tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73596428006131411402024-03-05T22:40:34.257-05:00Arcadia, night, a cloud, Pan, and the moon<i>But the song broke up in laughter....</i>balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-65707814365875718752024-02-24T15:58:00.001-05:002024-02-24T15:58:06.805-05:00VanyaWe went to see the National Theatre's <i>Vanya</i> yesterday (HD broadcast at the movie theater) -- a one person show with Andrew Scott playing every role. <br><br>
Do you need to know the Chekhov? I don't know. But Scott is just amazing. The Times and Guardian missed the point (though they acknowledged that his performance was a tour-de-force. But what he did was essentially to land halfway between Chekhov and Beckett. "Thus play I in one person many people," says Richard II, and that's what he does. It brings home the loneliness of the world, just as Beckett will later. And it got me thinking about Beckett's dramatic career, how we go from several people alone (<i>Godot</i>, <i>Endgame</i>) to one person mostly alone and covering for her loneliness through an unending stream of cheerful and optimistic conversational gambits (<i>Happy Days</i>) to a person entirely alone, but talking to his past self (<i>Krapp</i> to the void-filling desperation of complete solitude in which the speaker is <i>trying</i> to create a simulation <i>Not I</i>. I hadn't quite thought of it as that kind of progression before, but now I see it. And Scott's <i>Vanya</i> belongs to that progression somewhere, both before and after it. He makes you see what Beckett is doing, and makes you see how Beckette makes you see what Chekhov is doing.balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-37565246049766421212023-10-07T11:07:00.016-04:002023-10-07T11:14:31.275-04:00Three interruptionsI think Shakespeare, in the early seventeenth century, was thinking (or noticing) acts of self-interruption, and what they could do. When a speaker interrupts themselves, we realize that they're hearing just what we're hearing. So Hamlet interrupts his performance of Aeneas's tale to Dido:
<blockquote>The rugged Pyrrhus, like th’ Hyrcanian beast—<br>
’tis not so; it begins with Pyrrhus:<br>
The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms,<br>
Black as his purpose, did the night resemble<br>
When he lay couchèd in th’ ominous horse,<br>
Hath now this dread and black complexion smeared<br>
With heraldry more dismal. Head to foot,<br>
Now is he total gules, horridly tricked<br>
With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,<br>
Baked and impasted with the parching streets,<br>
That lend a tyrannous and a damnèd light<br>
To their lord’s murder. Roasted in wrath and fire,<br>
And thus o’ersizèd with coagulate gore,<br>
With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus<br>
Old grandsire Priam seeks.</blockquote>
The interruption comes to a speech which considers others, those in an extreme condition, those the speaker -- Aeneas or Hamlet -- ie forever separated from, and yet who represent a universe one might live in, if one could.
<a href="http://www.balaustion.com/2014/12/macbeths-friendlessness.html">Not long ago</a> I commented on this speech in <i>Macbeth</i>:
<blockquote>Seyton!--I am sick at heart,<br>
When I behold--Seyton, I say!--This push<br>
Will cheer me ever, or disseat me now.<br>
I have lived long enough: my way of life<br>
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf;<br>
And that which should accompany old age,<br>
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,<br>
I must not look to have; but, in their stead,<br>
Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,<br>
Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. Seyton!</blockquote>
I was haunted by the way Macbeth has a set piece in mind, but is also alert to the world around him, to the fact of another person, even as he is aware of the encroaching limits of the world: the bourn that life sets on how far to be beloved, the bourn that no traveler returns from once they've crossed it. Somehow, despite a note comparing (and contrasting) Seyton as the last residual figure still loyal to the Macbeth to Lear's Fool, I don't think I'd ever put it together with a very similar moment in <i>King Lear</i> which I also love, and which may have been the play Shakespeare wrote right before <i>Macbeth</i>:
<blockquote>
Prithee, go in thyself. Seek thine own ease.<br>
This tempest will not give me leave to ponder<br>
On things would hurt me more. But I’ll go in.—<br>
In, boy; go first.—You houseless poverty—<br>
Nay, get thee in. I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep.<br>
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,<br>
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,<br>
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,<br>
Your looped and windowed raggedness defend you<br>
From seasons such as these?<br>
</blockquote>
Each interrupts himself and begins again after a kind of anacoluthon. They make a sort of gesture outwards to another, and then return to themselves, but after populating the emptiness around them with the possibilities of others: "troops of friends" or "you houseless poverty," "poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are." There's a fundamental loneliness that this evocation of others makes us feel: the loneliness of the others and not only of the soliloquist, a kind of sense, then of the fundamentality of loneliness.
balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-50972758113666548462023-07-03T13:49:00.002-04:002023-07-03T13:50:34.152-04:00Subjective probablity<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Scientific American has a brief </span><a data-cke-saved-href="https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/why-the-sleeping-beauty-problem-is-keeping-mathematicians-awake/" href="https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/why-the-sleeping-beauty-problem-is-keeping-mathematicians-awake/" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">article</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> about the Sleeping Beauty Paradox. I think that thinking about it may be illuminating for the central importance of the idea of </span><a data-cke-saved-href="https://www.princeton.edu/~bayesway/Book*.pdf" href="https://www.princeton.edu/~bayesway/Book*.pdf" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">subjective probability</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">:</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">So my analysis is this:</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">There’s a 50/50 chance that she’s in the one-time universe. And she knows she’ll be woken up, so waking her up conveys no information. It’s a bit like the show </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Severance</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, and so she's entitled to seeing her chances of being in each universe as 50-50.</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">But from a different perspective: imagine this: there are two staff members in the two-wakings universe, but neither of whom knows which universe they're in. Each one has an independent one-time assignment to wake her up. Because they don't know which universe they're in, they don't know if someone else will have or already has woken her up. (The day of the week thing doesn't matter: ignore it.) There's also one staff member in the one-waking universe who also doesn’t know which universe they’re in assigned to wake her up in. Each of the three -- on a bet -- should bet that they're in the two-wakings universe, since the odds are 2-1 that they are. Thus any particular moment of her waking up is more likely in the two-wakings universe than in the one-waking universe.</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">That seems obvious. On the other hand Sleeping Beauty gets no more info when she’s woken up than she had before, when it was 50-50 which universe she would be in. So there's no reason for her to believe that she's more likely to be in the two-wakings universe, since she'll be woken up either way, and each experience is completely independent of any others. There is no set of events that she can refer to. Her subjective </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">experience</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> (each time!) is to be woken up once and only once.</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">So if she sees herself from outside she’s going to bet that the person waking her up is one of the pair who don’t know which universe they’re in but who would rightly bet they’re in the two-wakings universe. But she has to take that circuit, relying on other people’s subjective probability, rather than her own. More simply: subjectively she has one experience of waking up, and there's a 50-50 chance that she's in the one-waking universe when she has that experience. But vicariously she knows that the person waking her up would rightly bet that they're in the two-wakings universe. And they should bet that they're in the two-wakings universe because each would know vicariously that anyone waking her up should bet on being in that universe. The point being that the wakers know that two </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">other</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> wakers also have the task of waking her up, whereas she's the only Sleeping Beauty, and will only have a </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">memory</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> of a single experience of being woken up. (There may be a tense logic to this: her memory is part of a present-tense subjective experience of her own past, whereas the wakers are having a present-tense objective experience of the objective existence in the present of other wakers.)</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Anyhow, I think it's like the well-known </span><a data-cke-saved-href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two_envelopes_problem" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Two_envelopes_problem" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">two-envelopes problem</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">:</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">There are two envelopes, one of which contains twice the amount of money as the other. You’re given a chance to switch. Is there an advantage to doing so?</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><u style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The argument for it</u><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">: It’s just as though you’re flipping a coin, where the stakes are putting half of what you have at risk to double the amount. I have $10; I flip a coin and have a 50% chance of getting $20, and a 50% chance or losing only $5. Of course that’s a good bet, Pascalians!</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><u style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The argument against</u><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">: I know one has $10 and one has $20. 50-50 chance I have the $20 envelope and 50-50 that I have the $10 envelope. If I have the $20 and I switch I’ll lose $10. If I have the $10 I’ll gain $10. 50-50 chance either way of gaining or losing $10.</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The argument for switching hits a paradox because then why shouldn’t you switch again after you’ve already switched, and do this forever?</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The argument against is clear cut and obviously true, even if you use $n and $2n without knowing what n is.</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">In the argument for switching there seem to be three equally possible amounts of money: n, 2n, n/2. And it’s presented as though all three are possible outcomes. But only two are possible, once the envelopes are sealed. Subjectively 3, but objectively 2. So this is where Bayesian subjective probability hits an infinite loop that frequentist probability wouldn’t.</span><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><br style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;" /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">The infinite loop can be thought of this way as well: every time </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">j</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> you're asked whether you want to switch the expected 1.5n that you got in the envelope last time now becomes a new n</span><sub style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">j</sub><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">. We're no longer talking about three possibilities being shoe-horned into 50% chance for each, but 4,5,6..., i.e: an infinite number of possibilities, each of which seems to have a 50% chance of being true at the moment that you consider it. So switching an infinite number of times should yield an infinite amount of money, but that's because you get stuck in a loop that can go on infinitely because the amount of money is indeterminate from the start.</span>balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-23093475850849515922023-06-17T17:29:00.039-04:002023-06-18T10:05:17.626-04:00As in a vivid sleepHere’s</a> an amazing, haunting poem by L.S. Bevington, from 1876:<br /><br /></p><blockquote >Twilight<br /><br />Grey the sky, and growing dimmer,<br />And the twilight lulls the sea;<br />Half in vagueness, half in glimmer,<br />Nature shrouds her mystery.<br /><br />What have all the hours been spent for?<br />Why the on and on of things?<br />Why eternity’s procession<br />Of the days and evenings?<br /><br />Hours of sunshine, hours of gleaming,<br />Wing their unexplaining flight,<br />With a measured punctuation<br />Of unconsciousness, at night.<br /><br />Just at sunset, was translucence,<br />When the west was all aflame;<br />So I asked the sea a question,<br />And an answer nearly came.<br /><br />Is there nothing but Occurrence?<br />Though each detail seem an Act,<br />Is that whole we deem so pregnant<br />But unemphasizèd Fact?<br /><br />Or, when dusk is in the hollows<br />Of the hill-side and the wave,<br />Are things just so much in earnest<br />That they cannot but be grave?<br /><br />Nay, the lesson of the Twilight<br />Is as simple as ’tis deep;<br />Acquiescence, acquiescence,<br />And the coming on of sleep.</blockquote><p><br " /><br " /><span ">It’s one in a set of four – “Morning,” “Afternoon,” “Twilight,” and “Midnight” – and I think the best of those though they are all good. Louisa Bevington was an anarchist (Kropotkin came to her funeral, as did the Rossettis) and atheist poet, well versed (so to speak) in Darwin’s theory of evolution. For Tennyson, for the Tractarians, for many others, evolution by natural selection was an unspeakably depressing idea, but Bevington could think about it in a way looking forward to Wallace Stevens’s </span><a href="https://www.tumblr.com/wallacestevens-blog/29767061082/waving-adieu-adieu-adieu" color: #e60000;" target="_blank">“Waving Adieu, Adieu, Adieu”</a><span">: “In a world without heaven to follow, the stops / Would be endings, more poignant than partings, profounder, / And that would be saying farewell, repeating farewell, / Just to be there and just to behold.”</span><br " /><br " /><span ">A world without heaven to follow is one in which the present moment, if it signifies anything at all, can only signify repetition, can only mean its own meaning as a present moment. The possibility of temporary repetition is all it offers. Stevens’s repetition is like Bevington’s “Occurrence.” Things happen and the world is a series (hence the idea of repetition) of things happening. What we, empirical, limited, biological people do is acquiesce, as the penultimate line repeats.</span><br " /><br " /><span ">What I find so hauntingly perfect about this poem is what that acquiescence is to. On a first reading it looks allegorical: the coming on of sleep is a harbinger of death, which is always coming on (as in Ashbery’s tonally similar poem </span><a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/nw4ziinl72uaeuw/Nov%2018%2C%201974%20ashbery%20fear%20of%20death.pdf?dl=0" color: #e60000;" target="_blank">“Fear of Death,”</a><span "> with its allusion to Hamlet's very last words). But I think what makes this poem so good is that it doesn’t make sleep a figure for death. It’s not about how we Darwinians have to to acquiesce to our own mortality. Rather our experience as biological beings is the experience of acquiescing to our own experience as natural beings. There is a sort of unmeditated kindness in nature, as simple as it’s deep: the kindness that means we fall asleep every night, as mammals do.</span><br " /><br " /><span ">We acquiesce, without any sort of decision, to the part of our nature that is the everyday part of nature. I think what’s most amazing about this is the way that the moment in reading the poem that you realize that it’s about sleep, not about death, is the moment you repeat the experience that it describes. Sleep is real, death is notional. There’s no decision there but simply the fact that we do fall asleep, no working through to a resolution of some ontological anxiety but just a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep. We're fundamentally like all other mammals: we acquiesce as they do to living in the natural world -- the world whose existence we contribute to by being natural beings. The poem doesn’t solve the problem it sets up: it is (as Wittgenstein will say (</span><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/files/5740/5740-pdf.pdf" color: #e60000;" target="_blank">Tractatus</a><span "> 6.251) about the vanishing of the problem.</span></p>balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-56846127137888174162023-04-15T11:05:00.002-04:002023-06-18T16:12:54.539-04:00Another Abe<p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Joke title, referring to Kafka's idea of another Abraham. I am thinking of Kōbō Abe in fact as another Kafka. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Because I was teaching <i>Woman in the Dunes</i> yesterday -- mainly the movie but also Abe's novel. He wrote the very faithful screenplay. Among the writers Abe knew well was Kafka -- Abe had visited Prague a few years earlier (after the Hungarian revolution, whose suppression disgusted him), so roughly the time the movie and novel start, and when there he did the Kafka tour.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the important things I think he saw in Kafka was just how <i>realistic</i> Kafka is. You're thrown into the world not your own and not yourself but the only world there will ever be for you now, and you live in it. We all do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So the explicit allusions to Kafka are at least these: the man in the movie (and novel) is an amateur entomologist, looking for a new kind of beetle (the tiger beetle), which is to say that Gregor Samsa might be there in the sand somewhere. Well he is -- the easiest irony in the movie is that the man <i>is</i> just like the beetles he's collecting, trapped in the dunes as they in their jars. Eventually he becomes focused on the crows around the pit where he lives, trying to catch one (which he can't), to treat as an unimperial messenger, putting one in mind of Kafka's parable: "<span ">The crows maintain that a single crow could destroy the heavens. There is no doubt of that, but it proves nothing against the heavens, for heaven simply means: the impossibility of crows."</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">As has long been pointed out, the word for <i>crow</i> in Czech is a pun on Kafka's name (the aphorism is in German, but his name does mean <i>crow</i>. Murakami will do something similar with the character Crow in <i>Kafka on the Shore</i>). And there's the complaint that the man makes that he is living "like a dog," Josef K's last words in <i>The Trial</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">But I think the most crucial connection may be in the moral of the story, which is never quite specific, although the man tells the woman that he has no desire to be in Tokyo, the place she imagines is so wonderful. If he'd liked Tokyo he wouldn't be doing entomology in the dunes. The moral seems to be from Kafka, from the land-surveyor K's sublime rhetorical question: <span ">"Was hätte mich denn in dieses öde Land locken können, als das Verlangen hierzubleiben?“ - "What could have drawn me to this desolate land, if not the desire to stay here?"</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">That's what the entomologist realizes at the end, his desire to stay there. The story is about his understanding that he's not the main character. The woman is. It's her sorrow, her need, her mourning, her experience that he must learn to take seriously. So the absolute realism of the movie is this: it's a realistic portrait of a marriage -- of the best that a marriage can be, perhaps, or that human relations can be over time -- which is learning to commit yourself to what you've already been committed to, what circumstances, fate, life, being in the world, have committed you to. A commitment to commitment in spite of everything. To others in the same boat, wrecked (as in an early shot in the movie) on the dunes.</span></p>balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-60773752312548396162023-01-16T13:29:00.008-05:002023-06-18T16:15:49.209-04:00<p><span style="font-family: times;">William James in 1884: "<span color: #202122; text-align: justify;">Our mental life, like a bird's life, seems to be made of an alternation of flights and perchings."</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span color: #202122; text-align: justify;">Henry James perhaps remembering this in 1898, has the Governess begin her narrative: "</span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 16px;">I remember the whole beginning as a succession of flights and drops, a little seesaw of the right throbs and the wrong.</span></span></p><p><span color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></p><p><span color: #202122; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></p>balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-41562060960886539562022-05-19T12:55:00.002-04:002022-05-19T12:56:45.276-04:00Unexpected Reunion<p>It just occurred to me that Johann Peter Hebel's amazing story <a href="http://creative.sulekha.com/unexpected-reunion_506536_blog" target="_blank">"Unexpected Reunion" </a>-- which Kafka famously called "the most wonderful story in the world -- is a version of Orpheus and Eurydice. Or perhaps it might be called Eurydice and Orpheus, with all such a converse might apply. At any rate it's the Eurydice figure who turns back, Eurydice who's been exiled in this world for all those years.</p><p>Ophuls' <i>Black Orpheus,</i> problematic as its real world construction is (for short: not the fact that it depicts an exotic celebration per se, but the exoticization of the actors), is still a brilliant and beautiful movie, and its most brilliant part is what Orpheus sees when he turns back: Eurydice as a very old woman. What he sees is the truth of marriage, time, aging, death. A truth, anyhow: the other truth is that these things are okay if one doesn't turn back, doesn't seek to turn back. </p><p>In Hebel's story, too, the woman becomes very old, in her vast separation from her "young husband" ("<a class="text" href="http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/morph?l=qalero%5Cs&la=greek&can=qalero%5Cs0&prior=moi" style="color: black; font-family: "New Athena Unicode", Gentium, "Palatino Linotype", "Lucida Grande", Galilee, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; text-decoration-line: none;" target="morph">θαλερὸς</a><span face=""New Athena Unicode", Gentium, "Palatino Linotype", "Lucida Grande", Galilee, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif"> </span><a class="text" href="http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/morph?l=parakoi%2Fths&la=greek&can=parakoi%2Fths0&prior=qalero\s" style="color: black; font-family: "New Athena Unicode", Gentium, "Palatino Linotype", "Lucida Grande", Galilee, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; text-decoration-line: none;" target="morph">παρακοίτης</a><span face="New Athena Unicode, Gentium, Palatino Linotype, Lucida Grande, Galilee, Arial Unicode MS, sans-serif">," </span>as Andromake calls Hektor). But it is she who turns back to see his youth, and to mourn their lives and their parting, she who is more Eurydice than ever.</p>balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-46733908533096177622022-03-29T15:32:00.005-04:002022-03-29T15:32:57.533-04:00"With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh"<p>WITH ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,</p><p>Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;</p><p>Some lying fast at anchor in the road,</p><p>Some veering up and down, one knew not why.</p><div style="text-align: left;">A goodly vessel did I then espy</div><p>Come like a giant from a haven broad;</p><p>And lustily along the bay she strode,</p><p>Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.</p><p>The ship was nought to me, nor I to her,</p><p>Yet I pursued her with a lover's look;</p><p>This ship to all the rest did I prefer:</p><p>When will she turn, and whither? She will brook</p><p>No tarrying; where she comes the winds must stir:</p><p>On went she, and due north her journey took.</p><p><br /></p><p>This sonnet has always haunted me, without my thinking much about why. But today I realized it's the amazing twelfth line. All the other lines are end-stopped (or could be) with no sentences ending midline. But then we get that amazing caesura, just in the question about when the ship would turn: "When will she turn, and wither?" And then the only enjambment, as she does turn, and another clausal ending after "tarrying" in line 13. You read the last three lines as a kind of three line poem-within-the-poem, and they're pure blank verse in this Petrarchan sonnet. The sense of enjambed, even Miltonic, blank verse -- except that it's purely Wordsworthian -- overlays and displaces the sonnet form that contains it, and that's what the ship is doing too -- brooking no tarrying, commanding the winds, sailing due north.</p>balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-66000361508190812642021-04-04T02:19:00.004-04:002021-04-04T02:19:42.304-04:00The Sacred James<p> I'm reading Henry James's bizarre last unfinished novel, <i>The Sense of the Past</i>, which I guess he started around the time of <i>The Sacred Fount </i>and just after <i>Turn of the Screw</i>. Anyhow, the way it treats its central character's relation to a cousin whose intelligence waxes and wanes during a single conversation reminds me of <i>The Sacred Fount</i>, which treats intelligence and insight as a kind of fluid quantity that flows back and forth between characters. That's what <i>literally</i> happens in each chapter, as characters go from complete imbecility to supersubtle analysts, back to imbecility: with the observing narrator also needing to worry about his own susceptibility to this coming and going of accurate insight in himself.</p><p>And it occurred to me today (maybe this is a brief waxing of insight) that James is explicitly parodying what happens in all his novels, parodying the way Isabel or Strether or Milly Theale or Maggie Verver go from being less intelligent and insightful than those around them to being far more so. It's as though James thought to give this another, how shall I say?... turn of the screw, in order to see what would happen if the dynamic would shift back and forth.</p><p>Why would he do this? Well, partly for fun, mainly for fun, but partly as an experiment in style, since it's style alone that can suggest insight that then becomes so fine that (as Eliot says) no idea can violate it, at which point it becomes obtuseness, an obtuseness so intense that it can't help becoming self-aware and turning into insight again, in an incessant dialectic that <i>can</i> go nowhere except into the subtlety of its own endlessly elaborating, endlessly self-modifying sentences.</p>balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-76076326982502830162019-10-01T17:58:00.000-04:002019-10-01T18:17:14.719-04:00“Parentheses” (and quotations)<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Geoffrey Nunberg (somewhere) makes the point that parentheses and quotations follow similar typographical, and, you could say syntactic rules: If you open a parentheses (with a lunula) you have to close it (with another, facing the opposite way). Likewise if you open a direct quotation (with raised, inverted commas (auf Englisch, zumindest), you have to close it (with reverted commas, but at the top of the line as well (das gilt auch für Deutsch, für die „Gänsefüßchen”)). (Look closely at what surrounds the words “inverted commas;” there's also a more minor question about punctuation, which can sometimes go inside a closing mark without suggesting that it's part of the original inscription, whereas parenthetical insertions are treated as either part of a sentence, so that there is no punctuation mark just <i>before</i> the last lunula, or they are sentences in themselves, as here, so that the parenthetical at the end of the previous sentence is part of a longer sequence of words and therefore does not itself end with a punctuation mark, whereas this parenthesis is a stand-alone sentence, so it does.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Another typographical convention that intuits the similarity is the rule that when you break a quotation into paragraphs, you open each paragraph with inverted commas, but only put the reverted commas at the end of the entire quotation. (Cf. Virginia Woolf's <i>The Waves</i> as a good example of the Hogarth Press's conformity to this rule.) Similarly, parentheticals that are broken into paragraphs have opening (concave) lunulae at the beginning of every paragraph but closing (convex) lunulae only at the end of the entire parenthesis (I am using “concave” and “convex” as understood intuitively, perhaps: the opening lunula opens an interior space: the closing lunula pushes us onward into the flow of the larger discourse).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />I was thinking about this the other day, and realizing that there is an interesting and symmetrical <i>difference </i>between quotations and parentheses. A parenthetical phrase (like this one) may refer to things outside of it, parts of the sentence it inhabits (say) that have no reciprocal need for the parenthesis (which is why it's parenthetical; look at how cleverly Pope allows you so skip parentheses in <i>The Rape of the Lock</i> without disturbing the rhyme scheme (though parenthetical phrases will often contribute (“(not in vain)” (<i>The Essay on Criticism</i>)) to the meter)).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Quotations on the other hand must <i>not</i> refer to the quoting context, since they precede it logically and temporally. (“Scare quoted” material may, I suppose, but here they're pretty much meant to quote the context.) So parentheses are outward-looking, supplemental to the discourse in which they appear, but quotation is inward-looking. The quoting context is the late-coming supplement, unregarded by the haughty indifference of the quoted words.<br /><br /><br /></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
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mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0in;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
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{mso-style-type:export-only;
mso-default-props:yes;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
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{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:.5in;
mso-footer-margin:.5in;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.WordSection1
{page:WordSection1;}
-->
</style>
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<!--EndFragment-->
<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:DocumentProperties>
<o:Revision>0</o:Revision>
<o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime>
<o:Pages>1</o:Pages>
<o:Characters>4</o:Characters>
<o:Company>Brandeis University</o:Company>
<o:Lines>1</o:Lines>
<o:Paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs>
<o:CharactersWithSpaces>4</o:CharactersWithSpaces>
<o:Version>14.0</o:Version>
</o:DocumentProperties>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves/>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:DoNotPromoteQF/>
<w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther>
<w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian>
<w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/>
<w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/>
<w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/>
<w:OverrideTableStyleHps/>
<w:UseFELayout/>
</w:Compatibility>
<m:mathPr>
<m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/>
<m:brkBin m:val="before"/>
<m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/>
<m:smallFrac m:val="off"/>
<m:dispDef/>
<m:lMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:rMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/>
<m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/>
<m:intLim m:val="subSup"/>
<m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/>
</m:mathPr></w:WordDocument>
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<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
DefSemiHidden="true" DefQFormat="false" DefPriority="99"
LatentStyleCount="276">
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" SemiHidden="false"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 9"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" SemiHidden="false"
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UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2"/>
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UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" Name="Bibliography"/>
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<style>
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/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-font-charset:78;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-font-charset:78;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:-536870145 1073743103 0 0 415 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
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{mso-style-unhide:no;
mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0in;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
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{mso-style-type:export-only;
mso-default-props:yes;
font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
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mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
@page WordSection1
{size:8.5in 11.0in;
margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:.5in;
mso-footer-margin:.5in;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.WordSection1
{page:WordSection1;}
-->
</style>
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<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
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mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
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font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:DocumentProperties>
<o:Revision>0</o:Revision>
<o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime>
<o:Pages>1</o:Pages>
<o:Characters>4</o:Characters>
<o:Company>Brandeis University</o:Company>
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<o:Paragraphs>1</o:Paragraphs>
<o:CharactersWithSpaces>4</o:CharactersWithSpaces>
<o:Version>14.0</o:Version>
</o:DocumentProperties>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]-->
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<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves/>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
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</style>balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-25662162318965982232019-05-22T11:32:00.003-04:002019-05-22T11:32:57.110-04:00Wittgenstein's Cat<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Imagine a cat in a box (it could be a duck or a rabbit or even a beetle instead, of course but we will assume without criteria that it's a cat) . She is caterwauling (you might be going to the vet or some such, because the cat is sick) but you can't tell if her cry is closer to "yanny" or to "laurel." At some point she quiets down, which after a while is worrying. You'd stopped at a fabric store on the way to get some soft silk to make the cat more comfortable in the box. The shopkeeper matched the gold fabric which you gave him a sample of to some silk he had on hand. Then perhaps he counted out fourteen inches of fabric (perhaps he recited the numbers from 1 to 14 as he counted out each inch: he counted in just the way we count, in the most ordinary sense). You arrive at the vet and she opens the box in her examining room. I want to say you will see either a dead cat surrounded by the funerary crepe of black fabric or a living cat rolling upon pink to work it in. But what was she doing before that, and was her caterwaul "yanny" or "laurel?" (We assume it has to be one of those.)</span>balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-389383129417267872019-03-31T16:39:00.002-04:002019-03-31T16:39:47.347-04:00<span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">We went to see the HD version of the Met's </span><i style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">Walküre</i><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"> yesterday. Despite the much-hated set (which I ended up thinking was okay), I thought it was amazing. And I think I got something about Wagner -- how the extreme length of his operas matters. (Twain's joke: You go to see a Wagner opera that starts at 6, and an hour later you check your watch to find that it's 6:15.)</span><br style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">As with Act II of </span><i style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">Tristan</i><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">, Act III of </span><i style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">Die Walküre</i><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"> is a long interchange between a devastated authoritarian, a father figure whose grief seems impossible to reconcile with his authority, and the person -- here Brünnhilde -- whom he must injure, who has brought her injury upon herself, and whom he must explain himself to.</span><br style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;" /><br style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">Such explanations are not easy. This is the opposite of the marvelous efficiency of dramatic or film dialogue, where clarity is completely efficacious. This is more about mind-changing. The argument, the reasoning is clear from the start. What acts to change Brünnhilde's mind is the strange, bass-baritone emotion with which Wotan (and Marke, a basso profundo in </span><i style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">Tristan</i><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">) sings. It's as though their loss, despair, powerlessness is in part the impossibility of their singing in a tenor's register -- Siegfried's par excellence. Hunding (also a basso profundo), is simply evil. He revels in his authority. Wotan doesn't. His authority is a fact that he cannot escape. If he could be a tenor, he would. If he could have two eyes he would. Wotan and Marke (and to an extent the baritone Giorgio Germont, the father in </span><i style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;">La Traviata</i><span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"> who finds himself unexpectedly having to explain to Violetta why he needs her to give up her love for his son) cannot set aside the burden of office, the burden that makes him a type, not a character, an opposition and not a protagonist. It's a very hard position to be in, and there's something very moving about the hopelessness of power the very long explanation conveys. Care sits on their faded cheeks, and the length of their scenes is an amazing demonstration that there is nothing to be done.</span>balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-21931359670075756302018-07-15T18:40:00.002-04:002018-07-15T18:40:52.265-04:00I love echoes in literature, the way that you can hear echoes in others because the same echo is reawakened in your mind.<br />
<br />
I was thinking about this, because I was reading the story of the Syrophenician woman in Matthew and Mark -- she asks Jesus to exorcise her daughter, and at first he refuses because she's not an Israelite, and the bread on the table must go to them. To which she replies: "Truth, Lord: yet indeed the whelps eat of the crumbs, which fall from their master’s table."<br />
<br />
This is the Geneva translation of Matthew's<span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "new athena unicode" , "gentium" , "palatino linotype" , "lucida grande" , "galilee" , "arial unicode ms" , sans-serif; text-size-adjust: auto;"> </span><a class="text" href="http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/morph?l=*nai%2F&la=greek&can=*nai%2F0&prior=au)tw=|" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: "New Athena Unicode", Gentium, "Palatino Linotype", "Lucida Grande", Galilee, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; text-decoration-line: none; text-size-adjust: auto;" target="morph">Ναί</a><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "new athena unicode" , "gentium" , "palatino linotype" , "lucida grande" , "galilee" , "arial unicode ms" , sans-serif; text-size-adjust: auto;">,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a class="text" href="http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/morph?l=ku%2Frie&la=greek&can=ku%2Frie0&prior=*nai/" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: "New Athena Unicode", Gentium, "Palatino Linotype", "Lucida Grande", Galilee, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; text-decoration-line: none; text-size-adjust: auto;" target="morph">κύριε</a><span style="font-family: "new athena unicode" , "gentium" , "palatino linotype" , "lucida grande" , "galilee" , "arial unicode ms" , sans-serif;">. (</span>Geneva translates Mark's identical repetition of <a class="text" href="http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/morph?l=*nai%2F&la=greek&can=*nai%2F0&prior=au)tw=|" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: "New Athena Unicode", Gentium, "Palatino Linotype", "Lucida Grande", Galilee, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; text-decoration-line: none; text-size-adjust: auto;" target="morph">Ναί</a><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: "new athena unicode" , "gentium" , "palatino linotype" , "lucida grande" , "galilee" , "arial unicode ms" , sans-serif; text-size-adjust: auto;">,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><a class="text" href="http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/morph?l=ku%2Frie&la=greek&can=ku%2Frie0&prior=*nai/" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: "New Athena Unicode", Gentium, "Palatino Linotype", "Lucida Grande", Galilee, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; text-decoration-line: none; text-size-adjust: auto;" target="morph">κύριε</a>, the same way, though the King James Version gives the somewhat more accurate "Yes, Lord" for the latter, which means that the KJV translators didn't compare notes, or possibly actively disagreed, or perhaps wanted the whole range of connotation and used the translator's trick of variation when translating the same phrase.) George Herbert used the Geneva Bible and therefore (I realized today) this must have been echoing in his head when he (or his speaker) replies to Love's generosity in "Love" (III):<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,<br />Who made the eyes but I?</blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame<br />Go where it doth deserve.<br />And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?<br />My dear, then I will serve.<br />You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:<br />So I did sit and eat.</blockquote>
<br />
Anyhow, I don't know whether anyone has noted the echo, but "Truth, Lord" as an assertion of agreement only appears in this one context in the Bible, so Herbert must have been remembering it. Not consciously, I wouldn't think, but the parallels are there: the person who feels that she or he doesn't deserve a place at the table, and the Love that gives them such a place.<br />
<br />
And yet these aren't quite parallels, since the Syrophenician woman is asking for something the Prince of Love is at first hesitant to give her, whereas Herbert is refusing an invitation to sit at the table himself.<br />
<br />
But the words, in Herbert's mind, must have resonated with the sound of their original context. He's embracing their context as the words themselves embrace the truth -- the truth uttered by the lord of love. In using the Biblical words he lets himself be carried along on the wave of quotation, and that experience, as we all must know, is one of joy. <br />
<br />
But it's not quite quoting that's the joy -- it's the sense of an echo, there, not a citation. Longinus defined the literary sublime as quotation, specifically quotation out of context: "The soul takes a proud flight as though she herself had written what she has only heard or read." Here it's rather that there are words available, capturing exactly the degree of intense and therefore meaningful subordination that he wants, that he feels.<br />
<br />
I think we feel it too. (I do.) It's as though the Syrophenician woman, and then Herbert, have made available a new formula for showing love and truth. It's not the original context that matters; it's the words that come out of it, neither citation nor quotation out of context but a new expression of human contact, and so a pleasure to read or hear without needing to be the originator of the quotation.<br />
<br />
Maybe a way to put this is to say that those words are not great by themselves, the way Longinian quotation is. They need a context of humility, gratitude, and the surprising generosity and love that this gratitude elicits. They need to be uttered as part of some exchange between persons, and when they do they hit the note all the more perfectly because they echo the original context that resonates in them now.<br />
<br />
And part of the right context for these words is a poem or story in which they're uttered in the right context. When that happens, we're carried along by them, and it's a joy that this can happen. And the more such phrases echo in your mind -- as in Herbert's -- the more you'll find yourself stirred by them, by literary language used right.<br />
<br />
(Note to self: I think what I mean by literary language used right is, in the end, something like meter. Meter as an echo of contexts which are the right ones to echo. But I don't think I managed to get that feeling down right here.)<br />
<br />balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-89550514156788454692018-04-14T09:31:00.000-04:002018-04-14T09:51:47.614-04:00Lipogrammatical translation<style type="text/css">
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<br />
<div class="p1">
Down To What’s Low, Canto 1</div>
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<br /></div>
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Just halfway through my own trip in our living</div>
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Provisional, short world, I found that I</div>
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Had lost my path in dark woods, unforgiving.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It is so hard a thing that I must sigh</div>
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If I would say how brutal was that wood,</div>
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To think on which will always horrify.</div>
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<br /></div>
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If anything, it’s only dying could</div>
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Outdo that acrid wood’s malignity.</div>
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But I will turn from horror, towards that good</div>
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<br /></div>
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Which also on that pathway, luckily,</div>
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I found, though I can’t say what hid all truth</div>
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Away in total blank stupidity.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I cannot work out how it was, in sooth,</div>
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That in that<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>gloom awaking, full of stupor,</div>
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I’d lost that saving road I took in youth.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I got at last to what you’d call a croup or</div>
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Boundary of that dark and dismal hollow,</div>
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A bank of rocks which from a mountain do pour,</div>
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<br /></div>
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To that bluff’s scapula my look did follow</div>
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Upwards still that guiding morning glow,</div>
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Bright from that star so holy to Apollo.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Thus did that anxious horror, which had so</div>
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Brought churning with it, all that awful night,</div>
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To my soul’s pool, diminish, calm its flow.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And as a man who pants hard, still in sight</div>
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Of billows which, almost, brought him to sink,</div>
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From land looks back on that main, full of fright,</div>
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<br /></div>
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So did my spirit, panicking, still think</div>
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On that grim pass no mortal human can</div>
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Go out of without passing living’s brink.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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At last my body pausing for a span</div>
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Until invigoration from that stop</div>
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Could now allow it motion, though no plan</div>
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<br /></div>
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Could show it how to go, with constant prop</div>
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On foot in back and downwards, sought to gain,</div>
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By climbing always upwards, that mount’s top. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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And lo! A cougar stood stock still, though plain</div>
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Its quick and light agility.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>No turning</div>
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Could pass it by.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Upon its skin a rain</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Of spots, which I, that bright and airy morning</div>
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(As sun and star-companions Loving God<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Had first spun, still did spin) saw as adorning</div>
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<br /></div>
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That cat, a sign of succor I might laud,</div>
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During that blissful dawn, but not so bright</div>
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That I did not start shaking, on that road,</div>
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<br /></div>
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At what was now arising in my sight:</div>
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A lion, drawn up high, intimidating,</div>
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So much that air and I, both full of fright,</div>
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<br /></div>
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About how it its stomach might start sating,</div>
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Must stop — for what? A wolf, and I was pavid,</div>
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So skinny was it, though anticipating</div>
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<br /></div>
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It would sup soon on anything, for avid</div>
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It was for food: though lank it was full too:</div>
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That wolf so ruinous to man was gravid!</div>
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<br /></div>
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And I was too — with fright! I could not do</div>
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What I was hoping for — to climb that hill.</div>
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Alas, I found no pathway round nor through.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And as a man who’d got just what his will</div>
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Saw as most worth wishing of all things,</div>
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Now gasps on losing it, a poignant thrill</div>
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<br /></div>
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Of brutal pain, transfixing with its stings</div>
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From that wolf, did I sob at, and I shrank</div>
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Darkwards, away from Sol’s loud blazonings.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Back did I go, back to that lowland dank;</div>
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Abruptly in my sight shows up a man,</div>
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Who, dumb so long, I thought would sound as blank,</div>
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<br /></div>
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As our surround was. Straight to him I ran,</div>
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Still crying “Pity!” to him, “Man or shadow</div>
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Of a man!”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Not a man, but Mantuan, <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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By birth” was his account, “Born Sub Julio,</div>
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But it was good Augustus, though his gods</div>
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Did not say truth nor know your Christian Trio,</div>
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<br /></div>
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Who was my king.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My song got many nods,</div>
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All praising it as Roman history,</div>
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From Trojan loss to gain, against all odds,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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From burning Ilion to victory.</div>
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But why do you avoid that joyous mountain,</div>
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As though to climb you’d no ability?”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Now art thou Virgil? That riparian fountain,”</div>
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All blushingly I said, within his sight,</div>
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“Of words that all who follow find a sound in</div>
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<br /></div>
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Which our own songs would sing with.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If I might,</div>
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I’ll say how much I honor you, what study</div>
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I sanctify with loving to your light.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But now look on that animal so bloody,</div>
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To you I turn for aid, to you I’m flying.</div>
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O horror!” “You must go this path, though muddy,”</div>
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<br /></div>
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Did Virgil say, to try to hush my crying,</div>
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“If you would from this dark wood find a way.</div>
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For past that wolf can no amount of trying</div>
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<br /></div>
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Attain that goal; whoso will try will pay</div>
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With his annihilation; hungrily,</div>
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Voraciously that wolf puts him away.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Marrying many animals bodily,</div>
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It looks to go on doing so, until</div>
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A Grayhound, coming with finality,</div>
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<br /></div>
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Shall bring its pain to culmination, kill</div>
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That awful wolf, who did not pity show. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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That hound, consuming not, such is its will,</div>
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<br /></div>
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Things of this world, but only what would go</div>
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With wisdom — loving all morality —</div>
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In fabrics of Franciscan monks will know</div>
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<br /></div>
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His nation.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Savior of low Italy,</div>
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That hound: our land for which Camilla, dying</div>
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A maid, and Nisus, and his loving ally</div>
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<br /></div>
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And Turnus, all lay down for good.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Now plying</div>
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Its way through any town that it might harry,</div>
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That wolf cannot avoid damnation, buying,</div>
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<br /></div>
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Through vicious rivalry, its day to tarry,</div>
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So soon to finish. So I think it right</div>
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That I conduct you, and that you stay wary.</div>
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<br /></div>
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As onwards through this aways-lasting night</div>
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You go, with sounds of always-lasting sorrow</div>
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Imploring total dying, not this blight.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But going through, I’ll bring you tomorrow</div>
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To souls who though in pain stay happy with it,</div>
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Hoping to pay back soon what sin did borrow</div>
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<br /></div>
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And climb salvation’s mount to that first orbit,</div>
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To which I must not go. But if you will</div>
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You’ll find at that hill’s top a worthy spirit,</div>
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<br /></div>
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Which I am not, as I did not fulfill</div>
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Writs laid down by that all-causing King,</div>
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Combatting what was law. His codicil</div>
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<br /></div>
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About my task thus says: I may not bring</div>
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A pilgrim to his city.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Though his might’s</div>
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Ubiquitous, from that city starts its ring</div>
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<br /></div>
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Circling all worlds.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>O, happy, any sights</div>
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Of Him; most so, who in that city strong</div>
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Find bright salvation in its million lights.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
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And I to him: “I pray, by your high song —<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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And by that God you did not know, I pray—</div>
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That you will as conductor, for as long</div>
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<br /></div>
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As you can do so, bring us on that way</div>
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Of pain, at last to portals which saints hallow,</div>
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And far from this soil’s sorrow.” With no stay</div>
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<br /></div>
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On did Virgil go, downwards did I follow.</div>
<br />balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-57383077865911013942018-04-05T15:30:00.000-04:002018-04-05T15:30:00.274-04:00On a tree by a river....For a long time, I've thought of <i>Othello</i> as a rewriting of <i>Hamlet</i>; it's possibly the next play Shakespeare wrote, and has the same relation to <i>Hamlet</i> as <i>Macbeth</i> does to <i>Antony and Cleopatra</i>, the same symphony of echoes. How then could I have missed till now that the willow song has to be about the death of Ophelia?<br><br><blockquote>
She was in love, and he she loved proved mad<br>And did forsake her: she had a song of 'willow;'
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An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune,
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And she died singing it: that song to-night
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Will not go from my mind.<br><br>
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There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
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That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
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There with fantastic garlands did she come
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Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
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That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
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But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them:
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There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
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Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke;
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When down her weedy trophies and herself
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Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide;
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And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up:
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Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes;
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As one incapable of her own distress,
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Or like a creature native and indued
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Unto that element: but long it could not be
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Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
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Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
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To muddy death.</blockquote>
And the song itself makes its chorus its own "fantastic garland": "Sing all a green willow must be my garland."
balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-69362915763898827102018-03-13T14:55:00.000-04:002018-03-13T14:55:50.709-04:00George Herbert's Emojis<div style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "SF Optimized", system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -0.12px; margin-bottom: 6px; text-size-adjust: auto;">
I Gave to Hope a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="_5mfr _47e3" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 0; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle;"><img alt="" class="img" height="16" role="presentation" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/f7b/2/16/231a.png" style="border: 0px; vertical-align: -3px;" width="16" /><span class="_7oe" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px; width: 0px;">⌚</span></span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>of mine: but he<br />
An<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="_5mfr _47e3" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 0; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle;"><img alt="" class="img" height="16" role="presentation" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/f8/2/16/2693.png" style="border: 0px; vertical-align: -3px;" width="16" /><span class="_7oe" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px; width: 0px;">⚓</span></span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>gave to me.<br />
Then an old<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="_5mfr _47e3" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 0; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle;"><img alt="" class="img" height="16" role="presentation" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/f1f/2/16/1f64f.png" style="border: 0px; vertical-align: -3px;" width="16" /><span class="_7oe" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px; width: 0px;">🙏</span></span>-<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="_5mfr _47e3" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 0; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle;"><img alt="" class="img" height="16" role="presentation" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/fe8/2/16/1f4da.png" style="border: 0px; vertical-align: -3px;" width="16" /><span class="_7oe" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px; width: 0px;">📚</span></span>I did present:<br />
And he an<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="_5mfr _47e3" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 0; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle;"><img alt="" class="img" height="16" role="presentation" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/f9e/2/16/1f52d.png" style="border: 0px; vertical-align: -3px;" width="16" /><span class="_7oe" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px; width: 0px;">🔭</span></span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>sent.<br />
With that I have a<span class="_5mfr _47e3" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 0; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle;"><img alt="" class="img" height="16" role="presentation" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/fb8/2/16/1f37e.png" style="border: 0px; vertical-align: -3px;" width="16" /><span class="_7oe" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px; width: 0px;">🍾</span></span>full of<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="_5mfr _47e3" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 0; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle;"><img alt="" class="img" height="16" role="presentation" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/f6f/2/16/1f602.png" style="border: 0px; vertical-align: -3px;" width="16" /><span class="_7oe" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px; width: 0px;">😂</span></span>:<br />
But he a few green<span class="_5mfr _47e3" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 0; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle;"><img alt="" class="img" height="16" role="presentation" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/f69/2/16/1f442.png" style="border: 0px; vertical-align: -3px;" width="16" /><span class="_7oe" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px; width: 0px;">👂</span></span><span class="_5mfr _47e3" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 0; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle;"><img alt="" class="img" height="16" role="presentation" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/f69/2/16/1f442.png" style="border: 0px; vertical-align: -3px;" width="16" /><span class="_7oe" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px; width: 0px;">👂</span></span>.<br />
Ah Loyterer! I’le no more, no more I’le bring:<br />
I did expect a<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="_5mfr _47e3" style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 0; margin: 0px 1px; vertical-align: middle;"><img alt="" class="img" height="16" role="presentation" src="https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/f17/2/16/1f48d.png" style="border: 0px; vertical-align: -3px;" width="16" /><span class="_7oe" style="display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0px; width: 0px;">💍</span></span>.</div>
balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-71942622949361790942018-01-27T16:23:00.000-05:002018-01-27T16:23:23.928-05:00Privileging your check.<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-size-adjust: auto;">
<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">I am team-teaching a course on the later Wittgenstein this semester with a somewhat skeptical but radically open-minded philosopher. We were discussing language game (2), as it’s called, the one in which a builder says “Slab” to his assistant in just the circumstances where<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">we</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;"><span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span>would say “Bring me a slab.” Wittgenstein wants to show us that “Slab” is no more short for “Bring me a slab” than “Bring me a slab” is long for “Slab.” It is<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">not</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;"><span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span>an elliptical version of our more precise formulation.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">This is always a very hard point to get right. Anyhow my philosopher-partner remarked that it was interesting how Wittgenstein always goes to chess for analogies to language games, and it occurred to me that he doesn’t go to chess<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">enough</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">. Because here’s what I think is a very helpful analogy.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">When someone says “check” in chess, you might be tempted to take that word as one in Elliptical, properly translated into English as “your king is in danger.” The etymology of the word, though, shows that “check” meant “king,” from Persian (cf.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Shah</em>), via (most recently) the Arabic شَا (šāh). (I am following Wiktionary here: the OED offers some different and very interesting etymological byways, but as is the case with the way language develops, different etymological pathways converge and diverge and reconverge —<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">for Wittgensteinian reasons</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;"><span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span>— and the Wiktionary etymology is at least a big part of the story.)</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">This means that the word “check” means something like “king.” (<i style="box-sizing: border-box;">Something. Like.</i>) Is that elliptical for “your king is in danger” as “slab” in language game (2) is supposed to be elliptical for the more precise “bring me a slab”? That is, should we say that when I threaten your king and say “check,” I am saying ’”king” as an elliptical way of saying “I am now threatening your king” (or some such more explicit, unpacked, and therefore accurate formulation)? Likewise, when I say “gin” that would mean “all my cards are now in completed sets and so I win the game” (and similarly with mahjong and any other game where the name of the game is also the name of a declaration within the game.)</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">But<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">check</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;"><span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span>is<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">not</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;"><span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span>elliptical for “your king is in danger.” The king cannot be put in danger. (As Pynchon says “once among nations, as in chess, suicide was illegal.”) “Check” actually means that the king must either move or be defended, either by blocking the piece that can move to the square the king is now on or by taking that piece. The king can’t be put in danger because it can’t be taken. If there is no way to get out of check, then the game is over and the player whose king is in check loses.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">To sum up:</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">1)<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">Check</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;"><span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span>is like<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">slab</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;"><span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span>in language game (2): something that looks like a noun but isn’t one, though our translation of the utterance would contain nouns in our language.</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">2) There is no natural translation of the word that we could give without knowing how to play chess, since the closest candidate to a natural translation assumes the king could be put into danger, when it can’t. (At least “danger” in chess doesn’t amount to the king’s being put in check.)</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">What about “mate”? How do we translate<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">that</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">? Again, we might be tempted to say that<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">mate</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;"><span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span>or<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">checkmate</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;"><span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span>means: “I’ve won, I've won” or “You’ve lost,” or “There is no way you can now get out of check so that I have won [or you have lost].”</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">But the literal meaning of “checkmate” is “the king is dead,” from the Persian مات شاه (šâh mât) (Wiktionary: if they’re accurate, though it doesn’t matter that much, apparently “check” comes from the Arabic but “checkmate,” under the influence of “check” comes directly from the Persian. The actual etymological paths are close enough to each other that; what matters is the meaning of the phrase.)</span></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">All of this seems to bear Wittgenstein out beautifully in a way familiar enough to us that we can see what would be wrong with trying to find more “accurate” translations for “elliptical” terms like “slab.” Or “check.” Only when you know how to play chess do its terms make sense, and they don’t make sense just because<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">check</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;"><span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span>“means”<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">king</i><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">.<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span><span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span></span><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;">Check</span> </i><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;">means “check.” Teaching someone I might say, well think of it as meaning “your king is in danger.” But once she knows how to go on, how to play, she won’t understand it to mean<span class="gmail-Apple-converted-space" style="box-sizing: border-box;"> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;"><i style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: justify;">that</i></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: small; text-align: justify;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-size: 16px;">.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She’ll understand it to mean that she’s in check.</span></div>
balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-90568634303846245612018-01-17T23:31:00.000-05:002018-01-17T23:54:18.049-05:00<b>Proust in translation and limitation</b><br /><br />
Long ago, I would couch at a good hour. On many occasions, my lamp hardly out, my lids shut so fast I couldn't think "I am drifting off." And, in about a half hour, thinking I should now nod off, I got up! I would want to put my book down--I thought I was still holding it in my hands--and to blow my lamp out; although unconscious I had still thought about what was in my book, but my thoughts took an odd turn; I thought I was what my work was about! — a church, a musical composition for four to play, or Francis I’s rivalry with Joanna and Philip of Spain’s son. Surviving, for an instant or two, my own waking, this illusion did not look shockingly irrational at all but would blind my vision and stop it from taking it in that my lamp was not burning still. But shortly it would turn baffling, as baffling as thoughts of living in a past world do following a transmigration of souls; unmooring from my book’s topic, I could apply my thoughts to it or not according to my wish; I got my vision back right away, and I would gasp at finding obscurity all around, winning and mild for my vision and, for my mind to boot, to which it would look as though it had nothing causing it, a thing which my mind could not grasp, an obscurity truly dark. In my mind I sought to work out what hour of night it was. Far away, a train’s whistling would sound, just as bird song in distant woods might, thus indicating how spacious night was, how void its blank, vast plains, through which a solitary pilgrim would rush quickly towards his station, following a small road which would stay in his mind thanks to his agitation about unfamiliar districts, unusual actions, thanks to his talk with companions, and to parting salutations, still following him through night’s hush, thanks too to coming back’s sugar-silky, mild harmony.<br /><br />
I would push my own maxilla against my pillow’s, rosy and vital as that of our childhood. I struck a match to look at my watch. Almost midnight. That instant that a sick man who has had to go on a trip, lodging at an unfamiliar inn, waking in crisis, looks down and is joyful at a ray of light shining through from his door’s bottom. What luck — what a good hour! Morning so soon! Its staff is up now, and just ringing will summon aid, bring him comfort.That anticipation of quick support grants him a valorous capacity to absorb it all. Lo! Rapid walking coming his way; coming… and going; that ray of daylight which had lit him up now vanishing. It’s midnight: gaslight off, corridors void of any staff who could bring aid, and no possibility now but to wait all night, sick and in pain, without mitigation.<br /><br />
I would fall back into dormancy, and any wakings to follow might only last an instant, just sufficing for audition of that organic sound of woodwork crackling, for looking around to try to fix obscurity’s whirling dark, for tasting, thanks to a conscious flash, that torpor in which all was sunk — room and furnishings — of which I was only a small part and which I sought to join again, unconscious again. Or again, drowsing, I had found that I had slid with facility into atavistic days from my archaic infancy, still finding, or coming again upon, this or that of my childhood horrors, as that of an avuncular pulling of my curls, a horror dissipating that day — which I took as an important boundary-crossing in my growing up — on which my hair was cut short. Oblivious, in my stupor, to that important shift, I would find it again as soon as I could squirm away from that avuncular, curl-pulling pair of hands, but out of abundant caution I would pull my pillow down on my scalp prior to going back into night’s imaginary world.<br /><br />
It might occur that, similarly to Adam giving birth to a woman from his rib, a woman was born as I lay unconscious from a slightly off positioning of my thigh. A product of that climax I was about to savor, it was this woman who I would think was its origin. My body which would warm to a warmth I thought was not within but without, which I thought was in that woman, but which was my own, sought to join with it: and I would jolt into waking. All humans now would look distant and unimportant in comparison to this woman whom just instants ago I had had to abandon, my lips warm still from kissing, my body aching with that body’s mass. If, as would occur, I saw in that woman any traits of a woman whom I had known in truth, I would aim with all my might at this goal: finding that woman again, as a tourist might who, imagining that truth could match an illusory charm, wants to look in actuality at a city long thought about, wistfully. Bit by bit that haunting flashback would vanish, consigning that fantasy girl to oblivion.<br /><br />
A drowsing, unconscious man holds around him a chain of hours, a disposition of annual circuits, of worlds. Looking to that chain by instinct, on waking, such a man can fix in an instant what spatial point is his, how long his dormition was; but a muddling, a rupturing of that ranking of hours can occur. If towards morning, following a bout of insomnia, lost in his book, a nap waylays him in a bodily position too dissimilar from that which is habitually his if dozing, all that has to occur is for his arm to lift so as to shadow him from sunlight and at that first instant of awaking, not knowing what hour it is, it might look to him as though it was only just now that his couch had drawn him into its warmth. If that man conks out in a highly unusual position, as in a post-prandial nap in an armchair, a total shuffling and undoing of orbit upon orbit, world upon world will occur, his magic armchair will carry him at full tilt into long-ago days and lands, his sight coming back, such a man will think what surrounds him is what did surround him months ago, in a distant country. But all it took was that in my own cot, my own dormition’s profundity should allow my mind to go slack, and so waking at midnight, not knowing what location I was at, I only had, in its primordial simplicity, a kind of participation in primary actuality as it was as it might churn far within an animal’s soul; and I was as starkly solitary, as lacking in situational surrounding, as a lithic, grotto-inhabitant, living prior to all human history. But a flashback—not of any location I was, but of a handful of locations I had, and might still, inhabit, coming in aid from on high, dragging my mind away from that void out of which, as a solitary soul, I could find no way out, I would jump past civilization upon civilization, and looking, at first with confusion, on oil lamps, on my shirts with collars, I would fit back, into a normal congruity, bit by bit, my own original traits.<br /><br />
Possibly that immobility of things around us is a function of our faith and conviction that any such thing is what it is, a function of our thought’s immobility confronting it. Anyhow it was always so, that waking my mind, anxious to find, in vain, just what location it was in, all would turn around and around in obscurity, things, lands, spans and durations from my past. My body, too stiff to shift, sought, following what form its languor took, to align its limbs’ position, so as by induction to find my rooms’ walls, its furnishings, thus building again and naming again this location in which it found that it was lying. Thinking back on what was past, thinking in and through its flanks, its joints, its scapulas, my body had room upon room brought back to it, any and all rooms in which it had, far back, found that it was dropping off, and walls with invisibly changing locations, changing according to how my body was imagining its room’s contours, would swirl around it in shadowy commotion. And prior to my thought’s twigging again to what lodging this was, by bringing back to mind parts of what it saw circumstantially -- prior to that, waiting in confusion on this brink of forms, this brink of archaic days, it — my body — could summon up for all, individually, by what kind of couch it was, or at what location you could find doors, by what light you saw from windows, or if you could pass through a corridor, what I had thought about as I would start drowsing, which I would find still in my thoughts on waking. My stiff flank sought to work out its position in its narrow room’s compass, imagining (this can stand for many such imaginings) that it was lying along a wall, a grand baldaquin high aloft, and right away I would say, “Ah, I did drop off, without Mama’s coming to say goodnight”, I was at my grandpa’s country lodging, my grandpa, long now in his tomb, and my body, its flank on which I lay, faithful guardians of a past that ought not to part from my mind, but which my mind did in fact turn away from, brought back to it light from an oil-lamp in Moravian glass, its form that of an urn, hanging down into my room by chains, its duct of stony Italian crystal, in my dormitory in Combray, at my grand-folks, in faraway days that right now I thought actual, without having to stir up again any particulars of such days, as my vision would soon grasp all of it again, upon my fully waking.<br /><br />
At that point, I would find, born again, and brought back to mind, a contrasting position of my body: my wall would point towards an opposing compass point: I was in my room at Madam of Saint-Loup’s country manor. My God — it’s past 10:00 p.m. — no supping now! That’s what my prolonging too long my daily twilight nap did, a nap which I always had on coming back from my walk with Madam of Saint Loup, prior to putting on formal duds. For Combray was far, far away from that, far, far past, Combray at which our walks back would occur by an hour that would always still allow for my catching sight of a rosy mirroring of sundown in my window glass. It’s a dissimilar way of living that occurs at Tansonton, at Madam of Saint-Loup’s, a dissimilar joy that I find, going out only at night, following in moonlight paths that I would play on long ago in sunlight: this room in which it must turn out I was dozing and not gussying up for supping, from afar I saw it, on coming back, lit up by lamp light, a solitary signal glowing through that night air. <br /><br />
Such rushing limbic confusions would last only an instant or two; mostly my short doubt about what locality I was now at didn’t distinguish among a host of suppositions comprising that doubt, just as, watching a galloping stallion, you can’t fix on any of its particular positions, which only chronophotography can show us. But I had got to look again on this or on that of various of my rooms, rooms from my past, and I would finish by bringing all such rooms back to mind in my long, abstract musings, on waking up: rooms bringing back frosty months during which I’d go plunging down, scalp first, into a warm burrow comprising this thing and that: a point of my pillow, my quilt’s top, a bit of a shawl, my cot’s rim, a pink copy of Disputations, which you finish by piling up into a unity, just as birds do, by continuously piling scraps up; months of frost bringing a kind of joy out of glacial cold, by making us conscious of our insulation from outdoors cold (similarly to littoral swallows, who roost in low bottoms in warmth-giving soil), months of cold in which, with combustion going on all night in your hob, you can stay dozing in a giant coat of warm and smoky air, lit up by scintillations of twigs catching, flaming again, you can stay in drowsing in a kind of phantom bay, a warm grotto, a hollow, a room within your room, a patch burning hot within it, its snug contours blown by slight motions of air which can inspirit you, coming from crooks, from junctions and window rims, or coming from afar, from hallways, cool again; or, during hot months, rooms in which you long to join with night’s moist warmth, in which moonlight shining on half-drawn curtains, throws as far as your cot’s foot its magic stairway, rooms in which your dormition is practically outdoors, similar to that of a robin bobbing against light wind on a point of light—haply that Louis XVI room, so gay that I wasn’t too unhappy in it, not on my first night nor on any night, its supports so lightly and graciously sustaining its top, so as to show and mark my cot's location; or not that room at all, but in total contrast, a small room, with so high a vault that its spacious form was similar to a pyramid, two floors high, and partially mahogany in its lining, in which from my first instant in it I thought it poisonous, morally anyhow, on account of an unknown odor, that of Chrysopogon bunchgrass, with no doubt of its crimson curtains’s hostility, as an arrogant clock, ignoring my sojourn in that room, would yack loudly away; — that locality in which without pity an odd mirror, with quadrangular supports, barring in its obliquity a junction of two walls, would sharply hollow out of my customary visual plain a patch which I was not anticipating;—a locality in which my thought trying for hours to pull and twist around, to modify its own form so as to fill its room’s gigantic tundish, had had to withstand many hard nights during which I lay along my cot, staring upwards, anxiously vigilant also for any sound at all, and my nostrils worrying too, my torso pounding with palpitations, until habit, changing my curtain’s tint, calming my clock’s ticking, instilling pity into in my nasty angling mirror, hiding, if not wholly driving out, that odor of bunchgrass, could bring my room’s dizzying roof calmingly downwards again. Habit! Skillful charwoman and maid, though slow as anything, who starts by allowing our mind to wait painfully for days or months in a provisional installation, but whom, still and all, our mind is so happy to find, for without habit and having to count only on its own capacity and capability, it could not possibly do anything to fix up a lodging in a way making it into a habitat you could inhabit. [Pun on “habit” and “inhabit” is in Proust’s original. —Tr.]<br /><br />
No doubt about it: I was truly up now. My body having spun about in a final twist, my guardian spirit, with an assuring warranty that all was what it was, brought my room and all that was around its inhabitant to a stop, and, tucking my bunk comfortably with quilts, put roughly into its right position my washstand, my writing rolltop, my hob, my window looking out on a familiar roadway, and my two doors. But in vain did I know that I was not in faraway parts — of which waking’s foggy oblivion would bring up for an instant, if not a distinct portrait, still a possibility of its actuality — it shook my mind into flashbacks; I wouldn’t try to drop off again right away, I would pass most of that night in calling back to mind our way of living long ago, in Combray at my grandaunt’s, in Cabourg, in Paris, in St. Cyr’s, in Astonio, and in various additional lands, bringing back many distant parts, souls I had known in this or that locality, what I actually saw of how such humans would act, or what I was told about it.<br /><br />
[That's it (for now anyhow). Amazing starting paragraphs (in Proust's original, obviously). As for Cabourg, St. Cyr and Astonio, all causally link up with Proust's own actual or fictional way of naming or pointing to this locality or that. Astonio with its canals? Look it up.--Tr.]
balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-43808260675340273252017-10-01T12:47:00.000-04:002017-10-01T12:48:06.074-04:00Exit Monty Hall, but through which door?Monty Hall will live on as the eponym of the Monty Hall problem.<br /><br />
Since it's now well-understood it might be worth recovering some of its spookiness. So I offer this recollection:<br /><br />
Among those who got it wrong at the time (early nineties) were the logician and philosopher Burton Dreben and the famous and eccentric mathematician Paul Erdös (I almost have an Erdös number of 2. If I can just convinced my friend to publish some sort piece with me!) And "Cecil Adams" of the Straight Dope, which is where I read about it. Marilyn Vos Savant got it right. I remember realizing that, after I read the Straight Dope take down of her, and feeling proud.<br /><br />
One night I explained it to Dreben with quarters over Sangria. We had three quarters, two even years and one odd. I would put them heads down (it was there coin Monty!), and ask him to pick the odd year. He'd pick, I'd flip one of the evens, he'd always stick, and lose 2/3 of the time.<br /><br />
Doing it that way was really eerie because there was a probabilistic ontology to the two remaining quarters, one being twice as likely to be odd as the other. They were physically unchanged and physically unremarkable, and yet this ghostly probability haunted and hung over them.balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-81174923744432711502017-08-31T16:52:00.001-04:002017-09-02T14:04:24.263-04:00<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12px;">David Lewis, uses fictional worlds as a way of exploring the idea of the proximity of possible worlds, but confesses he's not quite sure what to do with fictions within fictions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12px;">One thing </span><em style="font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 12px;">some</em><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12px;"> writers have done is to write the actual (our-word) fictional work that some fictional work only mentions. They give it to us for our use. (This is the converse of the sort of thing that Borges and Lem do.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">A few such useful texts spring to mind right away, in chronological order:</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: 12px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><i>Prencipe Galeotto: </i></span></span><span style="font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: 12px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Dante has Francesca say of the book she and Paolo are reading together when they stop reading, "Galeotto fu 'l libro e chi lo scrisse." So Galeotto -- Prince Galahad (perhaps; it's not clear whether Dante identified Galeotto and Galahad), vicariously catalyzing their mutual seduction -- is both the author and the book itself. Boccaccio gives the <i>Decameron</i> the sub- or alternative title <i>Prencipe Galeotto</i>, making <i>it</i> into the book that Paolo and Francesca were reading, and promising it as a conversation piece for later lovers to seduce each other with.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px;">Spenser completes one of Chaucer's <i>Canterbury Tales</i>, the Squire's, in Book IV of <i>The Faerie Queene</i>. (Spenser takes it as complete -- a real thing that Chaucer mentions, but that we don't have.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: -webkit-standard; font-size: 12px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">"Where is the Life that Late I Led?" Petruchio interrupts himself after he starts singing this song in <i>Taming of the Shrew</i>. Cole Porter gives us the whole song (with a bridge and a slight modification of Petruchio's second line).</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came": Browning <i>writes</i> the poem that Edgar quotes in <i>King Lear</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><i style="font-family: -webkit-standard;">The Transfiguration of the Commonplace: </i></span></span><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">From Muriel Spark's <i>Prime of Miss Jean Brodie</i>, the book that Sandy Stranger writes when she becomes a nun (Sister Helena). Arthur Danto (not Dante!) then wrote a book about the philosophy of art with that title.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><i style="font-family: -webkit-standard;">The Secret Goldfish: </i></span></span><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"></span></span><span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">D.B.'s "terrific book of short stories" in <i>Catcher in the Rye</i>, and the title of a book of short stories by David Means.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Can you think of others? </span></span></div>
balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-38660826447393927252017-06-16T18:53:00.002-04:002017-06-16T18:53:59.483-04:00A Comedy Romance in Pantomime<i>City Lights</i> is a sound movie in pantomime. There's a synchronized sound-track with many sound-effects, most obviously the kazoo-speech of the worthy's dedicating the statue at the beginning of the picture, the bells ringing in the boxing-match sequence, and the shots fired in the Millionaire's house. These are examples of what's come to be called (wrongly but almost universally) diagetic sound, sound common to the world of the fiction and the world of the audience. Non-diagetic sound (now) designates sound that only <i>we </i>hear: scary mood music when someone is exploring a haunted house that seems (to them) completely silent, for example, swelling strings when two lovers are about to kiss.<br />
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In some movies we can't tell whether the sound we're hearing is part of the fictional world: usually the surprise will be that it is, that music that we think is only for us turns out to be coming from a radio or a performer we hadn't seen. And sometimes -- maybe most famously in the 1946 version of <i>The Killers</i> -- there's an interplay between the diagetic and non-diagetic music, so that the Green Cat piano-player's performance of <i>Flight of the Bumblebee </i>strikingly interacts with the Killers-leitmotif when they enter the bar.<br />
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But (as I noticed the other day) the opposite sort of thing happens in <i>City Lights</i>. As with the three-decades of silent films it mimics and closes, there's plenty of sound <i>in</i> the world of the film that we in the real world <i>don't </i>hear. Sound movies invert the relationship of sound to world that we find in silent movies. Not quite -- while in silent movies <i>all</i> we can hear is non-diagetic sound, it is true that the silent characters don't hear that sound at all. All <i>they</i> hear is diagetic sound -- to use a double solecism because this is sound we <i>don't </i>hear.<br />
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<i>City Lights</i> is the real inverse, though. We and the boxers both hear the bell; we and the robbers both hear the gun go off. And of course we hear all the non-diagetic music that we learned to listen for from silents, if not from opera and ballet, which the characters don't.<br />
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But the Blind Girl: what she hears we don't. She plays a record on the phonograph, but the soundtrack music doesn't change. More significantly, in the intensely reworked scene in which the Tramp, and the audience, come to realize that she's blind, we see her respond to the slamming of a car door that we don't hear, at about 8:35 into the movie (there doesn't seem to be a good way to start just at that point in this post but you can click on this link to start it at just the right place: <a href="https://youtu.be/TkF1we_DeCQ?t=8m35s">https://youtu.be/TkF1we_DeCQ?t=8m35s</a> )<br />
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You'll see her react to the slamming door, but <i>we</i> don't hear it slam: we just see it.<br />
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I think it's important that we <i>never</i> hear what she's hearing. The Tramp can see but he can also hear and we can hear with him, just as we can hear with everyone else. We can <i>see </i>that she can hear but we never hear what she's hearing, which means that we focus on her bodily relation to the world, on her touch.<br />
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At the end of the movie, when she sees the Tramp for the first time, there's no reason for her to recognize him. But she would be able to recognize his voice, and that would be the natural recognition scene. And it wouldn't work.<br />
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What matters is that she should recognize him through touch, when unknowingly she gives him the change that she failed to give him before. Now she can see, and the days of touch are over: <i>we</i> can see them touch for the last time. All of this requires that the movie be silent, be a pantomime, so that the self-presence of sound doesn't enter into it.<br />
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It's another version of Orpheus and Eurydice, that central myth in which sight overwhelms sound -- the song that Orpheus sings -- with the result that touch is banished forever. He looks back at her and loses her forever, sees her going but will never touch her again. The happiest version is in <i>Purgatorio</i>: Dante looks back at Virgil, and he's gone, and so are his sweet songs; but he can truly <i>see</i> Beatrice now, though touch is no longer a relevant sense in the Comedy. <i>City Lights</i> isn't the saddest version, but it is an exceptionally clear exposition of that moment when the pantomime has ended.<br />
<br />balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-80702119944889038752017-03-02T19:24:00.000-05:002017-03-02T19:32:44.856-05:00Nous autres<div class="MsoNormal">
In class today we were talking about the differences between
Vergil and Homer. The difference between the deep administrative state that
Vergil is describing, and the eternally contextualizing hierarchy against which
Homeric personal relations play out. Dr. Johnson sees the silence of Dido in
Book VI of <i>The Aeneid</i> as one of the clearest ways in which
Vergil ornaments his poem with sparkling Homeric lusters that he can't resist,
and complains of how much less affecting it is than the silence of Ajax in Book
XI of <i>The Odyssey</i>. But he misses the lesson of one of his own
points: Vergil unites the beauties of <i>The Iliad</i> and <i>The
Odyssey</i>, yes, but he reverses the order: the intense personal experience
that burgeons throughout <i>The Iliad</i> and culminates in <i>The
Odyssey</i> is in Vergil a turn away from that experience to the violence
that the always emerging possibilities of political violence that state
develops from and resists. The end of the Vergilian Odyssey is in Book VI
of <i>The Aeneid</i>, at which point Aeneas turns away from the Homeric
characters in the underworld and leaves them behind forever. Dido's
silence is a recognition of this, and a forerunner of Lavinia's equally
conspicuous silence in the last six books. It's not about her, and barely
about Turnus or Pallas or even Lausus and Mezentius, the Vergilian equivalents
of Hector and Priam. (We get something like Achilles's point of view,
remembering his own father when Priam supplicates him, as Aeneas thinks of his
own son when he kills Lausus and sees Mezentius's intense mourning and desire
to die. Achilles threatens to kill Priam but takes pity on him and gives him
safe-conduct back to Troy; Aeneas takes pity on Mezentius <i>by</i> killing
him, so he needn't out live Lausus very long. Another farewell to the
Homeric characters.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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The deep state administers and monopolizes and so restricts
the violence that threatens everywhere. That insight is what leads to the
proto-Miltonic moments in Vergil, the moments when the narrator speaks, for the
only time, from the perspective of the first person plural: we Romans, in
Vergil, we fallen humans ("all our woe") in Milton. And the
place where I saw that today is in this moment which, of all people, Henry James
may be picking up on in <i>The Golden Bowl</i>. Vergil's narrative
insight is to narrate any intense incident, more and more as <i>The Aeneid </i>progresses,
from the perspective of those in distress or pain or despair. This is
particularly true in the shifts in perspective in the last moment of <i>The
Aeneid</i>, the loss and death of the supplicating Turnus. We go from his
perspective to Aeneas's when he sees Pallas's belt: of course the very last
moment is the flight of Turnus's <i>indignant</i> (<i>indignata</i>)<i> </i>soul
down to the shades.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But even before that Turnus has the nightmarish experience
of being unable or barely able to hold his own:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">...velut in somnis, oculos ubi
languida pressit<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">nocte quies, nequiquam auidos
extendere cursus<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">velle videmur, et in mediis
conatibus aegri<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">succidimus (XII.908-911)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">...as in dreams, when languid rest
has pressed our eyes at night, we seem in vain to wish to stretch forth our
eager running, and in the middle of our efforts we sink down exhausted.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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As has been pointed out (e.g. by Christine G. Perkell), this
is a Vergilian recasting of a description of dream-frustration in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Iliad</i> (22.199-200)<o:p></o:p></div>
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James's omniscient (or near omniscient) narrator uses
the first person far more frequently (singular and plural, though the plurals
are a bit more specific, designating narrator and readers, not all human
beings), but not like this, except perhaps for this passage near the end of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Golden Bowl</i>:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">He was so near now that she could
touch him, taste him, smell him, kiss him, hold him; he almost pressed upon
her, and the warmth of his face--frowning, smiling, she mightn't know which;
only beautiful and strange--was bent upon her with the largeness with which
objects loom in dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Chapter XLI)</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The first person here is latent but all the more powerful
for that: James knows, and we know, what <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our</i>
experience of dreaming is like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is
James’s version of the Proustian <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nous</i>,
as impersonal a first person plural as we ever find in Proust, since it applies
to all of us in our lonely and isolated dreams: a universal loneliness, a
universal separation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So too is Turnus
all alone, as all are. For Vergil this is the birth of the administrative
state, the real entity that has replaced Homeric human relation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blanchot says the choice in Homer is violence
or speech.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Vergil, in the modern
state, our choice is only violence or silence.<o:p></o:p></div>
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balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-24887783214512187272016-12-06T17:51:00.002-05:002016-12-06T17:59:18.061-05:00Joseph and the AngelThere's a show of Valentin de Boulogne's paintings at the Met. Valentin (1591-1632) was a French Caravaggist twenty years younger than Michelangelo Merisi. They said there'd never been a show devoted to him before. He was pretty great. Here's "The Dream of Saint Joseph," as he is prompted by an angel to take his family and fly into Egypt. (The rest <i>before</i> the flight into Egypt.)<br /><br />
<img src="http://www.pbase.com/image/164645203/medium.jpg"><br /><br />
I think it's a great example of something close to the "Dream of the Burning Child" that Freud, and then Lacan, analyze so wonderfully, and shows the relation of that analysis to allegory (unsurprising, I guess, that there's a connection between dream and allegory). The angel is urging Joseph to wake and fly, but it is only in the dream that he can see the angel. <i>We</i> can see him because we are not part of that reality; we viewers recognize the dream because we belong to our own dream of human life, so far removed from the salvational history that this episode is part of. We want him to wake from our life, in which we share his dream of the angel, to go and save Mary and Jesus.<br /><br />
And yet even in our dream of the angel, we're not in his dream world. The angel may be in both worlds, or all worlds: his dream, our dream, reality itself. The angel of course would be invisible in reality -- or how could we know, as we do because we see him, that this is Joseph's dream? But he is its emissary, and therefore can wake him. But the angel that wakes him cannot wake us, and when Joseph awakens, the angel will disappear from our dream world too.<br /><br />
So, like so much Counter Reformation art, this painting shows the everyday truth of human life -- it's evanescence. The father of a newborn is asleep, exhausted, as one is. Some dream of the young man to come already haunts him, as he wakes up (in his dream) to the fact that the present is absolutely fragile, already past, and the future is already present. He looks so old -- is that part of his dream too? The age he'll be when he goes to see this painting with his son home from college for Thanksgiving? Or is that already the truth, so that like the friendly ghost Caspar Goodwood, he's been aged thirty years on the spot? Not "Come up and be dead," but: Wake up and be old! that's the demand the child makes, or rather that the father dreams the child makes. It's a wish-fulfillment, it's the demand the father <i>wants</i> the child to make, dreams he makes. He dreams that the child will live and thrive, and wakes up, old and exhausted, to try to make that dream come true.balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-50939856555039372202016-12-03T19:40:00.000-05:002016-12-03T19:40:20.495-05:00The Anxiety of Moral InfluenceEliot challenging the die-hard defenders of Milton: "The kind of derogatory criticism that I have to make upon Milton is not intended for such persons, who cannot understand that it is more important, in some vital respects, to be a <i>good</i> poet than to be a <i>great</i> poet."<br />
<br />
Milton's God, praising the Son who has:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
been found<br />By Merit more then Birthright Son of God,<br />Found worthiest to be so by being Good,<br />Farr more then Great or High. (3.308-11)</blockquote>
As often in Book 3, the Father (<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/daniel-wagner/trump-and-narcissistic-pe_b_11289332.html" target="_blank">manifester of Narcissistic Personality Disorder</a>) is echoing the prompts the Son has given him, here the Son's earlier warning that should he destroy humanity:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
wilt thou thy self<br />Abolish thy Creation, and unmake,<br />For him, what for thy glorie thou hast made?<br />So should thy goodness and thy greatness both<br />Be questiond and blaspheam'd without defence. (3.162-66)</blockquote>
So Eliot's distinction comes from Milton. Just saying.balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7359642800613141140.post-73098246804426611492016-08-07T17:43:00.001-04:002016-08-07T23:35:00.520-04:00"In a Station of the Metro" I -- antipodean metaphor<blockquote>“If one thinks of strange scenery, then painting is not the equal of real landscape; but if one considers the wonders of brush and ink, then landscape can never equal painting.”<blockquote>—Dong QiChang</blockquote></blockquote>
How do you know which is tenor and which vehicle in the following juxtaposition?
<blockquote>The apparition of these faces in the crowd;<br />
Petals on a wet, black bough.</blockquote>
Of course, you'll know the title, and so you'll think you know the answer. The faces in the crowd <i>in a station at the Metro</i> as Pound watches the train pull in are (like) petals on a wet, black bough.<br /><br />
But without the title, you might be able to reverse it, right? Looking at petals on a wet, black bough, watching them come into your attention, taking on shape and focus, whether in a garden or on a scroll -- you might have a vision of the ghostly faces in a subway car in a station of the Metro.<br /><br />
The scroll is yet another part of the metaphor, the way Pound is using it, and part of the brilliance of the poem. Since this is actually <i>referring</i> to a station of the Metro, that means that in this metaphor, "petals on a wet, black bough" comprises the vehicle, with the faces in the crowd the tenor, the "true" if aestheticized reality perceived by the speaker's eye. (The speaker who sees <i>these</i> faces.) The vehicle in a metaphor is never actual -- otherwise it wouldn't be a metaphor -- and there's something right, perhaps, about the petals on a wet black bough not being actual, being instead the evanescent vanishing aesthetic vision into which the solid urban fact of the Metro station is transfigured. The transfiguration into an aesthetic vision is what the scroll would do anyhow. "Actual" petals and an "actual" scroll are equally unreal here. They're both visions of the aesthetic vision, so to speak. And of course that's what the scroll does anyhow. It takes real petals and transforms them into their brush-and-ink aesthetic counterpart.<br /><br />
But that's just what makes this metaphor antipodean. The crowd in the Metro is transformed into the solitude of mountains or the still greater solitude of the scrolls depicting the solitude of mountains through the representation of a single bough. The metaphor is apt because it reverses the tonality of what it describes. That's what I mean by an antipodean metaphor. All metaphors, as Donald Davidson points out, are false. But this one is the antipodes of what it is predicated of, and so its transformational power is total.<br /><br />
This is why I think Pound must have been alluding intentionally to "Daffodils," which does essentially the same thing, but in reverse. The crowd that Wordsworth sees is the crowd of daffodils which belong to the lonely places he wanders. So where Pound's crowds predicate the metaphor of petals under lonely rainclouds, Wordsworth's daffodils predicate the metaphor of the crowd.<br /><br />
In both cases, though, it's solitude that wins out over the urban jostle. Why is that? Why do goose and gander both fly to the faraway reaches of the scene?<br /><br />
Because they're both poems, and those solitudes are "the one and only metaphor" (Szentkuthy) for the wonders of brush and ink.
balaustionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02055446625212923491noreply@blogger.com3