A Day in My Life, Dec. 17

I originally thought this would be a boring day to talk about. Finals week is winding down, and all I had planned for today was studying and work.

Luckily for you all, however, I am extremely bad at sticking to plans, especially when I'm the one who made 'em. So--here's my second installment of 'A Day in My Life'!

This morning I had to get up at six-thirty to go to the university with my grandmother. Some days this week I've had exams late in the day, and so have been able to sleep in and ride the bus to school, but today my Hawaiian Studies exam was scheduled for 7:30 in the morning. Luckily it was a take-home, group exam, and since my group and I work well together I'm pretty confident we got an A. I was out of there by eight-thirty.

Now, I would have liked to have just gone back to the apartment then, but I couldn't, because I was scheduled to work at my library job from 4-6. So instead, I had almost eight hours to kill. Planning to use that time by studying for my Physics final tomorrow, I walked to the school library and found a nice and quiet alcove to study in. Or, well, to sleep in. I was really tired.

Yeah, I ended up sleeping for a little over an hour, and had really strange dreams. I know that I dreamt that I was watching "The End of Time", and that it was entirely about people asleep in an enormous library, which shows you how exhausted my imagination was! 

Erm, once I woke up I realized this was no good, so I left the library and found a bench under an enormous tree. I don't know what type of tree it was, but it's really big and beautiful, with a bright green, feathery canopy that looks like lace with chips of blue sky peering through the openings. I studied there for a few hours, broke for lunch, and then studied some more. My steely resolve to study non-stop did crack at one point and I then spent over half-an-hour playing solitaire on my iPod (Terpsi) while listening to the soundtrack of "Devdas", but all-in-all it was a productive day. I didn't even watch any episodes of "Primeval", can you believe it? Although really it wasn't as hard to avoid as it might have been; the show lost a little bit of its grip on my heart after *spoiler* and *spoiler*. I still love it for the most part, but feel that some elements of the story could have been executed much better.

I also went back to the library to see if they had the actual novel version of "Devdas" (they do) and "The Witch in the Wood" by TH White (they do), and after finding the books and getting all excited about them I left them on the shelves despite the protests of my bookworm heart, because after all I'm heading home on Saturday and don't trust bringing library books with me on a trans-ocean flight. Something to look forward to in the Spring, I guess. I also found a book on the book sale rack that I thought might be interesting. It's called "The Enchanted Cup", I think, and is a retelling of the story of Tristam and Isolde. I didn't buy it though, because I had no money with me. And besides, I don't know if it's any good.

I did find a children's anthology of poetry that Sir Walter de la Mare put together, though! And I read it all, too--it was a nice break from studying and stress. De la Mare is one of my favorite poets, have you ever read his "The Listeners"? If you haven't, you must go read it now. I've got it memorized. Anyway, the poems he chose were fun to read, and he wrote notes to go with them explaining them to his young readers and encouraging children to really engross themselves in the poetry and giving tips on how to enjoy poetry (read each poem aloud slowly; savor each word; envision what the poet is describing and compare it to the reality, if you've seen the reality, etc.). It was really interesting. I particularly liked this line of his that I copied out in my journal right there in the library so that I would remember it:

"Whatever you admire you look at with all yourself in your eyes; and your love for it adds to its beauty."

Isn't that in itself a beautiful saying? He was explaining the merits of poetry, and I certainly agree with him on this. That's why it's possible to read so many poems about the same subject--the sea, for example, or a songbird, or rain--without getting sick of them, because each poet loves the subject in a different way, providing a different lens for the reader to look at the subject with and appreciate the subject through. Does that make sense? I hope it does.

And this quote was just thought-provoking:

"When I was seven I loved rhymes and jingles. When I was fourteen I thought I hated poetry, partly perhaps because I had been made to learn it for a punishment. When I was about fifteen I suddenly realized that when the poet Homer said that his great hero, Achilles, in his rage went out 'black as night' he meant black as night. It was like a flash of summer lightning over a lovely country of hills and forests."

I puzzled over this. What exactly does de la Mare mean, do you think? What is the discovery inherent in the line? I thought perhaps he meant that he suddenly understood the power of the words, that Homer could have said 'black as pitch' or 'black as coal' but instead chose 'black as night' for a purpose. That led me into an interesting musing on the meanings of words and word choices when describing things--do we really think about the words we choose, or do we just write 'black as night' without considering the implications and beauties of the word 'night'--all its airy coldness and sparkling dark--, and not stopping to think if we want to evoke the earthy coarseness of 'coal' or the shining thickness of 'pitch' instead? Perhaps I even got the entirely wrong impression from what de la Mare was saying! I'd love to hear what you think about it.

Anyway, musings aside, I did finally go to work, and did my job (which today was mostly sitting behind a desk and being bored and studying to fight the down-time). Today was only the second time that I've been the one to close up the place, but I enjoy shutting everything down, I've always liked cleaning things and putting things in order and putting things away. It's somewhat meditative. Tomorrow's my last day of work this semester, but I'll be back next semester, thank goodness, because the people I work with are awesome!

After that there's not much to tell. I returned to the apartment about six-thirty in the evening, studied some more, chatted with my family via video Skype (I love Skype!!), and stressed just a teeny bit. I also ate a couple squares of Cadbury Caramello, mmmmm!

Now I'm lying on the floor of my room, which is where I sleep, and am trying to: A) Not think about my exam tomorrow, and B) Not think about all the packing I'm going to have to do tomorrow! I'm such a procrastinator, alas.

It's really hot and humid right now, my ceiling fan's going, and I'm exhausted. I am also excited about finally going home for Christmas.

And . . . yeah, that's my day! I'll try to write up another post tomorrow, but probably will fail because I'm going to be BUSY! Merry Almost-Christmas to you all!

Quinn: An Excerpt (II)

The beginning of Chapter One, where Julian Quinn himself finally takes over the narrative. 

Chapter One.

I am no author, but it comes to my mind that the best way in which to begin the story of a life would be to start at the beginning: that is, at the birth of the subject. Here I am afraid I must already fail you, for I cannot remember the day of my birth, nor the occasion, and have never in all my life found any one who could enlighten me on the subject. In an attempt to save the situation I shall now list the plain facts that I do know, poor as they are, in whatever order that seems to me most logical: 1, that I know I was born a child unwanted, given freely to the orphanage by a hale mother when I was not yet forty-eight hours into this world; 2, that I have never discovered the names of either my mother or my father, nor did they feel it necessary to inform me of mine; 3, that the tender years of my infancy I spent in as much misery as any child can bear, though in better health than many of my fellow orphans, for I have always had a hearty constitution, and 4, I was saved from my purgatory when I was six old, by a man named Gabriel, and brought by him into a new life. Since this is the first true birth of mine that I can recall, it is here that I shall begin my story.

NaNoWriMo 2009, Update

Current word count: 2,637.

Yeah, not quite up to where I need it to be, but I've had a lot of homework this week, what with two midterms on Thursday and Friday. So I'm frankly quite pleased with where I am, and will continue writing throughout the week, catching up on however many words I need to catch up on over the weekend.

Here's the first paragraph for any of you who are interested:

"It had been many years since I had last seen Mr. Julian Quinn, and as is the nature of such flighty things, my memories of him, once so cherished, had long since been forgotten--still there in my mind, surely, firm and unassuming as stones in a riverbed, but softened, worn faded and shapeless, as all things eventually are, by time. Looking down through the flowing waters of fifty years that ran between us, I found them grown smooth also, slipping from my fingers like minnows. Such reminders of age do not rest easily upon me: the sensation of the dull cotton of my brain gathering dust and moonbeams and my bones gathering the cold. So it is that even now that I approach the age at last when a man's best source of entertainment is plumbing for those river stones to examine them anew in the sunset of his days, I have always avoided those sunken memories of the man with an instinct something akin to that of a wary beast still tendering old hurts. And, considering the half-century of silence that I had not been alone in building between us, I suppose he felt something of the same regarding memories of me . . ."

It's tough to resist the urge to edit and rewrite, but I'm forcing myself to forge ahead without doing either, because I'm determined to get this novel done on time. So far, so good. I may wince, I may feel I could have written [insert passage here] better, but so be it. I'll wait until November's over, and then my editing demons can come out again to frolic all they like.

How are all your novels going?

"Sword at Sunset", by Rosemary Sutcliff

I'll save the full review for my October Book Reviews post, which is due shortly anyway. But this book filled me with so much joy, I need to post some of my favorite quotes right now. It's a retelling of the story of King Arthur, but an attempt at making his story one of plausible historical fiction--no Round Table, etc. But still retaining elements of the legend. Instead of Lancelot and the Knights of the Round Table serving King Arthur and Queen Guinevere at Camelot, we get Bedwyr and the Brotherhood of the Romano-British war chieftain Artos, who is married to a woman named Guenhumara and spends his life fighting against the Saxons. And I really, really enjoyed it. The soul of the stories are still here, bright and beautiful and written with both realism and poetry. I enjoyed it so much, I put it aside yesterday when I had about fifty pages left so I could savor the reading of it a day more. This is a novel highly recommended.

This is one of the moments that stood out most for me. The book is told from the perspective of Arthur himself, and this scene is where he goes hunting with the High King Ambrosius, shortly before gaining the Kingship himself. Ambrosius is dying of disease, and on this particular day is determined to go hunting, which is treated as a metaphor in the story that he is going knowingly to his death, hunting his death. Anyway, this part really stood out to me, both in terms of beauty and due to its fascinating and poignant musings on how one prepares for death:

'The sun came up, and the frost melted around us as we rode, giving place to a thin white mist lying close to the ground in the hollows. The horses waded through it as through shallow seas of gossamer as we dropped into the valley, and small bright drops trembled in the light, hanging from every dried hemlock head and half-silken, half-sodden feather of last year's willow herb. And I remember that over the open fallow the larks were singing. In a sheltered hollow of the woodshore, the first hazel catkins were hanging out, and as we brushed through, shaking the whippy sprays, the air was suddenly stained with a sun-mist of yellow pollen for yards around. And I wondered how it all seemed to Ambrosius: whether he had yet freed himself utterly from the dearness and strangeness and piercing beauty of the world, from the lark song and the smell of melting frost on the cold moss under the trees, and the thrust of a horse's flanks beneath him, and the faces of his friends. His own face betrayed nothing, but I thought that he looked about him from time to time, as though he wished to see very clearly the winter woods dappled like a curlew's breast, the prick of a hound's ears, the crimson thread tips of a woman-bud on a hazel spray, the flying shadow of a bird across the turf, to draw them in and make them part of himself, part of his own soul, so that he might carry them with him where he was going.'

And here's one more quote as a bonus, this time from the lips of Mordred--for there is a Mordred in even this version of the Arthurian story, though called Merdraut. Again, his link with his mother is stressed. This seems to be a sign by which one can tell when Mordred is really being written well: That the relationship between Mordred and Morgause is not merely that of a son whose mother has taught him to hate, but that of a man who was warped and ruined somehow by his mother's very love. It's a terrifying concept, but also one that can, in the right hands, invoke immense pity. I'm thinking the part in 'The Once and Future King', here, where Mordred is described as having been somehow drained of himself by his mother, as though she sucked him dry like a brooding spider, so that he lives as not only an embodiment of his own hate, whether he will or no, but also as a projection of hers. Check out the similarities with that idea here:

'[Merdraut] came toward me, and before I knew what he was about, knelt beside me and bowed his head onto my knee. It was a horrible womanish gesture. "No escape . . . It is in what you are and in what I am." His voice muffled against my knee. "No, don't draw away from me. Whatever else I am, I am your son--your most wretched son. If you do not hate me, try to love me a little, Father; it is lonely never to have been loved, only devoured.'

The same images of devouring and helpless hate are here. And the characterization is similarly brilliant. It's an interesting parallel to ponder. And masterfully written in its own right.

A Return to the World of Bartimaeus!

"Here’s some news. I’m working on a new Bartimaeus project. Actually, I’ve been working on it, off and on, for about a year now, with a big break in the middle to do the Heroes tours. I’ve kept pretty quiet about it up until now for a variety of reasons, partly because I wanted to be sure it was going to work, and partly because I wanted to get the contractual side of things sorted. But (at long last) I think the time’s right to go on the record about it here. The current plan is to aim for an autumn 2010 publication, both in the US and UK, which would be fantastic, and also match up nicely with the proposed publication of the Amulet graphic novel, about the same time. If this is going to work out, though, I’m going to have to write my socks off for the next six months or so, because there’s still a LOT of work to do. Currently Bart resides in two slightly garish pink ring- binders, one comprising text and the other notes. The aim is to turn all this into a nice, neatly stacked pile of manuscript by the spring.

As for the details of the book… small things like plot and structure are still proving slightly fluid, so I won’t make any public predictions just yet. But I’ll let you know more right here, just as soon as I can. In the meantime, I suppose I’d better get back to work. I’ve got a djinni waiting."

Found here, dated September 4. Excellent news for any fan of the Bartimaeus Trilogy! I for one am extremely excited, though I wonder what exactly it will be about. The trilogy itself was rather perfect--Indeed, I often describe it as the only perfect trilogy I have ever read apart from "The Lord of the Rings" (which isn't even really a trilogy at all, but I'll pass that issue over for now), although the "Space Trilogy" is also very good (hush, Linden!). So I don't see how Stroud would continue the story. I can only assume that he would write an entirely different story, and merely set it in the same world. Presumably Bartimaeus will again be a main character. Without Nat and Kitty, however, will he still have the appeal as he did in the trilogy? Only time--and Stroud himself, of course--will tell, but as of this moment I am both apprehensive and delighted ^_^

(Oh, and for the record: Nathaniel is miles awesomer and better than Harry. I just found the depiction in the above pic (source here) too funny and well-done to resist.)

The Shadow of the Bear (And Fraggles!)

"Have you ever felt there was something going on in life not everyone was aware of? . . . As though there's a story going on that everyone is a part of, but not everybody knows about? Maybe 'story' isn't the right word--a sort of drama, a battle between what's peripheral and what's really important. As though the people you meet aren't just their plain, prosaic selves, but are actually princes and princesses, gods and goddesses, fairies, shepherds, all sorts of fantastic creatures who've chosen to hide their real shape for some reason or other. Have you ever thought that?"

Want to know where that marvelous quote comes from? Read on:

I've been revisiting a lot of 'old loves' today: Finding old books, films, and interests that used to entrance me but were somehow left behind in the stream of time. It does in many ways feel like plumbing a river; although somewhat distorted by my maturing memory flowing over them, once clear of the water they shine (to my surprise) nearly as bright as I once knew them to be, and perhaps, in a few cases, even brighter. So it is that I have been reminded that Fraggle Rock wasn't just a strange hippie puppet show, it was quite wonderful, and in many instances, spoke almost eerily to my own personal philosophies. Don't believe me? Watch THIS . . . And then just try tell me that doesn't sound like something I would say/think! It has a sort of melancholic, gentle wisdom that I love, and I expect that is thanks very much to Jim Henson, one of my favorite people ever. I read somewhere that he said that he would have loved to have the job of the man who wanders sidewalks picking up trash with his stabbing stick thing, because it would make the world more beautiful, people more happy, and as a plus, he would be able to wander the streets stabbing trash with a stick! I had forgotten, sometime during the past few years, how much I loved this man and his work (outside of "The Muppet Christmas Carol" and "The Muppet Movie", that is), so it has been a real pleasure reacquainting myself with his stuff. "The Dark Crystal" is also better than I had remembered it, and I found a few quotable gems in it, too. My favorite, I think, is this exchange between the two protagonists:

Jen [looking at runic inscriptions on a wall]: “This is all writing.”

Kira: “What's writing?”

Jen: “Words that stay.”

So simple, but somehow profound. For that is the essence and power and beauty of writing, isn't it? That the words stay. That the scene is placed in the ruins of a dead civilization just made the lines all the more powerful. I will definitely adding this to my collection of quotes pinned above my writing desk!

So now I can return to the lines I quoted at the beginning of this post. They are from a novel by a Catholic homeschooling mother, Regina Doman, entitled The Shadow of the Bear.

I read this book when I was . . . oh, thirteen? Fourteen? . . . And had not read it since, due to the fact that as a Catholic book it is just about non-existent at libraries and when I read the thing I was only borrowing it from a friend; I don't own it myself. It made quite an impression on me at the time, but since I didn't own it, I sort of forgot about it. And then, today, I stumbled across it again and re-read it . . .

And was hooked again!

I'll try to explain why. As a Catholic myself, I find it interesting to read a novel written about contemporary Catholic teens, but as a lover of fairy tales and poetry, I also find it interesting to read a good novel based upon a fairy tale or with fairy tale elements in it. This story is both. It is a modern retelling of the story of 'Snow White and Rose Red', and rather cleverly done, too. This is a story that quotes Chesterton and poetry with reverence, is written in a lyrical, entertaining way, and intelligently weaves God, religion, morals, engaging characters, and subtle-enough-to-work parallels to a famous fairy tale into an entertaining story. Catholicism is a part of the story, but not in such a way as to make this book accessible or enjoyable only to Catholics. Oh, and I used to /love/ the character of Fish, and now I remember why (hehe). And the 'Snow White' and 'Rose Red' characters, Blanche and Rose, I now realize in many ways parallel my curren interests and likes: quoting poetry, modest clothing, flights of imagination and fancy, Chesterton, etc. 

The story isn't for everyone. It deals with a lot of dark issues: drugs, murder, bullying and peer pressure, and there is a scene where one of the female protagonists has to be disillusioned of and escape from a drunken boyfriend. I think these issues are, on the whole, tastefully dealt with and in a healthy manner, but one can always question whether they were necessary to the story. Some parts (a kidnapping and torture, especially) can seem a bit too outlandish for the realism of the rest of the story, but as a creative way of translating a fairy tale into a modern story, I can forgive them. And even enjoy them a little, heh. So I recommend it, even though it's somewhat hard to find.

Oh, and get this: A student fan film is currently being made!

I've recently become a fan of fan films (hah, that sounds strange) after being being treated to "The Hunt for Gollum" (A Lord of the Rings fan film) and "Fire and Ice" (Doctor Who-based). So now I have not only "Born of Hope" to look forward to, but this as well! Life is good.

It's good to revisit one's past from time to time. Little treasures like these invariably turn up and make the present a whole lot better!

Which is Filled With Many Quotes

Well, I managed to get in my healthy dosage of fairy-tale today, thanks to a little help from the Turner Classic Movies channel--I'm not much of a television person, but I do love TCM. And Food Network, but let's skip over that for now, shall we?

After finishing classes early today (10:15!) I opted to catch the bus back to the apartment building where I live. The trip seemed unusually fast, but perhaps that was only due to how long it took yesterday. I spent the entire ride reading "Dune", which I borrowed on my last visit to the library. I'm still not sure if I like it or not, but I am reading it steadily anyway, and am around three hundred pages in. Herbert certainly has a different writing style to that I usually enjoy, but I think he's winning me over with the sheer glory of his imagination, as well as a few wonderful passages, such as this: "It is shocking to find how many people do not believe they can learn, and how many more believe learning to be difficult." No thumbs up yet, though.

But I digress . . . When I arrived back at the apartment I worked for about half an hour on my novel, and then went to make myself some lunch. While eating, I turned on the television to see if an interesting classic movie was showing, and fortunately for me, TCM happened to be showing "The Thief of Bagdad" (1940)! 

Which, I am afraid, I had never heard of before, but which captured my interest pretty much instantly. Somewhat pathetic (but yeah, good-lookin' . . .) prince + Beautiful princess + Evil vizier dressed all in black + Tempermental genie + Plucky young thief + Arabian Nights-esque fantasy setting + Magic and Intrigue and Peril = Brilliant fun. Oh, and it has lines like this:

The Genie: "You're a clever little man, little master of the universe, but mortals are weak and frail. If their stomach speaks, they forget their brain. If their brain speaks, they forget their heart. And if their heart speaks [he laughs] they forget everything."

At a mere ten minutes in, I was wishing fervently that my six-year-old self had seen this film, because I know she would have been absolutely enchanted. As it is, I still enjoyed it very much, though I wished it was longer: the conflicts were resolved a little too quickly for my tastes. It isn't a perfect film. Still, if you haven't seen it yet, you should, because I think you would like it. It is certainly the closest any film has ever made me feel as though I were actually reading a fairy tale. And I never knew that Disney's "Aladdin" was a copy-cat :(

Now I suppose I will set myself to finish my homework, and then return to writing. I found a fantastic quote about writing today, from Neil Gaiman of all people (read his poem 'Instructions' if you have not already, it's beautiful. I plan to copy it out one day to hang on my wall, and the wall of my children's nursery, if I ever do have children):

"You can take for granted that people know more or less what a street, a shop, a beach, a sky, an oak tree look like. Tell them what makes this one different."

I think this is a very perceptive observation. So many books I read seem somewhat drab and lifeless, and I have difficulty pinning down why. I think this might be a part of it: Their descriptions do not illuminate what is distinctive about whatever images they have in their head (especially when it comes to characters), but instead err in one of two ways. Either they under-describe, or they over-describe, and either way it jars me out of my immersion in whatever world they were trying to suck me into. Perhaps that doesn't make sense. But it is part of why I love J.R.R. Tolkien so much; that he can describe Strider only as lean and keen-eyed, and yet I know instantly what he looks like and what he will act like. It's uncanny, but it's the magic of being a storyteller: to judge accurately how much a reader needs to be told to really see what is going on, and tell them exactly the right amount. This is why too, I think, I enjoy old epics and tales so much, because of the sparse yet lyrical descriptions (e.g. 'Swift-footed Achilles', 'Roland is fierce, and Oliver is wise') that manage to tell you exactly who these characters are. Food for thought, I suppose; what do you writers think?

I Will Make You Brooches

I Will Make You Brooches

by Robert Louis Stevenson

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight

Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me,

Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,

Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,

And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white

In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near,

The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!

That only I remember, and only you admire,

Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

I found this poem by accident in the bookshop the other day, and fell in love with it so completely that I had to scrawl it on my arm to copy into my notebook later, so as not to forget it. I am still a little surprised, though, that I never read it before. I have read anthologies of Stevenson poetry and enjoyed them, but they were always more children's poems. How come this one was left out? It makes me wonder what other poetry he wrote that I have not read. I will try to find out.

Sonnet 130 As You'll Never Hear It Again

I think this might only work--really work--if you 

1) Watch Doctor Who

2) Understand British/Scottish accents

3) Like British humor

But hey. Even if you don't fulfill all the above criteria, give it a go. Doctor Who outside of his Doctor Who universe, a cute Scottish accent, Catherine Tate, and Shakespeare, all in the same six minutes. What more can you ask for in a comedy sketch, really?

PS-I actually posted two videos in a row instead of posting about going to watch Star Trek yesterday, what's up with that?? I guess it's the Final Exams, I got no time to actually type anything. Maybe next week!

In the Words of Gabriel Gale

My newest hero, added to my select but large list of literary heroes. He is the poet/artist/detective-ish protagonist of the G.K. Chesterton book 'The Poet and the Lunatics'. I am only just now beginning chapter three, and they are short chapters, too--I'd say I'm about 60 pages into the book--but I am already spellbound and demand that you read it too. Gale's purpose as a character seems mainly to illustrate the point Chesterton made in Orthodoxy (which Linden has already quoted on her blog) that poets are saner than rationalists, because poets seek to get their head into heaven, while logicians try to cram heaven into their head, and therefore are destroyed. I know I will be re-reading this book many times during the 4 weeks I have it from the library. There are so many layers to its brilliance.

But anyway, here is a collection of my favorite Gale quotes from the first two chapters alone. I have trimmed some by taking out descriptions and such between his continuous dialogue, to save room. I might add more as I get further into the book, who knows?

'"Excuse me," he said, "I often [do handstands]. It's all very well to talk about being topsy-turvy. But when the angels hang head downwards, we know they come from above. It's only those that come from below that always have their noses in the air. . . Shall I tell you a secret? The world is upside down. We're all upside down. We're all flies crawling on a ceiling, and it's an everlasting mercy that we don't drop off."' (p. 21)

'"We were talking about St. Peter," he said; "you remember that he was crucified upside down. I've often fancied his humility was rewarded by seeing in death the beautiful vision of his boyhood. He also saw the landscape as it really is: with the stars like flowers, and the clouds like hills, and all men hanging on the mercy of God."' (p. 22)

'"Do you call that practical? You can only forbid him to die. Can you persuade him to live? Believe me, that is where we come in. A man must have his head in the clouds and his wits wool-gathering in fairyland, before he can do anything so practical as that."' (p. 14)

'Gale still lay in the shadow of the thick trees staring up at the birds, as if he had never stirred. Garth called to him by name, but it was only after a silence that Gale spoke. What he said was:

"Were you ever an isosceles triangle?"

"Very seldom," replied Garth with restraint. "May I ask what the devil you are talking about?"

"Only something that I was thinking about," answered the poet, lifting himself up to one elbow. "I wondered whether it would be a cramping sort of thing to be surrounded by straight lines, and whether being in a circle would be any better. Did anybody ever live in a round prison?"' (p. 39)

'"I used to want a hammer to smash things with," continued Gale; "but I've learnt to do something else with a hammer, which is what a hammer is meant for; and every now and then I manage to do it."

"What do you mean by that?" inquired the doctor. 

"I can hit the right nail on the head," answered the poet.' (p. 41)

'"Would it do, I wonder, when one has changed a cheque into gold, to give a man coppers, instead, and explain that they have more of the rich tones of sunset?"' (p. 43)

Pic

Happy Saint Patrick's Day

If you're not wearing green, consider yourself pinched. 

Of course, I should let you know that my dance teacher's Irish father, who was one of the most prominent Irish dancers in the world, always insisted that good ol' Patrick wore blue, not green, and so therefore you should be wearing blue too. I've got all my bases covered; a silver Celtic comb holding up my hair, my Claddagh ring on my finger, green Celtic knotwork shirt, green shoes, blue jeans, and green leprechaun socks :D

But seeing as this day is not just about colors, but about St. Patrick himself, I thought I'd post "The Shield of Saint Patrick" today in celebration. Later I will be celebrating with good Irish food and dance and . . . erm, a microeconomics midterm, but why not start the day by celebrating the man himself and what he stood for?

The Shield of Saint Patrick

'I bind unto myself today the strong name of the trinity,

by invocation of the same, the Three in One, the One in Three.

'I bind this day to me forever by power of faith Christ's incarnation,

His baptism in the Jordan river, his death on the cross for my salvation;

His bursting from the spiced tomb, his riding up the heavenly way,

His coming at the day of doom I bind unto myself today.

'I bind unto myself today the power of God to hold and lead,

His eye to watch, his might to stay, his ear to hearken to my need,

The wisdom of my God to teach, his hand to guide, his shield to ward,

The Word of God to give me speech, his heavenly host to be my guard.

'Christ be with me, Christ within me,

Christ behind me, Christ before me,

Christ beside me, Christ to win me;

Christ to comfort and restore me;

Christ beneath me, Christ above me,

Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,

Christ in hearts of all that love me,

Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

'I bind unto myself the name, the strong name of the Trinity,

By invocation of the same, the Three in One, and One in Three,

Of whom all nature hath creation, eternal Father, Spirit, Word;

Praise to the God of my salvation, salvation is of Christ the Lord!'

Quotation T-Shirt Challenge, Woot!

Every book-lover should make one of these. It's so much fun.

So is that my challenge to you for April? Um . . . why yes, I believe it is ^_^

This was a summer project I set for myself the summer before I left for college--and yes, I did mean to post pics and stuff sooner, but one thing drives out another, so to speak *wink*. I bought this t-shirt at Jo-Ann's for about 3 dollars, and a pack of fabric pens for about the same. Those are the only supplies needed, apart from a whole lotta booklovin'.

Trouble is, I'm now sort of out of room . . . so I need to get me another shirt. I did joke about getting some white jeans and writing on those to make a complete outfit, but I think that idea will remain just a joke. Unless I decide to be a library for Halloween. Which, you know, might happen.

Below is a (nearly--I have since added a couple more, I think) complete list of all the quotes that I currently sport around campus. Enjoy!

“Learning!” Eilonwy declared. “I’ve been up to my ears in learning. It doesn’t show, so it’s hard to believe that it’s there.”

-The High King, Lloyd Alexander

And thus it came to pass that the Silmarils found their long homes: One in the airs of heaven, and one in the fires of the heart of the world, and one in the deep waters.

-The Silmarillion, JRR Tolkien

“What if man is not really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the whole race of mankind—then all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial terrors and there are no barriers and all is as it should be.”

-Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky

“He might tell me how my story ends,” he murmured.

Meggie looked at him in astonishment. “You mean you don’t know?”

Dustfinger smiled . . .

“What’s so unusual about that, princess?” He asked quietly. “Do you know how your story ends?”

-Inkheart, Cornelia Funke

“Let me dream yet awhile.”

-The Worm Ouroboros, ER Eddison

Never again would he glitter and glide

and show himself off in midnight air,

exulting in his riches: he fell to earth

through the battle-strength in Beowulf’s arm.

-Beowulf

“Dear me, what would this barren vocabulary get out of the mightiest spectacle—the burning of Rome in Nero’s time, for instance? . . . ‘Town burned down; no insurance; boy brast a window; fireman brake his neck!’ Why, that ain’t a picture!”

-A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court

“Oh, Ahab, Ahab, lo, thy work.”

-Moby Dick, Herman Melville

“Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!”

-Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson

“Cursed demon! You have met your end! The Shivering Fire awaits you! I shall spread your vile essence across this hall like . . . um, like margarine, a very thick layer of it . . .”

-Ptolemy’s Gate, Jonathon Stroud

“Tell them I came, and no one answered,

That I kept my word,” he said.

-The Listeners, Walter de la Mare

“I wouldn’t care about my spirits,” said Bluebell, “if my legs weren’t so tired. Slugs are lucky to not have legs. I think I’ll be a slug.”

-Watership Down, Richard Adams

“You have no longer a master, Caleb,” said Ravenswood, endeavoring to extricate himself; “why, old man, would you cling to a falling tower?”

-The Bride of Lammermoor, Sir Walter Scott

Better late than never.

-Ab Urbe Condita, Livy

“Do you know I don’t know how one can walk by a tree and not be happy at the sight of it?”

-The Idiot, Fyodor Dostoevsky

“Dear old world,” she murmured, “you are very lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.”

-Anne of Green Gables, LM Montgomery

Sherwood in the twilight,

Is Robin Hood awake?

-A Song of Sherwood, Alfred Noyes

“Stories are light. Light is precious in a world so dark.”

-The Tale of Despereaux, Kate DiCamillo

Curufin, Celegorm the fair,

Damrod and Diriel were there,

and Cranthir dark, and Maidros tall

(whom after torment would befall),

and Maglor the mighty who like the sea

with deep voice sings yet mournfully.

-The Lay of Leithian, JRR Tolkien

If Sydney Carton every shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the house of Dr. Manette.

-A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens

“We live in an age that reads too much to be wise, and that thinks too much to be beautiful.”

-The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

“Let’s have different color rabbits, George.”

“Sure we will,” George said sleepily. “Red and blue and green rabbits, Lennie. Millions of ‘em.”

-Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck

Trust dreams.

Trust your heart, and

Trust your story.

-Instructions, Neil Gaiman

When the apple is ripe and falls—why does it fall? Is it because . . . its stalk is withered . . . because the wind shakes it, or because the boy standing under the tree wants to eat it?

-War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy

The mind is its own place, and in itself

Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n.

-Paradise Lost, John Milton

“And I write novels!” chimed in the other cop. “Though I haven’t had any published yet, so I better warn you, I’m in a meeeean mood!”

-The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, here goes—I mean Amen,” said Ransom.

-Perelandra, CS Lewis

“Now,” said Cei, “it is for you to pay me my story.”

-The Mabinogion

“I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!”

-Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte

“Lacho calad! Drego morn!”

-The Children of Hurin, JRR Tolkien

Marius was done for. He loved a woman.

-Les Miserables, Victor Hugo

Roland is fierce and

Oliver is wise

And both for valor

May bear away the prize.

-The Song of Roland

From these most holy waters, born anew

I came, like trees by change of calendars 

Renewed with new-sprung foliage through and through,

Pure and prepared to leap up to the stars.

-Purgatorio, Dante

All children, except one, grow up.

-Peter Pan, JM Barrie

“My day has been too long.”

-The Last of the Mohicans, James Fenimore Cooper

Oh hark! Oh hear! How thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

-The Splendor Falls, Alfred Lord Tennyson

“Nothing wrong with me,” said Puddleglum. “Not a frog. Nothing frog with me. I’m a respectabiggle.”

-The Silver Chair, CS Lewis

Of arms I sing, and the hero, destiny’s exile . . .

-The Aeneid, Virgil

The fate of this man or that was less than a drop, although it was a sparkling one, in the great blue motion of the sunlit sea.

-The Once and Future King, TH White

“I am the king of Olaf-land, and there’s nothing you and your sheep can do about it.”

-The End, Lemony Snicket

Anything in any way beautiful derives its beauty from itself and asks nothing beyond itself. Praise is no part of it, for nothing is made worse or better by praise . . .

-Meditations, Marcus Aurelius

“Namarie! Nai hiruvalye Valimar. 

Nai elye hiruva. Namarie!”

-The Fellowship of the Ring, JRR Tolkien

She left the web, she left the room,

She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,

She saw the helmet and the plume,

She look’d down to Camelot.

-The Lady of Shalott, Alfred Lord Tennyson

“Er, aha ha. Hello mateys, I was flying my cloud, you see . . .”

-Mossflower, Brian Jacques

If there be any truth to poets’ prophecies, I shall live to all eternity, immortalized by fame.

-Metamorphoses, Ovid

“Leave him build his flutter-mills. The day’ll come, he’ll not even care to.”

-The Yearling, Marjorie Kinnon Rawlings

“You are a knave.”

-Oedipus Rex, Sophocles

I bow not yet before Iron Crown,

Nor cast my own small golden scepter down.

-Mythopoeia, JRR Tolkien

“I’m dying of boredom,” Howl said pathetically. “Or maybe just dying.”

-Howl’s Moving Castle, Diana Wynne Jones

“Schmendrick,”—for the wizard had just stooped through the doorway—“how many rs in ‘miracle’?”

“Two,” he answered wearily. “It has the same root as ‘mirror’.”

-The Last Unicorn, Peter S Beagle

Cassandra: O Father!

O my brothers! All your brightness dead!

I go. Now in the land of the defeated I

Will mourn my end and Agamemnon’s. I have lived.

-Agamemnon, Aeschyllus

“I followed you.”

“I saw no one.”

“That is what you may expect to see when I follow you.”

-His Last Bow; The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Sing, O goddess, the ruinous wrath of Achilles . . .

-The Iliad, Homer

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

-Ode to the West Wind, Percy Bysshe Shelley

Two men only have a right to answer the question asked in Ecclesiastes 6,000 years ago, ‘That which is far off and exceedingly deep, who can find it out?’ These two men are Captain Nemo and I.

-20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Jules Verne

How vain are all the hopes of humankind!

How sweet their promises of quiet seem,

And yet they end in shadows, smoke and dream.

-Don Quixote, Cervantes

Ah, she thought wisely, I am dreaming again . . .

-The Hero and the Crown, Robin McKinley