essays
The Tale of the Three Brothers
POSTED IN essays January 12, 2014
The Tale of the Three Brothers
There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight. In time, the brothers reached a river too deep to wade through and too dangerous to swim across.. However, these brothers were learned in the magical arts, and so they simply waved their wands and made a bridge appear across the treacherous water. They were halfway across it when they found their path blocked by a hooded figure.
And Death spoke to them. He was angry that he had been cheated out of three new victims, for travelers usually drowned in the river. But Death was cunning. He pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon their magic and said that each had earned a prize for having been clever enough to evade him.
So the oldest brother, who was a combative man, asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence: a wand that must always win duels for its owner, a wand worthy of a wizard who had conquered Death! So Death crossed to an elder tree on the banks of the river, fashioned a wand from a branch that hung there, and gave it to the oldest brother.
Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man, decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further, and asked for the power to recall others from Death. So Death picked up a stone from the riverbank and gave it to the second brother, and told him that the stone would have the power to bring back the dead.
And then Death asked the third and youngest brother what he would like. The youngest brother was the humblest and also the wisest of the brothers, and he did not trust Death. So he asked for something that would enable him to go forth from that place without being followed by Death. And death, most unwillingly, handed over his own Cloak of Invisibility.
Then Death stood aside and allowed the three brothers to continue on their way, and they did so, talking with wonder of the adventure they had had, and admiring Death’s gifts. In due course the brothers separated, each for his own destination.
The first brother traveled on for a week or more, and reaching a distant village, sought out a fellow wizard with whom he had a quarrel. Naturally with the Elder Wand as his weapon, he could not fail to win the duel that followed. Leaving his enemy dead upon the floor, the oldest brother proceeded to an inn, where he boasted loudly of the powerful wand he had snatched from Death himself, and of how it made him invincible.
That very night, another wizard crept upon the oldest brother as he lay, wine-sodden, upon his bed. The theif took the wand and, for good measure, slit the oldest brother’s throat.
And so Death took the first brother for his own.
Meanwhile, the second brother journeyed to his own home, where he lived alone. Here he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead, and turned it thrice in his hand. To his amazement and his delight, the figure of the girl he had once hoped to marry, before her untimely death, appeared at once before him.
Yet she was sad and cold, separated from him as by a veil. Though she had returned to the mortal world, she did not truly belong there and suffered. Finally the second brother, driven mad with hopeless longing, killed himself so as truly to join her.
And so Death took the second brother for his own.
But though Death searched for the third brother for many years, he was never able to find him. It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and gave it to his son. And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they departed this life.
Beedle the Bard
The Red Cross Scam
POSTED IN essays December 23, 2013
The Red Cross Scam
The International Red Cross is an Elite-controlled front organization whose true purpose is the complete opposite from its stated purpose.
The moment a ‘natural’ disaster such as Hurricane Katrina, the Haitian earthquake or the Japanese Tsunami occurs; the Red Cross floods the airwaves with ads seeking donations. With music full of pathos playing in the background, the announcer tells us that the Red Cross is ‘always there in time of need’ and now that the poor victims are suffering terribly, ‘won’t you please open your heart and wallet?’
These people have totally mastered the science of extracting money from the unthinking masses. For example, the dust from the World Trade Centre demolition had not even settled (literally) before the Red Cross were appealing to us all to give blood and money to help the families of the victims of the ‘terrorist’ attack. Thousands of people gave blood and even more gave millions of dollars to the Red Cross. Perhaps, it would have been pertinent to ask ‘blood for whom’? Everyone was dead (there were few injuries, relatively speaking) so why was the Red Cross asking for blood donations day and night for a week or longer?
The answer is reflective of the true purpose of the Red Cross. Sad to say the Red Cross is a disaster ‘racket.’ which is in the business of making money from people’s misery, especially with totally engineered disasters such as 9/11. They sell the blood on, of course, but they apparently also use the blood for other things to which the public is generally not privy and one could legitimately ask where does all the money go and to whom?
For the most part, they keep it for themselves as do the vast majority of major, household-name charities. The families of the victims of 9/11 had to badger, harass and threaten the Red Cross in an attempt to obtain $11 million that they would not release to the families, as long as one year after the event – and that is just what we were told in the media, so my guess is that the actual figure was much, much higher than this.
LEGACY OF CORRUPTION
In fact the Red Cross has a long, long sordid history of stealing cash donations intended for disaster relief. Following the disastrous San Francisco earthquake in 1989, the Red Cross donated only $10 million of the $50 million that had been raised, and kept the rest.
Similarly, following the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995 and the Red River flooding in 1997 many donations were also withheld. Even as far back as the Korean War, the Red Cross was plundering soldiers’ relief packages, the famous ‘Red Cross Parcels’ from home.
The Red Cross is very adept at stealing money and looting mail and has been exposed in this respect many times but it has been allowed to escape sanctions, punishment or exposure because the organization is so closely allied with and indeed is inextricably linked with the Elite establishment. It is without doubt an organization run by Elite insiders whose purpose is to gather intelligence and steal from the poor, underprivileged and needy to further line the pockets of the rich.
Several minor charities that were involved with the 2004 Tsunami relief project expressed outrage in public to say that large charities like Red Cross and Oxfam were engaged in secret negotiations that resulted in a large amount of the public-donated money being withheld from those most affected by the disaster. See Red Cross Hasn’t Spent $200 million Raised for S. Asian Tsunami
The message here should be clear to all. Under no circumstances donate money to major charitable organizations unless you would like your money to go to benefit the Elite’s expansion of their empires and the fast-developing police state in your own backyards. Find smaller independent charitable organizations that you know to be reliable and make your donations to them.
– See more at: http://henrymakow.com/2013/10/The-Red-Cross-Scam%20.html#sthash.TcxJBjgI.dpuf
LEGACY OF CORRUPTION
In fact the Red Cross has a long, long sordid history of stealing cash donations intended for disaster relief. Following the disastrous San Francisco earthquake in 1989, the Red Cross donated only $10 million of the $50 million that had been raised, and kept the rest.
Similarly, following the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995 and the Red River flooding in 1997 many donations were also withheld. Even as far back as the Korean War, the Red Cross was plundering soldiers’ relief packages, the famous ‘Red Cross Parcels’ from home.
The Red Cross is very adept at stealing money and looting mail and has been exposed in this respect many times but it has been allowed to escape sanctions, punishment or exposure because the organization is so closely allied with and indeed is inextricably linked with the Elite establishment. It is without doubt an organization run by Elite insiders whose purpose is to gather intelligence and steal from the poor, underprivileged and needy to further line the pockets of the rich.
(John Hamer is a British geo-political researcher. This is an excerpt from John Hamer’s book “The Falsification of History: Our Distorted Reality”.)
LEGACY OF CORRUPTION
In fact the Red Cross has a long, long sordid history of stealing cash donations intended for disaster relief. Following the disastrous San Francisco earthquake in 1989, the Red Cross donated only $10 million of the $50 million that had been raised, and kept the rest.
Similarly, following the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995 and the Red River flooding in 1997 many donations were also withheld. Even as far back as the Korean War, the Red Cross was plundering soldiers’ relief packages, the famous ‘Red Cross Parcels’ from home.
The Red Cross is very adept at stealing money and looting mail and has been exposed in this respect many times but it has been allowed to escape sanctions, punishment or exposure because the organization is so closely allied with and indeed is inextricably linked with the Elite establishment. It is without doubt an organization run by Elite insiders whose purpose is to gather intelligence and steal from the poor, underprivileged and needy to further line the pockets of the rich.
Several minor charities that were involved with the 2004 Tsunami relief project expressed outrage in public to say that large charities like Red Cross and Oxfam were engaged in secret negotiations that resulted in a large amount of the public-donated money being withheld from those most affected by the disaster. See Red Cross Hasn’t Spent $200 million Raised for S. Asian Tsunami
The message here should be clear to all. Under no circumstances donate money to major charitable organizations unless you would like your money to go to benefit the Elite’s expansion of their empires and the fast-developing police state in your own backyards. Find smaller independent charitable organizations that you know to be reliable and make your donations to them.
– See more at: http://henrymakow.com/2013/10/The-Red-Cross-Scam%20.html#sthash.TcxJBjgI.dpuf
LEGACY OF CORRUPTION
In fact the Red Cross has a long, long sordid history of stealing cash donations intended for disaster relief. Following the disastrous San Francisco earthquake in 1989, the Red Cross donated only $10 million of the $50 million that had been raised, and kept the rest.
Similarly, following the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995 and the Red River flooding in 1997 many donations were also withheld. Even as far back as the Korean War, the Red Cross was plundering soldiers’ relief packages, the famous ‘Red Cross Parcels’ from home.
The Red Cross is very adept at stealing money and looting mail and has been exposed in this respect many times but it has been allowed to escape sanctions, punishment or exposure because the organization is so closely allied with and indeed is inextricably linked with the Elite establishment. It is without doubt an organization run by Elite insiders whose purpose is to gather intelligence and steal from the poor, underprivileged and needy to further line the pockets of the rich.
Several minor charities that were involved with the 2004 Tsunami relief project expressed outrage in public to say that large charities like Red Cross and Oxfam were engaged in secret negotiations that resulted in a large amount of the public-donated money being withheld from those most affected by the disaster. See Red Cross Hasn’t Spent $200 million Raised for S. Asian Tsunami
The message here should be clear to all. Under no circumstances donate money to major charitable organizations unless you would like your money to go to benefit the Elite’s expansion of their empires and the fast-developing police state in your own backyards. Find smaller independent charitable organizations that you know to be reliable and make your donations to them.
– See more at: http://henrymakow.com/2013/10/The-Red-Cross-Scam%20.html#sthash.TcxJBjgI.dpuf
In fact the Red Cross has a long, long sordid history of stealing cash donations intended for disaster relief. Following the disastrous San Francisco earthquake in 1989, the Red Cross donated only $10 million of the $50 million that had been raised, and kept the rest.
Similarly, following the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995 and the Red River flooding in 1997 many donations were also withheld. Even as far back as the Korean War, the Red Cross was plundering soldiers’ relief packages, the famous ‘Red Cross Parcels’ from home.
The Red Cross is very adept at stealing money and looting mail and has been exposed in this respect many times but it has been allowed to escape sanctions, punishment or exposure because the organization is so closely allied with and indeed is inextricably linked with the Elite establishment. It is without doubt an organization run by Elite insiders whose purpose is to gather intelligence and steal from the poor, underprivileged and needy to further line the pockets of the rich.
– See more at: http://henrymakow.com/2013/10/The-Red-Cross-Scam%20.html#sthash.TcxJBjgI.dpuf
by John Hamer
Rolling in money, ruining lives – the truth about so-called Mother Teresa
POSTED IN essays December 23, 2013
Rolling in money, ruining lives – the truth about so-called Mother Teresa.
11/04/2013
Mother Teresa’s House of Illusions
How She Harmed Her Helpers As Well As Those They ‘Helped’
by Susan ShieldsThe following article is from Free Inquiry magazine, Volume 18, Number 1
“Some years after I became a Catholic, I joined Mother Teresa’s
congregation, the Missionaries of Charity. I was one of her sisters for
nine and a half years, living in the Bronx, Rome, and San Francisco,
until I became disillusioned and left in May 1989. As I re-entered the
world, I slowly began to unravel the tangle of lies in which I had
lived. I wondered how I could have believed them for so long.Three of Mother Teresa’s teachings that are fundamental to her
religious congregation are all the more dangerous because they are
believed so sincerely by her sisters. Most basic is the belief that as
long as a sister obeys she is doing God’s will. Another is the belief
that the sisters have leverage over God by choosing to suffer. Their
suffering makes God very happy. He then dispenses more graces to
humanity. The third is the belief that any attachment to human beings,
even the poor being served, supposedly interferes with the love of God and
must be vigilantly avoided or immediately uprooted.The efforts to prevent any attachments cause continual chaos and confusion,
movement and change in the congregation. Mother Teresa did not invent these
beliefs – they were prevalent in religious congregations before Vatican
II – but she did everything in her power (which was great) to enforce
them.Once a sister has accepted these fallacies she will do almost
anything. She can allow her health to be destroyed, neglect those she
vowed to serve, and switch off her feelings and independent thought.
She can turn a blind eye to suffering, inform on her fellow sisters,
tell lies with ease, and ignore public laws and regulations.Women from many nations joined Mother Teresa in the expectation that
they would help the poor and come closer to God themselves. When I
left, there were more than 3,000 sisters in approximately 400 houses
scattered throughout the world. Many of these sisters who trusted
Mother Teresa to guide them have become broken people.In the face of overwhelming evidence, some of them have finally admitted that their
trust has been betrayed, that God could not possibly be giving the
orders they hear. It is difficult for them to decide to leave – their
self-confidence has been destroyed, and they have no education beyond
what they brought with them when they joined. I was one of the lucky
ones who mustered enough courage to walk away.It is in the hope that others may see the fallacy of this purported
way to holiness that I tell a little of what I know. Although there are
relatively few tempted to join Mother Teresa’s congregation of sisters,
there are many who generously have supported her work because they do
not realize how her twisted premises strangle efforts to alleviate
misery. Unaware that most of the donations sit unused in her bank
accounts, they too are deceived into thinking they are helping the poor.As a Missionary of Charity, I was assigned to record donations and
write the thank-you letters. The money arrived at a frantic rate. The
mail carrier often delivered the letters in sacks. We wrote receipts
for checks of $50,000 and more on a regular basis. Sometimes a donor
would call up and ask if we had received his check, expecting us to
remember it readily because it was so large. How could we say that we
could not recall it because we had received so many that were even
larger?When Mother spoke publicly, she never asked for money, but she did
encourage people to make sacrifices for the poor, to “give until it
hurts.” Many people did – and they gave it to her. We received touching
letters from people, sometimes apparently poor themselves, who were
making sacrifices to send us a little money for the starving people in
Africa, the flood victims in Bangladesh, or the poor children in India.
Most of the money sat in our bank accounts.The flood of donations was considered to be a sign of God’s approval
of Mother Teresa’s congregation. We were told by our superiors that we
received more gifts than other religious congregations because God was
pleased with Mother, and because the Missionaries of Charity were the
sisters who were faithful to the true spirit of religious life.Most of the sisters had no idea how much money the congregation was
amassing. After all, we were taught not to collect anything. One summer
the sisters living on the outskirts of Rome were given more crates of
tomatoes than they could distribute. None of their neighbors wanted
them because the crop had been so prolific that year. The sisters
decided to can the tomatoes rather than let them spoil, but when Mother
found out what they had done she was very displeased. Storing things
showed lack of trust in Divine Providence.The donations rolled in and were deposited in the bank, but they had
no effect on our ascetic lives and very little effect on the lives of
the poor we were trying to help. We lived a simple life, bare of all
superfluities. We had three sets of clothes, which we mended until the
material was too rotten to patch anymore. We washed our own clothes by
hand. The never-ending piles of sheets and towels from our night
shelter for the homeless we washed by hand, too. Our bathing was
accomplished with only one bucket of water. Dental and medical checkups
were seen as an unnecessary luxury.Mother was very concerned that we preserve our spirit of poverty.
Spending money would destroy that poverty. She seemed obsessed with
using only the simplest of means for our work. Was this in the best
interests of the people we were trying to help, or were we in fact
using them as a tool to advance our own “sanctity?” In Haiti, to keep
the spirit of poverty, the sisters reused needles until they became
blunt. Seeing the pain caused by the blunt needles, some of the
volunteers offered to procure more needles, but the sisters refused.We begged for food and supplies from local merchants as though we
had no resources. On one of the rare occasions when we ran out of
donated bread, we went begging at the local store. When our request was
turned down, our superior decreed that the soup kitchen could do
without bread for the day.It was not only merchants who were offered a chance to be generous.
Airlines were requested to fly sisters and air cargo free of charge.
Hospitals and doctors were expected to absorb the costs of medical
treatment for the sisters or to draw on funds designated for the
religious. Workmen were encouraged to labor without payment or at
reduced rates. We relied heavily on volunteers who worked long hours in
our soup kitchens, shelters, and day camps.A hard-working farmer devoted many of his waking hours to collecting
and delivering food for our soup kitchens and shelters. “If I didn’t
come, what would you eat?” he asked.
Our Constitution forbade us to beg for more than we needed, but,
when it came to begging, the millions of dollars accumulating in the
bank were treated as if they did not exist.For years I had to write thousands of letters to donors, telling
them that their entire gift would be used to bring God’s loving
compassion to the poorest of the poor. I was able to keep my
complaining conscience in check because we had been taught that the
Holy Spirit was guiding Mother. To doubt her was a sign that we were
lacking in trust and, even worse, guilty of the sin of pride. I shelved
my objections and hoped that one day I would understand why Mother
wanted to gather so much money, when she herself had taught us that
even storing tomato sauce showed lack of trust in Divine Providence.”For nearly a decade, Susan Shields was a Missionaries of Charity
sister. She played a key role in Mother Teresa’s organization until she
resigned.Pat Franklin adds: The money which poured in is money which could have gone to some of the really great charities which actually do help so many in India and round the world – and which give poor people the gospel as well! She did not, and as her own death drew near, she reportedly did not know if she was going to heaven or not. ‘Mother’ Teresa – I’m glad she wasn’t MY mother!
by Susan Shields
The Real Mandela – The American Vision
POSTED IN essays December 22, 2013
The Real Mandela – The American vision
“There is nothing sacred or inherently superior about non-violent methods of struggle.”
Nelson Mandela
With the media gushing about the greatness of Nelson Mandela now on the day after his death, a counterpoint with the rest of the story is badly needed. Below are a few video interviews of South African missionary Peter Hammond, who tells the real truth about Mandela.
Portrayed as a liberator by the media, Mandela was a Marxist and convicted terrorist. Hammond relates of Mandela:
He admitted in open court—pleaded “guilty”—and remember, he was trained as a lawyer—he pleaded “guilty” to 156 acts of public violence and terrorism. He was the head of the revolutionary terrorist wing of the ANC [African National Congress] “Umkhonto we Sizwe.” And he was behind so many different operations: from the plotting of bombs in the railway station (which killed women and children, which crippled people), bombs in shopping centers, attacks on farmers, . . . so many acts of violence.
He goes on to say that modern portrayals make Mandela out to be a saint, but never mention why he was in prison to begin with. It was for good and just reason. “Not even the Amnesty International would take his case, because they said he wasn’t a political prisoner. He had had a fair trial and a reasonable sentence. He had his day in court. He was not a political prisoner. He was in jail for acts of violence.”
He relates that the crimes for which Mandela was given life imprisonment in South Africa, he would have received the death penalty in the U.S. or Britain at the time. It was the political climate that later got him released, and leftist revisionism that has whitewashed his early life of violence. If anything, Mandela’s legacy is an argument in favor of the death penalty. When such criminals are not disposed of, there is always a chance future political powers may be corrupt enough to release them—perhaps even into positions of power.
In light of the truth about Mandela, Hammond can say, “I’m astounded that so many in the west idolize Nelson Mandela and lift him up as a messianic figure, because they obviously don’t know what he teaches, what he believes, or what he does, or his support for some of the most radical Marxist dictatorships on the planet.”
This includes many Christians: “A lot of Christians out there idolize Nelson Mandela just because they’ve only been given false, misleading, and incomplete information.”
When Mandela fell ill a year ago, the media began to prepare for the very hagiography which it is now publishing about the fallen terrorist. Barack Obama seized the opportunity to tour South Africa, speaking on human rights everywhere he went, invoking the name of Mandela at every stop and praising his work.
A liberal NPR commentator could not contain himself this morning. He lamented the fact that during Obama’s visit to the country, Mandela was too ill for a photo-op: “The first black president of the United States standing beside the first black president of South Africa would’ve made for a powerful moment.”
Or he might have said: “One crypto-communist friend of terrorists standing beside a known communist and convicted terrorist would’ve made for a revealing moment.”
In the wake of the Boston bombings, Obama stated that the acts would be investigated as acts of terrorism, because, “Any time bombs are used to target innocent civilians it is an act of terror.”
“Any time. . . .”
Yet this morning, when addressing the death of Mandela only a few months later, the same president said, “We’ve lost one of the most influential, courageous, and profoundly good human beings that any of us will share time with on this earth.”
There is indeed a disconnect in the public discourse.
And yes, even, many Christians will be confused and cornered. Many will find themselves trapped by the perceived dilemma created by the whitewashed narrative of Mandela. If opponents openly criticize him, they risk being publicly associated a friends of apartheid and racism (just as supporters of states’ rights in the U.S. today get associated unduly with slavery and racism). Give Mandela a pass, however, and you give a pass to his Marxist ideology and terrorism. It sounds a lot like many other lesser-of-two-evils decisions presented to us.
The videos which follow come from a missionary who judges matters differently. He upholds the truth in the public square, no matter what people say against him or try to do to him.
Mandela has passed on to stand before his maker. We will now see if God judges according to the lesser of evils.
If you’d like to learn more about Mandela’s communism, just read the book he himself wrote, and which was part of the loads of evidence used against him in his trial: How to Be a Good Communist.
Published on December 6th 2013 by Dr. Joel McDurmon
Moving house.
POSTED IN essays July 30, 2013
Moving house.
Mandy and Pooh sat together at the bottom of the garden; each thinking their separate thoughts, but somehow feeling connected to each other, happy just to be . They did this for a while, Pooh humming a little tune, and listening to the echoes inside his empty honey pot.
Something – Pooh wasn’t sure what – made him suddenly look up. “Mandy,” he said. “Why are you looking so sad?”
A tear rolled down Mandy’s face and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
“It’s nothing Pooh. I’m ok.”
“Oh,” said Pooh, in a troubled kind of way. “That’s a very sad sort of nothing Mandy.”
Mandy’s eyes began to fill. “I’m sorry Pooh; it’s just … just… well I am going away. To another place.”
Pooh licked some honey off his paw. “That could be fun Mandy. When are you coming back?”
“That’s just it, Pooh,” said Mandy sadly. “I’m not coming back. I shall live somewhere else. Far Away.”
“How far is Far Away, Mandy? Will I still be able to see you?”
“Well no Pooh. It would take you ages in a car. Not so long in a plane.”
“Then that’s ok Mandy. I’ll come and visit you. With all our friends.”
Mandy looked sadly at Pooh. “People say that Pooh, but often they never do.”
Pooh sniffed and felt something stir inside his tummy. Perhaps he was hungry. He eyed the bottom of his honey pot but it was still empty. So he decided to think.
“Mandy,” he said. “What did you say you had to do to fill up your honey pot with the most delicious honey that ever existed?”
“Um, I think I said you had you use your imagination, Pooh. Honey never runs out when you use your imagination.”
“That’s right,” said Pooh happily. “How ‘bout if you imagine YOU are a honey pot and fill it with your friends! Then you will always carry them around inside you … and they will never run out!”
Mandy thought about that for a minute. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to look like a big, round honey pot! Then she gave Pooh her biggest and best hug ever. “Oh thank you, dearest Pooh. You are so right. You will always be with me, no matter how far away I go. If I keep a picture of you inside my head and one right next to my heart, we can still talk to each other, anywhere and anytime.”
“Yes,” said Pooh. “No matter how far, Far Away is, I will always manage to find you and you will always find me. Will you keep an extra big honey pot for me … filled with especially yummy honey.”
“Definitely,” said Mandy happily. “The biggest pot you ever did see … big enough for you and all the friends in the world!”
“Where did you say you were going Mandy?”
“To a place I’ve ever only dreamed about. A slice of heaven – right here on earth.”
“Ah!” sighed Pooh. “You must be going to the Bee Hive … “
Amanda Edwards
The Nightingale and the Rose
POSTED IN essays June 7, 2013
The Nightingale and the RoseShe said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,’ cried the young Student; ‘but in all my garden there is no red rose.’From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
‘No red rose in all my garden!’ he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears. ‘Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.’
‘Here at last is a true lover,’ said the Nightingale. ‘Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his lace like pale Ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.’
‘The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night,’ murmured the young Student, ‘and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.’
‘Here indeed is the true lover,’ said the Nightingale. ‘What I sing of he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. it may not be purchased of the merchants, ‘or can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.’‘The musicians will sit in their gallery,’ said the young Student, ‘and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her;’ and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
‘Why is he weeping?’ asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
‘Why, indeed?’ said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
‘Why, indeed?’ whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
‘He is weeping for a red rose,’ said the Nightingale.
‘For a red rose!’ they cried; ‘how very ridiculous!’ and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.
Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it, she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
‘Give me a red rose,’ she cried, ‘and I will sing you my sweetest song.’
But the Tree shook its head.
‘My roses are white,’ it answered; ‘as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.’So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
‘Give me a red rose,’ she cried, ‘and I will sing you my sweetest song.’
But the Tree shook its head.
‘My roses are yellow,’ it answered; ‘as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.’
So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student’s window.
‘Give me a red rose,’ she cried, ‘and I will sing you my sweetest song.’
But the Tree shook its head.
‘My roses are red,’ it answered, ‘as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.’
‘One red rose is all I want,’ cried the Nightingale, ‘only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?’
‘There is a way,’ answered the Tree; ‘but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you.’
‘Tell it to me,’ said the Nightingale, ‘I am not afraid.’
‘If you want a red rose,’ said the Tree, ‘you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.’‘Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,’ cried the Nightingale, ‘and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?’
So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
‘Be happy,’ cried the Nightingale, ‘be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart’s-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.’
The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
‘Sing me one last song,’ he whispered; ‘I shall feel very lonely when you are gone.’
So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.When she had finished her song the Student got lip, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
‘She has form,’ he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove – ‘that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.’ And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Yale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river – pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.
But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. ‘Press closer, little Nightingale,’ cried the Tree, ‘or the Day will come before the rose is finished.’
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s heart remained white, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. ‘Press closer, little Nightingale,’ cried the Tree, ‘or the Day will come before the rose is finished.’
So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb.
And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
But the Nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
‘Look, look!’ cried the Tree, ‘the rose is finished now;’ but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.‘Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! he cried; ‘here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name;’ and he leaned down and plucked it.
Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with the rose in his hand.
The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
‘You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,’ cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you.’
But the girl frowned.
‘I am afraid it will not go with my dress,’ she answered; ‘and, besides, the Chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.’
‘Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,’ said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
‘Ungrateful!’ said the girl. ‘I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don’t believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain’s nephew has;’ and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
‘What a silly thing Love is,’ said the Student as he walked away. ‘It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics.’So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.
by Oscar Wilde
All art is quite useless
POSTED IN essays June 5, 2013
All art is quite useless
The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.
The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.
The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless.Oscar Wilde
To Clegg’ s surprise, Wilde responded with a handwritten letter.
16, TITE STREET,
CHELSEA. S.W.
My dear SirArt is useless because its aim is simply to create a mood. It is not meant to instruct, or to influence action in any way. It is superbly sterile, and the note of its pleasure is sterility. If the contemplation of a work of art is followed by activity of any kind, the work is either of a very second-rate order, or the spectator has failed to realize the complete artistic impression.
A work of art is useless as a flower is useless. A flower blossoms for its own joy. We gain a moment of joy by looking at it. That is all that is to be said about our relations to flowers. Of course man may sell the flower, and so make it useful to him, but this has nothing to do with the flower. It is not part of its essence. It is accidental. It is a misuse. All this is I fear very obscure. But the subject is a long one.
Truly yours,
Oscar Wilde
Kulttuuri – kansan syntymätodistus
POSTED IN essays May 12, 2012
| Kuulttuurin maailmaan Suomi tulee nuorena, tuoreena, täynnä itseluottamusta, ylpeänä, riippumattomana, suomen kielen ja kirjallisuuden kanssa! “Alussa oli sana…”. Niin, ensin oli suomen kielen ihme, kansalliseepoksen, Kalevalan säkeitä raskaina talviöinä laulavan suomen kielen. Sitten puhuttu sana kirjoitettin. Sitten siitä tuli metafora ja henkilöllisyystodistus. Eino Leino, Aleksis Kivi, Otto Manninen, L. Onerva… Mitä merkitsee suomen kieli, suomalainen runo ja kirjallisuus? Quod capitat tot sententiae. Eksoottinen, outo, vaikea ymmärtää, helppo tulkita, looginen, epälooginen, kaunis, siettämätön, runollinen, kivikkoinen… Näitä kuulen joka päivä ympärilläni. Tietysti minullakin on oikeus määritelmään. Minulle suomi on Euroopan loogisin kieli; mutta tarvitaan kärsivällisyyttä, aikaa ja ennen kaikkea rakkautta, jotka voisi lähteä suomen kielen ja runouden salojen selvittämisen seikkailuun. Oppia ajattelemaan tällä kielellä, uneksimaan tällä kielellä. Jokaisessa kielessä on olemassa “kaipaus”. Kaipaus, josta puhun, on kanssalliskielen kaipaus, identiteetin kaipaus. Jos et voi enää kunnioittaa omaa kieltäsi, silloin kadotat nimesi, olemuksesi ja silloin ääreton kaipaus täyttää sinut. Kun asut vieraassa maassa yrität säilyttää elävänä sydämessäsi ja mielessäsi äidinkielesi ja samalla yrität oppia ajattelemaan tuon vieraan maan kielellä. Omalla kielelläsi sinulla on ikävä äitiä, omalla kielelläsi hymy on hymy, sillä opit mitä on elämä ja vain omalla kielelläsi voit lakata itkemästä. Jokaisella maalla on oikeus luoda oma taiteellinen valuuttansa, joka ei voi koskaan menettää arvoaan ja joka tulee aina olemaan sen syntymätodistus. Mitä enemmän se on edustettuna, sitä tunnetumpi se on koko maailmassa. Suomalaista runoutta pitäisi kääntää jokaiselle kielelle ja tehdä tunnetuksi. Ottakaamme se vastaan leivän ja suolan kanssa, niin kuin minun maassani on tapana! |
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by Maria Magdalena Biela
Napoleon vers Josephine
POSTED IN essays May 5, 2012
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Je n’ai pas passé un jour sans t’aimer ; je n’ai pas passé une nuit sans te serrer dans mes bras ; je n’ai pas pris une tasse de thé sans maudire la gloire et l’ambition qui me tiennent éloigné de l’âme de ma vie. Au milieu des affaires, à la tête des troupes, en parcourant les camps, mon adorable Joséphine est seule dans mon coeur, occupe mon esprit, absorbe ma pensée. Si je m’éloigne de toi avec la vitesse du torrent du Rhône, c’est pour te revoir plus vite. Si, au milieu de la nuit, je me lève pour travailler, c’est que cela peut avancer de quelques jours l’arrivée de ma douce amie, et cependant, dans ta lettre du 23 au 26 ventôse, tu me traites de vous.
Vous toi-même ! Ah ! mauvaise, comment as-tu pu écrire cette lettre ! Qu’elle est froide ! Et puis, du 23 au 26, restent quatre jours ; qu’as-tu fait, puisque tu n’as pas écrit à ton mari ?… Ah ! mon amie, ce vous et ces quatre jours me font regretter mon antique indifférence. Malheur à qui en serait la cause ! Puisse-t-il, pour peine et pour supplice, éprouver ce que la conviction et l’évidence (qui servit ton ami) me feraient éprouver ! L’Enfer n’a pas de supplice ! Ni les Furies, de serpents ! Vous ! Vous ! Ah ! que sera-ce dans quinze jours ?…
Mon âme est triste ; mon coeur est esclave, et mon imagination m’effraie… Tu m’aimes moins ; tu seras consolée. Un jour, tu ne m’aimeras plus ; dis-le-moi ; je saurai au moins mériter le malheur… Adieu, femme, tourment, bonheur, espérance et âme de ma vie, que j’aime, que je crains, qui m’inspire des sentiments tendres qui m’appellent à la Nature, et des mouvements impétueux aussi volcaniques que le tonnerre. Je ne te demande ni amour éternel, ni fidélité, mais seulement… vérité, franchise sans bornes. Le jour où tu dirais «je t’aime moins» sera le dernier de ma vie. Si mon coeur était assez vil pour aimer sans retour, je le hacherais avec les dents.
Joséphine, Joséphine ! Souviens-toi de ce que je t’ai dit quelquefois : la Nature m’a fait l’âme forte et décidée. Elle t’a bâtie de dentelle et de gaze. As-tu cessé de m’aimer ? Pardon, âme de ma vie, mon âme est tendue sur de vastes combinaisons. Mon coeur, entièrement occupé par toi, a des craintes qui me rendent malheureux… Je suis ennuyé de ne pas t’appeler par ton nom. J’attends que tu me l’écrives. Adieu ! Ah ! si tu m’aimes moins, tu ne m’auras jamais aimé. Je serais alors bien à plaindre.
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Johnny Cash to June Carter
POSTED IN essays May 3, 2012
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Transcript
That’s really nice June. You’ve got a way with words and a way with me as well. The fire and excitement may be gone now that we don’t go out there and sing them anymore, but the ring of fire still burns around you and I, keeping our love hotter than a pepper sprout. Love John |
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