tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-170387802024-03-18T23:26:49.639-04:00Lee's MythLeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.comBlogger1446125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-91711051940103320802024-02-21T09:19:00.007-05:002024-02-22T07:48:23.867-05:00Jules Verne: Cinq Semaines en Ballon <p>I'd bought this Folio Junior edition some years ago -- probably around 2005 -- and decided it was time to tackle it. First off, it turns out this is an entirely different book than "Around the World in 80 Days" - it's about crossing the African continent east to west, to search out the source of the Nile.</p><p>It's both an adventure story and a satire thereof, with far more humor than I'd expected. The characters are essentially stock figures. You have the intrepid English doctor, Samuel Fergusson, who is the brains behind the operation. He has planned for every contingency with a cool intellect, indomitable will, and unflappable self-assurance. You have Fergusson's friend Dick Kennedy, a Scotsman and a skilled and passionate hunter, who initially imagines he has the power to decline Fergusson's invitation and dissuade him from the adventure ... and then later imagines that he always supported the idea from the start. And you have Fergusson's devoted servant Joe Wilson, a young man given to extravagant gestures and hyperbole; he loves entertaining his companions and would not dream of being separated from his master (except to save his master's life). </p><p>By way of plot, they encounter a series of obstacles in their journey. These include (among many others, and in no particular order) lions, arrows, muskets, osprey, grasshoppers, a volcano, cannibals, savages, storms, other unfavorable weather conditions, and thirst. </p><p>Given the publication date and the setting, I expected a colonial/European bias. But the racism is still unpleasant, and the tone is set early on when our heroes have trouble distinguishing between men and monkeys. Is this aspect also satirical, in whole or in part? I'm not sure.</p><p>But there are two things about Dick Kennedy that amusingly remind me of modern-day Republicans in America: his fear of pronouns and his love of guns. </p><p><u><b>Pronouns</b></u></p><p>In Chapter V, Kennedy is still hoping to talk his friend out of the expedition. He's even fallen out of bed while having nightmares about it! And Fergusson's use of the first person plural pronoun forms in talking about his plans makes him shiver:</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"></p><blockquote><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Ce qui exaspérait particulièrement Dick, c'est que le docteur semblait faire une abnégation parfaite de sa personnalité, à lui Kennedy ; il le considérait comme irrévocablement destiné à devenir son compagnon aérien. Cela n'était plus l'objet d'un doute. <b>Samuel faisait un intolérable abus du pronom pluriel de la première personne.</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">« Nous » avançons..., « nous » serons prêts le..., « nous » partirons le</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Et de l'adjectif possessif au singulier :</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">« Notre » ballon..., « notre » nacelle..., « notre » exploration...</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Et du pluriel donc !</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">« Nos » préparatifs..., « nos » découvertes .., « nos » ascensions...</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"><b>Dick en frissonnait,</b> quoique décidé à ne point partir ; mais il ne voulait pas trop contrarier son ami. Avouons même que, sans s'en rendre bien compte, il avait fait venir tout doucement d'Édimbourg quelques vêtements assortis et ses meilleurs fusils de chasse.</p></blockquote><p><b><u>Guns</u></b></p><p>By Chapter XLI, the strong outer layer of the balloon has been destroyed (thanks, osprey!) and the inner layer is leaking. The trio are desperately trying to lighten their load so they can get over the mountains and into Senegal and safety. They've jettisoned their tent, most of their water and provisions, and much else that is not absolutely essential. But the load is still too heavy (pages 340-41):</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"></p><blockquote><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Le ballon fut encore délesté d'une cinquantaine de livres ; il s'éleva très sensiblement, mais peu importait, s'il n'arrivait pas au-dessus de la ligne des montagnes. La situation était effrayante ; le <i>Victoria</i> courait avec une grande rapidité ; on sentait qu'il allait se mettre en pièces ; le choc serait terrible en effet.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Le docteur regarda autour de lui dans la nacelle.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Elle était presque vide.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"><b>« S'il le faut, Dick, tu te tiendras prêt à sacrifier tes armes.</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"><b>—Sacrifier mes armes ! répondit le chasseur avec émotion.</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"><b>—Mon ami, si je te le demande, c'est que ce sera nécessaire.</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"><b>—Samuel ! Samuel !</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"><b>—Tes armes, tes provisions de plomb et de poudre peuvent nous coûter la vie.</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">—Nous approchons ! s'écria Joe, nous approchons ! »</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Dix toises! La montagne dépassait le <i>Victoria</i> de dix toises encore.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Joe prit les couvertures et les précipita au dehors. Sans en rien dire à Kennedy, il lança également plusieurs sacs de balles et de plomb.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Le ballon remonta, il dépassa la cime dangereuse, et son pôle supérieur s'éclaira des rayons du soleil. Mais la nacelle se trouvait encore un peu au-dessous des quartiers de rocs, contre lesquels elle allait inévitablement se briser.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"><b>« Kennedy ! Kennedy! s'écria le docteur, jette tes armes, ou nous sommes perdus.</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">—Attendez, Monsieur Dick ! fit Joe, attendez ! »</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Et Kennedy, se retournant, le vit disparaître au dehors de la nacelle.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"><i>[Joe then pulls off a truly implausible stunt to lighten the basket by 120 pounds (his own weight) temporarily in order for the balloon to pass over the peak. He then steps back in safely.] </i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">—Mon brave Joe ! mon ami ! dit le docteur avec effusion.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">—Oh ! ce que j'en ai fait ; répondit celui-ci, ce n'est pas pour vous ; c'est pour la carabine de M. Dick ! Je lui devais bien cela depuis l'affaire de l'Arabe ! J'aime à payer mes dettes, et maintenant nous sommes quittes, ajouta-t-il en présentant au chasseur son arme de prédilection. J'aurais eu trop de peine à vous voir vous en séparer. »</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"><b>Kennedy lui serra vigoureusement la main sans pouvoir dire un mot.</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"></p></blockquote><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Then in the very next chapter (page 344), they still need to lighten the load yet further! </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"></p><blockquote><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Le docteur Fergusson commença par relever sa position d'après la hauteur des étoiles ; il se trouvait à vingt-cinq milles à peine du Sénégal.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">« Tout ce que nous pouvons faire, mes amis, dit-il après avoir pointé sa carte, c'est de passer le fleuve ; mais comme il n'y a ni pont ni barques, il faut à tout prix le passer en ballon ; pour cela, nous devons nous alléger encore.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"><b>—Mais je ne vois pas trop comment nous y parviendrons, répondit le chasseur qui craignait pour ses armes ; à moins que l'un de nous se décide à se sacrifier, de rester en arrière... et, à mon tour, je réclame cet honneur.</b></p></blockquote><p><span style="text-indent: 1em;">And yes, you read that right. Rather than giving up his guns, Kennedy would rather stay behind, alone and on foot, to face the local murderous evildoers. This time it is Fergusson who comes up with a solution: They will jettison the core equipment they use to keep the balloon filled with hydrogen gas!</span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 1em;">But even so, Kennedy still has his pipe and tobacco, and his guns, and a bit of powder and shot. </span></p><p><span style="text-indent: 1em;">As things heat up, they eventually throw out the last of their brandy, their provisions, their instruments, their last anchor, and eventually <i>even the basket itself </i>that they have been riding in. </span><span style="text-indent: 1em;">And still, in Chapter XLIII (when they somehow burn a few hundred pounds of grass to rise again using hot air):</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"></p><blockquote><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Le ballon, entièrement dilaté par l'accroissement de température, s'envola en frôlant les branches du baobab.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">« En route ! » cria Joe.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"><b>Une décharge de mousquets lui répondit ; une balle même lui laboura l'épaule ; mais Kennedy, se penchant et déchargeant sa carabine d'une main, jeta un ennemi de plus à terre.</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Des cris de rage impossibles à rendre accueillirent l'enlèvement de l'aérostat, qui monta à plus de huit cents pieds. Un vent rapide le saisit, et il décrivit d'inquiétantes oscillations, pendant que l'intrépide docteur et ses compagnons contemplaient le gouffre des cataractes ouvert sous leurs yeux.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Dix minutes après, sans avoir échangé une parole, les intrépides voyageurs descendaient peu à peu vers l'autre rive du fleuve. (pages 359-60)</p></blockquote><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"></p><p>Touchingly, in the final chapter, Kennedy is still not parted from his beloved rifle even at the conclusion of the tale.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"></p><blockquote><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Nous ne décrirons pas l'accueil qu'ils reçurent à la Société Royale de Géographie, ni l'empressement dont ils furent l'objet ; <b>Kennedy repartit aussitôt pour Édimbourg avec sa fameuse carabine ; il avait hâte de rassurer sa vieille gouvernante.</b></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;">Le docteur Fergusson et son fidèle Joe demeurèrent les mêmes hommes que nous avons connus. Cependant il s'était fait en eux un changement à leur insu.<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></p></blockquote><blockquote><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"><span style="text-indent: 1em;">Ils étaient devenus deux amis.</span><span style="text-align: left;"> (page 364)</span></p></blockquote><p><br /></p><p>Citation: <span style="text-indent: -2em;">Verne, Jules. </span><i style="text-indent: -2em;">Cinq semaines en ballon</i><span style="text-indent: -2em;">. 1863. Gallimard, 1999.</span></p><div class="csl-bib-body" style="line-height: 2; margin-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;">
<span class="Z3988" title="url_ver=Z39.88-2004&ctx_ver=Z39.88-2004&rfr_id=info%3Asid%2Fzotero.org%3A2&rft_id=urn%3Aisbn%3A978-2-07-052286-6&rft_val_fmt=info%3Aofi%2Ffmt%3Akev%3Amtx%3Abook&rft.genre=book&rft.btitle=Cinq%20semaines%20en%20ballon&rft.place=Paris&rft.publisher=Gallimard&rft.aufirst=Jules&rft.aulast=Verne&rft.au=Jules%20Verne&rft.au=%C3%89douard%20Riou&rft.date=1999&rft.isbn=978-2-07-052286-6&rft.language=fre"></span></div><p> </p><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0.25em; margin-top: 0.25em; text-align: justify; text-indent: 1em;"></p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-15536965959086863322023-06-27T10:36:00.001-04:002023-06-27T17:54:44.772-04:00Antiquarian Book Fair<p>So back on April 28, we went to the 63rd Annual ABAA New York International Antiquarian Book Fair at the Park Avenue Armory. There was an interesting range of authors and genres, including an 18th C album of Piranesi’s works. </p><p>I count myself fortunate that I didn't see anything I genuinely craved! For example, there were some detective stories by Dorothy Sayers, amidst a surprising amount of Agatha Christie, but I didn't see any of her work on Dante. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_3ZudjcVPrnfib64qlXWd2F2UNo48b3GnrxHFI9G7AIqjrJ2UQCx7_TEVDQPYgSLqi72lNKigB5en5Qe_Ud_fYybSFRUE1Xq_ZSuYrLWLtAMUI5cSjIi6TbAjPLua1SZKF_hTyhHC7Qz4RGqx5RMTt3jChji3OZtG5SL5bcR4-hCjfZFlNctY5Q/s640/image0.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_3ZudjcVPrnfib64qlXWd2F2UNo48b3GnrxHFI9G7AIqjrJ2UQCx7_TEVDQPYgSLqi72lNKigB5en5Qe_Ud_fYybSFRUE1Xq_ZSuYrLWLtAMUI5cSjIi6TbAjPLua1SZKF_hTyhHC7Qz4RGqx5RMTt3jChji3OZtG5SL5bcR4-hCjfZFlNctY5Q/w480-h640/image0.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-aUcQyWyVPmcUEyQ4JhDEu9CMwdfJxFN0cczm-Cnxjh4FhS3bqM39kIMsmMnbtk1YNU5OtUpkpzCs_QMQxUC-CCjd6mCxDhpcrYbYhRKpPeXTEjU_Thk_-eUUuFYvHyTQ_gG3vmShKO-cu19Mro8gXcjhEMDaWb1QHKVM5kbWIjGIYUPGNHtX4Q/s640/image7.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-aUcQyWyVPmcUEyQ4JhDEu9CMwdfJxFN0cczm-Cnxjh4FhS3bqM39kIMsmMnbtk1YNU5OtUpkpzCs_QMQxUC-CCjd6mCxDhpcrYbYhRKpPeXTEjU_Thk_-eUUuFYvHyTQ_gG3vmShKO-cu19Mro8gXcjhEMDaWb1QHKVM5kbWIjGIYUPGNHtX4Q/w480-h640/image7.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">one of many opportunities for collecting Ian Fleming's work </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWNIppH_BnILIp7_GQ81G7Wolj37b3iQOFpnsATQnhHQGewGVHyHY--uDXM6Q4FYZCJXf1ogoiYzYvjqtMxhKGEB_Ip_4-jKMrP2mrT86XxaWhvQm-r-uh-oUa8Ov2YypuXAWAwgB9t8-UnfzFFhLArbE2JaGmk6X4NZ_OqAh9xzA3iq5CFgLkSw/s640/image14.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWNIppH_BnILIp7_GQ81G7Wolj37b3iQOFpnsATQnhHQGewGVHyHY--uDXM6Q4FYZCJXf1ogoiYzYvjqtMxhKGEB_Ip_4-jKMrP2mrT86XxaWhvQm-r-uh-oUa8Ov2YypuXAWAwgB9t8-UnfzFFhLArbE2JaGmk6X4NZ_OqAh9xzA3iq5CFgLkSw/s320/image14.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">two personally inscribed Ernest Hemingway <br />books from the library of Lillian Ross</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>I was probably more tempted by this edition of <i>SGGK</i> amidst other Arthuriana than by anything else over the course of the day.</div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAdUN9GOTkoDCjtXi5UEE73ud_M6sDr79G54FEZNiMv8DRtpFt6JF_0h4qbCLBWhuZHEsevc2LhH-B2FSIcoaDciZr2VfKvGXfVRYqIyr6VHz7t5lOxhm6kP8NwXpwcdauSVX-dmXZEOnw5ZtBIwV1AKpm-1kRGf3psmDaxn80J4p1aYOa8806g/s640/image1.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoAdUN9GOTkoDCjtXi5UEE73ud_M6sDr79G54FEZNiMv8DRtpFt6JF_0h4qbCLBWhuZHEsevc2LhH-B2FSIcoaDciZr2VfKvGXfVRYqIyr6VHz7t5lOxhm6kP8NwXpwcdauSVX-dmXZEOnw5ZtBIwV1AKpm-1kRGf3psmDaxn80J4p1aYOa8806g/w480-h640/image1.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tolkien & Gordon's edition of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Each bookseller has an individual stall, which they organize and arrange as they see fit; I did not perceive any particular rhyme or reason to the arrangement of the stalls themselves. So there was a large element of serendipity to the day, which is no doubt intentional.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx9edX5Qz2MXIHB0cVvK-FAD9jLO1_aC_25DBTYykn3ZFlpljnZtvpbvIHPHFYR3xk2HBPfDHmfbWx4ZKYz5eUdxRdSE0E3Bjor_XN6uM0StCFUWSermVjqWzuwg7Rd77ohpdFLua_hXgKVHPh44YcXlzWCglAH7MyT8ONXfAWzUKP-uKdC1RFBA/s640/image6.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="482" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx9edX5Qz2MXIHB0cVvK-FAD9jLO1_aC_25DBTYykn3ZFlpljnZtvpbvIHPHFYR3xk2HBPfDHmfbWx4ZKYz5eUdxRdSE0E3Bjor_XN6uM0StCFUWSermVjqWzuwg7Rd77ohpdFLua_hXgKVHPh44YcXlzWCglAH7MyT8ONXfAWzUKP-uKdC1RFBA/w301-h400/image6.jpeg" width="301" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fancy two-volume set of <i>The Irish Peasantry<br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghfFjps7qUzcRoX0c9T4sMFEGgepOAb_BlRPiaxiT1lyjlD7hpzqNOLFtXYvwd3kDEiHu1Rzqy4hDnTcpGKprrfTe26LrDhImEDw-p17dkEwkjohxqnQbVngYmjWHmjm8IGolMZd4FBzEILu0PMJvzd9zO2Y-fBlrT0EJhod9iMpsvynbKVBvIHg/s640/image3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghfFjps7qUzcRoX0c9T4sMFEGgepOAb_BlRPiaxiT1lyjlD7hpzqNOLFtXYvwd3kDEiHu1Rzqy4hDnTcpGKprrfTe26LrDhImEDw-p17dkEwkjohxqnQbVngYmjWHmjm8IGolMZd4FBzEILu0PMJvzd9zO2Y-fBlrT0EJhod9iMpsvynbKVBvIHg/w480-h640/image3.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div><br /></div>There wasn't much Dunsany. I might have been tempted by <i>The King of Elfland's Daughter</i>, but certainly not by his short story collections.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK8lblYhC4l4ezRaaAs8LRMXH1KwV_sXG2eJXiSZxYocjIte4HoDK-wW7KvPHBrHxDepsWQrR8l8wxexp2ZuhB5HqnUE1bzAFl8WsnKb9Z4Q22NeL9ZLzcTKoLATUSTa6ru0OZ_yn3AwLqgTpCE1KSWig8tMO9INOIrPYG99_lQYHE04-BTYyi9Q/s640/image5.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK8lblYhC4l4ezRaaAs8LRMXH1KwV_sXG2eJXiSZxYocjIte4HoDK-wW7KvPHBrHxDepsWQrR8l8wxexp2ZuhB5HqnUE1bzAFl8WsnKb9Z4Q22NeL9ZLzcTKoLATUSTa6ru0OZ_yn3AwLqgTpCE1KSWig8tMO9INOIrPYG99_lQYHE04-BTYyi9Q/w480-h640/image5.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slim pickings for Dunsany</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;">The two most famous Inklings were reasonably represented in their more popular works. For example, I saw a few of the Narnia books, but no copies of </span><i style="text-align: left;">An Experiment in Criticism</i><span style="text-align: left;">. At least one vendor was offering something beyond the formally published books. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3PgMEamDiHYaYsyyffZBtIVy-A59vVBBLGhtBHtyYh-q0J4L5nZXMtsQR-0ziBS2Q-oEb80Z9AqXqryUkIWPIr8H-4JdIZ5Ygksh0WmSMbmjG45mr_y--WooRCO-yJGA-Gu8VZqkNRxcOARYGKqtCMAwhNUr1wZP9OOAR1kLZ_ofSVJCtsqJD6g/s640/image11.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3PgMEamDiHYaYsyyffZBtIVy-A59vVBBLGhtBHtyYh-q0J4L5nZXMtsQR-0ziBS2Q-oEb80Z9AqXqryUkIWPIr8H-4JdIZ5Ygksh0WmSMbmjG45mr_y--WooRCO-yJGA-Gu8VZqkNRxcOARYGKqtCMAwhNUr1wZP9OOAR1kLZ_ofSVJCtsqJD6g/w640-h480/image11.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">asking $475,000 for a letter/manuscript and genealogical chart from the hand of J.R.R. Tolkien</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZrO6wS2JePiQ0K9Nd6XL7M0YdCNcfTrOcjuxWg3zUJ4-OcPjE9Ezx4_FIfa5VkdE2U20DmBitoEiIFvefFZFvMLC3UOYzwERMzOfhGbTOKcgLH_IXeoyyw0jWgMG7RA4ugwV5Eb1Vwsf0SX7QDn83dViGhu1OMwO2YjcNGwrsZldaMv6rDYHVw/s640/image12.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaZrO6wS2JePiQ0K9Nd6XL7M0YdCNcfTrOcjuxWg3zUJ4-OcPjE9Ezx4_FIfa5VkdE2U20DmBitoEiIFvefFZFvMLC3UOYzwERMzOfhGbTOKcgLH_IXeoyyw0jWgMG7RA4ugwV5Eb1Vwsf0SX7QDn83dViGhu1OMwO2YjcNGwrsZldaMv6rDYHVw/w640-h480/image12.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">what you get for your $475,000, part 2</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3wJnGdqCiNeg18JxSf1QW_dUnOi0YBsXzCzs4JAOTBwxtv_m_Ez4fgmHcePKj_c0UjUKUVUAWAcExX5t9hZgeNWoWI3H8RMYr_OlDYY-iyV4ruHbTxnQS0QgxNFsqsEd5sosFdBogkR0x_a_eIiw0rgD8e8vs04mIYcTQvcIigTPtzc26bXjNGw/s640/image16.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3wJnGdqCiNeg18JxSf1QW_dUnOi0YBsXzCzs4JAOTBwxtv_m_Ez4fgmHcePKj_c0UjUKUVUAWAcExX5t9hZgeNWoWI3H8RMYr_OlDYY-iyV4ruHbTxnQS0QgxNFsqsEd5sosFdBogkR0x_a_eIiw0rgD8e8vs04mIYcTQvcIigTPtzc26bXjNGw/w640-h480/image16.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">C.S. Lewis rates only 10% of that - but then again, he failed to include a genealogical chart</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiveOIq1_q9C7-u8kVYdqwJN4ERm7Q-ST7X1BlNFnGPW410LAlViODDLz-AFCm9WKrS3iIKVtA2f0iD3HBXRGhEkdfyBTxZd8pIZxrpb98cGRv4TQzXUrwN7UfXLsPX8A4cN_H3YA5OqdeRVDappxlKmA3CcMY-9rHoXd4QpCyIzSzrHQbT7fW2mg/s640/image18.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiveOIq1_q9C7-u8kVYdqwJN4ERm7Q-ST7X1BlNFnGPW410LAlViODDLz-AFCm9WKrS3iIKVtA2f0iD3HBXRGhEkdfyBTxZd8pIZxrpb98cGRv4TQzXUrwN7UfXLsPX8A4cN_H3YA5OqdeRVDappxlKmA3CcMY-9rHoXd4QpCyIzSzrHQbT7fW2mg/w640-h480/image18.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What about a known influence/inspiration to the Inklings?<br />asking a mere $27,500 for <i>A Voyage to Arcturus<br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7L6-7_al3REmivI-SreoTUXb_hbeJxVvG3QhKefK9XKSwILMfkH0HzJ4WxYb7b4a0-Xxg34c4aRXM0W6JstibgB3T2kzPCQGNM2SNBqhel75Ou4EtIe2yPfNxtS2SIrmtyfNqerJeUf6n249QJ6uprGwR2wNurixp8lrYJ-_IpQA2gjWocJPBhQ/s640/image17.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7L6-7_al3REmivI-SreoTUXb_hbeJxVvG3QhKefK9XKSwILMfkH0HzJ4WxYb7b4a0-Xxg34c4aRXM0W6JstibgB3T2kzPCQGNM2SNBqhel75Ou4EtIe2yPfNxtS2SIrmtyfNqerJeUf6n249QJ6uprGwR2wNurixp8lrYJ-_IpQA2gjWocJPBhQ/w480-h640/image17.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Day of the Triffids </i>is practically being given away at $1,750<i><br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBKkzbclUaGMJVa9NYoCY-SLfzP69tkuef1faJLBQNpxjvTfZdYuIZh3W90RbCB42q3clzJir4RuufLJdFGQ_c091N37wqonRu5m5oGc6n3h497fqELqfOJcQ6h0W6o1pHUxgz3pr-cKxmzbBO90UsuhWb8wa3Q3Ba9p8_33VjCbll07QWseoUQ/s640/image9.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBKkzbclUaGMJVa9NYoCY-SLfzP69tkuef1faJLBQNpxjvTfZdYuIZh3W90RbCB42q3clzJir4RuufLJdFGQ_c091N37wqonRu5m5oGc6n3h497fqELqfOJcQ6h0W6o1pHUxgz3pr-cKxmzbBO90UsuhWb8wa3Q3Ba9p8_33VjCbll07QWseoUQ/w480-h640/image9.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Geometria et Perspectiva</i>, 1567:<br />if you have to ask, you can't afford it <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>When wandering among the stalls, it's easy to forget that you're in the Armory; one's attention is inevitably drawn to the well-lit stalls and all the commodities and commotion at ground-level. But I looked up as we were exiting.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm-KfeFkazKAwYWHFmk9QyQNCQVWTBc0ZLwOpqiD-KSLacqABzCJ1mBTTOQO8IduddRBYUq-DmXso968ctVtpgETU6I5N9HAin87RlUeMhVarDeWn-DAtJSJlAmLy4KMEQsB6WG6_hsWytpflzJUClEKcvADhWxRa-Zqyle6i-nCJx7qriFk267A/s640/image10.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm-KfeFkazKAwYWHFmk9QyQNCQVWTBc0ZLwOpqiD-KSLacqABzCJ1mBTTOQO8IduddRBYUq-DmXso968ctVtpgETU6I5N9HAin87RlUeMhVarDeWn-DAtJSJlAmLy4KMEQsB6WG6_hsWytpflzJUClEKcvADhWxRa-Zqyle6i-nCJx7qriFk267A/w480-h640/image10.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The balcony reminds me of Shakespeare, though it was not in fact <br />used in any of the productions I've seen at the Armory</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p></div><div>The screening on the way in was perfunctory, presumably focused on making sure we weren't trying to exercise any Second Amendment rights. Once inside, security guards were always nearby, often sitting unobtrusively, and I'm sure there were many cameras. Most vendors, even those with extraordinary items, allowed people to go in to their stall and peer closely through the glass at their wares; those with less valuable books sometimes had bookshelves for browsing. A very few arranged their stalls in a manner to subtly suggest that only serious purchasers were welcome to approach. On my way out, I was grateful that the only book I'd brought with me was a paperback of <i>The Song of Roland</i> in poor condition with prominent orange highlighting from a previous owner. The security guard readily accepted my claim of ownership.</div>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-39716287952364544602023-06-26T12:59:00.000-04:002023-06-27T17:55:21.667-04:00Home and Not-Home<p>This year's Mythmoot was a bit strange for me. Partly, this has to do with various crises in the background at home and at work, the worries I couldn't leave behind. And I'm very acutely aware that I haven't been doing any sort of academic writing in the last few years, consistent with a feeling (or a fear) that I have nothing to say. Then again, the "homeward bound" theme, though certainly 100% appropriate as we returned to the National Conference Center, didn't seem to prompt truly compelling topics, even among those who have plenty to say. And of course there was the constant undercurrent of an insider's recent ouster; a reminder that this is no longer the scrappy up-and-comer defying the odds. Even worse, we learned over the weekend that we would not be able to see Verlyn, as she was convalescing. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQKmTaCLVNX4jm-7COXZmHT_Lq6taJJsc0t3d7vAfLBdwZ0tEzh8XgKTcosbNBMSiE8hgWhKCu3q8T-Cn312QVvSPf2_6Q2eOER04IO8YbRF2bIA2s3FLTSKf8JhPg4GDh-qZF220tGLjCq-L_mNyoGQEotn0Dy_VY9GfHkBVLd-9ZISYfDBe4A/s4000/IMG_20230624_133522025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQKmTaCLVNX4jm-7COXZmHT_Lq6taJJsc0t3d7vAfLBdwZ0tEzh8XgKTcosbNBMSiE8hgWhKCu3q8T-Cn312QVvSPf2_6Q2eOER04IO8YbRF2bIA2s3FLTSKf8JhPg4GDh-qZF220tGLjCq-L_mNyoGQEotn0Dy_VY9GfHkBVLd-9ZISYfDBe4A/s320/IMG_20230624_133522025.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>However, the bacon was plentiful, and the company was good, and I got to spend some time with <i>SGGK</i>. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The "Dream Team" of Tom, Joe, and Alan were again victorious in the pub quiz -- pretty much guaranteed when two-thirds of the questions were on Tolkien! -- so our household will be enriched in due course by a book or two purchased with an Amazon gift card. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWgE7ywrDjOqpCwLxVho2U4ykp5L7P5VK9p4NSxyshAJvzo4DYMc-mSRdDqBU3n2BGsVpYcKHwxjLs4bpsbSl2Qq31graGxmDbqW9YUOpi5paPCUj99LJY5pRxoW41dWWigKCONXOVNejvb-3c0HRg39Pm016RzXeYVOQPFtXPGGSBXmoPPDYmQ/s4000/IMG_20230624_133330812.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYWgE7ywrDjOqpCwLxVho2U4ykp5L7P5VK9p4NSxyshAJvzo4DYMc-mSRdDqBU3n2BGsVpYcKHwxjLs4bpsbSl2Qq31graGxmDbqW9YUOpi5paPCUj99LJY5pRxoW41dWWigKCONXOVNejvb-3c0HRg39Pm016RzXeYVOQPFtXPGGSBXmoPPDYmQ/s320/IMG_20230624_133330812.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>I got to chat a while with Brenton's wife Chrissie, who had gotten lost in the maze of corridors, and with Tara, who had found her way easily (doubtless drawing on deeply embedded memories of Mythmoots past). <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqD7KSuqwu2NS6P5leiQuKARWuCpJ9FG5bHgG68ADg6V8uWIVUoxucsWIocs-FjFCmmmeMjNgXQwZ54sDxv5pZP670h_sVA1aZ861LYW7y6Orp_cZFh_uTFuzFCXFx2zeDPAg26VZACPIihAs8JH1E_skmFifgQjJMDicVcGDGYSbg9BI1zMt2-g/s1131/IMG_20230624_130818166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1131" data-original-width="849" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqD7KSuqwu2NS6P5leiQuKARWuCpJ9FG5bHgG68ADg6V8uWIVUoxucsWIocs-FjFCmmmeMjNgXQwZ54sDxv5pZP670h_sVA1aZ861LYW7y6Orp_cZFh_uTFuzFCXFx2zeDPAg26VZACPIihAs8JH1E_skmFifgQjJMDicVcGDGYSbg9BI1zMt2-g/s320/IMG_20230624_130818166.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>In the course of a hazy and humid stroll around the grounds, I saw a deer, a cardinal, and a bright blue bird of some kind (but not a bluejay). </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Abrams, who outbid me on <i>An Anthology of Beowulf Criticism</i> (ed. by Lewis E. Nicholson), very generously gave it to me and (alas!) refused compensation. If I ever part with the book, he gets first dibs. On the way home, Tom had me read the first paragraph of each essay but Tolkien's aloud to him while he was driving; whether for this reason or another, a Great Drowsiness came upon him and I soon found myself in the driver's seat for the final stage of the journey.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUH6pqkuJhvUw5VzT_s6XxPIVK0OtxdjSq22BkStTJU_Tf9Vem7t9ZBhJBLeNlqfMjFGxYQ0BH1SJa-VZI3ScEm0beMLhpTOm3tP4v1b2PNyusCAN5Aicotl2gHMmt9fEw8PA8Ni6CTk5oxLy8cZujXA3-aBfuWTKFZBgjswzEsnfbhsff93dCQw/s731/IMG_20230622_093814115_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="549" data-original-width="731" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUH6pqkuJhvUw5VzT_s6XxPIVK0OtxdjSq22BkStTJU_Tf9Vem7t9ZBhJBLeNlqfMjFGxYQ0BH1SJa-VZI3ScEm0beMLhpTOm3tP4v1b2PNyusCAN5Aicotl2gHMmt9fEw8PA8Ni6CTk5oxLy8cZujXA3-aBfuWTKFZBgjswzEsnfbhsff93dCQw/s320/IMG_20230622_093814115_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was <i>not</i> driving when I took this picture</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><a aria-label="Photo - Landscape - Jun 22, 2023, 9:38:14 AM" class="p137Zd" href="https://photos.google.com/u/1/photo/AF1QipOxFpxBbRCJrFiB6qXGV3UUA0jyGd0x_SKpPUYP" jsaction="click:eQuaEb;focus:AHmuwe; blur:O22p3e;" tabindex="0"><div class="RY3tic" data-latest-bg="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/VSB-iMFKnzrVyDSzZPl87h_eOr5kgGomoeKBxlTSGU3c7VwgOwihkrPKTnqlbo_j-3qSSjx_IvrI4ZmqZOcoWqmFwnunnnHQ0-etMjdsjdzHxl8WeoPGrFWWd4CZ8bdKL60ED12O_av10sO9o-3fNXlmAcEXfQhoZqzlJa4DszxwieOK0IeocSd-l8FGnBGSjm2l_cF27NtzTyOdzL8jOGg1arSxNSp7lwMeuNjSxtqB4ARsf-JnF9ZP2p1RKcnEa9x0hOTGgP5H08hqQ85qY2GKdyifNj35P66ENph8DsB3xJ5k4tYC-htsVGyNQbBU4oQH-iJlNcsSkCN_H3O7eTLDDvBSGxX1lyGJqAvwlcxv_RJLBBB3TDt85rrcKxuotsC3x1W20du3vqjoz5Y8Nkk2wCaqtvgXj3fKB58njg1ZVphXnU_aZZVdhfvoDAy13XE1IN7fXOulgP9-M08IEcxBBUu-i6Rtb4VJNLTJjocfLa8DY9F4OcOZ-sD0Bru_BSdSTjJT6cDRcpOhXA7rce0kPPElqJ4E4ilecYET1yML_UM4LOEHCqEe7ZWr9YX_CnnnxWddmLeRZF_ugEML8NIf1e7uLf9dTOXS4O5Jb6pq36WU0TbxPIZ1D37SLSNiJDvgPfhe1691cJcYix5csj6irktbqabJhe_ntqnoc9aa0z8d69aSZwyQ9zoGnNfBj4Mobkjr-Mpx8p59G4nUzk_w-xsJKBWi4UZsNWOtJCEtBT9iXemwnPRTeaqHwswljrpjHq2V3dJxr8eLRfWqdGfu7pA8EUR_3sbDRc2yRH5RYJrwY6QJirg5dStU-bkx6slXwK4-Dan5owf5UCvFu7dGjo1aWl-P_AdM7_bIiZ27dsvwaQbJ2bnrMINik9SeSoZtb8Kn5Uly0Bntvv8GdNjEfwJS7smb3qJcFhtTq-YWAFO7XTzVYgWuNh6WKQmVM2XUeLJzo9RKiNLnGHmH=w293-h220-no?authuser=1" style="background-image: url("https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/VSB-iMFKnzrVyDSzZPl87h_eOr5kgGomoeKBxlTSGU3c7VwgOwihkrPKTnqlbo_j-3qSSjx_IvrI4ZmqZOcoWqmFwnunnnHQ0-etMjdsjdzHxl8WeoPGrFWWd4CZ8bdKL60ED12O_av10sO9o-3fNXlmAcEXfQhoZqzlJa4DszxwieOK0IeocSd-l8FGnBGSjm2l_cF27NtzTyOdzL8jOGg1arSxNSp7lwMeuNjSxtqB4ARsf-JnF9ZP2p1RKcnEa9x0hOTGgP5H08hqQ85qY2GKdyifNj35P66ENph8DsB3xJ5k4tYC-htsVGyNQbBU4oQH-iJlNcsSkCN_H3O7eTLDDvBSGxX1lyGJqAvwlcxv_RJLBBB3TDt85rrcKxuotsC3x1W20du3vqjoz5Y8Nkk2wCaqtvgXj3fKB58njg1ZVphXnU_aZZVdhfvoDAy13XE1IN7fXOulgP9-M08IEcxBBUu-i6Rtb4VJNLTJjocfLa8DY9F4OcOZ-sD0Bru_BSdSTjJT6cDRcpOhXA7rce0kPPElqJ4E4ilecYET1yML_UM4LOEHCqEe7ZWr9YX_CnnnxWddmLeRZF_ugEML8NIf1e7uLf9dTOXS4O5Jb6pq36WU0TbxPIZ1D37SLSNiJDvgPfhe1691cJcYix5csj6irktbqabJhe_ntqnoc9aa0z8d69aSZwyQ9zoGnNfBj4Mobkjr-Mpx8p59G4nUzk_w-xsJKBWi4UZsNWOtJCEtBT9iXemwnPRTeaqHwswljrpjHq2V3dJxr8eLRfWqdGfu7pA8EUR_3sbDRc2yRH5RYJrwY6QJirg5dStU-bkx6slXwK4-Dan5owf5UCvFu7dGjo1aWl-P_AdM7_bIiZ27dsvwaQbJ2bnrMINik9SeSoZtb8Kn5Uly0Bntvv8GdNjEfwJS7smb3qJcFhtTq-YWAFO7XTzVYgWuNh6WKQmVM2XUeLJzo9RKiNLnGHmH=w293-h220-no?authuser=1"); opacity: 1;"><div aria-hidden="true" class="eGiHwc"></div><div aria-hidden="true" class="KYCEmd"></div></div></a></div>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-22074442872623312542023-06-08T07:39:00.002-04:002023-06-08T07:58:48.419-04:00My First-Ever Corsi-Rosenthal Box!<p>So, I ordered all the materials to make my own C-R box way back in the first week of 2022. And I enthusiastically shared the instructions on social media. But I also bought two commercially available air purifiers for use in my home -- nice and compact -- and just never got around to making the C-R box. After all, I wasn't <i>really</i> going to get COVID at home, was I? (I'm far more likely to be exposed than my spouse, and I generally mask up in public indoor spaces, esp. subways, restrooms, elevators.)</p><p>Enter June 2023, with wildfires raging in Canada. Tuesday evening, I noticed the strange quality of the light on the way home from the subway... and a slight acrid smell at home, as if something had burned. I didn't think much of it. But Wednesday morning was much worse, and over the course of the day the sky darkened to a dull, dystopian glow. And at home, our air filters didn't seem quite up to their task. I was uneasy about it, but it wasn't until late at night that it occurred to me -- why not?</p><p>So I did it this morning, at long last! It ain't pretty, but I'm proud of it.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMYmoO_KbnD4hb2Yr1i5f8zeJ2T3OqmS_VaYFCMSN46ER2GzOTritRic1v-oblQwOZ2gA4gNNlvEaArxSkP-WIyfW7Ab_teXD0Pus0_X3QImgb0cZe6qswGJPuxdoyhqZKrt3KnXSMt38xkEBpNWR3n1hriDzyZFWtyO1PisNegOrMiL71ix0/s3192/C-R%20Box%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3192" data-original-width="2931" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMYmoO_KbnD4hb2Yr1i5f8zeJ2T3OqmS_VaYFCMSN46ER2GzOTritRic1v-oblQwOZ2gA4gNNlvEaArxSkP-WIyfW7Ab_teXD0Pus0_X3QImgb0cZe6qswGJPuxdoyhqZKrt3KnXSMt38xkEBpNWR3n1hriDzyZFWtyO1PisNegOrMiL71ix0/s320/C-R%20Box%202.jpg" width="294" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-29788282486902098762023-05-29T15:27:00.008-04:002023-05-29T22:57:35.059-04:00Bobance and Bounce<p></p>In chapter 5 of <i>The Silver Chair</i>, Puddleglum assures the children he will join on them on what he sees as their grim and hopeless quest:<br /><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote><p style="text-align: left;">I'm not going to lose an opportunity like this. It will do me good. They all say -- I mean, the other wiggles all say -- that I'm too flighty; don't take life seriously enough. If they've said it once, they've said it a thousand times. 'Puddleglum,' they've said, 'you're altogether too full of bobance and bounce and high spirits. You've got to learn that life isn't all fricasseed frogs and eel pie. You want something to sober you down a bit. We're only saying it for your own good, Puddleglum.' That's what they say. (Lewis 75-76)</p></blockquote></blockquote><p>From this use of <i>bobance</i>, <i>bounce</i>, and <i>high spirits</i>, I had the impression that the three words were connected. After all, <i>bounce</i> suggests physical energy -- a natural result of <i>high spirits</i>. And to my mind, partly from context and partly from the sound of the word, <i>bobance</i> suggested a sort of buoyant cheerfulness, in mood and/or energy. </p><p>I first got an inkling of my misjudgment from the opening passage of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (ll. 8-10):</p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fro riche Romulus to Rome ricchis hym swyþe; <br />With gret bobbaunce þat burȝe he biges vpon fyrst,<br />& neuenes hit his aune nome, as hit now hat;</span></blockquote><p></p><p>[From the time noble Romulus swiftly directs himself to Rome;<br />With great <i>bobbaunce</i> that city he establishes first,<br />& names it his own name, as it now has;] </p><p>So what is bobance/bobbaunce, then? The OED advises the word is <i>Obsolete</i>, apparently overlooking its use in a 1953 children's book that has remained continually in print ever since. Starting with the glossaries provided with the poem:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>SGGK, 1940 Early English Text Society edition: "<b>bobbaunce</b>, boast, 9; OF. bobance" (Gollancz 137)</li><li>SGGK, Tolkien/Gordon second edition: "<b>bobbaunce </b>n. pomp, pride 9. [OFr. <i>boba(u)nc</i>e.]" (Davis 167)</li></ul>The sole meaning the OED provides for the singular form is: "Boasting, pride, pomp." The five references offered range from c1380 to a1533. One is from the poem <i>Cleanness</i>: "Bobaunce & bost & bolnande priyde." Another is from Chaucer's <i>Wife of Bath's Prologue,</i> though I'd note that <i>Riverside Chaucer</i> perfunctorily glosses this as "boast" (Chaucer 112). <br /><p></p><p>Do the other Marsh-Wiggles think Puddleglum is too full of <i>pride/pomp</i>? Or too full of <i>boasting</i>? They think he needs to become more serious-minded, to understand that life isn't easy. I think <i>pride</i> may work better here, but since a person who is too prideful may be prone to boasting, maybe we can hedge our bets and render their remarks as follows:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">'Puddleglum, you're altogether too full of boastful pride and bounce and high spirits. You've got to learn that life isn't all fricasseed frogs and eel pie. You want something to sober you down a bit. We're only saying it for your own good, Puddleglum.' </p></blockquote><p>====</p><p>Additional ruminations on OED entries:</p><p>Significantly, perhaps, the word <i>bob</i> in the current sense of buoyancy is a relative newcomer. The oldest senses of the verb (c1320 and c1280) had to do with cheating/deceiving/defrauding and hitting/striking with a fist or a rounded thing. The first noun form (c1400) involved a knob or cluster, but the sense of trick/deception is attested c1540, and a blow of the fist followed c1566. </p>The noun <i>bob, n.4</i> seems to have emerged around 1550 with a sense of "1. An act of bobbing, or suddenly jerking up and down; a light rebounding movement." (Although the OED provides no attestations for this usage.)<br /><br />The verb <i>bob, v.3</i> seems to be first attested around 1568, although the OED finds one dubious earlier reference in Chaucer in 1386. "1a. <i>intransitive</i>. To move up and down like a buoyant body in water, or an elastic body on land"<p>====</p><div class="csl-bib-body" style="line-height: 2; margin-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;">
<div class="csl-entry">"bob, n.4." <i>OED Online</i>, Oxford University Press, March 2023, www.oed.com/view/Entry/20791. Accessed 29 May 2023.</div><div class="csl-entry">"bob, v.3." <i>OED Online</i>, Oxford University Press, March 2023, www.oed.com/view/Entry/20801. Accessed 29 May 2023.</div><div class="csl-entry"><span style="text-indent: -2em;">"bobance, n."</span><span style="text-indent: -2em;"> </span><i style="text-indent: -2em;">OED Online</i><span style="text-indent: -2em;">, Oxford University Press, March 2023, www.oed.com/view/Entry/20811. Accessed 29 May 2023.</span></div><div class="csl-entry">Chaucer, Geoffrey, and Larry Dean Benson. <i>The Riverside Chaucer</i>. 3. ed., [Nachdr.], Oxford Univ. Press, 2006.</div><div class="csl-entry"><span style="text-indent: -2em;">Davis, Norman, editor. </span><i style="text-indent: -2em;">Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Edited by J.R.R. Tolkien and E.V. Gordon</i><span style="text-indent: -2em;">. 2nd ed., Clarendon Press, 1968.</span></div><div class="csl-entry"><span style="text-indent: -2em;">Gollancz, Israel, editor. </span><i style="text-indent: -2em;">Sir Gawain and the Green Knight</i><span style="text-indent: -2em;">. Oxford University Press, 1940.</span></div><div class="csl-entry"><div class="csl-bib-body" style="line-height: 2; margin-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;">
<span class="Z3988" title="url_ver=Z39.88-2004&ctx_ver=Z39.88-2004&rfr_id=info%3Asid%2Fzotero.org%3A2&rft_val_fmt=info%3Aofi%2Ffmt%3Akev%3Amtx%3Abook&rft.genre=book&rft.btitle=Sir%20Gawain%20and%20the%20Green%20Knight&rft.place=Oxford&rft.publisher=Oxford%20University%20Press&rft.series=Early%20English%20Text%20Society%2C%20Original%20Series&rft.aufirst=Israel&rft.aulast=Gollancz&rft.au=Israel%20Gollancz&rft.au=Mabel%20Day&rft.au=Mary%20S.%20Serjeantson&rft.date=1940"></span></div></div><div class="csl-entry"><span style="text-indent: -2em;">Lewis, C. S. </span><i style="text-indent: -2em;">The Silver Chair</i><span style="text-indent: -2em;">. 1st Harper Trophy ed., HarperTrophy, 2000.</span></div><div class="csl-entry"><div class="csl-bib-body" style="line-height: 2; margin-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;"><div class="csl-entry"><div class="csl-bib-body" style="line-height: 2; margin-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em;">
<div class="csl-entry"><br /></div>
<span class="Z3988" title="url_ver=Z39.88-2004&ctx_ver=Z39.88-2004&rfr_id=info%3Asid%2Fzotero.org%3A2&rft_id=urn%3Aisbn%3A978-0-19-282109-6&rft_val_fmt=info%3Aofi%2Ffmt%3Akev%3Amtx%3Abook&rft.genre=book&rft.btitle=The%20Riverside%20Chaucer&rft.place=Oxford&rft.publisher=Oxford%20Univ.%20Press&rft.edition=3.%20ed.%2C%20%5BNachdr.%5D&rft.aufirst=Geoffrey&rft.aulast=Chaucer&rft.au=Geoffrey%20Chaucer&rft.au=Larry%20Dean%20Benson&rft.date=2006&rft.tpages=1327&rft.isbn=978-0-19-282109-6&rft.language=eng"></span></div></div>
<span class="Z3988" title="url_ver=Z39.88-2004&ctx_ver=Z39.88-2004&rfr_id=info%3Asid%2Fzotero.org%3A2&rft_val_fmt=info%3Aofi%2Ffmt%3Akev%3Amtx%3Abook&rft.genre=book&rft.btitle=Sir%20Gawain%20and%20the%20Green%20Knight%2C%20Edited%20by%20J.R.R.%20Tolkien%20and%20E.V.%20Gordon&rft.place=Oxford&rft.publisher=Clarendon%20Press&rft.edition=2nd&rft.aufirst=Norman&rft.aulast=Davis&rft.au=Norman%20Davis&rft.date=1968"></span></div></div>
<span class="Z3988" title="url_ver=Z39.88-2004&ctx_ver=Z39.88-2004&rfr_id=info%3Asid%2Fzotero.org%3A2&rft_id=urn%3Aisbn%3A978-0-06-440945-2&rft_val_fmt=info%3Aofi%2Ffmt%3Akev%3Amtx%3Abook&rft.genre=book&rft.btitle=The%20Silver%20Chair&rft.place=New%20York&rft.publisher=HarperTrophy&rft.edition=1st%20Harper%20Trophy%20ed&rft.aufirst=C.%20S.&rft.aulast=Lewis&rft.au=C.%20S.%20Lewis&rft.au=Pauline%20Baynes&rft.date=2000&rft.isbn=978-0-06-440945-2&rft.language=eng"></span></div><p></p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-86050114417113361862023-05-14T19:42:00.001-04:002023-05-14T19:42:09.969-04:00My 2021 Reading Projects<p>So, apparently buoyed by the success of my 2020 Shakespeare reading project, I had a <a href="https://leesmyth.blogspot.com/2021/02/2021-reading-projects.html">modest ambition</a> for 2021: I would read all of Edmund Spenser's <i>The Faerie Queene </i>and finish reading "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight" in middle English. </p><p>I apparently thought I would read one canto per day and dispose of Spenser in 74 days, and thereafter read 79 stanzas of SGGK in 79 days, and then move on to other poetry, such as Tennyson's <i>Idylls of the King.</i></p><p>Well, I did manage to read<i> Idylls of the King </i>in May 2021, so there's that. And I certainly got a decent start on <i>The Faerie Queene</i> in 2021; I chipped away at it from mid-February to late July. Then I set Spenser aside, and it was nearly a year and a half before I started again in earnest! But now, after a two-month push, I am DONE. </p><p>So my initial 74-day estimate was a little off; it took me <i>more than 7 months</i> over a 2.25 year period.</p><p>When I recommenced FQ, I also started up with SGGK again as well, so there is some hope that my official 2021 reading project could actually be completed during my lifetime. </p><div><br /></div>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-89191466325278634712023-01-19T07:38:00.001-05:002023-01-19T07:40:03.301-05:00Nine Years Ago Today...<p>LEE'S MYTH: So this is apparently the kind of morning when a simple attempt to make a fried egg turns into Popcorn for Breakfast. Let my biographers make of it what they will.</p><p>FRIEND: On the mostly cloudy winter morning of Jan. 19, 2014, LEE'S MYTH went into her kitchen as whimsical as always. Instead of making a fried egg, which was a staple for the first and important meal of the day back in those days, she made popcorn. Little did she know it heralded the dawn of a new era. By 2050, popcorn was considered the breakfast of champions.</p><p>LEE'S MYTH: Hahaha! That is awesome. FRIEND, you are now my official authorized biographer. 😉</p><p>LEE'S MYTH: (Unfortunately, the real story involves an element of horror - an egg with a Black Yolk and the stench of Mordor....)</p><p>FRIEND: This authorized biographer has the next 40 years to improve her writing:)</p><p>LEE'S MYTH: And I guess I have 40 more years to come up with some achievement that will justify a full-length biography.... Hmm, no pressure, right? 🙂</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">* * *</div><p>So far, as of January 2023, it's looking like I may have to hire my own biographers if I want even a cheesy biographical pamphlet. But there are two more Mordor-adjacent incidents to report since 2014. </p><p>2017: Ungoliant visited during a brief warm spell in February and sank her fangs into our tree:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUF72Nn0O0mkC_xD1dvejx73G2AbZUQFUEi3gRsab3NSi1hgCO6VEoUM3vGGKDDSFSBN-aT3RY1m9Qqzcmj7SAur5EQOFakXc2iQK6LnL5VPhhPXoZbasyAT_UcchgKcs29D0min3XjMSKZZ86viBnICBHSqrw2dQgmSmKFBcmdOagE_2YjNI/s400/ungoliant.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUF72Nn0O0mkC_xD1dvejx73G2AbZUQFUEi3gRsab3NSi1hgCO6VEoUM3vGGKDDSFSBN-aT3RY1m9Qqzcmj7SAur5EQOFakXc2iQK6LnL5VPhhPXoZbasyAT_UcchgKcs29D0min3XjMSKZZ86viBnICBHSqrw2dQgmSmKFBcmdOagE_2YjNI/s320/ungoliant.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>2022: A batch of cookies was thwarted by the Black Yolk of Mordor.</p><p><br /></p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-65195757812026447962022-07-29T11:20:00.001-04:002022-07-29T11:20:14.921-04:00Frog-Talk: Βρεκεκεκὲξ κοὰξ κοάξApropos of nothing, I made a note of this in October 2017: Brekekekèx-koàx-koáx / Βρεκεκεκὲξ κοὰξ κοάξLeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-51184542565115646632022-07-28T18:10:00.000-04:002022-07-28T18:10:13.581-04:00The Beech-Grove<p>After Sam and Frodo are rescued from Mordor, they awaken in a beech-grove in Ithilien. We enter the scene with <i>Sam's</i> return to consciousness:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArFCOIhAz2BTPqsf3i0wLAE85hmA6_P5MtWrilH8xvkwNu5GNz2LMgcdDGGnMOzJNv66x-ea7wlC5JEEJxWRM_qCyEPBbJ6okgpEvsGu1CIsG8aYr6rAemQENIhUo-ERQAY_EC3fBzf-5Fqgopwoinbxav3bmKKKN_r8woyZ_gwB2EK5dYac/s508/Beech-grove_1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="508" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjArFCOIhAz2BTPqsf3i0wLAE85hmA6_P5MtWrilH8xvkwNu5GNz2LMgcdDGGnMOzJNv66x-ea7wlC5JEEJxWRM_qCyEPBbJ6okgpEvsGu1CIsG8aYr6rAemQENIhUo-ERQAY_EC3fBzf-5Fqgopwoinbxav3bmKKKN_r8woyZ_gwB2EK5dYac/w400-h125/Beech-grove_1.png" width="400" /></a></div>(<i>LotR</i> VI.4 at 951).* After some discussion and their morning ablutions, Frodo and Sam follow Gandalf "out of the beech-grove in which they had lain" even further into a world of bliss and beauty and abundance (<i>id</i>. at 952).<p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p><p>So here we see peace and safety associated with a bed outdoors in a beech-grove. We say "safe as houses," but the description here really emphasizes the lack of roof. With no roof and no walls, the hobbits would necessarily be exposed to the elements, wouldn't they? No doubt the clement weather, too, is a sign of grace. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;">FN* Sam quickly realizes where he is (that smell!) and verifies that Frodo is sleeping peacefully. Over the next five paragraphs he has a bit of conversation with Gandalf and springs out of bed, before we (along with Sam) learn that Frodo first woke up </span><i style="font-size: small;">hours</i><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;">before ("I was awake early this morning, and now it must be nearly noon."). </span></div></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-15079526804957281562022-07-27T13:07:00.001-04:002022-07-27T13:07:48.661-04:00Lewis Carroll's Games and Puzzles<p>I used to have a paperback book devoted to various brain teasers by Lewis Carroll, which I foolishly jettisoned when it started disintegrating and have never been able to find again after many online searches. I associate it with the place we lived in 1986-1991, so it was probably published no later than that (quite possibly much earlier) and seem to recall it was edited by Martin Gardiner. It may have been published by Penguin. And yes, I have used some and all of those search elements and more (including quotes from specific rhymes and puzzles I remember from inside the book) to no avail.</p><p>One of the games this book introduced me to is a thing where you are to change one word into another in a certain number of steps, changing one letter at a time - and of course, each step must be a word. </p><p>For example, the challenge might be to change DROP into PAIL, which can be done in 6 steps as follows:<br />DROP<br />DRIP<br />GRIP<br />GRIN<br />GAIN<br />PAIN<br />PAIL</p><p>(It may be possible to do it in fewer than six steps, that's just what it took me!) This is a game I've played sometimes on the subway for fun, setting myself the odd semi-random challenge; ideally there is some connection between the words.</p><p>Other examples I generated, as a possible exercise for the reader: </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>change HAND into FOOT (5 steps or fewer)</li><li>change NOSE into EARS (5 steps or fewer)</li><li>change BALD into HAIR (4 steps or fewer)</li><li>change NOSE into TOES (4 steps or fewer)</li><li>change COOL into WARM (5 steps or fewer)</li><li>change SHOE into SOCK (this took me 10 steps - surely it can be improved upon!)</li><li>change MIND into MUSH (5 steps or fewer)</li></ul><p></p><p><br /></p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-22604738624940931932022-07-27T10:05:00.110-04:002022-07-27T11:31:58.412-04:00Elvis Is Everywhere and Other Pre-Pandemic Miscellany (2019)<p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>The song could so easily have been "Elves Is Everywhere" – Sam Gamgee's theme song – and it could have had the refrain "Elves needs boats, Elves needs boats" (thus explaining the Bermuda Triangle in the process). We will not speak of the Lórien bots, although that has its own charm.</li><li>The calls to <i>legalize marijuana now</i> always provoke this thought in me: "...because there isn't nearly enough carelessness, incompetence, and sloppy thinking."</li><li>Doesn't the Ursula K Le Guin book (on which a friend's cat is sleeping) look like the <i>The Tombs of Tuan</i>? I like to think of Túan as the undead offspring of Tevildo and Húan. And that might explain why the cat isn't helping...</li><li>Thinking of S, who died far too soon:</li><ul><li>She loved wearing overalls, for pretty much the same reason her beloved hated them (they are unflatteringly unisex and juvenile)</li><li>Overall, she had a sort of modesty or humility that seemed to reflect a lack of confidence, or even a discomfort with her own gifts (which were many). </li><ul><li>When she was in grad school, there was a guy in her program who kept telling her "I'm in love!" She would keep asking him who with, and he would keep replying "With life!" It was obvious to me and everyone else that he had a crush on her, but she seemed to take his statement at face value and found it very inspirational. (She was very surprised and chagrined when he finally confessed that she was the object of his affection.) </li><li>When we were in high school or early college, I remember my dad mentioning once that she'd sent him her resume; he told me he was willing to speak with her, but she'd have to reach out to him. <i>Why didn't I tell her that? (</i>She never did reach out to him.) </li></ul><li>She was given to almost naive enthusiasms, perhaps even self-consciously reveling in her own unabashedness, while she could be quite scornful of enthusiasms she didn't share.</li><li>She had no patience with posers/wannabes.</li><li>I remember several quirks about her beloved, including that he deleted the Minesweeper game <i>on her computer</i> because he couldn't resist playing it. But they were devoted to each other, and I believe were quite happy together.</li></ul></ul><p></p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-15245940560419348382022-07-27T09:52:00.000-04:002022-07-27T09:52:42.100-04:00Perelandra & Theological Debate<p>I have in my notes a response to some superficial/snarky characterization of the fact that Ransom ultimately takes his "debate" with the Un-man to the physical plane in <i>Perelandra</i>. (As best I can reconstruct it, the claim must have been that Lewis seems to suggest that Christianity cannot be defended by logic and reason, but only by physical violence.) I've adapted my thoughts here for sharing.</p><p>===</p><p>Preliminarily, I would acknowledge that few believers of any faith are capable of winning philosophical debates with outsiders in real life. </p><p>That said, Ransom is never really engaged in a philosophical debate with the Un-man; both of them are addressing their arguments to the Lady, and the purpose is to create or prevent a Fall on her planet. Critically, they are not discussing or debating Christianity, which has absolutely no relevance to unfallen Perelandra. Indeed, Ransom believes that a Fall on Perelandra would prompt divine grace in some terrifyingly different, unimaginable form.†</p><p>Rather, the Un-man is looking to tempt the Lady to rebel against Maleldil, and it is not limiting itself to logic and reason. Appeals to emotion and self-image are entirely fair game. For example, at one point, the Un-man starts telling seemingly interminable stories which Ransom eventually realizes are designed to play on the Lady's altruism and nobility of spirit to trigger dangerous pride or vanity. The Un-man seeks to manipulate the Lady by any means available.</p><p>Ransom is playing defense. He is trying to expose and guard against the Un-man's temptations and thus prevent a new Fall. But he simply <i>cannot</i> win the contest for persuasion of the Lady, because he's human. He, unlike the diabolical agent animating the Un-man, needs food and sleep, and has only a few decades' experience to draw on.</p><p>I would also note that the Un-man literally can't be <b><i>bothered</i></b> to debate Ransom. It doesn't need to persuade him of anything, so it's perfectly content to torment him by repeating his name incessantly at intervals for no reason.* This passage from chapter 10 explains the peculiar relationship between the Un-man and rationality itself: </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">[The Un-man] showed plenty of subtlety and intelligence when talking to the Lady; but Ransom soon perceived that it regarded intelligence simply and solely as a weapon, which it had no more wish to employ in its off-duty hours than a soldier has to do bayonet practice when he is on leave. Thought was for it a device necessary to certain ends, but thought in itself did not interest it. It assumed reason as externally and inorganically as it had assumed Weston's body. The moment the Lady was out of sight it seemed to relapse. </p></blockquote><p>===</p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">FN† From chapter 11: </span></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">If [Ransom] now failed, this world also would hereafter be redeemed. If he were not the ransom, Another would be. Yet nothing was ever repeated. Not a second crucifixion: perhaps--who knows--not even a second Incarnation . . . some act of even more appalling love, some glory of yet deeper humility. For he had seen already how the pattern grows and how from each world it sprouts into the next through some other dimension. The small external evil which Satan had done in Malacandra was only as a line: the deeper evil he had done in Earth was as a square: if Venus fell, her evil would be a cube – her Redemption beyond conceiving. Yet redeemed she would be. </span></p></blockquote><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">FN* Luckily for readers, Lewis explains the concept in a few pages rather than reporting the entire monologue journalistically.</span></p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-60845037160478307692022-06-18T19:39:00.001-04:002022-06-20T19:53:12.100-04:00Back to Cold Spring!<p>It was a cool, breezy day, perfect for hiking. For the stem of the lollipop (about 1 hour), I walked from the station to the trailhead, then took a left at the initial fork for the gentle slope of Cornish (blue) to Brook (red). The loop portion took me about 2.5 hours: right on Undercliff (yellow), left on Washburn (white) to go up and over the top of Bull Hill, then left on Notch (blue) back to the junction with Undercliff. From there, I retraced my steps. </p><p>Not much to report in terms of flora or fauna, but it was nice to get back to the old stomping grounds. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYFqdDdE3g8lq6DIu7q1KhPuAV5D-WrFiouhvUBj-Bw18LwvegG-ZfXCGdnd0YS1pFHUlz5vW3cYX1l7tcKLur-6EsEGQYAhgEOw_UaLomVRcfjQfwh1kYI3HM-DduI4ut3kTUSFk4xfrzqzGga-4IB6OvWqVsj1SGBIdpX4FW26k8f5Luhbk/s640/cs%20-%201.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYFqdDdE3g8lq6DIu7q1KhPuAV5D-WrFiouhvUBj-Bw18LwvegG-ZfXCGdnd0YS1pFHUlz5vW3cYX1l7tcKLur-6EsEGQYAhgEOw_UaLomVRcfjQfwh1kYI3HM-DduI4ut3kTUSFk4xfrzqzGga-4IB6OvWqVsj1SGBIdpX4FW26k8f5Luhbk/w400-h300/cs%20-%201.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtXVUraRpGItL8QL8MxdVpW182pul4Hns4WoMW9T_eKy196mVQrs7k2hPVyajeRTVfdE5DBiDalIzWPVCd2sldYiG56mqc8waZ5c0xq8r6LMordaAv1j83NO1OXaRZp3LpbyKwpbpAnlj5zAyIimO6C0Awms7qb8j8UPFNVBoD_wjMvCtxXFs/s640/cs%20-%202.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtXVUraRpGItL8QL8MxdVpW182pul4Hns4WoMW9T_eKy196mVQrs7k2hPVyajeRTVfdE5DBiDalIzWPVCd2sldYiG56mqc8waZ5c0xq8r6LMordaAv1j83NO1OXaRZp3LpbyKwpbpAnlj5zAyIimO6C0Awms7qb8j8UPFNVBoD_wjMvCtxXFs/w640-h480/cs%20-%202.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-61143426080748870712022-05-21T11:03:00.000-04:002022-05-21T11:03:07.049-04:00Nosiness<p>At the <a href="https://www.askamanager.org/2022/05/explaining-why-im-not-donating-blood-boss-flies-first-class-but-put-me-in-coach-and-more.html#respond" target="_blank">AskAManager</a> site: </p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, "times new roman", Times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143rem; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; font-weight: 700; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">1. How do I explain why I’m not donating blood?</span></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, "times new roman", Times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143rem; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">My medium-sized company is hosting a blood drive on site in a few weeks and HR has really been pushing for people to sign up. I would love to donate blood but because I am a sexually active gay man, I am not allowed. Because I live in a small, conservative town, I am in mostly in the closet (totally at work). My employer is basically the only game in town and I need to keep my job. From past conversations and experiences, I have no doubt that things would not go well if I came out (that includes HR and my boss).</em></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #111111; font-family: Georgia, "times new roman", Times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.57143rem; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">While I hate that this is how it is, I have come to terms with it. The issue is, I don’t know what to say to people when they ask why I haven’t signed up. I can’t say the truth so I think a small white lie is the way to go. I was going to say that I donated recently already but as this is a small town, we don’t have many drives so worry about follow-up questions. Any other suggestions?</em><span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span></p><p>Since I apparently missed the commenting window, here's my $0.02:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p>I'd try to pick a vague reason or even a non-reason and repeat it over and over, no matter what. Unless the busybodies have a subpoena, you don't have to give them a real answer of any kind - no matter how hard they push. </p><p>And if they start speculating about specific reasons why you might be unable to give blood, whether correctly or incorrectly, I'd move to "You are not entitled to that information." Or "Wow, that's presumptuous." Or just stare at them in amazement at their rudeness and walk away. </p><p>I suppose the bottom line, for me, is that it is, in fact, the busybodies who are being rude if they persist after a polite non-answer or a polite deflection. The longer they persist, the ruder they are being. You owe them nothing.</p></blockquote><p>And now that I think about it, the letter writer doesn't even need to reveal the fact that he <i>cannot</i> give blood. If he's got the courage to face down social disapproval and is willing to ignore or deflect attempts to persuade him that he's being selfish or insufficiently public-spirited, "I don't want to" is a more than sufficient reason - and it should shut down inquiry into his reasons. </p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-511004159341218282021-10-17T18:53:00.003-04:002021-10-17T18:53:23.796-04:00Along Breakneck Ridge<p>So today, I took the high road and stayed along the ridge. It was more arduous than I remembered; there's a bit of scramble which feels a little exposed, especially when the wind gusts, and there was a lot of mud and damp leaves. On the final leg, I managed to stray from the official path and had a punishingly steep descent. Felt it in my knees after a while - not good. </p><p>But it was a good day overall. Plenty of fungi and flowers. Not much wildlife - just a daddy long-legs, a few slugs, and a worm or two. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJPEtua5tcYKdSnzHeKNiIgMWVvBIP6e59MmSLtdHZvLiGptfxxDEAD4VFJKEKpVf5-CBV8alzk4zczVyFZwG5tTndZ44aQ7Dw45fc-0Mw6l8rEQ-VXymh14UoRqYUq7XoJjQRg/s640/beacon+-+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqJPEtua5tcYKdSnzHeKNiIgMWVvBIP6e59MmSLtdHZvLiGptfxxDEAD4VFJKEKpVf5-CBV8alzk4zczVyFZwG5tTndZ44aQ7Dw45fc-0Mw6l8rEQ-VXymh14UoRqYUq7XoJjQRg/w300-h400/beacon+-+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkfRZroO1uSl_kiT4cqp7jt4hU-_-EJlPNVyOJxY-TheAfFIMkaOi6XkxMGQt-YcxtvbOKWpWGuxJMvatJQaJOu8Gb1YUF8rDL22QYO9llm71mpY7gTWTIgkAtLforBhiNiUw5g/s640/beacon+-+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkfRZroO1uSl_kiT4cqp7jt4hU-_-EJlPNVyOJxY-TheAfFIMkaOi6XkxMGQt-YcxtvbOKWpWGuxJMvatJQaJOu8Gb1YUF8rDL22QYO9llm71mpY7gTWTIgkAtLforBhiNiUw5g/w640-h480/beacon+-+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWD_RT56cR9v1ep1Fs1BG27vQf4xZuLO5evtlaSasofGHa3xxPoEkkK3aKeZ4zqeEWj8uePYfSh9epjGEy5bYvDwp69g9f_THF-T2FOajA9oWLqLF95bdLRwc9pa03G1MGPE1cJw/s640/beacon+-+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWD_RT56cR9v1ep1Fs1BG27vQf4xZuLO5evtlaSasofGHa3xxPoEkkK3aKeZ4zqeEWj8uePYfSh9epjGEy5bYvDwp69g9f_THF-T2FOajA9oWLqLF95bdLRwc9pa03G1MGPE1cJw/s320/beacon+-+3.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIYeDhhCgeE2P4H4mc9IJbv2xXhm1n_21zqs_J3mxvCkfiey1T346B62D9xLoPHnqjxLkYDr0mhXh62HspY_CwlF-Jnvvdo8aJv8hYASGlsRhtnDn-EJw7JcJGFsCjsMVCBXrqYw/s640/beacon+-+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIYeDhhCgeE2P4H4mc9IJbv2xXhm1n_21zqs_J3mxvCkfiey1T346B62D9xLoPHnqjxLkYDr0mhXh62HspY_CwlF-Jnvvdo8aJv8hYASGlsRhtnDn-EJw7JcJGFsCjsMVCBXrqYw/w640-h480/beacon+-+4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucNKUCdlOn5-WuII1mviv3Vlt3ymPgdekzq4i7_iOkM4VHUSv9auQw9N80H34N99nNyrhKwWr9N8DGP4FohMZpdgjuZck1sginzRBQJmDSpLfxs_EypCznhg7WS-lU1V7f1NhXg/s640/beacon+-+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhucNKUCdlOn5-WuII1mviv3Vlt3ymPgdekzq4i7_iOkM4VHUSv9auQw9N80H34N99nNyrhKwWr9N8DGP4FohMZpdgjuZck1sginzRBQJmDSpLfxs_EypCznhg7WS-lU1V7f1NhXg/w400-h300/beacon+-+5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4gV6kqovXjLK5RAbudtNlKeU04tsLwxCRvnQshY7NIpdKLJTw8lQeLfUgWn0XFMUo5mtVwQeM_vaV-oQsSvoUxWQbCRT9EExF-rrLrUy-_HqcbEht3iLnFeIKQ7IFYkq-0_DOpw/s640/beacon+-+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4gV6kqovXjLK5RAbudtNlKeU04tsLwxCRvnQshY7NIpdKLJTw8lQeLfUgWn0XFMUo5mtVwQeM_vaV-oQsSvoUxWQbCRT9EExF-rrLrUy-_HqcbEht3iLnFeIKQ7IFYkq-0_DOpw/w480-h640/beacon+-+6.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZLaoPPIPXzAfVFwKsJiBiZi_Bkt8D8m0ICH6NMqudArK_Zr88b2hZuTb8yMfuaIoazzqUuwyDBF3Q1LV1PUkkA1Un6GV177sX0qGFb-GOfMZAPkQmCgauF8a8x6XBgYxKV7X1g/s640/beacon+-+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZLaoPPIPXzAfVFwKsJiBiZi_Bkt8D8m0ICH6NMqudArK_Zr88b2hZuTb8yMfuaIoazzqUuwyDBF3Q1LV1PUkkA1Un6GV177sX0qGFb-GOfMZAPkQmCgauF8a8x6XBgYxKV7X1g/s320/beacon+-+7.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Arrived Cold Spring at 10:30, made it to the 4:04 train at Beacon.</p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-57375372812991287882021-10-12T19:17:00.002-04:002021-10-12T19:17:21.695-04:00Answering Back to a Gaslighter<blockquote></blockquote>Another pair of moments when perhaps Tolkien and Lewis are exploring similar ideas in their fiction. <div><br /></div><div>The setup for both, broadly speaking, is that a villain has dominated another's will through nefarious means. With the assistance of outsiders, the victim is starting to break free, and the villain turns to gaslighting. A person once under the villain's dominion now answers back.<p>In "The King of the Golden Hall" (<i>LotR</i> bk III, ch 6), Wormtongue's steady lies and evil counsel over a period of years have managed to sap Théoden's strength until he sees himself as a doddering old man. Gandalf breaks the "spell" with a little sound-and-light show that leaves the cowardly Wormtongue face down on the floor, then gives Théoden a solo pep talk and encourages him to remember and re-embrace his own strength by casting aside his staff and holding a sword. Théoden is soon ready to hear the news (the need for action to protect his people) and reacts to it as a king should. When Wormtongue is brought back, he tries to salvage the situation with a little gaslighting:</p><blockquote>'Dear lord!' cried Wormtongue. 'It is as I feared. This wizard has bewitched you. Are none to be left to defend the Golden Hall of your fathers, and all your treasure? None to guard the Lord of the Mark?'<br /><br />'If this is bewitchment,' said Théoden, 'it seems to me more wholesome than your whisperings. Your leechcraft ere long would have had me walking on all fours like a beast. [...]' </blockquote><p>So the ploy doesn't work; the erstwhile victim has come to see things clearly. But note the form of response. He doesn't flat-out contradict Wormtongue. He shies away ever-so-slightly from the direct confrontation by taking Wormtongue's <i>premise</i> as possibly or hypothetically true, and choosing Gandalf's way over Wormtongue's way as "more wholesome," <i>even if</i> magic is involved.</p><p>Lewis tackles something a bit like this in "The Queen of Underland" (<i>The Silver Chair</i>, ch. 12). An evil witch has kidnapped and bewitched Prince Rilian of Narnia, giving him amnesia so that he will fall in with her plans. She has had him in her power for years. Puddleglum and the children free Rilian during one of his brief moments of lucidity, and he smashes the instrument of his magical enslavement. The witch returns, and quickly creates a new enchantment to cloud the thinking of Rilian and his rescuers, while she works to gaslight them into believing that her dreary underground caves are the only reality. </p><p>She deflects and denies all their attempts to "prove" (or get her to acknowledge) the existence of the sunlit world they have always known, half-persuading them that they have invented or dreamed it all. So when Puddleglum finally manages to break this new enchantment, he does not try to reject the witch's false premises. Instead, he takes them as at least presumptively true and explains why he chooses the ways of Narnia and Aslan over the witch's way<i> even if </i>they are mere illusions. </p><blockquote><p>"Suppose we <i>have</i> only dreamed, or made up, all those things – trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, <b>in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones.</b> Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours <i>is</i> the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. <b>But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow.</b> That's why I'm going to stand by the play-world. I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we're leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that's a small loss if the world's as dull a place as you say." </p></blockquote><p> (italics in original; bold added) </p><p><br /></p></div>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-86708792738062948502021-10-08T18:35:00.005-04:002021-10-08T18:36:52.815-04:00Good But Dangerous<p>In the popular imagination, labeling a person as "good" can be a way to dismiss them. The playground taunts of someone as a "goody-goody" or a "goody two-shoes" imply that they are <i>over</i>-scrupulous or even over-concerned with the <i>appearance</i> of goodness as if to curry favor with those in power. The stereotype is perhaps to say that a "good" person is an obedient rule-follower, boring and insipid, lacking in imagination and drive; they are predictable and easily taken advantage of. They will surely finish last. Indeed, there can be something almost offensive in their seeming inoffensiveness. </p><p>But Lewis and Tolkien, each in their own way, decouple the ideas of goodness and safety in their fiction – both naturally and implicitly in the worlds they have created, and also expressly in reported dialogue. </p><p><br /></p><p>Here the Beavers are telling Peter, Susan, and Lucy about Aslan (whom we have not yet met) in chapter 8 of <i>The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe</i> (emphasis added):</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">"Ooh!" said Susan, "I'd thought he was a man. Is he – quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion."</p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">"That you will, dearie, and no mistake," said Mrs. Beaver; "if there's anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they're either braver than most or else just silly." </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> "Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy. </p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver; "don't you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe?<i> 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. </i>He's the King, I tell you."</p></blockquote><p>(The idea comes back in various forms throughout the Narnia books. In <i>The Silver Chair</i>, for example, Jill Pole asks Aslan to "promise not to – do anything" to her, if she comes and drinks from the stream; he declines, and proceeds to tell her "I have swallowed up girls and boys, women and men, kings and emperors, cities and realms." We repeatedly hear that Aslan is not "a <i>tame</i> lion.")</p><p><br /></p><p>And here's where Gandalf tells Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli about Fangorn, in book III, chapter 5 of <i>The Lord of The Rings </i>(emphasis added):</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p>"But you speak of him as if he was a friend. I thought Fangorn was dangerous." </p><p>"Dangerous!" cried Gandalf. "And so am I, very dangerous: more dangerous than anything you will ever meet[...]. And Aragorn is dangerous, and Legolas is dangerous. You are beset with dangers, Gimli son of Glóin; for you are dangerous yourself, in your own fashion. Certainly the forest is perilous [...] and <i>Fangorn himself, he is perilous too; yet he is wise and kindly nonetheless.</i>"</p></blockquote><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-77942849725724628892021-10-02T22:49:00.976-04:002021-10-06T13:17:55.014-04:00Cold Spring to Beacon ReduxHÅKAN Chocolatier was as good an excuse as I needed to go to Beacon. And since the shop is already half an hour's walk from the Beacon train station, why not simply walk up from Cold Spring?<br /><br />It's been a few years since I've followed the hiking trails from Cold Spring to Beacon – probably not since 2018, when I was preparing for the West Highland Way – so I double-checked the route options before I set out. The initial part would be Cornish-Brook-Notch-Breakneck Ridge, a fairly standard easy ascent. From there, I wanted to switch to the Wilkinson Memorial trail because it would be less crowded. But the truly critical choice would be when I hit the Casino trail: should I take the ever-popular and most direct route down to Beacon, or add another big chunk to my hike by continuing on Wilkinson, past some scenic overlooks to Dozer Junction and Fishkill Ridge? I was inclined to use crowd-avoidance as my lodestar, but wasn't entirely sure if I'd be up for it.<div><br /><br /><b>Merging Onto the White-Blazed Breakneck Ridge Trail</b><div><br /></div><div>I like the woodsy climbs and descents along the long stretch of trail blazed blue and white <i>(i.e.</i>, where Notch and Breakneck Ridge merge or overlap). It is almost entirely wooded (no scenic overlooks that I can recall) but very pretty in the early autumn, and pleasantly solitary on this spectacular day. At a few points, I lost the trail briefly but quickly rejoined.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCe7R2ZwOrOqBOLas4Q_TH_ozguUi0w4S5inNvPsfniCtlXTuMZNG9c9L4r23-SmSdOzHqh1nh-vgYAAwPvXJa2LD_UaXDqsBXIG40ljaEFhPfVDCa1qZUdj9xCp5Fz-xGWzuc9Q/s520/Screen+Shot+2021-10-06+at+9.55.16+AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="259" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCe7R2ZwOrOqBOLas4Q_TH_ozguUi0w4S5inNvPsfniCtlXTuMZNG9c9L4r23-SmSdOzHqh1nh-vgYAAwPvXJa2LD_UaXDqsBXIG40ljaEFhPfVDCa1qZUdj9xCp5Fz-xGWzuc9Q/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-10-06+at+9.55.16+AM.png" width="159" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A standard approach</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">I was thrilled to see another example of polypore, which I learned about last month in New Hampshire. At first, I thought it was growing on a living tree and was a little surprised by that.</div><div style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kVqb0A9R-izv31NJenEEz3OmtZtSplG9CTcudMLHDHB6L3GEXxZHWsF4bdsbOYhXp3kQkuRtVFFFQ3DU4Z_V3d6-u2GtS2OOdU5HypjoZVyG0aBSxwgRZAtplx1sqZKHtkaulw/w480-h640/hike+-+2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">first glimpse of a birch polypore</td></tr></tbody></table><br />But a step back suggests it is essentially a very tall tree stump! I'm not sure why it hasn't fallen, but it's quite striking in situ.</div><div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVZYp4LTSGMz7fnAEsVy3OuwpOoRj4ox5anixyo7KC_uGmav3ci-tuk8Neo913FRe_3jQi9PHTsAqSdXBOMvYqttiKqv6DUCzlvaQEDfo46LVWgSskR5DAklh8JRHk0Kui8XL0pw/w480-h640/hike+-+1.jpg" /><br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2X52WXqoUDdhifVOuTmc7_vVTZ0bWBjHWzNKlyfDr36ilOyKHjkneK37Ya2wV_EeNj0U6V-zMw8EXDBLs9ryGPZBtrMfZd1ZcVGraKObuu5DZziCBhQwIBqiNcF6SHHmwHA3kA/s16000/hike+-+3.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: start;"><i>Not</i> a vein in the rock; it's a glistening trail left by some creature. I don't recall </div><div style="text-align: start;">having seen these delicate slime-trails before, but today there were several.</div></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Veering Off to the Yellow-Blazed Wilkinson Memorial Trail</b><div><br /></div>Soon after Notch (blue) and Breakneck Ridge (white) diverge, Wilkinson Memorial (yellow) merges with the blue. They continue together for a while, then right after you cross Squirrel Hollow Creek, the yellow trail splits off; it goes around a bit and then crosses the white trail, heading up eventually to a nice series of overlooks.<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjogHLdrCY9X4t4DypRqmpfRMavDT7l8hcIAUWHfJ_UTYjD1UKUUPh70bPUBp0m31-1C28feERlo3phBXjQ6IMKP4AoqmytD_JTRBhtm2QxTC0h4Cgf5wJA6wP3qcOzqFrEC2unrw/s620/Screen+Shot+2021-10-06+at+9.21.33+AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="620" data-original-width="447" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjogHLdrCY9X4t4DypRqmpfRMavDT7l8hcIAUWHfJ_UTYjD1UKUUPh70bPUBp0m31-1C28feERlo3phBXjQ6IMKP4AoqmytD_JTRBhtm2QxTC0h4Cgf5wJA6wP3qcOzqFrEC2unrw/w462-h640/Screen+Shot+2021-10-06+at+9.21.33+AM.png" width="462" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first dubious choice... taking a detour to descend from the ridge</td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><div><br /></div><div>What I had not remembered (although I suppose it is clear enough on the contour map) was that the blue and yellow trails steadily descend at this point. It makes perfect sense when you think about it; the blue trail <i>had</i> been following the ridge and thus had nowhere to go but down! But it was a little disheartening to be descending and descending in order to re-ascend later on. After all, I could have stayed up on the ridge. There are good reasons why this route is less crowded! </div><div><br /></div><div>Relatedly, I also soon realized that the trail maintainers do not expect people to go the way I did on this section. The double blue and yellow blazes are bright and clear and new looking if you're <i>south-bound</i> (I looked back often to check), but the yellow blazes have faded to the point of invisibility if you're heading <i>north</i> – leaving me to wonder if I'd missed the turn-off for yellow. (I had not yet realized I'd be crossing a creek first!) </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgorIJQt6EK-4nskpl4_lHdhGE-GpbSiKb8Xm7_QzeNDOesouxLIAju71uxb9ZPAqufgvrYLm2yQX2KK1E0q1yZes3C6fvIwAR9KD9MOsIoIYXi2yyVjI33yW43iCITtC3FZcY4cw/w480-h640/hike+-+4.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: start;">Notch and Wilkinson Memorial blazes, a rare instance where they are bold</div><div style="text-align: start;">plastic disks, instead of a bright square of blue paint and a barely discernible</div><div style="text-align: start;">trace of where a square of yellow paint may once have been</div></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /><br /></div><div><b>The Decision Point </b></div><div><br /></div><div>I pushed myself hard on all these initial sections and reached the turnoff for the red-blazed Casino trail about 3 hours after I'd set out from Cold Spring. I followed Wilkinson Memorial a bit past the intersection, then sat down on a rock to decide what to do. While I munched on my bread and cheese, one couple surged past me energetically. They then reappeared about five minutes later with a cheery "Red trail it is!" Ultimately I decided to challenge myself; it was not yet 1 p.m.<br /><br />The first scenic overlook north of the Casino trail is perhaps a 10-minute walk and quite rewarding.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSaR4ZptUgcEhqvpgrwBRrMNcAwFcwqz-M5KepwWW1N4VJ27f6YqhSXdAljcPugiE7uCM6A2x-hdkv1vAEpEMUbV5Cu5WnlYNsVHaiofKWywSJG5Ydn5bD9GMv_zER4sy55rItzg/w640-h480/hike+-+5.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">the first scenic overlook on the Wilkinson Memorial trail north of the Casino trail is spectacular</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />After that, to be perfectly honest, the cost/benefit ratio deteriorated somewhat for the subsequent views. I'd told myself that it'd be easier from that point, since I'd be staying at the top of the ridge, but there was a lot more undulation than I remembered, and I started to sigh with every new climb.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0pA7ISlz0VLj9s1q4LEWlwHhfAhSQia2LkUxrq0SYoWQrF7ORyfzn76nYOJmTawsJqJ4aSEHgC3Al6YhEJFuBX3T_wOQ97qfVeEa_M3ohTedUNWeZ5rzxL0aM7hSuca5v0RXEEg/w400-h300/hike+-+6.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">sadly, each subsequent viewpoint shows more man-made structures</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I worried a bit that I'd already eaten all my food (though I had plenty of water) and I slowed my pace considerably because I noticed my feet were occasionally starting to slip or turn. So that left me a little nervous about finding my way if I were still out there as daylight faded, since I wasn't sure from my map how many miles I was really adding to my journey. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>A Crucial Shortcut</b></div><div><br /></div><div>There are two ways to get from the yellow-blazed Wilkinson Memorial trail to the white-blazed Fishkill Ridge trail, which I counted on taking down to Pocket Road in Beacon.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the northward/eastward direction, you first encounter a little blue-blazed trail (0.3 miles, with the unimaginative trail name of "Blue"), which provides a shortcut to Fishkill Ridge via Dozer Junction. Just a little further on, however, you will reach a direct intersection of the Wilkinson and Fishkill trails.</div><div> </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHZpnQgkmrnvGqYhEWK60w7GwxybsdCUvqI-di2iumwtjhGZ0xzgF3WFB4bDvryy3xDbjQ-hUrnVCvJDDUDkdRYeHWAdH3OiXPnKq4xhbUVgDOh5bP5PtO1ktKdD_dzZzOqa_DA/s189/Screen+Shot+2021-10-06+at+10.28.09+AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="112" data-original-width="189" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlHZpnQgkmrnvGqYhEWK60w7GwxybsdCUvqI-di2iumwtjhGZ0xzgF3WFB4bDvryy3xDbjQ-hUrnVCvJDDUDkdRYeHWAdH3OiXPnKq4xhbUVgDOh5bP5PtO1ktKdD_dzZzOqa_DA/w400-h237/Screen+Shot+2021-10-06+at+10.28.09+AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two ways to get from yellow to white</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>How important is this shortcut? Well, it looks like it spares you 2 or 3 miles and the summits (such as they are) of Bald Hill and Lambs Hill!</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnX-qaFYMTizcwLZ17A62zbd6sE8-VKkiLXRM2Jy3mEW9J9Dkaj-PvukqxWuscHk8wwhw9n3x-dUM6ZvOsNEyKWs8gfJAtpOmFzBeknfWeuw6nupJjppSFoKETf1tWCIOGfPSoGA/s622/Screen+Shot+2021-10-06+at+10.37.34+AM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="592" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnX-qaFYMTizcwLZ17A62zbd6sE8-VKkiLXRM2Jy3mEW9J9Dkaj-PvukqxWuscHk8wwhw9n3x-dUM6ZvOsNEyKWs8gfJAtpOmFzBeknfWeuw6nupJjppSFoKETf1tWCIOGfPSoGA/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-10-06+at+10.37.34+AM.png" width="305" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What happens if you miss the crucial shortcut</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I would like to walk the entire Fishkill Ridge trail someday, but today was not that day. I resolved that if I somehow missed the turnoff for the Blue trail to Dozer Junction and came to the direct intersection of Wilkinson Memorial and Fishkill Ridge, I'd retrace my steps and do whatever it took to find that crucial shortcut! </div><div><br /></div><div>Fortunately, it was well-marked and I did not have go back! At certain points, there were some nice delicate white flowers against the ferns, reminiscent of an English garden; elsewhere, a few purplish maple leaves fallen among the grasses reminded me of a <span style="text-align: center;">William Morris design. From time to time, there were fungi of interesting colors.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhayAffl6hRD-HODj-D61OdZ-ui4RJfpVDHZYW9UAfH5F2sZhvJAThGg1-xVbo2Pw4y4vkgz8L3RzYxbwkNSFySU5j_vG6ry9Ei5tGepQjbEpZfhaq01eSyhAeoaTNqXte_Lruv3w/w640-h480/hike+-+7.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">fungi with a delicate blue-gray color, bordering on the palest purple</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisa7YcUv7UEULHjazPVNZa_HHgKbYS7adXA6pd3tdG2UuNybgUBSZr2ZqXSoUztALD-FRyoBaDcXTo0QQrmT-wme_Dvz1ZN1EkPNRc1P2x136OiJNv707tndeYRLmfPXb7ksS2Eg/w300-h400/hike+-+8.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">a little hard to capture the effect,</span><br style="text-align: start;" /><span style="text-align: start;">but it reminded me of an English garden</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEpzQjgVXN2Rncl1PGpTGgRlBC9G9QvcSo6_AvFMeQnXfCvh2letpn0qZXNwde4R2N2Yq6e-Ff5mSAQAKVdU57wKfrDBXS_ydi_YadCLZisAKF2ylmZ3yJWrw7__XX_Z1I0ipKcw/w480-h640/hike+-+9.jpg" /></a>a</td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;"> a few fallen maple leaves among the grasses;<br /></span>almost an accidental echo of William Morris</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAi6Wu-ci6_54u2Rb4Y1xkYWQyFemF6Vc2cBAhcEmI_X0T4I3AS0BOPJmjmj4KV1eNqWxsuwbvSihFd2q3_uGUXNy8hZYHJMkFCK9AFre6ePPBDS-KPKNWNKEcgFdEngW2mxtMVQ/w640-h480/hike+-+11.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;">Patriotic litterbugs: a contradiction in terms? Discuss.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqvxQWeFTzuylKSCYhLYt3PNMLGEeV3yB0x59Jd8LuL_GiO-feMDsqnMl9mwEs4vDoZOW_0FsOrMW0IoSJD7f3WjbyThzac2akODvz6hjRLKo7uw_4iebMPFBT4__7Js9BDEcMDQ/w640-h480/hike+-+12.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I liked the mossy crannies (left) and pale pink-peach fungus (center-right) on this stump</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHAPFHCe99P5Pllpj32GWe6h_zj1lC1Ur0LctWNej2dcnJOS6G9zNiGdP_ILccRTHDFzBWVYdN1N4CzeQ6w281VC8yVJ-lSltR-RGe1d5v_T4Pn31380K-edhlrYWe8pPSvmrTVg/w640-h480/hike+-+13.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dozer Junction at last!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />I continued on, with the positive reinforcement of passing the turn-off for the Overlook Trail only to encounter a nice little overlook from Fishkill Ridge.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTRvPcOmtCxO8KZbCPUrOT2wuQqKwBNel2xO17GN_vr1Wp0XHKB5WCbuGa6YLCyS5ovwTf8UAblBQoGArmveD6ckwMeChxV7HSipw9hWJoJfTaJSlv9kzg_pjQ4FA9oHMIlQAdXg/s320/hike+-+15.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A glimpse of the Hudson from Fishkill Ridge, <br />a little west of the Overlook trail</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I was also encouraged by the fact that I was now encountering quite a few hikers who were apparently <i>starting</i> their hiking day with a climb up to Fishkill Ridge. Clearly <i>they</i> didn't think darkness was about to fall and cut them off from finding their way back! There was one very large group of perhaps college-aged kids climbing up; I stepped aside and let them all pass. Some of them thanked me for it, in courtesy, but of course I was more than happy to rest a bit by now. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>An Unexpected Journey</b><br /><br />So I continued my descent along the Fishkill Ridge trail until I got to a rough gravel road. I knew the trail should cross the road, but it wasn't immediately obvious where the trail was. (I dimly remembered having encountered this issue when I'd been here before.) On my map, it looked like I could descend to the town by turning right on the gravel road. It seemed to me that that might be a good idea anyway; I was getting tired, and had to be deliberately mindful of my footing to avoid injuring myself with a turned ankle. I didn't relish all the stream crossings and slippery rocks I'd encounter on the official trail from this point on. </div><div><br /></div><div>I turned right on the gravel road and half-heartedly looked for a continuation of the Fishkill Ridge trail (though I was increasingly sure you have to turn <i>left</i> on the road to find it). </div><div><br /></div><div>As I steadily and carefully descended the gravel road, I kept mulling over possible justifications, excuses, and attitudes if challenged by some park ranger. (Should I focus on my fatigue and justify it as responsible decision-making for my personal safety? On the fact there were no signs saying not to walk on the road? Am I too old to pull off the look of innocent, wide-eyed surprise?)</div><div> </div><div>Soon enough, my fear materialized; I heard an internal combustion engine coming up the hill toward me. I got off the road and stood as motionless as possible in hopes that I wouldn't be spotted. It didn't work, but it also became clear that the car crawling up the road was driven by a civilian! The guy was mindlessly following his GPS, trying to somehow get down to the town (although he was obviously ascending). He had questions. <i>Did the deeply rutted gravel road get any better? </i> I couldn't speak for the entire road, but I had seen nothing but gravel. <i>Is it a dead end, or does it come out the other side?</i> I had no idea; I'd joined from the hiking trail. <i>Did it get any broader, so he could turn around? </i>Not really, from what I'd seen, but there was a point where the road split a little so vehicles could pass; perhaps he could turn there. I wished him luck. </div><div><br /></div><div>He did manage to turn around, and as he passed me the other direction, he asked me to wish him (more) luck. So I did. </div><div><br /></div><div>But all along, I'd been quietly skeptical that this was a road on which civilian drivers were welcomed. And sure enough, as I reached the end, I turned around and saw a red sign saying "<b>NO MOTORIZED VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT.</b>" </div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih7JAMfeYbEWHQqDM_dabz5RuPJm7kYk2YqG1FNrriw1oDEGneAWJVhTFY4vDFnqNCbEYrQhKHB6_ipnYCVwzeZvg6laLUsWMCC1TQ0doxX_oOKURQEanI0Ur01hykNwBEULE-MQ/w480-h640/hike+-+16.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This "NO MOTORIZED VEHICLES" sign is <br />easily missed by a civilian driver enslaved to his GPS.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />The gravel road ended in an intersection with the hairpin turn of a paved road which was most emphatically <i>not</i> as shown on my map. But it seemed to me perfectly clear that turning left to follow the paved road <i>down</i> was my best bet for descending to the town of Beacon proper. And so it was.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once I reached the regular residential streets, it was just about a 20-minute walk to downtown Beacon.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/u/1/#" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWHwDarMzfwuA_Pq8jj_yLSJq-vPDlr9xtq8EiKouQNNUV0WcZLFMAGhtUXIO8HhLiPV5XNcvhtzj4-EWdagvDBpb22xL4GGbxe0z1D0gJRKZ6G7IS6XvFN7-5oKBbgDnvZ-32og/w640-h480/hike+-+17.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sculpture of two birds on a tree, in front of an arched gate.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><br />All in all, it took me less than 7 hours to get from the Cold Spring depot to the chocolate shop. </div><div><br /></div><div>On my way to the train, I ate some cookies and cream ice cream, with gingersnaps! It was very good. </div></div></div></div>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-50638140108272317722021-09-26T11:39:00.169-04:002021-10-06T13:01:16.503-04:00Birthdays!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5VTDWdoS6MgUbJzXKU2l9rh2nxM0kowosGxg2xt4oW6u2HL76xjdObc9w6PczUCA6wXmkOYMTZ2CHQqUPFsJTc1xIxdDDiekHLoKHopSHYmHV2bjACYUWypqpsLZyfR3ojraS1Q/s640/visit+-+1.jpg"><br /></a>So I headed north for a bit of birthday celebration. Some small walks, some games of Upwords, some nice meals, and family togetherness. Ruth furnished a cake which, as she described it, seemed to be the product of a strange alchemy. Apparently, you pour the chocolate cake batter in to the mold, and then pour the dulce de leche flan batter on top. But during the baking process, the chocolate cake portion rises up <i>through the flan </i>to the top! Of course, when it's done, and you turn over the mold, the chocolate cake becomes the base. It was quite nice, especially the flan part. <div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQ7H5LML8drgEOhJK-5DF6t-VSOQ047Z9o30za3aOHokkjhzXokaNRlU42r_lJuem6ukCQbC0CpWMbzAK3Wn-C7Bd1HE9WkUR4TZcS6lF_i-PSGQ4Vyny3NWQDE9_9HpA-_EgRg/s640/visit+-+4.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQ7H5LML8drgEOhJK-5DF6t-VSOQ047Z9o30za3aOHokkjhzXokaNRlU42r_lJuem6ukCQbC0CpWMbzAK3Wn-C7Bd1HE9WkUR4TZcS6lF_i-PSGQ4Vyny3NWQDE9_9HpA-_EgRg/w640-h480/visit+-+4.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">in person, the sleek lines of the little boat <br />in the foreground were quite appealing</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQT7dBV-DYONrHfHf4e_qDQACzOSHI3jq-IY3ol9RApoIix0Oys9OI6AEhGEf1sjTV-ox71kkPu9asSV4EZXJEvwdH3HRLq-NqWi-6E2Ge_K7RAAD2xGCI9EBx4SqTUk9VOVTXxw/s640/visit+-+5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQT7dBV-DYONrHfHf4e_qDQACzOSHI3jq-IY3ol9RApoIix0Oys9OI6AEhGEf1sjTV-ox71kkPu9asSV4EZXJEvwdH3HRLq-NqWi-6E2Ge_K7RAAD2xGCI9EBx4SqTUk9VOVTXxw/w640-h480/visit+-+5.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">as the sailboat tacked and moved along, the sail color seemed to change with the angle of the light; <br />at first, it looked like a solid dusky silver-grey, while later the white was almost blindingly pure</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitis3KTVOIW4exdwwDU69sopItMeekI-DYrqrGWZrAMbGL6WakSGJfzQyqST2yhzcuMkrRmvie45MMH6UhwfK3MBGZ1DImLL9MtIfDMd05SsYdjYAxHNE32Z7y94NZktyIfrneqg/s640/visit+-+6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitis3KTVOIW4exdwwDU69sopItMeekI-DYrqrGWZrAMbGL6WakSGJfzQyqST2yhzcuMkrRmvie45MMH6UhwfK3MBGZ1DImLL9MtIfDMd05SsYdjYAxHNE32Z7y94NZktyIfrneqg/w640-h480/visit+-+6.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> a nice bold striation, there</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS72K43oBj_4DLXO-fFcCntBnJn_9tuxuBo15dnbbT2dqWI2qkBl06nG-DLGLRBOHF28aGr0Rp5qXfvlgYtbmHtR0pu1B7ZXbfoAFfvFVumoUiB5uNa-wbLSHe2aCT2NBoxjktdA/s640/visit+-+7.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS72K43oBj_4DLXO-fFcCntBnJn_9tuxuBo15dnbbT2dqWI2qkBl06nG-DLGLRBOHF28aGr0Rp5qXfvlgYtbmHtR0pu1B7ZXbfoAFfvFVumoUiB5uNa-wbLSHe2aCT2NBoxjktdA/w640-h480/visit+-+7.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">an attractive arrangement of daisies</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />The teenagers were certainly missed, but I was feeling a little <i>unnecessary</i> extra pang initially, when I mistakenly thought I hadn't seen them in an entire year. (In fact, it's only been <i>one-third </i>of a year.) I mean, it would be great to see them more often, but given the pandemic and the frenetic pace of their high school activities, I can content myself. In the mean time, I'm certainly glad I seized on pretty much every excuse to go see them in the early days, when they were more readily portable! I'm so proud of them, and so curious to see the paths they will choose.<br /></div>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-3337682715561356792021-09-19T21:08:00.001-04:002021-09-19T21:08:14.544-04:00Today's Walk<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I caught the train up to Cold Spring today two hours later than I'd intended, but at least an hour earlier than last weekend. The subway was far less crowded (thank goodness!) and there didn't seem to be huge crowds of hikers exiting the train with me, so I went ahead with the classic 5.5 mile loop, taking Washburn up and over Bull Hill, then returning on Notch, Brook, and Cornish.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was perfect weather. Saw a paper wasp nest, the usual variety of fungi (including one that looked a little like a cross section of a tree branch) a low-flying turkey vulture overhead at the summit, two caterpillars (one on the trail and one on a Pepsi machine at the station), a very pale spider (also at the station). </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Had to push myself a bit, and stopped for several water breaks to catch my breath on the way up, but it felt really good. (This is all very unlike last weekend, when I'd gone up the gentler Nelsonville trail to avoid the crowds – doing Washburn as a descent – and remained in the grip of lethargy and a sense of pointlessness all the way.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Supported the local economy by buying some gelato afterward (flavor: cookies and cream).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiesDIluKDCKAmBftF7qx5OoOUlahPk6wlKfc6s38Ox6Aw5ArHWsleps9TODC1tAOzdl9IT8O1pmepn96nSK2pF96Fhc72jlJmPrRKTNRx2dY_N0MteUkihyUqs11rVpAfyu4wEfA/s640/Walk-+-+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiesDIluKDCKAmBftF7qx5OoOUlahPk6wlKfc6s38Ox6Aw5ArHWsleps9TODC1tAOzdl9IT8O1pmepn96nSK2pF96Fhc72jlJmPrRKTNRx2dY_N0MteUkihyUqs11rVpAfyu4wEfA/w480-h640/Walk-+-+1.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">paper wasp nest to the left of the trail on the ascent</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLw-W0vDPQ_K-MGLKj4VtMf53ZBFL5btdIAb0RtPkEF2JzqojGf2Zh04gEqm_3g8eRiY37bO-Tua5qFLRrIRKMdircjup1QPy-1GKlac_6-MM4ua4CkiNE3EsptighZXBhOZC5vQ/s640/Walk-+-+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLw-W0vDPQ_K-MGLKj4VtMf53ZBFL5btdIAb0RtPkEF2JzqojGf2Zh04gEqm_3g8eRiY37bO-Tua5qFLRrIRKMdircjup1QPy-1GKlac_6-MM4ua4CkiNE3EsptighZXBhOZC5vQ/w480-h640/Walk-+-+2.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ungathered mushrooms</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZYTkI1NiVUSDdQ4UgSwnXKSWTqXCrwpm5rlUpWw0TDomnHHz0rOcw4TNdkFlb-CAS6AszignELMW-z7T1we3AAF6KpM4lLnC9ZQVt-QKPTTVawaJE1Amevu6JdGhk3eja005IzA/s640/Walk-+-+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZYTkI1NiVUSDdQ4UgSwnXKSWTqXCrwpm5rlUpWw0TDomnHHz0rOcw4TNdkFlb-CAS6AszignELMW-z7T1we3AAF6KpM4lLnC9ZQVt-QKPTTVawaJE1Amevu6JdGhk3eja005IzA/s320/Walk-+-+3.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">¡si, oruga!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyC6yccocR7BomuhFvyKfxa7X_nhXd-IZvqKoGy9gs_kt_3ZgdYxVuFRDGUVlf74QwBBEPmr4SpznwCAVY8NeetPf4cOiMRkBGFApooOXVvB9_orYNS0ZEKLW1gjcJHbJtLl1axw/s640/Walk-+-+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="580" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyC6yccocR7BomuhFvyKfxa7X_nhXd-IZvqKoGy9gs_kt_3ZgdYxVuFRDGUVlf74QwBBEPmr4SpznwCAVY8NeetPf4cOiMRkBGFApooOXVvB9_orYNS0ZEKLW1gjcJHbJtLl1axw/s320/Walk-+-+4.jpg" width="290" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">shy little spider on railing</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <p></p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-38971355984418071952021-08-14T11:13:00.054-04:002021-08-14T11:29:41.858-04:00Recent Walks<p>On July 31st, I walked the usual <a href="https://www.alltrails.com/trail/us/new-york/bull-hill-full-loop--2">5.4 mile loop:</a> Washburn (white) up and over Bull Hill, to Notch (blue) to Brook (red) and Cornish (blue again - apparently they have a limited palette). Conditions were pretty much ideal. I saw two instances of a really cool black mushroom of some kind; it looked like embossed leather.</p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKJ3ZWYjFg2TfNeVnwNRvxjndMFTeWn7j6Mrqw3_00hjTWyfyq4chljpafUwvoG_rP92Cjhzf44T4YlCcaeQRIBFwWd6ZqnqwBaQL_YOV9Vhyphenhyphen7Xz796WujV4dybPoq5Vv9lZocA/s640/2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifKJ3ZWYjFg2TfNeVnwNRvxjndMFTeWn7j6Mrqw3_00hjTWyfyq4chljpafUwvoG_rP92Cjhzf44T4YlCcaeQRIBFwWd6ZqnqwBaQL_YOV9Vhyphenhyphen7Xz796WujV4dybPoq5Vv9lZocA/w640-h480/2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">nifty black fungus</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOzrVh5LJ8sI6omsurK33cml-YtBlm4VSxSp0av2OF0JSfb0qyTnDSVKmIWox9tAS4tETSmaON9boU6nXYvZqTNfFu86mYJ_9Ko60QD4mWsncSQQ5TYUPw619NJ3qF2BnILl26rA/s640/3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOzrVh5LJ8sI6omsurK33cml-YtBlm4VSxSp0av2OF0JSfb0qyTnDSVKmIWox9tAS4tETSmaON9boU6nXYvZqTNfFu86mYJ_9Ko60QD4mWsncSQQ5TYUPw619NJ3qF2BnILl26rA/w640-h480/3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">they've gotten SERIOUS about people not missing this little detour on the Notch trail</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMOSloPoGuhUIwbGYYwCq3Km2_LcusHPeLIikI9H5NPopx6aQE5xWDq6wWQc-5oOigXJPcutazR0U6Y5F1dYqrETAUIpSE3F4_UNfrbOakKt_vzhVL-SsPhivmHQRFTO02c0Si2Q/s640/1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMOSloPoGuhUIwbGYYwCq3Km2_LcusHPeLIikI9H5NPopx6aQE5xWDq6wWQc-5oOigXJPcutazR0U6Y5F1dYqrETAUIpSE3F4_UNfrbOakKt_vzhVL-SsPhivmHQRFTO02c0Si2Q/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">on the subway platform</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>I was toying with doing another solo walk on Wednesday, the predicted most clement day of my week off, but instead decided to (gasp) be social. This meant going for a celebratory hot chocolate with friends Wednesday and then walking with a friend on Friday (I hadn't seen her in person since October).<p></p></div><div>Friday was ... not as clement. I was feeling a little guilty for choosing an early start time, but it turns out we should have set out even earlier. Like 2 or 3 hours earlier. The air was heavy the entire day and we went quite slowly. We chose to avoid the initial steep ascent of Washburn and ultimately followed a <a href="https://www.hikingproject.com/trail/7029324/cornishbrooknotchwashburnundercliff-loop" target="_blank">7.5 mile lollipop route</a>: Cornish (blue) to Brook (red) to Undercliff (yellow) to Washburn (white) up and over Bull Hill, then the traditional descent down through Notch (blue) to Brook (red) to Cornish (blue). When you add in the 1.6 miles round trip walk to the train station, that's not bad at all! </div><div><br /></div><div>We met a fair number of people on the way up – they were all going the other way of course, like the man with seven wives, each carrying seven sacks with seven cats – but once we got to Washburn, we were completely alone. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6YUWNSi8V6VKs-Aad-alvwyRRRPiEj8YRzLGjv4Rt8q5HJBm3Mik0UCriQMpfkqhpk0Z9-d0BJw71YEhLmA_fqS81QAxeK_bbqoVDoYPRPKyIvV2n_rkUCG7O2MT2m2U6RMgNA/s640/5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD6YUWNSi8V6VKs-Aad-alvwyRRRPiEj8YRzLGjv4Rt8q5HJBm3Mik0UCriQMpfkqhpk0Z9-d0BJw71YEhLmA_fqS81QAxeK_bbqoVDoYPRPKyIvV2n_rkUCG7O2MT2m2U6RMgNA/w640-h480/5.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">we saw several turkey vultures, but I never had my camera ready when they were close!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Xxf_n9FEFqdomdAkaWc0SkYjUNhnufM_IRemgzk0vqDbX_d0xeKH-T8l_k2XzXIOjpaEIus5BskuglXp91idrUUHBjxgCzD7zwZr7vt9Zo1CTObw8D2AovIX3Dm6IQbLhlRXBg/s640/7.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Xxf_n9FEFqdomdAkaWc0SkYjUNhnufM_IRemgzk0vqDbX_d0xeKH-T8l_k2XzXIOjpaEIus5BskuglXp91idrUUHBjxgCzD7zwZr7vt9Zo1CTObw8D2AovIX3Dm6IQbLhlRXBg/s320/7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a bit of haze on the horizon</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><div>Then, by the time we started the descent from Bull Hill, we started to encounter some mosquitos. Increasingly clouds or swarms of them. We stopped several times to re-apply DEET and citronella, but nevertheless they persisted. It was unpleasant, although I don't think either of us got bitten. It was unprecedented in all my years walking the Hudson Highlands trails.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was quite tired by the end of our walk. My friend wanted to get some ice water, while I didn't want to miss catching the next train, which was supposed to arrive in 1 to 6 minutes. So I directly went to the platform and boarded when the train arrived. I was hitting 'send' on some apologetic texts to my friend when, lo and behold, there she was! She'd made it! In between naps on the way home, I checked the weather and saw that the air quality was rated Very Poor, with a recommendation to avoid strenuous exercise. Oops.</div><div><br /></div></div>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-61513420156752384472021-08-03T00:25:00.005-04:002021-08-08T18:58:06.451-04:00A Divine or Providential Madness?<div class="separator">So, the companions are waiting for Frodo to decide what to do. Gimli, Legolas, Merry and Pippin all think it best to go to Minas Tirith. Merry says "It would be mad and cruel to let Frodo go to Mordor. Why can't we stop him?" and Pippin concurs "We must stop him." (<i>FotR</i> 403) If they cannot dissuade him, they all mean to join him, but Sam recognizes that's not an option for Frodo. He must and will choose to stick with the quest and head off to Mordor, preferably alone. Aragorn concurs (<i>id.</i>): </div><div class="separator"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4dGiSnpHM8F0BP-uWmqGL4aAES4xnJEhkSOWwABskb2SA99lI3R7ib4ywyQTVq-qB7zV2aTMa1fEM3szLM0ft9sGWDtk-ZaTSP-laIJjgFbN3cYCvRD1dJT31Fp8HdjHMrkeRnw/s511/Screen+Shot+2021-08-02+at+11.04.19+PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="308" data-original-width="511" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4dGiSnpHM8F0BP-uWmqGL4aAES4xnJEhkSOWwABskb2SA99lI3R7ib4ywyQTVq-qB7zV2aTMa1fEM3szLM0ft9sGWDtk-ZaTSP-laIJjgFbN3cYCvRD1dJT31Fp8HdjHMrkeRnw/w400-h241/Screen+Shot+2021-08-02+at+11.04.19+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div><p>Now, Frodo is surely no match for two Men, especially if backed by a Dwarf and an Elf. And yet in response to Pippin's renewed suggestion of forcible constraint, Aragorn seems almost to suggest that "other powers [...] far stronger" would thwart them from imposing their will on a single Hobbit, if he decides to press on eastward. </p><p>This is a little astonishing; we have heard much about the power of the Ring, but here it seems there are "other powers" that would support Frodo's decision, should he manage to screw up his courage to do what he must. This seems to me to follow the same hint we see in <i>Beowulf</i>: "Wyrd oft nereð / unfægne eorl þonne his ellen deah" (572-3). If Frodo turns aside now, fate/providence won't save him... but if he is courageous enough to continue his quest, fate may save him if he's not doomed to fail.</p><p>When Boromir returns, they realize Frodo is not merely taking a long time to decide; he has quite literally disappeared (after putting on the Ring to escape Boromir). Sam panics, and Aragorn attempts to impose order:</p><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;">'Wait a moment!' cried Aragorn. 'We must divide up into pairs, and arrange – here, hold on! Wait!' </p></blockquote><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">It was no good. They took no notice of him. Sam had dashed off first. Merry and Pippin had followed, and were already disappearing westward [...]. Legolas and Gimli were running. <b>A sudden panic or madness seemed to have fallen on the Company. </b>(<i>FotR</i> 404, emphasis added)</p><p></p></blockquote><p></p><div>That last sentence suggests to me a divine madness, one that descends perhaps from the "other powers" to which Aragorn so recently alluded. It is especially the words "seemed to have fallen on" that convey this impression, in conjunction with its suddenness. This is no slow-boiling kettle, with people gradually working themselves up to a frenzy; the sense is of something external which has "fallen on" them.</div><div><br /></div><div>As a result of this "panic or madness," the company is scattered, almost like the children of men in the land of Shinar when God confounds their language, that they may not understand one another's speech (Genesis 11:7 [tower of Babel]). </div><div><br /></div><div>But <i>this</i> madness and scattering providentially <i>assists</i> Frodo's decision to continue the quest. Sam attempts to follow Aragorn, but can't keep up. Stopping to catch his breath, he finally realizes what Frodo must have done and takes off after him just in time. So Frodo gets the companion he needs, and the two are able to slip off undetected amidst the chaos until it is too late for their friends to stop them or join them. </div><div><br /></div><div>We can't say for sure that this is a divine or providential madness at work to support Frodo's new-found resolution... but I don't think we can rule it out. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div><br /></div><div>Coda: We later get Pippin's recollection of this "sudden panic or madness," as he starts to piece together where he is and what's happened.</div><div><br /></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: left;">Of course: he and Merry had run off into the woods. <b>What had come over them? Why had they dashed off like that, taking no notice of old Strider? </b>They had run a long way shouting – he could not remember how far or how long; and then suddenly they had crashed right into a group of Orcs: they were standing listening, and they did not appear to see Merry and Pippin until they were almost in their arms.</div></blockquote><div><br /></div><div>Again, he has the sense that <i>something</i> "had come over them."</div>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-66803989249298361072021-07-26T09:46:00.002-04:002021-07-26T09:46:22.240-04:00Boromir Names His Reward<p></p><blockquote>Boromir held out long against this choice; but when it became plain that Frodo would follow Aragorn, wherever he went, he gave in. 'It is not the way of the Men of Minas Tirith to desert their friends at need,' he said, 'and you will need my strength, if ever you are to reach the Tindrock. To the tall isle I will go, but no further. There I shall turn to my home, alone if my help has not earned the reward of any companionship.'</blockquote><p>Boromir's comments here show a curious sense of something akin to entitlement. He starts out promisingly; since he can't convince Aragorn/Frodo to come with him, he is willing to accompany them for a bit because it is "not the way" of his people to "desert their friends at need." </p><p>But he immediately develops the theme of "at need" by suggesting that the other eight <i>cannot</i> make it – even so far as the Tindrock – without him and his strength. (He is perhaps conveniently forgetting that it was Legolas who most recently dismayed the enemy by shooting a fell beast from the sky.)</p><p>This then takes yet a darker turn in his final sentence, that he will turn to his home at the tall isle "alone <i>if my help has not earned</i> <i>the reward </i>of any companionship." This is where the clear sense of entitlement comes in; his "help" (which he deems necessary to the others) should, in his view <i>earn a reward</i>. So he has, rhetorically, come quite a distance from it simply being "the way" of his people to stick by their friends when needed; he now thinks he deserves a reward for it.</p><p>The reward he names is "companionship"; the only proper way to show appreciation or gratitude for his help is to accompany him. Significantly, he does not, even now, suggest that any of the others have any help to offer him or Minas Tirith (although the Ring can never be far from his mind and if Frodo accompanies him, so does the Ring). Clearly, he believes he has the strength to reach Minas Tirith alone, but is setting up anyone who chooses to follow the original quest as a poor friend, ungrateful for all he has done for them, or worse.</p><p>It's darker still when you realize this whole little speech is meant almost entirely for Frodo's ears. It is clearly the four hobbits who have most needed the help of others to get as far as they have. But would Boromir be satisfied if Merry, Pippin and Sam rewarded him with their companionship to Minas Tirith, while Frodo went on with Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas? I don't think so. Even if <i>everyone but Frodo</i> joined him, I think it would not be sufficient. The reward he wants is Frodo coming with him to Minas Tirith, thus bringing the Ring under the dominion of Denethor. </p><p></p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-66472152414736254112021-05-16T17:45:00.000-04:002021-05-16T17:45:11.317-04:00Hnau Hunting Hnau in Middle-earth<p>I've always been troubled by Ghân-buri-Ghân's request to Théoden: 'if you live after the Darkness, then leave Wild Men alone in the woods and do not hunt them like beasts any more.' <i>LotR</i> 833.</p><p>That is, we have rational beings (the Rohirrim) hunting other rational beings (the Wild Men) 'like beasts.' One presumes this is done either as "pest control" (as with wolves or orcs) and/or for sport, rather than for food, but it still raises an equally disturbing question: What they do with the Wild Men once they've killed them? One doesn't bury beasts after a hunt. Do the Rohirrim display the heads as trophies or warnings, as Beorn does with the goblin and Warg ('A goblin's head was stuck outside the gate and a warg-skin was nailed to a tree just beyond.' <i>Hobbit</i> 123)?</p><p>If nothing else, Ghân-buri-Ghân's comment re-contextualizes Aragorn's much earlier jest on discovering Frodo's mithril coat: 'Here's a pretty hobbit-skin to wrap an elven-princeling in! If it were known that hobbits had such hides, all the hunters of Middle-earth would be riding to the Shire.' <i>LotR</i> 336.</p><p>This is a much creepier comment than it seemed at first, given that <i>hnau</i> do hunt other <i>hnau</i> in Middle-earth.</p><p>Tolkien, J. R. R. <i>The Hobbit</i>. HarperCollins Publishers, 2007.</p><p><i>--. The Lord of the Rings</i>. 50th Anniversary One-Volume Edition, HarperCollinsPublishers, 2005.</p>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17038780.post-48043317838158713682021-04-25T10:25:00.000-04:002021-04-25T10:25:22.436-04:00The Case of the Fallen Warrior: The Faerie Queene III.iv & The Lord of the Rings V.vi<p>I won't claim that Tolkien was 'influenced' or 'inspired' by book III of <i>The Faerie Queene</i> (although Shippey has apparently done so - <i>see</i> Cilli 271), but I was struck by some 'set pieces' in <i>FQ</i> III.iv that remind me of certain aspects of Tolkien's legendarium. I'm calling them 'set pieces' (rather imprecisely) because I believe these are images, scenes, and/or ideas that multiple authors have used or returned to, and are thus found in multiple sources. Tolkien would certainly have been aware of them in Spenser, but would likely also have been aware of them in other works or traditions.</p><p>To my mind, perhaps the most striking point of similarity is between <i>FQ</i> III.iv and <i>The Lord of the Rings </i>V.vi: a fallen warrior is believed to be dead, until one with greater leechcraft arrives on the scene. In each instance, the battle is one-on-one between a male warrior and a gender-hidden female warrior; the male warrior gets in one mighty, shattering blow before he is defeated by the female warrior's first stroke. Moreover, in both, there is a misinterpreted prophecy about the defeat or destruction of the male warrior! </p><p>Of course, I've deliberately described these elements in a manner that maximizes their similarities; they do not map one-to-one. In <i>FQ</i>, it's the male warrior (Marinell) who is mistakenly believed to have been KIA; in <i>LotR</i>, it's Éowyn. For present purposes, we'll look at three aspects of the scene. </p>
<p><i>The Challenge and the Battle</i></p><p>Marinell is stationed at the entrance to a beach of 'pearles and pretious stones of great assay' as well as golden ore (III.iv.18); he challenges all comers and, until now, has always been victorious. The warrior maiden Britomart, who is dressed as a knight and therefore always assumed to be male, arrives and does not declare her identity. Marinell offers the chance to fight him and be defeated, or flee: 'Sir knight, that doest thy voyage rashly make / By this forbidden way in my despight, / Ne doest by others death ensample take, / I read thee soone retyre, whiles thou hast might / Least afterwards it be too late to take thy flight' (III.iv.14). Britomart responds disdainfully to Marinell's 'proud threat' and, without waiting for a reply, runs right at him (III.iv.15). Marinell gets in one good blow, striking her 'full on the brest, that made her downe / Decline her head, & touch her crouper with her crowne' (<i>id</i>.). Undaunted, she smites him with a mighty blow, defeating him, and rides on.</p><p>In Tolkien, it is the female warrior Éowyn who issues the initial challenge, commanding the Nazgûl to depart and 'Leave the dead in peace!' (<i>LotR</i> 841). In essence, she is attempting to guard her beloved kinsman's body, just as Marinell was trying to guard his precious beach. The Black Captain, like Marinell, has no idea the warrior before him is a woman. He issues a counter-challenge, as he, too, is certain he will kill this paltry opponent; he threatens her with long-lived torment (rather than death) if she comes 'between the Nazgûl and his prey!' (<i>id</i>.). Éowyn, like Britomart, responds defiantly. Unlike Britomart, however, Éowyn is on the defensive from the start. First she must defend herself against an attack by the Nazgûl's steed, slaying it. Only then does the Black Rider rise and 'With a cry of hatred that stung the very ears like venom he let fall his mace' (842). This one blow shivers her shield, breaks her arm, and brings her to her knees. He prepares to deal a death-blow with the mace; instead Merry attacks, Éowyn rises and smites her foe, and both she and the Nazgûl Lord fall.</p><p>So we can even increase our list of similar elements: a male warrior and male-passing female warrior meet; the initial challenge is issued by the one guarding something precious; it is met with defiance; there ensues a single mighty exchange of blows between those two, wherein the male strikes first; the female's stroke is even mightier and the male is defeated; and only one of the two is left alive on the battleground.</p><p>Tolkien has, however, complicated the picture with a counter-challenge by the Nazgûl bringing in supernatural horror and threats of torment, and a critical intervention by Merry (which proves necessary to undo the Nazgûl's supernatural advantage so that he can be destroyed). Left on the battleground are Merry, Éowyn, Théoden, the bodies of Snowmane and the Nazgûl's steed, and the Nazgûl's's gear and garments. A character we know and care about (Merry) is left to report on the scene; for all he knows intially, both Éowyn and Théoden are dead. </p><p>Interestingly, Spenser has our heroine Britomart ride on, unconcerned with the fate of her foe. Thus, the misdiagnosis of Marinell is made by characters we've never met before: his mother Cymoent and her sister nymphs, who somehow receive word of his fall.</p>
<p><i>The Misdiagnosis</i></p><p>Notably, Cymoent and the other nymphs not only wail over Marinell's body (III.iv. 35-39); they also handle his body extensively without realizing their mistake: 'when they all had sorrowed their fill, / They softly gan to search his griesly wound: / And that they might him handle more at will, / They him disarm'd' (<i>FQ</i> III.iv.40). Moreover, they 'softly wipt away the gelly blood / From th'orifice: which having well vpbound, / They pourd in soueraine balme, and Nectar good, / Good both for earthly medicine, and for heauenly food' (<i>id.</i>). Through this entire process, they have absolutely no doubt of Marinell's death.</p><p>And then Liagore, the medically trained nymph, feels his pulse and realizes the reports of Marinell's death are greatly exaggerated:</p>
<blockquote>Tho, when the lilly handed <i>Liagore</i><br />
(This <i>Liagore</i> whylome had learned skill<br /><b>
In leaches craft</b>, by great <i>Appolloes</i> lore [...])<br />
Did feele his pulse, she knew there staied still<br /><b>
Some little life</b> his feeble sprites emong;<br />
Which to his mother told, despeire she from her flong. (<i>FQ</i> III.iv.41)</blockquote>
<p>In Tolkien, Merry lifts Théoden's hand to kiss it, and discovers that Théoden is alive (842) He sees Éowyn 'through a mist' of tears 'as she lay and did not move' (<i>id</i>.). He is certainly convinced she is dead, but he does not touch her. Éomer likewise diagnoses Éowyn as dead immediately on sight: 'suddenly he beheld his sister Éowyn as she lay, and he knew her' (LotR 844). He does not linger to mourn, but impulsively, in the grip of a 'fey mood,' spurs 'back to the front of the great host' and rallies them with a cry of 'Death!' ... and they surge forward 'like a great tide' (<i>id</i>.). So at this point, no one has taken the time to examine her body. Thereafter, those left behind 'lifted Éowyn gently up and bore her after' Théoden, believing that she is dead (<i>id</i>.). </p><p>Then along comes Imrahil. Tolkien's deliberate archaism here – Imrahil referring to medics/doctors as 'leeches' – provides a linguistic echo of Spenser's passage:</p><blockquote>'Are there no <b>leeches</b> among you? She is hurt, to the death maybe, but I deem that she yet lives.' And he held the bright-burnished vambrace that was upon his arm before her cold lips, and behold! <b>a little mist </b>was laid on it hardly to be seen. (<i>LotR</i> 845) </blockquote><p>As compared with Spenser, Tolkien has greatly heightened the tension and interest in the scene, by having a known and developed character – one of the good guys – mistaken for dead by other known and developed characters. </p><p>The unexpected reveal that there is yet a little life in the fallen is also more dramatic or even cinematic, in Tolkien's version, because a bit of mist on polished armor is a <i>visible</i> sign of life, even if it is hard to see. By contrast, the other nymphs in Spenser must take Liagore's word for it that she has felt a pulse.</p>
<p><i>Coda: The Misinterpreted Prophecy </i></p><p>Marinell's mother, Cymoent, had consulted with Proteus, who 'was with prophecy inspir'd,' about her son's fate. Proteus urged Cymoent "from womankind to keep [Marinell] well: / For of a woman he should haue much ill, / A virgin strange and stout him should dismay, or kill" (III.iv.25). </p><p>From this, Cymoent mistakenly assumed love/sex/romance would be his undoing (III.iv.26-28), and urged him every day "The loue of women not to entertain" (III.iv.26). As of stanza 46, which abruptly changes gear to follow Arthur and the Redcrosse knight, it seems that neither Marinell nor Cymoent and her sister nymphs have realized that Marinell's foe was a woman. Rather, Cymoent believes Proteus has made a false prophecy: 'Not this the worke of womans hand ywis, / That so deep wound through these deare members driue' (III.iv.37). She does not even suspect her own misinterpretation ('I feared loue: but they that loue do liue") (<i>id</i>.).</p><p>On the battlefield, the Nazgûl Lord boasts of his prophecy: 'No living man may hinder me!' (841). Éowyn then reveals that she is not a 'living man' but a woman (<i>id</i>.). This discomfits him; 'the Ringwraith made no answer, and was silent, as if in sudden doubt' and he is 'in doubt and malice intent upon the woman before him' (id.). It is of course this intense focus and doubt which allows Merry to creep in close enough to make his own move.</p><p>The prophecy in <i>LotR</i> certainly echoes <i>Macbeth</i> far more closely than <i>FQ</i>, but I think all three may be worth considering together.</p><ul><li><i><span style="font-style: normal;">The Nazgûl Lord trusts that</span> no living man may hinder me</i>; he is discomfited by learning that his challenger is a woman; and it turns out that a woman and a hobbit (with the aid of a dagger made by men who are now dead) may hinder him.</li><li>Macbeth trusts that <i>none of woman born shall harm Macbeth</i>; he is discomfited by learning that Macduff was from his mother's womb untimely ripped; and it turns out that Macduff shall harm him. </li><li>Cymoent and Marinell believe that <i>of a woman he should have much ill and be dismayed or killed</i>; it turns out that a woman should dismay him in battle, but on finding her son apparently dead, Cymoent simply believes the prophecy is mistaken (she does not suspect that it has been fulfilled to the letter).</li>
</ul><p>So Tolkien's version of the mistaken prophecy trope has elements found in Shakespeare and in Spenser. Again, it is surely more dramatic to shatter the complacency of the person who trusts in the protection of a prophecy he has misinterpreted (as Tolkien and Shakespeare do), rather than revealing the existence of the prophecy to readers only after the battle (as Spenser does). </p><p><br /></p>
<p><b>Works Cited</b></p>
<p>Cilli, Oronzo. <i>Tolkien's Library: An Annotated Checklist</i>, Luna Press Publishing, 2019.</p>
<p>Spenser, Edmund. <i>The Faerie Queene</i>. Edited by Thomas P. Roche, Penguin, 1987.</p>
<p>Tolkien, J. R. R. <i>The Lord of the Rings. </i>50th Anniversary One-Volume Edition, HarperCollinsPublishers, 2005.</p><div><br /></div>LeesMythhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07148809853650317019noreply@blogger.com0