People Should Read More...#4

From Norman Maclean's wonderful book A River Runs Through It (also a great movie, by the way). The book is the story of Norman's family, growing up in rural Montana in the early 1900's. The interactions of Norman, his brother and his father (a Scottish preacher) are set against the backdrop of fly fishing in Montana's rivers and streams.

I was reminded of the beauty of this novella when I went out at lunchtime to quickly browse a used book store near work. I was lucky to find a nice hardback copy of the 1989 woodcut edition of the book, which can now replace the paperback on my shelf (I am a sucker for hardbacks, especially of books I really like, and have no problem with buying another copy of a book I already have, as was the case here - and the fact that it was $3 didn't hurt...).

The opening:

In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing. We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told us about Christ's disciples being fishermen, and we were left to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.

The final passages:

Now nearly all those that I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn't. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters.

It still gives me a chill every time I read this.

People Should Read More...#3

From The Song is You (page 246, hardback edition).

"One November dawn, Julian came upon a basset hound sitting on a bench on the Promenade, staring out at Manhattan. A few joggers in winter caps and Lycra pants bounded by, but no one seemed to be with the long dog and his heavy ears. It sat on the bench and watched the sky lighten across the East River, watched the city awaken to the day. At some signal that escaped Julian, the hound began to bay at the towers, calling New York to order. This struck Julian as quite exactly how he behaved as well: thinking his voice mattered, content to imagine himself ruling the world around him, never noticing that the world would tick along with or without his howling. He had become, at some point, a ridiculous person, though he couldn't say just when it happened."

I feel like that sometimes.

People Should Read More...#2

"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right; snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."


James Joyce, The Dead (final paragraph), 1916. One of the most hauntingly beautiful passages I have ever read.


Tomorrow, back to hobby stuff. I spent some time today laying out the armies for Fall In. At a minimum, I'll take and post some pictures.

People Should Read More...#1

After getting out of school, where people are forced to read some poetry as part of various English classes, I would venture to guess that maybe 1 in 1,000 people, probably less, actually read any poetry at any time later in life. (I am in the 999 by the way). That is a shame, as there is a lot of really wonderful stuff out there...

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, If God choose,
I shall love thee better after death.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sonnets from the Portugese XLIII

Think about it. "I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach". And "I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life!" We should all be this fortunate.
---

Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Robert Frost
Nothing Gold Can Stay

And some are just beautiful in their simplicity.