The Last Hero
by G.K.Chesterton
The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day,
There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away,
And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide,
Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride.
The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars,
With rains that might put out the sun and clean the sky of stars,
Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above,
The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love.
Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain,
You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain.
The chance of battle changes -- so may all battle be;
I stole my lady bride from them, they stole her back from me.
I rent her from her red-roofed hall, I rode and saw arise,
More lovely than the living flowers the hatred in her eyes.
She never loved me, never bent, never was less divine;
The sunset never loved me, the wind was never mine.
Was it all nothing that she stood imperial in duresse?
Silence itself made softer with the sweeping of her dress.
O you who drain the cup of life, O you who wear the crown,
You never loved a woman's smile as I have loved her frown.
The wind blew out from Bergen to the dawning of the day,
They ride and run with fifty spears to break and bar my way,
I shall not die alone, alone, but kin to all the powers,
As merry as the ancient sun and fighting like the flowers.
How white their steel, how bright their eyes! I love each laughing knave,
Cry high and bid him welcome to the banquet of the brave.
Yea, I will bless them as they bend and love them where they lie,
When on their skulls the sword I swing falls shattering from the sky.
The hour when death is like a light and blood is like a rose, --
You never loved your friends, my friends, as I shall love my foes.
Know you what earth shall lose to-night, what rich uncounted loans,
What heavy gold of tales untold you bury with my bones?
My loves in deep dim meadows, my ships that rode at ease,
Ruffling the purple plumage of strange and secret seas.
To see this fair earth as it is to me alone was given,
The blow that breaks my brow to-night shall break the dome of heaven.
The skies I saw, the trees I saw after no eyes shall see,
To-night I die the death of God; the stars shall die with me;
One sound shall sunder all the spears and break the trumpet's breath:
You never laughed in all your life as I shall laugh in death.
Monday, July 30, 2007
A Real-Life Update
"Update" may not be right word, though, since I haven't done any real-life details here yet.
Short version: I'm in the Navy. In about a month, my ship is going to have an INSURV inspection. This is an extremely important five-year inspection that determines whether the ship is seaworthy or not. Inspectors come aboard and spend days examining just about everything. (And everyone.)
So everyone here has gone a bit insane. We're running around trying to correct flaws in the ship, major and minor; and going over our maintenance routines, which are a critical part of INSURV and which have to be done with nitpicking exactness.
(There are always flaws on a ship. There's never enough time to get everything fixed perfectly; it's like running a household with a large family. Most of the time, it's sufficient to fix major flaws, and guesstimate what's about to wear out next. Most of the time, when we're not looking down the gunbarrel of INSURV.)
My part in this controlled chaos is normally to be an Electonics Technician for one of our radars. It's a good job, and it's not hard. But for the duration of our crisis, I've been reassigned to a new and dramatic mission:
The Watertight Door Team!
Ships are divided into watertight sections; the idea is that even if one section develops a leak, we can just close it off. All the other sections can carry it, and so the ship will stay afloat.
The system depends on a whole bunch of doors being thoroughly watertight; and my new duties are to go from door to door, checking each one, and fixing any faults that show up. (There are a lot.)
I may not blog that much for the next month, even by my undemanding average. This is keeping us really busy; and, alas, it's really cutting into both my internet time and my reading schedule.
Short version: I'm in the Navy. In about a month, my ship is going to have an INSURV inspection. This is an extremely important five-year inspection that determines whether the ship is seaworthy or not. Inspectors come aboard and spend days examining just about everything. (And everyone.)
So everyone here has gone a bit insane. We're running around trying to correct flaws in the ship, major and minor; and going over our maintenance routines, which are a critical part of INSURV and which have to be done with nitpicking exactness.
(There are always flaws on a ship. There's never enough time to get everything fixed perfectly; it's like running a household with a large family. Most of the time, it's sufficient to fix major flaws, and guesstimate what's about to wear out next. Most of the time, when we're not looking down the gunbarrel of INSURV.)
My part in this controlled chaos is normally to be an Electonics Technician for one of our radars. It's a good job, and it's not hard. But for the duration of our crisis, I've been reassigned to a new and dramatic mission:
Ships are divided into watertight sections; the idea is that even if one section develops a leak, we can just close it off. All the other sections can carry it, and so the ship will stay afloat.
The system depends on a whole bunch of doors being thoroughly watertight; and my new duties are to go from door to door, checking each one, and fixing any faults that show up. (There are a lot.)
I may not blog that much for the next month, even by my undemanding average. This is keeping us really busy; and, alas, it's really cutting into both my internet time and my reading schedule.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Wind Will Blow It All Away
One of my all-time favorite religious poems, translated by Robert Bly in his book The Sibling Society:
If someone insults you,
Go on, with light heart;
If they all do it, pay
No heed to what they say.
There's no new art
In talk of that kind.
Wind will blow it all away.
If someone praises Devotion
Implying of course it's OK,
But says of course the works
Of the Law are much greater,
It's weird dogma,
Pass by, don't bother.
Wind will blow it all away.
And if they next, to make
You less open to God,
Say (to flatter you)
That you are truly great:
Turn your back
To talk of that sort.
Wind will blow it all away.
And if the world itself
Should come, money, castles,
Great sweets in its hand, just say,
"I have enough today."
For worldly things
Return whence they came.
Wind will blow it all away.
And if people name a place
(Not God's) where all sorrow
Will be settled, all be saved,
They have an evil aim.
Be strong, say no
To these odd people.
Wind will blow it all away.
-Margaret of Navarre (trans. by Robert Bly.)
If someone insults you,
Go on, with light heart;
If they all do it, pay
No heed to what they say.
There's no new art
In talk of that kind.
Wind will blow it all away.
If someone praises Devotion
Implying of course it's OK,
But says of course the works
Of the Law are much greater,
It's weird dogma,
Pass by, don't bother.
Wind will blow it all away.
And if they next, to make
You less open to God,
Say (to flatter you)
That you are truly great:
Turn your back
To talk of that sort.
Wind will blow it all away.
And if the world itself
Should come, money, castles,
Great sweets in its hand, just say,
"I have enough today."
For worldly things
Return whence they came.
Wind will blow it all away.
And if people name a place
(Not God's) where all sorrow
Will be settled, all be saved,
They have an evil aim.
Be strong, say no
To these odd people.
Wind will blow it all away.
-Margaret of Navarre (trans. by Robert Bly.)
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows
No, I didn't go to the bookstore at midnight to get it. I must be getting old. I was tempted, though.
It breezes right along; whatever you want to say about Rowling, her prose is readable to the point of absorbing you completely.
(I'm trying to avoid spoilers, although that implies some laughable assumptions about this blog's readership level.)
I have duty tomorrow, so it'll probably be finished up on board the ship. And then we're out to sea again!
It breezes right along; whatever you want to say about Rowling, her prose is readable to the point of absorbing you completely.
(I'm trying to avoid spoilers, although that implies some laughable assumptions about this blog's readership level.)
I have duty tomorrow, so it'll probably be finished up on board the ship. And then we're out to sea again!
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
"Cleared"
"Cleared"
(In Memory of a Commission)
Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt,
Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt!
From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, oh, listen to my song,
The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong.
Their noble names were mentioned -- oh, the burning black disgrace! --
By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case;
They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it,
And "coruscating innocence" the learned Judges gave it.
Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon's knife,
The "honourable gentlemen" deplored the loss of life!
Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burke and shirk and snigger,
No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger!
Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies,
Like phœnixes from Phœnix Park (and what lay there) they rise!
Go shout it to the emerald seas -- give word to Erin now,
Her honourable gentlemen are cleared -- and this is how: --
They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price,
They only helped the murderer with counsel's best advice,
But -- sure it keeps their honour white -- the learned Court believes
They never give a piece of plate to murderers and thieves.
They never told the ramping crowd to card a woman's hide,
They never marked a man for death -- what fault of theirs he died? --
They only said "intimidate," and talked and went away --
By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they!
Their sin it was that fed the fire -- small blame to them that heard --
The boys get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at a word --
They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too,
The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew, and well they knew!
They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail,
They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clan-na-Gael.
If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down,
They're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.
"Cleared", honourable gentlemen! Be thankful it's no more: --
The widow's curse is on your house, the dead are at your door.
On you the shame of open shame; on you from North to South
The hand of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth.
"Less black than we were painted"? -- Faith, no word of black was said;
The lightest touch was human blood, and that, you know, runs red.
It's sticking to your fist to-day for all your sneer and scoff,
And by the Judge's well-weighed word you cannot wipe it off.
Hold up those hands of innocence -- go, scare your sheep together,
The blundering, tripping tups that bleat behind the old bell-wether;
And if they snuff the taint and break to find another pen,
Tell them it's tar that glistens so, and daub them yours again!
"The charge is old"? -- As old as Cain -- as fresh as yesterday;
Old as the Ten Commandments -- have ye talked those laws away?
If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball,
You spoke the words that sped the shot -- the curse be on you all!
"Our friends believe"? -- Of course they do -- as sheltered women may;
But have they seen the shrieking soul ripped from the quivering clay?
They! -- If their own front door is shut,
they'll swear the whole world's warm;
What do they know of dread of death or hanging fear of harm?
The secret half a county keeps, the whisper in the lane,
The shriek that tells the shot went home behind the broken pane,
The dry blood crisping in the sun that scares the honest bees,
And shows the boys have heard your talk -- what do they know of these?
But you -- you know -- ay, ten times more; the secrets of the dead,
Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred,
The mangled stallion's scream at night, the tail-cropped heifer's low.
Who set the whisper going first? You know, and well you know!
My soul! I'd sooner lie in jail for murder plain and straight,
Pure crime I'd done with my own hand for money, lust, or hate,
Than take a seat in Parliament by fellow-felons cheered,
While one of those "not provens" proved me cleared as you are cleared.
Cleared -- you that "lost" the League accounts -- go, guard our honour still,
Go, help to make our country's laws that broke God's law at will --
One hand stuck out behind the back, to signal "strike again";
The other on your dress-shirt-front to show your heart is clane.
If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down,
You're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.
If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: --
We are not ruled by murderers, but only -- by their friends.
-Rudyard Kipling
(In Memory of a Commission)
Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt,
Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt!
From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, oh, listen to my song,
The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong.
Their noble names were mentioned -- oh, the burning black disgrace! --
By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case;
They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it,
And "coruscating innocence" the learned Judges gave it.
Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon's knife,
The "honourable gentlemen" deplored the loss of life!
Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burke and shirk and snigger,
No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger!
Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies,
Like phœnixes from Phœnix Park (and what lay there) they rise!
Go shout it to the emerald seas -- give word to Erin now,
Her honourable gentlemen are cleared -- and this is how: --
They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price,
They only helped the murderer with counsel's best advice,
But -- sure it keeps their honour white -- the learned Court believes
They never give a piece of plate to murderers and thieves.
They never told the ramping crowd to card a woman's hide,
They never marked a man for death -- what fault of theirs he died? --
They only said "intimidate," and talked and went away --
By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they!
Their sin it was that fed the fire -- small blame to them that heard --
The boys get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at a word --
They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too,
The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew, and well they knew!
They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail,
They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clan-na-Gael.
If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down,
They're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.
"Cleared", honourable gentlemen! Be thankful it's no more: --
The widow's curse is on your house, the dead are at your door.
On you the shame of open shame; on you from North to South
The hand of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth.
"Less black than we were painted"? -- Faith, no word of black was said;
The lightest touch was human blood, and that, you know, runs red.
It's sticking to your fist to-day for all your sneer and scoff,
And by the Judge's well-weighed word you cannot wipe it off.
Hold up those hands of innocence -- go, scare your sheep together,
The blundering, tripping tups that bleat behind the old bell-wether;
And if they snuff the taint and break to find another pen,
Tell them it's tar that glistens so, and daub them yours again!
"The charge is old"? -- As old as Cain -- as fresh as yesterday;
Old as the Ten Commandments -- have ye talked those laws away?
If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball,
You spoke the words that sped the shot -- the curse be on you all!
"Our friends believe"? -- Of course they do -- as sheltered women may;
But have they seen the shrieking soul ripped from the quivering clay?
They! -- If their own front door is shut,
they'll swear the whole world's warm;
What do they know of dread of death or hanging fear of harm?
The secret half a county keeps, the whisper in the lane,
The shriek that tells the shot went home behind the broken pane,
The dry blood crisping in the sun that scares the honest bees,
And shows the boys have heard your talk -- what do they know of these?
But you -- you know -- ay, ten times more; the secrets of the dead,
Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred,
The mangled stallion's scream at night, the tail-cropped heifer's low.
Who set the whisper going first? You know, and well you know!
My soul! I'd sooner lie in jail for murder plain and straight,
Pure crime I'd done with my own hand for money, lust, or hate,
Than take a seat in Parliament by fellow-felons cheered,
While one of those "not provens" proved me cleared as you are cleared.
Cleared -- you that "lost" the League accounts -- go, guard our honour still,
Go, help to make our country's laws that broke God's law at will --
One hand stuck out behind the back, to signal "strike again";
The other on your dress-shirt-front to show your heart is clane.
If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down,
You're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.
If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: --
We are not ruled by murderers, but only -- by their friends.
-Rudyard Kipling
Timescales in Science Fiction
Today I finished Robert J. Sawyer's early novel Starplex. It's reminiscent of Star Trek, in that a coalition of aliens and humans has joined together on a starship to explore space, and seek out new life and new civilizations...
(Cue theme music.)
Halfway through the novel, time travel comes up; and we discover that one of the characters will apparently live to be ten billion years old.
Ten billion. Working on this kind of timescale takes a certain kind of bald-faced audacity on the author's part, both because the number itself is staggering and because you can't really do any kind of story over that length of time. All you can do is pick out episodes; or, as in this case, go to the end and see what's there.
Orson Scott Card did this, in his Homecoming series; it's generally understood that the Oversoul has been active for tens of millions of years since the founding of the planet Harmony. Card handles this by confronting it head-on: by having one of the characters talk about the impossibility of any kind of history handling that enormous duration. Even if there were some mega-library with the history all written down, who could live long enough to read it?
On the other hand, you have Isaac Asimov; his Galactic Empire was originally written to be fifty thousand years into the future, but Asimov retconned this into twenty thousand years later on. Why? A feeling that fifty thousand years is too long, somehow?
(Cue theme music.)
Halfway through the novel, time travel comes up; and we discover that one of the characters will apparently live to be ten billion years old.
Ten billion. Working on this kind of timescale takes a certain kind of bald-faced audacity on the author's part, both because the number itself is staggering and because you can't really do any kind of story over that length of time. All you can do is pick out episodes; or, as in this case, go to the end and see what's there.
Orson Scott Card did this, in his Homecoming series; it's generally understood that the Oversoul has been active for tens of millions of years since the founding of the planet Harmony. Card handles this by confronting it head-on: by having one of the characters talk about the impossibility of any kind of history handling that enormous duration. Even if there were some mega-library with the history all written down, who could live long enough to read it?
On the other hand, you have Isaac Asimov; his Galactic Empire was originally written to be fifty thousand years into the future, but Asimov retconned this into twenty thousand years later on. Why? A feeling that fifty thousand years is too long, somehow?
Monday, July 16, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
And Now I'm Back.
It was a good week underway- lots of engineering drills, which don't affect me directly.
(I should probably do some kind of biography post, shouldn't I, so this makes some kind of sense. Oh, well. Maybe later.)
The important thing about this underway week is that I had time to finish my latest Heinlein, Revolt in 2100. The revolt is against the theocratic government that's taken hold of the USA, backed by advanced psychology and sociology (and rebelled against by means of the same sciences.)
Not as good as my last two Heinlein novels, but a pretty decent science fiction adventure.
(I should probably do some kind of biography post, shouldn't I, so this makes some kind of sense. Oh, well. Maybe later.)
The important thing about this underway week is that I had time to finish my latest Heinlein, Revolt in 2100. The revolt is against the theocratic government that's taken hold of the USA, backed by advanced psychology and sociology (and rebelled against by means of the same sciences.)
Not as good as my last two Heinlein novels, but a pretty decent science fiction adventure.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Off Again...
Well, tomorrow we set off to sea once more. I'm not sure if we'll have any kind of internet access (here's hoping!) so I may not be able to post again for a bit.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Your Semi-Random Life Soundtrack
From the Asymmetrical Information blog, we have a neat game.
Here’s how it works:
1. open your library (iTunes, winamp, media player, iPod)
2. put it on shuffle
3. press play
4. for every question, type the song that’s playing
5. new question– press the next button
6. don’t lie and try to pretend you’re cool
One of the options, given that itunes is sometimes less than random, is to veto any second appearance of an artist (or, of course, a song.) I've done this in one case.
So here we go:
Opening Credits
Get Ready For This- 2 Unlimited
Waking Up
Higher- Creed
First Day at School
Heavy- Collective Soul
Falling in Love
Give a Little Bit- Supertramp
Breaking Up
Itsy Bitsy Spider- Carly Simon
Prom
Send in the Clowns- Barbara Streisand
Life's Okay
Loverboy- Billy Ocean
Mental Breakdown
Tarzan Boy- Baltimora
Driving
The Chemicals Between Us- Bush
Flashback
Safety Dance- Men Without Hats
Getting back together
Election Day- Arcadia
Wedding
The Planet of the Apes Musical (from the Simpsons)
Birth of a child
Alive- P.O.D.
Final Battle
O Fortuna- Carmina Burana
Death Scene
Numb- Linkin Park
Funeral Song
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow- Fleetwood Mac
End Credits
Desperado- The Eagles
------------------
It's interesting how many of the songs at least vaguely fit into the categories presented- or, when they don't fit, their failure to fit is comical.
Here’s how it works:
1. open your library (iTunes, winamp, media player, iPod)
2. put it on shuffle
3. press play
4. for every question, type the song that’s playing
5. new question– press the next button
6. don’t lie and try to pretend you’re cool
One of the options, given that itunes is sometimes less than random, is to veto any second appearance of an artist (or, of course, a song.) I've done this in one case.
So here we go:
Opening Credits
Get Ready For This- 2 Unlimited
Waking Up
Higher- Creed
First Day at School
Heavy- Collective Soul
Falling in Love
Give a Little Bit- Supertramp
Breaking Up
Itsy Bitsy Spider- Carly Simon
Prom
Send in the Clowns- Barbara Streisand
Life's Okay
Loverboy- Billy Ocean
Mental Breakdown
Tarzan Boy- Baltimora
Driving
The Chemicals Between Us- Bush
Flashback
Safety Dance- Men Without Hats
Getting back together
Election Day- Arcadia
Wedding
The Planet of the Apes Musical (from the Simpsons)
Birth of a child
Alive- P.O.D.
Final Battle
O Fortuna- Carmina Burana
Death Scene
Numb- Linkin Park
Funeral Song
Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow- Fleetwood Mac
End Credits
Desperado- The Eagles
------------------
It's interesting how many of the songs at least vaguely fit into the categories presented- or, when they don't fit, their failure to fit is comical.
Inherit the Plot
I just finished James P. Hogan's Inherit the Stars, a 1977 science fiction novel. Astronauts find a 50,000-year-old human corpse on the Moon, and scientists struggle with the mysteries it raises.
Did he come from Earth? (Then why isn't there any evidence of this ancient super-civilization?)
Did he come from another planet? (Then why is his anatomy so exactly human?)
The tension between these two mutually-impossible problems drives the plot. It reminded me a lot of Asimov's writing style: set up a problem, and then make up and disprove one hypothesis after another. Kind of a narrative version of the scientific method.
The characters are weak, (as they usually are in Asimov) but characters aren't the point. The puzzle-work of ideas is the point, and I'm glad to say that my personal hypothesis was completely off the mark.
With that said: the weakest part of the novel is definitely the ending, which concludes with two dramatic new hypotheses- both of which are audacious, both of which have serious logical/evidential holes, but neither of which is questioned or debated by anyone. It's like Hogan was still going strong, and he suddenly ran out of novel.
But I give it a high ranking, regardless. I don't get an Asimov feeling from too many authors, and I treasure it when it happens.
Did he come from Earth? (Then why isn't there any evidence of this ancient super-civilization?)
Did he come from another planet? (Then why is his anatomy so exactly human?)
The tension between these two mutually-impossible problems drives the plot. It reminded me a lot of Asimov's writing style: set up a problem, and then make up and disprove one hypothesis after another. Kind of a narrative version of the scientific method.
The characters are weak, (as they usually are in Asimov) but characters aren't the point. The puzzle-work of ideas is the point, and I'm glad to say that my personal hypothesis was completely off the mark.
With that said: the weakest part of the novel is definitely the ending, which concludes with two dramatic new hypotheses- both of which are audacious, both of which have serious logical/evidential holes, but neither of which is questioned or debated by anyone. It's like Hogan was still going strong, and he suddenly ran out of novel.
But I give it a high ranking, regardless. I don't get an Asimov feeling from too many authors, and I treasure it when it happens.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Happy Fifth of July!
Because I'm late for the 4th (rassinfrassin...)
I haven't posted because I've been off at sea, where internet connections are intermittent at best. But now we're back!
I had duty today, unfortunately, which meant that I missed the fireworks. But that's all right. We're the Navy; explosions are our business!
I haven't posted because I've been off at sea, where internet connections are intermittent at best. But now we're back!
I had duty today, unfortunately, which meant that I missed the fireworks. But that's all right. We're the Navy; explosions are our business!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
