The preface to the Conan Doyle collection I discovered yesterday (The Horror of the Heights & Other Tales of Suspense, reprinted in 1992 by Chronicle Books) is an excerpt from his Through the Magic Door (1907), which I'm apparently going to have to read in full very soon. The first paragraphs, I thought, are well worth quoting here:
"I care not how humble your bookshelf may be, nor how lowly the room which it adorns. Close the door of that room behind you, shut off with it all the cares of the outer world, plunge back into the soothing company of the great dead, and then you are through the magic portal into that fair land whither worry and vexation can follow you no more. You have left all that is vulgar and all that is sordid behind you. There stand your noble, silent comrades, waiting in their ranks. Pass your eye down their files. Choose your man. And then you have but to hold up your hand to him and away you go together into dreamland. Surely there would be something eerie about a line of books were it not that familiarity has deadened our sense of it. Each is a mummified soul embalmed in cere-cloth and natron of leather and printer's ink. Each cover of a true book enfolds the concentrated essence of a man. The personalities of the writers have faded into the thinnest shadows, as their bodies into impalpable dust, yet here are their very spirits at your command.
It is our familiarity also which has lessened our perception of the miraculous good fortune which we enjoy. Let us suppose that we were suddenly to learn that Shakespeare had returned to earth, and that he would favour any of us with an hour of his wit and his fancy. How eagerly we would seek him out! And yet we have him---the very best of him---at our elbows from week to week, and hardly trouble ourselves to put out our hands to beckon him down. No matter what mood a man may be in, when once he has passed through the magic door he can summon the world's greatest to sympathize with him in it. If he be thoughtful, here are the kings of thought. If he be dreamy, here are the masters of fancy. Or is it amusement that he lacks? He can signal to any one of the world's great story-tellers, and out comes the dead man and holds him enthralled by the hour. The dead are such good company that one may come to think too little of the living. It is a real and a pressing danger with many of us, that we should never find our own thoughts and our own souls, but be ever obsessed by the dead. Yet second-hand romance and second-hand emotion are surely better than the dull, soul-killing monotony which life brings to most of the human race. But best of all when the dead man's wisdom and strength in the living of our own strenuous days.
Come through the magic door with me, and sit here on the green settee, where you can see the old oak case with its untidy lines of volumes. Smoking is not forbidden. Would you care to hear me talk of them? Well, I ask nothing better, for there is no volume there which is not a dear, personal friend, and what can a man talk of more pleasantly than that? The other books are over yonder, but these are my own favourites ---the ones I care to re-read and to have near my elbow. There is not a tattered cover which does not bring its mellow memories to me."
Showing posts with label Quotes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Quotes. Show all posts
Friday, July 11, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
On Patriots' Day
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
Ralph Waldo Emerson's "Concord Hymn," sung on 4 July 1837 at a ceremony marking the dedication of the memorial Obelisk at Concord. Saturday was the 233d anniversary of the battles of Lexington and Concord, which we celebrate in Massachusetts today as Patriots' Day.
Friday, April 11, 2008
On Criticism
I'm currently reading Matthew Lewis' 1794 novel The Monk, one of the most popular of the early gothic novels (and by far the most scandalous). I'll have a full review up when I finish it, but did want to post an interesting excerpt (from Chapter 2 of Volume II) regarding authorship and literary criticism.
In the scene, the Marquis de las Cisternas discovers his young page, Theodore, hard at work writing poetry. Upon reading the lad's verses, the Marquis opines:
"... I was going to say, that you cannot employ your time worse than in making verses. An Author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an Animal whom every body is privileged to attack; For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own punishment, contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails upon its Author a thousand mortifications. He finds himself assailed by partial and ill-humoured Criticism: One Man finds fault with the plan, Another with the style, a Third with the precept, which it strives to inculcate; and they who cannot succeed in finding fault with the Book, employ themselves in stigmatizing its Author. They maliciously rake out from obscurity every little circumstance, which may throw ridicule upon his private character or conduct, and aim at wounding the Man, since They cannot hurt the Writer. In short to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappointment. Whether you write well or ill, be assured that you will not escape from blame; Indeed this circumstance contains a young Author's chief consolation: He remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjust and envious Critics, and He modestly conceives himself to be exactly in their predicament. But I am conscious, that all these sage observations are thrown away upon you. Authorship is a mania to conquer which no reasons are sufficiently strong; and you might as easily persuade me not to love, as I persuade you not to write. However, if you cannot help being occasionally seized with a poetical paroxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating your verses to none but those whose partiality for you secures their approbation."
In the scene, the Marquis de las Cisternas discovers his young page, Theodore, hard at work writing poetry. Upon reading the lad's verses, the Marquis opines:
"... I was going to say, that you cannot employ your time worse than in making verses. An Author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an Animal whom every body is privileged to attack; For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them. A bad composition carries with it its own punishment, contempt and ridicule. A good one excites envy, and entails upon its Author a thousand mortifications. He finds himself assailed by partial and ill-humoured Criticism: One Man finds fault with the plan, Another with the style, a Third with the precept, which it strives to inculcate; and they who cannot succeed in finding fault with the Book, employ themselves in stigmatizing its Author. They maliciously rake out from obscurity every little circumstance, which may throw ridicule upon his private character or conduct, and aim at wounding the Man, since They cannot hurt the Writer. In short to enter the lists of literature is wilfully to expose yourself to the arrows of neglect, ridicule, envy, and disappointment. Whether you write well or ill, be assured that you will not escape from blame; Indeed this circumstance contains a young Author's chief consolation: He remembers that Lope de Vega and Calderona had unjust and envious Critics, and He modestly conceives himself to be exactly in their predicament. But I am conscious, that all these sage observations are thrown away upon you. Authorship is a mania to conquer which no reasons are sufficiently strong; and you might as easily persuade me not to love, as I persuade you not to write. However, if you cannot help being occasionally seized with a poetical paroxysm, take at least the precaution of communicating your verses to none but those whose partiality for you secures their approbation."
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Pen is Mightier?
In cataloging tracts from a volume in the Mather Library I came across some interesting verses printed on the last page of Ludlow no lyar, or, A detection of Dr. Hollingworth's disingenuity in his second defence of King Charles I. and a further vindication of the Parliament of the 3d of Novemb. 1640 (Amsterdam: 1692), attributed to Slingsby Bethel. The tract defends Edmund Ludlow, one of the judges of Charles I who signed the king's execution warrant. The very page is available digitally (from a later edition of documents) here.
The two verses below are transcribed exactly as they appear in the pamphlet. The first, in Latin, is most of an epigram by Martial (it's missing two lines, and some of the words are a little off).
Allatres licet usque nos & usque,
Et gannitibus improbis lacessas;
Ignotus pereas Miser, Necesse est.
Non deerunt tamen hac in
Urbe forsan Unus, vel duo, tresue, quatuorve,
Pellem rodere qui velint Caninam;
Nos hac a scabie tenemus ungues.
One translation of this epigram (Book Five, Epigram LX, in its correct form) runs: "You may attack me as much as you like, but I will not give you the immortality you crave by recording your existence in my verse. Others may be willing to soil their fingers with you, but I keep my hands off such carrion." Several other translations here.
The second verse, written around 1677, is a reply by Sir Carr Scroope to John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, and is titled 'Answer by way of epigram.'
Rail on, poor feeble Scribler, speak of me,
In as base Terms as the World speaks of thee;
Sit swelling in thy Hole like a vex'd Toad,
And full of Malice spit thy spleen abroad;
Thou canst blast no man's Fame with thy ill word,
Thy pen is just as harmless as thy Sword.
The two verses below are transcribed exactly as they appear in the pamphlet. The first, in Latin, is most of an epigram by Martial (it's missing two lines, and some of the words are a little off).
Allatres licet usque nos & usque,
Et gannitibus improbis lacessas;
Ignotus pereas Miser, Necesse est.
Non deerunt tamen hac in
Urbe forsan Unus, vel duo, tresue, quatuorve,
Pellem rodere qui velint Caninam;
Nos hac a scabie tenemus ungues.
One translation of this epigram (Book Five, Epigram LX, in its correct form) runs: "You may attack me as much as you like, but I will not give you the immortality you crave by recording your existence in my verse. Others may be willing to soil their fingers with you, but I keep my hands off such carrion." Several other translations here.
The second verse, written around 1677, is a reply by Sir Carr Scroope to John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, and is titled 'Answer by way of epigram.'
Rail on, poor feeble Scribler, speak of me,
In as base Terms as the World speaks of thee;
Sit swelling in thy Hole like a vex'd Toad,
And full of Malice spit thy spleen abroad;
Thou canst blast no man's Fame with thy ill word,
Thy pen is just as harmless as thy Sword.
Monday, February 04, 2008
Erasmus Quotation
Earlier this morning, the esteemed Harvard historian and author Owen Gingerich posed a question to Ex-Libris regarding the origin of the classic biblio-quote "When I get a little money, I buy books; and, if any is left, I buy food and clothes." The quotation is all over the Internet, attributed to Desiderius Erasmus. Professor Gingerich requested the original source of the quotation, having tried the standard "quotationaries" without any luck.
Since this is one of my favorite quotes (ahem, not that it's apt at all), I figured I'd do a little digging and see what I could come up with. Naturally, I found the answer hiding in the archives of Ex-Libris itself. Back in 2000, bookseller Fred Schreiber sussed out the original quotation, which appeared in a letter from Erasmus to Jacob Batt dated 12 April 1500: "Ad Graecas literas totum animum applicui; statimque ut pecuniam accepero, Graecos primum autores, deinde vestes emam" (I have turned my entire attention to Greek. The first thing I shall do, as soon as I receive the money, is to buy Greek authors; after that, I shall buy clothes).
Since this is one of my favorite quotes (ahem, not that it's apt at all), I figured I'd do a little digging and see what I could come up with. Naturally, I found the answer hiding in the archives of Ex-Libris itself. Back in 2000, bookseller Fred Schreiber sussed out the original quotation, which appeared in a letter from Erasmus to Jacob Batt dated 12 April 1500: "Ad Graecas literas totum animum applicui; statimque ut pecuniam accepero, Graecos primum autores, deinde vestes emam" (I have turned my entire attention to Greek. The first thing I shall do, as soon as I receive the money, is to buy Greek authors; after that, I shall buy clothes).
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