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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Topic: Today in History of Humanities
    Posted: 30-Mar-2012 at 13:16
I'm thinking this thread as following birth/deaths of important contributors to our knowledge of Humanities - so all poets, writers, philosophers, historians, anthropologists, sociologists, etc will get here. If I have time I may throw a poem, or link a book by the person mentioned. I'm going to use the wiki pages as my main source, plus adding what links with works I can dig from the net. The result can be used as a archive of a sort, instead of endless bookmarking; I cannot do research on additional links than for 2-3 people a day, the next 2-3 will be next year.Smile

March 30th:
Births:

Deaths:



Edited by Don Quixote - 30-Mar-2012 at 13:20
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 01-Apr-2012 at 00:59
March 31st:
Births:

Deaths:


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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 02-Apr-2012 at 00:53
April 1st:

Deaths:


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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 02-Apr-2012 at 22:57
April 2nd:
Births:

Deaths:

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 04-Apr-2012 at 01:08
April 3rd:

A wreathed garland of deserved praise,
Of praise deserved, unto thee I give,
I give to thee, who knowest all my wayes,
My crooked winding wayes, wherein I live,
Wherein I die, not live : for life is straight,
Straight as a line, and ever tends to thee,
To thee, who art more farre above deceit,
Then deceit seems above simplicitie.
Give me simplicitie, that I may live,
So live and like, that I may know thy wayes,
Know them and practise them : then shall I give
For this poore wreath, give thee a crown of praise.

Deaths:

  • 1728James Anderson, Scottish lawyer (b. 1662)
  • 1804Jędrzej Kitowicz, Polish priest
  • 1849Juliusz Słowacki, Polish poet (b. 1809)
  • AGAMEMNON’S TOMB

    (Selection)

     

    by Juliusz Slowacki

     

    O Poland ! As long as you imprison
    An angelic soul in a boorish skull,
    So long your flesh will be hacked by a headsman,
    So long your revenge sword will remain dull,
    So long a hyena will lie over you
    And a grave – your eyes opened in the grave too.

    Throw off completely those hideous tatters,
    First – that Deianira’s burning attire :
    And then arise like great shameless sculptures,
    Naked – and bathed up in die Stygian mire,
    New – brazen in your iron nakedness –
    Not embarrassed by anything – deathless.

    Let the people arise at the dead of night
    From the quiet grave and frighten the others,
    It’s such a big statue – from one block cast tight,
    And so hardened, it won’t break under thunders.
    But with thunderbolts its hands and wreath are rife,
    The eyes that disdain death – the flush of life.

    Poland ! You are still deceived with baubles ;
    You were the nations’ peacock and parrot,
    Now you are a handmaid of other peoples.
    Though I know these words won’t quaver a minute
    In your heart – where thought doesn’t long remain :
    I speak – for I am sad – and full of blame.

    Ay, curse me – yet my soul will make you run
    Like Eumenides – through the snaky canes,
    For you are Prometheus’s only son :
    The vulture doesn’t eat your heart – but your brains.
    Although in your blood my Muse I will stain,
    I’ll reach to your bowels’ core – and pull with a strain.

    Put a curse on your son and howl in torment,
    But be aware – the hand of the curser
    Stretched over me – will coil like a serpent
    And snap off, withered away from your shoulder,
    Black satans will snatch up the bits of dust then ;
    For you have no power to curse – bondwoman !

  • 1950Carter G. Woodson, American historian, author, and journalist, founder of Black History Month (b. 1875)
  • 1976Claude-Henri Grignon, Canadian novelist, journalist and politician (b. 1894)
  • 1991 – Graham Greene, English writer (b. 1904)
  • 2000Terence McKenna, American writer and philosopher (b. 1946)


Edited by Don Quixote - 04-Apr-2012 at 22:20
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 04-Apr-2012 at 22:44
April 4th:

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow,
I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Facedown in ignorance,
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out to us today,
You may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.


Deaths:

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 05-Apr-2012 at 23:37
April 5th:
Births:

THERE WAS a graven image of Desire
Painted with red blood on a ground of gold
Passing between the young men and the old,
And by him Pain, whose body shone like fire,
And Pleasure with gaunt hands that grasped their hire.
Of his left wrist, with fingers clenched and cold,
The insatiable Satiety kept hold,
Walking with feet unshod that pashed the mire.
The senses and the sorrows and the sins,
And the strange loves that suck the breasts of Hate
Till lips and teeth bite in their sharp indenture,
Followed like beasts with flap of wings and fins.
Death stood aloof behind a gaping grate,
Upon whose lock was written Peradventure.


Deaths:

Come, thou long-expected Jesus,
Born to set thy people free;
From our fears and sins release us,
Let us find our rest in thee.

Israel’s strength and consolation,
Hope of all the earth thou art;
Dear desire of every nation,
Joy of every longing heart.

Born thy people to deliver,
Born a child, and yet a King,
Born to reign in us for ever,
Now thy gracious kingdom bring.

By thine own eternal Spirit,
Rule in all our hearts alone:
By thine all-sufficient merit,
Raise us to thy glorious throne. Amen.

Now mind is clear
as a cloudless sky.
Time then to make a
home in wilderness.

What have I done but
wander with my eyes
in the trees? So I
will build: wife,
family, and seek
for neighbors.

Or I
perish of lonesomeness
or want of food or
lightning or the bear
(must tame the hart
and wear the bear).

And maybe make an image
of my wandering, a little
image—shrine by the
roadside to signify
to traveler that I live
here in the wilderness
awake and at home.

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 07-Apr-2012 at 01:51
April 6th:

Deaths:

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 08-Apr-2012 at 01:49
April 7th:

A Night-Piece

--The sky is overcast
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground--from rock, plant, tree, or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up--the clouds are split
Asunder,--and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not!--the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent;--still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.


Deaths:

Ladies in Arms

LET us live, live! for, being dead,
The pretty spots,
Ribbons and knots,
And the fine French dress for the head,
No lady wears upon her
In the cold, cold bed of honour.
Beat down our grottos, and hew down our bowers,
Dig up our arbours, and root up our flowers;
Our gardens are bulwarks and bastions become;
Then hang up our lute, we must sing to the drum.

Our patches and our curls,
So exact in each station,
Our powders and our purls,
Are now out of fashion.
Hence with our needles, and give us your spades;
We, that were ladies, grow coarse as our maids.
Our coaches have driven us to balls at the court,
We now must drive barrows to earth up the fort.




Edited by Don Quixote - 08-Apr-2012 at 02:00
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 09-Apr-2012 at 01:42
April 8th:

Deaths:




Edited by Don Quixote - 09-Apr-2012 at 01:54
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 10-Apr-2012 at 00:29
April 9th:
  • 1680Philippe Néricault Destouches, French dramatist (d. 1754). His work "The Triple Marriage" is available for reading here http://www.gutenberg.org/catalog/world/readfile?fk_files=13331&pageno=2
  • 1773Étienne Aignan, French writer (d. 1824)
  • 1802Elias Lönnrot, Finnish folklorist (d. 1884)

  • 1821Charles Baudelaire, French poet (d. 1867)
  • Charles Baudelaire
  • "Be Drunk"
  • You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it--it's the
    only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks
    your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually
    drunk.
    But on what?Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be
    drunk.
    And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of
    a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again,
    drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave,
    the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything
    that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is
    singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and
    wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you:"It is time to be
    drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be
    continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."

  • 1893Victor Gollancz, English publisher (d. 1967)
  • 1893 – Mahapandit Rahul Sankrityayan, Indian historian and writer (d. 1963)
  • 1922Carl Amery, German writer (d. 2005)
  • 1929Paule Marshall, American author
  • 1930Nathaniel Branden, Canadian psychotherapist
  • 1955Joolz Denby, English poet and novelist
  • 1955 – Kate Heyhoe, American writer

Deaths:


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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 11-Apr-2012 at 01:14
April 10th:

Deaths:

LEAVES and rain and the days of the year,
(Water-willow and wellaway,)
All these fall, and my soul gives ear,
And she is hence who once was here.
(With a wind blown night and day.)
Ah! but now, for a secret sign,
(The willow's wan and the water white,)
In the held breath of the day's decline
Her very face seemed pressed to mine.
(With a wind blown day and night.)
O love, of my death my life is fain;
(The willows wave on the water-way,)
Your cheek and mine are cold in the rain,
But warm they'll be when we meet again.
(With a wind blown night and day.)
Mists are heaved and cover the sky;
(The willows wail in the waning light,)
O loose your lips, leave space for a sigh,—
They seal my soul, I cannot die.
(With a wind blown day and night.)
Leaves and rain and the days of the year,
(Water-willow and wellaway,)
All still fall, and I still give ear,
And she is hence, and I am here.
(With a wind blown night and day.)


Heart's ease or pansy, pleasure or thought,
Which would the picture give us of these?
Surely the heart that conceived it sought
Heart's ease.

Surely by glad and divine degrees
The heart impelling the hand that wrought
Wrought comfort here for a soul's disease.

Deep flowers, with lustre and darkness fraught,
From glass that gleams as the chill still seas
Lean and lend for a heart distraught
Heart's ease.



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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 12-Apr-2012 at 02:07
April 11th:

The sweets of evening charm the mind,
Sick of the sultry day;
The body then no more confin'd,
But exercise with freedom join'd,
When Phoebus sheathes his ray.

While all-serene the summer moon
Sends glances thro' the trees,
And Philomel begins her tune,.
And Asteria too shall help her soon
With voice of skillful ease.

A nosegay, every thing that grows,
And music, every sound
To lull the sun to his repose;
The skies are colour'd like the rose
With lively streaks around.

Of all the changes rung by time
None half so sweet appear,
As those when thoughts themselves sublime,
And with superior natures chime
In fancy's highest sphere.


This love, that dares not warm before its flame
   Our yearning hands, or from its tempting tree
Yield fruit we may consume, or let us claim
   In Hymen's scroll of happy heraldry
   The twining glyphs of perfect you and me --
May kindle social fires whence curls no blame,
   Find gardens where no fruits forbidden be,
And mottoes weave, unsullied by a shame.

For, love, unmothered Childhood wanly waits
   For such as you to cherish it to Youth:
   Raw social soils untilled need Love's own verve
That Peace a-flower may oust their weedy hates:
   And where Distress would faint from wolfish sleuth
   The perfect lovers' symbol is "We serve!"


  • 1876 – Ivane Javakhishvili, Georgian historian (d. 1940)
  • 1896Léo-Paul Desrosiers, Canadian novelist (d. 1967)
  • 1900Sandor Marai, Hungarian writer (d. 1989)
  • 1905József Attila, Hungarian poet (d. 1937)
  • With a pure heart.

    Without father without mother
    without God or homeland either
    without crib or coffin-cover
    without kisses or a lover

    for the third day - without fussing
    I have eaten next to nothing.
    My store of power are my years
    I sell all my twenty years.

    Perhaps, if no else will
    the buyer will be the devil.
    With a pure heart - that's a job:
    I may kill and I shall rob.

    They'll catch me, hang me high
    in blessed earth I shall lie,
    and poisonous grass will start
    to grow on my beautiful heart.

  • 1908 – Leo Rosten, American humorist and author (d. 1997)
  • 1917 – David Westheimer, American novelist (d. 2005)
  • 1920Peter O'Donnell, British writer of mysteries and of comic strips (Modesty Blaise) (d. 2010)
  • 1933Tony Brown, American journalist
  • 1934Mark Strand, Canadian-born American poet
  • Eating Poetry
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. 
There is no happiness like mine. 
I have been eating poetry. 

The librarian does not believe what she sees. 
Her eyes are sad 
and she walks with her hands in her dress. 

The poems are gone. 
The light is dim. 
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up. 

Their eyeballs roll, 
their blond legs burn like brush. 
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
 
She does not understand. 
When I get on my knees and lick her hand, 
she screams. 

I am a new man. 
I snarl at her and bark. 
I romp with joy in the bookish dark. 

Deaths:


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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 15-Apr-2012 at 00:45
April 12th:

"...KORSHUNOV: What are you crying about, young lady? For shame, for shame! He, he, he! There! I'm older than you, and I don't cry. [Looks at her searchingly.] Oh, well, I know what it's about! I suppose you want to marry a young fellow? Now, this, my pretty one, is just girlish folly. Now, just listen to what I'm going to tell you; I'll tell you the truth straight out. I don't like to deceive any one, and have no need to. Will you listen, eh? Good! Now, we'll begin with this point. Will a young man appreciate your love? Any girl will love a young man; that is nothing unusual for him; but to an old man it is precious. An old man will reward you for your love with some little gift, this and that--with gold, and with velvet--and there's nothing he won't give you. And in Moscow there are lots of nice things in the shops; there are things worth giving! So it's nice to fall in love with an old man. That's number one for you! And then this is what happens with a young and good-looking husband. You see they are a fickle lot! Before you know it he will be running after some one else, or some young lady will fall in love with him, and then his wife may pine away. Then come reproaches and jealousy. And what is this jealousy, eh? He, he, he! Do you know, young lady, what this jealousy is? It isn't like a needle prick in the finger; it's far more painful than that. You see the cursed thing consumes a man. From jealousy people stab one another, and poison one another with arsenic! [Laughs spasmodically and coughs.] But when any one falls in love with an old man, then all is peaceful for his wife. And here's something else I will tell you, my dear young lady: Young men like to go on sprees; they like gayety and distraction, and all sorts of dissipations, and their wives may sit at home and wait for them till midnight. And they come home drunk, and bully their wives, and swagger. But an old man will just sit near his wife; he'll die before he'll leave her. And he would like to look into her eyes all the time and to caress her and to kiss her hands. [Kisses them.] Just like that...." http://www.monologuearchive.com/o/ostrovsky_alexander.html

Deaths:

 Now comes the painful instant
 Nice, my Nice, goodbye,
 How can I live, my love
 So far away from you!

 My live will be a burden
 Without any happiness
 And you, who knows if ever
 You will remember me.

 On your way I shall always
 Be close to you
 But you, who knows, if ever
 You will remember me.


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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 15-Apr-2012 at 01:16
April 13th:

Deaths:


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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 15-Apr-2012 at 01:52
April 14th:

Deaths:

I suddenly smeared the weekday map
splashing paint from a glass;
On a plate of aspic 
I revealed 
the ocean's slanted cheek. 
On the scales of a tin fish
I read the summons of new lips. 
And you 
could you perform
a nocturne on a drainpipe flute?


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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 16-Apr-2012 at 03:13
April 15th:

WE will walk by the grating of the park,
When the Great Bear is growing dark,
And, as I wish it, you will wear
Among the ribbons of your hair
The flower called asphodel.

 Your eyes in mine will be shining,
When the Great Bear is declining.--
And mine eyes will have the rays
Of the flower called asphodel.

 Your eyes into mine will gaze,
And all my being shall with such
A wavering shake as fables tell
The mythic rock felt at the touch
Of the flower called asphodel.

1858Émile Durkheim, French sociologist (d. 1917)

1861Bliss Carman, Canadian poet (d. 1929)

  • "A Song Before Sailing"

Wind of the dead men's feet,
Blow down the empty street
Of this old city by the sea
With news for me!
Blow me beyond the grime
And pestilence of time!
I am too sick at heart to war
With failure any more.
Thy chill is in my bones;
The moonlight on the stones
Is pale, and palpable, and cold;
I am as one grown old.

I call from room to room
Through the deserted gloom;
The echoes are all words I know,
Lost in some long ago.

I prowl from door to door,
And find no comrade more.
The wolfish fear that children feel
Is snuffing at my heel.

I hear the hollow sound
Of a great ship coming round,
The thunder of tackle and the tread
Of sailors overhead.

That stormy-blown hulloo
Has orders for me, too.
I see thee, hand at mouth, and hark,
My captain of the dark.

O wind of the great East,
By whom we are released
From this strange dusty port to sail
Beyond our fellows' hail,

Under the stars that keep
The entry of the deep,
Thy somber voice brings up the sea's
Forgotten melodies;

And I have no more need
Of bread, or wine, or creed,
Bound for the colonies of time
Beyond the farthest prime.

Wind of the dead men's feet,
Blow through the empty street;
The last adventurer am I,
Then, world, goodby!

By the hut, left by people and heaven, 
Where the fence’s black remnants are steeping,  
The ragged beggar and black old raven, 
Were discussing the dreams of the sleeping.

The old bird, with commotion’s moans,  
Was repeating in hot indecision,                        
That he had on the tower’s stones
The unusual, fabulous visions; 

That in flight, full of valor and air,
He, who lost their usual sadness,
Was a swan, snow white, sweet and fair, 
And the beggar – a prince of the greatness!

The ugly pauper was helplessly wailing.
Heavy night was descending and reigning.
The old woman, while passing the dwelling, 
Was unceasingly crossing and praying. 

Deaths:



Edited by Don Quixote - 16-Apr-2012 at 03:14
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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 16-Apr-2012 at 21:53
April 16th:

The Great Lament Of My Obscurity Three

where we live the flowers of the clocks catch fire and the plumes encircle the brightness in the distant sulphur morning the cows lick the salt lilies
my son
my son
let us always shuffle through the colour of the world
which looks bluer than the subway and astronomy
we are too thin
we have no mouth
our legs are stiff and knock together
our faces are formeless like the stars
crystal points without strength burned basilica
mad : the zigzags crack
telephone
bite the rigging liquefy
the arc
climb
astral
memory
towards the north through its double fruit
like raw flesh
hunger fire blood

Last night I awoke knew
That I should say goodbye now
To these verses. That's how it always goes
After a few years. They have to get out
Into the world. It's not possible to keep them
Forever! here under the roof.
Poor things. They must set out for town.
A few will be allowed to return later.
But most of them are still hanging around out there.
Who knows what will become of them. Before they
Find their peace.
Deaths:

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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 17-Apr-2012 at 20:58
April 17th:

My God and King! to Thee
I bow my knee;
I bow my troubled soul, and greet
With my foul heart thy holy feet.
Cast it, or tread it! it shall do
Even what thou wilt, and praise thee too.

My God, could I weep blood,
Gladly I would,
Or if thou wilt give me that art,
Which through the eyes pours out the heart,
I will exhaust it all, and make
Myself all tears, a weeping lake.

O! 'tis an easy thing
To write and sing;
But to write true, unfeigned verse
Is very hard! O God, disperse
These weights, and give my spirit leave
To act as well as to conceive!

O my God, hear my cry;
Or let me die!

Deaths:


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  Quote Don Quixote Quote  Post ReplyReply Direct Link To This Post Posted: 19-Apr-2012 at 02:24
April 18th:

Deaths:


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