Plus my only natural talent's wasted

[sovay]

I sat down to write up this weekend and the bits and pieces of news that I've been reminding myself to report since last Thursday, but my brain has gone to slurry.* Consequently, I am forced to fall back on other people's brains for my entertainment. Don't let me down here.

So. I saw this done once with icons. If you want to comment on this post, you must do so in quotation. If you want to respond to a comment, you must do so in quotation. Prose, poetry, film, television, song lyrics, academic criticism, all are fair game; the language is likewise left to your discretion, although I cannot promise that you won't be asked to provide translations. Neither will I stipulate that you must be able to identify the quotation to which you are responding, although more power to you if you can. Quote characters who are already speaking in quotation, if you feel like it.** Now watch a total radio silence fall.

"Is anybody there?" said the Traveler . . .

*I blame this partly on the fact that I'm reading what must be the perkiest whaler's journal ever. A sample entry: December 10. Saturday. Set in, bright & beautiful! 9 AM raised "Right Whales!!!!!" Lowered! The Larboard Boat went on & struck a fine one! He tried hard to get away but the lance "hurt his feelings" and in consequence, he was a dead whale at 22 AM!! 3 PM Cut in. 7 PM Boiling! You think I'm making those exclamation points up.

**And if you are Pamela Dean, you should properly be started with a handicap . . .

Comments

Pray, what authors should she read who in Classics would succeed?

[zdenka]

If you'd climb the Helicon,
you must read Anacreon,
Ovid's Metamorphoses,
likewise Aristophanes
and the works of Juvenal --
these are worth attention, all.

[sovay]

I can write a washing-bill in Babylonic cuneiform . . .

[zdenka]

On each of us thy learning shed,
on calculus may we be fed,
and teach us please to speak with ease
all languages, alive and dead.

[larryhammer]

For God's sake hold your tongues and let me love.

[zdenka]

Love ye who list, I force him not.

[larryhammer]

But every modern god will now extend
His vast prerogative as far as Jove.
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
All is the purlieu of the god of love.

[sovay]

I cant help it. When you strike that noble attitude and speak in that thrilling voice, I admire you; but I find it impossible to believe a single word you say.

[larryhammer]

Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truths, and fables histories.

[sovay]

. . . Bravo. Is that
A world you've got there, hidden under your hat?

[larryhammer]

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.

[sovay]

It's more an exercise than anything else. My abstract course is set.

[larryhammer]

Love’s not so pure, and abstract as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their Muse.

[zdenka]

Quid, si praeripiat flavae Venus arma Minervae,
ventilet accensas flava Minerva faces?
Quis probet in silvis Cererem regnare iugosis
lege pharetratae virginis arva coli?
Crinibus insignem quis acuta cuspide Phoebum
instruat, Aoniam Marte moventeque lyram?
Sunt tibi magna, puer, nimiumque potentia regna:
cur opus adfectas ambitiose novum?

[very loose translation follows:]

What if Minerva stole the torch
That kindles lovers' rages,
While Venus donned her flashing helm
And shook the dreadful aegis?

Who would send Ceres to the woods
With bow and quiver laden,
Or let the fields be tended by
The quiver-bearing maiden?

Should Phoebus, with his flowing locks,
To shield and spear aspire,
And Mars apply his warlike hands
To Phoebus' graceful lyre?

Your kingdoms, boy, are great enough;
There's no need to extend them . . .

[sovay]

Old and younger Gods are buried or begotten
From uprising to downsetting of thy sun,
Risen from eastward, fallen to westward and forgotten,
And their springs are many, but their end is one.
Divers births of godheads find one death appointed,
As the soul whence each was born makes room for each;
God by God goes out, discrowned and disanointed,
But the soul stands fast that gave them shape and speech.

[zdenka]

O Gods dethroned and deceased, cast forth, wiped out in a day,
From your wrath is the world released, redeemed from your chains, men say.
New Gods are crowned in the city; their flowers have broken your rods;
They are merciful, clothed with pity, the young compassionate Gods.
But for me their new device is barren, the days are bare;
Things long past over suffice, and men forgotten that were.

[sovay]

dimitto superos; summa uotorum attigi.

Forget the gods; I have reached my own prayers' height.

[zdenka]

Erige mihi templum dei quem observare possum; sit necne nihil refert.

Build me a temple to a god I can respect; it doesn't matter whether he exists or not.

[sovay]

It doesn't have a proper name. It's a tongue of the dead, that's all.

[zdenka]

As winter starlings riding on their wings
form crowded flocks, so spirits dip and veer
foundering in the wind's rough buffetings,
upward or downward, driven here and there
with never ease from pain nor hope of rest.
As chanting cranes will form a line in air,
so I saw souls come uttering cries -- wind-tossed,
and lofted by the storm.

E come li stornei ne portan l'ali
nel freddo tempo, a schiera larga e piena,
cosi quel fiato li spiriti mali
di qua, di la, di giu, di su li mena;
nulla speranza li conforta mai,
non che di posa, ma di minor pena.
E come i gru van cantando lor lai,
faccendo in aere di se lunga riga,
cosi vid' io venir, traendo guai,
ombre portate da la detta briga . . .

[sovay]

Their voices, dying as they fly,
Thick on the wind are sown;
The names of men blow soundless by,
My fellows' and my own.

[zdenka]

'My lord, come nearer, listen to our story!
Conquer your indignation and your pride.'

But he gave no reply and turned away,
following other ghosts toward Erebos.
Who knows if in that darkness he might still
have spoken, and I answered?

[sovay]

We're each of us alone, to be sure. What can you do but hold your hand out in the dark?

[zdenka]

Solitaire en ce lieu sombre,
la terreur emplit mon âme.
Toute l'ombre qui environne
est semblable á la mort.

Alone in this dark place,
terror fills my soul.
All the shadows that surround me
seem to resemble death.

[sovay]

. . . I thought I knew what Persephone must have felt after she ate those pomegranate seeds; and was then surprised by a sudden rush of sympathy for the dour King of Hell.

[zdenka]

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
crowned with calm leaves, she stands
who gathers all things mortal
with cold immortal hands.