But losing something living is death! Very well, it is death. Have you really thought what loss is? It is not simply the negation of that generous moment that had replied to an expectation you yourself had never sensed or suspected. For between that moment and that loss there is always something that we call—the word is clumsy enough, I admit—possession. Now, loss, cruel as it may be, cannot prevail over possession; it can, if you like, terminate it; it affirms it; in the end it is like a second acquisition, but this time totally interiorized, in another way intense.
Of course, you felt this, Baltusz. No longer able to see Mitsou, you bent your efforts to seeing her even more clearly. Is she still alive? And so, a year later, I discovered you grown taller, consoled. Nevertheless, for those who will always see you bathed in tears at the end of your book I composed the first—somewhat whimsical—part of this preface. Baltusz exists.
Our world is sound. Courtesy The Daily Mirror Library. Courtesy and copyright The Magic Circle, London. For a younger generation of artists, he has become something of a folk hero, a tenacious antiestablishment sorcerer whose penchant for mounting exhibitions in the wood-paneled taverns of south London has only added to his dissident appeal.
The claim by commentators that Spare foreshadowed Continental surrealism has its roots largely in his early use of automatism, as theorized in his seminal magical treatise The Book of Pleasure SelfLove : The Psychology of Ecstasy A small number of the hand-colored calligraphic cards relating to his Arena. But the recent rediscovery in the Magic Circle archives of a complete tarot deck seems likely to prompt speculation in a variety of critical fields, not least among Spare researchers.
Consider first its unconventional architecture. Put more simply, he has grafted the top half of a tarot deck onto the body of an ordinary playing card deck. This hybrid format—which may be unprecedented—collapses the clear distinction between playing-card cartomancy, which at the turn of the last century was a popular and mainly middle- to working-class pastime, and tarot cartomancy, which was then largely the preserve of an educated elite with esoteric interests.
An innovative system of cartomantic linking joins together divided abstract geometric shapes and natural forms, drawings of human figures and symbolic objects, and banderoles containing single words or short phrases. In some cases, a single image links several cards—a notable example being the purple and green snake born between four of the spade cards. At the same time as the deck generates harmonious links between some cards, it produces fracturing disassociations between others. The sequence of cards that forms the snake, for instance, produces a misalignment between one half of a small boat and the tail of a flickering flame, while at the opposite edge of the same card a pointing hand is truncated at the wrist.
Whatever its intended use, this form of contiguous montaging appears to be without precedent in the history of cartomancy, although related precursors do exist in the context of nineteenthcentury recreational and educational games such as the myriorama, or continuous landscape. The extensiveness Below: The secret correspondences of the Juggler. One motif, however, may point to a more canonical arthistorical source. By linking the Emperor and Justice cards, a conspicuous s-shaped motif can be identified, accompanied on both cards by the word beauty.
Spare was soon to publish his own graphic indictment of establishment.
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Indeed, the use of color throughout the deck may carry as-yet-undeciphered meaning, with purple, green, and pink predominating on both the faces and backs of the cards. Yet the pinkishness into which the hand is about to delve seems more 1 Michel Foucault, Death and the. Labyrinth: The World of Raymond Roussel, trans. Charles Ruas London: Athlone Press, , p. Ivey dated the cards to circa , but a closer analysis of their stylistic character and iconographical content strongly suggest that the artist constructed the deck over an extended period, during. See Jonathan Allen, ed.
Reeves for the author, , pp. Interestingly, Spare was a close friend of suffragette Sylvia Pankhurst, for whom purple, white, and green representing dignity, purity, and hope, respectively would become significant when they. Calvino based his stories on the mid-fifteenthcentury tarot deck handpainted by Bonifacio Bembo for Filippo Maria Visconti, Duke of Milan, and his successor and son-in-law Francesco Sforza.
Calvino was personally invited to join the Oulipo group of which Perec was a member by Raymond Queneau in , a period during which he was still working on his tarot-based experiments. Before that time, tarot functioned primarily as a trick-taking recreational game, designed as an allegory for life and involving both skill and chance.
These people are very gentle and timid; they go naked, as I have said, without arms and without law. Under the terms of the agreement, Washington exercises complete jurisdiction and control over the land, while ultimate sovereignty resides with Havana. The lease is perpetual, and can only be terminated by abandonment or by the mutual agreement of both parties.
After the revolution of —, the new government of Fidel Castro, arguing that the treaty had been imposed under duress and was incompatible with modern international law, stopped cashing the checks. After the invasion of Afghanistan in October , the United States began offering bounties of thousands of dollars a head for the capture of alleged Taliban and al-Qaeda fighters.
The tactic yielded results, but at the expense of accuracy as hundreds of innocent Afghans and foreign nationals——including Saudis, Yemenis, Pakistanis, and ethnic Uighurs escaping persecution in China——were apprehended by local warlords and turned over to the Americans, with boys as young as twelve and men as old as ninety-three being shipped off to Guantanamo. Guantanamo is, in a very literal sense, a lawless place.
Instead, most exist in an unending state of legal limbo: either innocent and cleared for release but left waiting, or else deemed too dangerous for release but without evidence untainted by torture to support the allegation. It is an insidious tactic, routinely deployed by authoritarian regimes, and is epitomized by that most regressive of acts, the suspension of habeas corpus. Of the individuals held at Guantanamo since , were deemed no threat to the United States and released without charge, often after spending years in solitary confinement in an eight-foot-by-ten-foot cell. A further 9 people have died in custody——a greater number than were ever convicted.
In , as part of his effort to persuade the US Supreme Court to hear the case of a dozen Kuwaiti detainees being held in isolation, attorney Tom Wilner presented three arguments to the justices. The last presented the case of Cyclura nubila, also known as the Cuban rock iguana——a herbivorous lizard protected under the United States Endangered Species Act of Wilner argued that to invoke jurisdiction over the iguanas, while at the same time denying the detainees due process, was to afford the reptiles more rights than the humans.
The Supreme Court subsequently agreed to hear their case. Cyclura is etymologically derived from the Greek cyclos, or circular; nubila is Latin for cloudy. Trials by the Guantanamo military commission are held in closed session, and cameras are forbidden in the courtroom. Janet Hamlin, the primary courtroom sketch artist at the tribunals, has been documenting the proceedings since Each of her drawings is cleared by the military censor prior to release. Cyclura nubila comprises a series of portraits I commissioned from Hamlin on standard nineteen-by-twenty-five-inch courtroom sketch paper of the iguanas roaming, freely, across the grounds of Naval Station Guantanamo Bay.
In , a nightclub owner by the name of Frederik Braun visited a model train shop in Zurich when, as he tells it, he started to dream. He dreamt of building the largest model railway the world had ever seen. Eventually, he succeeded. And, as in a fairy tale, a few years and tens of thousands of dollars later, a team of engineers helped make their dream come true. In , along the banks of the Elbe River where it snakes through downtown Hamburg, the Miniatur Wunderland was born.
All photos Ava Kofman. What was it, I wondered, as I watched aerial shots of tiny shimmering cities, tiny airports, tiny humans making love in a field of tiny sunflowers, that would lead someone to build such a gigantic small world? Not long after, I booked a flight, a train, and a ferry to Hamburg. I went to the Wunderland expecting to find a metaphor both less and more than the sum of its improbably numerous parts, its machinery caught between a positivist dream and a totalitarian nightmare.
The two had run a successful nightclub together for over a decade, despite the frequent turnover of discos in Hamburg. So, despite his initial skepticism, Gerrit was soon on board. When Frederik returned to Hamburg, the brothers began to discuss what a miniature train world might look like.
They knew of at least ten model train set exhibitions in Germany alone. Featuring trains as the main attraction, with the surrounding landscape serving as background, they were of little interest to anyone who was not already a die-hard train hobbyist. Considering what their competitors lacked, the twins began to list what they might put in their new world and quickly realized that 90 percent of their ideas had nothing to do with trains at all.
They fantasized about building a mini—mini golf course, a massive music festival, the Eiffel Tower, the Eiffel Tower of Las Vegas, a chocolate factory. What most excited them was the act of miniaturization—its. They wanted to build a world where some people came for the trains, but everyone stayed for the scenery. But even with these populist goals, they were nervous: the demographics of model railway enthusiasts skew very elderly, very male; they worried that women might not respond to the attraction, that teenagers might be bored.
One of their solutions was the name Miniatur Wunderland, which, by not referencing trains, allowed them greater creative freedom. It has also made their enterprise immensely popular. Quirky details and inside jokes fill every inch of the display: a CocaCola bear dances on an iceberg in Sweden; the German soccer team always wins its animatronic match; cars follow traffic rules; a gas station adjusts its prices for inflation; a mob boss hides a dead body in one of many forests; over twenty thousand figurines attend a music festival complete with a rotating cast of tiny performers.
If you push a button, a miniature miniature train circles a tiny track. Gerrit sees the Wunderland as a makeshift refuge for the many who make the pilgrimage. One man has visited every Tuesday for the past nine years, adhering to his own internal train schedule.
Another spent three days traveling from Tokyo to immerse himself in the exhibition. To its boosters in the mid-nineteenth century, the train was an engine of progress. Just as early celebrants of the Internet saw it as an unambiguously democratic platform, these techno-optimists saw the railway as a great equalizer, one that would usher in a brighter, better age. At the very least, the railway provided both young and old with a sensory education. Because tracks needed to be constructed on certain gradients, and were intensely sensitive to the exigencies of topography, the rails had to reshape the land according to their needs.
Impressions flew by quickly, and were often lost. Tunnels and telegraph poles interrupted views of the landscape so that it was perceived less as a vista than as a moving background. Aesthetic appeal was based, instead, on the sum of these fleeting impressions. Like a department store, its novelty lies in its impressive assemblage and circulation of heterogeneous parts.
The Wunderland tourist is constantly in motion, soaking up the details. As we toured an Italian landscape then under construction, Sebastian told me that people visited the Wunderland for the same reason they went to the Empire State Building. They fretted for weeks over the small details, which each took on the symbolic importance of a plank in a political platform.
They had to decide what to include, what to emphasize, and which scenarios would convey their policies most precisely; essentially, what kind of world they wanted to imagine into existence. In their heroic quest for a signature type of realism, they, too, weigh abstraction and accuracy. Choosing the materials, the colors, the scale—these are the easy decisions. What criteria popularity, proximity, and so on should determine their inclusion? What type of realism is at stake?
Whose point of view is this, anyway? Frederik tells me that they initially developed the exhibition as a pure fantasy. The first section of the layout, Knuffingen, was a fictional German town, an everywhere that is nowhere in particular. He explained that later sections, inspired by specific locations, attempted to evoke recognizable tropes. When planning the Italy layout, the entire construction team traveled to the Amalfi coast for a week. They took numerous pictures of the dramatic cliffs, in an effort to reproduce the fine textures of the rocks.
In order to incorporate its own mechanics into its spectacle, the Wunderland shows you both the view from above—peaceful, serene, perfect—as well as the view from below: the ongoing labor of its construction, its hidden tracks and wires. Glass panels along the sides of mountains reveal the layers of wood, wiring, and plaster beneath the layout. Through a large window, visitors can watch technicians and artists as they work on new regions of the model. The craftsman, too, becomes part of the small world. Even in its promotional videos, the Wunderland reveals both its photogenic surfaces and behind-the-scenes calculations.
An array of Tron-like screens beams their coming and goings. Wunderland workers watch the displays and push buttons, ostensibly to help things along. But when I first saw the control room featured in the promotional. In retrospect, I wonder if the control room was, in its aspirations to real-world power, a sort of life-sized miniature. The room appears as a throwback to a Cold War bunker, a fantasy of small world domination. Gerrit said that he built a larger control room than was originally needed, anticipating that the Wunderland would expand.
He bet correctly—both in terms of the expansion of its own world and its expansion into ours. Some of the earliest locomotive models were built as marketing materials for railways, perhaps in the hope that miniaturizing these giant machines would make them more palatable to the masses. When the first mass-produced toy train set was launched by the German firm Marklin in , the company introduced a series of standard parts, so that children and adults could expand their starter sets indefinitely.
This iterative marketing scheme created an insatiable imperial desire in rich and poor consumers alike, both of whom could satisfy their needs at different price points and sizes. For Marklin, it created a constant revenue stream. But the brothers have all emphasized their commitment to their hometown. Wonder, not trains. At the end of my first day at the Wunderland, I took a walk along the placid Elbe, wondering how the experience of the attraction would affect my experience of moving through the world beyond its multi-story.
All at once I felt—or, maybe, was trying to make myself feel—as though I was becoming more observant of everyday details. A man talking to himself. A stray dog peeing into the water. Cranes like matchsticks in the harbor. Like latter-day Balzacs, the model-makers collect moments like these from the city, and bind them together with a mathematical understanding of realism as the sum of many small parts. The next day, when I returned to the Wunderland, televisions in the cafeteria and waiting room were already playing an Ice Bucket Challenge video that the staff had filmed just days earlier.
The Wunderland, I realized, was not just a static model city but a vast multimedia apparatus—digesting, remixing, and replaying its own parts. A titanic mythmaking operation, the Wunderland sells the promise that at the right scale, all of your dreams can come true. One model-builder constructed his dream house in Norway, on the far end of the Scandinavia layout.
On the front porch, he placed a little model of himself, enjoying the view. Consider an author, alone in the snow. Vladimir Nabokov has frozen still, caught out between the past and present as he drifts back into the memory of a childhood winter, its distant sleigh bells ringing in his ears. He and Vera have not yet left America to live at the foot of the snow-capped Alps in Montreux.
But what is the material supposed to mean? A more depressive survey than my own might be occupied by sketching out the imaginary equivalent of the Arctic across these pages. Snow coats reality in a fresh layer of strangeness. The psychological territory it occupies is vast and shapeshifting—if snow sends Nabokov into an elegiac mood, it can also account for great flurries of joy. The most logical response might be simply to play with it, following the thoughts that swirl through the mind as it responds to your attention.
Plastic, Styrofoam, glass, wood, wool, silk, ceramic, Lenox, wax, rubber But this ingenuity with humdrum domestic stuff also supplies the snowman with a weird indigent charm, as if he were a jolly hobo paying a yuletide visit. He is a figure of fun, but you might wonder exactly what he represents for the family inside the house. A happy mascot with a balloon physique, the snowman keeps watch over the outside world. He might be a parody of the father or of all fathers and the gloom they supposedly exude, especially in Victoriana cold, heartless, at some definitive remove from the orbit of the house , or a thrifty homage to an elder, signified by cozy but archaic accoutrements like the muffler and the pipe.
The snowman could be an avuncular totem pole. Beware the authentic snowman in decline, dying when the weather turns, because he seems to have stumbled out of a nightmare. Lynch explained his fascination:. People do much weirder snowmen. And it really makes the human body look fantastic. I would like to take more pictures, because the houses behind the snowmen are also really interesting.
And then the snowmen themselves are like aliens. Lacking their traditional scarves or pipes, these snowmen look like lonesome ogres, huddled between little houses and witchy trees on lawns pockmarked with abrasive grass. The wooden snowman—complete with fetching rustic. On the afternoon of Christmas Day , in a snow-covered field on the outskirts of the small Swiss town of Herisau, some children and their dog discovered the body of a dead man, hand clutched tight to his stilled heart.
It was the writer Robert Walser, who had died that day, aged seventy-eight, while out walking far from the mental institution where he had dwelled for the previous two decades. A photograph taken by his friend Carl Seelig shows the body at rest, left arm thrown out as in the style of a sleeper midway through a restless night, while two shadowy figures at the margins look on. A few distant trees squeeze into the top of the frame like awkward mourners paying their respects.
The snow, even on the ground but for a few shaggy lumps close to his boots, appears at first to be nothing more than a dazzling absence, as if the dead Walser were floating on a white winter sky. In his essay on Walser, William H. There his figure … could pretend to be a word—not a statement, not a query, not an exclamation—but a word, unassertive and nearly illegible, squeezed into smallness by a cramped hand.
Examine them with a Gass-like slant and they become an ellipsis on this near-blank page, trailing away from a last, unfinished thought. In his prose, Walser assumes the voice of a bewildered innocent, neither a child nor a full-grown man, enchanted and unsettled by the surrounding world.
Snow is such a monotonous song. Hollywood now relies on innocuous paper snow or computer trickery to create its winter wonderlands, but the history of this special effect is far more sinister. From the s to the s, asbestos fibers were repurposed as a low-price snow simulant for use in both domestic decorations and cinematic landscapes. The toxic substance was sold in gaudy boxes that bore names like White Magic and Snow Drift and featured cartoons depicting dreamtime scenes—vanilla ice cream snowscapes, velvet skies, expressionless children in snowsuits no trolls, no witches, no carcinogens , and stars scattered like powdered sugar around the cake of the moon.
Always depicting a backyard Narnia, these kitschy scenes exist within a cultural tradition where winter turns domestic. Oz where the bewitched ruby-red poppy field sends Dorothy, Toto, and the Cowardly Lion to sleep. Poor Judy Garland comes to amid the stalks, coated in fantastic dust.
Selznick to Jennifer Jones, its star and his new bride. The painter and the girl develop a fey friendship, all hot chocolate and chilly breath, as he grows ever more obsessed with her. Jennie is captured in an early charcoal sketch as a doll-like little creature at the end of a twilit avenue, enclosed by a protective roof of haggard branches. Film still from Portrait of Jennie, dir.
William Dieterle, Opposite: A medieval snowman roasts in the margin of a Dutch book of hours, late fourteenth century. Courtesy National Library of the Netherlands. This enchanted climate indicates an erotic condition—a frozen longing—that finally thaws when Jennie reaches adulthood with the spring. Monochrome, too, dissolves into wild-sea green at the finale, which is in turn a mere warm-up for the Technicolor epilogue where the long-dreamed-of portrait is unveiled. Selznick hung this real treasure in their house.
The hallucinated duels appear on page Christopher Middleton et al. For those within the house, it encourages the profitable hibernation that gives rise to new reveries and dreams. It is as though it were living in the past of centuries gone by. Perhaps this is not only because it temporarily hushes the flow of the outside world, but because its appearance remaking a field as a map gone blank lays out a space approximating an empty mind.
He also kept a dossier on Jennifer. Jones in his legendary basement in Queens. Maria Jolas Boston: Beacon Press, , p. Where does its value lie? For in solitude we are in the presence of mere matter even the sky, the stars, the moon, trees in blossom , things of less value perhaps than a human spirit. Its value lies in the greater possibility of attention. If we could be attentive to the same degree in the presence of a human being… — Simone Weil He has made a life of traveling to places remote and distant, but since retiring—when I first met him in , he was seventy-two—the glaciologist G.
He is one of the few people to go alone into the Saint Elias wilderness, the largest unbroken mass of ice outside the polar circles, and he is flown in by ski-plane, sometimes for weeks at a time. He is thin, almost wiry, with outsize hands, and his skin is ruddy and worn. I once saw him get into a bush plane wearing a rather ridiculous pair of puffy, purple, down coveralls, and wondered how long he could possibly survive on the icy expanse.
He mentioned casually that he had endured, by himself, two considerable earthquakes and the attentions of a lonely grizzly.
I had wanted to talk with him about dreams and visions when we first met at a research base in the southwestern Yukon, but he brushed away my questions, explaining that such things were unimportant to him, especially given that he was just then investigating a piece of wood he had found, miles into the ice field, near an automated weather station he had flown in to repair.
Photo Vittorio Sella. Photo James B. Courtesy American Museum of Natural History. Many possibilities were entertained: that there had once been a prehistoric forest over the ice field doubtful, and certainly not in eons , or that the ice field had once advanced across a boreal forest, cut off a tree branch, and carried it here a hypothesis almost certainly ruled out by the known movements of the ice sheets in the region. It was much more likely—though still, all things considered, quite astonishing—that some person had once left it there.
If the piece of wood had arrived there by human means, then it might have been left by an early mountaineering expedition, such as that of the Duke of the Abruzzi, who climbed Mount Saint Elias in with a team of Italian adventurers, bringing with him, among many other things, a collapsible iron bed on which to sleep. But willow wands for climbing must be straight and sturdy, and this lonesome object was gnarly, brittle, and tangled.
If such a branch had truly been deposited by a human passing that way, it could only have been intended as firewood, and firewood would mean no modern expedition. Anthropologists early in the twentieth century had heard that native parties regularly carried firewood on trips from the interior to the coast. A native chieftain had sketched a map of routes over the Slims River and the Kaskawulsh Glacier, but no Koyukon or Kluane had ever been recorded traveling the Saint Elias ice fields. No doubt they would have seen the peak of Mount Saint Elias and quickly turned around.
The possibility that they were traveling in the other direction G. His carbon dating of samples revealed them to be more than twenty-five hundred years old. What impelled. It is known from ice core sampling that eighteen hundred years ago Mount Bona-Churchill erupted nearby, but that would have been seven hundred years too late for this artifact—if an artifact is indeed what it is. The ice cores from Mount Logan also show a major volcanic eruption roughly thirty-four hundred years ago, but this would have been too early to set the intrepid travelers moving.
Could there have been a volcanic eruption in between? An ice core can easily fail to register a nearby volcanic explosion if the wind is scattering ash away from the mountains. And if no explosion, could there have been an earthquake, or a famine, or a war? All that is left of them is a piece of firewood. Or: all that ever existed of them is the fact that a single man once found some wood in the middle of a desolate and denuded expanse of sheet ice. All of this, G.
I would also call it an exercise in inner demographics. When G. Gathered around the piece of wood, they pass it to one another like the torch in a relay race: the Duke of the Abruzzi, the members of the joint expedition, the unknown clan worshipping forgotten gods in flight from an unspoken catstrophe.
And G. The society of the phantom limb of firewood is however only our preamble. A decade ago, G. A digression on this man is warranted, since without him G. A key surveyor of the Lower Arctic, W. His papers. On the day I visited, an elderly man dressed in the khaki uniform of a biggame hunter was standing in the lobby, paying court to a young woman with a pierced nose and a punk haircut. The woman took my name and summoned by phone a decidedly unadventurous-seeming archivist, who walked me up a long gothic staircase to an attic where the records of W.
The newspapers chattered with eager speculation about what creatures the renowned mountaineer W. While the expedition was still in transit to Arizona, glossy magazines like Popular Science gave it generous coverage, complete with pictures of feminine dinosaurs idling amid cretaceous ferns. One imagines the sober glory involved in being the first human ever to set foot on a continent bordered by clouds, prolonging the Age of Exploration at right angles to Darwin, with a vertical thrust into the sky. What a wonder to see a place untouched, unsanctified, undescribed—to return to Eden, alone but not lonely.
So what a disappointment when it turned out that in place of pastoral saurians delectating on extinct plants, the expedition found a burlap flag waving from a tree, and a few tissues lewdly smeared with red lipstick. The initial reports of the expedition, while admitting that no unknown species were uncovered on this high mesa, make no mention of the evidence of previous and flagrantly recent human presence, except to say that a rope had been found on a lower saddle of the.
It was not until many years later that a local Arizona mountaineer owned up to the prank. He had taken the summit a few days earlier in revenge for having been turned down, despite his knowledge of the region, in favor of the more famous W. Hearing that W. He left the lipsticked tissues to make certain they knew. This was not the only expedition in which F.
She was his equal in every way: an accomplished mountaineer, who first met her husband in Tibet; one of the pioneering aerial photographers of the Arctic; apparently, a muchadmired hostess in New York and Ottawa, but also well known in Paris and San Francisco. She was twice hit by a car, and then died in a plane crash flying over the Saint Elias ice fields on the way to Yakutat over half a century ago.
The plane and its passengers were never recovered. The problem that bothered G. The answer seemed simple: find a scientific explanation for clairvoyance. And, as he explained, there was really only one possible solution, only one that was elegant and simple and sufficiently thorough: develop an entirely new theoretical account of the cosmos.
This he promptly set himself to doing, during hours spent alone in his tent waiting for a weather front to pass, or fighting off insomnia in the lingering summer twilight. Although they have since become two separate projects, originally the double biography and the cosmic theory were bound together. I have often imagined what would have happened if they had not been eventually decoupled. There would have been.
Only afterward could the biography of W. Why, I once asked G. There was first a big bang although G. It will continue to grow until it reaches its limits and begins to shrink; then it will end in what mainstream cosmology calls the big crunch. So far, G. But the differences begin in the. For immediately after the first Genesis Event possibly in the amount of time measured by the passage of light over a Planck Constant, the shortest theoretically measurable distance in our universe , a second, almost identical Genesis goes off in another dimension, in another realm of space.
And then, in the next iota of time, yet another identical Genesis. And another in the next, and another in the next. Each Genesis is exactly identical, and produces a universe the same as the one before it except, of course, that it is delayed in time. Everything that happens in every universe except for the first universe, known as the template, is in some sense already determined, for every universe is an exact copy of the first.
Holmes for the United States Geological Survey. From Clarence E. For to us it is , but in another universe it is , or , or In yet another, it is the eighteenth of Brumaire, in yet another, the first year of the hajj, and in another, the last days of the reign of Solomon. Like William James, he frequents meetings of psychics and spiritualists, and is known to conduct ethnographic research in New Age shops.
He convinced a psychic and her friend to come and try to extricate it. She proceeded to pour salt all along the outside of the house and inside along the walls. She saw a mirror on G. The two women stayed in the house while G. In the morning, everything was as it had been, except for a mysterious puddle of water underneath one of his shoes. He had the water tested and found it to have a pH considerably higher than that of the tap water in his house.
But he readily concedes that any number of variables render those results inconclusive. Entities, often shaped like glowing orbs and occasionally captured on film, are important to the Model because they may be souls in the throes of. For G. These souls, which have no say over the lives of their hosts, are like stowaways on a ship, peering at the sea through the portholes. Their primary purpose seems to be to witness and study the manifold forms of life—with free will and without, rich and poor, every gradation of suffering and pleasure—and perhaps report back about their work to the Higher Soul, who is, it seems, some form of God.
Sin Saxon was not a pupil now, and there was no condign punishment actually to fear; but her heart stood still a second, for all that, and she realized that she had been on the verge of an "awful scrape. She could not approve. She was amazed to see Miss Craydocke present, countenancing and matronizing. Her eye took in, too, the modification of the room,--quite an elegant little private parlor as it had been made. The young men were gathered decorously about the doorway and upon the platform, one or two only politely assisting within. They had taken this cue as readily as the other; indeed, they were by no means aware that this was not the issue intended from the beginning, long as the joke had been allowed to go on, and their good-humor and courtesy had been instantly restored.
Miss Craydocke, by one master-stroke of generous presence of mind, had achieved an instantaneous change in the position, and given an absolutely new complexion to the performance. She even came forward to the table and accepted a little fruit; stayed five minutes perhaps, and then, without a spoken word, her movement to go broke up, with unmistakable intent, the party.
Fifteen minutes after, all was quiet in the west wing. But Sin Saxon, when the doors closed at either hand, and the girls alone were left around the fragments of their feast, rushed impetuously across toward Miss Craydocke, and went down beside her on her knees. Nobody knew that, an hour before, she had been in Madam Routh's room, making a clean breast of the whole transaction, and disclosing the truth of Miss Craydocke's magnanimous and tactful interposition, confessing that without this she had been at her wits' ends how to put a stop to it, and promising, like a sorry child, to behave better, and never do so any more.
Two hours later she came meekly to Miss Craydocke's room, where the "bee" was gathered,--for mere companionship to-day, with chess and fancy-work,--her flourishes all laid aside, her very hair brushed close to her pretty head, and a plain gingham dress on. I want some tow-cloth to sew on immediately. Miss Craydocke laughed. I'm afraid I haven't anything to be done just now, unless I cut out some very coarse, heavy homespun. Beggars mustn't be choosers; but if they might, I should say it was the very thing. Sackcloth, you know; and then, perhaps, the ashes might be excused.
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I'm in solemn earnest, though. I'm reformed. It's been like the casting out of the devils in Scripture. They always give a howl, you know, and go out of 'em! The work was done, to be sure. The third trunk, that had been "full of old winter dresses to be made over," was locked upon the nice little completed frocks and sacks that forestalled the care and hurry of "fall work" for the overburdened mother, and were to gladden her unexpecting eyes, as such store only can gladden the anxious family manager who feels the changeful, shortening days come treading, with their speedy demands, upon the very skirts of long, golden sunshiny August hours.
Susan and Martha Josselyn felt, on their part, as only busy workers feel who fasten the last thread, or dash a period to the last page, and turn around to breathe the breath of the free, and choose for once and for a while what they shall do. The first hour of this freedom rested them more than the whole six weeks that they had been getting half-rest, with the burden still upon their thought and always waiting for their hands. It was like the first half-day to children, when school has closed and books are brought home for the long vacation. All the possible delight of coming weeks is distilled to one delicious drop, and tasted then.
She had little private consultations with Miss Craydocke. Now the howl's off my hands, I feel equal to anything. In the first were delicious early peaches, rose-color and gold, wrapped one by one in soft paper and laid among fine sawdust; early pears, also, with the summer incense in their spiciness; greenhouse grapes, white and amber and purple. The other held delicate cakes and confections unknown to Outledge, as carefully put up, and quite fresh and unharmed.
Your orbit runs too high above ours. There was a grace upon her in these days that all saw. Over her real wit and native vivacity, it was like a porcelain shade about a flame. One could look at it, and be glad of it, without winking. The brightness was all there, but there was a difference in the giving forth. What had been a bit self-centred and self-conscious--bright as if only for being bright and for dazzling--was outgoing and self-forgetful, and so softened. Leslie Goldthwaite read by it a new answer to some of her old questions.
Afterward, when, running to its height, this spirit showed in behavior that raised misgivings among the scrupulous and orderly that would not let them any longer be wholly amused; and came near betraying her, or actually did betray her, into indecorums beyond excuse or countenance, Leslie had felt the harm, and begun to shrink away. But now among these very leaves gleamed something golden and glorious; something was ripening suddenly out that had lain unseen in its greenness; the time of figs seemed coming. She forgot her little airs, that had been apt to detract from her very wit, and leave it only smartness; bright things came to her, and she uttered and acted them; but they seemed involuntary and only on the way; she could not help herself, and nobody would have had it helped; she was still Sin Saxon; but she had simply told the truth in her wayward way that morning.
Miss Craydocke had done it, with her kindly patience that was no stupidity, her simple dignity that never lowered itself and that therefore could not be lowered, and her quiet continuance in generous well-doing,--and Sin Saxon was different. She was won to a perception of the really best in life,--that which this plain old spinster, with her "scrap of lace and a front," had found worth living for after the golden days were over.
The impulse of temperament, and the generosity which made everything instant and entire with her, acted in this also, and carried her full over to an enthusiasm of affectionate cooeperation. There were a few people at Outledge--of the sort who, having once made up their minds that no good is ever to come out of Nazareth, see all things in the light of that conviction--who would not allow the praise of any voluntary amendment to this tempering and new direction of Sin's vivacity.
That last outbreak had finished her. She might as well run after people now whom she had never noticed before; it was plain there was nothing else left for her; her place was gone, and her reign was over. Thoresby insisted upon this most strongly. The whole school-party had considerably subsided. Madam Routh held a tighter rein; but that Sin Saxon had a place and a power still, she found ways to show in a new spirit.
Into a quiet corner of the dancing-hall, skimming her way, with the dance yet in her feet, between groups of staid observers, she came straight, one evening, from a bright, spirited figure of the German, and stretched her hand to Martha Josselyn. How is it that everything goes by, and I only twenty? Susan's heart longed with a motherly tenderness for her young sister when she said such words,--longed to put all pleasant things somehow within her reach. She had given it up for herself, years since. And now, all at once, Sin Saxon came and "took her out.
There is a little tacit consent about such things which few young people of a "set" have thought, desire, or courage to disregard. Sin Saxon never did anything more gracefully. It was one of the moments that came now, when she wist not that she shone. She was dropping, little by little, in the reality of a better desire, that "satisfaction" Jeannie Hadden had spoken of, of "knowing when one is at one's prettiest," or doing one's cleverest.
The "leaf and the fruit" never fitted better in their significance than to Sin Saxon. Something intenser and more truly living was taking the place of the mere flutter and flash and grace of effect. It was the figure in which the dancers form in facing columns, two and two, the girls and the young men; when the "four hands round" keeps them moving in bright circles all along the floor, and under arches of raised and joined hands the girls came down, two and two, to the end, forming their long line face to face against the opposing line of their partners.
The German may be, in many respects, an undesirable dance; it may be, as I have sometimes thought, at least a selfish dance, affording pleasure chiefly to the initiated few, and excluding gradually, almost from society itself, those who do not participate in it. There is scope and chance even here, young girls, for the beauty of kindness and generous thought. Even here, one may give a joy, may soothe a neglect, may make some heart conscious for a moment of the great warmth of a human welcome; and, though it be but to a pastime, I think it comes into the benison of the Master's words when, even for this, some spirit gets a feeling like them,--"I was a stranger, and ye took me in.
Leslie Goldthwaite turned quickly, and found herself face to face with Marmaduke Wharne. He regarded her shrewdly. Frank Scherman had got back to-day, and was dancing with Sin Saxon. Leslie and Dakie Thayne were together, as they had been that first evening at Jefferson, and as they often were. The four stopped, after their merry whirl, in this same corner by the door where Mr. Wharne was standing. Dakie Thayne shook hands with his friend in his glad boy's way. Across their greetings came Sin Saxon's words, spoken to her companion,--"You're to take her, Frank. And, wherever she got her training, you'll find she's the featest-footed among us.
They're getting the bouquets. Give her yours. It's your turn. Her word and her glance sent Frank Scherman straight to do her bidding; and a bunch of wild azaleas and scarlet lilies was laid in Martha Josselyn's hand, and she was taken out again into the dance by the best partner there.
We may trust her to Sin Saxon and Frank Scherman, and her own "feat-footedness;" everything will not go by her any more, and she but twenty. Marmaduke Wharne watched it all with that keen glance of his that was like a level line of fire from under the rough, gray brows.
You think it will do me good? She gave him, unconsciously, the key to a whole character. It might as easily have been something quite different that he should have first seen in this young girl. Next morning they all met on the piazza. Leslie Goldthwaite presented Sin Saxon to Mr. There was not the first twinkle of a simper about eye or lip.
Surprised, but quite gravely, she looked up, and met his odd bluntness with as quaint an honesty of her own. But I've come down, Mr. Wharne,--like the coon. I'll tell you presently," she went on,--and she spoke now with warmth,--"who is the real belle,--the beautiful one of this place! There she comes! Just as she had come one morning, weeks ago; and it was the identical "fresh petticoat" of that morning she wore now. The sudden coincidence and recollection struck Sin Saxon as she spoke.
To her surprise, Miss Craydocke and Marmaduke Wharne moved quickly toward each other, and grasped hands like old friends. I've been tormenting her, Mr. Wharne, all summer. And I'm heartily ashamed of it. There was something about this girl that suited his own vein. At that Sin Saxon smiled, too, and looked up out of her hearty shame which she had truly felt upon her at her own reminder. Wharne, she never was; but that wasn't my fault. After all, perhaps,--isn't that what the optimists think? I should never have found her thoroughly out in any other way.
It's like"--and there she stopped short of her comparison. Wharne, waiting. I must think it out, if I can, and see if it all holds together. She was down among the outcrops and fragments at the foot of Minster Rock. Close in around the stones grew the short, mossy sward. In a safe hollow between two of them, against a back formed by another that rose higher with a smooth perpendicular, she had chosen her fireplace, and there she had been making the coffee. Quite intent upon the comfort of her friends she was to-day; something really to do she had: "in better business," as Leslie Goldthwaite phrased it to herself once, she found herself, than only to make herself brilliant and enchanting after the manner of the day at Feather-Cap.
And let me assure you, if you have not tried it, that to make the coffee and arrange the feast at a picnic like this is something quite different from being merely an ornamental. There is the fire to coax with chips and twigs, and a good deal of smoke to swallow, and one's dress to disregard. And all the rest are off in scattered groups, not caring in the least to watch the pot boil, but supposing, none the less, that it will.
VOLUMES, CHAPTERS AND STORIES
To be sure, Frank Scherman and Dakie Thayne brought her firewood, and the water from the spring, and waited loyally while she seemed to need them; indeed, Frank Scherman, much as he unquestionably was charmed with her gay moods, stayed longest by her in her quiet ones; but she herself sent them off, at last, to climb with Leslie and the Josselyns again into the Minster, and see thence the wonderful picture that the late sloping light made on the far hills and fields that showed to their sight between framing tree-branches and tall trunk-shafts as they looked from out the dimness of the rock.
She sat there alone, working out a thought; and at last she spoke as I have said: "If I could only remember the chemicals! What do you mean? The chemicals? For the coffee? An experiment? Something that's been in my head these three days. I can't make everything quite clear, Mr. Wharne, but I know it's there. I went, I must tell you, a little while ago, to see some Colorado specimens--ores and things--that some friends of ours had, who are interested in the mines; and they talked about the processes, and somebody explained.
There were gold and silver and iron, and copper and lead and sulphur, that had all been boiled up together some time, and cooled into rock. And the thing was to sort them out. First, they crushed the whole mass into powder, and then did something to it--applied heat, I believe--to drive away the sulphur. That fumed off, and left the rest as promiscuous as before. Then they--oxidized the lead, however they managed it, and got that out. You see I'm not quite sure of the order of things, or of the chemical part. But they got it out, and something took it. Then they put in quicksilver, and that took hold of the gold.
Then there were silver and copper and iron. So they had to put back the lead again, and that grappled the silver. And what they did with the copper and iron is just what I can't possibly recollect, but they divided them somehow, and there was the great rock riddle all read out. Now, haven't we been just like that this summer? And I wonder if the world isn't like it, somehow? There's so much in it, Mr. Wharne, I can't put it in clear order. Wharne, with the briefest gravity. For Miss Craydocke, there were little shining drops standing in her eyes, and she tried not to wink lest they should fall out, pretending they had been really tears.
And what was there to cry about, you know? Sulphur's always the first,--heats up and flies off,--it don't take long to find that; and common oxygen gets at common lead, and so on; but, dear Miss Craydocke, do you know what comforts me? She had to do it then, and the two little round drops fell. They went down, unseen, into the short pasture-grass, and I wonder what little wild-flowers grew of their watering some day afterward. It was getting a little too quiet between them now for people on a picnic, perhaps; and so in a minute Sin Saxon said again: "It's good to know there is a way to sort everything out.
Perhaps the tares and wheat mean the same thing. Wharne, why is it that things seem more sure and true as soon as we find out we can make an allegory to them? It is there, as you have said. I will utter things which have been kept secret from the foundation of the world. The Word made flesh,--it is He that interpreteth. Nobody spoke again till Sin Saxon had to jump up to attend to her coffee, that was boiling over, and then they took up their little cares of the feast, and their chat over it.
Cakes and coffee, fruits and cream,--I do not care to linger over these. I would rather take you to the cool, shadowy, solemn Minster cavern, the deep, wondrous recess in the face of solid rock, whose foundation and whose roof are a mountain; or above, upon the beetling crag that makes but its porch-lintel, and looks forth itself across great air-spaces toward its kindred cliffs, lesser and more mighty, all around, making one listen in one's heart for the awful voices wherewith they call to each other forevermore.
The party had scattered again, after the repast, and Leslie and the Josselyns had gone back into the Minster entrance, where they never tired of standing, and out of whose gloom they looked now upon all the flood of splendor, rosy, purple, and gold, which the royal sun flung back--his last and richest largess--upon the heights that looked longest after him. Wharne and Miss Craydocke climbed the cliff.
Sin Saxon, on her way up, stopped short among the broken crags below. There was something very earnest in her gaze, as she lifted her eyes, wide and beautiful with the wonder in them, to the face of granite upreared before her, and then turned slowly to look across and up the valley, where other and yet grander mountain ramparts thrust their great forbiddance on the reaching vision. She sat down, where she was, upon a rock. One must have steps to climb by, even in imagination. How impertinent we are, rushing at the tremendousness of Washington in the way we do; scaling it in little pleasure-wagons, and never taking in the thought of it at all!
She was sitting with her hands clasped across her knees, and her head a little bent with a downward look, after that long, wondering mountain gaze, that had filled itself and then withdrawn for thought. She lifted her face suddenly to her companion. The impetuous look was in her eyes.
What a fool I've been!
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It was a little awkward for him, scarcely comprehending what she meant. He could by no means agree with Sin Saxon when she called herself a fool; yet he hardly knew what he was to contradict. Wharne and Miss Craydocke at the top. And I down here, where I belong. To think of the things I've said in my silliness to that woman, whose greatness I can no more measure! Why didn't somebody stop me?
I don't answer for you, Frank, and I won't keep you; but I think I'll just stay where I am, and not spoil the significance! Sin Saxon broke in as hurriedly as he, with a deeper flush still upon her face. That's part of it. But she helps one to feel what the higher--the Highest--must be. She's like the rock she stands on. She's one of the steps. They had known each other from childhood, as I said; but Frank Scherman hardly ever called her by her name. It seemed to mean a great deal when he did say "Asenath.
I shall take home the hills in my heart. It couldn't be in the order of things, you know, that you should be so near it, and want it, and not have it, somehow. Her voice was like that of some young prophet of joy, she was so full of the gladness and loveliness of the time. There is such a worldful, and you never know what you may be coming to next! We go on Tuesday. We can't do without you in Robin Gray or Consolation. And about Tuesday,--it's only your own making up of minds. You haven't written, have you? They don't expect you?
When a week's broken in upon, like a dollar, the rest is of no account. And there'll be sure to be something doing, so many are going the week after. The mail was in early, and Captain Green came up from the post-office as the Minster party was alighting from the wagons. He gave Dakie Thayne the bag. It was Dakie's delight to distribute, calling out the fortunate names as the expectant group pressed around him, like people waiting the issue of a lottery venture. Linceford, Miss Goldthwaite, Mrs. Linceford, Mrs. Where is he?
Here, Captain Green; you and I have got the biggest, if Mrs. Linceford does get the most. I believe she tells her friends to write in hits, and put one letter into three or four envelopes. Thoresby, sitting apart, with two or three others who had not joined the group about Dakie Thayne. It is growing to be a positive nuisance. They had a merry time together,--"you and I and the post," as Dakie said. But then, between you and me and that confidential personage, Mrs. Thoresby and her daughters hadn't very many letters.
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He knew "Noll's" square handwriting, and his big envelopes. There was great news to-night at the Cottage. They were to have a hero, perhaps two or three, among them. General Ingleside and friends were coming, early in the week, the Captain told them with expansive face. There are a great many generals and a great many heroes now. This man had been a hero beside Sheridan, and under Sherman.
Colonel Ingleside he was at Stone River and Chattanooga,--leading a brave Western regiment in desperate, magnificent charges, whose daring helped to turn that terrible point of the war and made his fame. But Leslie, though her heart stirred at the thought of a real, great commander fresh from the field, had her own news that half neutralized the excitement of the other: Cousin Delight was coming, to share her room with her for the last fortnight. The Josselyns got their letters. Aunt Lucy was staying on. Aunt Lucy's husband had gone away to preach for three Sundays for a parish where he had a prospect of a call.
Josselyn could not leave home immediately, therefore, although the girls should return; and their room was the airiest for Aunt Lucy. There was no reason why they should not prolong their holiday if they chose, and they might hardly ever get away to the mountains again. More than all, Uncle David was off once more for China and Japan, and had given his sister two more fifties,--"for what did a sailor want of greenbacks after he got afloat?
Uncle David and his fifties wouldn't be back among them for two years or more. But then a most unusual thing happens: When Hans crosses paths with two kings with two lovely daughters, his luck starts to change. Will this lonely soul find true love after all? The Three Bears. Paul Galdone. This familiar nursery tale features a warmly appealing bear family and a naughty, gap-toothed Goldilocks.
Bob Hartman. From ancient times to the present day, people have been telling stories about animals. Bob Hartman is no exception. Over his many years as a professional storyteller, he has told stories about a menagerie of creatures - big and small, tame and scary, real and mythical. This collection contains over 35 retellings - well-loved traditional tales, little-known legends, and several original stories.
These entertaining tales are drawn from all corners of the globe and feature a wide variety of animal characters. Yet this is more than just a collection of animal stories, for many of these fun-filled retellings will also inspire children to think about right and wrong. Appealing illustrations complement the fun and action of the words, capturing the mood of each story and bringing animals, birds and insects vividly to life.
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Along the way, she discovers that there's far more to Howl—and herself—than first meets the eye. The Lion and the Mouse.