Objective Observer, my foot!

I'm reading Winston Churchill's History of the English Speaking Peoples and finding that, regardless of anything, I'm loyal to jolly old England (at least so far-I suppose that'll change when the US comes on the scene.) Anyway, I can't help but wonder at how different the world would look to me if I were raised in France, or Italy, or Russia, or anywhere but here.

I suppose it's the same thing that goes on during the Olympics. I still want the US to win. I don't think I could help it if I tried. I can despise our government, hate our stupidity, look down on most of our citizens, but I couldn't really hate the whole thing if I tried. And if I was in a foreign country for an extended period of time, I don't suppose much would make happier than meeting another American. Funny how that works.

There was certainly a bit of arrogance in the Renaissance that was so quick to dub the years preceding it the "Middle Ages" as if everything was leading up to the time directly following them and there's a similar arrogance in so-called postmodernism. How do we know that this is where things are going? In any case I would be surprised if future generations think the line between modern and postmodern is a bit blurry or perhaps non-existent, since today all the years through the 17th century are often cavalierly lumped together into the Middle Ages.

A Song - Thomas Carew

This is a convenient place for dumping poems I like so I don't forget them.

A Song

ASK me no more where Jove bestows,

When June is past, the fading rose ;
For in your beauty's orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day ;
For in pure love heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale, when May is past ;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

Ask me no more where those stars 'light,
That downwards fall in dead of night ;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.

Ask me no more if east or west
The phoenix builds her spicy nest ;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

"'How wonderful,' says the poet, 'is Death, Death and his brother Sleep!' And having asked whether Ianthe will wake again and being assured that she will, he proceeds to weave many beautiful thoughts about Ianthe's sleep. From this we may fairly deduce that he (like Henry who kneeled in silence by her couch) felt tenderly toward Ianthe. For another person's sleep is the acid test to our own sentiments. Unless we are savages we react kindly to death, whether of friend or enemy. It does not exasperate us; it does not tempt us to throw things at it; we do not find it funny. Death is the ultimate weakness, and we dare not insult it. But sleep is only the illusion of weakness and, unless it appeals to our protective instincts, is likely to arouse in us a nasty, bullying spirit. From a height of conscious superiority we look down on the sleeper, thus exposing himself in all his frailty, and indulge in derisive comment on his appearance, his manners and (if the occasion is a public one) the absurdity of the position in which he has placed his companion, if he has one, and particularly if we are that companion." -Dorothy Sayers, Gaudy Night

Anglicans have more fun

It is often a lot of fun to read a book by an Anglican/Episcopalian author (Dorothy Sayers' books, or even Jan Karon's Mitford series) because liturgy ends up in the mouths of the characters. Occasionally I even recognize it because we sometimes use the same prayers in our church, although I'm sure an actual Anglican would catch more references. Anyway it gives one the feeling of a sort of "in-joke" as well as making one see that, since they have scripture and prayer always on the tip of their tongue (no matter how interesting the application must be) that liturgy cannot be all bad.

A quote from (the fictional) Lord Peter Wimsey: "I have the most ill-regulated memory. It does those things which it ought not to do and leaves undone that which it ought to have done. But it has not yet gone on strike altogether."

The italicized portion is adapted from a prayer of confession. Typing it out, after the last 'done,' I nearly typed 'And there is no health in us.' which is what comes next.

For pondering

I'm currently reading the book Original Sin by P. D. James. It's a mystery novel and a good one at that. James is brilliant really. She brings out human misery so naturally; I'd have to say she's got a very good grasp of the human condition really. Anyway, a paragraph about belief that caught my eye, this from the perspective of a Jewish police officer.

"His mother, of course, would never bring herself to say, 'I don't care whether you believe or disbelieve, I want you to be here with us on the Sabbath. I want you to be seen in the synagogue with your father and brother.' And it wasn't intellectual dishonesty, although he tried to tell himself that it was. You could argue that few adherents of any religion believed all the dogma of their faith except the fundamentalists and, God knew, they were a bloody sight more dangerous than any non-believer. God knew. How natural it was an how universal to slip into the language of faith. And perhaps his mother was right, although she would never bring herself to speak the truth. The outward forms were important. To practice religion wasn't only a matter of intellectual assent. To be seen in synagogue was to proclaim: This is where I stand, these are my people, these are the values by which I try to live, this is what generations of my forebears have made me, this is what I am. He remembered his grandfather's words, spoken to him after his bar mitzvah: 'What is a Jew without his belief? What Hitler could not do to us shall we do to ourselves?' The old resentments welled up. A Jew wasn't even allowed his atheism. Burdened with guilt from childhood, he couldn't reject his faith without feeling the need to apologize to the God he no longer believed in. It was always there at the back of his mind, silent witness of his apostasy, that moving army of naked humanity, the young, the middle-aged, the elderly, flowing like a dark tide into the gas chambers."