Tuesday, December 30, 2008

(un)forgettable

Lots of people died this year. Which you probably already knew. But did you know that the real Kermit died this year? Yeppers...and he taught philosophy, apparently.


But other people of note died in 2008, including (but not limited to) the world's oldest blogger, the inventor of the slinky, and the guy who started the fad known as "The Chicken Dance." See more here.

Monday, December 22, 2008

seven pounds of happyness

Before reading this, you should be warned: you will know the ending of Seven Pounds by the time you finish this post. If you would rather not know the ending, stop reading now. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…

As a general rule, I like depressing movies. And by depressing, I mean movies without the nice tightly-packaged, tears-of-joy, they-lived-happily-ever-after endings. I like movies that give you a bittersweet taste in your mouth, that leave you wondering how the story really ends, like Spanglish or Gone Baby Gone. And I thought (foolishly, it seems) that Seven Pounds might be another one of those movies. Depressing, yes; but with a slight glimmer of hope as the end credits roll by. Alas, I was wrong. But then again, I probably should have seen this coming.

I assumed the same thing a few years ago, when I went to see The Pursuit of Happyness, director Gabriele Muccino’s other film-of-note, also starring Will Smith. We watched Smith’s character, Chris Gardner, go from attempting to sell expensive medical devices that no one wants to landing an internship at a prestigious stock brokerage firm. Despite intense setbacks (including his wife leaving him, being kicked out of his apartment, and working as an intern without pay), the movie ends with Chris finally “making it”, so to speak. It’s your typical American story, where the protagonist brings himself out of his wretched condition, yanking his bootstraps to a position higher than anyone could have imagined. And if that’s all the story was about, I might have liked it. I may not have put it on my “must see” list, but I could have given it a favorable review to a friend.

But as Chris goes through these various trials and tribulations, as he slowly works his way to the top, he does so alone. And I don’t just mean in the fact that his wife leaves him. Despite being a rather nice guy, Chris appears to have no friends, no extended family, no former colleagues. We don’t even get to see the other interns he’s competing against for that lucrative job. Aside from his son, Chris has few human connections, and is, in a sense, much like Smith’s other character in I am Legend. He does his daily jobs, deals with daily setbacks, and maintains a daily relationship with only one living creature in his life. The biggest exception being that, in I am Legend, Robert Neville seems to understand that there is something missing – that human connectedness. He’s so desperate for that interaction that he broods over the right way to ask a mannequin out on a date. Chris, on the other hand, remains oblivious. He may not say that he doesn’t need help from anyone, but his actions and his obvious lack of real relationships certainly suggest otherwise. After all, a self-made man doesn’t get that way with outside help.

Enter Seven Pounds. Muccino takes that same idea – aloneness – and pulls it up to the next level. Ben Thomas is also alone – partially by choice, partially by accident…a really horrific accident. While driving with his wife, he answers his phone, veers slightly into the other lane, and runs into another vehicle carrying six passengers. All six are killed in the accident, along with his wife. And now Ben must exact the punishment from himself. And it seems that the only way to pay for his crime is to exact the figurative “pound of flesh” for the seven lives he took, which adds up to the “seven pounds” in the movie title…except the metaphor becomes quite literal in his case. He decides to find seven worthy people to benefit (as a side note, it seems that good people are usually vegetarians), which means donating organs to help them, which means…suicide.

Instead of the self-made man in The Pursuit of Happyness, Ben is the self-destroyed man: he devastated his life through his inattentive driving and now he decides that he must sacrifice himself as a self-induced punishment for his sin of omission. And, just as the self-made man takes all the credit for his good fortune, Ben also takes complete responsibility for his misfortune. “In seven days, God created the world,” he intones as the film begins. “And in seven seconds, I shattered mine.” And after those pseudo-omnipotent words are uttered, the movie begins to follow the theme of “what one man has destroyed, let no man (or God) put back together.” Ben’s brother tries desperately to help to him, but Ben can only run away. When he finally finds love again, his first reaction is to call his best friend and say, “It’s time.” And the suicide begins.

And this is where Seven Pounds take the next step away from The Pursuit of Happyness. Chris Gardner did not pursue help and help did not pursue him. Ben Thomas had help all around him and he fled at the sight of it. Whether men are building their lives or tearing them down, the process seems to be a one-man show. Except, of course, when it comes to helping others. Because even though Ben’s life is beyond repair, that doesn’t mean that his work is done. Ben now has the power to save other people…just not himself. As he lay in a tub of ice water, being shocked to death by a jellyfish, I half-expected a gaggle of priests to enter the bathroom, crying, “He saved others, but he cannot save himself!” The all-powerful Ben – with the fate of seven people in his hands, with the ability to transform their sad and sorry lives into something good – has none of Chris’s bootstrap-pulling strength and instead succumbs to his self-inflicted, self-appointed fate.

I’m looking at other reviews of Seven Pounds, and many of them seem to think that the film exuded a sense of “redemption.” And for the life of me, I cannot think of a single redeeming quality in the whole film, since the whole story centered around the big sacrifice in those final fifteen minutes. Since when did suicide solve anything? I can’t pretend to understand all the ins-and-outs with suicide, but for the most part, I’m fairly certain that suicide is the cowardly response to the trials of life. And perhaps some think that it’s romantic that Ben wins the affections of Emily, a woman with only weeks to live due to a congenital heart condition, then sleeps with her, commits suicide, and leaves his (literal) heart to her. But I felt cheated. I felt cheated for Emily. Here was a man who seemed to care for her, who gave her the incredible gift of life…but what kind of life was it? She had been alone until Ben arrived on her doorstep. With the exception of a nurse, a nice neighbor lady, and some prepackaged food from her sister, Emily had been making ends meet on her own. And then Ben showed up and changed everything. There was a relationship, there was companionship, and then he was gone. As if that interaction didn’t matter. As if all she really wanted was to live and that human connection was simply an extra option in that life. And all Ben left her with was a broken heart.

Seven Pounds and its precursor The Pursuit of Happyness both assume that man can do it all on his own (at least, if man is Will Smith). That relationships are ultimately unnecessary. That life can be fulfilling and “remarkable” with sheer willpower and without real people. And in part, it all seems plausible. But what is the eventual cost? The sight of both characters in empty rooms just depressed me to no end. And the fact that they withdrew into these rooms voluntarily just made it all worse. It made me think of a much more optimistic film, About a Boy, where the whole idea that a man can be an entity unto himself was thoroughly debunked. “You need back-up,” one of the characters says at the end of that film. And you do. To go through life alone – without that extra “back-up” of family and friends, without the assurance of people who care and who want to help you when things go bad – is a horrible fate. And what makes it worse is that people like Muccino seem to think that they are portraying a positive outlook on life. But their so-called redemption has no appeal to me. Give me Christ any day. A personal Savior who not only died for me, but lives for me. Who helps me up when I’m down. Who created the world and maintains it, no matter what happens in my day-to-day life. Who rebuilds my life from the ashes into something more beautiful and glorious than I ever could have imagined. Who offers the deepest kind of relationship. Now that’s a happy ending.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

what people will do to their pets

From peoplepets.com:

Sandra Hartness, a California groomer, planned her standard poodle Cindy’s transformation into camel for a year before the Groomer Expo. She let Cindy’s white hair grow out for nine months to achieve the hump, then dyed it tan in several stages. Wearing a Cleopatra dress, Hartness snagged first prize.

Hartness is part of a growing cadre of extreme groomers who compete in what’s called Creative Grooming. Though some may wonder if the dog enjoys the process, Cindy insists she does. “She knows when she’s colored, she knows when she looks good,” Hartness says. “She gets super happy and wiggly.” Though most customers at Hartness’ Sandy Paws shop in Yucca Valley only dabble in color with pink ears or tails, many groomers are taking their art to new extremes. Still, they only use dyes that won’t hurt the dogs. Some even use Kool-Aid.

Most groomers are fans of the white standard poodle. “It’s a large canvas,” says Dawn “Queen of Color” Omboy.


Can I just say....."Ewwwww"?

Monday, December 15, 2008

change for cannibis

So guess what the number one issues facing America is today (at least, according to the website of President-elect Barack Obama)?

That's right: the legalization of marijuana.

Not Wall Street, the economy, or education (although they did rank high on the list of important issues)...but pot. Specifically, the question for Obama that received the greatest number of votes went something like this:

"Will you consider legalizing marijuana so that the government can regulate it, tax it, put age limits on it, and create millions of new jobs and create a billion dollar industry right here in the U.S.?"

In fact, when you look at the top twenty questions on the website, apparently drugs were on everyone's mind. This website broke it down, and discovered that "[two] of the top ten, and six of the top twenty questions addressed our government’s policies surrounding cannabis (recreational and medicinal) and the War on Drugs in general."

Good to know that America has her priorities straight.


Wednesday, December 10, 2008

god hates canada


Here's some stuff about Fred Phelps and his psycho church. I may somewhat agree with him on certain issues, but he certainly has a terrible way of bringing his point across.

He pickets funerals. He hates Mr. Rogers. He hates the Irish. He hates Heath Ledger.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

randomocity

The replacement for Granny's walker is here!

Looks great, don't it?

And here's more information about the UN. Makes you love them even more. Diverting aid money for this:

Definitely seems like the modern Sistine Chapel, eh?

But if you want a slightly less depressing look at the world, see Google's digitalized photos from Life Magazine.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

opinions on the "new libs on the bloc"


Mark Steyn, Ezra Levant, and Andrew Coyne all have interesting thoughts on the matter.

Monday, December 1, 2008

canadian politics, or, political childishness 101

Remember that video I posted awhile ago?


Okay, it's more true than you might realize. And I have proof.

This is what happened last Wednesday. Basically, the Conservatives decided to get rid of this system wherein, during the post-election season, parties get paid $1.95 for every vote they received. Imagine the cries of pain from the oppositions parties. And here is pundit Andrew Coyne's response:

I don’t care what their motivations are: it’s the right thing to do. The public subsidy came in with the Chretien campaign finance reforms in 2003. But it was entirely contrary in spirit. ...Whether to contribute to a political party, and how much, and to whom, should be a private, personal matter — voluntary, individual decisions....By abolishing [the $1.95 “allowance”], the Tories are finishing the job Chretien started, of creating a truly citizen-based campaign finance system. Or not quite: even without this particular subsidy, the parties would still benefit from the hefty tax credit on political donations (the formal beneficiary is the donor, but in practice the incidence is shared), while candidates would still have their expenses partially reimbursed. But it’s certainly a big step in the right direction.

Ignore the howls of the opposition. It is entirely within their power to do as the Tories have done, and develop a large base of individual contributors....Ignore, too, the complaint that somehow this cripples the political process. Much of the subsidy we have been paying these people goes to the very things that are currently poisoning the political process: over-priced strategists and attack ads, push polls and focus groups. Who needs it?

Still not convinced? Two words: Bloc Québécois. Look at the numbers above. We, the taxpayers of Canada, are underwriting 86% of the expenses of a party whose sole raison d’etre is the destruction of the country. Let them work their treason on their own dime.

So then a few days passed, and Harper (the prime minister) revealed more of his party's economic plans (which the oppositions parties also didn't like) and by the weekend, we got word that the Liberals, the NDP , and the Bloc were planning on joining forces--becoming a brand spankin' new party (for 30 months only). Because together, they can form a majority government, overturning the minority Conservative government. Now the only thing to decide is who gets to lead this little coup. "The Coalition for Canada," they call it. "An exercise in nation building," they say.

I call it: the revenge of the losers. So the Conservatives drop funding to the political parties and this is how they respond? "We're kicking you out! Take that!"

Now who said Canadian politics was boring?

Saturday, November 29, 2008

christian singing

So I will admit: Eddie Izzard is kind of hard to look at (being a transvestite) and he likes to insert various words into his comedy act which (generally speaking) I avoid...but he's damn funny. And brutally honest, in many ways. Especially in this clip.


Friday, November 28, 2008

thoughts on creativity

If you have not already read Modern Times or Intellectuals, I suggest that you do so right away. Paul Johnson is one of the more fascinating historians that I have read (although, granted, I have not read tons of history books), and right now I’m in the middle of Creators, one of his most recent offerings. It was written as a reply to Intellectuals, in which he defines an intellectual as “someone who thinks ideas are more important than people” (1). After some expressed frustration with that book, calling it mean-spirited, Johnson responded with Creators: a book which discusses “men and women of outstanding originality” (1). A few quotes on creativity for you:

I sometimes talk to a jovial sweeper, who does my street, and who comes from Isfahan, in Persia, wherein lies the grandest and most beautiful square in the world, the work of many architects and craftsmen over the centuries, but chiefly of the sixteenth. I asked him if he felt himself creative, and he said: “Oh, yes. Each day, they give me a dirty street, and I make it into a clean one, thanks be to God.” People do not always discern the creative element in their lives and work. But those who do are more likely to be happy (3-4).

Creation is always difficult. If it is worth doing at all, we can be sure it is hard to do (11).

[on Shakespeare] As for the public, Shakespeare was adept at appealing to both the elite and the “vulgar” or “groundlings” in the same play. Still (as the scene in which Hamlet instructs the players indicates), he was striving to improve the public taste, especially in acting. Like all the greatest artists, he created his own public, teaching the audience to appreciate what he had to offer, and he left the theater a much more subtle and sophisticated world than he found it (53).

[on Bach] As in many of Shakespeare’s plays, there was an element of chance and haphazard opportunities in Bach’s music. It exemplifies a point I have come across again and again in studying the history of great works of creations: a deliberate plan is not always necessary for the highest art; it emerges (92).

Thursday, November 27, 2008

something to be thankful for


Name Popularity


Zieglgansberger listings in the USA:





I am grateful that I do not have this last name. I just entered a guy with this last name into our database. Wow. It's nice having a last name that I don't have to spell every time I turn around.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

evolution...technologically speaking

Now I know why they call old computers "dinosaurs"...

Friday, November 21, 2008

it's the end of the world as we know it

So the lady I sat next to on the plane was right...the world is going to end. And it might be sooner than we anticipated. Get your tickets (I mean, your lottery numbers) now, which might save you in the event of the annihilation of all humanity.

Or you could just watch this movie trailer.

I smell Orson Welles...don't you? With a faint wisp of Al Gore, maybe?

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

partially untrue...but funny nonetheless

Check this out: God Trumps!

quote of the day

So we have an extremely small number of male singers in our choir. No shortage of sopranos and altos exists, so the two tenors, two baritones, and two basses must attempt to hold their own in this sea of women. Which (admirably) they do, most of the time. But sometimes, they get a little exuberant. Like yesterday. Mr. Murray stopped the choir in the middle of a piece, and looked right at the guys. "Now, this is an interesting problem here," he remarked. "The tenors are drowning out the men."

There was the briefest of awkward pauses, then slowly a ripple of laughter washed over the choir members as the tenors looked around nervously. One of the "men" piped up, "Why, didn't you know there are three sexes? Men, women, and tenors?"

Dang, the stuff you learn in choir...

Friday, November 14, 2008

lush life

I was listening to this song on the radio today and surprisingly, I had never heard it before. Of course, googling the song revealed that numerous people had recorded it, from Frank Sinatra to Nat King Cole to Ella Fitzgerald to Natalie Cole. The version I heard was by Molly Johnson and her rendition of the song, along with the lyrics, was simply haunting. And in a way, the song describes many of my own feelings. Not all of them...but some.


I used to visit all the very gay places
Those come-what-may places
Where one relaxes on the axis of the wheel of life
To get the feel of life
From jazz and cocktails

The girls I knew had sad and sullen gray faces
With distingue traces
That used to be there
You could see where they`d been washed away
By too many through the day
Twelve o`clock tales

Then you came along with your siren song
To tempt me to madness
I thought for awhile that your poignant smile
Was tinged with the sadness
Of a great love for me
Ah yes, I was wrong
Again, I was wrong

Life is lonely again
And only last year
Everything seemed so sure
Now life is awful again
A trough full of hearts could only be a bore

A week in Paris could ease the bite of it
All I care is to smile in spite of it

I`ll forget you, I will
While yet you are still
Burning inside my brain
Romance is mush
Stifling those who strive
So I`ll live a lush life in some small dive
And there I`ll be, while I rot with the rest
Of those whose lives are lonely too

nonconformists 'r' us

Finally--a website which proves that even though you think you stand out from the crowd...you really don't.






Thursday, November 6, 2008

m.c., 1942-2008

Michael Crichton: my favorite modern novelist, died Tuesday at the age of 66. A man whose writing abilites I greatly respected, and who had some harsh (but true) words to say about environmentalism. And apparently he was bloody tall.




I say we should all just go read some of his books in memorium. I myself want to pick up The Andromeda Strain again.



Wednesday, November 5, 2008

obama, snow, and the ironies therein

It was a long night in choir yesterday. In our three-hour practice, we ran through the entirety of Mozart's Vespers, as well as everything else we were practicing. Mr. Murray, our choir director, was kind enough to give us a few breaks throughout that time, which was time enough to get a drink of water and to rest our now-croaking vocal cords, if only for a moment. But, as they say, there is no rest for the wicked, for during one of these breaks, someone burst into the room and shouted, "Obama has won!!!" Two hours of full-out singing did not stop at least half the assembled choir from breaking out into exhuberant cheers. (I, of course, refrained) Within a few more minutes, we were all back in our seats and Mr. Murray again announced the news of the Presidential race. After another round of approving murmurs, our choir director named the next song to practice: the Triumphant Chorus from Verdi's Aida. With a few carefully selected word substitutions, the song could have been played after Obama claimed victory:

Glory to Egypt and to Isis who protects our sacred land
Let us raise festive hymns to the King who rules the Delta
Glory, glory to the King!
Intertwine the lotus with the laurel in the hair of the victors.
Like a veil, spread over the armies a shower of lovely flowers.
Daughters of Egypt, let us dance the mystic ring dances
Just as the stars in the sky dance around the sun.
Raise your eyes and give thanks to the gods for this victory;
Give thanks to the gods for this fortunate day.
Oh come, avenging warrior, come rejoice with us.
As the heroes pass, toss laurel branches and flowers.
Glory to Egypt!




And we sang it loudly, despite our dry and cracking voices.

But that wasn't the only musical irony of the night. Our final song was a cute little rendition of "Let It Snow!" And as I emerged from the college building, three hours after I first entered it, I saw the dreary Grande Prairie landscape covered in its first layer of snow.

Monday, November 3, 2008

limericks from the devil

Despite being fully finished with my demonic thesis, I still find myself drawn to the subject. Or at least, seeing connections with my thesis or making comments that still bring a slightly darker tone to the discussion. So imagine my joy when I found this delightful little website: a dictionary of limericks!!! Talk about exciting!!! And there were numerous ones on demons, devils, and various other preternatural creatures. Here's a sampling:

Said Satan: "Right here, sign in blood.
And in no time, you'll soon be a stud."
So I gave my autography,
But damn! My cacography*
Made me, instead, Elmer Fudd.
*Cacography (kuh-KAH-gruh-fee) — Bad handwriting.

Waging war against Satan aggressively,
There's no way to do it excessively.
The effort that's spent
Can't be 50 percent.
You will not beat him manic-depressively.

Azazel was evil, my child!
This demon lived out in the wild;
The Hebrews would send
Him a scapegoat, and blend
Of scapecheeses, both Tasty and Mild.

Ademonists don't believe much
In devils and demons and such.
If you say you're the type
To buy satanist hype,
They may think that you're quite out of touch.

Friday, October 31, 2008

roommate memories

I am now weddinged-out. Since July, I have been in three weddings, one involving a childhood friend and two involving former roommates. Thankfully, for all three, I had very good memories so when given the chance to offer a few remarks on the occasion, I usually had a lot to say. Even for this last one. Erin and I were roommates about four years ago, but we still kept in touch over the years. So I was more than honored that she wanted me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding. Especially given, as you will read below, the kind of relationship we had during our roommate years. Note my effort to be sweet while avoiding sappiness. I think it worked. But you be the judge.
***********
It could possibly be billed as the understatement of the year, but Erin, you and I are very different people. When we first met, in August of 2004, I was a 20-year-old exuberant Canadian, opinionated and proud of it. You were a shy, blond senior, preparing for your fourth and final year of school, as well as your fourth and final roommate. Our relationship could have been fated for disaster. But for some odd and mysterious reason, it wasn’t. For some reason, we got along. Sure, we had our differences; sure, there were times when we disagreed strongly with each other, but that never stopped us from building a truly close relationship. And, as is the case with truly great relationships, we both changed because of it. I became more understanding of people with different opinions. I used to be an extremely dogmatic person, with a “my-infinitely-more-Christian-way or the highway” attitude. But you changed that. You helped me realize that there are other opinions out there and often, they prove mine to be wrong. But you changed, too. You went from a quiet girl, to one who yelled as she chased me down the stairs, brandishing a pillow as I imagine Beowulf would (if he were into pillow fights). Erin, you were the perfect roommate for that pivotal freshman year, the year where new habits are formed and old habits are reconsidered. And I thank you for it. I do believe that I would probably not be the person I am today, if it hadn’t been for that glorious year, when the two of us shared so much in the Nance’s basement.

And I’ll leave you with this verse, from Song of Songs 5:16—“This is my beloved, And this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem!” Erin, you have been a wonderful friend to me. You have blessed me more than I can say. Now, as you go on to start a new life with Chip, I know that you will do the same for him. You will bless him. You will change him. And you will be his true friend. May the Lord pour His blessings upon you both.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

happiness (because I have very little of it this morning)

Macomber wanted to be happy. He wanted to be without fear, to face the lion, to shoot him without even thinking about it, to feel the "wild unreasonable happiness" that comes with the defeat of terror. Margot wanted to be happy, too. She wanted to be free from Macomber. She was tired of pretending, of being the "comparatively happily married couple, one of those whose disruption is often rumored but never occurs."And so when Macomber finally finds his happiness, Margot uses the opportunity to find hers. Each with the crack of a rifle, each with a shot to the back of their prey—the death of another created the opportunity for happiness. Happiness has its price.

Nick wanted to be happy. He wanted things to be fun, just liked they used to be. But Marjorie wasn't fun anymore. She knew everything, except the hellish turmoil inside him. He didn't know and this was the one thing that she couldn't explain it. She made love boring. And so he sent her away. Happiness has its price.

Jig wanted to be happy. She wanted him to be happy and he wanted her to be happy, too. And the solution was so simple: let the air in, let the wind take it all away, let this small problem just fly away, and they could have everything again. But Jig knew, she understood that happiness is not so simple. If you want to get something, you have to give something. And sometimes the thing you give can never come back. Happiness has its price.

* Based on Ernest Hemingway's short stories "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber," "The End of Something," and "Hills Like White Elephants"

Monday, October 20, 2008

why I should not speak to children...

As an explanation of my Facebook status...

I recently had dinner at a friend's home, and there were about three younger kids present. The one child, Eden, is a rather dramatic person and regaled us with a vivid description of her mashed potato volcano. "And look!" she exclaimed, "The corn can be rocks on the side of the volcano!"

Being a decidedly morbid person, I suggested an alternate version. "Or," I said, looking Eden straight in the eye, "the corn could be villagers climbing up the volcano in order to throw human sacrifices in."

My children are going to be warped....seriously warped.


Friday, October 17, 2008

"The Hobbit" and LOTR--the drive-by edition

NOW it all makes sense...

THE HOBBIT
Bilbo Baggins: Ah, now for some peace and quiet. Oops, someone's at thedoor.
Balin: We're dwarves. I'm the merry one.
Dwalin: I'm the happy one.
Fili: I'm the young one.
Kili: I'm the other young one.
Dori: I'm the funny one.
Nori: I'm the joyous one.
Ori: I'm the cute one.
Oin: I'm the jolly one.
Gloin: I'm the silly one.
Bifur: I'm the one with the funniest name.
Bofur: I'm the one with the looniest name.
Bombur: I'm the fat one.
Thorin: I'm the one with a distinct personality.
Gandalf: Now that you're all here, let's go on a quest.
(They get captured by TROLLS, and it is DANGEROUS, because they almost getEATEN. Then they get captured by ORCS, and it is DANGEROUS, because theyalmost get EATEN.)
Bilbo Baggins: What have I got in my pocket?
Gollum: I don't know.
(They get captured by SPIDERS, and it is DANGEROUS, because they almost getEATEN.)
Smaug: I'm an evil dragon. Hiss hiss.
(Bilbo Baggins turns INVISIBLE, and then some obscure co-star SLAYS thedragon, and it makes a MESS.)
Bilbo Baggins: I'm going home. Peace and quiet, here I come.
THE END
----------------------------------------------------------------
THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING
Gandalf: Bilbo Baggins, your Ring is evil. In a couple decades, we'll try todestroy it. In the meantime, leave it for Frodo to play with.
Bilbo Baggins: It's not evil. It's mine. My precious. Mine! MINE, I TELLYOU!!MOOHOOHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!
(Frodo takes it to RIVENDELL. Some FRIENDS come with him. They are attackedby black riders a LOT, and it is SCARY.)
Elrond: Frodo Baggins, if Sauron ever gets this Ring, the world will bedestroyed, and evil will reign forever. We must act quickly. Take the Ringto where he lives.
(They do some travelling. Some more FRIENDS come with him. Gandalf DIES inthe mines of Moria, but will later be RESURRECTED in GLORIFIED form havingtriumphed over EVIL, an obvious literary ALLUSION to that movie where theguy comes back as a DOG.)
Boromir: Frodo Baggins, give me the Ring.
Frodo: No.
Boromir: What have I done? (dies)
THE END
----------------------------------------------------------------
THE TWO TOWERS
(Gandalf frees THEODEN and overthrows SARUMAN. A bunch of IRRELEVANT stuffhappens. Then the PLOT starts up again.)
THE END
----------------------------------------------------------------
THE RETURN OF THE KING
Aragorn: We must travel the Paths of the Dead.
Eowyn: You'll die.
(They don't.)
Gandalf: The Hordes of Mordor will destroy Minis Tirith.
(They don't.)
Gandalf: We must attack Mordor. We'll all be killed.
(They aren't.)
Gollum: Mmmm, yummy finger! (dies)
Frodo: The Ring has been destroyed, but now we will die in Mordor.
Sam: Buck up, Master Frodo.
(A bunch of feathered DEUS EX MACHINAS come out of NOWHERE and save EVERYBODY.)
THE END

Thursday, October 16, 2008

the stress of having a copycat

I taught Emma how to dance yesterday. Not that I'm the best teacher...far from it. I have about as many moves as a rocking chair--a simple back-and-forth motion is pretty much all I can do. But a two-year-old can't really notice extremely poor skillz in the dancing department. The only thing she can see is that I'm doing things she's never seen before and boy, would she like to try them out! So I improvised. For "Enter Sandman" (Metallica), we tried head-banging, which looked more like vigorous nodding. For "Sweet Home Alabama" (Lynyrd Skynyrd) we did a country two-step (or at least, my version of one). For "About a Girl" (Nirvana), we did a dance reminiscent of the zombies from Michael Jackson's Thriller video, complete with grunts, groans, and strange clawing motions with our hands. For "Dream On" (Aerosmith), we stole a hairbrush from the bathroom and did our best job of lip-synching like '70s rockers. Altogether, our rock-out session was awesome.

But at the same time, the whole incident stirred up various concerns for me. I never grew up with little kids around; my youngest sibling was born when I was six, so my experience with the toddler age group is rather limited. And it never really struck me until yesterday how much little kids like to imitate us. Every move I made (or attempted to make) was immediately copied by Emma, in her own two-year-old version of the move. And I mean every single move. If I got down on my knees to look her in the eye, she would get on her knees too. If I brushed my hair out of my face, her little hand would sweep her own blonde curls behind her ears. And that scares me. These little things, these almost mindless movements are observed and then imitated. And the same goes with words. Even though her enunciation was somewhat undecipherable, I could still hear echoes of my own words as she sang along with the music. I spent less than an hour with Emma, and already she was doing exactly as I did. The influence I had on her is a scary thing. It could be good, too, if I use it right. But right now, all I hear is cheesy voice of Spiderman's uncle ringing in my ears: "With great power comes great responsibility." Such power is a frightening thing, to me. But I'm glad I got a rough estimate as to how much I seem to have. It was quite the dance lesson.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

elections come and gone

We came. We saw. We voted. And nobody noticed.

But we can laugh at ourselves. Because Lord knows, everybody else laughs at us anyways.

Friday, October 3, 2008

the six phases of work

This makes me worried...am I slowly going crazy?

Thursday, October 2, 2008

sounds good to me...

I love living with this family. And what makes it more fun is that Emily (the mom) is teaching me how to speak...differently. She has a rather unique way of speaking, which involved inserting words that sound like they belong, but in reality, they cause the listener to stop, stare, and say, "Huh?" The more time I spend with her, though, the more I find myself doing this exact same thing. Although, to be honest, I doubt I can top these gems:

"He was curled up in the fertile position."

"...a prescription to Playboy..."

"Whenever I see bras, I think 'Laundry thieves!'"

Friday, September 19, 2008

life as a receptionist/adminstrative assistant

I never really imagined myself working as a receptionist. And, to be honest, I still can hardly believe that I spend eight hours a day, five days a week, sitting in the same chair, doing the same tasks, answering the phone the exact same way (although I spice it up a bit in the afternoons; instead of "Good morning, Viking Pacific, this is Katie", I say "Good afternoon...."). It's all rather surreal...in a boring kind of way. But since this is the only place that actually offered me a job, I have resolved to be thankful and enjoy myself.

And enjoy myself I have. So far I have put in the wrong code for our alarm system (resulting in a very loud siren echoing through the office as I frantically tried to call someone who might know what to do), I have been evacuated from our 12th floor office due to a fire in the building next door (which was more of a smoke screen than anything, really), I have gotten one of the most powerful women in the Peace Country (or so Bill says) to come interview us for her magazine, I ordered pizza for the family picnic, and next week I'm set to make a scarecrow for the First Annual Scarecrow Festival. What makes this even more fun is that I'm also covering for our president's executive assistant. I have just barely learned how to do my own job, let alone someone else's, so that has made this week very interesting.

But my living situation is quite nice. I really love living with a family, and this family is especially nice. Plus they have two adorable little girls, ages 2 and 10 months respectively. Last night I was chasing the tw0-year-old around the living room, and tried to teach her the correct response to the question "Do you surrender?" (which is, of course, a very emphatic "NEVER!")

And besides work, I'm doing my best to see that my schedule is never empty (a lesson I learned from ex-roomie Anna). I have tutoring on Mondays, choir on Tuesdays, more tutoring on either Wednesdays or Thurdays (to be alternated with Bible study and Youth Group), and Latin/Greek study group on Saturday. Thankfully, I'm keeping my Friday nights free (yahoo!) as well as my Sundays.

That's life, folks. As I experience it.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

more on happiness

Happiness is often intolerable in other people. We grew up looking over our shoulders, making side-long glances, always on the lookout for someone who was having too much fun (or at least, more fun than we were). Laughter—or to use the demonic definition, “a meaningless acceleration in the rhythm of celestial experience” —can almost cause a spiritual version of cardiac arrest in some. They see the giggling child, enthralled by the inch worm making its way down a skinny branch; the chuckling grandparent, amused by an old comic strip; the gurgling baby, mesmerized by the tinny music emanating from his toy. To these happy people, the joy comes from the simplicity of the moment, the pure and unadulterated delight in a single thing for no other reason than it is itself. The opinion or preference of others doesn’t matter to them. But this attitude can become infuriating to those who witness it. It’s not because the enjoyment of these things is harming someone else; it’s not even because such things should never be enjoyed. But do they have to enjoy everything? Why must God be “a hedonist at heart”, the unrepentant Creator of pleasures forevermore?

Wednesday, May 21, 2008

there are two kinds of people in the world...

At times, I feel a little like a fish out of water. In Moscow, I loved the discussions and debates, the papers and the books, and all the nerdy things that made up my college education; but back here in Canada, that sort of thing seems to be looked down on. I was talking to one of my co-workers the other day, and he was talking about a relative who was into philosophy. "But that's not for me," he said. "I'd rather do something."

As if philosophy isn't doing something. I know what he means, though. He means doing something physical, rather than just sitting around, doing (for all he can see) absolutely nothing. It's a rather interesting kind of snobbery, though, if you think about it. We look down on people who read, who like to debate philosphical or theological issues, who enjoy discussing hypotheticals. I've even heard people up here bragging about how they don't read, how they haven't picked up a book in years. Of course, the opposite type of snobbery is still very real. Those who read regularly often mock those who make a living doing seemingly menial tasks, the "common" people, the ordinary citizens.

It would be nice to see a more balanced appreciation for these two types of people. After all, we aren't all exactly the same and we shouldn't all try to have exactly the same careers. If we all just "worked" or if we all just "thought", the world would be a very boring place. We ought to recognize our need for both careers, and show gratitude for those who have chosen a path different from our own. The philosphers or theologians should not see themselves as having a loftier vocation than the garbage man, but the garbage man shouldn't mock the very real work that these thinkers do. And it might help to go over to the other side once in a while. I'd like to see a professor with his hands dirty or a oilfield worker with a book in his hand. Wouldn't that be amazing?

Saturday, May 3, 2008

happiness meditation, #3

He stands at the bow of the ship, his whale-bone leg resting firmly in its hole, and watches the men at work. One young sailor seems particularly happy this day, whistling a merry tune as he walks the deck. He must be one of those romantics, the captain thinks; one of those men who sees sailing as an adventure, who thrills at the thought of waves and surf, who dreams of far-away ports and exotic lands, for whom "the great flood-gates of the wonder-world [had] swung open"; and there he was, cheerfully doing his work while the captain, their fearless leader known for being "desperate moody, and savage sometimes", glowered at them over the railing "with a crucifixion in his face." He hears the songs, the excited cries of the sailors, but he cannot understand their happiness. To himself, he mutters, "All loveliness is anguish to me, since I can ne'er enjoy. Gifted with the high perception, I lack the low, enjoying power; damned, most subtly and most malignantly! damned in the midst of Paradise!" What the captain wants, what would truly make him happy—the Whale!—consumes his every thought, his every waking and sleeping moment, this single "unachieved revengeful desire." And so he watched his crew, sees their joy, their complete happiness in their toil; he observes the fulfillment of their pedestrian wants, until he can no longer stand it. His voice cracking, his shaking finger pointing at the young man he first noticed, the words spewing from his lips: "Thou art too damned jolly!"

* All quotes from Herman Melville's Moby Dick.

Wednesday, April 30, 2008

poetic thoughts on death and sheep

Another presentation for class. Sorry about the footnotes; they probably don't make much sense, but I'm too lazy to take them out.

LYCIDAS: THE UNTOLD TRUE STORY

As a fellow at Christ’s College Cambridge, Edward King was a likable fellow and close friends with John Milton. He enjoyed poetry and wrote a few Latin poems himself, although their quality wasn’t particularly high. At the age of 25, he was preparing to enter the ministry, but his career suddenly came to a tragic end. On a trip to Ireland to visit his parents in 1637, King’s ship struck a rock, and the young man fell into the sea and drowned. The following year, a collection of elegies was released in King’s honor. Milton’s contribution, Lycidas, quickly became one of the more popular poems in the compilation. However, the poem also had its detractors. Samuel Johnson, while lauding Milton’s talents elsewhere, expressed near contempt for the poem. “In this poem there is no nature, for there is no truth; there is no art, for there is nothing new,” he complains.[1] But I think Johnson is missing the point. Lycidas offers more than a superficial perspective on death, and so I would like to look at Johnson’s criticisms and see how they measure up to the actual poem.

The Basic Plot

Lycidas begins with overtones of Vergil and other classical writers, written as a pastoral elegy. Rural life, simplicity, and grief combine, as the narrator expresses his sorrow at the death of his friend Lycidas, a common name used in ancient Greek pastorals. But Milton also goes beyond Greek myth and incorporates both English legends and Christian allegory into the poem, with references to Druids, Mona, and Camus. The first stanza mourns Lycidas’ death, “dead ere his prime” and the poet vows to remember him, refusing to let him “float upon his watery bier / Unwept.” He then requests that the Muses to help him remember Lycidas, as he himself wants to be remembered. Recollections of friendship follow, with Milton describing their work together as shepherds: “For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, / Fed the same flock, by fountain, shad, and rill; / Together both, ere the high lawns appeared / Under the opening eyelids of the Morn.” But suddenly Lycidas is gone and the fields feel empty without him, as the “wild thyme and the gadding vines o’ergrown, / And all their echoes, mourn.” Where was everybody when Lycidas fell, the mourner wonders; but even if we were there, could we have done anything? In fact, the poet argues, when it comes right down to it, what is the point of anything? Together, Lycidas and the poet had sought Fame, together they had chose “to scorn delights and live laborious days.” But then “comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, / And slits the thin-spun life.” All their planning, all their work comes to nothing in the face of death. Suddenly Phoebus the sun-god appears, arguing that fame is not a “plant that grows on mortal soil” but is immortal. And Lycidas’ example, his pure effort as a shepherd, quickly becomes the means of comparison. He will live on, the poet argues, as the model that other shepherds should follow, for at present these false leaders “rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread” while “the hungry sheep look up, and are not fed”, devoured by wolves as the inattentive shepherds sing “their lean and fleshy songs / grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw.” But God will not be mocked, asserts the poet, for his avenging angel, “that two-handed engine at the door / Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.” This brief commentary on ecclesiastical abuse then gives way to the earlier pastoral tone, as the poet calls for “bells and flowerets of a thousand hues…to strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.” Of course, the poet recognizes the impossibility of such a request, because Lycidas’ body remains “under the whelming tide” and so he calls upon the heavenly host: “Look homeward, Angel now, and melt with ruth: / And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.” Sorrow now turns into joy, as the poem takes a decidedly Christian turn: “For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead…but mounted high, / through the dear might of Him that walked the waves.” We need not mourn anymore; for Lycidas has gone on “in the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love” The poem ends by reverting to the third person, as the poet is referred to as an “uncouth Swain” who, after singing this elegy, returns to the fields, ready to continue his work.

Problems? Samuel Johnson had ‘em

So that’s the basic narrative of the poem. And, as I mentioned earlier, the poem quickly rose to the top of the poetry charts. But not everyone was as impressed with the poem as the general populace. Samuel Johnson was probably the most vehement detractor of Milton’s elegy, and gave a number of criticisms in his “Life of Milton.”

The first problem Johnson mentions is the poem’s formal irregularity, noting that “the diction is harsh, the rhymes uncertain, and the numbers unpleasing.” And at first glance, this seems like a fair criticism. After all, Milton does not employ a regular rhyme scheme, and even leaves ten lines completely unrhymed;[2] the length of his verses also appears erratic. But the uneven rhythm of the poem was no accident; like many modern poems, Lycidas “was written smooth and rewritten rough; which [at the time] was treason.”[3] But Milton knew what he was doing; this tension within the poem serves to heighten the anguish and the disorder caused by the death of Lycidas. The repetition of keys words in the early part of the poem (like “once more” in line 1, “death” in line 8, and “Lycidas” throughout) continue to highlight the poet’s distraught emotions. But by the end of the poem, the poet’s attitude changes, and he begins to use to a more regular scheme. Even the repeated words feel calmer; “pure” and “sacred” mark a new sense of understanding within the poet.[4] The final verse is actually quite normal, with its simple rhyme scheme—abababcc—and its return to a calm pastoral setting.

Johnson’s second criticism regards the poem’s artistic qualities. Johnson had long hated the pastoral form, suggesting that it is “easy, vulgar, and therefore disgusting: whatever images it can supply are long ago exhausted; and its inherent improbability always forces dissatisfaction on the mind.” But even in using these ancient conventions, Milton gives an entirely new twist to them. Yes, we still find shepherds, flowers, the invocations of Muses, among other pastoral basics, but Milton takes these elements and subverts them, and in a sense, shows these conventions to be incomplete by themselves. Like a musical composition, Milton expands the narrow constraints of his theme, constantly modulating and resolving it. Lycidas begins with a full-fledged embrace of the pastoral form, but by the fourth stanza, we begin to see how the ancient conceptions of death and the purpose of life are unsatisfying.[5] Where were the Nymphs? Can they make sense of Lycidas’ untimely death? If death can creep up so quickly, what is the point of living morally? The pagan pastoral could not answer these questions. Most of the pastoral elegies before the time of Milton spoke of loss and grief without the benefit of a consolation, no progression from lament to triumph. The end is the tomb, the last word is death.[6] But the pastoral vehicle that Milton uses offers the poet a unique opportunity to compare the Christian view of mourning with that of the pagans. The nature imagery also serves another purpose. The use of a common form forces the reader to see the universality of the problems that the poet faces. We all see Nature, we all recognize the classical images that Milton uses. But this world that we all observe suddenly changes in the face of death. Instead of growth, we see death. Instead of maturity, we see decay.[7] By using the pastoral elegy, Milton forces his reader to question death, life, and our proper response to both.

This brings us to Johnson’s third criticism: that of the poem’s lack of an emotional edge. By using these traditional and universal images, any sense of real and personal grief becomes nullified. “He who thus grieves will excite no sympathy,” Johnson argues. “He who thus praises will confer no honor.” To a certain extent, this problem is answered by the response to Johnson’s second objection. With the pastoral form, Milton makes the grief universal, rather than simply an individual sorrow. The poem is a vehicle, intended to express a greater distress, and Milton’s personal grief after King’s death served to highlight this bigger problem.[8] The depersonalization of the grief, by removing the particulars, focuses the subject of the poem[9] as Milton attempts to transcend these very personal questions to solve the bigger issues involved with King’s death.[10] But Johnson’s problem with the poem’s emotional deficiency may be better answered by moving on to his fourth objection.

Not only does Johnson think the pastoral conventions are out-of-date, but he also believes that the combination of the ancient imagery with Christian is nothing short of heretical. “With these trifling fictions are mingled the most awful and sacred truths, such as ought never to be polluted with such irreverent combinations.” The answers to Johnson’s previous objections partially solve his difficulty here, but in order to fully understand what Milton is doing here, we need to look a little deeper at some of the themes that Milton explores.

Plundering the Egyptians: Milton’s Use of the Pastoral Elegy within a Christian Framework

Lycidas can be arranged into five parts; we have an introduction, a conclusion, and then three movements, which are “practically equal in length and precisely parallel in pattern.”[11] The introduction begins, as we already noted, with clear pastoral overtones. But here the reality of Lycidas’ death changes the expected character of the poem. Usually, the subject matter of the earlier pastoral poetry had been largely hypothetical, but Milton almost immediately apologizes for his rough handling of this event. He is forced, by virtue of the reality of King’s death, to write this poem, to “disturb your season due”, plucking the unripe fruit, just as Lycidas himself was plucked from this earth before his time. But Milton himself is unripe: a young seemingly unskilled poet who now has the task of memorializing his friend.

The first movement then begins with an invocation to a Muse; specifically, the “Sisters of the sacred well / That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring.” Here, Milton references the nine Muses, whose well is found on Mount Helicon in Greece, just below the altar of Zeus. Suddenly the poet is reminded of his own possible death; a “It could have been me” theme now asserts itself. More pastoral imagery pours forth, as Milton remembers their life together. Everything is alive within the pastoral model; sheep graze, the Satyrs dance, and everything appears normal within that setting. But then things begin to go wrong. The fields are now empty, the flowers are destroyed by frost and disease, all gone without warning, just like Lycidas. In fact, the poet thinks that Nature has turned upon his friend. The imagery of water becomes threatening as “the remorseless deep.” Utilizing the ancient poetic motif of fixing the blame on something, Milton asked the pastoral subject matter if Lycidas’ death is their fault. The Nymphs were not there. The Druids on their heights saw nothing. But the poet realizes that Nature is not at fault here. Just as Nature was not at fault when Orpheus, too, was snatched in his prime, that ancient symbol of the power of poetry. Orpheus could charm Nature, but that ability did not help him in the face of death, as “his gory visage down the stream was sent / Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.” Lesbos was the home of the Aeolian school of lyrists, the birthplace of the poets Alcaeus and Sappho. The problem the poet now faces is the purpose of his craft. The familiar conventions, as epitomized in the pastoral form, are suddenly unfulfilling. Orpheus himself could not control Nature, which is the subject matter of pastoral poetry, and both he and Lycidas die young, swept away by violent waves. Nature is either dead or revolting, and the poet is at a loss: What should he do now? The intensity increases as the pastoral model suddenly become inappropriate for the subject matter. Should the poet just give up? Should the fame that he seeks be abandoned in favor of fleeting pleasures? But then Phoebus, the sun-god, appears and tells the poet to take his mind off earthly things; as a heavenly being himself, he instructs Milton that true fame cannot be judged in mortal terms, but in terms of its eternal quality. The poet’s frustration and grief can be solved by faith, he says, faith in the knowledge that his friend will live eternally.

The poet seems somewhat reassured and enters the second movement by a return to the pastoral form. He invokes another Muse, this time using another water-based image, the fountain of Arethuse. Here, Milton references the birthplace of Theocritus, the originator of pastoral poetry. Let’s go back to the beginning, he seems to say, let’s try this again. But Nature is still dead, still in rebellion, and so the traditional model again fails. The poet still tries to see who was to blame for Lycidas’ death, seeking the answer among a procession of mourners, including Neptune, Hippotades, Panope, and Camus. Was it the wind or the waves, he asks? Neither, the answer comes back, it was the fault of the ship, the ship built with “that fatal and perfidious bark, / Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark.” There is something deeper at work here, something else which caused this tragedy. And that problem becomes clear with the appearance of “the pilot of the Galilean Lake”: the poet’s clear vision of St. Peter. The fault lies with man, the apostle explains. Sin has corrupted the shepherds, and now the sheep starve. The shepherds have been called to be bishops and pastors, to watch and feed the flock, but now theses “blind mouths” do neither. Compared to the unripe Lycidas, these men are overripe, and “rot inwardly.” The Spirit of God does not dwell in them, for they are “swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw.” The now-shattered pastoral imagery cannot work when the images themselves are in rebellion, full of sin, spreading their “foul contagion” or devoured by “the grim Wolf with privy paw.” But like Phoebus, Peter offers a more eternal outlook: “But that two-handed engine at the door / stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.” Faith resolves experience, just as it did in the first movement. God will come and judge the rebellious church, and redeem that pastoral imagery.

The third movement begins tentatively, as the poet calls for a return of the pastoral form: “Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past / that shrunk thy streams.” Again, Milton chooses a water-based Muse, this time the river god Alpheus, who chased Arethusa before Diana turned her into a stream. The two then united, flowing as one. Similarly, with the resurrection of Nature, the poet can now unite the pastoral images with their true referents. In contrast to the dead vegetation from before, the poet describes a catalogue of flowers, as Nature again mourns the loss of Lycidas. The effects of sin are still felt, as “the stormy Hebrides” swelled over the dead body of Lycidas. But the now-redeemed pastoral imagery helps during this time: “For so, to interpose a little ease / let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.” And slowly, but surely, Nature is transformed before our eyes. In contrast to the watching Druids of the first movement, we find a guardian Angel above us. Instead of dead Lycidas drifting to “visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world,” we see him “mounted high / through the dear might of Him that walked the waves.” And poetry itself becomes part of the resurrection process. The imagery is now infused with life, no longer the dead medium by which former poets attempted to speak.

The poem concludes with a change of voice. We discover that the uncouth Swain is the one speaking, as we are, in a sense, lifted out of and above the poet. In place of the brown leaves of despair, the poet takes up the blue mantle of hope, rising up “to fresh woods, and pastures new.”

Conclusion

Samuel Johnson’s problems with Lycidas are, in a sense, the product of his time. And at first glance, they are understandable. But my analysis of this poem only touches the surface of all the other things that are going on between the lines. Milton doesn’t ever think that the pastoral elegy is a perfect form all by itself; without the Christian understanding, its images become empty. And this is because of sin. Sin corrupts even the simplest rhymes that man can offer, and it is only through Christ that our words can be redeemed. The constant theme of water through the poem highlights this idea. Water killed Edward King, but it also saved him. Water offers no consolation through pagan imagery, but only through the appearance of those who conquered the waves do we find real assurance. By the poem’s end, the ebb and flow of poetic emotion finally find its rest in the knowledge that Lycidas is safe: “Now, Lycidas, the Shepherds weep no more; / Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, / In thy large recompense, and shalt be good / To all that wander in that perilous flood.”



[1] http://ethnicity.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/Texts/milton.html.

[2] Variorum, 574.

[3] Variorum, 574.

[4] Variorum, 581.

[5] Variorum, 588.

[6] Variorum, 558.

[7] Variorum, 579.

[8] Variorum, 577.

[9]588.

[10]593.

[11] Variorum, 577.

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