Huge books

Some people enjoy reading enormous books, one such volume is Paul Anderson's book Hunger's Brides. It has two stories, the real story of the 1600s Mexican/Spanish genius intellectual and female saint Juana, usually called 'Sor Juana' [ie. sister as she became a nun] and the story of a modern troubled woman who is obsessed with the nun's life and her old lover who goes looking for her [and fears trouble has occurred]. The book is over 1,000 pages and is quite enormous.

The whole thing is very steeped in history and interesting detail, though it does turn macabre as it deals with the Spanish Inquisition and modern lawlessness and craziness, death, and violence. It's a great thing to try if you like Poe or House of Leaves. Also in this vein are the old spooky short stories of M.R. James and Hawthorne, Borges' short stories and further afield is the horrifying eerie work of Paul Bowles.

Lancelot

  















A famous painting [at left] by the important British pre-Raphaelite artist Cowper [1877-1958] depicts Lancelot asleep as four British Isles queens espy him. This scene comes from the many stories of the round table, collected in a volume by Howard Pyle here in 1905. There are other paintings of the same scene, ie. one by another British painter, Calderon [1833-1898] from 1908. Be sure to know his famous piece "St. Elizabeth of Hungary's Great Act of Renunciation" (1891).

Here's an excerpt from the tales of King Arthur, read more here:


How Sir Launcelot was Found in a Sleep by Queen Morgana le Fay, and Three Other Queens who were with Her, and How He was Taken to a Castle of Queen Morgana's and of What Befell Him There.

So Sir Launcelot lay in deep slumber under that apple-tree, and knew neither that Sir Lionel had left him nor what ill-fortune had befallen that good knight. Whilst he lay there sleeping in that wise there came by, along the road, and at a little distance from him, a very fair procession of lordly people, making a noble parade upon the highway.

The chiefest of this company were four ladies, who were four queens. With them rode four knights, and, because the day was warm, the four knights bore a canopy of green silk by the four corners upon the points of their lances in such wise as to shelter those queens from the strong heat of the sun.

And those four knights rode all armed cap-a-pie on four noble war-horses, and the four queens, bedight in great estate, rode on four white mules richly caparisoned with furniture of divers colors embroidered with gold.

After these lordly folk there followed a very excellent court of esquires and demoiselles to the number of a score or more; some riding upon horses and some upon mules that ambled very easily.

Now all these folk of greater or lesser degree were entirely unaware that Sir Launcelot lay sleeping so nigh to them as they rode by chattering very gayly together in the spring-time weather, taking great pleasure in the warm air, and in growing things, and the green fields, and the bright sky; and they would have had no knowledge that the knight was there, had not Sir Launcelot's horse neighed very lustily.

Thereupon, they were aware of the horse, and then they were aware of Sir Launcelot where he lay asleep under the apple-tree, with his head lying upon his helmet.

Now foremost of all those queens was Queen Morgana le Fay (who was King Arthur's sister, and a potent, wicked enchantress, of whom much hath been told in the Book of King Arthur), and besides Queen Morgana there was the Queen of North Wales, and the Queen of Eastland, and the Queen of the Outer Isles.

Now when this party of queens, knights, esquires, and ladies heard the war-horse neigh, and when they beheld Sir Launcelot where he lay, they drew rein and marvelled very greatly to see a knight sleeping so soundly at that place, maugre all the noise and tumult of their passing. So Queen Morgana called to her one of the esquires who followed after them, and she said to him: "Go softly and see if thou knowest who is yonder knight; but do not wake him."

So the esquire did as she commanded; he went unto that apple-tree and he looked into Sir Launcelot's face, and by hap he knew who it was because he had been to Camelot erstwhiles and he had seen Sir Launcelot at that place.

So he hastened back to Queen Morgana and he said to her: "Lady, I believe that yonder knight is none other than the great Sir Launcelot of the Lake, concerning whom there is now such report; for he is reputed to be the most powerful of all the knights of King Arthur's Round Table, and the greatest knight in the world, so that King Arthur loves him and favors him above all other knights."

Now when Queen Morgana le Fay was aware that the knight who was asleep there was Sir Launcelot, it immediately entered her mind for to lay some powerful, malignant enchantment upon him to despite King Arthur. For she too knew how dear Sir Launcelot was to King Arthur, and so she had a mind to do him mischief for King Arthur's sake.

So she went softly to where Sir Launcelot lay with intent to work some such spell upon him. But when she had come to Sir Launcelot she was aware that this purpose of mischief was not possible whilst he wore that ring upon his finger which the Lady of the Lake had given him; wherefore she had to put by her evil design for a while.

But though she was unable to work any malign spell upon him, she was
able to cause it by her magic that that sleep in which he lay should remain unbroken for three or four hours. So she made certain movements of her hands above his face and by that means she wove the threads of his slumber so closely together that he could not break through them to awake.

After she had done this she called to her several of the esquires who were of her party, and these at her command fetched the shield of Sir Launcelot and laid him upon it. Then they lifted him and bore him away, carrying him in that manner to a certain castle in the forest that was no great distance away. And the name of that castle was Chateaubras and it was one of Queen Morgana's castles.

And all that while Sir Launcelot wist nothing, but lay in a profound sleep, so that when he awoke and looked about him he was so greatly astonished that he knew not whether
he was in a vision or whether he was awake. For whilst he had gone asleep beneath that apple-tree, here he now lay in a fair chamber upon a couch spread with a coverlet of flame-colored linen.

[...]

Japan

It's quite interesting to read books of myths and legends, even from foreign points of view--F. Hadland's Myths & Legends of Japan [1912] has some lovely passages that also give a light introduction to early understandings of Asian life. There are also gorgeous early Impressionist/Orientalist pre-Raphaelite [in the Asian sense] paintings for illustrations. Read it all here.

Here's an excerpt about Japan's tea ceremony ideology:
[...]

The tea-room became, not a place of carousal, but a place where the wayfarer might find peace in solemn meditation. Even the garden path leading to the tea-room had its symbolic meaning, for it signified the first stage of self-illumination. The following was Kobori-Enshiu's idea of the path leading to the tea-room:

"A cluster of summer trees,
A bit of the sea,
A pale evening moon."

Such a scene was intended to convey to the wayfarer a sense of spiritual light. The trees, sea, and moon awakened old dreams, and their presence made the guest eager to pass into the greater joys of the tea-room. Nosamurai was allowed to take his sword into the fragrant sanctuary of peace, and in many tea-rooms there was a low door through which the guests entered with bowed head, as a sign of humility. In silence the guests made obeisance before a kakemono, or some simple and beautiful flower on the tokonoma (alcove), and then seated themselves upon the mats. When they had done so the host entered and the water was heard to boil in the kettle with a musical sound, because of some pieces of iron which it contained. Even the boiling of the kettle was associated with poetical ideas, for the song of water and metal was intended to suggest "the echoes of a cataract muffled by clouds, of a distant sea breaking among the rocks, a rainstorm sweeping through a bamboo forest, or of the soughing of pines on some far-away hill." There was a sense of harmony in the tea-room. [...]

Eugene Onegin

One lovely, yet hard to get into, piece is the Russian verse novel/epic poem Eugene Onegin [Евге́ний Оне́гин] by Pushkin [publ. 1825]. Read it all here. There is also a film of it with Liv Tyler. It's a romantic story of love dismissed and then yearned for--of how time can change your mind, but you find it is too late, and you cannot go back and have what was previously offered.

Here's an excerpt--what lovely last lines in this stanza, they remind me of Keats:

[...]

XVIL

My goddesses, where are your shades?
Do ye not hear my mournful sighs?
Are ye replaced by other maids
Who cannot conjure former joys?
Shall I your chorus hear anew,
Russia's Terpsichore review
Again in her ethereal dance?
Or will my melancholy glance
On the dull stage find all things changed,
The disenchanted glass direct
Where I can no more recollect?—
A careless looker-on estranged
In silence shall I sit and yawn
And dream of life's delightful dawn?

[...]

And here are the last lines, which have a moving yet mysterious touch to them:

L

[...]

Happy who quit life's banquet seat
Before the dregs they shall divine
Of the cup brimming o'er with wine—
Who the romance do not complete,
But who abandon it—as I
Have my Oneguine—suddenly.

Burns

Poetry is something personal and private, often it resounds differently to different people. It as unique as fingerprints. Old books of verse, even those for children, are often worth reading. Life's few objects should be chosen with care. Donate your excess and be sure your life is as close to ideal and simple as possible.

One example of a great old book of verse, for adults to read and of course for kids is the 1904 book Poems Every Child Should Know, read it all here, edited by Mary Burt. This excerpt below is from Robert Burns [1759-1796], the famous Scottish poet. It's an excellent way to improve and expand horizons on reading and language. Understanding that every language changes and how to interpret new or oddly spelled words in context is a great skill. The imagery is incredible as well.

To a Mountain Daisy,
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786

[...]

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield,But thou, beneath the random bieldO' clod or stane,Adorns the histie stibble-field,Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,Thou lifts thy unassuming headIn humble guise;But now the share uptears thy bed,And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,Sweet floweret of the rural shade!By love's simplicity betrayed,And guileless trust,Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laidLow i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!Unskilful he to note the cardOf prudent lore,Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,And whelm him o'er![...]

Tolkien

Every genre has greats, people who surpass their labels and become icons. JRR Tolkien is one of them; his Hobbit and Lord of the Rings series are great works that create an English-based medieval inspired mythology for ancient Albion. His language is very interesting and often intensely moving. He showcases a type of pre-modern poeticism that reaches out to our love of the past and our desire for a simpler, older lost world.

There's a sense of bronze age majesty and power. There are a million ways to look at him: in terms of sociology, languages and language creation, romance and love, friendship and loyalty, the burden of ruling, evil and danger, adventure and life's final stages. Be sure to check out all the famous illustrations of his work, from Tolkien's actual personal art to Ted Nasmith's famous pictures [of Luthien especially, the Nazgul and the black tower with the eye, and the Grey Havens]. There is also Alan Lee's work, the classic Greg & Tim Hildebrandt to the black and white lines of Frank Franzetta.

Many people know the famous poem he includes, it makes one think of Robert Frost in a way:

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

Here's an excerpt from the world of Lothlorien in Lord of the Rings:

Even as they spoke, they saw, as if she came in answer to their words, the Lady Galadriel approaching. Tall and white and fair she walked beneath the trees. She spoke no word, but beckoned to them

            Turning aside, she led them to the southern slopes of the hill of Cras Galadhon, and passing through a high green hedge they came into an enclosed garden. No trees grew there, and it lay open to the sky. The evening star had risen and was shining with white fire above the western woods. Down a long flight of steps the Lady went into the deep hollow, through which ran murmuring the silver stream that issued from the fountain on the hill. At the bottom, upon a low pedestal carved like a branching tree, stood a basin of silver, wide and shallow, and beside it stood a silver ewer.

            With water from the stream Galadriel filled the basin to the brim, and breathed on it, and when the water was still again she spoke. “Here is the Mirror of Galadriel,” she said. “I have brought you here so you may look in it, if you will.”

            The air was very still, and the dell was dark, and the Elf-lady beside him was tall and pale. 

Joycean

Here is a a snippet from Irish writer James Joyce's [1882-1941] famous novel Ulysses after all the revelry of yesterday, which was Bloomsday--the day on which the book takes place, from morning to night--read it here. If you like modern or experimental prose, or allusion heavy works, be sure to try it:

—No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered. The Croppy Boy. Our native Doric.

—Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men and true.

—Do, do, they begged in one.

I'll go. Here, Pat, return. Come. He came, he came, he did not stay. To me. How much?

—What key? Six sharps?

—F sharp major, Ben Dollard said.

Bob Cowley's outstretched talons griped the black deepsounding chords.

Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince. No, Richie said. Yes, must. Got money somewhere. He's on for a razzle backache spree. Much? He seehears lipspeech. One and nine. Penny for yourself. Here. Give him twopence tip. Deaf, bothered. But perhaps he has wife and family waiting, waiting Patty come home. Hee hee hee hee. Deaf wait while they wait.

But wait. But hear. Chords dark. Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave of the dark middle earth. Embedded ore. Lumpmusic.

The voice of dark age, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach and painful, come from afar, from hoary mountains, called on good men and true. The priest he sought. With him would he speak a word.

Tap.

Arthur

The 1485 book Le Morte d'Arthur [The death of Arthur, ie. the famous King Arthur of England] by Sir Thomas Malory [d. 1471] is a very interesting collection of tales--read it all here. Be sure to look at the incredible, famous illustrations done by William Flint for it. Let us look at a small excerpt from 'Book II' about the unique Lady of the Lake:

CHAPTER III. How the Lady of the Lake demanded the knight's head that had won the sword, or the maiden's head.

THE meanwhile, that this knight was making him ready to depart, there came into the court a lady that hight the Lady of the Lake. And she came on horseback, richly beseen, and saluted King Arthur, and there asked him a gift that he promised her when she gave him the sword. 

That is sooth, said Arthur, a gift I promised you, but I have forgotten the name of my sword that ye gave me. The name of it, said the lady, is Excalibur, that is as much to say as Cut-steel. Ye say well, said the king; ask what ye will and ye shall have it, an it lie in my power to give it. 

Well, said the lady, I ask the head of the knight that hath won the sword, or else the damosel's head that brought it; I take no force though I have both their heads, for he slew my brother, a good knight and a true, and that gentlewoman was causer of my father's death. 

Truly, said King Arthur, I may not grant neither of their heads with my worship, therefore ask what ye will else, and I shall fulfil your desire. I will ask none other thing, said the lady. 

When Balin was ready to depart, he saw the Lady of the Lake, that by her means had slain Balin's mother, and he had sought her three years; and when it was told him that she asked his head of King Arthur, he went to her straight and said, Evil be you found; ye would have my head, and therefore ye shall lose yours, and with his sword lightly he smote off her head before King Arthur. 

Alas, for shame! said Arthur, why have ye done so? ye have shamed me and all my court, for this was a lady that I was beholden to, and hither she came under my safe-conduct; I shall never forgive you that trespass. Sir, said Balin, me forthinketh of your displeasure, for this same lady was the untruest lady living, and by enchantment and sorcery she hath been the destroyer of many good knights, and she was causer that my mother was burnt, through her falsehood and treachery. 

What cause soever ye had, said Arthur, ye should have forborne her in my presence; therefore, think not the contrary, ye shall repent it, for such another despite had I never in my court; therefore withdraw you out of my court in all haste ye may.

Then Balin took up the head of the lady, and bare it with him to his hostelry, and there he met with his squire, that was sorry he had displeased King Arthur and so they rode forth out of the town. Now, said Balin, we must depart, take thou this head and bear it to my friends, and tell them how I have sped, and tell my friends in Northumberland that my most foe is dead. Also tell them how I am out of prison, and what adventure befell me at the getting of this sword. 

Alas! said the squire, ye are greatly to blame for to displease King Arthur. As for that, said Balin, I will hie me, in all the haste that I may, to meet with King Rience and destroy him, either else to die therefore; and if it may hap me to win him, then will King Arthur be my good and gracious lord. 

Where shall I meet with you? said the squire. In King Arthur's court, said Balin. So his squire and he departed at that time. Then King Arthur and all the court made great dole and had shame of the death of the Lady of the Lake. Then the king buried her richly.

Titus Groan

Anyone who likes eerie, strange fiction should be sure to try the long series Titus Groan by Mervyn Peake. It is I think for people who liked Vonnegut, Poe and especially Henry James' Turn of the Screw. You need to enjoy Victorian horror, ie. Gothic fiction, to truly love this, the first in the Gormenghast series [which is the name of Titus' castle, also]. 

Some other Gothic horror fiction includes Walpole's 1763 The Castle of Otranto, Ann Radcliffe's 1794 The Mysteries of Udolpho, M.G. Lewis' 1796 The Monk and Clara Reeve's 1778 The Old English Baron. In France this genre was called the 'black novel' or roman noir. Here's a little excerpt:
[...]

The crumbling castle, looming among the mists, exhaled the season, and every cold stone breathed it out. The tortured trees by the dark lake burned and dripped, their leaves snatched by the wind were whirled in wild circles through the towers. The clouds mouldered as they lay coiled, or shifted themselves uneasily upon the stone skyfield, sending up wreathes that drifted through the turrets and swarmed up hidden walls.

[...]

Joyce

Let's look at a little moment in the famous Irish writer James Joyce's [1882-1941] book of easy to read short stories Dubliners--from his most famous story, the last one in the collection, The Dead; read it all here.

This excerpt is a great moment of passion, of fire. Many people can relate to the feelings coursing through Gabriel as he thinks about his wife; how often are we electrified by our emotions? How easily the rest of our mind, the reason or logos, slips away and we do not see it go. He is caught up in a second of intensity:
[...]

She was walking on before him with Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, her shoes in a brown parcel tucked under one arm and her hands holding her skirt up from the slush. She had no longer any grace of attitude, but Gabriel's eyes were still bright with happiness. The blood went bounding along his veins; and the thoughts went rioting through his brain, proud, joyful, tender, valorous.

She was walking on before him so lightly and so erect that he longed to run after her noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders and say something foolish and affectionate into her ear. She seemed to him so frail that he longed to defend her against something and then to be alone with her. Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory. A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast-cup and he was caressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering in the ivy and the sunny web of the curtain was shimmering along the floor: he could not eat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded platform and he was placing a ticket inside the warm palm of her glove. He was standing with her in the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man making bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant in the cold air, was quite close to his; and suddenly he called out to the man at the furnace:

"Is the fire hot, sir?"

[...]

Sterne

One great piece of travel writing to try is Sterne's 1768 A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy--read it all here. The narrator is called Yorick, a callback to 'Hamlet'. Here is an interesting excerpt that is an example of Sterne's usual appreciation for beauty and women--a grisette is a French working class woman, by the way.

The above illustration by the Austrian artist Angelica Kauffman [1741-1807] is from an earlier part of the story, with a ladies maid, the narrator on the right and a monk on the left. Not the woman's interesting outfit.

Sterne's character Yorick [a self-insert/autobiographical narrator] goes into the Paris shop she's in and asks for directions, and then forgets them after leaving:

[...]

I will not suppose it was the woman’s beauty, notwithstanding she was the handsomest grisette, I think, I ever saw, which had much to do with the sense I had of her courtesy; only I remember, when I told her how much I was obliged to her, that I looked very full in her eyes, - and that I repeated my thanks as often as she had done her instructions.

I had not got ten paces from the door, before I found I had forgot every tittle of what she had said; - so looking back, and seeing her still standing in the door of the shop, as if to look whether I went right or not, - I returned back to ask her, whether the first turn was to my right or left, - for that I had absolutely forgot. - Is it possible! said she, half laughing.  ’Tis very possible, replied I, when a man is thinking more of a woman than of her good advice.

As this was the real truth - she took it, as every woman takes a matter of right, with a slight curtsey.
- Attendez! said she, laying her hand upon my arm to detain me, whilst she called a lad out of the back shop to get ready a parcel of gloves.  I am just going to send him, said she, with a packet into that quarter, and if you will have the complaisance to step in, it will be ready in a moment, and he shall attend you to the place. - So I walk’d in with her to the far side of the shop: and taking up the ruffle in my hand which she laid upon the chair, as if I had a mind to sit, she sat down herself in her low chair, and I instantly sat myself down beside her.

- He will be ready, Monsieur, said she, in a moment. - And in that moment, replied I, most willingly would I say something very civil to you for all these courtesies.  Any one may do a casual act of good nature, but a continuation of them shows it is a part of the temperature; and certainly, added I, if it is the same blood which comes from the heart which descends to the extremes (touching her wrist) I am sure you must have one of the best pulses of any woman in the world. - Feel it, said she, holding out her arm.  So laying down my hat, I took hold of her fingers in one hand, and applied the two forefingers of my other to the artery. -

- Would to heaven! my dear Eugenius, thou hadst passed by, and beheld me sitting in my black coat, and in my lack-a-day-sical manner, counting the throbs of it, one by one, with as much true devotion as if I had been watching the critical ebb or flow of her fever. - How wouldst thou have laugh’d and moralized upon my new profession! - and thou shouldst have laugh’d and moralized on. - Trust me, my dear Eugenius, I should have said, “There are worse occupations in this world than feeling a woman’s pulse.” - But a grisette’s! thou wouldst have said, - and in an open shop!  Yorick -

- So much the better: for when my views are direct, Eugenius, I care not if all the world saw me feel it.

Victor Hugo

While I prefer the French, famous writer Victor Hugo's [1802-1885] poetry to his prose, he has many great passages. Here is one beautiful one from the 1862 novel Les Misérables--it's from the ending, in book eight, chapter three; you can read it all here:

[...]
One afternoon,—it was on one of those early days in April, already warm and fresh, the moment of the sun's great gayety, the gardens which surrounded the windows of Marius and Cosette felt the emotion of waking, the hawthorn was on the point of budding, a jewelled garniture of gillyflowers spread over the ancient walls, snapdragons yawned through the crevices of the stones, amid the grass there was a charming beginning of daisies, and buttercups, the white butterflies of the year were making their first appearance, the wind, that minstrel of the eternal wedding, was trying in the trees the first notes of that grand, auroral symphony which the old poets called the springtide,—Marius said to Cosette:—"We said that we would go back to take a look at our garden in the Rue Plumet. Let us go thither. We must not be ungrateful."—And away they flitted, like two swallows towards the spring. This garden of the Rue Plumet produced on them the effect of the dawn. They already had behind them in life something which was like the springtime of their love. The house in the Rue Plumet being held on a lease, still belonged to Cosette. They went to that garden and that house. There they found themselves again, there they forgot themselves.
[...]

Red

One story to be sure to read is American gothic writer E.A. Poe's [1809-1849] The Masque of the Red Death, it's here. Here's a little excerpt:

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to harken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused revery or meditation. 

But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.

But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colours and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not.

Myth

Sir James Frazer's [1854-1941] famous mythological and religion book The Golden Bough was a shock to people in 1890--he discussed the West's Christian and Roman cultural roots with some distance and objective feeling, instead of presuming it was the best, moral, highest and most logical culture.

While his work is old by now, it's also incredibly interesting and important. His attitudes are sometimes marked by his time period, but his greater discussion is fascinating. Here's a little excerpt about ancient Egypt, the Egyptian goddess Isis [Ancient Greek: Ἶσις, original Egyptian pronunciation more likely "Aset" or " Iset"] and ancient Rome, you can read the rest here:


Hence just as the furtive savage conceals his real name because he fears that sorcerers might make an evil use of it, so he fancies that his gods must likewise keep their true name secret, lest other gods or even men should learn the mystic sounds and thus be able to conjure with them. Nowhere was this crude conception of the secrecy and magical virtue of the divine name more firmly held or more fully developed than in ancient Egypt, where the superstitions of a dateless past were embalmed in the hearts of the people hardly less effectually than the bodies of cats and crocodiles and the rest of the divine menagerie in their rock-cut tombs.

The conception is well illustrated by a story which tells how the subtle Isis wormed his secret name from Ra, the great Egyptian god of the sun. Isis, so runs the tale, was a woman mighty in words, and she was weary of the world of men, and yearned after the world of the gods. And she meditated in her heart, saying, “Cannot I by virtue of the great name of Ra make myself a goddess and reign like him in heaven and earth?” For Ra had many names, but the great name which gave him all power over gods and men was known to none but himself. Now the god was by this time grown old; he slobbered at the mouth and his spittle fell upon the ground.

So Isis gathered up the spittle and the earth with it, and kneaded thereof a serpent and laid it in the path where the great god passed every day to his double kingdom after his heart’s desire. And when he came forth according to his wont, attended by all his company of gods, the sacred serpent stung him, and the god opened his mouth and cried, and his cry went up to heaven. And the company of gods cried, “What aileth thee?” and the gods shouted, “Lo and behold!” But he could not answer; his jaws rattled, his limbs shook, the poison ran through his flesh as the Nile floweth over the land.

When the great god had stilled his heart, he cried to his followers, “Come to me, O my children, offspring of my body. I am a prince, the son of a prince, the divine seed of a god. My father devised my name; my father and my mother gave me my name, and it remained hidden in my body since my birth, that no magician might have magic power over me. I went out to behold that which I have made, I walked in the two lands which I have created, and lo! something stung me. What it was, I know not. Was it fire? was it water? My heart is on fire, my flesh trembleth, all my limbs do quake. Bring me the children of the gods with healing words and understanding lips, whose power reacheth to heaven.”

Then came to him the children of the gods, and they were very sorrowful. And Isis came with her craft, whose mouth is full of the breath of life, whose spells chase pain away, whose word maketh the dead to live. She said, “What is it, divine Father? what is it?” The holy god opened his mouth, he spake and said, “I went upon my way, I walked after my heart’s desire in the two regions which I have made to behold that which I have created, and lo! a serpent that I saw not stung me. Is it fire? is it water? I am colder than water, I am hotter than fire, all my limbs sweat, I tremble, mine eye is not steadfast, I behold not the sky, the moisture bedeweth my face as in summer-time.”

Then spake Isis, “Tell me thy name, divine Father, for the man shall live who is called by his name.” Then answered Ra, “I created the heavens and the earth, I ordered the mountains, I made the great and wide sea, I stretched out the two horizons like a curtain. I am he who openeth his eyes and it is light, and who shutteth them and it is dark. At his command the Nile riseth, but the gods know not his name. I am Khepera in the morning, I am Ra at noon, I am Tum at eve.” But the poison was not taken away from him; it pierced deeper, and the great god could no longer walk. Then said Isis to him, “That was not thy name that thou spakest unto me. Oh tell it me, that the poison may depart; for he shall live whose name is named.”

Now the poison burned like fire, it was hotter than the flame of fire. The god said, “I consent that Isis shall search into me, and that my name shall pass from my breast into hers.” Then the god hid himself from the gods, and his place in the ship of eternity was empty. Thus was the name of the great god taken from him, and Isis, the witch, spake, “Flow away, poison, depart from Ra. It is I, even I, who overcome the poison and cast it to the earth; for the name of the great god hath been taken away from him. Let Ra live and let the poison die.” Thus spake great Isis, the queen of the gods, she who knows Ra and his true name.

From this story it appears that the real name of the god, with which his power was inextricably bound up, was supposed to be lodged, in an almost physical sense, somewhere in his breast, from which Isis extracted it by a sort of surgical operation and transferred it with all its supernatural powers to herself.

In Egypt attempts like that of Isis to appropriate the power of a high god by possessing herself of his name were not mere legends told of the mythical beings of a remote past; every Egyptian magician aspired to wield like powers by similar means. For it was believed that he who possessed the true name possessed the very being of god or man, and could force even a deity to obey him as a slave obeys his master.

Thus the art of the magician consisted in obtaining from the gods a revelation of their sacred names, and he left no stone unturned to accomplish his end. When once a god in a moment of weakness or forgetfulness had imparted to the wizard the wondrous lore, the deity had no choice but to submit humbly to the man or pay the penalty of his contumacy.

The belief in the magic virtue of divine names was shared by the Romans. When they sat down before a city, the priests addressed the guardian deity of the place in a set form of prayer or incantation, inviting him to abandon the beleaguered city and come over to the Romans, who would treat him as well as or better than he had ever been treated in his old home.

Lurking

The Decadent movement came at the fin de siècle, the end of the 1890s--it was associated with Symbolist art and writing, and also stuff like Beardsley's wild drawings, Wilde's Dorian Grey. It was different than the wider Romantic movement [c1800s-1850s]. One very interesting thing it created by Jean Lorrain's [1855-1906] novel Monsieur De Phocas [Mister De Phocas], read here in French.

If you like masks, Venetian carnival-style atmospheres, the eerie and True Detective, try this, it's what to read after it. It always reminds me of Astarte [Ashtoreth] with his line of her and mention of a black Astarte statue--I recall her picture by Sargent up on the curved wall in Boston's famous Italian marble palazzo Public Library. 

Astarte [Greek: Ἀστάρτη], also called Ishtar or Aphrodite by other groups, was an ancient goddess especially worshipped in Cyprus and Phoenician cities like Sidon, Tyre and Byblos [now the area of the coast in Lebanon and Syria--they were famous for trading their purple dye, which came from local snails]. She represented sexuality but also war, and notice the crescent moon under her feet, all the shining golden cut glass pressed into the painting, like the acorns on the sides. 

Here's a little quote I like:
Astarte has come again, more powerful than before. She possesses me. She lies in wait for me.
Astarté est revenue, plus puissante qu'avant. Elle me possède, elle me guette. [original French]

And another longer one:
The madness of the eyes is the lure of the abyss. Sirens lurk in the dark depths of the pupils as they lurk at the bottom of the sea, that I know for sure - but I have never encountered them, and I am searching still for the profound and plaintive gazes in whose depths I might be able, like Hamlet redeemed, to drown the Ophelia of my desire.

And this great creepy part:
“Masks! I see them everywhere. That dreadful vision of the other night - the deserted town with its masked corpses in every doorway; that nightmare product of morphine and ether - has taken up residence within me. I see masks in the street, I see them on stage in the theatre, I find yet more of them in the boxes. They are on the balcony and in the orchestra-pit. Everywhere I go I am surrounded by masks. The attendants to whom I give my overcoat are masked; masks crowd around me in the foyer as everyone leaves, and the coachman who drives me home has the same cardboard grimace fixed upon his face!

It is truly too much to bear: to feel that one is alone and at the mercy of all those enigmatic and deceptive faces, alone amid all the mocking laughs and the threats embodied in those masks. I have tried to persuade myself that I am dreaming, and that I am the victim of a hallucination, but all the powdered and painted faces of women, all the rouged lips and kohl-blackened eyelids... all of that has created around me an atmosphere of trance and mortal agony. Cosmetics: there is the root cause of my illness!

But I am happy, now, when there are only masks! Sometimes, I detect the cadavers beneath, and remember that beneath the masks there is a host of spectres.” 

Dupin

Let's look at E.A. Poe's [1809-1849] famous detective story with Dupin, the precursor to Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin by Maurice Leblanc [1864-1941]. Read it all here. The story uses initials with dashes to make it seem like the author is referencing real people and families that he dare not wholly name.

Remember, Dupin leaves a note for the bad man, called only 'D' in the story, in his card rack near where Dupin had put the fake letter he created [to replace the one he stole]. The note says only:
"'— Un dessein si funeste, S'il n'est digne d'Atrée, est digne de Thyeste. They are to be found in Crebillon's 'Atrée.'"
A design [ie plan] so fatal, it's not the dignity of Atreus, it's the dignity of Thyestes.

This refers to a 1707 play by Académie Française seatholder Frenchman Prosper Jolyot (the sieur de Crébillon; 1674-1762). The play Atrée et Thyeste is about so named twin brothers from Mycenae in Greece who violently and ruthlessly vie with and hate each other. In a sense Dupin is mocking his enemy 'D' for not being smarter, since he was obviously quite bright in hiding something in plain sight. He gave the desired letter such a gross, dirty envelope that no one thought it was the right one, even though it was out in the open in plain sight. Dupin is saying he and his enemy 'D' are very alike, but he won in this instance. [*Don't confuse this Atreus with Myst island and the computer game.]

Here's an excerpt where Dupin describes where he found the letter a man was holding a noblewoman hostage with:

It [ie. the letter] was thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptuously, into one of the uppermost divisions of the rack.

"No sooner had I glanced at this letter, than I concluded it to be that of which I was in search. To be sure, it was, to all appearance, radically different from the one of which the Prefect had read us so minute a description. Here the seal was large and black, with the D— cipher; there it was small and red, with the ducal arms of the S— family. Here, the address, to the Minister, diminutive and feminine; there the superscription, to a certain royal personage, was markedly bold and decided; the size alone formed a point of correspondence. But, then, the radicalness of these differences, which was excessive; the dirt; the soiled and torn condition of the paper, so inconsistent with the true methodical habits of D—, and so suggestive of a design to delude the beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of the document; these things, together with the hyper-obtrusive situation of this document, full in the view of every visiter, and thus exactly in accordance with the conclusions to which I had previously arrived; these things, I say, were strongly corroborative of suspicion, in one who came with the intention to suspect.

"I protracted my visit as long as possible, and, while I maintained a most animated discussion with the Minister upon a topic which I knew well had never failed to interest and excite him, I kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this examination, I committed to memory its external appearance and arrangement in the rack; and also fell, at length, upon a discovery which set at rest whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. In scrutinizing the edges of the paper, I observed them to be more chafed than seemed necessary. They presented the broken appearance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges which had formed the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as a glove, inside out, re-directed, and re-sealed. I bade the Minister good morning, and took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table.

"The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed, quite eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day. While thus engaged, however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard immediately beneath the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a series of fearful screams, and the shoutings of a terrified mob. D— rushed to a casement, threw it open, and looked out. In the meantime, I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it in my pocket, and replaced it by a fac-simile, (so far as regards externals,) which I had carefully prepared at my lodgings—imitating the D— cipher, very readily, by means of a seal formed of bread.

Long recs

If you like long books exclusively, or like to dip in and out of works, or even just read along quickly, absorbing it like poetry--try two Americans, Leon Forrest [1937-1997] and James A. Michener [1907-1997].

Michener wrote many huge books which blend fiction and historical events. He wrote Tales of the South Pacific, Hawaii, Texas, Mexico and many other books. He has an odd style that narrates like a history book and yet includes fictional characters [or fictionalized accounts of things that happened in history]. It's quite fun to visit and revisit without having to have a sole story that finishes in one normal sized book. It's a departure from the norm of our narrative form today.

Forrest has a very Joycean vibe, a type of Pound cantos effect to his style--he's sometimes spoken of as the black Joyce. His skill is quite incredible. He speeds along like a better version of the New Orleans favorite A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy [1980]. He's got a great style and incredible phrasing, it's often very poetic and cuts you to the quick. 


Glance through some pages of his The Bloodworth Orphans here, and try his There is a Tree More Ancient Than Eden here. Here's an excerpt from his big magnum opus Divine Days:
[...]

Now the body of McNabb, once dead to life, was actually doing a kind of vamped upwards dance, touched by an electricalvoltage through some unseen conductor. And I became troubled, then horrified (not whether the death of McNabb would bring on the loss of my Aunt's liquor license) but that the unconscious wrath of McNabb's body would bring down the whole flooring, flora, fauna, tropicalplants, chairs, walls, bottles of liquor from the shelves. It reminded me of attending scores of wrestling matches as a kid, and noticing these body-slamming wrestlers banging bodies down upon that same mat, week in and week out, and thinking surely one of them is going to drive his foe through the mat-that is, until I woke up to the fact that matches were set up fakes. But this was real, what McNabb was doing to my Aunt's floor.

[...]

Spain

One fun travel read to try is American Washington Irving's [1783-1859] The Alhambra, ie. the medieval palace in Granada. Here's an excerpt from his take on his travels in Spain, it's beautiful--and is a great example of an older work that conveys what culture and cultural attitudes were like in his time. The painting above is by the famous American painter Edwin Lord Weeks, it's his "A Court In The Alhambra: In The Time Of The Moors", you can see more of his work here.
[...]

It is this glorious pile of mountains which gives to Granada that combination of delights so rare in a southern city: the fresh vegetation and temperate airs of a northern climate, with the vivifying ardor of a tropical sun, and the cloudless azure of a southern sky. It is this aerial treasury of snow, which, melting in proportion to the increase of the summer heat, sends down rivulets and streams through every glen and gorge of the Alpuxarras, diffusing emerald verdure and fertility throughout a chain of happy and sequestered valleys.

Those mountains may be well called the glory of Granada. They dominate the whole extent of Andalusia, and may be seen from its most distant parts. The muleteer hails them, as he views their frosty peaks from the sultry level of the plain; and the Spanish mariner on the deck of his bark, far, far off on the bosom of the blue Mediterranean, watches them with a pensive eye, thinks of delightful Granada, and chants, in low voice, some old romance about the Moors.

See to the south at the foot of those mountains a line of arid hills, down which a long train of mules is slowly moving. Here was the closing scene of Moslem domination. From the summit of one of those hills the unfortunate Boabdil cast back his last look upon Granada, and gave vent to the agony of his soul. It is the spot famous in song and story, “The last sigh of the Moor.”

Further this way these arid hills slope down into the luxurious Vega, from which he had just emerged: a blooming wilderness of grove and garden, and teeming orchard, with the Xenil winding through it in silver links, and feeding innumerable rills; which, conducted through ancient Moorish channels, maintain the landscape in perpetual verdure.

[...]

Life is a battlefield

Some high points from Sun Tzu's The Art of War, circa 500 B.C., translated by Giles [in 1910], read more here. There's info about Sun Tzu himself here. His words are timeless, dense and complex--just like other ancient texts. It's easy to apply his wisdom to everyday hours, random decisions and the lifeblood of philosophical outlooks.

VI.
1. [...] Whoever is first in the field and awaits the coming of the enemy, will be fresh for the fight; whoever is second in the field and has to hasten to battle will arrive exhausted.

VII.
18. In raiding and plundering be like fire, in immovability like a mountain.

19. Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.

Finnegans Wake slice

What's great about James Joyce's Finnegans Wake is the diversity in it--it's like a huge prose poem with different parts. Just like Hilda Doolittle's long poetic volume Helen in Egypt, about Helen of Troy, except less Imagist and more stream of consciousness. 

This particular section has a really interesting set of imagery, and I like how it's very modern and yet touched with erudition and history--you can see how Joyce was coming from a place of serious intellectual standing, not just throwing around simple nonsense like many more modern people. Only the truly educated can make worthwhile modern pieces.

I like this Finnegans Wake section in part four, page 606; here's more:

[...]                                    so that, well understanding, she should
fill to midheight his tubbathaltar, which hanbathtub, most blessed
Kevin, ninthly enthroned, in the concentric centre of the trans-
lated water, whereamid, when violet vesper vailed, Saint Kevin,
Hydrophilos, having girded his sable cappa magna as high as to
his cherubical loins, at solemn compline sat in his sate of wis-
dom, that handbathtub, whereverafter, recreated doctor insularis
of the universal church, keeper of the door of meditation, memory
extempore proposing and intellect formally considering, recluse,
he meditated continuously with seraphic ardour the primal sacra-
ment of baptism or the regeneration of all man by affusion of
water. Yee. [...]

This passage made me think of this part of The Odyssey [book five: around line 50] actually, here is Kline's version:

So Hermes travelled over the endless breakers, until he reached the distant isle, then leaving the violet sea he crossed the land, and came to the vast cave where the nymph of the lovely tresses lived, and found her at home.

          A great fire blazed on the hearth, and the scent of burning cedar logs and juniper spread far across the isle. Sweet-voiced Calypso was singing within, moving to and fro at her loom, weaving with a golden shuttle. Around the cave grew a thick copse of alder, poplar and fragrant cypress, where large birds nested, owls, and falcons, and long-necked cormorants whose business is with the sea. And heavy with clustered grapes a mature cultivated vine went trailing across the hollow entrance. And four neighbouring springs, channelled this way and that, flowed with crystal water, and all around in soft meadows iris and wild celery flourished. [...]

And here is Cowper's version:

So arm’d, forth flew the valiant Argicide.Alighting on Pieria, down he stoop’dTo Ocean, and the billows lightly skimm’d60In form a sew-mew, such as in the baysTremendous of the barren Deep her foodSeeking, dips oft in brine her ample wing.In such disguise o’er many a wave he rode,But reaching, now, that isle remote, forsookThe azure Deep, and at the spacious grot,Where dwelt the amber-tressed nymph arrived,Found her within. A fire on all the hearthBlazed sprightly, and, afar-diffused, the scentOf smooth-split cedar and of cypress-wood70Odorous, burning, cheer’d the happy isle.She, busied at the loom, and plying fastHer golden shuttle, with melodious voice Sat chaunting there; a grove on either side,Alder and poplar, and the redolent branchWide-spread of Cypress, skirted dark the cave.