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81 books
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3 voters
Chartres Books
Showing 1-13 of 13
The Cleaner of Chartres (Hardcover)
by (shelved 2 times as chartres)
avg rating 3.75 — 3,567 ratings — published 2012
The Metalogicon: A Twelfth-Century Defense of the Verbal and Logical Arts of the Trivium (Paperback)
by (shelved 1 time as chartres)
avg rating 4.22 — 69 ratings — published 1159
Chartres - The Disconnected Zodiac (Paperback)
by (shelved 1 time as chartres)
avg rating 0.0 — 0 ratings — published
CHARTRES CATHEDRAL: The Missing or Heretic Guide (Kindle Edition)
by (shelved 1 time as chartres)
avg rating 4.55 — 33 ratings — published 2015
Boethian Commentaries of Clarembald of Arras (Notre Dame Texts in Medieval Culture)
by (shelved 1 time as chartres)
avg rating 4.50 — 2 ratings — published 2002
Commentary on the First Six Books of Virgil's "Aeneid" (English and Latin Edition)
by (shelved 1 time as chartres)
avg rating 4.00 — 1 rating — published 1980
The End of the Alphabet (Hardcover)
by (shelved 1 time as chartres)
avg rating 3.50 — 3,203 ratings — published 2007
The Proverbs Of Saint Bernard (1904)
by (shelved 1 time as chartres)
avg rating 5.00 — 1 rating — published
The Cosmographia of Bernardus Silvestris (Paperback)
by (shelved 1 time as chartres)
avg rating 4.15 — 48 ratings — published 1990
A Dialogue on Natural Philosophy (Dragmaticon Philosophiae): Translation of the New Latin Critical Text (Notre Dame Texts in Medieval Culture)
by (shelved 1 time as chartres)
avg rating 4.00 — 7 ratings — published 1997
The Commentary on the De arithmetica of Boethius (Studies and Texts, 191)
by (shelved 1 time as chartres)
avg rating 4.50 — 2 ratings — published 2015
The Paris Wife (Hardcover)
by (shelved 1 time as chartres)
avg rating 3.82 — 307,231 ratings — published 2011
Labyrinth (Languedoc, #1)
by (shelved 1 time as chartres)
avg rating 3.63 — 59,941 ratings — published 2005
“Martin suggests, let's see Chartres on the way back.
The cathedral with its bleached stone and green roofs is visible across miles of flat fields and popular breaks. Approaching it through the dog's leg alleyways of the old town, its proportions are dizzying. Pigeons wheel about its height like cliff birds.
The afternoon light begins to go; a battery of floodlights makes an unearthly theatre of spires, pinnacles and buttresses.
Martin quotes Ruskin. ' "Trees of stone" '.
Inside the cathedral is humbling, it's like walking into the belly of a whale. The glass is a deep rich crimson of blue, eliminating what daylight's left. Furtive figures scurry off into angles of shadow. The medieval darkness is pricked with lighted candles.
Martin says it's like Debussy's 'Drowned Cathedral'. 'La Cathédrale Engloutie'. I don't know it, but he's right, exactly right.
The weeping wax smells cloyingly sweet. While a priest intones, worshippers kneel and pray in whispers - and it seems to me that what they're begging from the mother of God is hope, and luck, and to be spared this survival game, living from minute to minute to minute.
It's what drowning must be like. You find you've somersaulted head-over-heels and upside-down and you're travelling backwards through a vast, lightless place.
So much sweet, lulling darkness in the middle of the world, it 'is' a kind of dying...”
― A long weekend with Marcel Proust: Seven stories and a novel
The cathedral with its bleached stone and green roofs is visible across miles of flat fields and popular breaks. Approaching it through the dog's leg alleyways of the old town, its proportions are dizzying. Pigeons wheel about its height like cliff birds.
The afternoon light begins to go; a battery of floodlights makes an unearthly theatre of spires, pinnacles and buttresses.
Martin quotes Ruskin. ' "Trees of stone" '.
Inside the cathedral is humbling, it's like walking into the belly of a whale. The glass is a deep rich crimson of blue, eliminating what daylight's left. Furtive figures scurry off into angles of shadow. The medieval darkness is pricked with lighted candles.
Martin says it's like Debussy's 'Drowned Cathedral'. 'La Cathédrale Engloutie'. I don't know it, but he's right, exactly right.
The weeping wax smells cloyingly sweet. While a priest intones, worshippers kneel and pray in whispers - and it seems to me that what they're begging from the mother of God is hope, and luck, and to be spared this survival game, living from minute to minute to minute.
It's what drowning must be like. You find you've somersaulted head-over-heels and upside-down and you're travelling backwards through a vast, lightless place.
So much sweet, lulling darkness in the middle of the world, it 'is' a kind of dying...”
― A long weekend with Marcel Proust: Seven stories and a novel
“I painlessly came to realize that the reverence I felt for the holiness of life is not ever likely to be entirely at home in organized religion. It was later, when I was able to travel farther , that the presence of holiness and mystery seemed, as far as my vision was able to see, to descend into the windows of Chartres, the stone peasant figures of Autun, the tall sheets of gold on the walls of Torcello that reflected the light of the sea; in the frescoes of Piero, of Giotto; in the shell of a church wall in Ireland still standing on a floor of sheep-cropped grass with no ceiling other than he changing sky.”
― On Writing
― On Writing
