly the Jewel of the Pacific.
Nocturne 1 Night-blooming jasmine I've never seen it. Once through a window in a place where the moon cast different shadows, a scent I imagined was jasmine stirred the curtains in a room where I lay awake counting shattered pieces of moonwash.At the window I leaned out
expecting white trumpets
on a wall covered by green ivy
and saw only a dusty yellow globe
streetlight
and pebbly stone wall
bare in the night.In bed again,
waiting for sleep,
and buried in the scent of flowers
that would return only in dreams.© 2002, Steven Riddle
A Poetic Offering
From an earlier, protosurrealist period.
Rhapsodies in Multiple Colors I Shape them in boxes and do not hope. Legs without minds within the fracture of unopened Earth.There were fragments
in my eye
exploded bombs
shards of a window
out, the pressure within.II
Don't bother to explain.
You swear on words
formed of air, your meaning
is certain as poison,
large as ether
and collapsing distance
as a bridge.Where have you been?
The x-ray and then the knife,
conclusion inevitable
as digestion
and unpleasant.© 2002, Steven Riddle
Another Important Prayer Opportunity
Please pray for us (my Carmelite group) today (turnabout is fair play). We're having a reception (an aspirant becomes a novice) and a profession (a novice becomes a full member) today. Everyone is very nervous (as usual) but all will go well. Also, we are considering a new person for Formation Director of the Received--a very important position--this person must help the received discern their true vocation. So prayers all around would be welcome. Expect relatively little blogging today.
Envoy Has a Blog
From Catholic Light the news that Envoy has started a blog. I enjoy Envoy from time to time, although as with all apologetics-oriented things the charm can pall at times. (I've noticed fewer going-off-on-a-bender moments at Envoy but every so often creeping humorlessness takes a certain toll). Depending on how it develops, this could be a very interesting site. I'll be adding it to the left-hand column for a monitoring period to decide whether or not it stays. In the meantime, please visit. Stop back by here and let me know what you think.
Okay, The Glorious Reality Is. . ."
If you are not visiting Ms. Knapp's site each day, you are really missing out. A wonderful poem today. Please go and check it out.
The last stanza follows:
The faithful
cling to the roots
of the saints,
growing up
from the ground.
Glorious.
A Blog of Some Interest
You all might want to take the time to wander over to Mr. Jim Kalb's relatively new blog Metanoia. In addition to being one of those blogs that will be alive when others are down due to blogger and blogspot, Metanoia is the blog on one who is studiously becoming Catholic, and some of his questions are better answered by minds more attuned to the forms of argumentation present in the legal profession. So if any canon lawyers ever stop by here (as I offer nothing to sate that manner of mind, it seems highly unlikely), you may wish to wander over to Mr. Kalb's blog. Those who are not canon lawyers have much to gain by reading the thought-provoking entries and considerations. Having been in the same place myself some years ago, I hear echoes and resonance from my time of questioning. I have a lot of sympathy but very few answers, largely because I found that the questions I was asking had less relevance because the Church opened the door to true love of God. Before that, as a Baptist, I "had a relationship with Christ," meaning I had been baptised after a "born again experience," but I didn't really know the name of Love until I had come to His Feast.
Another by Browning
Reading through "Caliban upon Setebos" last night put me in mind of one of my favorite bits of Browning's work, the epic The Ring and the Book. From that monster-poem, I offer only this small sample.
Invocation from The Ring and the Book Robert BrowningO lyric love, half angel and half bird,
And all a wonder and a wild desire,-
Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,
Took sanctuary within the holier blue,
And sang a kindred soul out to his face,-
Yet human at the ripe-red of his heart,
Never may I commence my song, my due
To God who best taught song by gift of thee
Except with bent head and beseeching hand-
Never conclude, but raising hand and head
Thither where eyes, that cannot reach yet yearn
For all hope, all sustainment, all reward
Some whiteness which I judge, thy face makes proud
Some wanness where I think thy foot may fall!
A poem not to be undertaken by the faint of heart or the easily daunted. In my edition of it The Ring and the Book runs to about 500 pages. But like Wordworth's The Prelude they are wonder-filled and wonderful, in parts transcendant.
A Poet to Make One Despair
Robert Browning is a poet to make one despair. Everything he writes seems nearly perfect and he sustains enormous lengths of poetry with the seeming carelessness of a master gymnast doing floor exercises. Every leap, every step, every roll, every move, choreographed and meaningful, yet done without breaking a sweat. That is not how poetry is, and particularly not when the poetry has such depths. With that tortured introduction, I present part of one of Browning's ruminations on theology. For the complete poem, check here
from "Caliban upon Setebos Or, Natural Theology in the Island"
Robert Browning"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such a one as thyself."
(David, Psalms 50.21)['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best,
Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire,
With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin.
And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush,
And feels about his spine small eft-things course,
Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh:
And while above his head a pompion-plant,
Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye,
Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard,
And now a flower drops with a bee inside,
And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,--
He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross
And recross till they weave a spider-web
(Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times)
And talks to his own self, howe'er he please,
Touching that other, whom his dam called God.
Because to talk about Him, vexes--ha,
Could He but know! and time to vex is now,
When talk is safer than in winter-time.
Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep
In confidence he drudges at their task,
And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe,
Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.]Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos!
'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon.'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match,
But not the stars; the stars came otherwise;
Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that:
Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon,
And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same.
'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease:
He hated that He cannot change His cold,
Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish
That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived,
And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine
O' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid,
A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave;
Only, she ever sickened, found repulse
At the other kind of water, not her life,
(Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun)
Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe,
And in her old bounds buried her despair,
Hating and loving warmth alike: so He.
The Boring and the Bored
Perhaps I am investing too much importance in the saying of a thing, but I think the quote below needs iteration every day. I suppose that makes me one of the boring. As Lord Byron, who invented this division of humankind, classes himself with the bored, I am more than happy to represent the other half.
from Heretics Chapter 3
G. K. ChestertonWe might, no doubt, find it a nuisance to count all the blades of grass or all the leaves of the trees; but this would not be because of our boldness or gaiety, but because of our lack of boldness and gaiety. The bore would go onward, bold and gay, and find the blades of grass as splendid as the swords of an army. The bore is stronger and more joyous than we are; he is a demigod—nay, he is a god. For it is the gods who do not tire of the iteration of things; to them the nightfall is always new, and the last rose as red as the first.
I must admit to never having cared much for G. K. Chesterton. I've never much liked the Father Brown Stories. I found The Man Who Was Thursday nearly incomprehensible. The short essays have never spoken to me, nor has the poetry. The apologetics has left me cold. However, I must admit that Chesterton is something like one's parents in one's youth. The older you get the smarter they seem. Reading Pearce's study of Chesterton helps contextualize and reify a legend who is largely known to me through the portayals of Sir Henry Merrivale and Dr. Gideon Fell. But I am discovering an undiscovered country for me, and it is a tremendous pleasure. When Chesterton is on, the prose is supple and can border on magnificent. I had heard recently that there is a movement promoting the cause of G.K. Chesterton and I had wondered at that, but as I grow more tolerant I see more reason behind such a cause. I may even eventually finish Heretics.
[later: I meant to add: 5 points for the person who can identifty the author associated with the two persons mentioned other than G.K. Chesterton. An additional 5 points for any title associated with the two characters.]
Okay, One Last Word
Going into the kitchen to prepare dinner I opened the refrigerator to discover some limes one of our coworkers brought in from their tree. I sliced into this wonderful fruit and it had the thinnest skin, juicest pulp and most aromatic and soour flavor. Squeezed some into tonic and am contemplating ceviche or lime salsa for dinner tomorrow. (Have to pick up the shrimp and whitefish).
Oh, and TMC claims to be running London After Midnight, which, to the best of my understanding had been lost. Also, Vampyr, which, if I recall is by the director (Carl Theodor Dreyer) who gave us the magnificent silent epic The Passion of Joan of Arc. Truly a surfeit of lampreys, oops! I mean riches. Goodnight all!
Blogs You Missed Out On
I was going to blog on the differences between the five different translations of Basho text 26 (not nearly so dull as it might sound). And I am formulating an extensive reply, obligato, fantasia and variations on the running start that Dylan made on an essay about Epics. In addition I probably had another nine-hundred things to say. But I am tired and you have been very patient with me today, so I will save Basho for tomorrow morning or evening. Meanwhile I go to reflect a bit on which saints I can cajole into promoting my cause(s) in heaven. Á bientôt!
To Transform Your Lives
Put what you will find at Fr. Keyes's blog into practice. (The Link is not presently working as it ought--go here and look for the Title "Prayer or Action?"
Start with enlightened self interest, end in paradise.
Commenting on Universalism
Mr. Thomas S. O'Rama has this to say at his blog:
On universalism: Wasn't the Fatima apparation approved by the Church and didn't one of the children see hell with souls in it? I understand it is a private revelation, but it is a private revelation approved by the Church. The existence of Hell is probably the most difficult doctrine to believe of all, according to Peter Kreeft.
To which I respond: I believe you are correct, there was a very distinct vision of Hell. And what are we to make of that? Was this a vision of Hell, or was this vision akin to those of St. John in viewing the Apocalypse? It seems arguments can be made either way. In one case the vision could simply have been a vision of the results of NOT praying the Fatima prayer. For even if a seer explains his or her vision, how do we know the explanation is more authoratative than the vision. (Thus Holy Mother Church's wisdom in not demanding attention be paid to private revelation). I tend to hold more with the "revelation" of the Eucharistic Prayer and the Fatima Prayer--that it is through prayer and through the power of Jesus Christ that those who presently are unaware of their danger CAN be saved from Hell. They may not be. The chances of this not happening are greatly increased if we do not pray and work to show these poor souls the true loving embrace of Jesus Christ.
This is so dreadfully important. And so when Mr. O'Rama asks us to pray for an agnostic step-son, the prayers are made all the more urgent by the possibilities.
Finally, read the entry on Mr. O'Rama's site located two down, titled One Step Forward, Two Steps. . . These three posts of Mr. O'Ramas form a nice triad of salvation, fear/hope/ and the need for prayer. Most beautiful.
Questions on the Epic
Comments left Chez Dylan on the question of the epic.
A fragment of thought, a mere wisp crosses my deadened brain. What then do we make of Derek Walcott--all questions of worthiness put aside for the moment? (I happen to like his work). What does one make of Omeros?
Is perhaps another notion that the epic impulse is largely dead in the west? That we have moved so far from the roots of the epic in nature and the battles against nature and God that we have abandoned the field of the Epic?
Or did our passage through The Dunciad and The Rape of the Lock forever dim our view of the epic purpose?
I suppose these are questions other than those that you set yourself, but I ask them nevertheless, as a start on elaborating on this marvelous discussion.
Make That Two Poems
Another poem, more recent vintage (only just slightly) from the working files, so expect the occasional clinker.
Sinner's Song
A Journey from near Repentance to (self) JustificationI have so long annihilated self
on the altar of self,
so often sacrificed myself to myself--
the God of my own body,
tastebuds, passion, blood.I have sought to forget myself
in self, to hide from
who I am in what I do.
So long have I fled myself
I have come not to know
Him whom I flee.I have cut off offending
hands, plucked out offending
eyes to find they
hydra-like return, now
twice as active.I have hidden from the truth
and marred the truth
beyond hope of recognition.
I have a pretended virginity
that I use to seduce
those so sure of themselves.I have spoken to God, to myself,
wondering always if it
is to Him or to me all homage
is due. I have taken
His tribute upon me and
returned nothing.Will God ever cut me loose
say, "Begone sinner from
my sight?" Does His patience
last forever, does His
mercy endure beyond knowing?I live only because He gives
thought to me, to the atoms
that move through me. I draw
breath by His sweet will
and I move at His command.
So I must conclude that He
keeps me, no matter how far
I am from Him.And I resent His care
with the resentment of one
poor offered charity unasked for.
I resent his love as a man
resents the wife of his youth
who he hopes will let go
and give him back
new vistas of women.I am lost in God
without a compass, drowned
in love, and thrashing.
I sin and sin again, and marvel
as He stays His hand.
And taunt Him--what kind
of king are you who
offers me everything that does
not matter here on Earth?
Come down from that cross
and give me something
that matters.I don't want redemption
and joy, I want only
the freedom to be me
and to find myself
in all my revels and my
dreams, in all the things
that now only taunt me
with pale hints of freedom.I do not ask for Mercy,
nor for love, nor passion,
nor any distant spiritual
thing. I ask only for the
reality that is me. I ask only
the favor of being
who I am and knowing
it for the first time.
I ask only for the freedom
to ask no more and make
my path MY path.
I ask only for the reign of the
simple hell of self rather
than perpetual bondage to those
who do not love me.Give me all the world, I do not
as for more.I do not ask for all the worlds,
for dead eternity.Only for the light I am.
© 2002, Steven Riddle
Another Day, Another Poem
A reply, after a fashion, to the contentions of the murderer in Name of the Rose.
The Wedding
Do you suppose at Cana Jesus frowned
at all the guests? Scowled at every request
from host and hostess, mother and all? Droned
endlessly about Himself and suggested
ways each person could improve his life and
then stormed away like a prima donna
when they were far too drunk to understand
a word He said? Or do you think He laughed
and sang and wished the couple joy, and ate
and danced and showed all there how to live well?
Do you suppose he stood away, now quiet
distant and removed? Or did Jesus tell
a joke and talk to everyone?© 2002, Steven Riddle
Priests for Life Information Center
Generally, I do not like to make a political point. But at some point we must declare our allegiances and our deep-founded beliefs or abandon all hope. An opportune time to declare solidarity is when requested by a good blogging friend like Tom Abbot at Goodform. Indeed, it would be badform to refuse. Please consider putting this on your own blogsite if so inclined. Information is never a bad commodity--its use is the determinant.
Exegesis of the Epic
Dylan's foreshadow ruminations and reflection on the nature of the modern epic are available for perusal and comment. The wise among you would do well to partake, keeping in mind this caution from Pope:
from"Essay on Criticism" Alexander Pope A little learning is a dang'rous thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain, And drinking largely sobers us again.
Reminder: Pro-Life Novena
Published daily chez Jeff Miller. The Dog and Pony show we were endlessly subjected to yesterday is a sure sign that all of our leaders need all the prayers we can muster up. Please join us in this Novena. Thanks.
A Fragment of Gioia
Not enough to convince, but hopefully enough to entice--
from "Prayer" Dana GioiaJeweller of the spiderweb, connoisseur
of autumn's opulence, blade of lightning
harvesting the sky.Keeper of the small gate, choreographer
of entrances and exits, midnight
whisper travelling the wires.
This portion of the poem is a catalogue poem to itself. In a catalogue one simply lists attributes or things related to the subject of the poem. The purpose of a catalogue is to suggest without telling. In a true imagist catalogue, one attempts to record all of the attributes as objectively as possible while still making clear how one feels about the object. It is the selection of the details or items in the catalogue that makes the feeling. In this poem an introductory catalogue is held in tension with the actual petition of the prayer. In such a way we are allowed a glimpse of both sides of the poet's approach to God.
By way of an apology (in the modern connotation of the word, not the formal sense one might find here in St. Blogs). From one of the most wonderful and beautiful of the works by a man whose nearly every work was a marvel. Tell me the tale and the teller and whereabouts one may find it.
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves; And ye, that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid,— Weak masters though ye be—I have bedimm’d The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault Set roaring war: to the dread-rattling thunder Have I given fire and rifted Jove’s stout oak With his own bolt: the strong-bas’d promontory Have I made shake; and by the spurs pluck’d up The pine and cedar: graves at my command Have wak’d their sleepers, op’d, and let them forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure; and, when I have requir’d Some heavenly music,—which even now I do,— To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And, deeper than did ever plummet sound, I’ll drown my book.
And because I cannot resist one further:
Now my charms are all o’erthrown, And what strength I have ’s mine own; Which is most faint: now, ’tis true, I must be here confin’d by you, Or sent to Naples. Let me not, Since I have my dukedom got And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell In this bare island by your spell; But release me from my bands With the help of your good hands. Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, Which was to please. Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant; And my ending is despair, Unless I be reliev’d by prayer, Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself and frees all faults. As you from crimes would pardon’d be, Let your indulgence set me free.
The Intrepid, nay Bold Ms. Knapp
Assuming the mode of Master Sergeant, our own Ms Knapp provides us with a bracing set of marching orders that we would all do well to heed to the best of our ability (assuming that we are not already doing so). Once again wise, beautiful, humane, but pulling no punches. I award to her this morning the St. Catherine of Siena Award for bearding the lion in his den. Thank you, Ms. Knapp, you are if not a national treasure, at least the hidden Jewel of St. Blogs! Please go and read.
Hi There, I'm Back
After my brief holiday in the Furies, I'm pleased to return and report to you news of the world.
Unlike yesterday, the sky this morning was not red, but roseate--somewhat like the spoonbills here and there in the the trees as I was driving to work. Not full red, but that flowing white-pink so easy to pick out in the early morning sun. The clouds were limned with morning light--cast into full relief and glowing nimbi--quite, quite lovely--but not red. I'm praying that there will be a cessation of hostilities and a lack of stormy weather for the day.
So here's to hoping for a return to the irenic. I promise that I will neither listen nor read about the antics of certain groups of people (read politicians) any more. "Nie weider krieg" Forgive my bad German spelling.
Urgent Prayer Request
Okay, no more time for self-indulgence (Praise God!)--my friends in San Diego are facing a major decision. Please pray especially hard for them. If you can spare a decade of the Rosary, I'm sure they'd be very grateful. Thank you.
Theme and Variationa: on "Lady Lazarus"
[a passing eddy in the tidepool--ignore it gentle reader and move on, say a prayer or two for the poor soul who so unburdens himself that he may soon return to dancing before the Lord.]
aka Where is Thomas Chatterton when you need him?
[much deliberation about posting this, perhaps too much. Post it and then in your chagrin delete it. No one need know, no one will be looking, it's fine?]
It has been a day and more than a day. So below I vent, give rise to a smallish cloud of black dust which will fall to Earth unbidden and unseen. Those looking for edification would do well simply to skip this post and let me vent. Undoubtedly, all will be back to normal soon. Although, I am with Macbeth at this moment concerning circumstance, "It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." As Jesus said in another context, "This kind is only driven out through prayer." And at least there is the consolation of prayerful conversation, I have much to be thankful for, if only I can make THAT my frame of reference these irritants would slip into perspective.
from "Lady Lazarus" Sylvia PlathI am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold babyThat melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.Herr god, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.
from "In a Dark Time"
Theodore Roethke
Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man. . .from "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T.S. EliotFor I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
The Rest is Silence
I have been convinced.
Another Work in Progress
Here's another poem, a work in progress, part of a larger work in progress. Made under the aegis of Mendelsohn's magnificent Oratorio.
Wadi CherithThe thin water ripples on the shingle,
shatters the sun, yellow sparkling
swells are not graceful though they
slap the dark strand and vanish
drawn into the desert heart.You sit in the shadow of the overhang
and wait the word from on high
that tells you the mission has begun,
the time has at last rolled round
to begin whatever God has planned.Had you known then of the prophets
of Ba'al, had you seen the challenge
of Ahab, had you seen the night cave
where you heard the sounds of God,
would you have fled? Running through
the desert like another madman,
another who would come to bathe
in the Jordan and cause others also
to be made clean.And like another
who also would feed the hungry
with endless food from nothing?What would you have done?
Isn't it better this way, alone
in the desert fed by carrion birds
and resting in the shade?
Better the silence of God
sometimes than His speech.
© 2002 Steven Riddle
There is a deliberate chronological confusion notable in the verb tenses which may or may not work with the poem as i move it into future drafts. But I welcome observations.
On Hallowe'en
Ms. vonHuben has a very reasonable post with which I am predominantly in agreement. After all, one of the reasons for having All Saints on November 1 was to partially coopt Samhain and "Christianize" it--a strategy employed by Pope St. Gregory the Great for a great many Christian feast days. I understand the reservations of some. And my child will not participate in "beggar's night" or "trick or treating" largely due to my reservations about modern times and not the holiday. However, he will light his (fake) "Spooky Ooky" Jack 'o Lantern (reference to Rolly Polly Ollie, I think) and dance to "The Wiggles" all night long. Next year we'll probably take him to one of the many church sponsored "Harvest Parties" where the children can dress up and get together.
As with most of these issues, I believe the key is parental guidance, supervision, and discussion. Many things otherwise untenable or perhaps more dangerous are defused when the boundaries are clearly defined and the reasoning (once one reaches the age of reason, around 35) clearly explained.
A Public Appeal
In his comment below, and again on his Blog, Dylan has tantilized us with the following promise:
I might blog something about fragmentation and modern "epics" : the tendency which became most notable with Eliot's The Waste Land -- and upon close re-reading, we see passages of beauty and great technical accomplishment! --perhaps began with our rambunctious buddy Walt Whitman and "Song of Myself" (where, praise God, he does write about many things other than himself!).
I am anxiously awaiting this, and I am certain that there will be much of interest and much for me to comment on. So this is a public appeal to make certain that it happens. (Dylan is actually very good about these things--when he posts an intent, generally we get the result--this is just an encouragement).
Dare We Hope That All May Be Saved?
I start with a confession--before I knew the Church taught against it, I was a universalist. Yes, heretic, splitter, hardened religious criminal. I joke, but I do realize that the Church speaks quite firmly against the heresy of universalism, and wishing to be a good son of the church, I accept that as part of my faith. But my heart strives against it. My heart is interested in God's mercy and not nearly so interested in His justice. As I see it, Earth is the realm for justice, and if given a choice in the after-life, I opt for mercy. All of this is said in the interest of full disclosure.
However, I do think that there is cause for hope in this issue. Yes, I know all the arguments you can summon against it, I've heard them all, and they are one of the things that do keep me in check. But as I said, my heart longs for a God defined more by mercy and love than by a taste for justice.
One of the bits of evidence I point to is admittedly weak. It comes from the stockpile of private revelation, and thus is not binding on any Catholic believer. However, I am certain that the majority of Catholics who pray the Rosary follow this particular private revelation. Many of us pray the Fatima Prayer at the end of each decade. Think for a moment about what is said there: "forgive us our sings" nothing extraordinary in the way of a prayer, fairly common. However, "lead all souls to heaven, especially those most in need of thy mercy." If we pray this prayer, and if we believe that this prayer came from the hand of our Lady, surely it must say something to us. There seems to me no way to understand this prayer rightly and not hope that all may be saved. If we believe the private revelation, why would our Lady tell us to pray for something that patently would not, could not, should not happen? The prayer makes no allowance for "all souls close to a state of grace", or "all repentant souls." Now, the words stare you in the face--it is without exception "all souls." What is the sense of this prayer if we are not hoping in theological hope for the salvation of all?
Not proof, I grant you. There is much that weighs against these words in the Gospels. The Fatima Prayer, as I point out, comes from the stock of private revelation which is binding on no one and cannot be said to be part of the doctrinal deposit of faith. Still, if we do believe in this apparition, it appears very clear to me that there must be hope that all may see God in Eternity. My heart, which cannot be restrained by the leashes of reason, desperately desires this to be true, because I honestly can't see a way to heaven for the majority of us recidivist sinners (my cloaking device expression for "ME"), without an infinitely merciful, loving God.
Now, universalism is a heresy. I think that the council of Trent even pronounced anathema on those who say that while Hell may exist, it lacks occupants (that is for more erudite minds than my own). And I suppose by that we can mean that the fallen angels cannot be redeemed (presumably these are not "souls"). I don't know. I follow the guidance of my church, but I willingly cling to the arguments offered by Hans Urs van Balthasar and Richard John Neuhaus. Human reason is faulty, divine reason mostly incomprehensible. In the gap between the two is perhaps where the hope resides.
Now I stand ready to be corrected. I accept all criticisms and critiques. But I will warn you, my obstinate heart is hard to convince, its longing after God is not an impartial witness. I apologize if by my words I have offended any, and most especially, I ask forgiveness if I have sinned against God or erred and led any astray by these statements. But here is the single place I know where heart has conquered head, and I let it lead in the hope that the heart grows stronger and the head takes its proper place in the regulation, not the domination, of life.
Shalom to all. May His peace be upon you all and upon your houses.
Pro-Life Novena
It's not too late to join Jeff Miller at Atheist to a Theist for a pro-life novena before election day. Our country desperately needs this prayer.
From the Pen of the Delightful Ms. Knapp
Virtual Pen, I should say. This, profound, humane, compassionate, and utterly sensible (if somtimes difficult to implement) meditation on what it means to be Catholic. She's likely to take a lot of flack for it, but I'll be there to back her up if it happens.
A profound thank you, Ms. Knapp--you are ever an inspiration to those of us with a good deal less charity and a good deal more rapid-fire mouths. I stand in good stead to learn from what you teach. Thanks.
Two Very Fine Poems
At Sainteros a delight entitled Diamond Head Sutra and another short companion piece. Well worth your attention.
Primary Sources in History
The National Parks system has made available a number of really fine primary sources. If you are interested in the History of the National Park Service or some of the National Parks, check this out.
For those interested in Victorian London, there is an entire site devoted to primary sources here. I really like first-hand accounts rather than much of the modern trend of historical revisionism. I like to know what people at the time thought and said about the events they experienced.
For Those Interested in Classical Music
I do need to point out the wonderful music writing of Robert Reilly (a sample may be found here). Mr. Reilly writes for Crisis and thus far his criticism has been dead on. As I compose this at home, I am listening to Gerald Finzi's Cello Concerto. A work that I would have summarily pass over had it not been for the notice given by Mr. Reilly. If you are interested in or need to build up your classical collection (homeschoolers be aware), Mr. Reilly is a fairly reliable star to steer that ship by.
One of Those Things That Give One Pause
As I was leaving the house this morning, I saw a package on the doorstep that meant the library had delivered a book I had requested--the only book this library had by Geoffrey Hill, The Triumph of Love (and there are other more deplorable omissions, too many to recount). This book is a sequence poem that is nearly impenetrable in its complexity (a cursory reading shows).
I opened the book at random and flipped through to see if there was any section of it that simply made grammatical sense in English. (I'm delighted to say that there are.) In so doing I happened upon this:
from The Triumph of Love Geoffrey HillLI
Whatever may be meant by moral landscape,
it is for me increasingly a terrain
seen in cross-section: igneous, sedimentary,
conglomerate, metamorphic rock-
strata, in which particular grace,
individual love, decency, endurance,
are traceable across the faults.
I am disappointed. This, one of our most erudite poets--obscure to the point of "Wastelandism"--brilliant, intellectual, and profound, makes an enormous blunder for the sound of the words. Here the major sin is in the litany of rock-types. We have igneous, sedimentary, conglomerate, and metamorphic, implying a four-fold division. In fact, conglomerate is a type of sedimentary creating a hidden redundancy. A proper catalogue would have said something like "granite, gneiss, conglomerate and schist." Or perhaps we could have used more erudite terms for some of the same "hawaiite (or alaskite), augengneiss, conglomerate, and eclogite." We would have attained the same obscurity, perhaps even greater obscurity, and retained the typing. For those unacquainted with geology, let me move the list to another more familiar field to make clear where I see the problem. It would be as though one were listing the amniote vertebrates and one were to say, "Reptiles, Birds, Flamingos, and Mammals."
A minor point, and this post was originally of much greater length and much less charity. But I suppose what I want to get at is that a reader entrusts him or herself to the writer's hands. One wishes them to be both clean and certain; a slip such as this makes one suspect the latter quality.
Let us draw a curtain of charity over this admittedly very minor oversight. I will speak more of the whole sequence when I've had a chance to read it more reflectively.
Review: The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne
This first novel of Brian Moore is said to be a masterpiece of the Catholic Novel. If by that we mean a masterpiece of the tortured religious consciousness constantly at odds with the world around it through no circumstances of its own, I suppose there is a certain amount of truth to the statement.
Strangely, this book has elements of many another Catholic Novel. In this case, the novel is set in Belfast, Northern Ireland. The mechanism of Ms. Hearne's trial is, not surprisingly, alcoholism and something reminiscent of delirium tremens. The first three-quarters of the book are spent given us sufficient background to support the "passion" at the end of the book. Miss Hearne resembles at a distance the whiskey priest from The Power and the Glory, but more than anything else, this book reminds one of Endo's Silence in mood and, to some extent, resolution.
Miss Hearne is a middle-aged, plain spinster (although played in the film by the redoubtable Maggie Smith, who is anything BUT plain) who has squandered her youth in the care of an aged Aunt who ultimately leaves her with very little to live on and virtually no relationships to support. The novel starts as we watch Miss Hearne unpack her trunk in a new bed-sitting-room and carefully place the photography of her aunt and a picture of the Sacred Heart. In a gradual peeling of layers we have a "romance" for Miss Hearne from an older man who has returned from the states as a result of an accident. He "romances" Miss Hearne because he believes she has money to invest in a business venture he is contemplating in Dublin. She mistakes this for romantic overtures, and thus we have the set-up, which, when it collapses precipitates Miss Hearne's crisis.
Now, the crisis. Miss Hearne appears to go on something like a three or four day binge, takes all of her money out of the bank, and spend it staying at the Plaza Hotel. Due to the collapse of this romance (among other things--this is simply the straw that broke the camel's back), she has concluded that there is no God, and that the bread of the Eucharist is merely that. After barging in drunk to a priest's residence and asking him about the real presence and getting nothing like a satisfactory answer, she stops her taxi on the way home and goes in to assault the tabernacle. This gets her thrown into a convalescent home where the passion and crisis meet resolution.
The book has sharp-edged portrayals, and throughout is completely believable. Miss Hearne and all of those who surround her are real people. There are very few present who represent Christianity at its best, but the one, whom Ms. Hearne is certain she has lost as a friend because she has been regarded as a Charity case, is the mechanism of Ms. Hearne's questionable redemption.
There is a certain variety of the Catholic Novel that is completely bound up in the idea of crisis of faith, and this novel is exemplary of that strain. It is not a favorite of mine, though I suppose it is to some extent necessary to portray some dramatic tension. I prefer the strain of Walker Percy and Flannery O'Connor where the tension comes not so much from questions about whether or not there is a God, but the realization of His action in the world. In some sense, there is a strain of this in The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne. While she claims not to believe, what she is struggling with is the ineluctable Silence that Endo treats so profoundly.
In the final analysis a novel well worth reading, and particularly good as the investment of time is minimal. The whole crisis plays itself out in a little over two-hundred pages. I've noted that the really great Catholic Novels (with the exception of those of Walker Percy) tend to be quite short. As they tend to be focused on a single point, this is all to the good. One could not bear too much of the company of Miss Hearne as sad and as touching as her story may be, she doesn't make for pleasant company.
Avoiding Hypocrisy
Found via More Like Mary. . .
As an "antidote to hypocrisy" -- a flaw not unknown in academic circles -- the Holy Father suggested "a constant exchange between what is known and what is lived; between the message of truth received as a gift with the Christian vocation, and concrete personal and communal attitudes.""In other words: between knowing the faith and the holiness of life," the Pope said.
A salutary bit of advice for all of us. Those of us in more mundane circles of life say it somewhat more simply--Practice what you preach!
Talk About Apostolic Succession
Check out this genealogy by Fr. Jeffrey Keyes C.PP.S. And while you're at it, say a prayer for him and for all the good men who do us the tremendous service of living the sacrificial life of a priest. But especially for him so close to ordination day.
For Those of You into Homeschooling
You may want to check out More Like Mary, Less Like Martha. It appears to be one of those sites of infinite common sense and interesting discussion.
Quirky, Cool, and Fun
And the blogmaster has a great URL. If you're a fan of science fiction, fantasy, Manga, or Anime AND you're a faithful Catholic, Aliens in this World is a pretty cool hang out!
I tried to post the following three times yesterday. I am sorry for the delay, but I am delighted that it appears I shall be able to post it this morning.
Wilfrid Stinissen is rapidly becoming my favorite guide to reading scripture contemplatively (in the more common sense of that word, and I hope eventually in the more narrow definition of the word). The following passage is just wonderful for understanding what it is to read poetry or Scripture.
from Nourished by the Word
Wilfrid Stinissen
It is typical of poetry, as for all art, that it appeals to the reader's (or observer's) creativity. A poem is no tract where the thoughts are already thought out and have received their definitive formulation. A poem opens a door, often several doors simultaneously, and readers themselves decide which way they choose and how far they will take it. It is, among other things, this combination of guidance and freedom which causes one to thrive in the domain of poetry. One feel respected and taken seriously. We ourselves get to think and interpret and associate, to be fellow creators ourselves.This concerns also our company with God's word, which has breadth and manifold meanings that purely human words cannot cover. As one free child of God, I get to play in the Bible's paradise. I get to make the old text into a new song which corresponds to my personal experience, my present needs. I can be certain that God approves of this way of playing with the text: "Then I was beside him, like a master worker: and I was daily his delight, rejoicing before him always" (Prov 8:30). When I do so, I attach myself to the Church's centuries long tradition. The Church Fathers read Scripture in this way and the Church does it in its official liturgy. It is truly not psychoanalysis which has invented the act of free association. The Church makes use of it with extreme virtuosity. (p. 56)
Admittedly, one must be very careful to make a distinction here between individual application (which subsequent passages show that Stinissen is talking about) and individualistic interpretation, which is dangerous and schismatic. Everyone has individual interpretations, but as Catholics, those interpretations are guided and ruled by the general teaching of the Church and held in line by our understanding of the Magisterium. The Church has spoken definitively on the interpretation of very few individual passages of Scripture, but we are guided by the various Pontifical Councils on the Bible to understand Scripture as the Church has understood it for two thousand years. So casting aside the possible reading of this passage as meaning run with whatever meaning you happen to get from reading scripture, we are left with application.
Harold Bloom, speaking of the great books, has a wonderful metaphor for this act of application. He refers to the great books as not so much being read as reading us. That is, when we are brought into contact with a great work of literature, we bring to it all that we are and all that we know. Our reaction to the book is more often what it says about us than what we read in it. This is multiply true of Scripture. When we read a passage, the Bible speaks to us where we are.
You have undoubtedly had the experience either of hearing in Church or of picking up and reading a passage from the Bible and saying, I never noticed that before. If you're noticing it now, pay attention--it probably has something to say to you right here, right now in your life. Application of Scripture, contra interpretation, is the act of realizing what is being spoken to you personally and putting it into action. For example at one time in your life you may have read, "Go and spread the Good News to all the lands." Now, we all know we are called to do this, but at one time you may have felt called to the Priesthood, or to some other vocation that would more directly bear on this verse. You may have been called to stand outside abortion clinics and pray, or called to help serve the St. Vincent de Paul Society, any number of possibilities. THAT is application, not interpretation. You hear the message and act upon it.
Stinissen concludes this magnificent chapter with the following observation, which I believe sums up the nature of personal application:
The playful, personal reading causes the Scripture to become a splendid and constant new instrument of the Spirit. The Spirit blows where it will (Jn 3:8), and if we are sensitive to his wind in our lives, he will show us unexpected and hidden meanings in the Scriptures, and reveal many secrets about who God is. (p. 59)
This sounds vaguely gnostic, but I think it is more along the lines of meeting a woman for the first time. You may have heard many talk of her, you know what she looks like, you may even know something of her quirks and habits. This correlates to a superficial acquaintance with Scripture. But, as you meet and continue to meet, and perhaps fall in love, you discover that your picture was only a small part of what there was to know about this person. I think this is the light in which to interpret Stinissen's statement about "hidden meanings" and "many secrets." They are open meanings and open secrets, anyone is welcome to partake of them, but few choose to do so because it requires application and the hard realization that the words of Scripture are intended for each of us.
I cannot recommend highly enough this slender book . It is only 118 pages long, but it is packed with wonderful insights and guides for helping us to understand scripture.
More on Reading the Bible
In the comment directly below (thanks to a blogger outage, I was unable to post most of what I wanted to yesterday), Tom asks a question about NAB study Bible. Here's my take on study bibles:
You might look into the Ignatius Study Bible in pieces--if you've a mind to start immediately or you want a sampling, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and Acts are available. I have found it reasonably useful, although some of the guides seem unreasonably literal. For example, in Matthew commentary about leprosy, the authors point out the Levitical law regarding leprosy of person, clothes, and house. While these are truly Levitical, a house cannot have leprosy. In addition the commentary notes only the exterior features of the disease saying that sins makes us leprous. True enough, but the real horror of the disease is the eventual destruction of the peripheral nervous system that cuts off any ability to perceive the world. In an analogical reading, this is by far a better sense of what sin does to us--it desensitizes or destroys our ability to perceive God in the world and in our lives.
Okay, so there are some minor inadequacies. But I think that for most people, these will be a stunning revelation in the mode of Catholic Study Bibles. Given my long history of Study Bibles, I don't find this particularly great, but it is head and shoulders above much of the rest.
As for Frank's suggestion--which I think a good one. You might want to look at Stephen Ray's Gospel of John study available from Ignatius. It's lengthy, it looks to the thorough, and it is a great gospel to have a good guide to. My problem with most study bibles is that they tend to distract me from what I believe to be the main purpose of bible reading--to expand the reach of my heart and make me more able to imitate Jesus through knowing Him. Often I become distracted (as in the case above) by small absurdities in notes, or by commentary that seems to come out of left field. Bible Study should be given a separate time from reflective or meditative Bible reading--I don't think the two are compatible in the same time period. I DO believe that they are complementary, at least inasmuch as one Bible Study gives one a firmer foundation on which to base reflection and meditation, and Lectio or Meditation helps increase the hunger for knowing clearly what God is asking.
Hope this is helpful.
On the NAB again
Mr. McManus has left a couple of wonderful posts, both very insightful and thought-provoking. I quote one in full here to comment on it somewhat better than would be allowed by a comment box.
Comment by Mr. Frank McManusI'm not entirely convinced by your discussion of submissive vs. subordinate. I can't see how the latter could possibly be more politically correct than the former, so I'm disinclined to attribute sinister motives to the translators. Whichever option is more accurate depends wholly on the meaning of the original, and you do not address this question.
I'm certainly no expert, but my overall impression is that the revised NAB NT is a considerable improvement over the original NAB NT. (The revised Psalms are another story.) The old NT was often a virtual paraphrase, and a very klutzy one at that, on a par with the Good News Bible.
I'm not defending the NAB; I prefer Bibles that sound more traditional, such as the RSV. For this reason I think that, until Ignatius finally issues a complete study Bible, with a "revised" Catholic RSV (which I assume will mean eliminating the archaic language) - until that long-awaited day, check out the new English Standard Version (ESV). It's excellent - what the NRSV should have been. Unfortunately there's no Catholic edition, nor even an edition with the "Apocrypha". Apart from that, it's my favorite translation. Fans of the NKJV in particular should take a look - the ESV cleans up many of the infelicities of the NKJV.
First, addressing Mr. McManus directly: Thank you for that respectful questioning of the point. You are correct that I haven't fully presented the case, and perhaps I have been foolish in presenting this much of it. But my reaction isn't to this single passage or element, it is to a number of things embodied in many passages that I have heard over time, liberties taken with the text, which while not as damaging, lead me to suspect the motive behind what is going on.
As to the translation: I am not expert in Greek myself; however, I have consulted every interlinear translation I have (5) and the Latin Vulgate and in every case the word involved is indeed "submit" or "submissive." Here, I know I'm relying on other translators, but I do think it notable that in the history of translations claiming to be other than paraphrases, this substitution does not occur. The RSV uses subject, which I suppose has the same flavor as subordinate, but certain has less of the boardroom or the military about it.
But I think this translation is "the straw that broke the camel's back." For example, every fragment of a letter is introduced with the phrase, "Brothers and Sisters." Now, those words are interpolations into the text--nothing wrong in themselves, but they do constitute tampering with the text "for the sake of understanding." However, if the reading is announced as it usually is,"A reading from the Letter of St. Paul to the Ephesians," why is the interpolation necessary? And if an interpolation IS deemed necessary, why don't we use the words of St. Paul in Ephesians 1:1: "To the saints who are also faithful in Christ Jesus?" This would be a more effective announcement and continuation of the notion that we are all called to be Saints.
While at Mass I have observed other "softer" wordings in the Gospels and in the Letters. The Old Testament readings seem to be less tampered with. I should not impute some subversive motive; however, this is not the conclusion of a moment it is the culmination of a series of observations. When the translation is so deliberately counter to tradition, one must wonder what other reason might underlie the change. Accuracy is possible, but I have noted that all the harsh or hard words seem to have been softened in this translation.
Admittedly, I am conveying an impression. Nevertheless, I find the NAB a seriously flawed translation on a number of fronts. The language is dull, flat, and unmemorizable. This last would seem to be a trivial concern, and yet, if we are to lead scriptural lives, without our noses stuck in a book all day long, we need to carry with us some portion of scripture that lives in the memory. The NAB doesn't even live as it is being pronounced. Add to that that in many cases the sense of what is being said is no more clear than it is in the older translations. I will readily acquiesce that there are passages in the older translations that are incomprehensible but most of the changes in the NAB do nothing to facilitate translation while depriving the translation of all the glories of the old.
I have pointed out before that the NAB are sometimes inane. For example St. Paul's famous, "We see now as in a glass, darkly," becomes "At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror. . ." Tell me how that makes sense to any child learning scripture today. They can look in a mirror and see for themselves that what they see is not indistinct. In fact, in some mirrors what one might see is more distinct than everyday reality. Any high-school student knows that mirrors are used for gathering light in a great many telescopes, including Hubble. Suddenly, we have moved from mere infelicity to a disorientation and perhaps alienation of the alert student. (I was this kind of nit-picker in my time, and guess I still am). The KJV, "In a glass, darkly," makes less sense to a child who has not been given the opportunity to see either the Elizabethan version of a looking glass or what passed for mirrors in Roman time. Once this has happened though, there is a fairly clear understanding of the enormous difference between a "glass" and a "mirror." I spend overmuch time on the point.
Yes, perhaps the fault can be attributed to simple incompetence and lack of liguistic ability. Perhaps it is due to a poor sort of pedagogy that has permeated the modern sensibility (largely based in a chronological chauvinism), a distorted pedagogy that desires the elimination of all objects that do not have correlatives in the modern world. It may stem from any number of reasons, but the combined result is that the NAB is an entirely unsatisfactory Bible to have proclaimed from the Ambo. It offers neither greater clarity nor more euphonious translations; it can be read as satisfying the agendas of dissident groups (although, as Mr. McManus points out, in charity we should not rush to that assumption); and it can be disorienting, confusing, and alienating to intelligent readers.
Ultimately, we are in agreement that, for whatever reasons it is generally a poor translation. Perhaps I am incorrect, but I thought that the rubrics in the U.S. allowed for one of two different translations--either this or the RSV-CE. I guess some of my questions were, if this is so, how does one go about making the case for the RSV-CE? If it is not, how does one go about making the case for adding it as a possibility?
Now that I have rephrased an argument all are probably tired of, I must once again thank Mr. McManus for asking the questions or, more correctly, stating the propositions that led to this post. I truly appreciate being forced to clarify my own thought and to back away from merely reacting to trying to give substance to the reaction.