Old Men ought to be Explorers

06:36 pm: Epiphany
   



The Epiphany is now rarely celebrated because people don't know what to do with it. Eliot's 'Journey of the Magi' is a beginning, but a (then) fashionably and unnecessarily bleak one.

Epiphany is an Appearing, a Showing-Forth. And in this case, it is the Verbum infans, the wordless, unspeaking, preverbal Word, appearing not just to shepherds, mechanics, but to Intellectuals. Given the fact that Intellectuals harbour the highest percentage of unbelievers, atheists and indeed antitheists, such an Appearance is not just a Good Thing but perhaps a bloody necessary one. It gives one furiously to think, or should.

As the seventeenth-century anonymous Dutch hymn puts it:

See the Word here lying speechless,
See the King without his pomp,
See the All in need and helpless,
See the Light swaddled in night,
Who is Goodness, Who is Sweetness,
Here rejected, here contemned.

Terry Eagleton has lumped the names of the present age's most noisily chattering antitheists, Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins, together as 'Ditchkins'. Today is Epiphany. Ditchkins, beware. There is a star bearing great tidings. Hubble may have seen it. Celebrate!

10:48 am: A NEW IDEA
  


A new idea, we know, is more valuable than a new continent. Silent upon a hill in France, I viewed with a wild surmise Laudator temporis acti's wonderful post on the 'Anti-Library'. I will not even try to explain it here: it deserves to be read on his blog. But it has explained and justified something important to me, definitively.

11:43 pm: CHERISHING HER MEMORY




Just before Christmas, I attended a wake (well, they called it a ‘bénédiction’, but as the body was present I call it a short wake) for my old neighbour during my first, lonely year in Cordes.

I had decided to spend a sabbatical reading what was then the cutting-edge French literary criticism, and to do it in this beautiful old hilltop town I’d found on a vacation trip. So I found an apartment, sent myself 35 boxes of books, and sat on my hill for a year, reading.

I knew nobody, but nobody there. But within a week or two I discovered that just across the very narrow medieval street, one floor up, lived an old lady (well, I now know she was 62, but in those days that was old, to me) who looked after the town’s little historical museum, and who was willing to chat with me.

She was a little round person in shapeless dresses, her hair in a bun, her feet in carpet slippers, and she chain-smoked Gauloises. ( Read more... )

03:17 pm: New Year's Day

 

This image corresponds exquisitely to my memory of New Year's Days in my childhood. There is a very fine Dutch poem called 'Nieuwjaarsmorgen' (New Year's Morning) by Albert Verwey, but it has 40 9-line stanzas, which is too long to print here, even if I had the nerve to translate it. So I will give instead part of a New Year's poem by William Strode (1601-45), a Canon of Christ Church, Oxford. (In the 16th and 17th centuries, gifts were given, not at Christmas, but on New Year's Day, and sometimes they took the form of poems.)

May this yeare happier prove
Than all the Golden Age when Vertue strove
With nothing but with Vertue; may it bee
Such as the Dayes of Saturnes Infancy.
May every Tide and Season joyntly fitt
All your Intents and your Occasions hitt:
May every Grayne of Sand within your Glass
Number a fresh content before it pass.
And when success comes on, stand then each howre
Like Josuah's Day, & grow to three or fowre:
At last when this yeare rounds and wheeles away,
Bee still the next yeare like the old yeares Day.

And I will wish everyone a 'happy' (i.e. fortunate) new year.

07:56 pm: GIVING US FURIOUSLY TO THINK
   
Mahmood Delkhasteh on today's Huffington Post:

"Such a non-violent revolution could secularise the state, separating it from religion, and revolutionise religion itself by redefining Islam as a discourse of freedom and a method not for obtaining and managing power, but for expanding freedom. The principles of such an Islam are already being produced, not least of all in the latest works of Grand Ayatollah Montazeri, who during the course of his life became an advocate of human rights. His unprecedented burial gathering, despite being disrupted by the regime's great attempts to minimise it, suggest that the Iranian public recognises and perhaps even favours this discourse. An authentic Islamic renaissance is already sweeping through many Iranian cities, and its effect on other Islamic countries will be felt in the coming years and months."

10:28 pm: NO COMMENT NECESSARY
    
Ashura 2009

04:37 pm: INNOCENTS
Today, while the Roman Catholic Church celebrates the Holy Family, Anglicans remember the Slaughter of the Innocents -- all the male firstborn children Herod ordered to be killed to be sure that he had eliminated the new so-called King of the Jews. Here is the Collect, from the Elizabethan 1559 Book of Common Prayer:

The Collect.

ALMIGHTY God, whose prayse this daye the yong innocentes thy witnesses hath confessed and shewed forth, not in speakyng but in dying; Mortifye and kyll all vyces in us, that in oure conuersacion [=behaviour] oure lyfe maye expresse thy fayth, whiche with oure tongues we doe confesse; through Jesus Christe oure Lord.


At the same time it is poignant beyond belief to follow #IranElection on Twitter, and to see what is happening to innocents in Tehran and many other Iranian cities on this day of Ashura.




photo from PicFog

04:47 pm: CHRISTMAS EVE


For the first time ever I've been able to make a proper Kissing Bough for Christmas, not with nasty bendy wire bit on a frame ordered from the local blacksmith. To this one binds boxwood greenery (luckily around in the garden); candles go on the spaces between the ribs, and a bunch of apples is hung in the centre, with mistletoe below all. This is the old English ancestor of the Christmas Tree -- the latter came in with German Prince Albert, Victoria's consort. The candles are lit on Christmas Eve, on the Day, and on all the following days until Twelfth Night. The candles show the returning light, the apples are probably symbols of the sun, and the box is ever green. As for the mistletoe.... 
A smaller version of the Bough contains only the upper half, like a crown, with the candles in the same places, but the apples hanging by red ribbons from the joints and the mistletoe suspended in the middle of the crown.
I first found the Bough many years ago in The English Festivals, a 1947 book by the English glass engraver and poet Sir Laurence Whistler, whom I had the good fortune to know slightly and of whom I was very fond. The book is delightful and can still be found on used-book sites.

A Merry Christmas to all: may your goose be cooked!

04:17 pm: FOURTH AND LAST
     

For this fourth Sunday in Advent, instead of quoting a Collect, I thought I would put up a German poem by my beloved Rainer Maria Rilke, which I've dared to translate. In such cases I don't attempt rhyme as it would lead too far from the original; but I do try and reproduce the metre, and as much of the sense and atmosphere as possible. In Rilke's case this always leaves me with a deep sense of humility, as his German is so dense, sophisticated and fine that he really is one of the few poets worth learning a language for.

Es gibt so wunderweiße Nächte

Es gibt so wunderweiße Nächte,
drin alle Dinge Silber sind.
Da schimmert mancher Stern so lind,
als ob er fromme Hirten brächte
zu einem neuen Jesuskind.

Weit wie mit dichtem Diamantstaube
bestreut, erscheinen Flur und Flut,
und in die Herzen, traumgemut,
steigt ein kapellenloser Glaube,
der leise seine Wunder tut.
Mancher auf der Wanderschaft
Kommt ans Tor auf dunklen Pfaden
Golden blüht der Baum der Gnaden
Aus der Erde kühlem Saft.    

Yes, there are nights so wonderwhitely,
where everything is silverbound.
Many a star glimmers so soft
as if it shepherds brought devoutly
unto a newborn Jesus-child.

Far as if in dense dust of diamonds
Covered, appear the fields and streams,
and in hearts, quiet as a dream,
rises a churchless faith’s believing,
that soundless does its miracles.
Many a wanderer, such nights,
Comes to the gate by darkling pathways;
Golden the tree of grace grows flowering
Out of the cool sap of the earth. 

Rainer Maria Rilke    

12:16 am: PAST, PRESENT, AND THE POWER TO BE MOVED
Tonight I had the pleasure of watching again, for the first time in several years, Anthony Asquith's 1951 The Browning Version, one of the most moving and sensitive films I have known. I first heard the title from my parents when I was far too young to see it (though I was only a few years younger than the schoolboys in the film). Seeing it again not only moved me deeply, it made me admire the economy with which Asquith directs his actors (in part, of course, derived from the fact that it's based on a play, by Terence Rattigan), as well as the sheer brio of the performances. Michael Redgrave was never before or since as great as he was playing Andrew Crocker-Harris, the 'Himmler of the Lower Fifth'; Jean Kent is viperine and yet pitifully abject as his adulterous and hate-filled wife; Nigel Patrick strong, amusing, and sincere, in the admirable manner of his age and country; and WIlfred Hyde-White the complete virtuoso as the headmaster, a kind of forerunner of his Colonel Pickering in My Fair Lady (no one, not even Rex Harrison, ever had a more beautiful spoken-English voice). Fortunately, this magnificent film is still available from in the Criterion Collection: and for the collection of anyone whose pleasure in films is not dependent on action, violence or physical conflict, this is a must.

04:30 pm: A FAVOURITE SAINT


Today is the feast of St John of the Cross (1542-91), the gentle Spaniard, born Juan de Yepes Alvarez,who became one of Spain's greatest poets. When we read him as Northerners, we need to remember the exuberant power and pungency of Spanish piety, as seen in painters of the period such as Luis de Morales and El Greco; and to recall that mystical poets from all countries -- Hadewych in the Netherlands, Juliana of Norwich in England, Hildegard of Bingen in Germany -- in trying to express an inexpressible rapture, have resorted faute de mieux to the language of human love, knowing full well how inadequate it is. St John's most famous poem is 'En una noche oscura' (In a dark night), but it is a little long to quote here and in any case easily available. I've picked 'O flame of living Love' as another fine example of his work. It reads better in Spanish, and my clumsy translation is there only to make following the Spanish easier. And, of course, like all older poetry, it (the Spanish version, in this case) should be read aloud. (Alas, I have never figured out how to make columns in LJ, so the translation has to come after the original.)

¡Oh llama de amor viva,
que tiernamente hieres
de mi alma en el más profundo centro!
pues ya no eres esquiva,
acaba ya si quieres;
rompe la tela de este dulce encuentro.

¡Oh cauterio suave!
¡Oh regalada llaga!
¡Oh mano blanda! ¡Oh toque delicado,
que a vida eterna sabe
y toda deuda paga!,
matando muerte en vida la has trocado.

¡Oh lámparas de fuego
en cuyos resplandores
las profundas cavernas del sentido
que estaba oscuro y ciego
con extraños primores
calor y luz dan junto a su querido!

¡Cuán manso y amoroso
recuerdas en mi seno
donde secretamente solo moras
y en tu aspirar sabroso
de bien y gloria lleno
cuán delicadamente me enamoras!

-------

O living flame of love,
how tenderly you wound
my soul in its deepest centre!
since now you do not dodge me,
now end it, if you will;
tear the veil of this exquisite encounter!

O lovely cautery!
O wound, so generous!
O hand, so soft! O touch, so delicate,
That tastes of life eternal
And pays off every debt!
In killing death you have changed it into life.

O lamps of burning fire,
in whose brilliant glow
the deepest caves of sense,
obscure and blind before,
with loveliness unheard-of ,
Give heat and light to your beloved!

How tranquil and how loving
your memory in my breast,
where secretly you dwell alone,
and in your pleasant breathing,
all full of good and glory,
how tenderly you make me fall in love!

01:49 pm: THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT


For today I thought I'd just print the Collect for the Third Sunday in Advent -- not from the 1559 Elizabethan Prayer Book, as I usually do, but from the 1662, which is still the best known and which has a better Collect with a nice parallelism.

O LORD Jesu Christ, who at thy first coming didst send thy messenger to prepare thy way before thee; Grant that the ministers and stewards of thy mysteries may likewise so prepare and make ready thy way, by turning the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just, that at thy second coming to judge the world we may be found an acceptable people in thy sight, who livest and reignest with the Father and the Holy Spirit ever, one God, world without end. Amen.

07:10 am: SECOND WEEK IN ADVENT


ADVENT 2

This is the penitential season:
walking home gingerly amid thaw’s debris
you will be met by snuffling, mournful winds,
doubtful travellers from lands
they have not understood, and bearing
rumours that do not inform, serving
only to disquiet. The melting rock
above the city holds no surer news
among its fissures; and altogether
the only certainty is a growing conviction
that soon, soon, the sins you have forgotten
will visit you, settling themselves in your chairs with the thin
worn faces from the pages you turned over.

Is a mind finely attuned
to minor comforts evidence of prison?
If so, this is the day the gates close
behind you; bewildered among the well-aimed spring
of traffic, you stand in an ill-cut suit of thoughts
outside. Free.
And as you meekly walk the way
they pointed out, to your ordained salvation,
the crinkly face of a warder shines
out of a shadow, and for an instant
the workshop’s warmth is curled around your shoulders.
The punishment is freedom.

And as the days crawl on
the sponge looms that will wipe your slate
of all the small warm sins you have committed
and place you, in your salvation suit –
in which, you suspect, you will look ridiculous –
on uplands made for angels, alone.

There really is no other way, it seems;
the rumours the wind mongers are probably true;
and all you can pray for as your home,
unsuited to heaven, crumbles under the lash,
is (mean to the last) that it will be worth it:
meaning, somehow, that what you were told
will all be true and that the land to which,
a shivering refugee, you must embark
will be as good as it seems featureless.

And pray, of course, that if so –
if, naked, you stumble, pierced and pinned
by pains of joy too great for your wretched frame –
your new, untested, fledgling salvation
will bear you at such heights.

The light we have enshrined
and intertwined with pagan hopes
may yet explain this fearful overturning:
but today there are only two small flames
alight – which is not much
to travel by.

06:15 pm: A NOBLE PRIZE

Abraham Lincoln on the Antietam battlefield

Those who bitch at President Obama’s Nobel Prize have forgotten W. and his world. Those who jeer at the contrast between a Peace Prize and an attempt efficiently to fight Al Qaeda and its protectors the Taliban have forgotten that peace is sometimes won by arms. As a Dutchman born in 1941, that is not something I can forget: had it not been for American, British and Canadian arms I should have grown up in the Hitler Youth.

President Obama has not said what justifies the prize, which is duly modest of him. But we can say it for him. What earned him the Nobel Peace Prize was not some kind of undefined hope that maybe he would bring some peace somewhere; what earned him the prize was the installation, in a White House tarnished beyond belief, of a process, and a structure, of intelligent thought and considered action toward a goal of understanding, respect and decency. In other words, peace.

-------

Addendum: All this said, I do understand the Norwegians' sense of disappointment. Europeans are among President Obama's staunchest supporters: a few more gracious gestures, honouring solemn traditions, on his part would not come amiss.

10:14 pm: SIX HOURS WELL SPENT


Today was the day for cooking the Christmas puddings (see my last). So six hours trundled by, with the egg-timer set each time to 15 minutes; and when it rang, I added water to each of the three pans with a fine-pointed watering-can, set the gas to High, and when the new water came to the boil, turned it down just to maintain the boil.
The time, of course, need not be (otherwise) wasted: I sat at the kitchen counter and read a guide to heraldry, an article by Rouge Dragon Pursuivant (whom I had met in London and who had kindly Xeroxed his article on the Peniston family and the Tudor heralds for me), finished a French book on the Holy Spirit, wrapped and parcelled a present for my sister-in-law, prepared a few nasty bills for paying, and laid the fire for the evening -- as well as making a salad for lunch and reading the latest blogs on Iran.
The puddings are now done -- for the time being. Nicely wrapped in airtight plastic, they will keep till Christmas, when they will get two more hours in pans of water on the stove, and then be served with holly-twigs and flambés with cognac, to the mirth and joy even of the Gallic unbelievers in Anglo-Saxon Yule.

04:16 pm: STIR-UP SUNDAY


Today is the last Sunday before Advent, which in England is known as 'Stir-up Sunday'. First I'll give the Elizabethan Psalm and Collect for the day: the Collect will explain the nickname.

Nisi Dominus. Psalm cxxvii.

EXCEPT the Lorde buylde the house : their labour is but loste that buylde it.
Excepte the Lorde kepe the citye : the watchman waketh but in vayne.
It is but lost labour that ye haste to ryse up early, and so late take rest; and eate the bread of carefulnes, for so he geveth his beloved slepe.
Lo, chyldren and the fruite of the wombe are an heritage and gyfte : that commeth of the Lorde.
Lyke as the arrowes in the hand of the giaunt : even so are the yong chyldren.
Happye is the man, that hath hys quyver full of them : they shall not be ashamed when they speake with their enemies in the gate.
Glory be to the father, and to the sonne, and to the Holy Ghost,
As it was in the begynning, is nowe, and ever shalbe : world without ende. Amen.

The Collect.

STIR up we beseche thee, O Lord, the wylles of thy faythfull people, that they, plenteously bringing furth the fruite of good workes; may of thee, be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christe our Lorde. Amen.

The other reason for the nickname is that on this day one begins one's Christmas cake (see last week's post) and makes one's Christmas pudding (alias 'plum-pudding'). I had always bought these, but boldly (foolishly?) decided to make my own last year, and will again this. It’s a lot of work, but by golly it pays off. So I will give the recipe as published in Elizabeth Ayrton's sublime The Cookery of England (Penguin, 1977), and as I made it. The first thing for North Americans to remember is not to shout “Yecchhhhhhh!” at the thought or mention of beef suet. It is an essential ingredient in almost all traditional English steamed puddings, and even the bigoted and demanding French gang who ate the pudding allowed as how it was utterly delicious.
As for the beef suet itself, in England this can be bought ready grated, like Parmesan, in neat little packets. Not so here in France -- or, I suspect, in North America. So I went to the butcher’s, and he found me some large hunks of beef and veal suet (i.e. fat), wrapped them up, and charged me a low, low price (they usually throw it away: in France, where it’s called “suif”, I’ve had it free). Then what? I found a trick: freeze it, then when it’s good and hard, grate it. This is a little messy but it works.
So, here is the recipe, which comes from Edinburgh and dates from about 1700:

For 2 large puddings:

¾ lb. (375 g.) fine white breadcrumbs
¾ lb. (375 g.) currants
peel of 1 small lemon
some nutmeg
some mixed spice (cloves and cinnamon, powdered)
6 oz. (180 g.) candied peel
¼ pint (150 ml.) milk
½ lb. (250 g.) sultanas
¾ lb. (375 g.) seedless raisins (aka Thompsons)
½ lb. (240 g.) beef or veal suet
2 oz. (60 g.)
4 oz. (120 g.) dark brown sugar
5 eggs
1 large wineglass cognac (or ½ glass cognac and ½ glass rum)

In a large bowl, well mix all the dried fruit with the (grated) suet and breadcrumbs. Add the almonds blanched and finely chopped, nutmeg, mixed spice and sugar. When all are throughly blended [this is work for the stirring arm!], stir in the 5 well-beaten eggs, the rum and/or cognac, and a quarter pint of milk. Stand for 12 hours, covered with a tea-towel, in a cool place; then put it into two pudding-bowls. Put these into pans of water reaching halfway up the bowl, bring to a boil, and maintain at a mild but definite boil for 6 hours. [This is irritating but crucial. If the water goes flat is is just hot water, the suet doesn’t melt and permeate. To keep it boiling you need a) to keep the fan running and b) to keep topping it up, so you can’t go away for more than 10-15 minutes at a time. Do this when you have a nasty cold and/or there is freezing rain outside.] Boil for another 2 hours on the day you’ll be eating it, and serve piping hot, flambé with nice blue cognac flames, accompanied with brandy-butter (American: hard sauce) – creamed unsalted butter, caster sugar and cognac. When you eat it you (and your guests) will agree that no Christmas pudding has ever tasted so good.
NB: These puddings, once cooked, will keep for 2 years in a suitable airtight container. And, of course, one need not eat them only at Christmas….

Enjoy.

12:41 pm: AMAZING PACE



Astonishingly, I managed to get ahead even of Stir-up Sunday (stay tuned), and start a Proper Christmas Cake today. I did promise the recipe, so here it is. The earlier one starts it, the better: 4 months ahead of time is ideal, but now will do just fine. I didn't include anything on icing: we'll get to that later. This one bakes for 4 1/2 hours, and makes the whole house smell like a dream of autumn and/or Christmas.

RICH FRUIT CAKE


Ingredients:

1 lb. currants
8 oz. sultanas
8 oz. seedless raisins
4 oz. cut mixed peel
6 oz. glacé cherries, halved
10 oz. plain white flour
pinch of salt
1/2 level tsp. mixed spice
1/2 level tsp. ground cinnamon
grated rind of 1/2 lemon
10 oz. butter
10 oz. soft brown sugar
6 eggs, beaten
3 tbsps brandy

an 8” square or 9” round cake tin.

Melt a little butter in a saucepan and with a pastry brush coat the bottom and sides of cake tin. Line with greaseproof paper and coat again.
Tie a band of brown parcel wrap (Kraft paper) around the sides so it comes at least 2” above the edge of the tin.
Pre-heat oven to 300 deg. (mark 1-2).
Put the fruit and rind in a large container with a well-fitting lid. Sieve flour and spice and salt over fruit. Place lid on container and shake well. Leave to settle for a few minutes, remove lid. Cherries tend to stick together in clumps because of the sugar syrup on them: check to see that they are all separate. Ensure all fruit is covered in flour.

Cream fat and sugar together. If you want a dark cake use dark Mucavads, it gives a rich flavour. For a lighter cake use soft brown. Never use Demerara or caster sugar.

Beat eggs together in a jug, add to mixture gradually. If mixture curdles add a little of the flour/fruit mix.

Add the fruit/flour mix and fold in. Stir in brandy – as a general rule use the brandy you generally drink.

Empty into cake tin, place on lower shelf of oven, cook for 2 1/2 hours. Then place a double sheet of greaseproof paper over top, turn the oven down slightly, cook for a further 2 hours.

Remove cake from oven and listen to it. If it sounds “bubbly”, bake for another 20 minutes. Leave to cool in tin, overnight if possible.

Remove from tin. Overwrap in greaseproof paper, leaving the lining papers intact. Keep in an airtight tin.

1st month: remove all paper. Skewer cake all over base, pour over 3 tbsps brandy. Wrap in greaseproof paper again.

2nd month: remove all paper. Skewer cake on other side, pour over 3 tbsps brandy. Wrap in greaseproof paper again.

Repeat twice more (or until cake is iced, up to a year).

The sign of a good cake is when the greaseproof paper turns green: this is the colour of the brandy seeping through the cake (not mould!)

08:59 am: TRINITY 23
Today is the Twenty-Third Sunday after Trinity, in the Anglican Church; and as much of my working life is spent in Elizabethan England, I thought I'd reproduce two of the day's texts from the 1559 Elizabethan Book of Common Prayer: the Psalm, and the Collect. I particularly like Coverdale's Psalm -- his translations may not be as accurate as some later ones, but they have more poetry than almost any other.

¶ The xxiii Sondaye.

Nisi quia Dominus. Psalm cxxiv.

IF the Lorde himselfe had not been on our side (now maye Israell saye) : if the Lorde hymselfe hadde not been on our side, when men rose up against us;
They had swalowed us up quicke : when they were so wrath- fully displeased at us.
Yea, the waters had drouned us : and the streme had gone over our soule.
The depe waters of the proud : had gone even over our soule.
But praysed be the Lorde : whiche hath not geven us over for a praye unto theyr teethe.
Our soule is escaped, even as a birde oute of the snare of the fouler : the snare is broken, and we are delivered.
Oure helpe standeth in the name of the Lorde : whiche hath made heaven and yearth.
Glory be to the father, and to the sonne, and to the &c.
As it was in the begynning, is nowe and ever &c.

The Collect.

GOD, our refuge and strength, which art the author of all godlines, be ready to heare the devoute prayers of thy churche; and graunt that those thynges which we aske faithfully we maye obteine effectually; through Jesu Christe our lorde. Amen.

11:53 pm: BACH, BEETHOVEN, BRAHMS, BERLIN, AND ZOE
   

church of St Michael, Cordes

Spent a pleasant hour tonight -- my granddaughter's birthday --  in this marvellous old church, listening to three fine musicians (violin, cello, piano) playing Bach, Beethoven and Brahms in honour of the fall of the Berlin Wall (the French media have been going to town for about a week now on this anniversary). It occasioned a number of thoughts. Some simple -- I love Bach and Beethoven, but Brahms only in his orchestral work --; some more complex: the church's interior, largely redone in the 18th century, is still a symphony of symbols in ancient canonical order, but today certainly no more than one Mass a month, if not two months, is held there, and it is treated as a tourist site and concert hall, with not one person in 25 able to read the visual language.

On the altar there is a crucifix; just above and behind it is a large painting of the Crucifixion with the Blessed Virgin Mary, St John, St Mary Magdalene, and St Michael plunging a long lance toward a very human-faced demon who was probably a portrait of someone keenly disliked (who knows, a--gulp, snif--Protestant?). Above that is a golden triangle with rays radiating from it -- an abstract of the Trinity. Above that, again, is a statue of St Michael, with lance and demon (slightly less human). [For all this upper part, see the image below.] Above that, we enter into the ceiling, painted in pastel (the crop that made this area rich): moving straight up, a Communion chalice with wafer above. Now this is interesting: above St Michael, above the Crucifixion, are the Body and Blood of Christ -- which is serious food for thought. And above that, at the culminating point, the cross of vaults: a medallion with the Dove of the Holy Spirit. Since He is at the crossing-point, He can be read in all directions; and to left and right, respectively, Christ and Mary, in tents, worshipped by angels. On the fourth side, toward the nave, is another Communion chalice, this time with rays, like a monstrance; and it initiates a series of medallions in the succeeding vaults that depict the twelve Apostles. 

I was raised a liberal Protestant, among intelligent folk who thought deeply about the faith but had no truck with all that imagery. Wrong, I realised when I went to Oxford, and discovered churches that spoke even in silence and taught even in stillness. There is such richness for meditation in this wordless discourse, once one has learnt to read it. However, I think I was the only one even to look up, tonight. And for brief moment I felt sympathy for Muslims, who, although they are not allowed graven images, may be among the last 21st-century people to take their religion with gravity.

As for Bach, there is nothing more exquisite in music -- whoa, don't hector -- is there anything more exquisite in music than the Suites for solo cello? For me, nothing. Not even Chopin's Nocturnes. But Rostropovich's -- Berlin Wall or no -- was never my favourite version. The finest of all is Pierre Fournier.


church of St Michael, Cordes,

11:17 pm: ORIENTALISM?
  


Silly, of course, but I'm always impressed by the beauty of Farsi/Arabic script, even in graffiti. (This, in an empty university classroom, apparently reads something like "Death to Khamenei".)