I wondered what the Spirit of the Mountain was thinking, and
looked up and saw jackpines in the moon... In the whole eastern dark wall of
the Divide this night there was silence and the whisper of the wind, except in
the ravine where we roared; and on the other side of the Divide was the great
Western Slope, and the big plateau that went to Steamboat Springs, and dropped,
and led you to the western Colorado desert and the Utah desert; all in darkness
now as we fumed and screamed in our mountain nook, mad drunken Americans in the
mighty land.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott, r. Dec. 2014
p. xxvi Our ancestors were not more distinct from us, surely, than Jews are from Christians; they had "eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions" [Shakespeare]; were "fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer," as ourselves. The tenor, therefore, of their affections and feelings, must have borne the same general proportion to our own.
p. 52 The walls of the apartment were so ill finished, and so full of crevices, that the rich hangings shook to the night blast, and, in despite of a sort of screen intended to protect them from the wind, the flame of the torches streamed sideways into the air, like the unfurled pennon of a chieftain. Magnificence there was, with some rude attempt at taste; but of comfort their was little, and, being unknown, it was unmissed.
p. 82 At length the barriers were opened, and five knights, chosen by lot, advanced slowly into the area…. It is unnecessary to be particular on these subjects. To borrow lines from a contemporary poet, who has written but too little - "The knights are dust, And their good sword are rust, Their souls are with the saints, we trust" [Coleridge]. Their escutcheons have long mouldered from the walls of their castles. Their castles themselves are but green mounds and shattered ruins - the place that once knew them, knows them no more - nay, many a race since theirs has died out and been forgotten in the very land which they occupied, with all the authority of feudal proprietors and feudal lords. What, then, would it avail the reader to know their names, or the evanescent symbols of their martial rank!
p. 291 These men were Saxons, and not free by any means from the national love of ease and good living which the Normans stigmatized as laziness and gluttony.
p. 304 …Glory, maiden, glory! …
p. 330 Trust me each state must have its policies: Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their charters; Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk, Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline; For not since Adam wore his verdant apron, Hath man with man in social union dwelt, But laws were made to draw that union closer." [Old Play]
p. 359 For he that does good, having the unlimited power to do evil, deserves praise not only for the good which he performs, but for the evil which he forbears.
p. 388 …trial moves rapidly on when the judge has determined the sentence beforehand.
p. 52 The walls of the apartment were so ill finished, and so full of crevices, that the rich hangings shook to the night blast, and, in despite of a sort of screen intended to protect them from the wind, the flame of the torches streamed sideways into the air, like the unfurled pennon of a chieftain. Magnificence there was, with some rude attempt at taste; but of comfort their was little, and, being unknown, it was unmissed.
p. 82 At length the barriers were opened, and five knights, chosen by lot, advanced slowly into the area…. It is unnecessary to be particular on these subjects. To borrow lines from a contemporary poet, who has written but too little - "The knights are dust, And their good sword are rust, Their souls are with the saints, we trust" [Coleridge]. Their escutcheons have long mouldered from the walls of their castles. Their castles themselves are but green mounds and shattered ruins - the place that once knew them, knows them no more - nay, many a race since theirs has died out and been forgotten in the very land which they occupied, with all the authority of feudal proprietors and feudal lords. What, then, would it avail the reader to know their names, or the evanescent symbols of their martial rank!
p. 291 These men were Saxons, and not free by any means from the national love of ease and good living which the Normans stigmatized as laziness and gluttony.
p. 304 …Glory, maiden, glory! …
p. 330 Trust me each state must have its policies: Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their charters; Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk, Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline; For not since Adam wore his verdant apron, Hath man with man in social union dwelt, But laws were made to draw that union closer." [Old Play]
p. 359 For he that does good, having the unlimited power to do evil, deserves praise not only for the good which he performs, but for the evil which he forbears.
p. 388 …trial moves rapidly on when the judge has determined the sentence beforehand.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Crow Lake by Mary Lawson, r. Dec. 2014
p. 6 …children have very little concept of time. Tomorrow is forever, and years pass in no time at all.
p. 20 And then, back in February, I found a letter from Matt waiting for me when I got home from work on Friday evening. I saw the writing and instantly I saw Matt - you know how handwriting conjures up the person.
p. 144 It was getting dark, and the cold was creeping in with the night. Matt told me that cold was just the absence of heat, but it didn't feel like that. It felt like a presence. It felt stealthy, like a thief. You had to wrap your clothes tight around you or it would steal your warmth, and when all your warmth was gone you'd just be a shell, empty and brittle as a dead beetle.
p. 196 The research I love. It calls for patience, precision, and a methodical approach, and all of those I have. That makes it sound dull, but it is far from full. On a pure level, it allows you to feel that you have added your own tiny piece to the jigsaw of scientific knowledge.
p. 241 Things change. Everyone has to grow up. But not grow apart, as we had done, surely?
p. 243 Daniel remarked… that [the backwoods of northern Ontario] seemed an unlikely environment to have produced an academic. That irritated me. Surely the most unlikely place to produce an academic is a city, with its noise and confusion and lack of time for thought or contemplation?
p. 259 That last stretch of the journey from Toronto to Crow Lake always takes me by the throat. Partly it's the familiarity; I know every tree, every rock, every boggy bit of marshland so well, that even though I almost always arrive after dark I can feel them around me, lying there in the darkness as if they were my own bones. Partly, too, it is the sensation of going back in time, moving from "now" to "then," and the recognition that wherever you are now and wherever you may be in the future, nothing alters the point you started from.
p. 20 And then, back in February, I found a letter from Matt waiting for me when I got home from work on Friday evening. I saw the writing and instantly I saw Matt - you know how handwriting conjures up the person.
p. 144 It was getting dark, and the cold was creeping in with the night. Matt told me that cold was just the absence of heat, but it didn't feel like that. It felt like a presence. It felt stealthy, like a thief. You had to wrap your clothes tight around you or it would steal your warmth, and when all your warmth was gone you'd just be a shell, empty and brittle as a dead beetle.
p. 196 The research I love. It calls for patience, precision, and a methodical approach, and all of those I have. That makes it sound dull, but it is far from full. On a pure level, it allows you to feel that you have added your own tiny piece to the jigsaw of scientific knowledge.
p. 241 Things change. Everyone has to grow up. But not grow apart, as we had done, surely?
p. 243 Daniel remarked… that [the backwoods of northern Ontario] seemed an unlikely environment to have produced an academic. That irritated me. Surely the most unlikely place to produce an academic is a city, with its noise and confusion and lack of time for thought or contemplation?
p. 259 That last stretch of the journey from Toronto to Crow Lake always takes me by the throat. Partly it's the familiarity; I know every tree, every rock, every boggy bit of marshland so well, that even though I almost always arrive after dark I can feel them around me, lying there in the darkness as if they were my own bones. Partly, too, it is the sensation of going back in time, moving from "now" to "then," and the recognition that wherever you are now and wherever you may be in the future, nothing alters the point you started from.
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