A Weak and Foolish Thing

 

Poor Old Fella

In the short story, Leaf by Niggle, Niggle is an artist who lives and basically dies dedicated to his art. All his community can see, however, is a rather footling and ineffective little man. Eventually, all his work is destroyed; his talent only bears fruit in the afterlife. I sometimes wonder if my own efforts will ever flourish in my lifetime; luckily I have two or three dedicated 'fans' who keep me going. And the work itself impels me. But I fear that will be the general summation of my life. 'Poor old Brer. What a waste of time and effort!'

The Dreamlord's Dilemma

“That is true. There is no marriage for the maker of dreams, because he is perpetually creating finer women than earth provides. The touch of flesh cannot content him who has arranged the shining hair of angels and modeled the breasts of the sphinx." - Miramon Lluagor, in The Silver Stallion by James Branch Cabell.

Elf-Wenches

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2rsi3HCf4k

 

As They Say in Ortha: Part Two

Our Motto

Word from the Street

 

Who the Heck is Pepper Street?

Well, The Man Had His Priorities Straight

Is There Not But One ... Mencken?

'I am A Poor Man, It Is True'

“A poor man begged food at the Hall lately. The cook gave him some vermicelli soup. He ladled it about some time with the spoon, and then returned it to her, saying, ‘I am a poor man, it is true, and I am very hungry, but yet I cannot eat broth with maggots in it.’” - William Cowper (1731 – 1800)

Passing Mood

As a result of the wine and the complete success of his discovery the scientist found himself in a slightly elevated mental condition. There was a tingling sensation in his veins. He felt as if something unusual were going to happen, that some remarkable adventure was already on its way to him. Ordinarily Mr Hawk, when thus assailed by this inexplicable exaltation of spirit, would have retired to his bed and endeavored there to return to reason through the medium of some abstruse scientific treatise, but to-night he was in no mood to share his bed with a book.

Across the dark tops of the trees a brute of a moon was casting bolts of golden gauze. An August night filled with haze and the scent of moistly breathing vegetation lay around him. Clouds scuttled across the sky and cavorted weirdly in a far-away wind only the lingering breath of which moved among the trees.

In front of him stretched the country and the night. His eyes followed the familiar path that twisted up a grassy slope and dipped into a grove of trees only to appear again on the margin of a cornfield. That path had a fascination for Mr. Hawk. He never grew tired of treading it—of thinking about it. To him it was like some huge serpent that never got anywhere but which in the fullness of time would move along to some dangerously enchanted place. Mr. Hawk was one of those persons who retain a keen awareness of the impressions and sensations of early youth. He still remembered a patch of sun-baked mud that had exerted over him a spell of attraction far stronger than the gardens and orchards surrounding his home. He could still recall the cracks in its tawny surface and the smooth, hot feel of it against the soles of his bare feet. The acrid, febrile smell of the weeds that flourished round its margin frequently drifted back to him from the past. This path had something of the same influence on his imagination. A whisper seemed to be running down it now, summoning him out to the woods and fields where unknown but pleasant things were waiting.

In obedience to some inner prompting he went back into the house. Unhesitatingly he descended to the cellar and returned presently with two bottles of Burgundy. For more than half a century these tubes of magic had lain under old dusty dimness dreaming of vineyards gratefully ripening beneath the far, fair skies of France.

***

Crossing the back lawn he passed through the fragrance of an old- fashioned garden and, opening a small white gate set in a hedge of box bushes, set out along the path. He had no definite destination in mind. He had hardly anything at all in mind save a floating, hazy sensation of well-being, an intimate relationship with the night and the world around him. All he knew was that he was going to some place and drink a lot of wine and, perhaps, sing a little to himself and the trees, if he felt so inclined.

On the summit of the hill he paused and looked back at his long rambling house sprawled peacefully out in sleep beneath the yellow flood of the moon. For a moment he stood silhouetted against the sky, a tall, lean figure of a man with two large bottles dangling at the ends of his arms—a rather enigmatic outline in the night. Then he dipped down into a grove of trees and became lost in the darkness piled up against their trunks. As he passed through the grove an expectant hush lay about him, a sort of breathless hesitation trembling on the verge of some strange revelation. But Mr. Hawk did not linger in the grove. For some blind reason he continued along the path. It was as if a muted voice at the end of it were endeavoring to get his ear. Presently the trees were left behind and, coming out into the full flood of the moon, he followed the course of the path as it circled a vast cornfield, and then, as if suddenly changing its mind, took a short cut through it.

Dark, keen-leafed stalks rose and rustled on either side of Mr. Hawk. He caught the pungent scent of corn silk and absently decided that he was inordinately fond of corn—preferably on the cob. He came upon a scarecrow, and on a mound beside the scarecrow a little tattered man was sitting. And the little tattered man was crying bitterly, his tear-stained face raised to the distinguished figure flapping against the stars.

Under ordinary circumstances the scientist would have been slightly mystified by this encounter. In his present all-embracing frame of mind it struck him as being the most natural thing in the world. Why shouldn't a little tattered man be sitting in a cornfield in the moonlight crying bitterly at a scarecrow?

- Thorne Smith, The Nightlife of the Gods

I read this in my junior year of high school, say ca. 1979 - 1980. That was a weird publishing time when Del Rey was scraping out the last of the classic (i. e., cheap)  Fantasy books. Perhaps there was some vague connection with the spirit of Thorne Smith books with the inauguration of the Eighties; at least I have felt one in retrospect. No barbarians or elves, but strange encroachments of the fantastic on 'modern' times. In this case a scientist has discovered a ray to bring Greek statues of the gods to life, who turn Prohibition Era America upside down. But not before finding a leprechaun and marrying a Fury. This little passage always impressed me, and I decided to quote it just as such a long drawn out season has just broken with rain and lightning.

'Scoundrels With a Golden Heart'

"Most men – it is my experience – are neither virtuous nor scoundrels, good-hearted nor bad-hearted. They are a little of one thing and a little of the other and nothing for any length of time: ignoble mediocrities. But a few men remain always true to a single extreme character: these are the men who leave the strongest mark on history, and I should divide them into four classes. First there are the scoundrels with stony hearts, of whom Macro, the Guards Commander under Tiberius and Caligula, was an outstanding example. Next come the virtuous men with equally stony hearts, of whom Cato the Censor, my bugbear, was an outstanding example. The third class are the virtuous men with golden hearts, such as old Athenodorus and my poor murdered brother Germanicus. And last and most rarely found are the scoundrels with golden hearts, and of these Herod Agrippa was the most perfect instance imaginable. It is the scoundrels with the golden hearts, these anti-Catos, who make the most valuable friends in time of need. You expect nothing from them. They are entirely without principle, as they themselves acknowledge, and only consider their own advantage. But go to them when in desperate trouble and say, ‘For God’s sake do so-and-so for me,’ and they will almost certainly do it – not as a friendly favour but, they will say, because it fits in with their own crooked plans; and you are forbidden to thank them. These anti-Catos are gamblers and spendthrifts; but that is at least better than being misers. They also associate constantly with drunkards, assassins, crooked business men, and procurers; yet you seldom see them greatly the worse for liquor themselves, and if they arrange an assassination you may be sure that the victim will not be greatly mourned, and they defraud the rich defaulters rather than the innocent and needy, and they consort with no woman against her will."

-         Claudius the God, Robert Graves

""It is between light and darkness, and everyone must choose his side." - GKC, Last Words

“If you dip into any college, or school, or parish, or family – anything you like – at a given point in its history, you always find that there was a time before that point where there was more elbow room and contrasts weren't quite so sharp; and that there’s going to be a time after that point when there is even less room for indecision and choices are even more momentous. Good is always getting better and bad is always getting worse: the possibilities of even apparent neutrality are always diminishing. The whole thing is sorting itself out all the time, coming to a point, getting sharper and harder. Like the poem about Heaven and Hell eating into merry Middle Earth from opposite sides…”

-- C. S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength

Seems Obvious

 

Thursday Thought

Well, here's a thought that's always a kick in the schnutz, whenever or however it's applied.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pdn07wgUrno King Lear: Laurence Olivier, John Hurt, Leo McKern

Hidden Life

 

Thursday Posts: My 2001th Post

Nunc Dimmitis

 

C. S. Lewis Sez:

Breaking News: Two Plus Two Make Four

 

Auditors Hymn

Up my lads and lift the ledgers,
Sleep and ease are o’er.
Hear the Stars of Morning shouting:
‘Two and Two are four.’
Though the creeds and realms are reeling,
Though the sophists roar,
Though we weep and pawn our watches,
Two and Two are Four.