Wednesday, December 18, 2024

Keep a Holy (Non-commercial) Advent




Advent 1955 
by Sir John Betjeman

The Advent wind begins to stir
With sea-like sounds in our Scotch fir,
It's dark at breakfast, dark at tea,
And in between we only see
Clouds hurrying across the sky
And rain-wet roads the wind blows dry
And branches bending to the gale
Against great skies all silver pale
The world seems travelling into space,
And travelling at a faster pace
Than in the leisured summer weather
When we and it sit out together,
For now we feel the world spin round
On some momentous journey bound -
Journey to what? to whom? to where?
The Advent bells call out 'Prepare,
Your world is journeying to the birth
Of God made Man for us on earth.'


And how, in fact, do we prepare
The great day that waits us there -
For the twenty-fifth day of December,
The birth of Christ? For some it means
An interchange of hunting scenes
On coloured cards, And I remember
Last year I sent out twenty yards,
Laid end to end, of Christmas cards
To people that I scarcely know -
They'd sent a card to me, and so
I had to send one back. Oh dear!
Is this a form of Christmas cheer?
Or is it, which is less surprising,
My pride gone in for advertising?
The only cards that really count
Are that extremely small amount
From real friends who keep in touch
And are not rich but love us much
Some ways indeed are very odd
By which we hail the birth of God.


We raise the price of things in shops,
We give plain boxes fancy tops
And lines which traders cannot sell
Thus parcell'd go extremely well
We dole out bribes we call a present
To those to whom we must be pleasant
For business reasons. Our defence is
These bribes are charged against expenses
And bring relief in Income Tax
Enough of these unworthy cracks!
'The time draws near the birth of Christ'.
A present that cannot be priced
Given two thousand years ago
Yet if God had not given so
He still would be a distant stranger
And not the Baby in the manger.


Monday, December 16, 2024

The Holy Babe in an Ox's Stall





From "Christmas" by Sir John Betjeman

"And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window's hue,
A Baby in an ox's stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?

And is it true? For if it is,
No loving fingers tying strings
Around those tissued fripperies,
The sweet and silly Christmas things,
Bath salts and inexpensive scent
And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was man in Palestine
And lives today in Bread and Wine."


Wednesday, November 27, 2024

Dorothy L. Sayers on Aging

 

Dorothy L Sayers by Sir William Hutchison, 1957, (detail) 
Credit: National Portrait Gallery London



"As I grow older and older, 
And totter toward the tomb, 
I find that I care less and less, 
Who goes to bed with whom." - D. Sayers


Dorothy Sayers was 37 years old when her book Strong Poison was published in 1930. At that point, she was at the halfway mark of her life. She died at age 64. In Strong Poison she describes what it felt like to be growing older. She wrote this:

From now on, every hour of light-heartedness would be, not a prerogative but an achievement - one more axe or case - bottle or fowling-piece, rescued, Crusoe-fashion, from a sinking ship. (Chapter VIII)



Wednesday, November 20, 2024

How to Win a Crown




Daniel’s Song

By Hope Ellen Rapson


Tempted in Babylon

A new name required,

He would not be one,

Caving into desire.



In that world’s kingdom,

He would stand with three,

Loyal to the One

Who made them free.



He worked with rich and proud,

Choosing integrity,

Neither cocky, nor cowed,

But with humility.



Among all who lie or cheat,

He knelt to praise, and pray,

The Holy God Complete,

His King, his Rock, his Stay.



Threats of loss, fire, or lions

Did not his heart control.

His body lived for God,

The One who owned his soul.



So may I bear salvation’s seal,

Whenever I stand or kneel,

I live for this alone--- to reveal,

The Holy God who’s real.



Saturday, November 16, 2024

The Childhood Suffering of Charles Dickens

 


Christopher Hibbert's biography examines the early writing of Charles Dickens and demonstrates the ways that Dickens's early life and experiences informed the plots and characters in his famous works.


What follows is an excerpt from an essay written by J. H. Plumb that appeared in Horizon Magazine, Autumn 1967.


Which Age of Anxiety?

Most of Dickens's heroes begin their lives cut off from other people. Insecure, obliged to make their way in a strange, discordant, threatening world, they try to become accepted by it and become a part of it, to understand it and to understand themselves, and in the meantime they share the sense of deprivation that made Paul Dombey live with "an aching void in his young heart, and all outside so cold, and bare, and strange."

    Even Samuel Pickwick feels compelled to conclude that "we are all the victims of circumstances, and I the greatest." For though his adventures are comic, the world in which they take place is essentially a menacing, savage world where only the fittest will survive and the unprotected, the simple, and the good will be treated with indifference if not with cruelty. It is a world in which men live secret lives, in which, as Sairey Gamp says in Martin Chuzzlewit, "we never know wot's hidden in each other's hearts; and if we had glass winders there, we'd need keep the shutters up, some on us, I do assure you!"

    The disquieting sese of being watched in this world, of being spied upon and caught out by gleaming eyes, eager eyes, spying eyes, eyes that stare, which constantly and disturbingly appear, and of being choked or suffocated in a stifling room, or lost in a labyrinth of streets, as in Oliver Twist; the images of crumbling riverside house that totter suddenly into ruin as the houses of Tom-all-Alone's do in Bleak House and the Clennam's house does in Little Dorrit; the desire to escape from the imprisoning city back to the countryside of innocent childhood, as shown in the Old Curiosity Shop; the fascination with dirty, muddled, crowded, fungus-ridden interiors; the concern with money; the plots that time and again revolve around a family mystery and the dread of its revelation; and of course, the difficulties of the relationships between parents and their children, which are investigated in novel after novel - all these ideas and symbols and themes that repeatedly occur in Dickens's writing can be interpreted in the light of the traumatic experiences and sufferings of these few months of his thirteen year."


Alice C. Linsley

When Dickens was age 13, his parents sent him to work at Warren's Blacking, 30, Hungerford Stairs, Strand. There he worked 12-hour days, earning six shillings a week to support his family. He felt abandoned, discouraged about having to leave his school, and stunned by the turn of events.

Warren's warehouse was filthy, ramshackle, and rat-infested. The floors and staircase were rotten and the lighting poor. The work was repetitive and boring. Charles felt the distance between himself, as son of a gentleman, and the other boys who worked there. He was forever conscious of what he called "a space between us" a distance accentuated by his more polished conduct and manners. Though Dickens only spent about 6 months at Warren's Blacking, his misery during that time shaped his future writing.

Charles' feelings about that time of his life are expressed on his novel David Copperfield:

"I had no advice, no counsel, no encouragement, no consolation, no assistance, no support, of any kind, from anyone, that I can call to mind, as I hope to go to heaven!"

Dickens's novels are crowded with orphans, prisons, dirt and poverty. These are symbols of the emotions the young Dickens felt, and they helped to produce one of the most prolific and enduring British writers the world has known.


Related reading: Charles Dickens on English Churches


Saturday, October 26, 2024

A Timely Taste of Spain

 

Miguel de Unamuno y Jugo


Miguel de Unamuno y Jugo (1864 – 1936) was a Spanish essayist, novelist, poet, playwright, philosopher, professor of Greek, and later rector at the University of Salamanca. He was prolific in many genres, including poetry, essays, and drama, but he is best remembered for his philosophical treatise The Tragic Sense of Life (1912). 

His novels include Paz en la guerra (Peace in War) (1897), Niebla (Mist) (1914), Vida de Don Quijote y Sancho (1914), and Abel Sánchez (1917).

If you would like to become familiar with some of Unamuno's thought, I recommend the book Essays, Paradoxes, Soliloquies.

Unamuno's works often are poetic, and they ring with sincere apologies for the tragic sense of life. Yet they retain hope, even as Quijote's hope for triumph over his foes never left him. Quijote's dying words to Sancho Panza were "Bring me my sword."

Because Unamuno's thought leaves wiggle room to explore, his readers may freely wander unexplored paths and discover unfamiliar literary places. We are allowed to live with uncomfortable contradictions. This space is shrinking in our polarized world. Our time is not unlike the eve of the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939). All the more reason to become familiar with the thought of Miguel de Unamuno!

In October 1936 Unamuno denounced General Francisco Franco’s Falangists. This resulted in his removal as rector of Salamanca University. He was placed under house arrest, and he died of a heart attack two months later.



Wednesday, July 17, 2024

Learn to Write by Writing

 


Dr. Alice C. Linsley

Writing is not for faint hearts, shallow minds, or the nihilist whose thoughts trail into oblivion. This work is not for the eternal pessimist whose disparagement of life brings ultimate deafness.

Writing thoughtfully is a prolonged endeavor that requires charting one's inner frontiers. To the north are my hopes of a better life and a bright aspiration to put away grievance and fear. I know that place by inner sight; the smells and moods. I have scouted the land, marked it and breathed in its freshness. An old oak, with a thick and twisted trunk, stands sentinel on the slope. Because I am acquainted with this place I am able to bring my readers here through carefully chosen words.

The best writing is thoughtful, reflective and focused on things that matter. At best, it also entertains. If we write only to entertain, we continue the cycle of shallow writing. Writers must write with the brain and spend more time in creative reflection.

In the end, writing is a craft that must be developed by writing. There is no way around it. You must write to develop your skill and your individual style.

C. S. Lewis wrote, "Write about what really interests you, whether it is real things or imaginary things, and nothing else. (Notice this means that if you are interested only in writing you will never be a writer, because you will have nothing to write about . . .)”

Ray Bradbury has this to say: "You can’t learn to write in college. It’s a very bad place for writers because the teachers always think they know more than you do—and they don’t. They have prejudices. They may like Henry James, but what if you don’t want to write like Henry James? They may like John Irving, for instance, who’s the bore of all time. A lot of the people whose work they’ve taught in the schools for the last thirty years, I can’t understand why people read them and why they are taught. The library, on the other hand, has no biases. The information is all there for you to interpret. You don’t have someone telling you what to think. You discover it for yourself." -from a 2010 interview with Sam Weller, published in The Paris Review.

Write because you love it. Don't burden yourself with worries about being published. Kurt Vonnegut recalls an experience from his youth that taught him to embrace writing for the enjoyment rather than the achievement.

“When I was 15, I spent a month working on an archeological dig. I was talking to one of the archeologists one day during our lunch break and he asked those kinds of “getting to know you” questions you ask young people: Do you play sports? What’s your favorite subject? And I told him, no I don’t play any sports. I do theater, I’m in choir, I play the violin and piano, I used to take art classes.

And he went WOW. That’s amazing! And I said, “Oh no, but I’m not any good at ANY of them.”
And he said something then that I will never forget and which absolutely blew my mind because no one had ever said anything like it to me before: "I don’t think being good at things is the point of doing them. I think you’ve got all these wonderful experiences with different skills, and that all teaches you things and makes you an interesting person, no matter how well you do them."

And that honestly changed my life. Because I went from a failure, someone who hadn’t been talented enough at anything to excel, to someone who did things because I enjoyed them. I had been raised in such an achievement-oriented environment, so inundated with the myth of Talent, that I thought it was only worth doing things if you could “Win” at them.”