Letters

In order to prove, illustrious Abbé, how much you were in the wrong to quit me, and for how short a time I can exist without you, I hereby give notice that I am to set out to-morrow for Paris in quest of you. For since your departure I feel such an irksomeness diffused over my mind, as makes me to think I am incapacitated either for enjoying myself, or doing any thing with satisfaction to myself.

- Montesquieu to the Abbé and Count de Guasco, at Paris, 1749

The thing about reading 18th-century texts

is that I now lisp in my mind's voice.

I can't help giggling quietly to myself and thinking of Pratchett when I read things like these, which do not improve my concentration:

Will their fentiments, which are debafed from the love of liberty, from zeal for the honour and profperity of their country, and from a defire of honeft fame, to an abfolute unconcernednefs for all thefe, to an abject fubmiffion, and to a rapacious eagernefs after wealth that may fate their avarice, and exceed the profufion of their luxury; will thefe, I fay again, be fo eafily, or fo foon elevated? In a word, will the Britifh fpirit, that fpirit which has preferved liberty hitherto in one corner of the world at leaft, be fo eafily or fo foon reinfufed into the Britifh nation? I think not.

and

The minifter preaches corruption aloud and conftantly, like an impudent miffionary of vice: and fome there are who not only infinuate, but teach the fame occafionally. I fay fome; becaufe I am as far from thinking, that all thofe who join with him, as that any of thofe who oppofe him, wait only to be more authorized, that they may propagate it with greater fuccefs, and apply it to their own ufe, in their turn.

- From a lovely crinkled old copy of Bolingbroke's "The idea of a patriot king", 1738

Voltaire does Othello

This is Iago giving Othello proof of Cassio's perfidy:

[Cassio] said in his sleep, ‘Dear Desdemona, let us be careful, let us hide our loves.’ In speaking, he took me [Iago] by the hand, he patted me, he cried, ‘Oh, charming creature!’ he kissed me with transport, as if he had by the roots torn up kisses planted upon my lips, he put his [1] thighs upon my legs, he sighed, he breathed short, he kissed me, he cried out, ‘Cursed fate which has given you to the Moor!’

Translator's note:
[1] Wrongly translated.

- From "Plan of 'The Orphan'", Philosophical Letters

More Hamlet!

Just cos it's funny. To me anyway.

Hamlet then having deferred the murder of Claudius, in order to damn him, comes to confer with his mother; and notwithstanding his madness, overwhelms her with such bitter reproaches of her crime, as pierce her to the very heart. The old chamberlain, Polonius, is apprehensive of his carrying matters too far; he cries out for help behind the hanging; Hamlet takes it for granted that it was the king who had hid himself there, to listen to their conversation. “Ah mother,” cries he, “there is a great rat behind the hangings.” He thereupon draws his sword, runs to the rat, and kills the good man Polonius. “Ah my son, what are you about?” cries the queen. “Mother,” returns Hamlet, “it is the king that I have slain!” “It is a wicked action to kill a king;" [1] “Almost as wicked, my good mother, as to kill a king and lie with his brother.” This conversation lasts a long time; and Hamlet, as he goes out, walks upon the dead body of the old chamberlain, and is ready to fall down.[2]

The translator's footnotes:
[1] This passage is manifestly translated wrong.
[2] This circumstance is entirely of the invention of M. de Voltaire; not contented with depreciating Shakespeare, he even misrepresents him.


Voltaire continues:

The good lord chamberlain was an old fool, and is represented as such, as has already been seen; his daughter Ophelia, who, no doubt, resembled him in this respect, becomes raving mad when she is informed of her father’s death: she runs upon the stage with flowers and straw upon her head, sings ballads, and then goes and drowns herself. Thus there are three mad people in the play, the chamberlain, and Hamlet, without reckoning the other buffoons who play their parts.

- From Voltaire, "Plan of the Tragedy of Hamlet", Philosophical Letters (1733)

More Hamlet

From Voltaire's summary of the plot of Hamlet:

[Hamlet] declares that he has an inclination to quit Denmark, and go to school to Wittenberg. “Dear Hamlet,” says the queen, “do not go to school to Wittenberg; stay with us.” Hamlet answers that he will endeavor to obey her. Claudius is charmed at the answer; and orders that all of his court should go and drink, while the cannons were fired off; though gunpowder was not then invented.

- From "Plan of the Tragedy of Hamlet", Philosophical Letters (1733)

translation

Voltaire translates Hamlet's soliloquy:

Demeure, il faut choisir, & passer à l’instant
De la vie à la mort, ou de l’être au néant.
Dieux justes, s’il en est, éclairez mon courage.
Faut–il vieillir courbé sous la main qui m’outrage,
Supporter, ou finir mon malheur & mon sort?
Qui suis–je? Que m’arrête? Et qu’est–ce que la mort?
C’est la fin de nos maux, c’est mon unique asile;
Après de longs transports, c’est un sommeil tranquille.
On s’endort, & tout meurt; mais un affreux réveil
Doit succéder peut–être aux douceurs du sommeil.
On nous menace, on dit, que cette courte vie
De tourmens éternels est aussitôt suivie.
O mort!
O mort! moment fatal! affreuse éternité!
Tout coeur à ton seul nom se glace épouvanté.
Eh! qui pourrait sans toi supporter cette vie?
De nos Prêtres menteurs bénir l’hypocrisie?
D’une indigne maîtresse encenser les erreurs?
Ramper sous un Ministre, adorer ses hauteurs?
Et montrer les langueurs de son ame abattue,
A des amis ingrats, qui détournent la vue?
La mort serait trop douce en ses extrémités.
Mais le scrupule parle, & nous crie, Arrêtez.
Il défend à nos mains cet heureux homicide,
Et d’un Héros guerrier, fait un Chrétien timide.

From "English Tragedy", in Philosophical Letters (1733)

bits

On the way back - a guy cycling down Trinity Lane drinking a half-pint of milk.

in consequence

In my borrowed copy of Albert O. Hirschman's The Passions and the Interests - which I've only read a third of but recommend unreservedly - a previous reader has pencilled helpful comments in the margin.

This is the bit on Montesquieu, and Hirschman quotes Montesquieu as saying that "the natural effect of commerce is to lead to peace."

The marginalia writer's gloss: natural but unintended

Hirschman: But Montesquieu's praise for commerce is not entirely without reservations - Montesquieu worries about the monetisation of human relations and the loss of hospitality and other moral virtues.

Gloss: the unintended consequence of the CONSEQUENCE

Heh.

On rule

There is rule of the sort which is exercised by a master; and by this we mean the sort of rule connected with the necessary functions of life. Here it is not necessary for the ruler to know how to do the task himself, but only to know how to use those who do: indeed the former kind of knowledge (by which we mean an ability to do menial services personally) has a servile character.

- Aristotle, Politics, III.4

on the English

Nor was the Sun King aware of any other reason why the English should deserve attention or respect. He is said once to have asked an English ambassador whether, in his country, there had ever been any writers of note. Of Shakespeare and Milton he had apparently never even heard, and he was by no means peculiar in this regard. When Corneille was sent an English translation of Le Cid, he is said to have shelved it in his cabinet between the work's translations into such barbaric languages as Slavonic and Turkish.

- Paul Rahe, Montesquieu and the Logic of Liberty

Ah, education

My notes say that I've read Rousseau's Second Discourse before, but I couldn't have gotten very much out of it.

Page 30: =)

Page 43: that's cos sick animals DIE

Page 53: yarrite

Page 54: =} (with eye roll)

Page 56: lurve...

Page 74: ?

Page 81: hungry

Better than a commencement address

Go forward, then, in virtue, beloved young men, the hope of this generation and the glory, I trust, of the generation to come. Take nature and God as your guide, apply your minds to liberal studies, and lay down a varied store of useful knowledge which you may bring forth one day in all honorable, temperate, modest, and courageous service to our country and the human race. And even at this time, with hope and courage, take to yourselves the joyous sense of a mind conscious of its own integrity, the true dignity of life, the esteem [of others], the most honorable kind of fame, and the highest pleasures of life.

- Francis Hutcheson, "On the Natural Sociability of Mankind", Inaugural Oration, 1730

like a gift

There were fireworks! Unexpectedly. Flashes through the leaves of the very large tree outside my window - pigeons always almost fly in - and crackles from afar.

M&P

To encourage more marriages and births in Rome, Caesar "forbade women under forty-five and who had neither husbands nor children to wear precious stones or to use litters, an excellent method of attacking celibacy through vanity."

- Montesquieu, The Spirit of the Laws

At the Fishhouses

I am starting to read again - I am always starting to read again, it feels like - and it seems to me, this is what poetry is about, what it is to read a poem. That movement, from the evening at the fishhouse, the old man netting, scales on his vest, to the silver tree trunks, the seal, the clear imperceptible inevitable movement to the water's edge, the water lifting over the stones, the fierce joy at the end of the poem. What it feels like. Dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free.


At the Fishhouses

Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up
to storerooms in the gables
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered
among the wild jagged rocks,
is of an apparent translucence
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss
growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined
with layers of beautiful herring scales
and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered
with creamy iridescent coats of mail,
with small iridescent flies crawling on them.
Up on the little slope behind the houses,
set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,
is an ancient wooden capstan,
cracked, with two long bleached handles
and some melancholy stains, like dried blood,
where the ironwork has rusted.
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
We talk of the decline in the population
and of codfish and herring
while he waits for a herring boat to come in.
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty,
from unnumbered fish with that black old knife,
the blade of which is almost worn away.

Down at the water's edge, at the place
where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp
descending into the water, thin silver
tree trunks are laid horizontally
across the gray stones, down and down
at intervals of four or five feet.

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
element bearable to no mortal,
to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly
I have seen here evening after evening.
He was curious about me. He was interested in music;
like me a believer in total immersion,
so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.
I also sang "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God."
He stood up in the water and regarded me
steadily, moving his head a little.
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge
almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug
as if it were against his better judgment.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,
the dignified tall firs begin.
Bluish, associating with their shadows,
a million Christmas trees stand
waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended
above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,
slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,
icily free above the stones,
above the stones and then the world.
If you should dip your hand in,
your wrist would ache immediately,
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn
as if the water were a transmutation of fire
that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,
then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
drawn from the cold hard mouth
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts
forever, flowing and drawn, and since
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

- Elizabeth Bishop

Whiling away time on the net, I find

A clock tower penthouse in Brooklyn.

Free fonts.

A really cool office in the woods.

An online invitation service at Paperless Post.

An attitude chair.

And a delusional paper towel tube.

So

V says, there is the safe choice, the right choice, the right choice for all time. This wouldn't be the safe choice. Not just probably not the right choice for all time; more likely the absolutely wrong choice. Which leaves us with?

Reading lists

Googling, I find Clifton Fadiman's reading lists - by type and with Eastern works too.

Reading Guy Davenport, 2

In moments of sweet clarity, said Hugo, I doubt if we can communicate at all. You mean one thing, I hear another, benignly in banter, violently in an argument. But, said Mariana, we've never had an argument. Of course not, Hugo said, and don't intend to. I mean that human beings probably can't make each other understand what they mean. We have to get our meaning from art, from writing. That's awful, Mariana said.

The Bicycle Rider

Reading Guy Davenport

Archaic Torso of Apollo

Even though we can never see the head that sang, with its deer's eyes staring at infinity, we have the strong torso from whose animal grace we can imagine the hot summer clarity of its gaze. If the gone head is still not there, in light, why then does the proud chest disturb your looking, or the sweet shift of the hips, slight as a smile, that takes our eyes down the cunning body, to its cluster of seeds? Otherwise this stone would stand senseless under the polished slope of its shoulders, without its wild balance, and would not be as rich with light as the sky with stars. The world sees you, too. You must change your life.

The Jules Verne Steam Balloon