Ennui

It is a good evening, gentle readers, for tonight we shall discuss ennui, an excellent subject that promises to enthuse you all beyond measure. I myself brim with an extraordinary enthusiasm that I can scarcely abide. Soon I shall begin a brief pause to allow the overwhelming deluge of feeling that has undoubtedly flooded your hearts to recede. Ennui, after all, never fails to invoke the deepest emotions within us. A pause is therefore absolutely necessary, for I can hear your ecstatic cries even here in these lonely and faraway lands.

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Make remembrance of the countryside if you find yourself weeping.

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Here is a soothing oration:

ooh...
lann...
thann...
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ehs...
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may...
ag...
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roy...
koss...
ohn...

Actually, I tire of ennui, so I have few further words for you. I shall not much longer continue on. I encourage you all instead to find the secrets stowed away in these utterances.

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Have you enough ennui to seek them out?

Of Sylvan Spiders' Silken Web

Of sylvan spiders' silken web,
weaved away among the trees,
the creatures craft no stranger sight
than blank and shimm'ring tapestries,

which when together tell a tale,
stretched across their webbed halls,
of times here, gone, and yet to come
from which away no mortal falls.

For when one finds his whitewashed way,
in time entombed, he shall be,
and warmly wrapped within this thread,
forgets fore'er eternity.

Call it Sleep seen through The Way of the World

In his The Way of the World, Franco Moretti proposes a certain theory of the European Bildungsroman throughout its history, ending with the approach of the Great War in 1914. In the United States in 1934, Henry Roth published his novel Call it Sleep, chronicling a portion of the childhood of his protagonist, David Schearl. As is clearly evident already, Call it Sleep does not specifically fit with the precise subject matter of The Way of the World; however, many of the general qualities of the Bildungsroman, with modifications, of course, are readily discernable in the text, even according to much of Moretti’s analysis. Among the general aspects of a text are those of dianoia and mythos, respectively content as a matter of structure and content as a matter of plot, a certain quality of which can be discerned for Moretti’s ideal Bildungsroman. By considering each of these matters through Call it Sleep’s themes of enmity with time and of clashing socialization, one finds a fascinating uncertainty, much akin to both the novel and the Bildungsroman itself.

Enmity with time is a consistent presence from the start of the novel, and David must always combat its flow, even unawares. Upon his arrival in the United States as an infant, time set itself against him when his mother, upon the demand of his father, claimed his age to be seventeen months, while the Hamburg doctor estimated his age to exceed two years, but David apparently is someplace in between (Roth 12-13). In this example, time has placed David in conflict both with desire, specifically those of his parents, and appearance, thanks to his size, consistent with the advancement beyond his supposed age throughout the course of the novel. This is very pertinent to the dianoia, which Moretti seems to view as an imbalance between “autonomy and socialization” (Moretti 28). The dianoia of the post-Napoleonic Bildungsroman, among whose features is often a hero “born in the wrong era,” wherein “individual autonomy and social integration are…incompatible choices” (Moretti 80). David, whose age here alienates him from all angles, is no friend of the present, linking his place in the world to one described by Moretti. Thus this building of David as a stranger to his world by time itself holds a certain consistency with Moretti’s conception of the post-Napoleonic hero.

Another such instance takes place much later, though such acts of David’s as collecting calendar leaves maintain the theme throughout, when David’s father commands him for one day to come along his milk delivery route and watch his cart while he is away. As David awaits the coming of this adventure in dread, he has been told to remain near the cart until his father is prepared to go. Instead, yielding to fearful desire, he wanders off to watch some other boys try to fish a coin out of a cellar: “Involuntarily, so it seemed to him, he gravitated toward the corner and went around it” (Roth 270). Of course, the reader is made perfectly aware of David’s true intentions, regardless of whether or not he is, and with each passing sentence the clock seems to tick, until at last, “sleeveless shirt dazzling in the light, his father was rapping the butt-end of the whip against the wagon” (Roth 273). David attempted to defeat the result of his enemy, time, by separating himself from it, but he failed; time carried on even without his attention. In this episode Moretti’s proposed mythos of the Bildungsroman is evident, which signifies that “the meaning of events lies in their finality” (7), or otherwise their lack thereof. The mythos, being largely a teleological concern, depends entirely upon the appearance of David’s father, but only after the time had passed. A mundane fishing of a coin out of a cellar or the commonplace rage of Albert Schearl by themselves communicate very little of particular note. They depend on one another, but only in opposition; time is the opponent of the end, just as it is David’s chief nemesis not only in this instance but also arguably in the novel as a whole. Thus this theme of enmity with time is not only an essential part of Call it Sleep, but also it is an aspect of the Bildungsroman itself, so it would seem according to Moretti.

Now, this enmity with time is closely linked with troubles with socialization, an essential aspect to the battle between autonomy and socialization that is apparently Moretti’s conception of the Bildungsroman’s dianoia. For this reason the literary theme of clashing socialization in Call it Sleep gains considerable weight. David, upon meeting Leo, becomes torn between two societies, so to speak: that of his mother and that of his friend, for lack of a better word. This becomes manifest from the moment David meets Leo, immediately desiring to be like him, to be part of his society. No clearer is this than when Leo explains the mystical powers of the cross he wears around his neck, to which David responds by “sigh[ing] and gaz[ing] at Leo’s chest half in awe, half in envy” (Roth 305). Of course, the more David learns of these matters, the clearer it becomes that these two societies of his are in conflict, creating a situation a bit different from Moretti’s description, wherein socialization is not only in conflict with autonomy, but it is also in conflict with different varieties of itself. Truly this is a new development in this strange world of multiple societies interacting and even, as in this case, competing. This is the embodiment of Call it Sleep’s theme of clashing socialization, which adds an entirely new dynamic to Moretti’s generalization of the dianoia of the Bildungsroman.

The closing passages of Call it Sleep deal with the mythos of these clashing societies once and for all, providing yet another departure from Moretti’s mold. Therein David is drifting into sleep after the great quarrel in his home and his electrocution at the rail. “He might as well call it sleep,” the narrator states, “it was only toward sleep that…” an apparently irrational series of images are recalled. At last David could “feel them all and feel, not pain, not terror, but strangest triumph…” (Roth 441). By evoking these thoughts and memories and making no attempt to make sense of them, David simply accepts them as they are. He need not worry about them any longer, and this is his triumph, for which he appropriately has no explanation for himself, as well. This is entirely deviant of Moretti’s outline of the mythos, wherein “[Events] become meaningful….It becomes so because someone…gives it meaning” (45). David utterly fails to do this, making him neither integrated into society nor dispelled from it, the two possible outcomes that Moretti proposes for the classical and post-Napoleonic Bildungsromans. Is this a new Bildungsroman for a new era, accepting doubt rather than pursuing certainty, or is it not a Bildungsroman at all?

Thus it cannot be said for certain whether Call it Sleep and The Way of the World fairly complement one another, for as stated at the start, Call it Sleep is part of neither the time nor the place that The Way of the World is meant to describe. By extension perhaps, and through applicable generalizations both exhibited here and not, Moretti’s theory of the Bildungsroman and Roth’s novel can likely find a comfortable synthesis. After all, it should be clear at this point that Moretti’s principles can without much trouble be used as a mode of analyzing Call it Sleep, and that is certainly compelling. At the least, two simple themes, enmity with time and clashing socialization, both so prevalent in the novel, relate very well to Moretti’s mythos and dianoia of the Bildungsroman. The question is now not so much whether Call it Sleep fits the analysis of The Way of the World, but whether The Way of the World’s analysis can be extended to cover Call it Sleep, and how its deviations are to be explained.

Bibliography

Moretti, Franco. The Way of the World: The Bildungsroman in European Culutre. New Edition. Verso, London: 2000.

Roth, Henry. Call it Sleep. Picador, New York: 1962.

On Familiarity and Unfamiliarity in Erik Satie’s Air du Grand Prieur from the Sonneries de la Rose+Croix

In the interpretation of a piece of music the consideration of familiarity and unfamiliarity in its passages is essential. In the characteristically unique work of Erik Satie, reflection thereon seems all the more important. Certainly then does this apply to the Air du Grand Prieur, the third and final part of the Sonneries de la Rose+Croix. Written for the occultist Josephín Peladan’s mystical Rosicrucian sect, one might expect abnormalities, but it yet strongly evokes the chants from which European music emerged. What of the music itself, though? How, in its passage, does it convey both unfamiliarity of mysticism and familiarity of age? In order to find an answer, it would appear best to consider the composition chronologically, arranged into five sections to be specified as they appear.

At the opening, the audience is presented with a series of pianissimo harmonies, the movement of which at times both satisfies and defies expectation. For example, there are simple movements by fifths; the fourth and fifth chords struck are C major and F major, as well as altogether unexpected progressions, such as that between E minor and E major. Thus the progression in this way treads the line between the ear’s expectation and that which is unexpected. Furthering this point, there is the matter of the first two Sonneries, which bear an extraordinary similarity to this third one in that they consist of a succession of harmonies, a melody, and those combined. Assuming all are performed together, by the third section the audience should be quite familiar with the nature of the pieces; however, there yet remains the inherent oddity that, despite internal consistency, remains somewhat foreign. This is best exemplified by the irregular metric quality of the work that arises from its lack of measures. Invariably accentuation becomes an interesting question, and sometimes it must defy regularity.

In the second section, consisting of a melody played in both hands an octave apart, this metric abnormality becomes clearer, as the performer is left with a degree of freedom to choose how exactly to accentuate the theme. Instead of measures, notes are grouped for the most part by slurs and by the presence of longer notes to divide the sections of the melody. Satie, then, has outlined the meter by the necessities of expression, rather than by a regular beat, especially when it is noted that these melodic groupings are not the same length. The dynamic change to forte also accentuates a difference from the preceding part. Of course, it is once again the case that not all is foreign, for this bit is not at all unlike the previous Sonneries, especially considering the exclusive use of triplets and quarter notes (sometimes tied) is a quality shared by both the Air du Grand Maitre and the Air du Grand Prieur. Furthermore, this exclusive use of certain rhythmic divisions adds to the consistency of the melodic line, thereby giving the listener the comfort of a clearly defined section, with a recognizable degree of internal regularity. There is one final point of familiarity to note with this section, one that becomes all too clear with the approach of the third, relating to the fact that both the series of harmonies and the melody consist of thirty-four quarter note beats.

This is of course that the harmonies and the melody are written to function together, and the third section does just this. Once again, assuming a full performance of all three Sonneries, this would be perfectly expected; Satie had done just the same thing in the first two. Furthermore, simply by sound, such should be evident to the particularly active listener, or even perhaps subconsciously to the less engaged one. This third section, then, presents no new thematic material, but merely combines all that had been presented thus far in a simple homophony, even maintaining the legato of the melody and the detachment of the accompanying harmonies together. The only immediately identifiable change in expression is the dynamic move to piano. By all accounts, this section exemplifies interior familiarity, except for a minor detail at the conclusion, where instead of continuing on with either the previously written harmony or melody, Satie instead places a new, unexpected C# minor chord followed by an F# major chord, with an appropriate melodic accompaniment. The reason for this is likely that the melodic and harmonic sections do not particularly match at this point in a particularly euphonic way. Also, by repeating this last figure, Satie increases the length of this section by three quarter note beats. Thus in what is an otherwise extraordinarily familiar, albeit new section there is added a slight change to prevent complete repetition and to provide a more interesting transition to yet another repetition.

This repetition consists of basically the previous section played an octave lower, so it is obvious that familiarity shall once more dominate the nature of this section. It even maintains the piano dynamic. In fact, up to this point, this should be the most familiar section yet, for not only have both sections been presented once separately already, but also they have been presented together. There are only two unique points here. The first, the movement down an octave, has been noted. The second is the ending of the section, which should still sound very much like something that has heard before because it follows the harmonic sequence set out at the beginning. While not a precise repetition of its most matching section, it is not at all new, and if familiarity dominates this section, then it without doubt the final section epitomizes it.

To end his Sonneries, Satie chooses to repeat the series of harmonies from the beginning of the Air du Grand Prieur. Indeed, it matches in every note and in every expression. Furthermore, the audience should recall that the first Sonnerie, the Air de l’Ordre, both began and ended with its own chord progression, so even reflecting on the structure should not induce wonder. The only particular oddity here is the fairly abrupt ending, one which is only prepared for by the performer’s interpretation, not by Satie’s direction. Even still, the others ended the same way, so internally this remains not at all strange.

To review the course of the piece, the audience’s expectations were created within, though defied from without. Once the internal tendencies of the music’s structure, none of which are particularly hidden, are learned, all becomes for the most part predictable. It is for this reason that across all three Sonneries as well as simply across the Air du Grand Prieur or either of the others unfamiliarity exists at the start, but slowly dwindles as repetitions and combinations constantly review the material. In combination with the observation that all three are spawned of essentially the same musical idea, it is almost as if Satie meant to create an intimate familiarity with the music, presenting it from multiple angles. In this way, an interesting coexistence between the familiar and the unfamiliar arises, wherein a unique and ethereal sound, though reminiscent of an aged music, develops as something both new and gradually more known from beginning to end. An ancient mysticism is in this way encapsulated.

On the Historical Significance of John Foxe's Book of Martyrs

Only a few years after the reign of Queen Mary I, there appeared in England a certain Book of Martyrs, authored by John Foxe. Therein are narrated not only the tales of those put to death for the protestant faith in the preceding few decades, but also the lives and deaths of many notable figures in whom both Protestantism and Christianity itself finds its origins. What, though, is its significance as a historical source, especially as it relates to the reformation in England? The Book of Martyrs disseminated around England rather quickly following its publication (Tracy 199-200), thus the question does not much pertain to the extent of its influence; rather, more important is what exactly that influence was and what exactly that influence is. More precisely, there exist certain matters that are essential to answering this inquiry. First, there is the issue of objective reliability, which concerns itself with source’s factual merit as a historical document. Second, there is the issue of subjective interpretation, which concerns itself with the information that can be drawn from the source retrospectively. The former idea of objective reliability can be subdivided into a consideration of the methods by which these accounts were gathered and a consideration of plain information against narrative detail. The latter idea of subjective interpretation most significantly gives a glimpse into English protestant thought at the time, illustrated though the emphasis on particular doctrines and on the politics that correlate directly to the state of the church at a given time. Through examination of these matters, it should be shown that Foxe’s Book of Martyrs is of indispensable value for an understanding the reformation in England.

The Book of Martyrs is not apt to explain from whence its information came, calling into question the veracity of its content, and rightly so; however, Foxe does not leave his readers to blindly suppose his information is valid, or at least, that it is not utter fiction. Scattered about are mentions of his methods in acquiring these tales, as well as copious quotations of often lengthy letters and other such documents concerning the martyrs. An instance of the former occurs in reference to the burning a certain man, wherein Foxe says, “His name was called Stile, as is credibly reported unto us by a worthy and ancient knight, named Sir Robert Outred, who was the same time present himself at his burning” (323). Though clearly attempting to draw from the apparent authority of his source, this passing note is of vast importance, for here Foxe makes a direct statement regarding his investigations in these matters, thus making perfectly clear that he depended upon the accounts of those present at the events described in order to assemble his own versions thereof. Though while not certifying every detail of the stories to be true, it brings the author a bit closer to the events, hearing of them secondhand rather than, say, embellishing a general knowledge of them. Of course, this method was not his one and only, and it is certainly not the most reliable or historically compelling.

As stated, Foxe very frequently utilized earlier sources pertaining directly to the martyr at hand to communicate that individual’s story. One of the most fascinating uses of such a document occurs when Foxe allows Anne Askew to tell of her own experience leading up to her execution itself, prefacing her own account only by stating, “Here follow the examinations of Anne Askew, according as she wrote them with her own hand, and the instant desire of certain faithful men and women” (Foxe 329). Now the reader finds that the Book of Martyrs is not merely a collection of recounted events, but a trove of firsthand descriptions and documents from the time of the events they describe. Another such example would be the reproduction of the articles against Nicholas Ridley and Hugh Latimer (Foxe 297), the official nature of which being further indicative of Foxe’s active pursuit of factual information from which to draw his accounts. The perpetual presence of these citations juxtaposed against the presence of simple secondhand reports, though both are evidence of general historical reliability, provides an intriguing disparity between plain information and narrative detail.

Foxe’s Book of Martyrs is replete with facts, ranging from the quotations mentioned before to a thorough presentation of the dates on which most of the notable events described took place. The narrative presentation of the accounts; however, place these among details that are quite simply impossible to verify. An excellent exhibition of this point is provided in the account of Dr. Rowland Taylor, when the same was called before the Bishop of Winchester, at that time Stephen Gardiner, who “according to his custom, reviled [Dr. Taylor], calling him knave, traitor, heretic, with many other villainous reproaches; all which Dr. Taylor heard patiently” (Foxe 220). Contained herein is a prevalent theme recurrent throughout the book, the discord of Roman Catholic ignorance and wickedness against Protestant wisdom and heroism. It goes without saying that this is the result of the protestant purposes behind the writing, but what information does it objectively give the reader? Narrativity aside, it most basically communicates that Taylor was interrogated by Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester. In this way objective information can be drawn from these narrative accounts. It matters very little whether Taylor or the bishop used exactly the words that Foxe recalls; those are of much greater importance for reading into the mindset of Foxe and his kind than for seeing actual events precisely as they occurred. One must not ask what exactly happened at the events described, but what the events meant to the Protestants of the English reformation.

This point is also illustrated in a great many of the accounts of the executions themselves, particularly that of John Hooper. After detailing the difficulty it apparently required to successfully burn him to death, Foxe begins his conclusion with the statement, “Thus was he three quarters of an hour or more in the fire. Even as a lamb, patiently he abode the extremity thereof, neither moving forwards, backwards, nor to any side: but he died as quietly as a child in his bed” (213). Three major aspects of this history are very prevalent in this particular bit of text. First, there is the statement of objective information; that Hooper was burned, and it evidently took an abnormally long time. Second, there is narrative detail; that Hooper, according to Foxe, faced the fire with seemingly unnatural tranquility. Third, there is the advancement of the protestant position; that by the aforesaid means Hooper was portrayed in a purely heroic light. What does this all together signify? Objective statements can of course be checked against other sources, this merely being one source from the period. In this sense, it provides just another record of the time. Narrative details are the vehicle by which the purpose is conveyed, once again, how the protestant ideals of the time reveals itself, felt clearly through the clear advancement of said ideals. Thus are set forth both the origins and the significance of the general types of information presented in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. Historically speaking, though, this begs the question of what specifically can be drawn from this information. What history exactly is discernable, transcendent of history explicitly presented?

As far as the subjective interpretation of the text goes, in order to exemplify the Book of Martyrs’ usefulness as a source, the issues of doctrine and politics that it exposes shall be considered. These were hardly separable in the world of the English reformation: “…Henry VIII’s separation of the Church of England from the Catholic Church (1534-1547), Edward VI’s establishment of Protestantism (1547-1553), the reestablishment of Catholicism under Mary Tudor (1553-1558), the reestablishment of Protestantism under Elizabeth I (1558-1603)…” (Tracy 193). Obviously, the faith of the monarch and his or her cohorts was an extraordinarily weighty matter. The simple mention of the name of “…the most innocent and holy King of blessed memory, Edward the Sixth,” after whose reign “the papists violently overthrew the true doctrine of the Gospel” (Foxe 216), referencing the reign of Mary I, makes perfectly clear the contemporary perception of this link between doctrine and politics. The disparity between the respective reigns of Edward and Mary is by far the clearest indicator of the authority of the monarch even in affairs of religion, and Foxe plainly shows his views to that end. Whosoever held political power also held power over doctrine, and doctrine drove many a politic of the powerful.

Furthermore, the ordeal surrounding Lady Jane Grey’s brief ascension to the throne could scarcely better exhibit this very point, as Foxe notes, “King Edward…knowing his sister Mary was wholly wedded to popish religion, bequeathed the succession to the Lady Jane…[but] it was otherwise in the testament of King Henry…[who] had sworn to the succession of Mary” (371-372). Thus doctrinally minded individuals on both sides sought to turn the political climate to their favor. Foxe herein displays not only his own perception of the aforesaid power of the state over the treatment of doctrine, but also he shows the keen awareness thereof among those with authority. Though at that point merely giving an account of the circumstances leading to the beheading of Lady Jane, Foxe does better to voice the protestant position on the same matters and thereby allowing a glimpse beyond the mere fact into the motives of that faction. This perhaps represents the Book of Martyrs’ greatest value as an exhibition of how these Protestants viewed history. By both these examples the reader gains not from anything intentionally presented in the text beyond simple historical record, but from a reflection on the historical context thereof.

Also transcendent of Foxe’s explicit communication is the doctrine itself, the doctrine for which these martyrs were apparently willing to die. Regardless of any historical accuracy at all in the accounts, Foxe has at least provided a thorough presentation of the prevalent doctrinal disputes during the English reformation, all of them naturally deviations from the Roman Catholic tradition, altogether akin to protestant doctrines elsewhere. Which beliefs and behaviors, though, seem to have attracted the distaste of hostile authorities, and which ones does Foxe claim compelled the martyrs to die? In the case of Ridley and Latimer, Foxe records the articles against them to consist of the beliefs that “‘the true and natural body of Christ…is not really present in the sacrament of the altar…[in which] remaineth still the substance of bread and wine…[and] that in the mass is no propitiatory sacrifice for the quick and the dead’” (297). Denial of the mass and its associated sacraments, then, seem to have been important, to place them so prominently among the charges against such prominent figures as Ridley and Latimer. Less famously, though, there exists the strikingly similar dispute around Dr. Rowland Taylor, in whose account Foxe states that, “the popish mass was again set up with battle array, with swords and bucklers, with violence and tyranny” (218), in describing a scene in which Taylor was barred from his church and a priest had taken over, guarded by armed men. Eventually, this situation surrounding the mass would of course be his undoing, Foxe once again leveling a severe attack against such popery, demonstrating even more the magnitude of this popish atrocity.

Furthermore, Foxe reports that Thomas Cranmer’s troubles also originated in his distaste for the mass, and he was executed at about the same time as Ridley and Latimer. According to Foxe, Cranmer authored a bill expressing his disdain for the mass, and it was that document that attracted the attention of his Roman Catholic adversaries (373). Hence is evidenced the importance of the mass, that great symbol of popery, as a matter of factional quarreling, for Foxe at least seems to emphasize it a good deal. In his narrative of Cranmer’s near recantation, Cranmer even begins reciting the Credo of the mass, only to turn away and affirm his protestant faith (384-385). This dramatic device powerfully conveys the strong protestant revulsion toward the Roman Catholic ritual, and it in a sense tries to convey a sense of futility for the mass’ reinstatement under Mary. Well reflected here is the rising sentiment in reformation England for “purging the liturgy of a long list of ‘popish’ elements,” a sentiment that would be soon be represented by the Puritans (Tracy 201-202). Foxe once again uses the information he has to turn his historical interpretation to favor his position, exemplifying the historical interpretations of his people at his time.

Foxe’s Book of Martyrs is a very thorough and detailed source pertaining to the reformation in England, but its style and purpose raise questions of its accuracy and significance. Though every detail of the narratives may not be true, and certainly many are not, this does not at all diminish the historical worth of the book, only somewhat its usefulness as a plain history. Though its general depiction of actual events is trustworthy, at least in terms of objective, verifiable details, much of the narrative detail is not; however, this is not at all a cause for dismissing the Book of Martyrs as an important historical source. It may be a history, but that does not at all prevent it from historical examination beyond the plain history contained therein. Reading into the narrative detail, whether or not it is historically accurate, shows with perfect clarity the issues important to Foxe, and by extension, the issues important to a great many Protestants across England at the time. The histories of these martyrs speak far beyond the stories themselves, providing ample insights into the thoughts and reflections of the contemporaries of the reformation, from those in authority to those readers who simply felt the book’s influence. It is then, not so important for its history, but for its prominent place in the history of history. After all, how better can the people of this past be understood than to determine how they understood the past before themselves?

Bibliography

Foxe, John. W. Grinton Barry ed. Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. Spire, Grand Rapids, MI: 1998.

Tracy, James. Europe’s Reformations 1450-1650: Doctrine, Politics, and Community. 2^nd ed. Rowman & Littlefield, Lanham, Maryland: 2006.

The rush of winter bites at the tail.

"This joker raised his hat and talked about the weather."
-Songs From the Wood, Jethro Tull

Good afternoon, noble friends! I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate the weather for becoming cold and rainy. I knew it could do it. Well, it is not quite cold yet, but the temperature is well on its way. Yesterday's warmth was rather distressing and altogether inappropriate for the season, much like the blood-red snow that fell on Italy in 1816. Thus I rejoice greatly, for I do not wish for blood-red snow, not even in November 2007. Furthermore, I rejoice greatly to hear that this is expected to continue for the next several days, possibly bringing inconsequential bits of snow with it. I do not much concern myself quite yet with whether or not the snow stays on the ground, being that it is still autumntime, for I am entirely enthralled simply to watch it fall. It is with great anticipation that I await the wintertime, so I embrace it coolly. Embracing it as such retains affections while preventing unacceptably unseasonal warmth. All I must do is wear sunglasses and jive-talk, and winter will surely be upon us! Fortunately I have no tail.

In conclusion, here is a probably mediocre poem I made earlier this month:

The Gates of the Necropolis
The sky dons a shroud,
a gift of the winds,
sewn in silver cloud,
though rain often rends,
with tears does it tear,
to the earth taking
delightful despair
of divine making.

But by breaking cloud
the heavens may send
down unto the shroud
sharp sunlight to mend;
gold needles sewing
the soft silver thread,
grey streams are flowing
o'er this land long dead.

I am the king of infinite space, but space is not infinite.

Good morning, my friends! Not often do I have the opportunity to greet you as such, but today I am two things I usually am not in the morningtime: both awake and unoccupied. What does one weblog about in the morning, though? I think it is the nighttime or the afternoontime that morningtime webloggers weblog about. Nighttime was full of darkness and evil. It is a good thing I am not bound by a nutshell. Afternoontime is in the future, and I know little of the future; however, in the nighttime skies there are stars. You may have seen them before, but remember, they are not everywhere. This is an important point, for how could we interpret the movements of the spheres if stars were everywhere? I can only assume that the spheres were in discord (they are all tuned very precisely, you know), making nighttime dark and evil, as opposed to simply dark. I wonder, does this tell us anything about the afternoontime? It is a good thing we can use Science and Reason to analyze these things.