R.L. Swihart's Blog, page 59

Peekaboo

 Can you guess my name?

From Conrad's Youth

"O youth! The strength of it, the faith of it, the imagination of it! To me she was not an old rattle-trap carting about the world a lot of coal for a freight—to me she was the endeavour, the test, the trial of life. I think of her with pleasure, with affection, with regret—as you would think of someone dead you have loved. I shall never forget her.... Pass the bottle.

From Conrad's Amy Foster

"I was greatly surprised. His long black hair scattered over the straw bolster contrasted with the olive pallor of his face. It occurred to me he might be a Basque. It didn't necessarily follow that he should understand Spanish; but I tried him with the few words I know, and also with some French. The whispered sounds I caught by bending my ear to his lips puzzled me utterly. That afternoon the young ladies from the Rectory (one of them read Goethe with a dictionary, and the other had struggled with Dante for years), coming to see Miss Swaffer, tried their German and Italian on him from the doorway. They retreated, just the least bit scared by the flood of passionate speech which, turning on his pallet, he let out at them. They admitted that the sound was pleasant, soft, musical—but, in conjunction with his looks perhaps, it was startling—so excitable, so utterly unlike anything one had ever heard. The village boys climbed up the bank to have a peep through the little square aperture. Everybody was wondering what Mr. Swaffer would do with him.

From Conrad's Heart of Darkness

Rereading Conrad's Heart of Darkness and will perhaps go on to read more of his work. For starters: Amy Foster, Youth, Some Thoughts on his books which I believe he wrote later in life.

Two famous "clips" (see T S Eliot and Apocalypse Now):

He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath: “‘The horror! The horror!’

“‘Mistah Kurtz—he dead.’

Tom Turkeys in Cambria

A few Toms in Cambria ("Top of the World") -- fanning the air & "gobbledygooking." Enjoyed it immensely.:)

#rlswihart13 #cambriaca "topoftheworld #toms #wildturkeys #nature #beauty #poetry #beauty #gravelroads #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine 🇺🇦

Bulgakov

Great was the year and terrible the Year of Our Lord 1918, the second since the Revolution had begun. Sun had been abundant in the summer, snow in the winter, and two stars had risen particularly high in the sky: Venus, the Evening Star; and Mars, red and quivering. But in years of peace and blood alike the days shoot by like arrows, and in the hard frost the young Turbins had not noticed the onset of shaggy white December. Oh, Father Frost, sparkling with snow and happiness! Mama, radiant queen! Where are you now?

Bulgakov's White Guard

A first for me: Bulgakov's White Guard. Takes place in and around Kiev at the time of the Russian Revolution.

A tidbit from the intro:

Russia was the only state founded simultaneously upon European values and Eastern despotism. Hence the permanent identity crisis of Russia, which felt itself simultaneously both European and Asian. Granted, there are class distinctions in any state, but in no other state have they been so profound that they shaped two separate nations. No other state ever held almost ninety percent of its own population in slavery for centuries. The main problem that remains unsettled is: How does one remain honorable (and Bulgakov’s favorite characters talk endlessly about honor) when living in a state founded upon dishonor, on police corruption, ubiquitous theft, and violation of individual dignity? How can one be an honorable person and yet wish to preserve this state of affairs?

Western Tanager

Western Tanager @ Eisenhower Park. Lit matches jumping from tree to tree. Happy weekend.

#rlswihart13 #southerncalifornia #eisenhowerpark #tanagersofinstagram #westerntanager #nature #beauty #poetry #weekend #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine 🇺🇦

Master & Margarita

“But permit me to ask you,” the foreign guest resumed after a troubled silence, “what about the proofs of God’s existence? As we know, there are exactly five of them.” “Alas!” Berlioz answered with regret. “None of these proofs is worth a thing, and humanity has long since scrapped them. You must agree that, in the realm of reason, there can be no proof of God’s existence.” “Bravo!” cried the foreigner. “Bravo! These are exactly the words of the restless old Immanuel on this subject. But curiously enough, he demolished all five arguments and then, as if to mock himself, constructed his own sixth one.” “Kant’s argument,” the educated editor countered with a subtle smile, “is equally unconvincing. No wonder Schiller said that only slaves could find Kant’s reasoning on this subject satisfactory. And Strauss simply laughed at his proof.” As Berlioz spoke, he thought to himself, “But still, who is he? And why does he speak Russian so well?” “This Kant ought to be sent to Solovki for three years for such arguments!” Ivan Nikolayevich burst out suddenly. “Ivan!” Berlioz whispered with embarrassment. But the suggestion that Kant be sent to Solovki not only did not shock the foreigner, but pleased him immensely. “Exactly, exactly,” he cried, and his green left eye, turned to Berlioz, glittered. “That’s just the place for him! I told him that day at breakfast, ‘Say what you will, Professor, but you have thought up something that makes no sense. It may be clever, but it’s altogether too abstruse. People will laugh at you.’” Berlioz gaped at him. “At breakfast? . . . Told Kant? . . . What is he babbling about?” he wondered.

More from the Burrowing Owlets

More Antics with the Kids: Burrowing Owlets @ Play.

#rlswihart13 #ontarioca #burrowingowls #thekids #streetsmart #adorable #owlsofinstagram #nature #beauty #poetry #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine