30 June 2014

Get Drunk

Lord Byron, Don Juan, Vol. I (London: Printed for the Booksellers, 1826), p. 140:

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk;
The best of life is but intoxication:
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk
The hopes of all men, and of every nation;
Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk
Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion:
But to return,— Get very drunk; and when
You wake with head-ache, you shall see what then.
Volume II of this edition here.

A related post: Enivrez-Vous

27 June 2014

No Handouts

Émile Zola, "L’argent dans la littérature", Messager de l'Europe (March 1880), quoted in Frederic Taber Cooper's The Craftsmanship of Writing (New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1911), p. 15:
The State owes nothing to young writers; the mere fact of having written a few pages does not entitle them to pose as martyrs, because no one will print their work. A shoemaker who has made his first pair of shoes does not force the government to sell them for him. It is the workman's place to dispose of his work to the public. And if he can't do it, if he is a nobody, he remains unknown through his own fault, and quite justly so.
A related post: The Sons of Joy

25 June 2014


Josiah Flynt, My Life (New York: The Outing Publishing Company, 1908), p. 74:
Writing about my early years and bidding good-bye to them here in print has been a harder task than I expected. Bidding good-bye to them formally and physically years ago was not difficult. To reach twenty-one, then thirty, then — I always looked on thirty as a satisfying goal, the years seemed to come and go so slowly. Then, too, I realized, after a fashion, that my youth was considered pretty much of a fiasco, and I wanted to get just as far away from failure and disaster as possible. Now — well, perhaps it is better that I keep my thoughts to myself. I will say, however, that retrospection can bring with it some of the most mournful hours the mind has to wallow in.

23 June 2014

Old Wine, Old Books, Old Friends

Charles Augustin Sainte-Beuve, "What Is a Classic?" Essays by Sainte-Beuve, tr. Elizabeth Lee (London: Walter Scott, 1900), p. 12:
Happy those who read and read again, those who in their reading can follow their unrestrained inclination! There comes a time in life when, all our journeys over, our experiences ended, there is no enjoyment more delightful than to study and thoroughly examine the things we know, to take pleasure in what we feel, and in seeing and seeing again the people we love: the pure joys of our maturity. Then it is that the word classic takes its true meaning, and is defined for every man of taste by an irresistible choice. Then taste is formed, it is shaped and definite; then good sense, if we are to possess it at all, is perfected in us. We have neither more time for experiments, nor a desire to go forth in search of pastures new. We cling to our friends, to those proved by long intercourse. Old wine, old books, old friends.
The original, from Causeries du lundi, Vol. III (Paris: Garnier Frères, 1852), p. 54:
Heureux ceux qui lisent, qui relisent, ceux qui peuvent obéir à leur libre inclination dans leurs lectures! Il vient une saison dans la vie, où, tous les voyages étant faits, toutes les expériences achevées, on n'a pas de plus vives jouissances que d'étudier et d'approfondir les choses qu'on sait, de savourer ce qu'on sent, comme de voir et de revoir les gens qu'on aime: pures délices du cœur et du goût dans la maturité. C'est alors que ce mot de classique prend son vrai sens, et qu'il se définit pour tout homme de goût par un choix de prédilection et irrésistible. Le goût est fait alors, il est formé et définitif; le bon sens chez nous, s'il doit venir, est consommé. On n'a plus le temps d'essayer ni l'envie de sortir à la découverte. On s'en tient à ses amis, à ceux qu'un long commerce a éprouvés. Vieux vin, vieux livres, vieux amis.

19 June 2014

Ohne Worte laß uns scheiden

Hans Grünhut mit Orchester, Ohne Worte laß uns scheiden [Let us part without a word], from the film Ein Ausflug in's Leben (1931):

Max Raabe included this song in his Weimar compilation Übers Meer

18 June 2014

Criticism and Praise

Colley Cibber, An Apology for the Life of Mr. Colley Cibber, ed. Robert W. Lowe, Vol. I (London: J. C. Nimmo, 1889), pp. 53-54:
When a Work is apparently great it will go without Crutches; all your Art and Anxiety to heighten the Fame of it then becomes low and little. He that will bear no Censure must be often robb'd of his due Praise. Fools have as good a Right to be Readers as Men of Sense have, and why not to give their Judgements too? Methinks it would be a sort of Tyranny in Wit for an Author to be publickly putting every Argument to death that appear'd against him; so absolute a Demand for Approbation puts us upon our Right to dispute it; Praise is as much the Reader's Property as Wit is the Author's; Applause is not a Tax paid to him as a Prince, but rather a Benevolence given to him as a Beggar; and we have naturally more Charity for the dumb Beggar than the sturdy one. The Merit of a Writer and a fine Woman's Face are never mended by their talking of them: How amiable is she that seems not to know she is handsome!
Volume II of this edition here.

16 June 2014

Vacancy Is Not Leisure

E. T. Campagnac, "Silence, Meditation, and Pain," Society and Solitude (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1922), p. 215:
If the popular demand for education were a demand for the opportunity to reflect, it would be of a nobler quality than it can now generally claim to be. Instead of that it is put forward with arguments for efficiency, for success, for getting on; and getting on means too often getting out of the class, the profession, the trade, in which a man's forbears were and in which he might not unnaturally remain, and getting into another class, or profession or trade to which he arrives nouveau riche, awkward or blasé or both. It is too rarely a demand to enter that world in which "parables" are spoken. We may look forward, if we choose to indulge our fancy, to a day when the progress of mechanical invention shall have enabled men to do in minutes what now they must take hours to do; but vacancy is not leisure and cannot yield wisdom; or we may forecast a day when mechanical invention shall have spent its energies, and when for sheer lack of the material of "civilisation" — coal, for instance, being exhausted — we shall hail the return of Nature with fields green once more and skies clear; yet Nature will prove herself a hard mistress and bind burdens upon men's backs which they will hardly bear.

13 June 2014


Friedrich Nietzsche, Aphorism 386 in Part I of Menschliches, Allzumenschliches, Gesammelte Werke, Vol. 8 (München: Musarion Verlag, 1920), p. 288. My translation:
Reasonable Unreason: In the maturity of age and understanding, a man comes to feel that his father was wrong to beget him.

Vernünftige Unvernunft: In der Reife des Lebens und des Verstandes überkommt den Menschen das Gefühl, daß sein Vater Unrecht hatte, ihn zu zeugen.
Bust of Nietzsche on the cover of Jugend magazine (1901)

12 June 2014

Old Favourites

Joseph Shaylor, The Fascination of Books (London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent, 1912), p. 1:
When the mind is weary with the toil and care of a busy life and thought comes only by exertion, it is then a real pleasure to peruse some volume made precious either by the influence it has had upon our conduct and life, or by the characteristics with which the volume is associated. It is then that our whole being is stirred and thought awakens thought while the echoes of an intellectual past come with a welcome contrast to the restlessness of a strenuous present; the senses are again quickened and imagination makes real a world peopled with characters grown familiar by association.

10 June 2014

The Diarist

W. N. P. Barbellion, Enjoying Life (London: Chatto & Windus, 1919), pp. 13-14:
For the diarist, the most commonplace things of daily life are of absorbing interest. Each day, the diarist finds himself born into a world as strange and beautiful as the dead world of the day before. The diarist lives on the globe for all the world as if he lodged on the slopes of a mountain, and unlike most mountain dwellers, he never loses his sense of awe at his situation. Life is vivid to him. "And so to bed," writes Mr. Secretary Pepys, a hundred times in his diary, and we may be sure that each time he joined Mrs. Pepys beneath the coverlet he felt that the moment which marked the end of his wonderful day was one deserving careful record.

9 June 2014

Lovers, Friends, and Acquaintances

W. Robertson Nicholl, A Bookman's Letters (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1915), pp. 224-225:
You ought to have three kinds of books. There is a verse in one of the Psalms: 'Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into the darkness.' Lover, friend, acquaintance. Your individuality is the centre, round it and near it is the little circle of love those who are your nearest and dearest. Round that is a larger concentric circle of friends, and then round that is a very large circle of acquaintances. All the people you know are lovers, friends, and acquaintances. I say the same thing about books. Certain books you love, and they are the special books, the books you want to read every year, the books you would not be without, the books which you bind in morocco, the books you would keep at all costs. Find the books that you love, and then find your friends among books. By friends I mean excellent books, though not the books that appeal most immediately and sharply. I love Boswell's Life of Johnson; Lockhart's Life of Scott is my friend. That is not to disparage Lockhart's Life of Scott. It is simply to say that the one book has certain greater qualities than the other it is the difference between lover and friend.

Among the lovers you should have at least one poet. I am told that poetry is coming to something very good in these days, and I am glad to hear it. But it is a comfort that much good poetry has been written already, quite enough to go on with. Find the poet that you love. You can only hope to love a few, but you may have many friends.

Your mental life will be determined by your lovers and your friends ; but, if you have lovers and friends, there is no reason why you should not have a great number of acquaintances. A public man said recently that he had 4000 acquaintances, and one may certainly know 4000 books. In the world of books it is essential to have acquaintances, if it were only for this that the acquaintanceships help us to appreciate our lovers and our friends. Life, however, is a very poor thing for those who have no lovers and no friends, but only acquaintances. And so the mind is a desert mind that has only acquaintances among books. But when the higher society is made sure it will be very easy and very pleasant to enlarge the circle of our acquaintances even to the end.

5 June 2014

Let the Past Remain in Peace

Eugene Lee-Hamilton, "Meeting of Ghosts," Sonnets of the Wingless Hours (Portland: Thomas B. Mosher, 1908), p. 65:
When years have passed, is't wise to meet again?
   Body and Mind have changed; and is it wise
   To take old Time, the Alterer, by surprise,
And see how he has worked in human grain?

We think that what once was, must still remain;
   Ourself a ghost, we bid a ghost arise;
   Two spectres look into each other's eyes,
And break the image that their hearts contain.

Mix not the Past and Present: let the Past
   Remain in peace within its jewelled shrine,
And drag it not into the hum and glare;

Mix not two faces in the thoughts that last;
   The one thou knewest, fair in every line,
And one unknown, which may be far from fair.

4 June 2014

We Degenerate into Hideous Puppets

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (London: Ward, Lock & Co., 1891), p. 34:
The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to.

3 June 2014

Words and Phrases

Adam Sisman, An Honourable Englishman (New York: Random House, 2010), pp. 108-109:
Hugh [Trevor-Roper] wrote a portrait of "Logan Pearsall Smith in old age," which he sent to his subject for approval. In it he summarized the philosophy of "the Sage of Chelsea" thus: "that humanity is ridiculous, but that there is pleasure in observing its antics even amid our own gesticulations, and that it is redeemed from utter meaninglessness by its ideals, though many of these are very odd; and that style is an ideal too, style of living, style of writing, born of disinterested thought and sweat to ennoble and preserve the thoughts and memory of an else insignificant existence." He repeated one of Smith's aphorisms: "The indefatigable pursuit of an unattainable Perfection, even though it consists of nothing more than the pounding of an old piano, is what alone gives meaning to our life on this unavailing star."

Smith was as much concerned with style as with scholarship. He endlessly polished his Trivia, seeking Hugh's suggestions for improvements forty years after the first edition had been published. No care was too great in the quest for perfect prose, no effort too much. "Words & phrases are the only things that matter," he wrote to Hugh early in their friendship. Two weeks before his death in 1946, Smith was asked if he had discovered any purpose to life. "Yes," he replied: "there is one thing that matters — to set a chime of words tinkling in the minds of a few fastidious people."
Also see Patrick Kurp's Gleams and Flashes of Light

2 June 2014

Be Able to Forget

Baltasar Gracián y Morales, The Art of Worldly Wisdom, tr. Joseph Jacobs (London: Macmillan & Co., 1904), p. 158:
Be able to Forget.

It is more a matter of luck than of skill. The things we remember best are those better forgotten. Memory is not only unruly, leaving us in the lurch when most needed, but stupid as well, putting its nose into places where it is not wanted. In painful things it is active, but neglectful in recalling the pleasurable. Very often the only remedy for the ill is to forget it, and all we forget is the remedy. Nevertheless one should cultivate good habits of memory, for it is capable of making existence a Paradise or an Inferno. The happy are an exception who enjoy innocently their simple happiness.
A related post: Forget, Don't Forgive