“Words are like stories, don’t you think, Mr. Sweatman? They change as they are passed from mouth to mouth; their meanings stretch or truncate to fit what needs to be said. The Dictionary can’t possibly capture every variation, especially since so many have never been written down -”
Esme to Mr. Sweatman, in The Dictionary of Lost Words, by Pip Williams
Category: Bookish Thoughts (Page 9 of 43)
“Words change over time, you see. The way they look, the way they sound; sometimes even their meaning changes. They have their own history.”
Da to Esme, in The Dictionary of Lost Words, by Pip Williams
“Never forget that, Esme. Words are our tools of resurrection.”
Aunt Ditte to Esme, in The Dictionary of Lost Words, BY Pip Williams
Assuaged – to pacify, calm, satisfy, or quench
“And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.”
Mary Oliver, “Mornings at Blackwater“
For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
the feet of ducks.
And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.
What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what that will be
darling citizen.
So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,
and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life.
("Mornings at Blackwater", Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions, 2017)
After the wind-bruised sea
furrowed itself back
into the folds of blue, I found
in the black wrack
a shell called the Neptune -
tawny and white
spherical,
with a tail
and a tower
and a dark door,
and all of it
no larger
than my fist.
It looked, you might say,
very expensive.
I thought of its travels
in the Atlantic's
wind-pounded bowl
and wondered
that it was still intact.
Ah yes, there was
that door
that held only the eventual, inevitable
emptiness.
...
There's that - there's always that.
Still, what a house
to leave behind!
I held it
like the wisest of books
and imagined
its travels toward my hand.
And now, your hand.
("The Gift", Mary Oliver, printed in Devotions, 2017)
Banditti – plural form of bandit – an outlaw, robber, or highwayman
“Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Children’s Hour“
I woke up this morning,
as the blues singers like to boast,
and the first thing to enter my mind,
as the dog was licking my face, was Coventry Patmore.
Who was Coventry Patmore?
I wondered, as I rose
and set out on my journey to the encyclopedia
passing some children and a bottle cap on the way.
Everything seemed more life-size than usual.
Light in the shape of windows
Hung on the walls next to the paintings
of birds and horses, flowers and fish.
Coventry Patmore,
I'm coming to get you, I hissed,
as I entered the library like a man stepping
into a freight elevator of science and wisdom.
How many things have I looked up
in a lifetime of looking things up?
I wondered, as I set the book on the piano
and began turning its large, weightless pages.
How would the world look
if all of its things were neatly arranged
in alphabetical order? I wondered,
as I found the P section and began zeroing in.
How long before I would forget Coventry Patmore's
dates and the title of his long poem
on the sanctity of married love?
I asked myself as I closed the door to that room
and stood for a moment in the kitchen,
taking in the silvery toaster, the bowl of lemons,
and the white cat, looking as if
he had just finished his autobiography.
("The Literary Life", Billy Collins, in Nine Horses, 2002)
What an awesome way to describe entering a library: stepping into a freight elevator of science and wisdom.
May 23, 1864
How beautiful it was, that one bright day
In the long week of rain!
Though all its splendor could not chase away
The omnipresent pain.
The lovely town was white with apple-blossoms,
And the great elms o'erhead
Dark shadows wove on their aërial looms
Shot through with golden thread.
Across the meadows, by the gray old manse,
The historic river flowed:
I was one who wanders in a trance,
Unconscious of his road.
The faces of familiar friends seemed strange;
Their voices I could hear,
And yet the words they uttered seemed to change
Their meaning to my ear.
For the one face I looked for was not there,
The one low voice was mute;
Only an unseen presence filled the air,
And baffled my pursuit.
Now I look back, and meadow, manse, and stream
Dimly my thought defines;
I only see - a dream within a dream -
The hilltop hearsed with pines.
I only hear above his place of rest
Their tender undertone,
The infinite longings of a troubled breast,
The voice so like his own.
There in seclusion and remote from men
The wizard hand lies cold,
Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen,
And left the tale half told.
Ah! who shall lift that wand of magic power,
And the lost clue regain?
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower
Unfinished must remain!
("Hawthorne", Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Selected Poems, 1988)
Hawthorne footnote: On this date Longfellow attended the funeral of his friend and college classmate [Nathaniel] Hawthorne at Concord, Massachusetts.
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And the voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
in his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!
("The Children's Hour", Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Selected Poems, 1988)
Hi! I'm Cadie. Welcome to my Collection of Bookish Thoughts where I will share with you everything I love about books.