by Con Coughlin
The author, instead of getting to deep into the details of Khomeini’s life, included a lot of information on what was going on in Iran during his life, which made the book much more interesting. Kudos.
by Randy Pausch
Pausch was a computer science professor who contracted pancreatic cancer. He decided to do one final lecture, primarily aimed to teach his children some life lessons.
Pausch was a brave man with some interesting insights. It was a bit to uplifting for my tastes.
If you’re going through hell, keep going. – Winston Churchill
It’s one-on-one out there, man. There ain’t no hiding. I can’t pass the ball. – Pete Sampras
by Robert Frost
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
Don’t be pushed by your problems. Be led by your dreams. – Ralph Waldo Emerson
Never had so few lost so much so stupidly and so fast. – Dean Acheson
by Stephen Kinzer
A history of the 1953 U.S. led coup in Iran.
by Kermit Roosevelt
This book, about the 1953 coup in Iran that toppled Mossadegh, gets a lot of criticism for over-emphasizing the American involvement and also playing fast-and-loose with the facts.
That may be, I can’t judge, but I can say it’s a really good read. Roosevelt, Teddy Roosevelt’s grandson, could write.
by Donald Worster
A biography of the environmentalist extraordinaire, John Muir. Good book, nicely paced, it gets a bit slow towards the end, but I guess to be expected since Muir’s life wasn’t as exciting.
by James Dickey
Off Highway 106
At Cherrylog Road I entered
The ’34 Ford without wheels,
Smothered in kudzu,
With a seat pulled out to run
Corn whiskey down from the hills,
And then from the other side
Crept into an Essex
With a rumble seat of red leather
And then out again, aboard
A blue Chevrolet, releasing
The rust from its other color,
Reared up on three building blocks.
None had the same body heat;
I changed with them inward, toward
The weedy heart of the junkyard,
For I knew that Doris Holbrook
Would escape from her father at noon
And would come from the farm
To seek parts owned by the sun
Among the abandoned chassis,
Sitting in each in turn
As I did, leaning forward
As in a wild stock-car race
In the parking lot of the dead.
Time after time, I climbed in
And out the other side, like
An envoy or movie star
Met at the station by crickets.
A radiator cap raised its head,
Become a real toad or a kingsnake
As I neared the hub of the yard,
Passing through many states,
Many lives, to reach
Some grandmother’s long Pierce-Arrow
Sending platters of blindness forth
From its nickel hubcaps
And spilling its tender upholstery
On sleepy roaches,
The glass panel in between
Lady and colored driver
Not all the way broken out,
The back-seat phone
Still on its hook.
I got in as though to exclaim,
“Let us go to the orphan asylum,
John; I have some old toys
For children who say their prayers.”
I popped with sweat as I thought
I heard Doris Holbrook scrape
Like a mouse in the southern-state sun
That was eating the paint in blisters
From a hundred car tops and hoods.
She was tapping like code,
Loosening the screws,
Carrying off headlights,
Sparkplugs, bumpers,
Cracked mirrors and gear-knobs,
Getting ready, already,
To go back with something to show
Other than her lips’ new trembling
I would hold to me soon, soon,
Where I sat in the ripped back seat
Talking over the interphone,
Praying for Doris Holbrook
To come from her father’s farm
And to get back there
With no trace of me on her face
To be seen by her red-haired father
Who would change, in the squalling barn,
Her back’s pale skin with a strop,
Then lay for me
In a bootlegger’s roasting car
With a string-triggered I2-gauge shotgun
To blast the breath from the air.
Not cut by the jagged windshields,
Through the acres of wrecks she came
With a wrench in her hand,
Through dust where the blacksnake dies
Of boredom, and the beetle knows
The compost has no more life.
Someone outside would have seen
The oldest car’s door inexplicably
Close from within:
I held her and held her and held her,
Convoyed at terrific speed
By the stalled, dreaming traffic around us,
So the blacksnake, stiff
With inaction, curved back
Into life, and hunted the mouse
With deadly overexcitement,
The beetles reclaimed their field
As we clung, glued together,
With the hooks of the seat springs
Working through to catch us red-handed
Amidst the gray breathless batting
That burst from the seat at our backs.
We left by separate doors
Into the changed, other bodies
Of cars, she down Cherrylog Road
And I to my motorcycle
Parked like the soul of the junkyard
Restored, a bicycle fleshed
With power, and tore off
Up Highway 106, continually
Drunk on the wind in my mouth,
Wringing the handlebar for speed,
Wild to be wreckage forever.
Some helpful (?) tips I want to remember from the newsletter.
I ordered Milstop Fungicide, a new organic approved treatment for powdery mildew that is supposed to be extremely effective. (Seed World had the best price I could find.)
by James Dickey
Japan invades. Far Eastern vines Run from the clay banks they are Supposed to keep from eroding Up telephone poles Which rear, half out of leafage As though they would shriek Like things smothered by their own Green, mindless, unkillable ghosts In Georgia, the legend says That you must close your windows At night to keep it out of the house The glass is tinged with green, even so As the tendrils crawl over the fields The night the kudzu has Your pasture, you sleep like the dead Silence has grown Oriental And you cannot step upon ground: Your leg plunges somewhere It should not, it never should be Disappears, and waits to be struck Anywhere between sole and kneecap: For when the kudzu comes The snakes do, and weave themselves Among its lengthening vines Their spade heads resting on leaves Growing also, in earthly power And the huge circumstance of concealment One by one the cows stumble in Drooling a hot green froth And die, seeing the wood of their stalls Strain to break into leaf In your closed house, with the vine Tapping your window like lightning You remember what tactics to use In the wrong yellow fog-light of dawn You herd them in, the hogs Head down in their hairy fat The meaty troops, to the pasture The leaves of the kudzu quake With the serpents' fear, inside The meadow ringed with men Holding sticks, on the country roads The hogs disappear in the leaves The sound is intense, subhuman Nearly human with purposive rage There is no terror Sound from the snakes No one can see the desperate, futile Striking under the leaf heads Now and then, the flash of a long Living vine, a cold belly Leaps up, torn apart, then falls Under the tussling surface You have won, and wait for frost When, at the merest touch Of cold, the kudzu turns Black, withers inward and dies Leaving a mass of brown strings Like the wires of a gigantic switchboard You open your windows With the lightning restored to the sky And no leaves rising to bury You alive inside your frail house And you think, in the opened cold Of the surface of things and its terrors And of the mistaken, mortal Arrogance of the snakes As the vines, growing insanely, sent Great powers into their bodies And the freedom to strike without warning: From them, though they killed Your cattle, such energy also flowed To you from the knee-high meadow (It was as though you had A green sword twined among The veins of your growing right arm-- Such strength as you would not believe If you stood alone in a proper Shaved field among your safe cows--): Came in through your closed Leafy windows and almighty sleep And prospered, till rooted out
https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/true-story-kudzu-vine-ate-south-180956325/
https://www.enotes.com/topics/james-dickey/critical-essays/dickey-james-vol-15
by Pablo Neruda
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
by Sylvia Plath
Mother, mother, what illbred aunt Or what disfigured and unsightly Cousin did you so unwisely keep Unasked to my christening, that she Sent these ladies in her stead With heads like darning-eggs to nod And nod and nod at foot and head And at the left side of my crib? Mother, who made to order stories Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear, Mother, whose witches always, always, Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder Whether you saw them, whether you said Words to rid me of those three ladies Nodding by night around my bed, Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head. In the hurricane, when father’s twelve Study windows bellied in Like bubbles about to break, you fed My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine And helped the two of us to choir: “Thor is angry: boom boom boom! Thor is angry: we don’t care!” But those ladies broke the panes. When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced, Blinking flashlights like fireflies And singing the glowworm song, I could Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress But, heavy-footed, stood aside In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed Godmothers, and you cried and cried: And the shadow stretched, the lights went out. Mother, you sent me to piano lessons And praised my arabesques and trills Although each teacher found my touch Oddly wooden in spite of scales And the hours of practicing, my ear Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable. I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere, From muses unhired by you, dear mother, I woke one day to see you, mother, Floating above me in bluest air On a green balloon bright with a million Flowers and bluebirds that never were Never, never, found anywhere. But the little planet bobbed away Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here! And I faced my traveling companions. Day now, night now, at head, side, feet, They stand their vigil in gowns of stone, Faces blank as the day I was born, Their shadows long in the setting sun That never brightens or goes down. And this is the kingdom you bore me to, Mother, mother. But no frown of mine Will betray the company I keep.
I was stretched out on the couch, about to doze off, when I imagined a small figure asleep on a couch identical to mine. “Wake up, little man, wake up,” I cried. “The one you’re waiting for is rising from the sea, wrapped in spume, and soon will come ashore. Beneath her feet the melancholy garden will turn bright green and the breezes will be light as babies’ breath. Wake up, before this creature of the deep is gone and everything goes blank as sleep.” How hard I try to wake the little man, how hard he sleeps. And the one who rose from the sea, her moment gone, how hard she has become—how hard those burning eyes, that burning hair.
By Mark Strand
By Mark Strand
Not every man knows what he shall sing at the end,
Watching the pier as the ship sails away, or what it will seem like
When he’s held by the sea’s roar, motionless, there at the end,
Or what he shall hope for once it is clear that he’ll never go back.
When the time has passed to prune the rose or caress the cat,
When the sunset torching the lawn and the full moon icing it down
No longer appear, not every man knows what he’ll discover instead.
When the weight of the past leans against nothing, and the sky
Is no more than remembered light, and the stories of cirrus
And cumulus come to a close, and all the birds are suspended in flight,
Not every man knows what is waiting for him, or what he shall sing
When the ship he is on slips into darkness, there at the end.
By E.B. White
The spider, dropping down from twig, Unwinds a thread of her devising: A thin, premeditated rig To use in rising. And all the journey down through space, In cool descent, and loyal-hearted, She builds a ladder to the place From which she started. Thus I, gone forth, as spiders do, In spider’s web a truth discerning, Attach one silken strand to you For my returning
By E.B. White
The time for little words is past; We now speak only the broad impertinences. I take your hand Merely to help you cross the street (We are such friends), Choosing the long and formal phrase Deliberately. At dinner we discuss, rather intelligently, The things one should discuss at dinner. So. How well we are in tune -- how easy Every phrase! The long words come, fondling the ear, Flattering the mind they come. Long words Enjoy the patronage of noble minds, The circumspection of this sanity. How much is gone! How much went When the little words went: peace, Sandwiched in the space between madness and madness; The quick exchange of every bright moment; The animal alertness to the other’s heart; The reality of nearness. Those things went With the words. Suppose I should forget, grow thoughtless -- What if the little words came back, Running in upon me, running back Like little children home from school? Suppose I spoke -- oh, I don’t know -- Some vagrant phrase out of the summer! What if I said: “I love you”? Something as simple And as easy to the tongue as that-- Something as true? I’m only talking. Give me your hand. We must by all means cross this street.
by John Keats
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
by John Donne
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
Finally got around to watching this classic. The director, William Friedkin, really keeps thing moving. Lost of action, lots of quick cuts, cursing, shooting etc. It’s always mentioned in any list of classic movies, and I can see why. Won Best Picture in 1971. I’d say Friedkin really deserves most of the credit for the movie’s quality, since it’s pretty much a standard good guys/bad guys thing. The pacing, realism really make it. He also made the Exorcist.
A Japanese documentary about the 1964 Olympics. The review I read called it “poetic.” True dat.
by William Wordsworth
There is a change–and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart’s door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.
What happy moments did I count!
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for that consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? Shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.
A well of love–it may be deep–
I trust it is,–and never dry:
What matter? If the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.
–Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor