Hey guys. It has occurred to me that we never settled on an "on-deck" selection. Now I know that some of you may not see this as such a pressing issue, considering East of Eden's length, but I find that I sleep a little better at night knowing what's on the horizon. Call it a weakness if you must, I have many. But when the batter is up, he's got two strikes on him and sweat is pouring down his face, the pressure is on. As he steps out of the batter's box, he takes a deep breath and stands back in confident and ready. Why? Because he saw he was not alone. He saw his teammate there, ready to follow him up. He saw who was on deck!!
So, that being said, I've heard whispers of Thomas Kuhn as well The Aneid. I probably would lean a little towards The Aneid, but either one sounds good. Does anyone else have any other suggestions? Let's get this thing solved guys. The circle is empty, begging to be filled. Peace of mind is just around the corner. All we need to know is who's on deck.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Un-Book Related
I’ve started to blog again. It’s nothing profound or penetrating. I just uploaded some photos of the Electric Upright Bass that I’ve been building. Check it out!
http://herringmeisterlist.blogspot.com/
http://herringmeisterlist.blogspot.com/
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Hey all,
I thought this looked like an interesting book. R. Crumb illustrated the book of Genesis leaving nothing out and nothing to the imagination. One reviewer said that it changed his perspective on some of what happens in Genesis by seeing the images of what took place. Of course this novel is a "graphic novel" in more ways than one but that's the bible for ya always upsetting people and especially Christians. It might be something to look into or add to a list of possible books to read.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Of Dust and Nations
My first post on our little blog, so bear with me. I'd like to start by saying I miss you all! I apologize for not making it to the last few meetings; my plans are continually thwarted by illness, lack of sleep, and other matters which refuse to be ignored. I figure the next best thing is to have stimulating conversation within the confines of this page, in keeping with the last few posts.
That being said, I'd like to share 2 of my favorite poems. The first is very well known: "Ozymandias" by Percy Bysshe Shelley.
.
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
.
The 2nd was published a month later by Shelley's pal Horace Smith, with the catchy title "On A Stupendous Leg of Granite, Discovered Standing by Itself in the Deserts of Egypt, with the Inscription Inserted Below."
.
In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone,
Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
The only shadow that the Desert knows:
"I am great OZYMANDIAS," saith the stone,
"The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
The wonders of my hand." The City's gone,
Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose
The site of this forgotten Babylon.
We wonder, and some Hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness
Where London stood, holding the Wolf in chace,
He meets some fragments huge, and stops to guess
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.
.
While reading these, we are reminded of the futility of the world. James puts it similarly James 1:10.... "But the one who is rich should take pride in his low position, because he will pass away like a wild flower. For the sun rises with scorching heat and withers the plant; its blossom falls and its beauty is destroyed. In the same way, the rich man will fade away even while he goes about his business."
.
On the other hand, we do have a legacy of relationships. Those are really the only things that last. Let those not be found "in decay", or as a "colossal wreck, boundless and bare". Rather, let us bear with one another in love, and build up that which lasts. Hope to see you all soon.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Power of Words
I was recently watching the 1973 Hanna-Barbera cartoon version of E.B. White's Charlotte’s Web and was struck by it's illustration of how words effect the world. Charlotte writes the words "some pig" above an "average everyday" pig. By virtue of Charlotte’s words people begin to look deeper into the kind of pig Wilbur is. In a similar vain I love the way Christ speaks over us. He takes us from amidst the masses and speaks over us and calls us God's children (his banner over us is love). Poythress is right. We cannot escape a world constructed through language because our world was constructed through language. We can only seek to speak in line with the one who spoke it into being.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Hope you men are well, Christians all.
Please forgive my lapses of friendship and common kindness,
often I forget the calling and election and default to self,
and I wear shame like a wardrobe.
Anyhow, here's a few words from Virgil,
translated, but powerful.
Virgil from Georgics I
Who dares deny the burning truth of the sun?
When Caesar was destroyed, the sun was black.
At midday, in a cloudless sky, black!
It warns us of all manner of uprisings—
of wind, of rain, of hail, and of humankind,
for views of the mind change, and the heart conceives
new emotions.
The earth shook and the sea
shuddered in its bed. It was dark at noon,
and many feared that the darkness would last forever
when Caesar died. The sun had shown it all.
Dogs had howled, and birds had chattered and cried,
and mighty Etna’s furnace had boiled up
to answer fire with fire, to turn black rocks
white hot, and melt them runny as rain.
In Germany thunder rolled as if to recall
the clash of an army’s weapons – Caesar’s own.
The Alps shook as with an army’s marching.
There were voices singing out of groves of trees.
Pale ghosts shimmered in the peculiar light.
Cattle spoke. Humans were struck dumb.
Rivers stood still. Plains yawned to chasms.
In the temples, ivory wept and hard bronze
broke into sweat. The Po overflowed its banks
and pretended to farm – herding cattle to death,
and harvesting woods and fields in a labor of rage.
The other omens were awful: wells flowed blood;
wolves howled in the cloudless sky; comets blazed.
Feel it aright, and a man could feel Phillipi,
the clang of Roman sword upon Roman sword,
the pools of our blood flowing back together
on the Macedonian plain, and at last the farmer
(always the farmer, first and last the farmer)
driving his curved plow to till the earth
and finding the Roman javelins covered with rust,
and digging with his shovel and striking a helmet.
Wonder at the white bones in the earth,
and feel in your own bones the sun’s fire,
the fire of life itself.
Hail, Caesar!
May the gods allow Caesar, our new Caesar,
to right this overturned time. We have atoned
for old Troy’s sins, and with more blood
than Troy ever spilled.
I feel the dread,
and the sun burns in me, burns like a fever.
The world is full of war, and at home, crime
resembles a war. Men flock to the city
leaving their fields to weeds, their tools to rust.
Plowshares now are beaten into swords.
It’s bad in Asia, bad in Europe, bad . . .
No treaties hold, no laws hold, nothing
but Mars, blood red . . . He holds it all,
hurtling through the sky in his chariot.
I feel those wheels rumble. I feel the sway
of speed. The horses are mad and running faster.
They ought to check. They ought to answer the reins.
There ought to be reins.
But there are none.
translation: David R. Slavitt
Please forgive my lapses of friendship and common kindness,
often I forget the calling and election and default to self,
and I wear shame like a wardrobe.
Anyhow, here's a few words from Virgil,
translated, but powerful.
Virgil from Georgics I
Who dares deny the burning truth of the sun?
When Caesar was destroyed, the sun was black.
At midday, in a cloudless sky, black!
It warns us of all manner of uprisings—
of wind, of rain, of hail, and of humankind,
for views of the mind change, and the heart conceives
new emotions.
The earth shook and the sea
shuddered in its bed. It was dark at noon,
and many feared that the darkness would last forever
when Caesar died. The sun had shown it all.
Dogs had howled, and birds had chattered and cried,
and mighty Etna’s furnace had boiled up
to answer fire with fire, to turn black rocks
white hot, and melt them runny as rain.
In Germany thunder rolled as if to recall
the clash of an army’s weapons – Caesar’s own.
The Alps shook as with an army’s marching.
There were voices singing out of groves of trees.
Pale ghosts shimmered in the peculiar light.
Cattle spoke. Humans were struck dumb.
Rivers stood still. Plains yawned to chasms.
In the temples, ivory wept and hard bronze
broke into sweat. The Po overflowed its banks
and pretended to farm – herding cattle to death,
and harvesting woods and fields in a labor of rage.
The other omens were awful: wells flowed blood;
wolves howled in the cloudless sky; comets blazed.
Feel it aright, and a man could feel Phillipi,
the clang of Roman sword upon Roman sword,
the pools of our blood flowing back together
on the Macedonian plain, and at last the farmer
(always the farmer, first and last the farmer)
driving his curved plow to till the earth
and finding the Roman javelins covered with rust,
and digging with his shovel and striking a helmet.
Wonder at the white bones in the earth,
and feel in your own bones the sun’s fire,
the fire of life itself.
Hail, Caesar!
May the gods allow Caesar, our new Caesar,
to right this overturned time. We have atoned
for old Troy’s sins, and with more blood
than Troy ever spilled.
I feel the dread,
and the sun burns in me, burns like a fever.
The world is full of war, and at home, crime
resembles a war. Men flock to the city
leaving their fields to weeds, their tools to rust.
Plowshares now are beaten into swords.
It’s bad in Asia, bad in Europe, bad . . .
No treaties hold, no laws hold, nothing
but Mars, blood red . . . He holds it all,
hurtling through the sky in his chariot.
I feel those wheels rumble. I feel the sway
of speed. The horses are mad and running faster.
They ought to check. They ought to answer the reins.
There ought to be reins.
But there are none.
translation: David R. Slavitt
Monday, November 30, 2009
Robinson, you are a literary force to be reckoned with!!
Okay, so after extensive searching, I've concluded that the end for which God created the world is simply to find this bloody book!!!! If anyone knows where to search, please let me know. Also, Home is amazing. Only 50 pages in and Robinson is already pulling at my emotional strings. Of course, it also could have been the combo of trying to read a few pages while watching Extreme Home Makeover. Anyway, again let me know if you have found the Edwards' text. Thanks guys.
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