I am afraid to think about my death,
When it shall be, and whether in great pain
I shall rise up and fight the air for breath
Or calmly wait the bursting of my brain.
I am no coward who could seek in fear
A folk-lore solace or sweet Indian tales:
I know dead men are deaf and cannot hear
The singing of a thousand nightingales.
I know dead men are blind and cannot see
The friend that shuts in horror their big eyes,
And they are witless — O, I'd rather be
A living mouse than dead as a man dies.
28 July 2015
James Elroy Flecker, "No Coward's Song," The Collected Poems of James Elroy Flecker, ed. J.C. Squire (New York: Doubleday, 1916), p. 125:
23 July 2015
20 July 2015
Étienne Martin Saint-Léon, Le Compagnonnage, son histoire, ses coutumes, ses règlements et ses rites (Paris: Armand Colin, 1901), p. 257 (my translation):
Our compagnon is alone at last. He advances with a firm step but, despite his apparent equanimity, he is a little upset. He suffers from that vague sense of melancholy which visits us when we turn a new page in the book of life, a book leafed through so quickly. We feel it when we say goodbye, perhaps forever, to a place, to people, or to things we associate with fond memories: it is regret for a time that already belongs to the past, instinctive fear of the future, and the apprehension of a traveller who has just left a safe haven where he rested for a few hours, and resumes his journey into the unknown.The original:
Notre compagnon est enfin seul. Il s'avance d'un pas ferme, mais, en dépit de son apparente impassibilité de tout à l'heure, il est un peu ému. Il éprouve cette vague mélancolie qui nous visite lorsque nous tournons une page nouvelle de ce livre de la vie si rapidement feuilleté, lorsque nous disons un adieu peut-être éternel à un lieu, à des êtres ou à des choses auxquels s'associe pour nous un souvenir heureux: regret d'un temps qui déjà appartient au passé, crainte instinctive de l'avenir, inquiétude du voyageur qui vient de quitter l'asile sûr où il s'est reposé quelques heures et qui reprend sa route vers l'inconnu.I suppose everyone fantasizes about other lives. If I were 20 years younger and French, I should like nothing better than to learn a trade as a Compagnon du Tour de France.
17 July 2015
R. L. Stevenson, An Inland Voyage (London: C. Kegan Paul & Co., 1878), p. 194:
I have always been fond of maps, and can voyage in an atlas with the greatest enjoyment. The names of places are singularly inviting; the contour of coasts and rivers is enthralling to the eye; and to hit, in a map, upon some place you have heard of before, makes history a new possession.
14 July 2015
Otto Rank, Art and Artist, tr. Charles Francis Atkinson (New York: Knopf, 1932), p. 416:
Whereas the average man largely subordinates himself, both socially and biologically, to the collective, and the neurotic shuts himself deliberately off from both, the productive type finds a middle way, which is expressed in ideological experience and personal creativity. But since the artist must live as a human being and yet feels compelled to make this transitory life eternal in an intransient work, a compromise is set up between ideologized life and an individualized creativity — a balance which is difficult, impermanent, and in all circumstances painful, since creation tends to experience, and experience again cries out for artistic form.
9 July 2015
Elbert Hubbard, "About Advertising Books," A Message to Garcia and Thirteen Other Things (East Aurora: Roycrofters Shop, 1901), p. 81:
The advertisement that secures recognition and really sells the book cannot be purchased — it cannot even be asked for — but must spring spontaneous from the sympathetic heart. To request it would be to lose it, for like love, it goes to him who does not ask for it, and passes in silence all those who plot, scheme and lie in wait. It goes only to the worthy: but alas! the worthy sometimes — aye, often, pine away of heart-hunger, and there is no hand to caress, nor gentle voice to soothe; and youth flies fast, and recognition comes only when it is no more desired, and when the presence of cool, all-enfolding death — strong deliveress — is more grateful than the applause of men
7 July 2015
G. K. Chesterton, Heretics (New York: Garden City Publishing, 1905) p. 65:
The truth is, that all genuine appreciation rests on a certain mystery of humility and almost of darkness. The man who said, "Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed," put the eulogy quite inadequately and even falsely. The truth is "Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall be gloriously surprised." The man who expects nothing sees redder roses than common men can see, and greener grass, and a more startling sun. Blessed is he that expecteth nothing, for he shall possess the cities and the mountains; blessed is the meek, for he shall inherit the earth. Until we realize that things might not be we cannot realize that things are. Until we see the background of darkness we cannot admire the light as a single and created thing.
3 July 2015
R. L. Stevenson, An Inland Voyage (London: C. Kegan Paul & Co., 1878), pp. 106-107:
If a man knows he will sooner or later be robbed upon a journey, he will have a bottle of the best in every inn, and look upon all his extravagances as so much gained upon the thieves. And, above all, where instead of simply spending, he makes a profitable investment for some of his money, when it will be out of risk of loss. So every bit of brisk living, and, above all, when it is healthful, is just so much gained upon the wholesale filcher, death. We shall have the less in our pockets, the more in our stomach, when he cries stand and deliver.
1 July 2015
Augustine Birrell, "Book Buying," Collected Essays, Vol. I (London: Elliot Stock, 1899), pp. 324-325:
It is no doubt a pleasant thing to have a library left you. The present writer will disclaim no such legacy, but hereby undertakes to accept it, however dusty. But good as it is to inherit a library, it is better to collect one. Each volume then, however lightly a stranger's eye may roam from shelf to shelf, has its own individuality, a history of its own. You remember where you got it, and how much you gave for it; and your word may safely be taken for the first of these facts, but not for the second.
The man who has a library of his own collection is able to contemplate himself objectively, and is justified in believing in his own existence. No other man but he would have made precisely such a combination as his. Had he been in any single respect different from what he is, his library, as it exists, never would have existed. Therefore, surely he may exclaim, as in the gloaming he contemplates the backs of his loved ones, 'They are mine, and I am theirs.'