I've found myself in a predicament, as of late. I have two lists of books I want to read. The first one is the list I posted earlier; the second is a list of Medieval and classical works as well as works expounding upon the former period. One could say the first list is my casual reading list, though to a casual reader--by most definitions--it would look rather academic. The second would clearly appear entirely academic, though it's becoming a bit of an obsession of mine. I have before me an untouched wealth of knowledge, which, in the words of Seneca the Younger, "were born for us and prepared for us a way of life."
I have been gathering up Medieval texts over the passed few months--over the passed year, actually. Of these, I've only read selections from The Golden Legend. I intend for this to change in the coming year. Of the books I intend to read next year, here is a list. By making a list, I can use it as a reference, as well as make it more definitive.
Books about the Medieval Period include:
The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature by C.S. Lewis
Medieval Lives by Terry Jones, with Alan Ereira (The documentary was fantastic.)
Monarchy by David Starkey (Again, the documentary was fantastic.)
Actual Medieval (and going back to the Classical period and into the Renaissance) texts:
The Illiad and The Odyssey by Homer
Ethics by Aristotle
The Mabinogion
The Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius
Confessions by Saint Augustine
City of God by Saint Augustine
Piers the Plowman
Ecclesiastical History of the English People by Bede
Alfred the Great by John Asser
The History of the Kings of Britain by Geoffrey of Monmouth
The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio
The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
The Inner Life by Thomas a Kempis
Le Morte d'Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory (more thoroughly)
Utopia by Thomas Moore (again)
Gargantua and Pantagruel by Francois Rabelais
I'll be honest. I don't think I can read all of those in one year, but I'm ambitious. That's not including the books in my Amazon wishlist, like William of Newburgh's History of English Affairs or Lewis' Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Literature. I also want to find more books about Medieval literature and life. That and hopefully I'll be able to find a cheap copy of some of Roger Bacon's works. It may take some time, considering the other reading list I have, but I've become increasingly passionate about these studies. I think the Medieval mindset contained something that we've lost in the last few hundred years that was beneficial, but for some reason we've been damning Medieval man as if he were lower than us. It's chronological snobbery, as Lewis put it.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Graveyard Shift
I work nights at a hotel. It’s not an old hotel. Not one of those hotels where the ghosts of dead housekeepers shuffle down empty hallways at two in the morning, and certainly not one of those secluded Western highway stops where guests check-in only to find a spectre sleeping in their bed. No, I work at a new hotel--no more than thirteen years old, and renovated at least twice in that time--located in a small, Midwestern truck-stop town.
But I think we can all admit that it doesn’t take a place being old to make it creepy during the night time. All it really takes is a large amount of solitude mixed in with the odd, irregular noise. Throw in a cold winter’s night and the recipe is more than complete.
This is where I found myself one December evening some years ago. The hotel was quieter than usual, which I believe would make it what is called “deathly quiet.” We had no more than eight rooms sold, and I had heard from none of them the entire night.
Now, for the sake of honesty, I must admit, I had been reading the more ghost oriented Christmas tales of Charles Dickens that night (“The Sexton and the Goblin” and all that) as well as drinking an over-abundance of tea to keep myself awake. Deeply packed into the corner of the front desk office, sitting in an armchair, I could see all the comings and goings of the front lobby through the large glass doors that connect it to my position. Lights from the highway reflected off the relatively untouched and fresh fallen snow outside the window just beside me, causing shadows to glide across the walls.
Some might say it was the Victorian prose I engorged upon, while others might blame the heavy cardigan I’d wrapped myself in, but whatever the cause, it was not long before my chin was coming within close proximity to my chest and then back up to it’s rightful position. Needless to say, I was beginning to contemplate switching from tea to coffee when an alarm went off, jerking me out of my repose and signaling the time to brew more coffee. Depending on the hotel, this time is generally 3:00 AM to 4:00, and for my preference, I always went with the earliest. I gathered my stack of six carefully folded receipts (two rooms were stay-overs) and replaced them with my book.
Going under the balcony and into a dark, wide-open room interspersed with tables, one finds the coffee sitting inside a deeper alcove next to the kitchen. Due to our ridiculously cheap owner, the lights were not aloud to be turned on until 6:00, or 5:00 if a guest came down early, giving the room a cave-like feel most of the night. It was into the cave that I ventured briefly to begin the percolations, and then out again to deliver the receipts.
Some thing about the third floor of this hotel had always given me a foreboding on the especially quiet nights. The type of feeling that makes one look behind himself twice or thrice before proceeding. To be honest, I sometimes think this feeling came from the window at the end of the hall. It just so happened that one of my receipts belonged to a room on the farthest end of this floor. Walking down the hallway I could see my ghostly reflection in the window walking towards me, a sight which seen during the day--if it could be seen then--would have given me no sense of the unreal. Things always do seem different during the night, however, and the cold, tired look of my own face at a distance, staring into me, was enough to unnerve me.
I reached the end of the hallway, slid the receipt under the door, and gave a quick glance down the hallway before I escaped into the stairwell. What caught my eye arrested my breath: a figure in a long, white dress walking slowly down the hall. From the distance--she was at the opposite end--the visage was that of an short, old woman. Now, being the practical man that I am, I did not stare or stop in my movements. I assured myself that she was simply a guest going to her room and nothing more. Now, this was rather sane of me to say, despite the fact that there was only one room, with one bed, occupied on that floor, and it was a man’s name on the folio. Still, there’s nothing to limit a guest from any other floor to roam the halls. All the while, my steps were hurried, which was for no other reason than that I wanted to finish brewing the coffee and get back to my reading.
Once downstairs, I saw there were no guests in the lobby, so it was back into the cave and straightway to the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of the freshly brewed coffee and set the decaf up as next in line. I was stirring in sugar when I admitted to myself that I was hiding in the kitchen. It was not common for me to wait in there for the coffee to finish, but tonight, I felt a keen interest in watching these pots fill. I called myself a coward, and grabbing the freshly made pot, I ventured out to set it on the table.
I glanced around the room and saw no one. It would be a lie to say I did not let out a sigh of relief, but upon turning around I saw the vision I’d beheld on the third floor. This time, she was standing right before me. What I’d taken for a white dress was nothing more than a nightshirt, which hung loosely over he decrepit body. Her hair was as white as the shirt and thinning enough to reveal her scalp. She lifted both her hands, the bone barely covered by skin, and seemed to implore me with her eyes--those eyes, seeming to bulge from her sunken face. “Help me,” she said in a trembling, feeble voice.
I was taken aback, but composed myself as well as I could to ask her what she needed. She simply repeated herself. Her voice seemed to tremble more with the second volley. I asked her what her room number was, but again I got the same answer. My heart raced, but believing--knowing--this was merely an old woman who’d lost her way in the halls, I asked her to meet me at the front desk, where I’d find her room. As I walked away, I still heard her repeating her plea, though she only mumbled the words.
We are supposed to make a record of any infirm or elderly guests who may need help in case of emergencies such as fire or whatnot, but it seems someone forgot to make that list that night. I can’t hold it against them. I seldom remembered to do it myself. I checked the guest folios for any notes, but finding none I could only find recourse in applying myself to the old woman again. She had not followed me to the front desk, and so with a somewhat trembling heart, I went to meet her in the breakfast area.
Opening the doors, I was quite shocked to see no one in the spot I had left her. I turned on the lights and looked into the alcove. No one there. I checked the kitchen, and it too was empty. I hurried out into the hall, but both sides were empty. I looked in every room I thought she might have gotten into, and went on every floor--even the dreaded third floor. There was no sign of her.
I sat myself down at a table in the breakfast area and looked out the glass wall, onto the empty field that was behind the hotel. It was lit up by the starlight reflecting off the snow, and gave off a eerie glow. Absent-mindedly I drank my coffee, bracing myself for the return of the “spectre,” as I began to call her in my mind. After about twenty minutes, I went back to my work. The coffee was made and the breakfast set up, and I was once again seated, reading over a book, though not those same type of stories as before. By this point I could laugh at the situation, and it wasn’t much longer when our breakfast person showed up. I decided to omit the story from her.
In another hour my replacement arrived. I gave him the short explanation of the events of the night--namely that nothing exciting happened, barring the one guest who seemed to have forgotten what room she was in. I went home and slept fairly well in the daylight. No nightmares to disturb my mind, and upon waking I thought very little of the previous night. It was not until I went in for my shift that night that I found out what really happened the night before.
No elderly lady fitting that description checked-out that morning--well, not in the sense that us hotel employees would mean--but around noon, when housekeeping went to clean the rooms, in one room they found her corpse, lying, distorted, next to her bed. I only know what the front desk manager told me, but according to her, the paramedics said she had convulsions in her sleep, fell out of bed, and died on the floor. They said the convulsions must’ve lasted at least twenty to thirty minutes, and it was a very painful death. The real shame was that if someone had been staying with her or if someone could’ve just gotten her her medicine, and gotten her to a hospital, she likely would’ve lived. They placed the time of death shortly before 4:00 AM.
But I think we can all admit that it doesn’t take a place being old to make it creepy during the night time. All it really takes is a large amount of solitude mixed in with the odd, irregular noise. Throw in a cold winter’s night and the recipe is more than complete.
This is where I found myself one December evening some years ago. The hotel was quieter than usual, which I believe would make it what is called “deathly quiet.” We had no more than eight rooms sold, and I had heard from none of them the entire night.
Now, for the sake of honesty, I must admit, I had been reading the more ghost oriented Christmas tales of Charles Dickens that night (“The Sexton and the Goblin” and all that) as well as drinking an over-abundance of tea to keep myself awake. Deeply packed into the corner of the front desk office, sitting in an armchair, I could see all the comings and goings of the front lobby through the large glass doors that connect it to my position. Lights from the highway reflected off the relatively untouched and fresh fallen snow outside the window just beside me, causing shadows to glide across the walls.
Some might say it was the Victorian prose I engorged upon, while others might blame the heavy cardigan I’d wrapped myself in, but whatever the cause, it was not long before my chin was coming within close proximity to my chest and then back up to it’s rightful position. Needless to say, I was beginning to contemplate switching from tea to coffee when an alarm went off, jerking me out of my repose and signaling the time to brew more coffee. Depending on the hotel, this time is generally 3:00 AM to 4:00, and for my preference, I always went with the earliest. I gathered my stack of six carefully folded receipts (two rooms were stay-overs) and replaced them with my book.
Going under the balcony and into a dark, wide-open room interspersed with tables, one finds the coffee sitting inside a deeper alcove next to the kitchen. Due to our ridiculously cheap owner, the lights were not aloud to be turned on until 6:00, or 5:00 if a guest came down early, giving the room a cave-like feel most of the night. It was into the cave that I ventured briefly to begin the percolations, and then out again to deliver the receipts.
Some thing about the third floor of this hotel had always given me a foreboding on the especially quiet nights. The type of feeling that makes one look behind himself twice or thrice before proceeding. To be honest, I sometimes think this feeling came from the window at the end of the hall. It just so happened that one of my receipts belonged to a room on the farthest end of this floor. Walking down the hallway I could see my ghostly reflection in the window walking towards me, a sight which seen during the day--if it could be seen then--would have given me no sense of the unreal. Things always do seem different during the night, however, and the cold, tired look of my own face at a distance, staring into me, was enough to unnerve me.
I reached the end of the hallway, slid the receipt under the door, and gave a quick glance down the hallway before I escaped into the stairwell. What caught my eye arrested my breath: a figure in a long, white dress walking slowly down the hall. From the distance--she was at the opposite end--the visage was that of an short, old woman. Now, being the practical man that I am, I did not stare or stop in my movements. I assured myself that she was simply a guest going to her room and nothing more. Now, this was rather sane of me to say, despite the fact that there was only one room, with one bed, occupied on that floor, and it was a man’s name on the folio. Still, there’s nothing to limit a guest from any other floor to roam the halls. All the while, my steps were hurried, which was for no other reason than that I wanted to finish brewing the coffee and get back to my reading.
Once downstairs, I saw there were no guests in the lobby, so it was back into the cave and straightway to the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of the freshly brewed coffee and set the decaf up as next in line. I was stirring in sugar when I admitted to myself that I was hiding in the kitchen. It was not common for me to wait in there for the coffee to finish, but tonight, I felt a keen interest in watching these pots fill. I called myself a coward, and grabbing the freshly made pot, I ventured out to set it on the table.
I glanced around the room and saw no one. It would be a lie to say I did not let out a sigh of relief, but upon turning around I saw the vision I’d beheld on the third floor. This time, she was standing right before me. What I’d taken for a white dress was nothing more than a nightshirt, which hung loosely over he decrepit body. Her hair was as white as the shirt and thinning enough to reveal her scalp. She lifted both her hands, the bone barely covered by skin, and seemed to implore me with her eyes--those eyes, seeming to bulge from her sunken face. “Help me,” she said in a trembling, feeble voice.
I was taken aback, but composed myself as well as I could to ask her what she needed. She simply repeated herself. Her voice seemed to tremble more with the second volley. I asked her what her room number was, but again I got the same answer. My heart raced, but believing--knowing--this was merely an old woman who’d lost her way in the halls, I asked her to meet me at the front desk, where I’d find her room. As I walked away, I still heard her repeating her plea, though she only mumbled the words.
We are supposed to make a record of any infirm or elderly guests who may need help in case of emergencies such as fire or whatnot, but it seems someone forgot to make that list that night. I can’t hold it against them. I seldom remembered to do it myself. I checked the guest folios for any notes, but finding none I could only find recourse in applying myself to the old woman again. She had not followed me to the front desk, and so with a somewhat trembling heart, I went to meet her in the breakfast area.
Opening the doors, I was quite shocked to see no one in the spot I had left her. I turned on the lights and looked into the alcove. No one there. I checked the kitchen, and it too was empty. I hurried out into the hall, but both sides were empty. I looked in every room I thought she might have gotten into, and went on every floor--even the dreaded third floor. There was no sign of her.
I sat myself down at a table in the breakfast area and looked out the glass wall, onto the empty field that was behind the hotel. It was lit up by the starlight reflecting off the snow, and gave off a eerie glow. Absent-mindedly I drank my coffee, bracing myself for the return of the “spectre,” as I began to call her in my mind. After about twenty minutes, I went back to my work. The coffee was made and the breakfast set up, and I was once again seated, reading over a book, though not those same type of stories as before. By this point I could laugh at the situation, and it wasn’t much longer when our breakfast person showed up. I decided to omit the story from her.
In another hour my replacement arrived. I gave him the short explanation of the events of the night--namely that nothing exciting happened, barring the one guest who seemed to have forgotten what room she was in. I went home and slept fairly well in the daylight. No nightmares to disturb my mind, and upon waking I thought very little of the previous night. It was not until I went in for my shift that night that I found out what really happened the night before.
No elderly lady fitting that description checked-out that morning--well, not in the sense that us hotel employees would mean--but around noon, when housekeeping went to clean the rooms, in one room they found her corpse, lying, distorted, next to her bed. I only know what the front desk manager told me, but according to her, the paramedics said she had convulsions in her sleep, fell out of bed, and died on the floor. They said the convulsions must’ve lasted at least twenty to thirty minutes, and it was a very painful death. The real shame was that if someone had been staying with her or if someone could’ve just gotten her her medicine, and gotten her to a hospital, she likely would’ve lived. They placed the time of death shortly before 4:00 AM.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
George Meredith
George Meredith was the progeny of navel outfitters in Portsmouth. His mother died when he was five, and his father went into bankruptcy when he was ten. He was schooled in Neuwied, German, which he went to at the age of fourteen. He returned to England at the age of sixteen and was then apprenticed to a London lawyer. It was not to his taste, and he soon left the law for journalism. He began to write poetry at this time. In 1849 he married the widow Mary Nicolls, daughter of satirical novelist Thomas Love Peacock. Mary was nine years his senior. The marriage ended badly when, in 1858, Mary abandoned her husband and five-year-old son. This incident would provide Meredith with the inspiration to write his third novel The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, which was his first important novel. It also served as inspiration for his book of poetry Modern Love. He wrote nineteen novels, the best known being Rhoda Fleming, The Adventures of Harry Richmond, The Egoist, and Diana of the Crossways. In his later life, he received many honors. He became President of the Society of British Authors, a position formally held by Alfred Tennyson, and in 1905 was made a member of the Order of Merit by Edward VII. He died in 1909 at his home at Box Hill, Dorking.His income as an author being uncertain, he added to it by being a publisher's reader. He became highly influential due to the important publishing house of Chapman and Hall. He became friends with many members of the literary world, including Algernon Charles Swinburne, Leslie Stephen, William and Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Robert Louis Stevenson, George Gissing, and J.M. Barrie. He was honored by contemporary writer Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in the Holmes story The Boscombe Valley Mystery, when Holmes says to Watson, "And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and leave all minor matters until to-morrow." Oscar Wilde said of him, "Ah, Meredith! Who can define him? His style is chaos illuminated by flashes of lightning."
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Reading list
I don't usually make a reading list, but for once in my life, I have a clear cut idea of what books I want to read. I'm currently reading Caleb Williams by William Godwin. This is my list of books to read after that. There will be some free space in between some of them which can be taken up by randomly selected books, but I will adhere to this basic list.
Under the Greenwood Tree by Thomas Hardy
The Monk by Matthew Lewis
Lolita by Vladamir Nobokav
The four Christmas books of Charles Dickens (as I do every December)
Pendennis by William Makepeace Thackeray
The History of Henry Esmond by William Makepeace Thackeray
New Grub Street by George Gissing
The Life and Opinions of Tristam Shandy by Lawrence Sterne
The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope
These are books I've felt some sort of need to read more than others. Some, like Tristam Shandy, I've been wanting to read for a long while now. It's not a long list, I'll admit, but what's most important is that they're books I want to read for no more reason than that I think I will enjoy them.
Under the Greenwood Tree by Thomas Hardy
The Monk by Matthew Lewis
Lolita by Vladamir Nobokav
The four Christmas books of Charles Dickens (as I do every December)
Pendennis by William Makepeace Thackeray
The History of Henry Esmond by William Makepeace Thackeray
New Grub Street by George Gissing
The Life and Opinions of Tristam Shandy by Lawrence Sterne
The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope
These are books I've felt some sort of need to read more than others. Some, like Tristam Shandy, I've been wanting to read for a long while now. It's not a long list, I'll admit, but what's most important is that they're books I want to read for no more reason than that I think I will enjoy them.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Numbers and lists.
Maybe I'm wrong here. I haven't done much research, but from what I've gathered from my study of the history of literature, this concept of making lists and ranking works, whether they be books or songs, is rather new. I've never seen it done in any books written in the early 20th century and before, but to be fair, it would more likely be done in less reputable publications (i.e. newspapers, magazines). I would be very curious to find out when we first started attaching a number rank to things.
By this I do not mean something like a best seller's list. That is mere statisics, which I'm sure they kept track of for hundreds of years before our Top 40's and New York Times lists. What I mean is the basic aspect seen in most reviews, what I'll call "the five stars concept." It's in every aspect of our media use. I use Zune player, which uses a simplistic ranking system, either I "heart" a song, "broken heart" it, or leave it alone. But is it ever really that simple? Most of the music I have has a heart next to it. None of it has a broken heart, because why would I keep music I didn't like. I have around 10,000 songs, and I'm sure I don't love--as the heart would indicate--every one of them.
But is the star system any better? I'd say it stands to reason that anyone reading this has used Amazon. They make things a bit more complex with their five star ranking. One star means "I hate it," two "I don't like it," three "It's OK," four "I like it," five "I love it." It makes sense from a marketing standpoint. If you tell Amazon you loved The Warden by Anthony Trollope it will be able to recommend several other books people who also loved it ranked equally high. But from a review standpoint, what does that tell us? Say for example, the reviewer gave it four out of five stars. He "liked it." But that tells us very little about his opinion of the novel. I like chedder cheese and I like The Warden. One of those I could talk about for a solid hour, and it's not chedder. I know much of the ins and outs of Trollope's first Barsetshire novel. I found many parts admirable from a moralist perspective, but as a solid piece of literature, it is lacking. Judging from my ranking of it, one might easily assume that I simply enjoyed it, which is far short of my actual opinion of it.
But I think most people are agreed that this ranking system we find in our reviews is flawed. The deeper question is why we find a need to do it. Beyond the marketing aspect, we see the internet filled with lists: "best albums of the year," "most important novels of the 20th century," "coolest summer movies." When I was younger, I would make lists of my favorite albums for no reason but to do it. It's as if we're fullfilling some need to validate our opinion. Maybe subconsciously, we feel like it matters if 257 people ranked some movie on Netflix rather than 256. But who has ever watched a movie based on rank alone? I haven't. I've read reviews certainly, but I watch the movie based on if it sounds interesting or I like the director/writer/actor. On occasion, I will watch something based on recommendation alone, but never on rank.
By this I do not mean something like a best seller's list. That is mere statisics, which I'm sure they kept track of for hundreds of years before our Top 40's and New York Times lists. What I mean is the basic aspect seen in most reviews, what I'll call "the five stars concept." It's in every aspect of our media use. I use Zune player, which uses a simplistic ranking system, either I "heart" a song, "broken heart" it, or leave it alone. But is it ever really that simple? Most of the music I have has a heart next to it. None of it has a broken heart, because why would I keep music I didn't like. I have around 10,000 songs, and I'm sure I don't love--as the heart would indicate--every one of them.
But is the star system any better? I'd say it stands to reason that anyone reading this has used Amazon. They make things a bit more complex with their five star ranking. One star means "I hate it," two "I don't like it," three "It's OK," four "I like it," five "I love it." It makes sense from a marketing standpoint. If you tell Amazon you loved The Warden by Anthony Trollope it will be able to recommend several other books people who also loved it ranked equally high. But from a review standpoint, what does that tell us? Say for example, the reviewer gave it four out of five stars. He "liked it." But that tells us very little about his opinion of the novel. I like chedder cheese and I like The Warden. One of those I could talk about for a solid hour, and it's not chedder. I know much of the ins and outs of Trollope's first Barsetshire novel. I found many parts admirable from a moralist perspective, but as a solid piece of literature, it is lacking. Judging from my ranking of it, one might easily assume that I simply enjoyed it, which is far short of my actual opinion of it.
But I think most people are agreed that this ranking system we find in our reviews is flawed. The deeper question is why we find a need to do it. Beyond the marketing aspect, we see the internet filled with lists: "best albums of the year," "most important novels of the 20th century," "coolest summer movies." When I was younger, I would make lists of my favorite albums for no reason but to do it. It's as if we're fullfilling some need to validate our opinion. Maybe subconsciously, we feel like it matters if 257 people ranked some movie on Netflix rather than 256. But who has ever watched a movie based on rank alone? I haven't. I've read reviews certainly, but I watch the movie based on if it sounds interesting or I like the director/writer/actor. On occasion, I will watch something based on recommendation alone, but never on rank.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
I don't understand summer reading lists.
It feels like I've been less productive since I got married. I realize I'm not. I spend my days almost the same as I did before I was married, but now I do it with someone else. Maybe it's that I feel obligated to spend all my free time with my wife. It has only been a little beyond three weeks, so I suppose it's normal to feel bad when I want to spend the day reading instead of hanging out with her. Eventually we'll get more comfortable with each other and be able to do things together but seperately.
It could also be that she monopolizes my laptop though. . .
Also, it's almost summer, and my body wants to leave my apartment, wants to romp and play. There's a state park near here that the wife and I intend to check out Monday or Tuesday. We also like to walk to the farmers market on Saturdays. I found out there's a Shakespeare festival in town this summer as well. I'm hoping to see The Tempest and The Merry Wifes of Windsor this July. If my days off weren't so damned awkward, I could say I'll see them for certain, but they're only performing on two of my days off the entire month.
I've begun a makeshift "reading list" this summer. The quotation marks and the word makeshift are to indicate that it is a list in the loosest meaning of the term. The original notion was to read short, easy novels and to see how many I could pound through in three months. I've done four since June began: The Last Unicorn, Slaughterhouse-five, The Great Gatsby, and Joey Comeau's collection of short stories, It's Too Late to Say I'm Sorry. (I know most people either assume I re-read the top first three or are amazed I'd never read them before, but I was just finally getting around to it, okay?) The slump has already begun, however, as after The Great Gatsby I chose to read George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss. Not exactly a complex novel, but at 546 pages, it's not exactly a short one either. Just 400 more pages to go and then it's back to short, simple novels or collections of short stories. I thought about joining a book club, but I don't like being told what to read.
I don't understand summer reading lists for non-students, really. An average adult with a full-time job doesn't have more time during the summer months. If they have kids, they would probably have less time. Unless it's stictly a seasonal thing, reading "summer books." I can't quite think of what I'd consider a "summer book," though. Something like Pickwick, maybe? Something involving a romp. Something about people getting drunk and falling down.
It could also be that she monopolizes my laptop though. . .
Also, it's almost summer, and my body wants to leave my apartment, wants to romp and play. There's a state park near here that the wife and I intend to check out Monday or Tuesday. We also like to walk to the farmers market on Saturdays. I found out there's a Shakespeare festival in town this summer as well. I'm hoping to see The Tempest and The Merry Wifes of Windsor this July. If my days off weren't so damned awkward, I could say I'll see them for certain, but they're only performing on two of my days off the entire month.
I've begun a makeshift "reading list" this summer. The quotation marks and the word makeshift are to indicate that it is a list in the loosest meaning of the term. The original notion was to read short, easy novels and to see how many I could pound through in three months. I've done four since June began: The Last Unicorn, Slaughterhouse-five, The Great Gatsby, and Joey Comeau's collection of short stories, It's Too Late to Say I'm Sorry. (I know most people either assume I re-read the top first three or are amazed I'd never read them before, but I was just finally getting around to it, okay?) The slump has already begun, however, as after The Great Gatsby I chose to read George Eliot's The Mill on the Floss. Not exactly a complex novel, but at 546 pages, it's not exactly a short one either. Just 400 more pages to go and then it's back to short, simple novels or collections of short stories. I thought about joining a book club, but I don't like being told what to read.
I don't understand summer reading lists for non-students, really. An average adult with a full-time job doesn't have more time during the summer months. If they have kids, they would probably have less time. Unless it's stictly a seasonal thing, reading "summer books." I can't quite think of what I'd consider a "summer book," though. Something like Pickwick, maybe? Something involving a romp. Something about people getting drunk and falling down.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Medieval Folklore
The more I learn about Medieval folklore the more I realize how little I know about it. When I was younger, I thought I was something because I knew who Thomas the Rhymer or Geoffrey of Monmouth was, but it wasn't until last year I learned anything about Bede and only until last night I'd read anything about the Seven Sleepers. For shame!
I suppose I ought to explain from where this complaint is originating. I began reading this morning about revenants, which, of course, led me to the works of William of Newburgh. Therein I found the tale of the Green Children of Woolpit, which led somehow--I don't rightly recall--to the Seven Sleepers. I now have a list of about five Medieval texts that I want to buy, which will amass a total of over a hundred dollars. Why are Medieval books so expensive?
Anyway, I decided to post some of the interesting stories I read today.
The first being the story of the Green Children of Woolpit. Apparently, sometime in the 12th century, two children appeared in the English town of Woolpit, Suffolk. These children were just like most children of the period, except for the small differences that they spoke an unknown language and their skin was green. Along with that, they only ate green beans. The boy died not too long after his arrival, but the girl was taught to eat other things. Her skin soon turned to the normal color and she was taught English--such as it was at the time. She was baptized and became the servant of a local knight. Her conduct was always considered rather wanton though, which tends to bring to mind the fairy folk. Speaking of the good people, while in the service of the knight, she told him that she and the boy had come from an underground land known as Saint Martin's Land, a place where everyone's skin is green. Interesting points are these: green beans are considered the food of the dead--I have yet to figure out why. Anyone with answers on that point is free to enlighten me. Second one: there is a sickness known in the older times as the green sickness. Now it is known to be an anemia that causes the patient's skin to turn green. I won't go into the explanations some people have given as I am the type to find the stories more interesting than the explanations. Moving right along.
The second story I found fascinating was the story of the martyrs known as the Seven Sleepers. Perhaps a Catholic would find this story old hat, but being raised a Baptist, I was not taught many stories of the Saints, which I see as a true shame. Regardless, the story is as follows--being in it's bare bones as in the form of the most common iteration: seven men during the reign of Emperor Decius, around 250 AD, were found to be Christians. This was, of course, when Christianity was persecuted. Decius, being the swell fellow that he was, gave all seven time to recant their error and return to paganism. When he saw that they gave their possessions to the poor and retired to a mountain cave to pray, he sealed the cave shut as punishment. Decius died in 251 and the seven men were forgotten, as martyrs were common at the time. It was not until the reign of Emperor Theodosius II--it lasted from 408 to 450, so sometime in that range--that the seven men were rediscovered. A landowner decided to open the cave, which was sealed for some reason unknown to him. Within the cave, he found seven men, all alive, sound asleep. They awoke, thinking they had only slept one day. One of the seven went down to Ephesus, the city from which they came, I believe, and was astounded to find crosses decorating the buildings, while the inhabitants were astounded to see him paying with money from two hundred years ago. The bishop of the town interviewed the men and they told him all their miraculous tale. The story is highly influential to many Medieval tales as well as many modern tales. One can clearly see similarities in Washington Irving's Rip Van Winkle and H.G. Wells' When the Sleeper Awakes and even Transformers--anyone familiar with the Last Autobot story from the comic books? Many people argue that it gave birth to the "king in the mountain" motif, though it could only be another instance of it. It also reminds me of the the story of King Herla, though that would've definitely taken influence from this story.
For those who are wondering, the king in the mountain motif is used in stories where a warrior, king, religious figure are found or said to be sleeping in some out of the way place--usually a cave in a mountain--until they are needed. Often times, the sign of their appearing is when all the birds, or only certain ones such as ravens, go extinct. Examples of these tales are King Arthur and Merlin from British folklore, Thomas the Rhymer from Scottish, Bran the Blessed from Welsh, and even William Tell from Swiss legend.
I suppose I ought to explain from where this complaint is originating. I began reading this morning about revenants, which, of course, led me to the works of William of Newburgh. Therein I found the tale of the Green Children of Woolpit, which led somehow--I don't rightly recall--to the Seven Sleepers. I now have a list of about five Medieval texts that I want to buy, which will amass a total of over a hundred dollars. Why are Medieval books so expensive?
Anyway, I decided to post some of the interesting stories I read today.
The first being the story of the Green Children of Woolpit. Apparently, sometime in the 12th century, two children appeared in the English town of Woolpit, Suffolk. These children were just like most children of the period, except for the small differences that they spoke an unknown language and their skin was green. Along with that, they only ate green beans. The boy died not too long after his arrival, but the girl was taught to eat other things. Her skin soon turned to the normal color and she was taught English--such as it was at the time. She was baptized and became the servant of a local knight. Her conduct was always considered rather wanton though, which tends to bring to mind the fairy folk. Speaking of the good people, while in the service of the knight, she told him that she and the boy had come from an underground land known as Saint Martin's Land, a place where everyone's skin is green. Interesting points are these: green beans are considered the food of the dead--I have yet to figure out why. Anyone with answers on that point is free to enlighten me. Second one: there is a sickness known in the older times as the green sickness. Now it is known to be an anemia that causes the patient's skin to turn green. I won't go into the explanations some people have given as I am the type to find the stories more interesting than the explanations. Moving right along.
The second story I found fascinating was the story of the martyrs known as the Seven Sleepers. Perhaps a Catholic would find this story old hat, but being raised a Baptist, I was not taught many stories of the Saints, which I see as a true shame. Regardless, the story is as follows--being in it's bare bones as in the form of the most common iteration: seven men during the reign of Emperor Decius, around 250 AD, were found to be Christians. This was, of course, when Christianity was persecuted. Decius, being the swell fellow that he was, gave all seven time to recant their error and return to paganism. When he saw that they gave their possessions to the poor and retired to a mountain cave to pray, he sealed the cave shut as punishment. Decius died in 251 and the seven men were forgotten, as martyrs were common at the time. It was not until the reign of Emperor Theodosius II--it lasted from 408 to 450, so sometime in that range--that the seven men were rediscovered. A landowner decided to open the cave, which was sealed for some reason unknown to him. Within the cave, he found seven men, all alive, sound asleep. They awoke, thinking they had only slept one day. One of the seven went down to Ephesus, the city from which they came, I believe, and was astounded to find crosses decorating the buildings, while the inhabitants were astounded to see him paying with money from two hundred years ago. The bishop of the town interviewed the men and they told him all their miraculous tale. The story is highly influential to many Medieval tales as well as many modern tales. One can clearly see similarities in Washington Irving's Rip Van Winkle and H.G. Wells' When the Sleeper Awakes and even Transformers--anyone familiar with the Last Autobot story from the comic books? Many people argue that it gave birth to the "king in the mountain" motif, though it could only be another instance of it. It also reminds me of the the story of King Herla, though that would've definitely taken influence from this story.
For those who are wondering, the king in the mountain motif is used in stories where a warrior, king, religious figure are found or said to be sleeping in some out of the way place--usually a cave in a mountain--until they are needed. Often times, the sign of their appearing is when all the birds, or only certain ones such as ravens, go extinct. Examples of these tales are King Arthur and Merlin from British folklore, Thomas the Rhymer from Scottish, Bran the Blessed from Welsh, and even William Tell from Swiss legend.
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