"Where are the canisters, Achmed? Where are the Canisters? 
Dammit Achmed, we're running out of time. Where are the canisters? 
Ever listen to K-Billy's Super Sounds of the Seventies Weekend, Achmed?
Well, looks like your story checks out, Mr. Schmalberg. Have a nice day. And clean up this mess, will ya? 
Giacomo Leopardi (1798-1837)
This is Leopardi's most famous poem, which can also be heard recited here in the original Italian.
English version:
To Silvia
Silvia, do you still remember the time of your mortal life
When beauty shown from your laughing, fleeting eyes
And you pensive and happy
were about to cross into the threshold of Youth?
The quiet rooms and the nearby streets resounded with your
perpetual song when you sat engrossed in your feminine tasks,
very content with that vague future you had in mind.
It was a sweet smelling May and thus you passed the days
Meanwhile I would take leave of my light studying
and my overworked papers
In which I spent the better part of myself along with my youth
From atop a terrace of my father’s palazzo I would perk up
my ears to the sound of your voice
and to your swift hand which ran across the burdensome cloth.
I looked out upon the serene sky, the golden roads, and the orchards
From there at the distant sea, from here at the nearby mountains
Mortal tongues cannot speak of what I felt in my breast!
What sweet thoughts, what hopes, what hearts, oh My Silvia!
Oh how did fate and human life appear to me back then!
When I recall such hope, a bitter, disconsolate feeling takes
hold of me that makes my misfortune all the more painful!
Nature, Oh Nature why don’t you fulfill your promises?
Why do you so often deceive your children?
Before summer had dried the grass you perished, oh tender one
ravished and vanquished by a hidden disease
You didn’t see the flower of your years,
Your heart didn’t melt at praises of your black locks
Nor lovers’ fleeting looks.
Neither did girlfriends talk to you of love during holidays.
Soon my hope also perished even though at my age the fates deny me youth
Oh how you have gone, dear companion of my tender years!
My sorrowful hope!
Is this the world?
These the delights, the love, the deeds, the happenings
which we talked of so often together?
This the fate of human people?
With the arrival of summer you were cut down, poor thing,
And with your hand you pointed out in the distance
toward cold death and a naked tomb.
Spanish Version:
Silvia, ¿aún recuerdas aquel tiempo de tu vida mortal
Cuando la belleza brillaba en tus ojos risueños y fugitivos
Y tu alegre y pensativa frisabas el umbral de la juventud?
Sonaban los cuartos quietos y las calles en alrededor
De tu perpetuo canto
cuando te sentabas atenta a los deberes femininos
muy contenta de aquel vago porvenir que tenías en mente
Era un mayo oloroso y así te pasabas el día
Y yo entretanto dejaba de lado mis estudios ligeros
y los folios tan ensudados,
En que gasté la mayor parte de mi edad primera, y de mi mismo,
Encima de la terraza del palacio de mi padre
Aguzaba el oído al son tu voz
Y a tu mano veloz que recorría la tela fastidiosa.
Miraba el cielo sereno, los caminos dorados y los huertos
Por allá lejos la mar, por ahí cerca el monte
Decir no puede lengua mortal lo que sentía en el seno.
¡Qué suaves pensamientos, qué esperanzas, qué corazones, o Silvia mía!
Cómo me aparecía entonces el hado y la vida humana
Y cuando me acuerdo de tanta esperanza un sentimiento tan acerbo
y desconsolado me embiste que me vuelve a doler mi desventura
O Naturaleza, O Naturaleza,
¿por qué no das lo que prometes pues?
¿Por qué engañas tanto a los hijos tuyos?
Tú, antes que el verano secase la hierba, pereciste o tiernezuela,
combatida y vencida de una enfermedad oculta
No veías la flor y nata de tus años,
Ni te emblandecían el corazón los dulces piropos por tus trenzas negras
tampoco las miradas esquivas de enamorados,
ni las compañeras hablaban contigo de amores los días de fiesta
Dentro de poco perecía también mi dulce esperanza,
Aunque a mis años los hados me negaron la juventud
Ay cómo, cómo te has pasado, compañera querida de mi tierna edad,
Mi llorada esperanza.
¿Es éste el mundo?
¿Estes los goces, el amor, las obras, los sucesos
de que tanto razonamos juntos?
¿Ésta la suerte de las gentes humanas?
Al aparecer el verano tú, mísera, te caíste y con la mano señalabas de lejos
La muerte fría y una tumba desnuda.
Original Italian Version:
Silvia, rimembri ancora
quel tempo della tua vita mortale,
quando beltà splendea
negli occhi tuoi ridenti e fuggitivi,
e tu, lieta e pensosa, il limitare
di gioventù salivi?
Sonavan le quiete
stanze, e le vie d'intorno,
al tuo perpetuo canto,
allor che all'opre femminili intenta
sedevi, assai contenta
di quel vago avvenir che in mente avevi.
Era il maggio odoroso: e tu solevi
così menare il giorno.
Io gli studi leggiadri
talor lasciando e le sudate carte,
ove il tempo mio primo
e di me si spendea la miglior parte,
d’in su i veroni del paterno ostello
porgea gli orecchi al suon della tua voce,
ed alla man veloce
che percorrea la faticosa tela.
Mirava il ciel sereno,
le vie dorate e gli orti,
e quinci il mar da lungi, e quindi il monte.
Lingua mortal non dice
quel ch’io sentiva in seno.
Che pensieri soavi,
che speranze, che cori, o Silvia mia!
Quale allor ci apparia
la vita umana e il fato!
Quando sovviemmi di cotanta speme,
un affetto mi preme
acerbo e sconsolato,
e tornami a doler di mia sventura.
O natura, o natura,
perché non rendi poi
quel che prometti allor? perché di tanto
inganni i figli tuoi?
Tu pria che l’erbe inaridisse il verno,
da chiuso morbo combattuta e vinta,
perivi, o tenerella. E non vedevi
il fior degli anni tuoi;
non ti molceva il core
la dolce lode or delle negre chiome,
or degli sguardi innamorati e schivi;
né teco le compagne ai dì festivi
ragionavan d’amore.
Anche perìa fra poco
la speranza mia dolce: agli anni miei
anche negaro i fati
la giovinezza. Ahi come,
come passata sei,
cara compagna dell’età mia nova,
mia lacrimata speme!
Questo è il mondo? questi
i diletti, l’amor, l’opre, gli eventi,
onde cotanto ragionammo insieme?
questa la sorte delle umane genti?
All’apparir del vero
tu, misera, cadesti: e con la mano
la fredda morte ed una tomba ignuda
mostravi di lontano.
The Shrub in Chief.
The one sad thing about the departure of W in 2008 is that this guy won't have anything to write about anymore at this blog:
Blame Bush- Because Bush is to blame for everything
This is a hilarious blog. Couched in a liberal tirade it's actually a devastating attack on liberal outrage itself.
He calls Bush "The Shrub", uses "Goddess" for God, as in "Oh my Goddess!"
The prose can be brilliant at times. I've even adapted some this to some of my stories. The "character " Larry who writes the blog routinely lambasts anyone who does not embrace Politically Correct Orthodoxy , his grandmother, his sister. Anyone whose not interested in what he has to say. So basically a totally disrespect for the dignity of the other person which is what passes for political discourse in our time.
Headlines include:
My frail, 94-year old grandmother was rudely awakened at about one o'clock this morning by a very frightening phone call.
"HOWDY!" the loud voice said in a thick Texas drawl. "I'm George Bush! I just wanted to call to let ya'll know that when I'm re-elected, the first thing I'm gonna do is take away your social security. All you old geezers will be out on the street with the rest of the gutter trash!"
"Bullshit," Gramma shot back.
"No, bullshit, ma'am. No siree," Bush responded. "This is George Dumbya Shrub, the pee-Resident select, and I'm going to cut off your medicare, raise the prices on your prescription drugs, kill your poodle and burn your house down. Yeee-haaaaaaaw!"
"I'm hanging up," Gramma warned him.
After a brief pause, the caller changed tactics.
"Paralysis got you down?" he asked. "Vote for John Kerry, and you'll get up out of that wheelchair and walk again."
"I'm not in a wheelchair!" Gramma replied.
"Alzheimers, eh? Too bad Dumbya banned stem cell research, or your brain wouldn't slowly be turning into goo as we speak."
"Oh Jeezus!" Gramma groaned.
"Ah, an Evangelical, are ya? Did you know that Dick Cheney's daughter is a lesbian?"
"You're making me sick."
"Well, Gramma, you better hope it's not the flu, 'cause Bush is withhol-"
"Lawrence, is that YOU?" Gramma growled, cutting him off in midsentence. "You little shit! How'd you get my number?"
"Err...ummm..BUSH STOLE THE ELECTION!" the mysterious, yet enlightened caller stammered. "WHERE'S OSAMA, YOU CRAZY OL' BAT?"
*click!*
Alas, look at what it's come to. Bush has polarized this nation to such a degree that reich-wing grandparents are rudely hanging up on their own grandchildren, and getting unlisted phone numbers so you have to hire a private investigator to track them down. Some grandparents are even changing all the locks on the doors, and getting big guard dogs to keep friends and family from pulling out their Bush/Cheney yard signs and tp'ing their trees.
All this thanks to a man who promised to be a uniter, not a divider.
One of the most important lessons learned from our loss this election is that we failed to connect with the retarded dittohead masses. I've thought about it long and hard, and have come to the conclusion that we progressives were simply too nice. Out of compassion for those inferior to them, liberal statesmen like Al Franken and Michael Moore held back and didn't sneer nearly enough at the American people as they should have, and we all paid for it on election day. 59 million jingoist biblethumping rednecks repaid our kindness by choosing a chimp who talks to an invisible diety over a war hero with four Purple Hearts.
Well, no more Mr. Nice Liberal. If our seething, drooling hatred for Bush, God, and America isn't enough to win these brainless sheep over to our pasture, then it's time to stop pulling punches. Progressive pundits are already on the ball and are diligently making up for lost sneering. However, it will take more than self-righteous screeching from the mountaintop to regain our rightful place as rulers over the brainwashed hordes. If we're ever going to win another election, if we're ever to earn forgiveness from France for our arrogance, we need to get out there in the red states where all the intolerant morons live and ridicule their silly religious beliefs. We need to really hammer it into their thick, prehistoric skulls that they're just too damn superstitious and stupid to be trusted with the future of this country.
Therefore, I suggest that we get a few really good days of self-pity and hopeless whining in, and then get back to work reminding the uneducated trogs how inferior they are. It's time to really get into their faces and shove it down their slack-jawed gullets that if they ever want to work again, ever want to eat again, ever want to walk again, ever want to see their sons and daughters alive again, they better damn well vote Democrat!
So today, I compiled a list of ten people I know who voted Republican and gave them each a call, in which I basically laid out the real heart of the progressive philosophy in simple terms they could understand.
"RACIST BIGOT GAY-BASHING FASCIST MORON!" I screamed into the phone after dialing my first number. "BIGOT FASCIST RIGHT-WING IDIOT HATEMONGER!!!!"
"Why are you screaming at me?" Grandma asked. "This state went to Kerry anyway."
"NO THANKS TO YOU, YOU INTOLERANT EVANGELICAL NAZI WHORE!" I shouted.
"Jeezus!" Grandma gasped.
"STOP FORCING YOUR RELIGION ON ME YOU NAZI BIGOT MORON!" I demanded, and hung up the phone. Jesus indeed!
The next eight calls were less cordial, and I received some very un-christianlike remarks from my targets before they rudely hung up. My, my, my! The hateful bile that comes out of the mouths of these "compassionate conservative" hypocrites!
Call number ten was out of town, but I left a convincing message on his machine. Tonight, I'm going over to spray paint "NAZI LIVES HERE" on his garage door. If that doesn't win his heart over to our side, nothing will.
Logic dictates that if four years of baseless accusations and ad hominem attacks won us 48% of the popular vote, then being twice as nasty will win us 96%. And if each of my readers were able to convince just one right-winger on their list to convert to our cause, it would mean 15 new votes for the democrats in 2006.
So go get 'em, take no prisoners, and feed those right-wing Christians to the liberal lions!
Aron Ettore Schmitz (December 19, 1861 – September 13, 1928), better known by the pseudonym Italo Svevo, was an Italian businessman and author of novels, plays, and short stories, who converted to Roman Catholicism after marrying Livia Veneziani.
Born in Trieste (then in Austria-Hungary) to a Jewish mother, Svevo wrote the classic novel La Coscienza di Zeno (rendered as Confessions of Zeno, or Zeno's Conscience) and self-published it in 1923. The work, showing the author's interest in the theories of Sigmund Freud, is written in the form of the memoirs of one Zeno Cosini, who writes them at the insistence of his psychiatrist. The novel received almost no attention from Italian readers and critics at the time.
The work might have disappeared altogether if it were not for the efforts of James Joyce. Joyce had met Svevo in 1907, when Joyce tutored him in English while working for Berlitz in Trieste. Joyce read Svevo's earlier novel Senilità, which had also been largely ignored when published in 1898.
Joyce championed Confessions of Zeno, helping to have it translated into French and then published in Paris, where critics praised it extravagantly. That led Italian critics, including Eugenio Montale, to discover it. Zeno Cosini, the book's hero, mirrored Svevo, being a businessman fascinated by Freudian beliefs.
Svevo was a citizen of the Austro-Hungarian Empire until the end of the First World War. He spoke Italian as a second language and, according to some critics, wrote it badly - though some have pointed out that it is not bad Italian, but rather the official Tuscan dialect in a Triestino mouth.
Confessions of Zeno never looks outside the narrow confines of Trieste, much like Joyce's work, which never left Dublin in the last years of Ireland's time as a British colony. Svevo brings a keenly sardonic wit to his observations of Trieste and, in particular, to his hero, an indifferent man who cheats on his wife and lies to his psychiatrist and who is trying to explain himself to his psychiatrist by revisiting his memories.
There is a final connection between Svevo and the character Cosini. Cosini sought psychoanalysis, he said, in order to discover why he was addicted to nicotine. As he reveals in his memoirs, each time he had given up smoking, with the iron resolve that this would be the "ultima sigaretta!!", he experienced the exhilarating feeling that he was now beginning life over without the burden of his old habits and mistakes. That feeling was, however, so strong that he found smoking irresistible, if only so that he could stop smoking again in order to experience that thrill once more.
Svevo likewise smoked for all of his life. After being hit by a car while crossing the street, he was brought home, where his health rapidly failed. As death approached he asked one of his visitors for a cigarette, telling everyone that this really would be the last one (the request was denied).
(from Wikipedia)
Seriously, La coscienza di Zeno is one of the funniest books I've ever read. But I thought this last part was just terribly sad.
Here's a short passage:
<<15.4.>>. For those who don't know, those last two letters don't stand for United States but ultima sigaretta (last cigarette). It's the note I found inside a book on Positivist Philosophy by Ostwald which I spent hours on, full of hope, but which I never understood. No one would believe it but despite the way it was written that note records the most important event in my life.
«15. 4. 1890 ore 4 1/2. Muore mio padre. U.S.». Per chi non lo sapesse quelle due ultime lettere non significano United States, ma ultima sigaretta. È l'annotazione che trovo su un volume di filosofia positiva dell'Ostwald sul quale pieno di speranza passai varie ore e che mai intesi. Nessuno lo crederebbe, ma ad onta di quella forma, quell'annotazione registra l'avvenimento piú importante della mia vita.
Money quote:
What would you do
if someone told you to fight for freedom?
Would you answer the call
or run away like a little pussy?
Because the only reason that you're here
is that folks died for you in the past.
So maybe it's your turn
to die kickin' some ass!
Giacomo Leopardi is a famous Italian poet from the Romantic era and just about the most famous man of letters from the Italian Marches (Le Marche) a region of Italy near the Adriatic once belonging to the Papal States. I lived there during the summer of 1998 in the little city of Urbino. Leopardi's poetry is haunting yet beautiful. In general his view of life was pretty bleak and influenced the thought of his contemporary the philosopher Schopenhauer. I have personally read through his notebooks (Zilbadone) where he jotted down his thoughts on life the universe and everything. Most significantly, he is probably one of the first people before Nietzsche to make concrete arguments against the Neo-Platonic view of God. (So while Nietzsche may have though he was disproving the Judeo-Christian God but this is what he was really rallying against when taken in the history of philosophy as a whole.) Incidentally, Leopardi also died the same year as Pushkin. Though while Pushkin was stupid enough to get in a duel Leopardi always was sickly on account of chronic tuberculosis and died in the Southern Italy near Naples where he had gone to alleviate his symptoms.
To His Lady
Sweet beauty that inspires me with love from afar
Hiding your face except in dreams when a divine shadow envelopes me
Or in the country where you shine brighter than the sun and Nature’s laughter
Perhaps you graced the fortunate Age that they call Golden
Oh spirit, maybe now you fly about among people
Or cruel fate, which hides you, is preparing you for future generations.
I don’t hope to see you in this life,
If not until, naked and alone, my spirit will walk down a new path
Toward a peculiar room.
At the opening of my foggy and uncertain day
I though you’d be my fellow traveller on this arid soil.
There’s nothing on earth that resembles you,
And if there were an equal as for your face, actions and speech
Even if identical she would be that less beautiful.
Among so much pain that fate has decreed for human life
If you’re truly as my thought paints you
Whoever should love you on earth, at least his life could be called blessed.
I see clearly now how your love
Will make me keep on with praises and virtue as in the days of my youth.
Since heaven gives no comfort to my cares
For mortal life with you would be like life eternal.
In the valley where the song of the tired farmer resounds
I sit down and lament the error of my youth that now abandons me.
In which I remember and cry over my lost desires and life’s wasted hope.
Thinking of you awakens the beating of my heart,
If only I could preserve Ideal Beauty in this fallen world
I would be glad of your image being taken from me
If it were one of the eternal ideas, that the eternal center disdains
To see dressed under a sensible form
or attempt the trials of a funerary life among fallen ruins.
Perchance if another Earth welcomes you high up in the orbits of infinite worlds
And a sun more beautiful than our neighboring star shines upon you
And you breathe gentler air.
From hence where the years are unlucky and short
receive this hymn from a lover unknown.
ALLA SUA DONNA
Cara beltà che amore
Lunge m'inspiri o nascondendo il viso,
Fuor se nel sonno il core
Ombra diva mi scuoti,
O ne' campi ove splenda
Più vago il giorno e di natura il riso;
Forse tu l'innocente
Secol beasti che dall'oro ha nome,
Or leve intra la gente
Anima voli? o te la sorte avara
Ch'a noi t'asconde, agli avvenir prepara?
Viva mirarti omai
Nulla spene m'avanza;
S'allor non fosse, allor che ignudo e solo
Per novo calle a peregrina stanza
Verrà lo spirto mio. Già sul novello
Aprir di mia giornata incerta e bruna,
Te viatrice in questo arido suolo
Io mi pensai. Ma non è cosa in terra
Che ti somigli; e s'anco pari alcuna
Ti fosse al volto, agli atti, alla favella,
Saria, così conforme, assai men bella.
Fra cotanto dolore
Quanto all'umana età propose il fato,
Se vera e quale il mio pensier ti pinge,
Alcun t'amasse in terra, a lui pur fora
Questo viver beato:
E ben chiaro vegg'io siccome ancora
Seguir loda e virtù qual ne' prim'anni
L'amor tuo mi farebbe. Or non aggiunse
Il ciel nullo conforto ai nostri affanni;
E teco la mortal vita saria
Simile a quella che nel cielo india.
Per le valli, ove suona
Del faticoso agricoltore il canto,
Ed io seggo e mi lagno
Del giovanile error che m'abbandona;
E per li poggi, ov'io rimembro e piagno
I perduti desiri, e la perduta
Speme de' giorni miei; di te pensando,
A palpitar mi sveglio. E potess'io,
Nel secol tetro e in questo aer nefando,
L'alta specie serbar; che dell'imago,
Poi che del ver m'è tolto, assai m'appago.
Se dell'eterne idee
L'una sei tu, cui di sensibil forma
Sdegni l'eterno senno esser vestita,
E fra caduche spoglie
Provar gli affanni di funerea vita;
O s'altra terra ne' supremi giri
Fra' mondi innumerabili t'accoglie,
E più vaga del Sol prossima stella
T'irraggia, e più benigno etere spiri;
Di qua dove son gli anni infausti e brevi,
Questo d'ignoto amante inno ricevi.
A su dama
Querida belleza que de amor me inspiras desde lejos,
O escondiendo la cara si no en sueños
Una divina sombra me embiste
O en los campos donde brillaba
Más bello el sol del día y la risa de la naturaleza
Quizás tú inocente, bendijiste la edad dichosa que llaman de oro
Alma, ahora vuelas ligera entra la gente
O la suerte esquiva que te nos esconde te prepara para los que han de venir
No tengo esperanza ya de mirarte con vida
Si no fuera entonces, cuando desnudo y solo
Mi espíritu paseará por una calle nueva hacia una habitación peregrina
Ya, al abrirse mi jornada incierta y nebulosa
Te pensé ser compañera de viaje en este árido suelo
No hay nada en tierra que te asemeje
Y si par hubiera en cuanto a la cara, las acciones, y el habla
Aunque conforme sería mucho menos bella.
Entre tanto dolor que el hado propuso para la edad humana
Si de verdad eres como te pintó mi pensamiento
A quienquiera que te amase en tierra le sería dichoso al menos este vivir.
Y ahora veo muy claro como tu amor me haría seguir con alabanzas y virtud cual en los años de juventud.
Ahora el cielo no añade ningún consuelo a nuestros afanes
Y contigo la vida mortal sería como aquella eterna allá en el cielo.
Por el valle donde suena el canto del fatigado granjero
me siento y lamento el error juvenil que me abandona
En que recuerdo y lloro los deseos perdidos y la esperanza marchita de mis días
pensando en tí me despierta el palpitar del corazón
y si yo pudiera conservar la belleza ideal en este mundo caduco
mucho me pagaría de la imagen que se me quitase de la vista,
Si eres una de las eternas ideas
Que el seno eterno desdeña ver vestida de forma sensible
o en despojos caducos probar los afanes de una vida funeraria
O si acaso otra tierra te acoge en las altas órbitas entre mundos sin número
Y te brilla un sol más bello que nuestra próxima estrella
Y respiras éter más benigno
Desde acá donde los años son breves e infaustos
Recibe este himno de un amante desconocido.
Brotherhood
Homage to Claudio Ptolomeo
I’m a man: I don’t last long
And the night is immense.
But I look up
At the writing in the stars
And without really understanding I comprehend:
I’m also a bunch of writing.
And at this moment
Someone else is spelling me out.
Hermandad
Homenaje a Claudio Ptolomeo
Soy hombre: duro poco
y es enorme la noche.
Pero miro hacia arriba:
las estrellas escriben.
Sin entender comprendo:
también soy escritura
y en este mismo instante
alguien me deletrea.
1. There is one thing I should like to say—I think it important: and if you, my father, approve, it will serve for a lesson that possibly may be necessary; for in some books on prayer the writers say that the soul, though it cannot in its own strength attain to this state,—because it is altogether a supernatural work wrought in it by our Lord,—may nevertheless succeed, by lifting up the spirit above all created things, and raising it upwards in humility, after some years spent in a purgative life, and advancing in the illuminative. I do not very well know what they mean by illuminative: I understand it to mean the life of those who are making progress. And they advise us much to withdraw from all bodily imagination, and draw near to the contemplation of the Divinity; for they say that those who have advanced so far would be embarrassed or hindered in their way to the highest contemplation, if they regarded even the Sacred Humanity itself.306306See Inner Fortress , vi. 7, § 4. They 178 defend their opinion307307This opinion is supposed to be justified by the words of St. Thomas, 3 Sent. dist. 22, qu. 3, art. 1, ad quintum . "Corporalis præsentia Christi in duobus poterat esse nociva. Primo, quantum ad fidem, quia videntes Eum in forma in qua erat minor Patre, non ita de facili crederent Eum æqualem Patri, ut dicit glossa super Joannem. Secundo, quantum ad dilectionem, quia Eum non solum spiritualiter, sed etiam carnaliter diligeremus, conversantes cum Ipso corporaliter, et hoc est de imperfectione dilectionis." by bringing forward the words308308St. John xvi. 7: "Expedit vobis ut Ego vadam; si enim non abiero, Paracletus non veniet ad vos." of our Lord to the Apostles, concerning the coming of the Holy Ghost; I mean that Coming which was after the Ascension. If the Apostles had believed, as they believed after the Coming of the Holy Ghost, that He is both God and Man, His bodily Presence would, in my opinion, have been no hindrance; for those words were not said to the Mother of God, though she loved Him more than all.309309This sentence is in the margin of the original MS., not in the text, but in the handwriting of the Saint ( De la Fuente ). They think that, as this work of contemplation is wholly spiritual, any bodily object whatever can disturb or hinder it. They say that the contemplative should regard himself as being within a definite space, God everywhere around, and himself absorbed in Him. This is what we should aim at.
2. This seems to me right enough now and then; but to withdraw altogether from Christ, and to compare His divine Body with our miseries or with any created thing whatever, is what I cannot endure. May God help me to explain myself! I am not contradicting them on this point, for they are learned and spiritual persons, understanding what they say: God, too, is guiding souls by many ways and methods, as He has guided mine. It is of my own soul that I wish to speak now,—I do not intermeddle with others,—and of the danger I was in because I would comply with the directions I was reading. I can well believe that he who has attained to union, and advances no further,—that is, to raptures, visions, and other graces of God given to souls,—will consider that opinion to be best, as I did myself: and if I had continued in it, I believe I should never have reached the state I am in now. I hold it to be a delusion: still, it may be that it is I who am deluded. But I will tell you what happened to me.
3. As I had no director, I used to read these books, where, by little and little, I thought I might understand something. I found out afterwards that, if our Lord had not shown me the way, I should have learned but little from books; for I understood really nothing till His Majesty made me learn by experience: neither did I know what I was doing. So, in the beginning, when I attained to some degree of supernatural prayer,—I speak of the prayer of quiet,—I laboured to remove from myself every thought of bodily objects; but I did not dare to lift up my soul, for that I saw would be presumption in me, who was always so wicked. I thought, however, that I had a sense of the presence of God: this was true, and I contrived to be in a state of recollection before Him. This method of prayer is full of sweetness, if God helps us in it, and the joy of it is great. And so, because I was conscious of the profit and delight which this way furnished me, no one could have brought me back to the contemplation of the Sacred Humanity; for that seemed to me to be a real hindrance to prayer.
4. O Lord of my soul, and my Good! Jesus Christ crucified! I never think of this opinion, which I then held, without pain; I believe it was an act of high treason, though done in ignorance. Hitherto, I had been all my life long so devout to the Sacred Humanity—for this happened but lately; I mean by lately, that it was before our Lord gave me the grace of raptures and visions. I did not continue long of this opinion,310310"I mean by lately . . . and visions" is in the margin of the MS., but in the handwriting of the Saint ( De la Fuente ). and so I returned to my habit of delighting in our Lord, particularly at Communion. I wish I could have His picture and image always before my eyes, since I cannot have Him graven in my soul as deeply as I wish.
5. Is it possible, O my Lord, that I could have had the thought, if only for an hour, that Thou couldst be a hindrance to my greatest good? Whence are all my blessings? are they not from Thee? I will not think that I was blamable, for I was very sorry for it, and it was certainly done in ignorance. And so it pleased Thee, in Thy goodness, to succour me, by sending me one who has delivered me from this delusion; and afterwards by showing Thyself to me so many times, as I shall relate hereafter,311311Ch. xxviii. § 4 . that I might clearly perceive how great my delusion was, and also tell it to many persons; which I have done, as well as describe it as I am doing now. I believe myself that this is the reason why so many souls, after advancing to the prayer of union, make no further progress, and do not attain to very great liberty of spirit.
11. This withdrawing from bodily objects must no doubt be good, seeing that it is recommended by persons who are so spiritual; but, in my opinion, it ought to be done only when the soul has made very great progress; for until then it is clear that the Creator must be sought for through His creatures. All this depends on the grace which our Lord distributes to every soul. I do not intermeddle here. What I would say is, that the most Sacred Humanity of Christ is not to be counted among the objects from which we have to withdraw. Let this be clearly understood. I wish I knew how to explain it.314314See St. John of the Cross, Mount Carmel , bk. iii. ch. i. p. 212.12. When God suspends all the powers of the soul,—as we see He does in the states of prayer already described,—it is clear that, whether we wish it or not, this presence is withdrawn. Be it so, then. The loss 183 is a blessed one, because it takes place in order that we may have a deeper fruition of what we seem to have lost; for at that moment the whole soul is occupied in loving Him whom the understanding has toiled to know; and it loves what it has not comprehended, and rejoices in what it could not have rejoiced in so well, if it had not lost itself, in order, as I am saying, to gain itself the more. But that we should carefully and laboriously accustom ourselves not to strive with all our might to have always—and please God it be always!—the most Sacred Humanity before our eyes,—this, I say, is what seems to me not to be right: it is making the soul, as they say, to walk in the air; for it has nothing to rest on, how full soever of God it may think itself to be.
13. It is a great matter for us to have our Lord before us as Man while we are living and in the flesh. This is that other inconvenience which I say must be met with. The first—I have already begun to describe it—is a little failure in humility, in that the soul desires to rise of itself before our Lord raises it, and is not satisfied with meditation on so excellent a subject,—seeking to be Mary before it has laboured with Martha. If our Lord will have a soul to be Mary, even on the first day, there is nothing to be afraid of; but we must not be self-invited guests, as I think I said on another occasion.315315Ch. xii. §§ 5 , 7 . This little mote of want of humility, though in appearance a mere nothing, does a great deal of harm to those who wish to advance in contemplation.
14. I now come back to the second consideration. We are not angels, for we have a body; to seek to make ourselves angels while we are on the earth, and so much on the earth as I was, is an act of folly. In general, our thoughts must have something to rest on, though the soul may go forth out of itself now and then, or it may be very often so full of God as to be in 184 need of no created thing by the help of which it may recollect itself. But this is not so common a case; for when we have many things to do, when we are persecuted and in trouble, when we cannot have much rest, and when we have our seasons of dryness, Christ is our best Friend; for we regard Him as Man, and behold Him faint and in trouble, and He is our Companion; and when we shall have accustomed ourselves in this way, it is very easy to find Him near us, although there will be occasions from time to time when we can do neither the one nor the other.
21. I come, then, to this conclusion: whenever we think of Christ, we should remind ourselves of the love that made Him bestow so many graces upon us, and also how great that love is which our Lord God has shown us, in giving us such a pledge of the love He bears us; for love draws forth love. And though we are only at the very beginning, and exceedingly wicked, yet let us always labour to keep this in view, and stir ourselves up to love; for if once our Lord grants us this grace, of having this love imprinted in our hearts, everything will be easy, and we shall do great things in a very short time, and with very little labour. May His Majesty give us that love,—He knows the great need we have of it,—for the sake of that love which He bore us, and of His glorious Son, to whom it cost so much to make it known to us! Amen.
Sem Tob (1290-1369)
Man cannot trust two things,
being both equally doubtful:
the world and the sea . . .
Esfuerço en dos cosas
Non puede omre tomar
El mundo e la mar
Sem Tob de Carrión(1290-1369)
(Sem Tob ben Ishaq ibn Ardutiel)
In the world there is no treasure like wisdom
No inheritance, thing or possession.
For wisdom is God's grace and glory.
That is why there is no nobler jewel,
greater gain,
or a better boon companion than a book.
Nor anything that once you take a liking to it
brings greater peace.
Because the more you struggle with a book
the more you'll gain wisdom in turn.
Any wise man I wish to meet
I'll find him there and
I can converse with him still
The best of sages
and honored philosophers
that one could hope or wish for.
What I wanted to learn from those sages
were their saying and their wisdom.
Well there you'll find it in the same book
And you'll have their answer dictated to you right there inside.
From such great wisdom you learn new things for sure
as well as from the glosses they wrote on the text.
So I wish to read the sages' letters and verses
if I cannot meet them in flesh and blood.
They left their wisdom written pure
and summed up their heavenly knowledge
and clear understanding
without any mix of bodyliness
or earthly trace for that matter.
For this reason alone
any sane man would wish to meet these sages
but not in the flesh.
Thus there is no friend like a book
-For sages I mean.
I'm not concerned with idiots here-
I don't even mind that
being a wise man's servant
or an idiot's master
both have their price.
But the fool is the worst animal
in the world,
that is for certain.
He understands nothing
but disloyalty
and pleasures in nothing but evil deeds.
What the beast most diligently intends
he spends in trickery and evil
Man can have no better friend
than wisdom
and no graver enemy
than idiocy.
Sem Tob de Carrión(1290-1369)
(Sem Tob ben Ishaq ibn Ardutiel)
Selections from his Moral Proverbs written in Medieval Spanish peculiar for its Hebreo-Arabic imagery and rhyme scheme.
To show a certain astrologer my smarts
I sent him a writing done with scissors.
And the fool didn’t know
I did it as a lark
since I didn’t want
To waste any of my ink on him.
I cut out its body,
refusing to give him
A good and complete letter.
Like the guy who chucked
The insides out of hazelnuts
For himself
And gave everyone else the empty shells.
I took out the letter’s contents
And kept it for myself,
Giving him an empty missive instead.
Then I dyed my gray hairs
Not for hate of them
Nor to deny my age
Or to look like a young man
But out of a great fear
That men would come looking
For elderly wisdom from me
And would not find it.
…………………………..
If it’s not what I wish for
Let me want what there is
And if at first I don’t like it
I’ll enjoy it later.
…………………………….
Men,
always talking,
for a short while
they trod the earth,
which will soon trod on them,
forever silent.
40
Vn astroso cuydaua
Y por mostrar que era
Sotil, yo le enuiaua
Escripto de tisera.
41
El nesçio non sabia
Que lo fize por infinta
Por que yo non quería
Perder en el la tynta
42
Ca por non la deñar
Fize vazia la llena,
Y non le quise donar
La carta sana, buena.
43
Commo el que tomaua
Meollos de avellanas
Para, sy, y donaua
Al otro caxcas vanas.
44
Yo del papel saque
La rrazon que dezia
Con ella me finque
Dile carta vazia.
45
Las mis canas teñí las
Non por las aborresçer
Nin por desdezyr las
Nin mancebo paresçer
46
Mas con miedo sobejo
De omes que buscarian
En mi seso de viejo
E non lo fallarian.
48
Sy non es lo que quiero
Quiera yo lo que es
Si pesar he primero
Plazer avre despues.
55
Por que pisan poquiella
Sazon tierra, parlando
Omnes que pisa ella
Para sienpre, callando.
(Statue: Santa Teresa, 1974
Tomás Crespo Rivera, www.cresporivera.com)
From her autobiography: A Life XIII, 3
But it’s important we understand what kind of humility this should be. Because I
think the Devil does a lot of harm and keeps people from progressing in their prayer
by giving them a poor understanding of humility. Making it appear prideful to have
great desires and wishing to imitate the Saints and Martyrs. Then he tells, or has us
understand that the deeds of the Saints are things to admire but not to do, sinners as
we are. However, I also say that we should look at what to avoid as well as what to
imitate. For example, it wouldn’t be good that a weak sickly person practiced many
fasts and tough penitential rites, going to a desert where they couldn’t sleep or eat,
and things of this nature.
Capítulo XIII
3. Mas es menester entendamos, cómo ha de ser esta humildad; porque creo el demonio hace mucho daño, para no ir muy adelante gente que tiene oración, con hacerlos entender mal de la humildad, haciendo que nos parezca soberbia tener grandes deseos, y querer imitar a los santos, y desear ser mártires. Luego nos dice, o hace entender, que las cosas de los santos son para admirar, más no para hacerlas los que somos pecadores. Esto también lo digo yo, más hemos de mirar cuál es de espantar, y cuál de imitar; porque no sería bien, si una persona flaca, y enferma, se pusiese en muchos ayunos, y penitencias ásperas, yéndose a un desierto, a donde ni pudiese dormir, ni tuviese que comer, o cosas semejantes.
From Chapter 9 of her Autobiography:
A this time I was given the Confessions of Saint Augustine to
read, and it seemed the Lord had willed it on purpose since I
did not ask for the book nor had I ever seen it before. I am a
great admirer of Saint Augustine since the monastery where I
was a secular nun was of his order and also because he was a
sinner and then the Lord turned him toward Himself. I found
much consolation in the Saints, thinking that they would aid
me. For since as the Lord had pardoned them so He would me.
But one thing discomforted me, as I have already mentioned.
That God had called them all one time and they didn’t fall
again. And since by then my falls had been so numerous I
despaired. But considering the love He had shown toward me
on so many occasions I became excited again, never distrusting
His Mercy.
Oh God help me so great was the hardness of my soul even with
all the succor the Lord had granted me! I became frightened at
how little I was able to do with myself. And how tied down I
was, unable to give myself fully to the Lord. As I started to read
the Confessions I thought I saw myself there and began to
commend myself to this glorious Saint. And when I got to the
part about his conversion and read how he heard a voice in a
garden it appeared that the Lord was calling me alone in my
heart. With great affliction and fatigue within myself I broke
down into tears for a long while. How much a soul suffers My
God, when it cedes the lordship needed to stay in control! Oh
how many torments does it suffer! I am amazed now how mine
could ever live in such torment. God be praised, that he gave
me life so I could get out of such mortal death! It seems to me
that upon hearing my cries He had pity on my many tears and
my soul gained great strength from His Majesty as a result.
6. En este tiempo me dieron las Confesiones de san Agustín, que parece el Señor lo ordenó, porque yo no las procuré, ni nunca las había visto. Yo soy muy aficionada a san Agustín, porque el monasterio a donde estuve seglar era de su Orden; y también por haber sido pecador, que de los Santos, que después de serlo el Señor tornó a sí, hallaba yo mucho consuelo, pareciéndome en ellos había de hallar ayuda; y que como los había el Señor perdonado, podía hacer a mí: salvo, que una cosa me desconsolaba, como he dicho, que a ellos solo una vez los había el Señor llamado, y no tornaban a caer, y a mí eran ya tantas, que esto me fatigaba; mas considerando en el amor que me tenía, tornaba a animarme que de su misericordia jamás desconfié, de mí muchas veces.
7. ¡Oh válame Dios, cómo me espanta la reciedumbre, que tuvo mi alma, con tener tantas ayudas de Dios! Háceme estar temerosa lo poco que podía conmigo, y cuán atada me veía, para no me determinar a darme del todo a Dios. Como comencé a leer las Confesiones, paréceme me veía yo allí; comencé a encomendarme mucho a este glorioso santo. Cuando llegué a su conversión, y leí, como oyó aquella voz en el huerto, no me parece sino que el Señor me la dio a mí, según sintió fin corazón: estuve por gran rato que toda me deshacía en lágrimas, y entre mí mesma con gran aflicción, y fatiga. ¡Oh qué sufre un alma, válame Dios, por perder la libertad que había de tener de ser señora, y qué de tormentos padece! yo me admiro ahora, cómo podía vivir en tanto tormento, sea Dios alabado, que me dio vida para salir de muerte tan mortal: paréceme, que ganó grandes fuerzas mi alma de la divina Majestad, y que debía oír mis clamores, y haber lástima de tantas lágrimas. (Libro de la vida, cap. IX)
