(meta)gallifmaufry time, bitches!

from John Lyly, Preface to Midas (1589)

Time hath confounded our mindes, our minds the matter; but all commeth to this passe, that what heretofore hath been served in several dishes for a feaste, is now minced in a charger for a Gallimaufrey. If wee present a mingle-mangle, our fault is to be excused, because the whole world is become an Hodge-podge.

explication

from Richard Siken, "Little Beast" in Crush (2005)

Someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure.
          I'm sure you remember, I was on the phone with you, sweetheart.

a world where speech has lost its power

from Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition (1958)

. . . If it should turn out to be true that knowledge (in the modern sense of know-how) and thought have parted company for good, then we would indeed become the helpless slaves, not so much of our machines as of our know-how, thoughtless creatures at the mercy of every gadget which is technically possible, no matter how murderous it is.

However, even apart from these last and yet uncertain consequences, the situation created by the sciences is of great political significance. Wherever the relevance of speech is at stake, matters become political by definition, for speech is what makes a man a political being. If we would follow the advice, so frequently urged upon us, to adjust our cultural attitudes to the present status of scientific achievement, we would in all earnest adopt a way of life in which speech is no longer meaningful. For the sciences today have been forced to adopt a 'language' of mathematical symbols which, though it was originally meant only as an abbreviation for spoken statements, now contains statements that in no way can be translated back into speech. The reason why it may be wise to distrust the political judgment of scientists qua scientists is not primarily their lack of 'character'--that they did not refuse to develop atomic weapons--or their naivete--that they did not understand that once these weapons were developed they would be the last to be consulted about their use--but precisely the fact that they move in a world where speech has lost its power. And whatever men do or know or experience can make sense only to the extent that it can be spoken about. There may be truths beyond speech, and they may be of great relevance to man in the singular, that is, to man in so far as he is not a political being, whatever else he may be. Men in the plural, that is, men in so far as they live and move and act in this world, can experience meaningfulness only because they can talk with and make sense to each other and to themselves.

honeyed sabers

from Isaac Babel, "The Road To Brody" (1923) in The Collected Stories trans. Peter Constantine (2002)

I mourn for the bees. They have been destroyed by warring armies. There are no longer any bees in Volhynia.

We desecrated the hives. We fumigated them with sulfur and detonated them with gunpowder. Smoldering rags have spread a foul stench over the holy republics of the bees. Dying, they flew slowly, their buzzing barely audible. Deprived of bread, we procured honey with our sabers. There are no longer any bees in Volhynia.

The chronicle of our everyday crimes oppresses me as relentlessly as a bad heart. Yesterday was the first day of the battle of Brody. Lost on the blue earth, we suspected nothing - neither I, nor my friend Afonka Bida. The horses had been fed grain in the morning. The rye stood tall, the sun was beautiful, and our souls, which did not deserve these shining, soaring skies, thirsted for lingering pain.

the larded brain

from Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary (1959, 1998)

Disgusting as he usually was, on rare occasions he showed flashes of stagnant intelligence. But his brain was so rotted with drink and dissolute living that whenever he put it to work it behaved like an old engine that had gone haywire from being dipped in lard.

the ferret of satan

from The Apprehension and Confession of Three Notorious Witches (1589)

. . . the devill appeered unto her in the Almes house aforesaide: about ten of the Clock in the night time, beeing in the shape and proportion of a dunnish culloured Ferrit, having fiery eyes, and the saide Examinate beeing alone in her Chamber, and sitting upon a low stoole, preparing her selfe to bedward: the Ferrit standing with his hinder legs upon the ground, and his fore legs setled upon her lappe, and setling his fiery eyes upon her eyes, spake and pronounced unto her these woords following, namelye: "Joan Prentice give me thy soule," to whome this Examinate being greatly amazed, answered and said: "In the name of god what art thou?" The Ferrit answered, "I am Satan, feare me not. My comming vnto thee is to doo thee no hurt but to obtaine thy soule, which I must and wil have before I departe from thee." To whome the saide examinate answered and said, that he demaunded that of her which is none of hers to give, saying: that her soule appertained onely unto Jesus Christ, by whose precious blood shedding, it was bought and purchased. To whome the saide Ferret replyed and saide, "I must then have some of thy blood," which she willingly graunting, offered him the forefinger of her left hand, the which the Ferrit tooke into his mouth, and setting his former feete upon that hand, suckt blood therout, in so much that her finger did smart exceedingye: and the saide examinate demaunding againe of the Ferrit what his name was: "It answered Bidd. and then presently the said Ferrit vanished out of her sight sodainly."

. . . Item, she saith and affirmeth, that at what time soever she would have her Ferret doo any thing for her, she used these woordes, "Bidd, Bidd, Bidd, come Bidd, come bidd, come bidd, come suck, come suck, come suck," and that presently he would appeere as is aforesaide: and suckt blood out of her left cheeke, and then perfourmed any mischeefe she willed or wished him to doo for her unto or against any of her neighbours.

why we pull the blinds

from Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary (1959, 1998)

Then I saw two figures clinging together near the reef. I recognized Yeamon and the girl who had come down with me on the plane. They were naked, standing in waist-deep water, with her legs locked around his hips and her arms around his neck. Her head was thrown back and her hair trailed out behind her, floating on the water like a blonde mane.

At first I thought I was having a vision. There scene was so idyllic that my mind refused to accept it. I just stood there and watched. He was holding her by the waist, swinging her around in slow circles. Then I heard a sound, a soft happy cry as she stretched out her arms like wings.

I left then, and drove back to Jesús Lopo's place. I bought a small bottle of beer for fifteen cents and sat on a bench in the clearing, feeling like an old man. The scene I had just witnessed brought back a lot of memories - not of things I had done but of things I failed to do, wasted hours and frustrated moments and opportunities forever lost because time had eaten so much of my life and I would never get it back. I envied Yeamon and felt sorry for myself at the same time, because I had seen him in a moment that made all my happiness seem dull.

bear v. bull

from Larry McMurtry, Lonesome Dove (1985)

The bull trotted forward another few steps and stopped again. He was no more than thirty or forty yards away from the bear. The bear dropped on all fours, watching the bull. He growled a rough, throaty growl that caused a hundred or so cattle to scatter and run back a short distance. They stopped again to watch. The bull bellowed and slung a string of slobber over his back. He was hot and angry. He pawed the earth again, then lowered his head and charge the bear.

To the amazement of all who saw it, the bear batted the Texas bull aside. He rose on his hind legs again, dealt the bull a swipe with his forepaw that knocked the bull off its feet. The bull was up in a second and charge the bear again--this time it seemed like the bear almost skinned him. He hit the bull on the shoulder and ripped a capelike piece of skin loose on his back, but despite that, the bull managed to drive into the bear and thrust a horn into his flank. The bear roared and dug his teeth into the bull's neck, but the bull was still moving, and soon bear and bull were rolling over and over in the dust, the bull's bellows and the bear's roar so loud that the cattle did panic and begin to run. . . .

. . . the bull and the bear, twisting like cats, had left the creek bank and were moving in the direction of the herd, although the dust the battle was raised was so thick no one could see who have the advantage. It seemed to Call, when he looked, that the bull was being ripped to pieces by the bear's teeth and claws, but at least once the bull knocked the bear backward and got a horn into him again.

"Reckon we ought to shoot?" Augustus said. "Hell, this outfit will run clean back to the Red River if this keeps up."

"If you shoot, you might hit the bull," Call said. "Then we'd have to fight the bear ourselves, and I ain't sure we can stop him. That's a pretty mad bear."

upon the army's schedule

from Thomas Pynchon, Mason & Dixon (1997)

Long before the Soldiers came in sight, people in their Path could hear the drums, upon fitfully directed Winds, clattering off the walls of old quarries where Weld flower'd in glows of orange, yellow, and green, raking the hillside pastures all but empty, with the lambs just sold and the breeding ewes resting up for winter, their cull'd sisters off to auctions and fates less ritual, whilst the rams were soon to go up to spend winter in the hills. Vast flights of starlings, fleeing the racket, beat across the sky at high speed, like Squall-clouds,-- Evening at Noon-tide. In the little one-street villages, women stood among the laundry they'd just put out, looking at the Light, reckoning drying time and marching time, and Cloud-speed, and how wet ev'rything might be when they'd have to bring it in again. Soon the mercilessly even drumbeat fill'd the Day, replacing the accustom'd rhythms of country People with the controlling Pulse of military Clock-time, announcing that all event would now occur at the army's Pleasure, upon the army's schedule.

handouts

from Evelyn Waugh, "The Balance: A Yarn of the Good Old Days of Broad Trousers and High Necked Jumpers" in Georgian Stories (1926)

A public house in the slums. Adam leans against the settee and pays for innumerable pints of beer for armies of ragged men. Ernest is engrossed in a heated altercation about birth control with a beggar whom he has just defeated at "darts."

Another public house: Ernest, beset by two panders, is loudly maintaining the abnormality of his tastes. Adam finds a bottle of gin in his pocket and attempts to give it to a man; his wife interposes; eventually the bottle falls to the floor and is broken.

Adam and Ernest in a taxi; they drive from college to college, being refused admission. Fade out.

riot's indoor sister

from Thomas Pynchon, Mason & Dixon (1997)

"This way, Gentlemen," Mr. Chantry helpfully steering the Surveyors to the Alley and thro' a back Entry in the Coffee-House, where they find Tumult easily out-roaring what prevails outside. With its own fuliginous Weather, at once public and private, created of smoke billowing from Pipes, Hearths, and Stoves, the Room would provide an extraordinary sight, were any able to see, in this Combination, peculiar and precise, of unceasing Talk and low Visibility, that makes Riot's indoor Sister, Conspiracy, not only possible, but resultful as well. One may be inches from a neighbor, yet both blurr'd past recognizing,-- thus may Advice grow reckless and Prophecy extreme, given the astonishing volume of words moving about in here, not only aloud but upon Paper as well, Paper being waved in the air, poked at repeatedly for emphasis, held up as Shielding against uncongenial remarks. Here and there in the Nebulosity, lone Lamps may be made out, at undefin'd Distances, snugly Halo'd,-- Servant-Boys moving to and fro, House-Cats in warm currents of flesh running invisibly before them, each Boy vigorously working his small Bellows to clear a Path thro' the Smoke, meantime calling out Names true and taken.

popularity, bitches!

from Robert Devereux, 2nd Earl of Essex, a letter sent to Elizabeth I during his imprisonment (1600)

I not only am subject to their malicious informations that first envied me for my happiness in your favor, & nowe hate me out of custom: but as if I were throwen into a corner like a dead carcas, I am gnawed on & torne by the vilest and basest creatures upon earthe. The prating tavern-haunter speaks of me what he list: the frantick libeler writes of me what he list; already they print me & make me speak to the world; and shortly they will play me in what forme they list upon the stage.