One more then I am done :)
"'I often wonder, Shirley, whether most men resemble my uncle in their domestic relations; whether it is necessary to be new and unfamiliar to them, in order to see agreeable or estimable in their eyes; and whether it is impossible to their natures to retain a constant interest and affection for those they see every day.'
'I don't know: I can't clear up your doubts. I ponder over similar ones myself sometimes. But, to tell you a secret, if I were convinced that they are necessarily and universally different from us--fickle, soon petrifying, unsympathizing--I would never marry. I should not like to find out that what I loved did not love me, that it was weary of me, and that whatever effort I might make to please would hereafter be worse than useless, since it was inevitably in its nature to change and become indifferent. That discovery once made, what should I long for? To go away--to remove from presence where my society gave no pleasure.'
'But you could not, if you were married.'
'No, I could not,--there it is. I could never be my own mistress more. A terrible thought! --it suffocates me! Nothing irks me like the idea of being a burden and a bore,--an inevitable burden, --a ceaseless bore! Now, when I feel my company superfluous, I can comfortably fold my independence round me like a mantle, and drop my pride like a veil, and withdraw to solitude. If married, that could not be.'
'I wonder we don't all make up our minds to remain single,' said Caroline: 'we should if we listened to the wisdom of experience. My uncle always speaks of marriage as a burden; and I believe whenever he hears of a man being married, he invariably regards him as a fool, or, at any rate, as doing a foolish thing.'
'But, Caroline, men are not all like your uncle: surely not--I hope not.'
She paused and mused.
'I suppose we each find an exception in the one we love, till we are married,' suggested Caroline.
'I suppose so: and this exception we believe to be of sterling materials; we fancy it like ourselves; we imagine a sense of harmony. We think his voice gives the softest, truest, promise of heart that will never harden against us: we read in his eyes that faithful feeling--affection. I don't think we should trust to what they call passion, at all, Caroline. I believe it is a mere fire of dry sticks, blazing up and vanishing: but we watch him, and see him kind to animals, to little children, to poor people. He is kind to us likewise--good--considerate: he does not flatter women, but he is patient with them, and he seems to be easy in their presence, and to find their company genial. He likes them not only for vain and selfish reasons, but as we like him,--because we like him. Then we observe that he is just--that he always speaks the truth--that he is conscientious. We feel joy and peace when he comes into a room: we feel sadness and trouble when he leaves it. We know that this man has been a kind son, that he is a kind brother: will any one dare to tell me that he will not be a kind husband?'" Part II Chapter One
One more line about marriage: "and the second Mrs. Helstone, inverting the natural order of insect existence, would have fluttered through the honeymoon a bright, admired butterfly, and crawled the rest of her days a sordid, trampled worm." Part I Chapter VII
This brought tears to my eyes when I read it. hehe :)
Thursday, May 19, 2011
More!
More from Shirley!
"Communicative on her own affairs she usually was not, because no one cared to listen to her; but today she became so, and her confidant shed tears as she heard her speak: for she told of cruel, slow-wasting, obstinate sufferings....
Miss Mann felt that she was understood partly, and wished to be understood further; for however old, plain, humble, desolate, afflicted we may be, so long as our hearts preserve the feeblest spark of life, they preserve also, shivering near that pale ember, a starved, ghostly longing for appreciation and affection. To this extenuated spectre, perhaps, a crumb is not thrown once a year; but when ahungered and athirst to famine--when all humanity has forgotten the dying tenant of a decaying house--Divine Mercy remembers the mourner, and a shower of manna falls for lips that early nutriment is to pass no more. Biblical promises, heard first in health, but then unheeded, come whispering to the couch of sickness: it is felt that a pitying God watches what all mankind have forsaken; the tender compassion of Jesus is recalled and relied on: the faded eye, gazing beyond Time, sees a Home, a Friend, a Refuge in Eternity." Chapter 10
This makes me wonder if it is women's plight to suffer loneliness, to feel abandoned, neglected, abused, mistreated, unloved, unwanted, alone at the sacrifice of loving others. I have felt many times like Miss Mann. What confounds me the most is, the cure Bronte offers seems to be wrapped up in good deeds, industry, or children. Are children that wonderful? I will have to think about this for awhile. How can so many current womanly issues be bound up in a book written 1849? I will have to say, I do not think God is the neglectful and chastising God as Bronte makes him out to be.
"Communicative on her own affairs she usually was not, because no one cared to listen to her; but today she became so, and her confidant shed tears as she heard her speak: for she told of cruel, slow-wasting, obstinate sufferings....
Miss Mann felt that she was understood partly, and wished to be understood further; for however old, plain, humble, desolate, afflicted we may be, so long as our hearts preserve the feeblest spark of life, they preserve also, shivering near that pale ember, a starved, ghostly longing for appreciation and affection. To this extenuated spectre, perhaps, a crumb is not thrown once a year; but when ahungered and athirst to famine--when all humanity has forgotten the dying tenant of a decaying house--Divine Mercy remembers the mourner, and a shower of manna falls for lips that early nutriment is to pass no more. Biblical promises, heard first in health, but then unheeded, come whispering to the couch of sickness: it is felt that a pitying God watches what all mankind have forsaken; the tender compassion of Jesus is recalled and relied on: the faded eye, gazing beyond Time, sees a Home, a Friend, a Refuge in Eternity." Chapter 10
This makes me wonder if it is women's plight to suffer loneliness, to feel abandoned, neglected, abused, mistreated, unloved, unwanted, alone at the sacrifice of loving others. I have felt many times like Miss Mann. What confounds me the most is, the cure Bronte offers seems to be wrapped up in good deeds, industry, or children. Are children that wonderful? I will have to think about this for awhile. How can so many current womanly issues be bound up in a book written 1849? I will have to say, I do not think God is the neglectful and chastising God as Bronte makes him out to be.
At Eighteen...
It has been so long that I had to look up my blog address on my facebook account. I don't really want to spend this time getting "caught up." Instead, I am going to copy some passages from Charlotte Bronte's 7th chapter of Shirley
"Caroline Helstone was just eighteen years old; and at eighteen the true narrative of life is yet to be commenced. Before that time, we sit listening to a tale, a marvelous fiction; delightful sometimes, and sad sometimes; almost always unreal. Before that time, our world is heroic; its inhabitants half-divine or semi-demon; its scenes are dream-scenes: darker woods, and stranger hills; brighter skies, more dangerous waters; sweeter flowers, more tempting fruits; wider plains, drearier deserts, sunnier fields than are found in nature, overspread our enchanted globe. What a moon we gaze on before that time! As to our sun, it is a burning heaven--the world of gods.
At that time--at eighteen, drawing near the confines of illusive, void dreams, Elf-land lies behind us, the shores of Reality rise in front. These shores are yet distant: they look so blue, soft, gentle, we long to reach them. In sunshine we see a greenness beneath the azure, as of spring meadows; we catch glimpses of silver lines, and imagine the roll of living waters. Could we but reach this land, we think to hunger and thirst no more; whereas man a wilderness, and often the flood of Death, or some stream of sorrow as cold and almost black as Death, is to be crossed ere true bliss can be tasted. Every joy that life gives must be earned ere it is secured; and how hardly earned, those only know who have wrestled for great prizes. The heart's blood must gem with red beads the brow of the combatant, before the wreath of victory rustles over it.
At eighteen, we are not aware of this. Hope, when she smiles on us, and promises happiness tomorrow, is implicitly believed; --Love, when he comes wandering like a lost angel to our door,is at once admitted, welcomed, embraced: his quiver is not seen; if his arrows penetrate, their wound is like a thrill of new life: there are no fears of poison, none of the barb which no leech's hand can extract: that perilous passion--an agony ever in some of its phases: with many, an agony throughout--is believed to be an unqualified good: in short, at eighteen, the school of Experience is still to be entered, and her humbling, crushing, grinding, but yet purifying and invigorating lessons are yet to be learnt.
Alas, Experience! No other mentor has so wasted and frozen a face as yours; none wears a robe so black, none bears a rod so heavy, none with hands so inexorable draws the novice so sternly to his task, and forces him with authority so resistless to its acquirement. It is by your instructions alone that man or woman can ever find a safe track through life's wilds: without it, how they stumble, how they stray! On what forbidden grounds do they intrude, down what dread declivities are the hurled!"
All I can say is, "Fact." and "Well said." :) I would have liked to been Charlotte Bronte's friend. She is so brilliant!!!!
"Caroline Helstone was just eighteen years old; and at eighteen the true narrative of life is yet to be commenced. Before that time, we sit listening to a tale, a marvelous fiction; delightful sometimes, and sad sometimes; almost always unreal. Before that time, our world is heroic; its inhabitants half-divine or semi-demon; its scenes are dream-scenes: darker woods, and stranger hills; brighter skies, more dangerous waters; sweeter flowers, more tempting fruits; wider plains, drearier deserts, sunnier fields than are found in nature, overspread our enchanted globe. What a moon we gaze on before that time! As to our sun, it is a burning heaven--the world of gods.
At that time--at eighteen, drawing near the confines of illusive, void dreams, Elf-land lies behind us, the shores of Reality rise in front. These shores are yet distant: they look so blue, soft, gentle, we long to reach them. In sunshine we see a greenness beneath the azure, as of spring meadows; we catch glimpses of silver lines, and imagine the roll of living waters. Could we but reach this land, we think to hunger and thirst no more; whereas man a wilderness, and often the flood of Death, or some stream of sorrow as cold and almost black as Death, is to be crossed ere true bliss can be tasted. Every joy that life gives must be earned ere it is secured; and how hardly earned, those only know who have wrestled for great prizes. The heart's blood must gem with red beads the brow of the combatant, before the wreath of victory rustles over it.
At eighteen, we are not aware of this. Hope, when she smiles on us, and promises happiness tomorrow, is implicitly believed; --Love, when he comes wandering like a lost angel to our door,is at once admitted, welcomed, embraced: his quiver is not seen; if his arrows penetrate, their wound is like a thrill of new life: there are no fears of poison, none of the barb which no leech's hand can extract: that perilous passion--an agony ever in some of its phases: with many, an agony throughout--is believed to be an unqualified good: in short, at eighteen, the school of Experience is still to be entered, and her humbling, crushing, grinding, but yet purifying and invigorating lessons are yet to be learnt.
Alas, Experience! No other mentor has so wasted and frozen a face as yours; none wears a robe so black, none bears a rod so heavy, none with hands so inexorable draws the novice so sternly to his task, and forces him with authority so resistless to its acquirement. It is by your instructions alone that man or woman can ever find a safe track through life's wilds: without it, how they stumble, how they stray! On what forbidden grounds do they intrude, down what dread declivities are the hurled!"
All I can say is, "Fact." and "Well said." :) I would have liked to been Charlotte Bronte's friend. She is so brilliant!!!!
Sunday, May 23, 2010
sometimes I feel like a warrior
avoiding hidden land mines, or engaging in power struggles.
Lately I have become hyper-aware of how our life hinges on the decisions we make. In the back of my mind I know decisions guide our direction; however, it was never an active thought. Instead, I made decisions based on what was needed without much foresight. I think this is true for many people. For instance, on the news yesterday two brothers were at a party. They had been drinking, and one had a heart attack. So the other brother drove him to the hospital. Unfortunately, he was driving over the speed limit and swerving. A police man tried to pull him over and a cop chase of seven police cars followed them to the hospital. The driver thought they would understand. Instead he was arrested for DUI, speeding, and avoiding a police officer. He could serve time, but either way his decision to drive his brother to the hospital will cost him his job. He is a trucker driver under a zero tolerance for drinking and driving policy. One decision to drive his brother or call the ambulance changed that man's life. And I doubt he even spent much time thinking about it. Which is scary. It makes me wonder how far away I am from making a decision that lands me in jail.
Let's take it on an even smaller scale. The words we use when we talk to others are as much of our decision process as anything. Perhaps the most damaging is when an Aunt laughs at her chubby nine year old niece saying, "I could fit into your pants!" Again I doubt if she thought about what she was saying. Instead she was probably feeding her ego and vanity at the cost of a little girl.
Words. Who really has control of them? Even more so, who can control what they say in uncomfortable situations when we should be on our best behavior... And they never go away. They are etched in our personal record. Once the rock hits, we pick it up and add it to our load.
Even now I am just spewing warm words across the page.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Poetry Day
Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
I know I have posted the next two poems many times before. But they fit my mood today. Also I am including one verse from another poem that is simply brilliant. The poem is too long for me to care to type it out, so check it out on your own if you fancy.
The Road by Russel Edson
There was a road that leads him to go to find a certain time where he sits.
Smokes quietly in the evening by the four legged table wagging its
(well why not) tail, friendly chap.
Hears footsteps, looks to find his own feet gone.
The road absorbs everything with rumors of sleep.
And then he looked for himself and even he was gone.
--Looked for the road and even that...
The Fall by Russel Edson
There was a man who found two leaves and came indoors holding
them out saying to his parents that he was a tree.
To which they said then go into the yard and do not row in the living
room as your roots may ruin the carpet.
He said I was fooling I am not a tree and he dropped his leaves.
But his parents said look it is fall.
The Dainty One by Russel Edson
"...One feels that things are about to change. I have felt this way all my life. It
is a readiness that robs every act of meaning, making every situation
obsolete, putting the present into the past..."
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
I know I have posted the next two poems many times before. But they fit my mood today. Also I am including one verse from another poem that is simply brilliant. The poem is too long for me to care to type it out, so check it out on your own if you fancy.
The Road by Russel Edson
There was a road that leads him to go to find a certain time where he sits.
Smokes quietly in the evening by the four legged table wagging its
(well why not) tail, friendly chap.
Hears footsteps, looks to find his own feet gone.
The road absorbs everything with rumors of sleep.
And then he looked for himself and even he was gone.
--Looked for the road and even that...
The Fall by Russel Edson
There was a man who found two leaves and came indoors holding
them out saying to his parents that he was a tree.
To which they said then go into the yard and do not row in the living
room as your roots may ruin the carpet.
He said I was fooling I am not a tree and he dropped his leaves.
But his parents said look it is fall.
The Dainty One by Russel Edson
"...One feels that things are about to change. I have felt this way all my life. It
is a readiness that robs every act of meaning, making every situation
obsolete, putting the present into the past..."
Monday, January 25, 2010
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