A Summer's Twilight

The air hangs heavy on a summer’s twilight,
When all is wrapped in a blanket of heat;
When light falls down in a chorus of colour
And lustrou­s beams give way to long shadows.
 
For these briefs hours the cover is lifted,
And the earth exhales a sigh of relief;
The sweet taste of a cool breeze to savour,
A refreshment for limbs now released.
 
Do you hear what this night is singing?
What the soft sound of leaves is inviting?
The echo of a lonesome voice is calling
Away, away into the release of the night.
 
Clutched in a passive discontentment,
Anxious and burning to be free
Out where beauty and fear are one:
Familiar streets now clothed in mystery.
 
To disappear into the fading dusk:
The birth of many a youthful dream:
Wild eyes and a flash of flesh laid bare,
The suspense of obscure possibility.
 
And at every falling of the sun,
Here I stand alone and watching
The world become transfigured in sense

And flower with inscrutability.

On the untamed plains of the world

On the untamed plains of the world

There are creatures more keen and vital

Than we can conjure in verse or in dreams;

And among them dwells the bull that is Lord.

And his voice harrows the earth,

And men try to stop that dreadful sound:

From the South Sea to the wide open North,

But forever the fearsome billowing resounds.

How deep the blacks and dark the nights?

To know there are always shadows behind?

What is the depth that would confound

And silence your boundless discerning?

You fashion your words as a harness

And imagine your theories strong,

As a bridle and bit to fasten

Comely jaws which foam and quake,

Flowing with life and fecundity.

But what can wake you from your fantasy?

Can any man bear to know?

That nothing in earth or heaven can stop Him

From begetting strange and terrible children?

Sunday Listening

"Ain't nothing but a stranger in this world
I'm nothing but a stranger in this world
I got a home on high
In another land
So far away
So far away"

Divine Madness

“That would have been a fine thing to say if madness were bad pure and simple; but in fact the best things we have come from madness, when it is given as a gift of the god” (Plato, Phaedrus).

The sections concerning madness and the irrational in the Phaedrus have been some of the most interesting pieces of writing I’ve read in a while. They are so intriguing because Platonism is a philosophy pre-occupied with bringing oneself in accordance with reason, subjecting the passions and in general living in a way conducive to contemplation. It is not obvious (at least to a beginner such as me) that irrationality and madness would have a place in Platonic philosophy and life, and yet Plato has Socrates describe madness as an inherent part of love, and the vehicle by which true art is produced. This leads to questions of what it means to live as a human being and a philosopher: is it possible that being taken outside of ourselves by means of ecstatic experience makes us more into ourselves?

Quote

“Before you can be a saint you have got to become human."

- Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation, ch. 35.

Reflections Upon Reading Hadot: The Tyranny of the Future and the Past

“If you can cut free of impressions that cling to the mind, free of the future and past – can make yourself, as Empedocles says, ‘a sphere rejoicing in its perfect stillness,’ and concentrate on living what can be lived (which means the present)… then you can spend the time you have left in tranquility. And in kindness. And at peace with the spirit within you.”

-        Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book XII:III

To my thinking, nostalgia is as much of a vice as anxiety. Even the most beautiful of memories can cause a disproportionate amount of pain in the one who remembers. And to one who is particularly afflicted, mundane or even unpleasant memories become objects of nostalgia. While the recollection of what we perceive as better times can be a source of joy, I think that it is more often than not a source pain.

Like the cool breeze of morning

Like the cool breeze of morning

Calmly winding through the window pane;

As a shower of rain gallantly falling,

Restoring the earth to life again;

Your bright eyes shine glistening

And whisper sweet words of returning.

Long have you within my inmost-self sung,

Sustained amidst the sublime and banal

Forever when I’m old, and while I was young

Hearing again and again that long-awaited call.

So shine down across this desolate sprawl

And break through the veil of impenetrable nightfall.

Procession of the Black Madonna

Below is Carlo Levi's description of a Marian procession held in a village of Southern Italy in the mid 1930s. 

“In the afternoon, when the heat of the day had subsided, there was a procession, beginning at the church and winding its way through the village … first in line were boys carrying poles with white sheets and cloths attached to them for banners which they waved in the breeze, then the band players from Stigliano with their loud and shiny brasses. After them, on a throne supported by two long shafts, which a dozen men at a time took turns in carrying, came the Madonna.

 ...

Amid this warlike thundering there was no happiness or religious ecstasy in the people’s eyes; instead they seemed prey to a sort of madness, a pagan throwing off of restraint, and a stunned or hypnotized condition; all of them were highly wrought up. The animals ran about wildly, goats leaped, donkeys brayed, dogs barked, children shouted, and women sang. Peasants with baskets of wheat in their hands threw fistfuls of it at the Madonna, so that she might take thought for the harvest and bring them good luck. The grains curved through the air, fell on the paving stones and bounced up off them with a light noise like that of hail. The black-faced Madonna, in the shower of wheat, among the animals, the gunfire, the trumpets, was no sorrowful Mother of God, but rather a subterranean deity, black with the shadows of the bowels of the earth, a peasant Persephone, or lower-world goddess of the harvest.

...

They pinned to the Madonna's robes five and ten lire notes and even dollar bills jealously saved from their labours in America. Most of them, however, hung garlands of dried figs around her neck or put eggs and fruit at her feet; they ran after her with other gifts when the procession had already moved on and mingled with the throng amid the noise of the trumpets and the shooting and shouting. As the procession advanced it became more and more crowded and uproarious, until, after it had gone through the entire village, it went back into the church. A few heavy drops of rain fell, but soon the wind swept away the clouds, the storm blew over and calm returned along with the first evening stars."

- Carlo Levi, Christ Stopped at Eboli

I believe that Carlo Levi's description of the event as "pagan" to be very apt, for there is more in Catholicism (especially in its folk expression) that retains elements of our pre-Christian heritage than most would like to admit. When Catholicism isn't sanitized for a modern intellectual culture it tends to take on an ecstatic character with a ritualistic language and expression that is foreign to us, this is due to our lost connection with the land and lack of reliance upon divine powers for our daily necessities. Levi's book was immensely interesting for displaying this pre-modern worldview and way of life.

Reflections upon Reading Pierre Hadot

Philosophy as a Way of Life by Pierre Hadot has been the most thought provoking book I’ve read in a very long time, and has caused me to re-examine my approach to philosophy/theology and the writings of antiquity in general. The basic thesis of the book is that philosophy – properly speaking – is not solely an intellectual exercise or system of abstract arguments, but rather of way of living and perceiving reality that is elevated and separate from the ways of the world. What exactly this means in every tradition does differ, but the focus on right living with the intentions of self-perfection and realization runs through every philosophical school in the ancient world.

The philosophical act is not situated merely on the cognitive level, but on that of the self and of being. … It raises the individual from an inauthentic condition of life, darkened by unconsciousness and harassed by worry, to an authentic state of life, in which he attains self-consciousness, an exact vision of the world, inner peace, and freedom. (p. 83).

I will not go through his argumentation, but Hadot devotes a good amount of time to the major ancient philosophical schools (which includes Christianity) to demonstrate how they attempted to achieve this goal.

Since I’ve finished this book I’ve acutely felt the insignificance of my own education and what I’ve previously passed off as “doing philosophy.” It didn’t take me long to realize that my first conscious attempt at philosophy, which mainly consisted of blindly memorizing arguments for the sake of debate, was more of an exercise in self-indulgence than anything else.