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Colonel Edmund J. Burke
Aug 2, 2016, 2:08:24 PM8/2/16
to
You mayn't believe this, but something most similar happened to your old
Colonel some fifteen years ago. We, a friend and I, found ourselves at a
local Chink eatery in late afternoon, where I ordered the Kung Pao beef
plate, a spicy stir-fry dish made with chicken, peanuts, vegetables, and
super-hawt chili peppers. I perhaps committed an injudicious snafu
when I advised our waitress to make it “hotter 'n a freshly fucked fox
in a forest fire,” though not necessary in such an accursed way. To
which she politely replied, "Kung Pao? It's already hot."
"You can't make it hot enough for me," I admonished, and told her to
pass along my advice to the kitchen.
An hour or so later found us camped out at a nearby tavern. That's when
it hit me. Thinking it only gas, I let one rip. . . . Oh, gawd
almighty, it was a fusking wet one.* That boggy sensation was
unmistakable; I had really fouled myself. I made a bee line for the
shitter, in the rear of the bar just behind the pool table. I just
couldn't stop going and going and going! Several times an incautious
soul tried entry, then hastily evacuated. The atmosphere hung like a
thick, feculent pall throughout.
Outside the shithouse a froup of patrons had assembled, apparently much
entertained by me, while at the same time horrified by the terrific odor
within, which escaped whenever the door was carelessly opened by some
unsuspecting patron.
My underpants were, obviously, a done deal, so I slipped 'em off between
shits and left 'em hanging, as a joke, on the toilet handle. Someone,
probably the owner, would deal with ‘em later. I laughed to myself a
little considering the folks who would be morally shocked and
terrifically horrified at the sight. Then I got the fuck outa there.
Needless to say, I have not had the courage to return to that particular
tavern since.
The End ;-)
*A wet fart is not in fact wet. Rather, the condition is caused by the
sphincter muscle rippling at something approximating 4x the speed of
sound. This catastrophic disruption to one’s anus causes what is known
in the medical profession as “nerve confusion.” Basically nerves around
the anus are completely shocked by said calamitous flatulence, and they
immediately begin searching for the appropriate response to send to the
brain. Pain receptors, which have been temporarily traumatized, are
certainly of no use; so the nerves reaction is either a pleasant
anesthetic tingling, or, as in 90% of these instances, a definite
sensation or feeling of wetness.
Any questions?
Colonel some fifteen years ago. We, a friend and I, found ourselves at a
local Chink eatery in late afternoon, where I ordered the Kung Pao beef
plate, a spicy stir-fry dish made with chicken, peanuts, vegetables, and
super-hawt chili peppers. I perhaps committed an injudicious snafu
when I advised our waitress to make it “hotter 'n a freshly fucked fox
in a forest fire,” though not necessary in such an accursed way. To
which she politely replied, "Kung Pao? It's already hot."
"You can't make it hot enough for me," I admonished, and told her to
pass along my advice to the kitchen.
An hour or so later found us camped out at a nearby tavern. That's when
it hit me. Thinking it only gas, I let one rip. . . . Oh, gawd
almighty, it was a fusking wet one.* That boggy sensation was
unmistakable; I had really fouled myself. I made a bee line for the
shitter, in the rear of the bar just behind the pool table. I just
couldn't stop going and going and going! Several times an incautious
soul tried entry, then hastily evacuated. The atmosphere hung like a
thick, feculent pall throughout.
Outside the shithouse a froup of patrons had assembled, apparently much
entertained by me, while at the same time horrified by the terrific odor
within, which escaped whenever the door was carelessly opened by some
unsuspecting patron.
My underpants were, obviously, a done deal, so I slipped 'em off between
shits and left 'em hanging, as a joke, on the toilet handle. Someone,
probably the owner, would deal with ‘em later. I laughed to myself a
little considering the folks who would be morally shocked and
terrifically horrified at the sight. Then I got the fuck outa there.
Needless to say, I have not had the courage to return to that particular
tavern since.
The End ;-)
*A wet fart is not in fact wet. Rather, the condition is caused by the
sphincter muscle rippling at something approximating 4x the speed of
sound. This catastrophic disruption to one’s anus causes what is known
in the medical profession as “nerve confusion.” Basically nerves around
the anus are completely shocked by said calamitous flatulence, and they
immediately begin searching for the appropriate response to send to the
brain. Pain receptors, which have been temporarily traumatized, are
certainly of no use; so the nerves reaction is either a pleasant
anesthetic tingling, or, as in 90% of these instances, a definite
sensation or feeling of wetness.
Any questions?
Ed Cryer
Aug 3, 2016, 5:06:39 PM8/3/16
to
Colonel Edmund J. Burke wrote:
............................
I don't like this. I don't like this at all.
I can see that the author is educated; knows something about literature
and how to put a story in good grammatical form. But I don't like it at all.
It stinks of modern art.
And I can't see anything more than the deconstruction technique itself;
no goal, no beauty, nothing to value. Just a brainless fool running
through the market place shouting "Look at me, look at me, I can show
you the emptiness of culture".
An unmade bed, lights flashing on and off, a rotting sheep, twelve bricks.
No. That's not art.
Art to me is like "Earthrise"; a new vision, something to make you
think, to lift you, to put a twinkling star ahead of you in the path.
Tolstoy's "Anna Karenina" is art. Leonardo's Last Supper. The Parthenon.
Sophocles' Oedipus Rex.
See the Earth rise from the moon; just a planet, fourth rock from the
sun, in a minor arm of a minor galaxy somewhere in the vastness of
space; so small, so meaningless, so worthless.
But, be that as it may, what an achievement is a human being. How
marvellous in form and invention; how noble at his best. Leonidas at
Thermopylae, Vergil writing the Aeneid, Phidias and Michelangelo, Homer
and Milton. Constructing, not deconstructing.
Ed
............................
I don't like this. I don't like this at all.
I can see that the author is educated; knows something about literature
and how to put a story in good grammatical form. But I don't like it at all.
It stinks of modern art.
And I can't see anything more than the deconstruction technique itself;
no goal, no beauty, nothing to value. Just a brainless fool running
through the market place shouting "Look at me, look at me, I can show
you the emptiness of culture".
An unmade bed, lights flashing on and off, a rotting sheep, twelve bricks.
No. That's not art.
Art to me is like "Earthrise"; a new vision, something to make you
think, to lift you, to put a twinkling star ahead of you in the path.
Tolstoy's "Anna Karenina" is art. Leonardo's Last Supper. The Parthenon.
Sophocles' Oedipus Rex.
See the Earth rise from the moon; just a planet, fourth rock from the
sun, in a minor arm of a minor galaxy somewhere in the vastness of
space; so small, so meaningless, so worthless.
But, be that as it may, what an achievement is a human being. How
marvellous in form and invention; how noble at his best. Leonidas at
Thermopylae, Vergil writing the Aeneid, Phidias and Michelangelo, Homer
and Milton. Constructing, not deconstructing.
Ed
Colonel Edmund J. Burke
Aug 4, 2016, 8:53:30 AM8/4/16
to
Ed Cryer
Aug 4, 2016, 2:19:06 PM8/4/16
to
Ed
Colonel Edmund J. Burke
Aug 4, 2016, 2:46:47 PM8/4/16
to
On 8/4/2016 11:18 AM, Ed Cryer wrote:
> Si ad pugnos veniretur, quis palmam acciperet?
Clint Eastwood wood.
> Si ad pugnos veniretur, quis palmam acciperet?
LOLK
Ed Cryer
Aug 4, 2016, 5:07:53 PM8/4/16
to
Colonel Edmund J. Burke wrote:
quidnam in illis libris inveniretur?
Aliter dicto, quidnam homines venerantur?
Ed
B. T. Raven
Aug 4, 2016, 7:18:26 PM8/4/16
to
Tibi assentior de re ipsa sed nonne et Poggius Bracciolini et Franciscus
Rabelais studiosiores erant rerum rusticarum? Alius Ed noster (quod
caput rei est) autem de his rebus Latine disserere non valet.
Ceterum, nonne Latinius dicere "quidnam in illis libris inveniretur?
> Aliter dictUM, quidnam homines veneraTI ESSENT?
Ed Cryer
Aug 5, 2016, 8:38:34 AM8/5/16
to
Venerantur quia etiam nunc tales sumus homines. Natura enim humana eadem
est nobiscum sicut cum antiquis Romanis erat. Quid, quaeris, mutatur per
tempus? In quo situs est progressus?
Scimus plus.
Oh, and what's wrong with ablative absolute "aliter dicto"?
Ed
Colonel Edmund J. Burke
Aug 5, 2016, 8:52:26 AM8/5/16
to
Checkmate, DoW #1
Aug 5, 2016, 3:42:00 PM8/5/16
to
In article <d_%oz.7272$_D4...@fx07.iad>, burke...@t-girls.com
says...
Itkum spiri, 2-2-0
--
Checkmate, AUK DoW #1, Official Ko0K Wrangler
AUK Hammer of Thor award, Feb. 2012 (Pre-Burnore)
Destroyer of the AUK Ko0k Vote (Post-Burnore)
Originator of the "Dance for me" (tm) lame
Copyright © 2016
all rights reserved
says...
--
Checkmate, AUK DoW #1, Official Ko0K Wrangler
AUK Hammer of Thor award, Feb. 2012 (Pre-Burnore)
Destroyer of the AUK Ko0k Vote (Post-Burnore)
Originator of the "Dance for me" (tm) lame
Copyright © 2016
all rights reserved
B. T. Raven
Aug 6, 2016, 4:38:54 PM8/6/16
to
On 8/5/2016 07:37, Ed Cryer wrote:
> B. T. Raven wrote:
[...]
> B. T. Raven wrote:
>>>
>>> Si ad hoc veniretur quam diu quidam libri inter homines versarentur,
>>> quidnam in illis libris inveniretur?
>>> Aliter dicto, quidnam homines venerantur?
>>>
>>> Ed
>>>
>>>
>>
>> Edus Edo euax dicit:
>>
>> Tibi assentior de re ipsa sed nonne et Poggius Bracciolini et Franciscus
>> Rabelais studiosiores erant rerum rusticarum? Alius Ed noster (quod
>> caput rei est) autem de his rebus Latine disserere non valet.
>>
>> Ceterum, nonne Latinius dicere "quidnam in illis libris inveniretur?
>>> Aliter dictUM, quidnam homines veneraTI ESSENT?
>>
>>
>
> I have to take issue with your comments.
> Venerantur quia etiam nunc tales sumus homines. Natura enim humana eadem
> est nobiscum sicut cum antiquis Romanis erat. Quid, quaeris, mutatur per
> tempus? In quo situs est progressus?
> Scimus plus.
>
> Oh, and what's wrong with ablative absolute "aliter dicto"?
>
> Ed
sentence so that you can't refer back to it later on. That's why I made
it more like an apposition.
I made it 'venerati essent' only to parallel the line above where you had:
quidnam in illis libris inveniretur?
Aliter dicto, quidnam homines venerantur?
(imperfect subjunctive and then present)
Aliter dicto, quidnam homines venerantur?
As to the immutability of human nature, the physical anthropologists, at
least, haven't been able to detect any substantive change in the last
10,000 years. Cultures have changed a lot, possibly in order to keep the
species as a whole immune to organic evolution.
Here is the poet's take on the question:
"
... the first riddle of the universe:
asking, when is a man not a man?: telling them take their time,
yungfries, and wait till the tide stops (for from the first his day
was a fortnight) and offering the prize of a bittersweet crab, a
little present from the past, for their copper age was yet un-
minted, to the winner. One said when the heavens are quakers,
a second said when Bohemeand lips, a third said when he, no,
when hold hard a jiffy, when he is a gnawstick and detarmined
to, the next one said when the angel of death kicks the bucket
of life, still another said when the wine's at witsends, and still
another when lovely wooman stoops to conk him, one of the
littliest said me, me, Sem, when pappa papared the harbour, one
of the wittiest said, when he yeat ye abblokooken and he zmear
hezelf zo zhooken, still one said when you are old I'm grey fall
full wi sleep, and still another when wee deader walkner, and
another when he is just only after having being semisized, an-
other when yea, he hath no mananas, and one when dose pigs
they begin now that they will flies up intil the looft. All were
wrong, so Shem himself, the doctator, took the cake, the correct
solution being — all give it up? — ; when he is a — yours till
the rending of the rocks, Sham.
Shem was a sham and a low sham ....
Eduardus
Ed Cryer
Aug 7, 2016, 7:39:14 AM8/7/16
to
can't make head or tail of it. And yet I've heard learned men praise JJ
to the skies.
No, I have twice tackled Ulysses; and given up. I did once embark on FW,
and have never had the heart to peep into it even once more.
It's nice to speculate how far back we can claim "homo sapiens". An
anthropologist I once listened to on TV talking about some footprints
preserved in rock said "If you came face to face with this creature and
looked into his eyes, you wouldn't feel him to be human". Well, quite
frankly I've met creatures like that in my home town. And they were
dressed in designer clothing, walking upright.
I comfort myself with Wittgenstein's beetle in a box analogy, even
though on my grave you might see "Educated, but not sufficiently well
enough to understand James Joyce".
Ed
P.S. Epitaph rewrite;
Here lies young Ed
Who was alive but is now dead.
Well versed in words but not enough
To understand James Joyce's stuff.
Colonel Edmund J. Burke
Aug 7, 2016, 9:41:21 AM8/7/16
to
Tannic acid Burns
The following field treatment for burns relieves the pain somewhat,
seems to help speed healing, and offers some protection against infection:
Obtain: boiling acorns, tea, inner bark of hardwood trees.
Make dressings by boiling rags or dressings in solution for 10 minutes.
Tannic acid also helps to stop diarrhea.
Tannic acid aids in clotting blood.
The following field treatment for burns relieves the pain somewhat,
seems to help speed healing, and offers some protection against infection:
Obtain: boiling acorns, tea, inner bark of hardwood trees.
Make dressings by boiling rags or dressings in solution for 10 minutes.
Tannic acid also helps to stop diarrhea.
Tannic acid aids in clotting blood.
B. T. Raven
Aug 7, 2016, 11:51:01 AM8/7/16
to
On 8/7/2016 06:38, Ed Cryer wrote:
[....]
>
> With James Joyce I throw in the towel. It's all so alien to me, and I
> can't make head or tail of it. And yet I've heard learned men praise JJ
> to the skies.
>
> No, I have twice tackled Ulysses; and given up. I did once embark on FW,
> and have never had the heart to peep into it even once more.
>
> It's nice to speculate how far back we can claim "homo sapiens". An
> anthropologist I once listened to on TV talking about some footprints
> preserved in rock said "If you came face to face with this creature and
> looked into his eyes, you wouldn't feel him to be human". Well, quite
> frankly I've met creatures like that in my home town. And they were
> dressed in designer clothing, walking upright.
>
> I comfort myself with Wittgenstein's beetle in a box analogy, even
> though on my grave you might see "Educated, but not sufficiently well
> enough to understand James Joyce".
>
> Ed
>
> P.S. Epitaph rewrite;
> Here lies young Ed
> Who was alive but is now dead.
> Well versed in words but not enough
> To understand James Joyce's stuff.
>
>
>
Ecce tibi primas lineas in sermonem Latinum redditas, fortasse
facilius intellectu:
"
Augustus et pinguis Mas Mulligan de statinis scalarum vēnit, capedinem
ferens spuma saponis plenam super qua decussata speculum et novacula
posita sunt. Synthesina vestis crocea discincta, pone eum leniter aura
molli matutina sustinebatur. Sublime capedinem sustulit modulans:
—-_Introibo ad altare Dei_.
Subsistens, per scalas obscuras sinuantes intuitus est et aspere
vociferatus est:
— Ascende, Kintsj! Ascende tu, jesuita tremende!
Solemniter accessit scandens pulvinum rotundum tormenti. Conversus, ter
benedixit satis graviter turri, terrae circumiacenti, montibus
expergiscentibus. Tum, Stephanum Dedalus conspiciens, in hunc se
inclinans, signa crucis nonnulla in aëre fecit, murmura gargarizans,
caput quatiens. Stephanus Dedalus, somnolentus et vexatus, bracchiis in
epimedion nixis, frigide contemplatus est agitatum illum vultum
gargarizantem qui ei benedixit, equina longitudine, tectum capillis
claris sine tonsura, striatum colore quercus pallidi.
Mas Mulligan brevi sub speculo intuitus est, tum capedinem alacriter
obtexit.
— Rursum ad castra stativa! severe fatur.
Cui more praedicatoris addidit:
— Nam hoc, fratres dilecti, Christina genuinast: corpus et anima et
sanguis et vulnera. Cantetur musica lenta, amabo. Oculos claudite,
nobiles. Manedum. Quid heic difficile accidit cum corpusculis albis.
Silentium, omnes.
Limis oculis intuitus est caelum editque longum sibilum lentum, tum
moratur attento animo, dentibus hic illic punctis auratis radiantibus.
Chrysostomos. Per aera tranquillum duo sibili responderunt.
— Gratias ago, commilito, impigre exclamavit. Satis bene factum. Rumpe,
sis, vim electricam.
De pulvino tormenti desilit et severe observatorem suum intuitus est,
sinus laxos synthesis circum crura colligens. Vultus nitidus in umbra
necnon maxilla morosa ovata animo retulit praelatum, patronum artium in
aevo medio. Risus lentus jucundus in labris illuxit.
— Utique ludibrio mihi! laetus fatur. Nomen illud tuum ridiculum Graeci
antiqui! Digito monstravit benevole ioculans et loricam adambulat secum
ridens. Stephanus Dedalus sursum gressus est, defessus alterum dimidio
cursu secutus est, consedit in margine pulvini tormenti, usque alterum
intuens qui speculum in lorica nititur, penicillum in capedinem
immersit, genasque iugulumque spuma illevit. ....
"
E.Q.S.
Eduardus
>
>
>
[....]
>
> With James Joyce I throw in the towel. It's all so alien to me, and I
> can't make head or tail of it. And yet I've heard learned men praise JJ
> to the skies.
>
> No, I have twice tackled Ulysses; and given up. I did once embark on FW,
> and have never had the heart to peep into it even once more.
>
> It's nice to speculate how far back we can claim "homo sapiens". An
> anthropologist I once listened to on TV talking about some footprints
> preserved in rock said "If you came face to face with this creature and
> looked into his eyes, you wouldn't feel him to be human". Well, quite
> frankly I've met creatures like that in my home town. And they were
> dressed in designer clothing, walking upright.
>
> I comfort myself with Wittgenstein's beetle in a box analogy, even
> though on my grave you might see "Educated, but not sufficiently well
> enough to understand James Joyce".
>
> Ed
>
> P.S. Epitaph rewrite;
> Here lies young Ed
> Who was alive but is now dead.
> Well versed in words but not enough
> To understand James Joyce's stuff.
>
>
>
facilius intellectu:
"
Augustus et pinguis Mas Mulligan de statinis scalarum vēnit, capedinem
ferens spuma saponis plenam super qua decussata speculum et novacula
posita sunt. Synthesina vestis crocea discincta, pone eum leniter aura
molli matutina sustinebatur. Sublime capedinem sustulit modulans:
—-_Introibo ad altare Dei_.
Subsistens, per scalas obscuras sinuantes intuitus est et aspere
vociferatus est:
— Ascende, Kintsj! Ascende tu, jesuita tremende!
Solemniter accessit scandens pulvinum rotundum tormenti. Conversus, ter
benedixit satis graviter turri, terrae circumiacenti, montibus
expergiscentibus. Tum, Stephanum Dedalus conspiciens, in hunc se
inclinans, signa crucis nonnulla in aëre fecit, murmura gargarizans,
caput quatiens. Stephanus Dedalus, somnolentus et vexatus, bracchiis in
epimedion nixis, frigide contemplatus est agitatum illum vultum
gargarizantem qui ei benedixit, equina longitudine, tectum capillis
claris sine tonsura, striatum colore quercus pallidi.
Mas Mulligan brevi sub speculo intuitus est, tum capedinem alacriter
obtexit.
— Rursum ad castra stativa! severe fatur.
Cui more praedicatoris addidit:
— Nam hoc, fratres dilecti, Christina genuinast: corpus et anima et
sanguis et vulnera. Cantetur musica lenta, amabo. Oculos claudite,
nobiles. Manedum. Quid heic difficile accidit cum corpusculis albis.
Silentium, omnes.
Limis oculis intuitus est caelum editque longum sibilum lentum, tum
moratur attento animo, dentibus hic illic punctis auratis radiantibus.
Chrysostomos. Per aera tranquillum duo sibili responderunt.
— Gratias ago, commilito, impigre exclamavit. Satis bene factum. Rumpe,
sis, vim electricam.
De pulvino tormenti desilit et severe observatorem suum intuitus est,
sinus laxos synthesis circum crura colligens. Vultus nitidus in umbra
necnon maxilla morosa ovata animo retulit praelatum, patronum artium in
aevo medio. Risus lentus jucundus in labris illuxit.
— Utique ludibrio mihi! laetus fatur. Nomen illud tuum ridiculum Graeci
antiqui! Digito monstravit benevole ioculans et loricam adambulat secum
ridens. Stephanus Dedalus sursum gressus est, defessus alterum dimidio
cursu secutus est, consedit in margine pulvini tormenti, usque alterum
intuens qui speculum in lorica nititur, penicillum in capedinem
immersit, genasque iugulumque spuma illevit. ....
"
E.Q.S.
Eduardus
>
>
>
Ed Cryer
Aug 7, 2016, 5:11:56 PM8/7/16
to
Try putting this into Latin;
"And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it.
Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.
Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own
cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that,
invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his
brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second
bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard
(now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong."
Ed
Will Parsons
Aug 7, 2016, 8:38:18 PM8/7/16
to
On Sunday, 7 Aug 2016 5:10 PM -0400, Ed Cryer wrote:
> ...
never tried.
--
Will
> ...
> I got well past that, man.
>
> Try putting this into Latin;
> "And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it.
> Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.
> Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own
> cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that,
> invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his
> brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second
> bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard
> (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong."
I've never actually read _Ulysses_, and from that excerpt, I'm glad I
>
> Try putting this into Latin;
> "And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it.
> Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.
> Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own
> cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that,
> invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his
> brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second
> bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard
> (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong."
never tried.
--
Will
Ed Cryer
Aug 8, 2016, 10:33:59 AM8/8/16
to
Molly's soliloquy at the end of Ulysses. He was trying to depict "human
experience"; to get away from what you might call the God's Eye point of
view in Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Dickens, Jane Austen etc. I'm not sure if
he'd have used the modern terminology of "stream of consciousness". But
if he had I think he failed miserably.
Consciousness is focused normally, highly selective. It filters all
perceptual input, being a "stream" in that it follows a channel carved
out by previous experience against the contours of the land.
Consciousness tells a story. Consciousness evolved to aid survival, not
to be brilliant at finding truth and reality. Truth and reality take
second place to survival for consciousness.
Run a camera down a road; show the film to an invited audience; ask them
one by one to say what's going on; and you'll get different stories.
Stories prejudiced by their current preoccupations, needs, fears and
loves. We don't see it all. I suspect that the perceptual input does
enter the eyes and ears as a mass, but the human brain filters it.
And if you were to say "Well, some geniuses see it all; maybe Einstein
did, or Leonardo da Vinci"; I'd disagree. They may have been more open
to it all, have opened larger parts of their brains than most, but they
came equipped with a cerebrum humanum, nature's most complex product but
still a "product".
Joyce's jumbled mess of input must be how a baby experiences its world;
chaos. Maybe a Dublin drunk does, or someone coming out of
unconsciousness into consciousness, or someone totally exhausted who
hasn't slept for a week.
Have you ever stood on the top of a mountain and tuned in to nature? Or
stood on a Scottish fell and tuned in? Well, I have. And what happens is
something like this.
Firstly I swing around in a 360° circle, and I see the breeze ruffling
the heather, hear a distant hum of traffic, but soon a lapwing grabs my
attention moving around on the ground. I realize I must be getting near
its nest and it's doing its "guide me away" behaviour. And if I persist
in trying "Try, try, Ed; don't filter it; just imbibe it all" it's back
to a general hum of meaningless background.
Beyond that, I can project myself upwards into the sky and look down on
where I am; as if I were seeing it from space, from an aeroplane or
Google Earth. But I realize that my experience has given me the concepts
for doing that, just as more intelligent people can empathise with
others better, see their point of view, so can we project ourselves
mentally into their shoes.
Ed
Here's a nice example of what our brains do for us. Read this Lewis
Carroll poem. And then tell me you can't make head or tail of it. Our
brains find meaning even when the words have none.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
B. T. Raven
Aug 9, 2016, 8:54:38 AM8/9/16
to
On 8/7/2016 16:10, Ed Cryer wrote:
>
> I got well past that, man.
>
> Try putting this into Latin;
> "And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it.
> Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.
> Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own
> cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that,
> invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his
> brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second
> bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard
> (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong."
>
> Ed
Et eodem momento fortasse sacerdos circum angulum viae calicem
>
> I got well past that, man.
>
> Try putting this into Latin;
> "And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it.
> Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.
> Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own
> cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that,
> invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his
> brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second
> bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard
> (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong."
>
> Ed
(ostenstorium, hostiam) attollit. Tintin tintin! Et duabus viis stratis
distans alter eam in pyxide claudit. Tintin tintin! Et in capella
Dominae nostrae tertius Corpus Christi in bucca sua comedit. Tintin
tintin! Deorsum, sursum, vorsum, rursum. Dominus Occam id cogitavit,
doctor invictus. Quodam mane nebuloso Anglicano cerebrum eius titillavit
daemon hypostasis. Hostiam suam deferens, genuflectens, sonum sensit
circumplexum tintinnabuli secundi sui una cum sono primo aeris
campanulae in transaepto capso ecclesiae (sursum attollit suam) et,
surgens, sensit (nunc ego tollo) duas eorum campanulas (genibus nititur
ille) bombire in diphthongum.
Of course it loses a lot in translation for many reasons. It is as
impossbile to reproduce the echo of 'twine' and 'twang' as it would be
to make an English translation of Latin poetry do the same. The apparent
unintelligibility is due to the excerpt being isolated from it's
context. Also the literary device of stream-of-consciouseness is
completely alien to the Latin literary tradition. The key to the passage
you cite is in the paragraph above (a much more difficult interpretive
crux):
see him me clambering down to the footpace
(_descende_!), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed.
So the 'it' in " is elevating it." is the body of Christ in the mass and
the telegraphic description of the ritual is a reprise suggested by the
word monstrance of the previous paragraph. See the narrative technique
(first consciously used about the middle of the 19th century:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stream_of_consciousness_(narrative_mode)
a prominent feature of which is the regular alternation of 'I' and 'you'
when referring to the self in an interior monologue. The physical
fictional context is the shore of the Irish sea along which Stephen is
walking back to Dublin from his uncle's house.
Eduardus
B. T. Raven
Aug 9, 2016, 8:59:38 AM8/9/16
to
them if you're interested.
As to Joyce, he is certainly the most influential (in peius aut melius)
novelist of the 20th century and not only in English. Whether he
deserves all the praise heaped on him it's too early to tell. As
Augustine said "Securus iudicat orbis terrarum."
Eduardus
Ed Cryer
Aug 9, 2016, 11:26:57 AM8/9/16
to
John Steinbeck
Evelyn Waugh
George Orwell
William Golding
Jack Kerouac
Joseph Conrad
Ernest Hemingway
This reminds me of Aristophanes' "The Frogs" where Euripides arrives in
Hades and challenges Aeschylus for best tragic poet. They finally bring
on a giant scale and each has to quote his heftiest lines into one pan.
The judgement of Dionysus is that Euripides gives cleverly worded but
essentially meaningless answers while Aeschylus provides more practical
advice. So A wins.
Ed
Ed Cryer
Aug 10, 2016, 8:11:37 AM8/10/16
to
English, and one for putting it into Latin.
I've read that the book consists of episodes to parallel Homer's
Odyssey. Lots of sea-side.
Does knowing the Odyssey help?
Ed
B. T. Raven
Aug 10, 2016, 11:52:14 AM8/10/16
to
course scores (maybe even hundreds) of parallels but _Ulysses_ is not an
epic but a novel, and Bloom is more of an anti-hero than a hero.
Ditto for everyone else in Dublin: Stephen = Telemachus but not really
Bloom's son, Molly = Penelope but a faithful wife, etc.
Anyway, I untangled the surrounding context a little too much. After
doing the translation I read a few more pages before and after the
excerpt you suggested and I found that Stephen didn't really visit his
uncle but only imagined what it would have been like if he had. The
mini-drama (shown by -- and oratio recta) are just more interior monologue.
As an excuse for my faulty interpretation I can only offer the fact that
I haven't reread that part of the novel for a few years now.
Eduardus
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