Wacky Word Wednesday: Frentic vs. Frantic

THERE IS A DIFFERENCE! I insist on a difference. But the question is, what is it?

Well. thesaurus.com informs us that the difference is a matter of physical versus mental being.

Frentic: physical state -- crazed, wild, bombastic behavior

Frantic: mental state -- agitation and dementia and whatnot

[note: my definitions, not theirs ... well, theirs, but super paraphrased]

Your Choice ...

Sense or sensibility?

How to Break Up in Five Syllables or Fewer

1) No.

2). Ummm, no.

3) Sorry, no.

4) Ummm, sorry, no.

5) Thank you, but sorry.

6) Sorry, thank you, no.

7) Ummm ... want a cheese puff?

Found: A Vocation

They say that well-behaved women rarely make history.

Well.

I take this as a challenge. So challenged I will be. And well-behaved. And the exception to this enigmatic, vague, and terribly stereotypical-izing rule.

I will make history!

Just watch me do this.

Muwahahahaha ...

Wanted: A Muse

Willing to work days, especially weekends. Willing to put up with regular hours, as I need my sleep during the night, but also available for spontaneous writing fits at any given moment. Willing to support emotionally, especially during times of depression and writer's block. Willing to support mentally when unhinged and frantically writing. Must understand love, of all sorts, and human nature, in its various forms. Must be willing to express truthful options on death, suffering, time, happiness, eternity, and Calvinball.

Must understand obscure references to obscure sources. Must quote obscure references to obscure sources as second nature. Must have many quirks.

Must be fluent in all things Anglophile, including but not limited to: tea, accents, green rolling landscapes, and the eternal spitting of rain. Must be well versed in the following authors: Austen, Eliot, Doyle, Carroll, Tolkien, Chesterton, and Sayers. Must be familiar with film versions of the aforementioned authors' works. Preferably well versed in a variety of other authors as well.

My must will enjoy varied and regular travel, often to strange and exotic locations. Such travel may include but will nto be limited to: Oxford, Gallifrey, the Medusa Cascade, Stonehenge, Oxford, Florence, Oxford, London, the Rabbit Hole, Piccadilly Circus, Oxford, the ends of the universe, Oxford, and Oxford. Must be willing to leave heart in Oxford, so as to assure an eventual return.

My muse will constantly push me to write, as I need constant pushing. Must be able to give constant encouragement along with blunt (if sometimes harsh) truth, preferably simultaneously.

Credentials not required, but welcome if available. Must be willing to relocate to the Growlery, as I am most definitely not moving anywhere else. Those allergic to white tigers will be automatically disqualified.

Please submit all applications here, at any time, in any manner. My writing is waiting for your inspiration.

"Prometheus Unbound" -- Shelley

And from the other opening in the wood
Rushes, with loud and whirlwind harmony,
A sphere, which is as many thousand spheres,
Solid as crystal, yet through all its mass
Flow, as through empty space, music and light:
Ten thousand orbs involving and involved,
Purple and azure, white, and green, and golden,
Sphere within sphere; and every space between
Peopled with unimaginable shapes,
Such as ghosts dream dwell in the lampless deep,
Yet each inter-transpicuous, and they whirl
Over each other with a thousand motions,
Upon a thousand sightless axles spinning,
And with the force of self-destroying swiftness,
Intensely, slowly, solemnly roll on,
Kindling with mingled sounds, and many tones,
Intelligible words and music wild.

Snippet Saturday

From something I wrote quite a long time ago, actually ...

***

“Acheron! Acheron!” she cried, rushing towards him through the chaos and din. It was he! She had finally found him… and then he turned towards her. His eyes were hidden by his helmet’s visor, but his mouth showed disapproval, distaste, contempt. He turned away from her and suddenly thrust his sword into a member of Conrad’s band.

The blood rushed to her head and she stumbled, grasping her sword, gasping for breath. He has betrayed us, she thought, he has gone over to the enemy. He is a traitor to us all. She fell against a pillar and felt her chest burning and swelling with anguish. Her eyes burned, her ears burned, her hands shook and she dropped her sword with a clang of metal against marble. The noise enveloped her; she could not breathe, she could not cry, she could not move …

“Tessa! Tessa!” Conrad shouted, but not one syllable reached her ears. He called again, “Tessa!” but to no avail. He rushed towards her, through the crowd, but the traitor Acheron had already reached her; he stood over her, his sword in hand. She turned her head slowly towards Conrad, unresponsive to the looming figure in front of her. He lifted his sword and prepared to strike.

With a great crash Conrad leaped in between the two and drew Acheron’s attention away from the wounded girl. Infuriated, the traitor vented all his attention on the newcomer. He swung his mighty sword with a bullish effort, missing Conrad’s neck by an inch. Another lunge, and suddenly Conrad found himself gasping for breath, dropping to his knees, the blood running from his forehead like a crimson waterfall. 

“Conrad!” Tessa painfully lifted herself up from the base of the marble column and reached out a hand, as if, from such a distance, she could pull him off the floor and into safety. There he now lay on his back, exposed and vulnerable to the whims of the Enemy.  The traitor stood above the warrior, menacingly, as he had only moments before stood over his former sweetheart. Conrad braced himself for the final stroke; Acheron lifted his sword, but suddenly he, too, stiffened and paused in midair. With a great moan, he collapsed to the ground. Tessa had struck.

“For my queen,” she cried. She watched as he let fall his sword and fell to the ground; one groan, one sigh, and a last breath, and all was still. She stared, stunned, at the body, still and silent, of the man who had once promised her his very life's breath. Yes, he had betrayed them all, Arthur, Conrad, Desmona, herself … and yet …

In an instant she fell to the ground, kneeling next to him, panting, exhausted, nervous, afraid. She dragged herself to his side and felt the warmth leave his body. Tears flooded her face as she clutched his shoulders and grasped his helmet to release the head from its cage. He had betrayed them, but now he was dead; could mercy, on her part, intervene to allow for a more just reward?

She fumbled with the clasp, her hands sweating and shaking, and gently pulled off the metal helmet to kiss once more the lips which had so often spoken true and honest words, but …

She stopped and froze. “Conrad,” she whispered uneasily. Conrad grunted, pulled himself up, and dragged himself over towards her.

“Tessa, don’t look …”

“But Conrad, it isn’t he.”

Conrad stopped and leaned over to look at the body. “Truly?”

“I am quite sure.” She calmly sat back on her heels and wiped her face. “His eyes are wrong.” Even through the wounds and sweat and blood, she saw a stranger’s eyes. “They used to be gentle. Warm. Deep. These are forceful, but have no strength of character. It is only his armor …” and her voice trailed off. Her eyes swept the mass of men in the crowded hall, seeking for the answer to the unspoken question. Where was the real Acheron?

Dear World

What a day. Much the same as any other Friday in February -- or Tuesday in November, or Thursday  in March, for that matter. Fulfilling all the usual tasks, checking all the usual boxes, attending all the usual classes and meals and daily rituals required of thousands of other persons in my position. Another span of twenty four hours without writing a single creative word. Another morning I tell myself, "today will be different. Today things will change. Today, I will walk to the ends of the earth -- I will win the lottery -- I will meet a celebrity -- I will find the map to the Fountain of Youth -- I will change the course of history." And, some will tell you that by merely existing, I do influence our existence here on earth. I suppose so; but I wish I could do it in a more interesting way, or with more visible results. I guess that's what they call instant gratification. But still, when you think about it, we continue to live our lives in such a very strange, small way; I look outside my window, and all is darkness, except for a little golden square of light in the window of the house next door. I can't see into the window; I don't know anything that is happening. But I imagine a vague, generic neighbor, sitting and reading -- or watching TV -- or knitting -- or dozing off -- or writing letters -- or playing solitaire. So close, yet a complete enigma. Maybe my neighbor is not alone, but spending time with a family member, or a friend; perhaps they are talking about their upcoming trip to Peru -- their last Christmas with a relative -- buying a dog -- left-handed tennis players -- T. S. Eliot's "Four Quartets." Perhaps they aren't talking about anything at all interesting; perhaps they are merely reviewing their day, which was much the same as any other Friday in February. Perhaps there is no one in there at all; someone forgot to turn the light off, and so it stays lit all through the night, keeping watch over the darkness over the earth.

If Dreams are Wish-Fulfillment ...

I just had a dream that I got a job! I was hired to babysit a family of ... squirrels. Yes, that's right. Mr. Squirrel was excited to hear that I had extensive experience with small children, but Mrs. Squirrel was appalled by my eating a bagel. Somewhere in there we went swimming in  their pool. And then I woke up.

Freud, you're playing mind games with me again ...

Wacky Word Wednesday: Nadir

Nadir, n. :

1. (a) A point on the celestial sphere diametrically opposed to some other point, esp. the sun. (oed.com)

3. (a) The lowest or worst point (of something); the place or time of greatest depression, degradation, etc.

T. S. Eliot: "Ash Wednesday" Part I

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgment not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of of death.

Mardi Gras

Fresh bread + Nutella = 2 hrs before Ash Wednesday.

Quotations: Thomas Jefferson

I've never been a huge Jeffersonian, but I found this quotation of his on a friend's blog and, after taking to it quite readily, I decided to share.

"On matters of fashion, swim with the current. On matters of principle, stand like a rock."

I would love to know the context of these words. Does Jefferson refer to political issues? Issues of religion? Or, perhaps, just fashion? -- we all know what dandies the Founding Fathers were, after all.

Quotations: "Unnatural Death"

“’Of course, I knew the man, so it wasn’t all intuition. Still, I always make it a rule to investigate anything I feel like investigating. I believe,’ he added, in a reminiscent tone, ‘I was a terror in my nursery days. Anyhow, curious cases are rather a hobby of mine. In fact, I’m not just being the perfect listener. I have deceived you. I have an ulterior motive, said he, throwing off his side-whiskers and disclosing the well-known hollow jaws of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.’ 

‘I was beginning to have my suspicions,’ said the doctor after a short pause. 

...

‘Quite right. It’s a silly kind of face, of course, but rather disarming, don’t you think? I don’t know that I’d have chosen it, but I do my best with it. I do hope it isn’t contracting a sleuth-like expression, or anything unpleasant. This is the real sleuth – my friend Detective-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard. He’s the one who really does the work. I make imbecile suggestions and he does the work of elaborately disproving them. Then, by a process of elimination, we find the right explanation, and the world says, ‘My [goodness], what intuition that young man has!’” 

-- Dorothy L. Sayers

Snippet Saturday: Watson Towers

In the back alleys of London, in the musty grey fog of the streets, a shadowy stranger leaned casually against a mold-riddled wall. He knocked the ashes from his pipe with an aplomb akin to that of a sloth. His eyes drooped lazily, flickering like a smouldering ember beneath the dark lids. A cat came around the edge of the nearest building, nervously wavering around by the wall, eying the stranger as a tentative rubbing post. The stranger eyed the cat, watching, waiting. Eventually the cat sidled up and rubbed its arched back against the man's threadbare trousers. One leg, then the next, and the cat skipped off.

The man's eyes glowed again as a young woman walked past, her somber-colored dress melding into the colorless, cloudy streets. He watched her with interest, though as she stepped out of sight his eyes lagged again. Next, a grocer and his cart came riding by; the cart was filled with fruits and vegetables, and the strange man stepped out of the shadows to bargain for a piece of fruit. The grocer gave it gladly, and the man evaporated again into the narrow alley.

Time passed; few people were out at this early morning. The mist eventually lifted, but the man stood patiently, nursing his cooling pipe. His eyes flashed again as the young woman returned; he watched her walk past the alley opening, then slowly he turned his head and stepped out into the larger street to catch a glimpse of her as she walked away. There, she was gone; the street was deserted. The man seemed satisfied, and leaving the alley, he turned back in the opposite direction to return home.

"Towers!" exclaimed Tom Toller. "I did not think to see you here this early. I thought you were still abed."

Towers grunted. "Who's the woman?"

"She's come before; she's looking to find information on Mr. Maxwell."

The eyes lit up again. "Maxwell, eh?" Watson mused over this thought, puffing out a ball of smoke. "Her name?"

"Miss Tilly Baker. But what's it to you? has it something to do with ...?"

Towers grunted again. "It might; it might. Don't know yet."

Tom Toller nodded in curiosity. "Might it then. Well. You'll let me know, of course ..."

"Course."

Satisfied, Tom Toller turned back to his papers, and with his ink-stained fingers, pulled forth sheets from different piles, and scanned each sheet with interest and curiosity. He would exclaim at times, squinting over a word here, or a scribble there, then noting it down in his great leather-bound book. The Book, a massive volume of weight and worth equal to a printing press itself, sat comfortably, though heavily, at the centre of Tom Toller's desk. The Book was his; he wrote it, he kept it, he lived with it. Some might say, he belonged to it as much as it belonged to him. It was part of his life, part of his being; no one, not even Watson Towers, touched the Book without express permission. And that was given rarely, if ever.

Tom Toller took up his pen, with the hard-chewed end and the well-worn nib, and began to scratch away on a new page in the Book. Watson Towers still stood, thoughtfully puffing away. Neither paid any attention to the other, but both knew the other was working hard on his side of the case.

Watson thought, and Tom Toller wrote, and after ten minutes of absolute silence, Watson Towers abruptly turned and, without a word, left the building. Tom Toller did not look up, but continued scratching away.

Watson Towers strode outside again and turned the corner back into the darkened alley. This time, he walked quickly down the narrow, turning space between the crumbling brick buildings, not looking up, not looking down, not looking back, but always forward. He came out again at the other side into the bright sunlight, but he did not blink. Here, there was light and fresh air; there, behind him, he had left darkness and cold. Watson Towers stepped out of his darkness, into the sunshine of ordinary London, and strode through the golden streets, lined with emerald trees and ruby brick houses, a grey figure bringing dirt and decay to all.

The rest of the day, he spent walking about the streets; all streets, whether long or short, narrow or wide, bright or shady, he strode through them, his coat flapping with every step. Occasionally, he paused to watch a man cross a street, or to watch a group of children at their games, or to relight his pipe. Throughout the day, he spoke to no one, approached no one, touched no one, and encountered no one. No one looked at him; like a phantom in grey he tread the city's streets.

At the end of the day, when all was finished, Watson Towers returned to Causewell Lane, where he let himself into Tom Toller's shop through the back door; he slipped upstairs to the crowded attic room which was his home. There, he took off his coat and boots, pulled out his pipe, and sat thinking, his legs crossed, his eyes smoldering, through the wee hours of the morning, when the night was grey and cold.

A Feminine Anti-Feminist

No one can doubt my femininity. No one can doubt my intelligence. No one can doubt my strength. If you doubt, come see me, and we will speak. Let me show you my shoe collection. Let me show you my college essays and my grades. Let me show you my scars.

I do not say this to brag or to put myself forward as an impeccable model of everything womanly. I say this to speak out against all the thousands of women who call themselves feminists.

On Tumblr there is a post going around with four photos of famous modern women explaining why they call themselves "feminists." Three of the four say it's because of "equality" -- which they neglect to define -- the fourth says that because guys don't want to look like girls, but girls want to look like guys, somehow women are less equal than men.

??? -- and for good measure: ?!?

Equality, Equality, Equality. Equality is their watchword. These women who label themselves "feminists" -- yes, they label themselves; how degrading is that? -- can't get any more creative than "equality." Why not throw a little brotherly love in there? The French did (not that it's always a good idea to follow the French, but they did get a little more expressive with their slogans). Oh, well, because referring to "brothers" means leaving "sisters" out of it. Since when has love become sexist? Are these women so insecure in their femininity that they cannot say "brotherly love"? We'll have to start calling it "brotherly-and-sisterly love," or "sisterly-and-brotherly love," or even better yet, "siblingly love." *sigh* Not only are they confused over what it means to love, but they are also terrible grammarians. I could rant all day about the awkward, incorrect, and just plain stupid "he/she" construction -- but let's save that for later.

I've never understood why women have problems using the terms "mankind," businessman," etc. Somehow these women feel they are excluded from the huMAN race or from the work world because we don't say "womankind" and "businesswoman" (or for that matter, "huwoman." How does that sound?) I always thought we said it because men are the ones who would feel insecure at being excluded from "womankind." -- all joking aside, it's just a practical method of collectively referring to all men-women-children-teens-oldpeople-youngpeople-and-everyone-in-between-who-has-ever-lived-ever-will-live-or-lives-on-this-earth-who-pertains-in-some-way-to-this-group-of-God's-creatures. But no; saying "mankind" is discriminating against women; it just shows what a low, dirty, "patriarchal" world we live in.

Good gracious me. Of course it's a patriarchal society. We speak of God as "our Father." Well, except for those who don't ... but we'll just leave that for now. That's another issue altogether -- an important one, but not one I plan to address here.

The point is not that men are somehow better than women, but that they are the ones who are supposed to support and protect women. And trust me, ladies, we want it that way. Look at the world around you: since women have become so "equal," bringing themselves (supposedly) to the level of men, how many women are now not only figuratively but also quite literally "wearing the pants" in every relationship? She is the boss at work, the boss at home, the boss in the community and at church and with friends. Men don't know what to do with themselves anymore; women have taken charge of every facet of life, so much so that they have over-burdened themselves (making them grouchy, uptight, hen-pecking cranks) and left man nothing to do but sit around and play video games. Why do you want to burden yourself with everything? Is it too humiliating for you to ask him to help carry something for you (as an example)? Are you too proud to even allow him to hold the door (figuratively and literally speaking) while you carrying in ALL the groceries? People complain about unemployment these days; do you suppose, out of mere curiosity, that there is any connection between that problem and women taking everything upon themselves in every walk of life? (Just a thought. I've honestly no idea that there is a connection -- but it would be interesting to research).

As for ways in which men are (generally/supposedly) superior, why oh why would any woman want to be like that? Physically equal? Sorry, biology has proven that anthropomorphically incorrect. And frankly, women wrestlers/weightlifters/etc. are some the ugliest creatures I have ever seen. Emotionally? Sweetie, the only difference is that men hide their feelings, while women burst out blubbering in front of the whole world. Trust me, men are just as sensitive, needy, emotionally unstable as any of us; and the thing is, we're supposed to work together, men and women, to support and help each other in our times of need.


And this "equality" thing: since when do women want to be equal to men? In some ways, women are far superior to men. It's not sexist; it's just true. For one, women (generally) have an infinitely superior capacity for common sense. I think even my own life is a constant proof of that. For another, women (again, I generalize) are much better at connecting with other people, understanding other people, being able to help others. Men often miss the nuances of social interaction; they can become very easily confused about many things in life. This doesn't mean that women are "better" or "more equal" or whatever. It just means they are "different." And "different" is GOOD. Right? This is a world of diversity and self-expression; being feminine should not be so politically incorrect nowadays. Women, please, WANT to be different from men. You have been given so many beautiful gifts and abilities and talents, which men have not been given -- they have been given other gifts, other abilities, other talents. Why must we always want something we don't have? Why must we always be jealously searching to see what everyone else has? Why can we not thank God for what He, in His infinite wisdom, has given us?


Women used to know their position in society. -- feminists across the universe will cry out and point to this and burn me in effigy as a groveling, servile piece of chattel of some man, so let me hasten to explain. Women used to understand their position in society, in the home, in the community, as one of absolute importance. The woman's position in the home is the heart. She is the heart of the family, through which all life-supporting blood flows. The man is the brain, the woman is the heart. This does not mean that the woman is an unintelligent slob, fit only to cook and clean; but neither does this mean that the man is worthless once he leaves the office, and you should leave him to sit in front of the television. Ha ha, NO. This means a balance of complementary skills to make everything work in harmony. This means knowing thyself: recognizing others' abilities, knowing your own abilities, and giving and taking where necessary. No one person can give all or take all; each should exercise his own talents in the areas for which he is best suited. If you have problems with the grammar of this sentence, go back and read five paragraphs up again.

This isn't a rant against pants -- I wear pants. This isn't a rant against women in the workforce -- please God, in three months, I will be in that workforce. This isn't a rant against women's education -- good gracious me, I'm studying at one of the most academically-challenging colleges in the country. This is a rant against women who think they are degraded by being women and acting like women. This is a cry to all those women: "Why, why on earth, why do you think your idea of 'equality' with men will make you a better woman?"

Stop standing up for yourself all the time; no one is questioning your worth or your abilities. Sit down and chill out. Be strong. Be intelligent. Be feminine. All are equal in the eyes of God; stop looking to men as the epitome of humanity. Learn to express brotherly love to all mankind. Be yourself; be a woman.

Confessions of an Oral Idiot

So, today, I made a fool of myself in class. Once more, as so many times before, I said what I meant to say, but not in the way I meant to say it.

I'm sitting in my English class, and the professor is going around the room asking each student what they thought of today's reading. No one had finished it, of course, so I didn't feel guilty about being among that number ... but not liking it? That was another problem.

It was Franz Kafka's "The Trial." So far, it's a sort of mixture of all Enlightenment French novels ever written, plus C. S. Lewis's "Dark Tower," with a dash of Lewis Carroll thrown in for good measure. The second chapter, where the protagonist goes to the first hearing with all the old men in long beards, seems a grown-up, tragi-satirical version of the Knave's trial by the Queen of Hearts in "Wonderland."

So, when the professor comes to me and gives me the the nod to "speak now, or forever hold your peace," I reply (with oh-so-charming frankness), "Well, I don't care for it much ..."

This invites a round of half-suppressed giggles through the room.

"Oh, you don't care for it much, eh?" The prof replies, giving that half-amused, half-unbelieving smile.

"Well," I add stupidity to idiocy, "I'm willing to finish it ... and ..." -- falling into those oh-so-expressive inaudible mutters of a middle-schooler.

GOSH. Can you ever find anyone who sounds more stuck up???

That's not what I mean, I wanted to plead my case. But he had already moved on to the next person.

It was what I meant, just not in that way. I haven't particularly cared for it so far, but that doesn't mean that I won't like it as I get deeper in. I'm not a huge fan of this style of book, but that doesn't mean that I'm not willing to learn to like it. I'm willing to give it a chance -- rather, I'm hoping the book is willing to give me another chance to learn to like it. And even when it's all done, and I've finished it, I don't HAVE to like it or enjoy it, but that doesn't mean that I won't appreciate its literary and artistic qualities, its historical or social significance, etc., etc., etc. ...

Sigh. I don't particularly like Beethoven, but that doesn't mean I don't recognize him as a genius composer. I don't really enjoy learning about biology, but that doesn't mean that I don't appreciate its all-important effects on my life. I used to hate Dickens, but I've grown past that and come to love him. Give me a chance!

I suppose the prof will forget all about it. I suppose the other kids in the class will smirk and snort and go their own ways. But I'm the one left kicking myself. How is it that the right words can be so confused to mean the wrong thing?

Test Your Vocabulary: 33,700! Hooah!

http://testyourvocab.com/?r=1642645

So, there is this site that checks your vocabulary range, based of course on all of two or three dozen previously-selected words. Anywho, I scored a 33,700-word vocab hoard, which I feel sounds very impressive, as it says that most native English speakers score anywhere from 20,000 to 35K. That's a high five for homeschoolers and English majors and paracosmic introverts and multi-linguists and polymaths everywhere!

Wacky Word Wednesday: Palimpsest

Brilliant word! From the "Gutenberg Elegies":

Palimpsest: Paper, parchment, or other writing material designed to be reusable after any writing on it has been erased.

-- OED.com

It's now an obscure word, but surely something useful to know someday ...

Quotations: The Gutenberg Elegies

"There are works I set aside and forget about entirely until I pick them up again. Others hit me like a drug, altering my moods, my perceptions, and ultimately my interactions with others. If I am reading Walker Percy, for instance, everything that happens to me seems like a possible clue in some encompassing existential mystery. Anita Brookner, meanwhile, can have me moping for days over the sorrowful frailty of all human endeavor. Maybe books, like pharmaceuticals, should carry warnings: May induce sudden fits of hilarity, or, Provokes irreverence, or, If melancholy persists after reading, consult a qualified therapist. The books that matter to me -- and they are books of all descriptions -- are those that galvanize something inside me. I read books to read myself."

-- The Gutenberg Elegies, p 102 by Sven Birkerts

Thoughts on Frodo

WHY does Frodo get such a bad rap? Even in fanatic LOTR circles, poor Frodo Baggins, the main character, is at best ignored, at worst mocked and derided. Admittedly, the movie portrayal is, well, stilted and stylized, but so it is for every other character! Is it because he delivers his lines so seriously? Are modern audiences just intolerant of sobriety and epic/tragic sentiment? Is it that as pampered, spoiled modern-age children, we cannot imagine a true hardship, and so think he's whining and being a wuss? Will someone explain?

My Nerdy Valentine

Sooooooooo ... it's February, the beastliest month in the year, and thankfully the shortest, and definitely the weirdest with its special annually-quartorial day (no, that is not a word, but who cares?). And of course, our favorite holiday of the month is -- yes, you guessed it! President's Day! And that's why I am giving you some matchmaking pointers:

#1 Red roses are kind of cliche, but if you aren't sure about the girl, you'd better stick to that. It's the generic I-don't-know-you-well-enough-to-know-what-kind-of-flowers-you-like move.

#2 For some of us, chocolate is depressing. Seriously. I think it's the caffeine + sugar mix; you get a bit of a high, and then a really bad low. So, unless you want her to be blubbering all over the place (which is kind of weird to want, but whatever), stick to gummy bears.

#3 Chick flicks are totally overrated, but this is the one day of the year that you most definitely do NOT want to suggest a shoot-em-up type. Man up, sit tight, and try your very best to understand the dialogue (you know, the part where the characters' lips move and coherent, full sentences come out ...).

And just in case you needed some, here are a couple fav nerdy/wordy pitches/pick-up lines ...

* Life without you is like a broken pencil ... pointless.

* If I could rearrange the alphabet, I would put U and I together.

* Literally yours ...

And, just to make it perfect:

Thoughts on Mr. Darcy

Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy. Blahhhhh ...

How is it that Mr. Darcy, of alllllllll the fictional characters of the entire fictional world, has become every woman's paragon of a dream man? He is rude and stuck up, grumpy and bad-tempered, loves her against his will and reason and judgment, and only after her basically humiliating herself in front of him (and it's not even her fault, it's her immature sister's fault ... but that's another post), does he come round and think, "oh, gee, maybe she's, like, the most wonderful woman I've ever met in my entire life and I would be a blankety-blank fool to let her marry someone else" ???

Why not Mr. Knightley? Or Edward Ferrars? -- I admit, he doesn't seem to be the brightest of bulbs (esp. as portrayed by the droolly-St-Bernard-eyed Hugh Grant), but at least he is kind and devoted.

...

No, you're right, that doesn't count for much.

...

Or for that matter, Will Ladislaw, or Mr. Thorton, or Mr. Rochester, or Sir Percy, or Lord Peter, or ... or anyone else you can think of. I'm just thinking of some of my favorites, but there are so many countless fictional men to admire; why has Mr. Darcy become the stereotypical heartthrob?

WILL SOMEONE EXPLAIN?

LEAVING FOR EVER

Ohmygoodnessgracious, Sarah Jane Smith and her son just walked into the house next door! Where is it?! Where is the TARDIS??? Forget the coat, all I need are my Converses ... and I'm running to find him! DOCTOR! WAIT FOR ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Quotations: "Gaudy Night"

Some of my favorite quotations of all times ...

***

"I have the most ill-regulated memory. It does those things which it ought not to do and leaves undone the things it ought to have done. But it has not yet gone on strike altogether." pp64

"One First of April, the question had arrived from Paris in a single Latin sentence, starting off dispiritedly. 'Num ...?' -- a particle which notoriously 'expects the answer No.' Harriet, rummaging the Grammar book for 'polite negatives,' replied, still more briefly, 'Benigne.'" pp 65

"'however. Should you catalogue me as a heart or a brain?' / 'Nobody,' said Harriet, 'could deny your brain.' / 'Who deniges of it? And you may deny my heart, but I'm damned if you shall deny its existence.' / 'You argue like an Elizabethan wit -- two meanings under one word.' / 'It was your word. You will have to deny something, if you intend to be like Caesar's sacrifice.' / 'Caesar's ... ?' / 'A beast without a heart. Has your napkin gone again?'" pp 68

"'Peter, you don't seriously think --' / 'I avoid serious thought like the plague.'" pp 414

"... Is there yet any that is left of the house of Saul? ... Look! one poor warrior hiding behind the coal-scuttle -- remnant of a mighty army.' / He held up the solitary red pawn, smiling; and then scrambled hurriedly to his feet. / 'My dear girl, don't cry about it. What the hell does it mater?' / 'I loved them,' said Harriet, 'and you gave them to me.' / He shook his head. / 'It's a pity it's that way round "You gave them to me, and I loved them" is all right, but "I loved them and you gave them to me" is irreparable. Fifty thousand rocs' eggs won't supply their place. "The Virgin's gone and I am gone; she's gone, she's gone and what shall I do?" But you needn't weep over the chest of drawers while I have a shoulder at your disposal, need you?'" pp 440

"'He's aging rapidly. I should think he'd nearly got to the sixties by now. With beautiful, golden side whiskers. I really think you ought to rescue him before his bones start to creak and the spiders spin webs over his eyes.' / 'You and your uncle,' said Harriet,' should be set to turn phrases for a living.' pp 466

Operator Success ... on Tumblr!

So ... the whole "operator failure" issue (see below) was because I was trying to follow someone else's tumblr and, well, followed myself instead. (How is it that a verb like "follow" can become so strange to use now with all these nouns being used as verbs? I am super confused ...). So, long story short, I am still following myself on my blog (I should probably take myself down, though, it makes me feel conceited) AND I have set up a tumblr Growlery.

catherinesgrowlery.tumblr.com

The reasons are two.

I. (I love Roman numerals, don't you?) I want to be able to follow my friends on tumblr who haven't blogs, and I can't figure out how to do that with just a blog.

II. (yay for Roman numerals!) I feel silly posting silly pictures and quotations on the blog, so I will do so with much less guilt on a tumblr built for such frivolities.

So. Welcome to the Growlery -- in photos!

Operator Failure ... Know Thyself

I think I just "friended" myself on this blog (or whatever it is -- followed, became a disciple of, yadda yadda yadda). Sigh. It's about time, don't you think? I really should be making more of an effort to get to know this person with whom I spend so much of my time ...

Snippet Saturday #3

A bit of a time-travel something I've been working on for a while ...

***

And suddenly they came to the edge of a great gaping abyss. Selena clung to Jeremy, but he let go of her. "No, don't. You can't throw off the time warp. You have to go by yourself."

Selena stared into the endless black and thought about her parents, her brother, her new lock on the basement hideout. She wondered whether her brother would have opened it by now. He would have tried, of course -- he would be trying from the moment she left the house.

"Remember to bend your knees and roll when we land."

"Are you crazy?" Selena tried to shout about the roar of the wind, but her words were caught up in the whirlwind and pulled away from her. Jeremy didn't hear, but he knew what she said.

"Don't think about it - just put your arms out and - JUMP!"

Together, they fell through the great vast black tunnel, sucked away by the burning of time and space, swooped into the vortex of wind and noise and whirling about them and about their heads and in their ears and - silence.

Silence. The noise ceased; the wind blew no more. Enigma lay on her back, unaware of any sensation. She knew existence. She knew consciousness. And then, failure. Dread. Anxiety. Worry. Jeremy? Failed. Dead? Dead. Gone. And she would die too - dead already? Probably.

Suddenly, laughter. It was not hers; it came from somewhere else. Laughter. Jeremy. Dead and laughing? Only he would do that. Suddenly, she found herself shaking her head. Dizzy. She wasn't shaking; the room ... the outside ... was shaking. Something hung above her head. There it was, that thing; that was making the laughing.

"You forgot to bend your knees, I think," and there he was, helping her to sit up. She stared as the world around her came into focus.

They had done it. They had landed in ... well, what looked like a great white nothingness. Was that a shadow? Something moving? Well, maybe it wasn't all nothingness ...

"Come on," and Jeremy helped her to her feet. "Wobbly, eh? Don't worry, it'll come back. You can hold on to me for now." He began leading her away through the whiteness. Something about it continued to shift and sway, and shadows came and bent before her. Something sparked; something lit, and there a flash of color flew. Lines grew thicker, bolder; shapes began to form and appear. Soon enough, the whiteness rolled away, and out fell the world again, in all its colorful glory.


"Where -- where are we, then?" She stared down the unfamiliar street at its nondescript buildings, the average-looking trees, the mediocre people milling aimlessly around.

"The question is when," Jeremy replied, "and if my calculations are correct, we're just in time for a lecture on the dimensional proximity theory by a very good friend of mine. Come on."

Digital Reading: The Kindle (encore)

I know I've already discussed the Kindle Question to some degree, but I thought I would review what I had said earlier and update my thoughts, as I've been spending a little more time with it now. 

Well, first off, the Kindle will never replace books, at least for me. There is something very fundamental about a book, something solid and basic and trustworthy. I don't know; that might sound silly, but the problem is that with a Kindle (I'll say Kindle, but of course I mean any digital reading device), you only have the words; no smell (which I love; if they ever make a car freshener that smells of old libraries, I will SO buy it!), no physical contact, no ink even. And each time you open the "book" or text on the Kindle, everything shifts, so the same words aren't even on the same page anymore (there are actually no page numbers because of this: very strange! how can you read a book without page numbers???).

Another thing is that when you read on a Kindle, it's hard to lose yourself in the story as you lose yourself in a book. You know, of course, what I mean. It's when you suddenly look up from a book and realize that for the past -- well, whatever amount of time it was, you're not really sure -- for the past while, you've been in another world and another time, and now you're pulled back into the reality of homework and roommate troubles and matchmaking crises and everything you could possibly imagine. With the Kindle, it's not impossible to reach that level of concentration, but it's much more difficult, especially with noisy distractions. If I'm sitting by myself in my room, with no one else around, I can sometimes get there, but as soon as someone else walks into the room, I've lost it, and it takes a long time to get it back. 

As for its influence on human thought and the life we lead today: I don't know. I honestly think the Kindle is the least of our worries in this age of Facebook and online dating and all sorts of nonsense, not to mention all the other sorts of inherently evil stuff you get online. Like any tool, the Kindle can be either used or abused; it is a wonderful thing to have when traveling around, or somewhere where you can't carry thirty books with you! It's also nice to be able to download something that you're not sure you want to pay full price for -- a lot of digital books are either free or only a few dollars, so if there is something you are interested in, but not sure you want to keep or want to pay full price for, you can just download it to the Kindle, read or skim through it there, and then decide whether you want to buy a hardcopy or not, or just leave it on the Kindle, or even delete it (if it were that terrible). 

But like I said, as with any tool, you can use or abuse it. Technology is quickly taking over our lives, but if we use it well and carefully and with moderation, it can be a wonderful thing. I think the issue with the Kindle vs. the Book is not so much a micro-issue, as a macro-issue: our entire way of life is taking on a revolutionary change. The Kindle is just one aspect of this. Of course, the Book issue is a huge deal and a very poignant example of what is happening in society, but we have to remember that in its time, the Book itself was an issue and a novelty. When Gutenberg introduced moveable type into the printing process, society was inundated with these things called books, and a lot of people didn't know what to do with them. People didn't know how to read, for one thing; they were also afraid that the written word would take over the oral tradition, and so for a long time people read aloud, even to themselves. It's funny when we think about it, but I think it's sort of the situation we have now; people are afraid that computers will take over the world and we'll stop reading. I think it's probably true that people will read less from physical books, but the moral consequences of that are up to us :) So, the tools are only as good as those who use them, in my opinion.

And a lot of these pensees, if you will (thanks, Dr. S., for the inspiration ;) come from Sven Birkerts's fantastic book The Gutenberg Elegies, in which he addresses this very issue. If you get a chance, I would highly recommend it; it's an easy though thoughtful read, well written and well expressed, with a lot of thought-provoking ideas and a good balance between "the world is falling apart because of our lack of books" and "the world is going to be so much better if we all embrace technology." He also addresses the issue of authors in the age of modern publishing and modern audiences, which, as a writer wannabe, fires synapses in at least my brain on that issue as well. Hmmmmm ... maybe I should get an IT degree ....

Miss Manners Monday #2

No, it's not Monday, and yes, I've already posted half a dozen nonsensical posts in the past, oh, three or four hours, but it's late and I've had chocolate and I just can't get this question out of my head: How do you really eat a hard roll in a nice restaurant?

Do you cut into it with your knife? Do you pull it apart with your fingers? -- you aren't supposed to touch food with your fingers in public, are you? Are you allowed to pick it up and take a bite, or do you break off small parts and pop them into your mouth? If you use butter, where do you put the butter knife? Should you use the same knife to butter the bread as you used to cut it (if you cut it)? Could you refuse the roll, and let it sit idly and unwanted on the side? Unhappy food.

*sigh* I'm confused. And hungry.

Growlery Time

Did I ever mention, by the way, that the Growlery sits high above the world, at the top of an ivory tower?

Did I ever mention that this tower stands tall in the middle of an eternal snowstorm?

And did I mention that this snowstorm exists on another planet altogether?

No, I didn't think so.

Well, it does.

Just thought I would mention it, so you would know where to look for it when you want to come and visit. Let me know ahead of time and I will put the kettle on and make some cookies. I will also give the tigers a lecture in manners, as the last visitor we had turned out to be, er, slightly intimidated by tiger-hugs ...

Snow

This fall, when it snowed for the first time of the season -- giving us a taste of white promises yet to come -- I stared blankly at the crystalline landscape. It was the first snow of the year, and the first year of my life that the snow did not fill me with girlish giddiness. I wasn't excited; I wasn't entertained. I was bored and irritated; for once, snow didn't mean a Carroll-ine wonderland in which to enjoy adventures, but a mess of cold, wet, sloppy brown slush to trudge through, in the dreary mornings, to long days of lectures.

This particular semester was a difficult one, a pivotal one, in some ways. It showed me a glimpse of "the real world," with work and schedules and taxes and life insurance. It showed me the end of the bookish, philosophical, head-in-the-clouds life of the academic -- a life I had embraced and grown to love. This disenchantment with snow, something that had always made me curl my toes in anticipation, woke me to a harsh realization. I realized that this life was, first of all, not un-ending. That would not have deterred me, but then I realized that this life was not perfect. Again, I would have made do, muddled through; but the light of truth had not yet finished blinding me. Finally, I realized that this life -- the life of the book, the life of the theory, the life of the most brilliant and beautiful minds I have ever known -- was not for me.

Have you ever watched a rose bloom, from a bud to a half-blown flower to a full-bloom rose, then slowly drop its fragile petals one by one? Have you ever seen the frantic, futile efforts of a dog chase his tail, or salmon swim upstream, or a leaf hang on to its trembling branch, in the coldest chill of autumn? Absurd, perhaps, and pitiful. Have you ever come to the slow, sinking realization of a truth that you've known all the time, but never had the strength to acknowledge?

It hurts. It's a sort of numb, dry hurt that makes you want to fight against the wind or knock your head against a brick wall or scream loudly enough to shatter all the windows in the building. But unfortunately, you're sitting in a dorm, and screaming is only going to scare everyone else. So you sit and stare at the television, completely oblivious to what is happening in that alter-reality.

Today, it snowed again. I didn't know what to think at first; it had snowed a couple times these past few months, but nothing real. Nothing worth noticing. When I saw it snowing again, I didn't groan; I hadn't thought about snow much recently, but seeing it again brought a new sensation. I smiled a little; then I laughed. The world was re-enchanting itself, with the promise of a new semester and a new year and a new snow. A clean canvas to work on -- and the most crystalline work of art ever invented.

Snow.

It will probably melt by tomorrow, or at least turn melty and slushy and nasty and brown. But for now, it is beautiful, and the stars shine even more brightly because of it. And so, I will curl up with my white tigers and my tea, and watch eagerly for the next white promises of flakes.

Chivalry: Wimsey-Style

Perhaps this is why I love Lord Peter so very, very dearly. He knows, whereas Sir Gawain only subconsciously guesses, that to give a woman the power to make a decision is to subtly manipulate her into meekly re-submitting to you that same power. Reverse psychology, if you will (we are so terribly, terribly susceptible ... ). Here, Lord Peter takes his beloved Harriet punting* on the Thames in Oxford and, in proper Wimsey fashion, refers all decision-making to her. Now, Harriet is a strong woman; perfectly capable of punting herself, or of taking perfect care of herself in any way; she has no need of his assistance. Yet the GREAT DIFFERENCE between Wimsey's sort of chivalry and the "yes-dear" attitude of many men is that Lord Peter is himself a capable man, and though usually as immature as any seven-year-old, he has his moments of greatness, too.

Nothing comes to mind at the moment, but ... I'm sure I'll think of something.

* Punting (for non-Anglophiles) is to take a punt, or a little flat boat, down the river by pushing into the riverbed with a long pole. The Thames does flow up (or down, however the gravity works in that country) to Oxford, so it is possible to go punting on the Thames there, though in general the understanding is one goes punting on the Thames in London. But there is also the Cherwell in Oxford, so they could have taken that route as well ... I can't remember.

***

"Is it your pleasure to go up or down?"

"Well, going up there's more riot but a better bottom; going down you're all right as far as the fork, and then you choose between thick mud and the Corporation dump."

"It appears to be altogether a choice of evils. But you have only to command. My ear is open like a greedy shark to catch the tunings of a voice divine."

"Great heavens! Where did you find that?"

"That, though you might not believe it, is the crashing conclusion of a sonnet by Keats. True, it is a youthful effort; but there are some things that even youth does not excuse."

"Let us go downstream. I need solitude to recover from the shock."

He turned the punt out into the stream and shot the bridge accurately. Then: "Admirable woman! You have allowed me to spread the tail of vanity before that pair of deserted Ariadnes. Would you now prefer to be independent and take the pole? I admit it is better fun to punt than to be punted, and that a desire to have all the fun is nine-tenths of the law of chivalry."

"Is it possible that you have a just and generous mind? I will not be outdone in generosity. I will sit like a perfect lady and watch you do the work. It's nice to see things well done."

"If you say that, I shall get conceited and do something silly."

pp 313 Gaudy Night

The Magic Word They Forget to Mention

"He replied that bad manners always made him sick; but was it any worse than headlining foreign monarchs by their Christian names, untitled?" -- Dorothy L. Sayers, Gaudy Night (Lord Peter Wimsey)

Manners, my dear ladies and gentlemen, seem to be in short supply these days. There is something about this modern hurry-scurry, free-for-all, leave-it-to-the-dogs atmosphere that generates a shocking amount of rudeness. I don't mean to say that people have merely forgotten which fork to use for salad, or what sort of tie to wear to what sort of dinner, or which title to use for foreign monarchs; these niceties have all but evaporated into thin air, or into expensive, exclusive cosmopolitan circles. Rather, words such as "please," "thank you," and "sorry" -- once an expected and natural part of common interaction -- are vanishing more quickly than the white tiger.

Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. How difficult is it? You spill a drink on someone. You interrupt another's conversation. You want to order your venti decaf soy caramel macchiato, like, right NOW, 'cuz you've gotta get to class and you can't run fast enough in your ten-inch heels. PEAAA-PPPELLLLLLLL ......

First of all, you shouldn't be wearing ten-inch heels. But unfortunately, it's a free country, and you're entitled to your stupidity.

UNFORTUNATELY for you, however, you are NOT entitled to rudeness.

BOOYAH!

[CONSCIENCE: Catherine, that was rude. And definitely not ginger.
CATHERINE: Oh. Was it really ... ?
CONSCIENCE: 'fraid so.
CATHERINE: sigh ...]

Sorry, that was rude.

[CONSCIENCE: Good job, Catherine.]

SEE? It's so easy.

[CONSCIENCE: Don't get conceited, now.]

And yes, my conscience speaks in Trebuchet. Well, at least it's better than Helevetica.

***

But I digress ...

The point is: wherever I go, I find more and more people, from complete strangers to close friends, who seem to disregard the dignity and humanity of those around them. That might sound stuffy and exaggerated, but it's true. When you speak to someone else, your manner, stance, tone of voice, facial expressions, and body language all create a setting or atmosphere for the words you use. A sharp tone or loud voice can express just as much irritation or aggression as the words "you irritate me" or "I want to slap (males: punch) your face."

Speaking impatiently to a barista or snapping back at a sales clerk shows that you don't care about her, just her product. Elbowing your way through a crowd means treating those others like walking punching bags. Rolling your eyes when a professor cracks a joke (which to you might sound dumb, but 99% of the time is actually an obscure literary reference just a little too deep for your sophomoric comprehension) shows your unbelievable immaturity, your dire lack of palate for multiple varieties of humor, and a grievous irreverence for your superiors.

It's hard. It's hard to always consider the person's dignity. It's hard to think that this droolly-eyed, acne-faced teenage boy grazing on carbs in front of the widescreen actually possesses an immortal soul, right?

Well, it shouldn't be.

Everyone has a soul. This soul has feelings, gushy and mushy as it may sound. Call them emotions, call them senses, call them what you will; I'll call them feelings. Consider those feelings; think of how your approach affects the other person. Consider how every single individual on this planet, whether behind the deli counter or executive desk, sweeping the floor or taking center stage, deserves the very minimum of respect: common courtesy.

I've never been a huge fan of the word "deserve." So many people think they "deserve" so much: college tuition, flat-screen TVs, the right to use any foul language that comes to mind. This is not what the pursuit of happiness means ... but that is for another post. In the case of simple, common courtesy, everyone deserves it.

I cannot throw stones against politeness-offenders; I stand culpable as well. I can't say that I think of others every time I should, but I do try. And I know that every time I watch someone else ignore the unspoken rules of courtesy, I pay attention the next time I am standing impatiently in line. How is the XXXL greasy-faced McGeek's burger-flipper ever to learn to stop scowling grumbling if he never sees anyone else smiling?

So. Think about it. Next time you're running late, consider setting your alarm earlier -- consider getting a simpler drink -- consider the bleary-eyed, overworked barista who only wants to go home. Smile, apologize for making her life far more complicated than necessary, and say thanks. It's common courtesy.

Lookout for Hope

Most beautiful, most clever, most brilliant illustrative blog ever.

http://lookoutforhope.wordpress.com/

Sometimes, I wonder why I even bother doing what I do. There are so many other people who manage so cleverly to say all the things I want to say (PLUS illustrations! no fair!), that I sometimes feel redundant. But then I remind myself that although I may sound silly when I want to say something clever, only I can sound silly in the way I sound silly. No one can make the same stupidities (en francais, des betises: I love this word) I make. So even if I'm not terribly original, I can be terrifyingly unique.

Hope! I see it now! 

Wacky Word Wednesday: Arachibutyrophobia

Arachibutyrophobia: the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of one's mouth

... well, the OED doesn't give a definition for it, but we'll pretend that they just haven't gotten to it yet. But if you google it, other sites do define it. I say, let's get it into circulation, and we'll MAKE it a real word!

My Life, The Cliffhanger

Three and a half years and counting, much, much too quickly.

Less than one hundred days and I will  be pulled from the safety and comfort of the growlery, and flung into the terrors of the "real" world. Whatever that means.

Ok, so, generally, that means the work world. But, as every liberally-educated (that is, educated in the liberal arts, not politically left) individual has experienced or is experiencing or will experience, the liberal arts education leaves its students feeling ... odd. Abnormal. Out of place. Bursting with understanding but with little practical knowledge of the world.

To dig I am unable, to flip burgers I am ashamed. What the mongoose am I going to do with my life?! 

Artes liberales, what have you left me fit for? It's the Pygmalion problem: having had such high-and-mighty, theoretical, abstract concepts meticulously infused into my brain, I find it difficult to stretch my toes down and touch the solid ground again. After surrounding myself with some of the most intelligent minds on the planet, how am I supposed to learn to make small talk? Here at college, we discuss Aristotle at the breakfast table, for pity's sake. How do I know what a commute is like, or how such-and-such a brand of suit is better than another, or the difference between a CEO and a CFO and a COO? Are they business positions or chemical compounds, after all?

*sigh*

I find that many of my friends are dealing with the same confusion and chaos. Few of them know exactly what they are doing with their lives, either. We all have vague, lofty dreams of how we want to change the world, but none of us seem to know any practical way of making that happen. Yet.

My theory is, this is where patience, perseverance, and a little common sense come into play. We study the humanities because it tells us how people think, how they act, what they want, how they feel. It gives us insight into the human psyche, rendering ambiguous actions and words more comprehensible. Having this ability gives us the opportunity not only to do a job, but to do it well. We are able to perform well at not just any job, but every job. This sometimes makes career decisions difficult, but whatever path we choose, we should be able to make leaps and bounds towards any goal.

Any goal.

With Austen, adjectives, and the ancillary character, I will conquer the world.

Hooah!

Lord, grant me patience, perseverance, and a little common sense.

Book Review: The White Statue

This is a book by a friend of mine, found at Amazon:

http://www.amazon.com/White-Statue-Quinn-Pendrey/dp/1461086108/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1328471000&sr=8-1

... which you should all read. To encourage you, here's the review I posted on the website:

I found this book under the tree. Within forty-eight hours, I finished the book. Despite all things Christmas (so very wonderful, yet so very time consuming), I couldn't put it down. Pendrey's careful crafting has produced a colorful world filled with lovable characters; she evokes the best of Lewis' Narnia Chronicles, Baum's Oz stories, and the Arabian Nights, adding more than a touch of "The Princess Bride" (iocane powder, anyone? -- not to mention the man in black). While some might complain that the hero seems to possess (and dispose of) more lives than a cat (WAIT: was that just ANOTHER attempt on his life, that he survived?), suspension of disbelief comes quite easily and indeed pleasantly. The adventure is more than a legend; Pendrey's sharp use of mental images helps the reader see, hear, smell, taste, and feel the story along with the characters. The actors in this story live and breath; the very best was watching the characters interact with each other, quite naturally, and yet each in keeping with his own personality. The friendship (though strained at times) between the hero and his raven is, I think, one of the most amusing and endearing I've ever read.

Though I guess a few plot developments in the beginning, the second half kept me on my toes. As for the statue itself ... well, spoilers! I certainly hope Pendrey continues to publish; I will be watching closely for her next work! If you are looking for something lighthearted, adventurous, swashbuckling, fantastical, amusing, and delightful, here is your book.

Free-For-All Friday

With only eighteen minutes left of the day, I am exercising my Free-for-all Friday rights. I have the right to do what I want and think what I want and say what I want and post what I want.

*evil grin*

I am posting a photo... 

 ... of the most brilliant thing I have seen all week.

I am saying that if you are having academic angst, you should take a page out of the Therapist's book and breathe. Look at the stars and pick one you want to visit. Think of all the adventures you've ever wanted to have; you probably won't ever have them, but tell yourself that even if you can't have those, there will be others. Lots. Read about the Greeks again and thank God for indoor plumbing. Give the resume an indefinite leave of absence. If the paper isn't getting written, get some sleep already; it'll write itself in the morning. Toss the cranberry-colored sugar bombs to the birds, and find yourself some salty almonds. 


I am thinking that I should feed the white tigers before they eat my knight in shining armour. 


I am doing absolutely nothing at all ... and loving it. 


Happy Friday, everyone. 


Eight minutes to go. 

Wacky Word Wednesday: Chthonic

Chthonic

  /ˈkθɒnɪk/ Dwelling in or beneath the surface of the earth (oed.com)

I found this word in T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets, one of my favorite poetic works (and authors) of all time. I never particularly liked poetry until one day, on a sunny afternoon of second semester freshman year, my English professor trooped the class outside to read the Quartets. I was hooked. Eliot's poetry  is more than romantic sighing or melancholic brooding, it seems to me. His words sing; they produce a melody and rhythm of time, life, death -- especially death -- and what it means to be human. That might sound trite or ambiguously meaningless, but his theory of objective correlative organizes words in such a way as to give enormous depth and color. How I would like to write like this someday:

Words strain,

Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,

Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,

Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,

Will not stay still. Shrieking voices

Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,

Always assail them. The Word in the desert

Is most attacked by voices of temptation,

The crying shadow in the funeral dance,

The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.