Gary, You're a Poet!

How You Approach Life

You, Poet, are an unusually complex, creative person with a lot of insight to share. Life shows you many hidden secrets, and it's your duty to find ways to express these gems to the rest of the world.

You are unusually sensitive to the surrounding stimuli in your life, and that's something many people can't handle. Instead of freaking out about it though, you have a special ability to release the stress that can build up — even on a daily basis.

When your environment does get out of hand, you are able to separate from the madness, process it, and use it in positive ways to affect your life. It is that uncanny ability that allows you to carry on in your hard-working responsible ways, where others would simply crumble.

Another unique aspect of your personality is your unusually rich rapport with yourself and your imagination. But to tap into your creative genius, you sometimes need to isolate yourself from the surrounding chaos and steal away to quieter, more comfortable environments. Since you spend so much time with your thoughts, you often generate particularly original ideas and that leads to your tendency to cultivate original interests.

Some people might see you as shy, but at the heart of it they just might misunderstand you. You relish the friends that you have and they recognize their importance in your life. You probably put a premium on one-on-one time with them and organize intimate get-togethers that can last well into the night. You are full of insights and inspiration, even though sometimes you're inclined to keep them to yourself. You'll likely find that if you trust your instincts more, you might not feel the need to beat yourself up for your occasional mistakes.

Overall, you're an especially gifted individual, whose thoughts about our world are valid and valued. So keep at it, Poet.

Your areas of greatest vulnerability

Your greatest vulnerability is that your senses are on overdrive, soaking in anything and everything from the environment. Things that others might not notice sometimes can send you reeling. The reason this makes you vulnerable is that it can affect your ability to cope with the world effectively. Although your sensitivity is a wonderful asset, it can be scary knowing that you could be distracted at any time. If someone wants to push your buttons, they can go after this, because there's not much you can do to protect yourself from your own sensitivity. Be your best: Buffering yourself with quiet and calm situations will help, and recognizing and choosing friends and associates who respect your boundaries will also make things easier.

Section II — What makes you a Poet?

Your personality is actually determined by two personality sub-types — your primary, or dominant sub-type, and your secondary sub-type.

In your case, Poet, your two sub-types are Thinker and Golden. Your primary sub-type is defined by "Thinker" characteristics and your secondary sub-type is defined by "Golden" characteristics.

Your primary type is Thinker

Like other people with Thinker characteristics you are extremely sensitive to external stimuli. You tend to be extraordinarily aware of your surroundings — responding emotionally to small changes that others might not even notice. To combat feeling overwhelmed, you may like to move a bit more slowly and seek out calm environments that won't stress you out.

Intellectually, you like to dig deep into a problem to solve it — even when others grow impatient and move on to other subjects. As far as entertainment goes, you gravitate toward media that is sentimental and peaceful — you like feel-good stories. You are more likely than others to be interested in books, inspirational media, self-improvement and arts and crafts.

If there is a change in the air, Thinker, nobody is more aware of it than you. You have an unusually refined sensitivity to subtle changes in your environment and from time to time, this can manifest as a fear that the worst is going to happen. You may have a tendency to be constantly on guard because you ultimately are working to prevent a perceived catastrophe from happening.

Your secondary type is Golden

People with Golden characteristics have unusually high self-esteem and are very conscientiousness. They are responsible, dependable, and dutiful — people others rely on. They are also efficient, and do not like to waste time. They tend to go about life with a positive attitude — both about themselves and the world around them.

Intellectually, Goldens are careful, deliberating thinkers. In terms of entertainment, Goldens enjoy media that is romantic, happy, and inspiring, and tend to avoid media that is dark, edgy, and sad. They are interested a wide variety of things including cooking, eating out, nutrition, travel, sports, recreation, fitness, health and traditional religion.

Section III — Your Four Personality Dimensions

Your primary and secondary personality sub-types determine your personality type. There are, however, additional elements that contribute to your complete personality profile.

Based on how you answered the questions on the Ultimate Personality Test, we have determined where you fall on four distinct personality scales: Relaxed/Apprehensive, Self-Doubt/Confidence, Safety-Seeking/ Risk-Taking, and Internal Experience/External Appearance. The scales are not dependent on one another. They are meant to show you whether you tend towards one or the other extreme, or are somewhere in the middle.

Here's the breakdown of your scores on the four personality dimension scales.

Relaxed Apprehensive
Self-Doubt Confidence
Safety-Seeking Risk-Taking
Internal Experience External Appearance


Relaxed versus Apprehensive

Relaxed Apprehensive

Your scores place you in the extremely relaxed region of the relaxed/apprehensive scale. This means that relative to others who have taken the test, you have a calm disposition. It also indicates that you are good at dealing with change and chaotic situations.

Like other people who score high on the relaxed side of this scale, you are likely to be stimulated by chaos and may approach life with a "the more the better" kind of attitude. Your energy levels veer toward high because you tend to be relaxed about problems that are out of you control. You are someone who is relatively less inclined to react emotionally to things that happen — not because you don't feel the emotions, but because you don't let things get to you as easily as others.

The flip side of this is people who score high on the apprehensive side of this scale. They are likely to be drawn to situations that are less stimulating to their senses. Because they are easily affected by change, they try to stay away from environments that can over-stimulate them.

These people have strong reactions to what others would consider minor changes. That is why people who score high on the apprehensive side of the scale try to slow down the pace. When faced with chaotic situations, they will look for more calming places to be. Despite their talents, they are generally more self-critical and shy than others, even if it seems there's no reason for them to be.

Since you're someone who thrives on excitement, you need to take time to analyze different aspects of your life if you're feeling unhappy. Are you feeling stunted, bored or depressed about something you can't quite put a finger on? The answer could lie in uncovering an element of your routine that isn't challenging or stimulating enough. Is your job predictable or easy? Do have a hard time finding good entertainment in your town? Are your relationships falling into a rut?

Even if friends and family envy your life — your home, your mate, your job — remember it's ok if you're still not satisfied. It doesn't mean that you're not grateful, it simply means that you need a change to keep you from being bored. If you're not up for dramatic life changes, make sure you're vigilant about mixing things up a little: take a new class, plan a trip, learn a new skill, or start an art project.

Self-Doubt versus Confidence

Self-Doubt Confidence

Your scores place you in the moderately self-doubting region of the self-doubt/confidence scale. This means that relative to others who have taken the test, you are less confident than most. It also indicates that although you may be generally less satisfied with yourself than are others, you are still able to put your best foot forward when needed.

Since you scored just slightly more on the self-doubting side of things, let's take a look at characteristics of people who scored more towards the extremes of the self-doubt/confidence scale to gauge where you fall in between.

People scoring high on the confidence side are extremely self-assured and responsible. Because of these traits, they are often the one friends and colleagues come to rely on — both on the job and in personal situations. These people are also known for having unusually high self-esteem and are natural leaders.

People who score high on the self-doubt side of the scale have a tendency to look to others to determine their self-worth. They seek calm environments and often focus their energies on jobs that have less responsibility and are therefore less stressful. They are sometimes prone to being overly-critical about themselves, but can work their way out of those thoughts because ultimately, others might point out their talents.

To really enjoy life, you, in particular, need your freedom from obligations. If you're feeling stifled, uncreative or unhappy, look at your life and figure out if there are areas where you are carrying too much responsibility. Then see if you can shed any of them.

When you carry too many unnecessary burdens, you can weigh yourself down. In this world filled with multi-tasking, power people, the trick is learning how to sort the necessary obligations from unnecessary duties.

Having more burdens than your fair share is a stress you don't need in your life. Luckily, you can control more of this than you might think — as long as you just decide what to take on, and what to leave to others.

Safety-Seeking versus Risk-Taking

Safety-Seeking Risk-Taking

Your scores place you well into the safety-seeking side of the safety-seeking/risk-taking scale. This means that relative to others who have taken the test, you prefer to play it safe and seek the security of knowing ahead of time what the outcome will be.

Like other people who score high on the safety-seeking side, you tend to prefer that your environment remains stable. To you, predictability has positive connotations and stability is a comfort and an indication of safety.

On the flip side are people who score high on the risk-taking side of the spectrum. They combine a love of the new and unusual with a talent for inquisitive, abstract thinking. They seek out action and feel that both structure and predictability are strangling experiences.

Some things in life are within your control and some aren't. If you're feeling intimidated, or uncertain throughout your days, take a look at your life and figure out which areas are unpredictable and what areas are not. You can't eliminate the unpredictable. But there might be ways you can better structure your routine around the unpredictable.

For example, you can control which train you want to take, but you can't control if the train is going to be on time. By recognizing the elements you can be in charge of, you can adapt your patterns accordingly. If you have a critical meeting, realize there is a possibility that your train could be late. Instead of racing out the door at the last second, prepare yourself to catch the early train — just in case your regular train is late. Learn an alternate route. Is there a different bus you could take, a faster train that leaves from a different stop? Since you feel most comfortable in predictable situations, try thinking ahead and structuring where you can.

External Appearance versus Internal Experience

Internal Experience External Appearance

Your scores place you in the moderate external appearance region of internal experience/external appearance scale. This means that relative to others who have taken the test, you take more pride in how things appear to others. It also indicates that occasionally, you are focused on the internal experience of a given situation.

Since you scored just slightly more on the external appearance side of things, let's take a look at characteristics of people who scored more towards the extremes of the scale to gauge where you fall in between.

People who score high on the internal experience side of the scale don't really believe that material possessions are a reflection of their success. In fact, they tend not to focus on how things appear to others at all. They feel that success comes from doing a good job, and knowing that they have positively influenced the world.

People who score high on the external appearance end of the scale tend to be motivated by a wish to be socially desirable. They want to move up and be seen in the world. For them, true success is important, and material possessions are the sign they have achieved it. Therefore, these people sometimes believe that happiness is directly a result of success and that the possessions they own are a reflection of that success.

If you're feeling dissatisfied, take a look at your life and figure out if there are areas where you are compromising your values. Is your heart really in it when you go to the gym every day or are you doing it because your friends are? You probably have your own reasons, but don't fall in with friends just to be part of your group — even if it seems the thing to do at the time.

While friends might be racing to buy the latest electronic gadget or flashy car, you might wonder why you don't have a strong drive to acquire the same things. Don't worry. You're just happier focusing on other things in your life. That's not to say you don't like having nice things, it's just that you acquire things you need more than things you want to show off. If you feel indifferent toward external appearances, it may not be worth it to you to put much energy into maintaining them. Listen to yourself, since it's you — not other people — who knows what you like best.

Section IV — The Poet and the World Around You

How Others See You

You're composed and sophisticated. Socially, you project a flawless exterior — organized, thoughtful, and somewhat restrained. People are impressed by your unruffled image and see you as stable and mature. Occasionally others may worry that they don't measure up in your obviously discerning eyes.

Communication Style

Your gift, is the ability to handle intense conflict without losing your cool. With your level-headed approach, you are able to shrug off most of the bothersome things people say. Occasionally, you might question your actions or others' criticisms of you. But despite some lingering concerns, you are almost always well-served by your composure in the face of confrontation.

Your Romantic Life

Your romantic ideal is a sweet and loving partner — someone to cocoon with. Your best match is also a hit with your family and friends. You long for stability, coziness and the comfort of sharing a life with someone who cares. You gravitate toward domesticity and commitment. At the same time, you want your partner to fit in well with the other people in your life. When friends, family, coworkers and others approve of your partner, it gives you a sense of security and community that you just love.

You At Your Best

You are blessedly free from many common fears and anxieties about the world. You're at your best when you're using your ease and fearlessness to explore possibilities and get to know yourself better. Entertain your inclinations. Learn by trial and error. Challenge yourself and then be gentle when you bump up against your limitations. You'll find great satisfaction and strengthen your sense of self when you get your feet wet in the stream of life.

Achieving Success

You are focused on success in your life; and you define it in a variety of ways. You love the boost you get from getting credit for your work, financial rewards, achieving your personal goals, finding luck in love, having great friends and, in sum, getting what you want. You can be held back, however, by a pesky self-doubt that occasionally questions your ability to really “make it” in the world. You've never been afraid to let the world know what you have to offer. Whether it's standing up to take credit in a work scenario or letting a new person you meet get a sense of your charms right away, you know how to put your best assets front and center. A challenge for you in the area of ambition is to partner with others as you pursue your dreams. Don't let that niggling self-doubt keep you from teaming up, combining resources and sharing the trip. You'll find the rewards of being on a team or part of a duo can be felt during the process and pay off in the final reward.

What Really Motivates You

Peace and stability are your motivating rewards. You're willing to work hard if it means creating comforting ease for yourself and your loved ones. You value stability and security. And you know that it sometimes takes sophisticated thinking and clever planning to pull off simplicity. You're always motivated to think ahead now if it means less stress later.

Conflict

Sure you have your pet peeves and irritations, but your even-keeled personality helps you sail through tough situations. The frequent difference between what people deserve — in terms of credit, money, happiness, friends or any type of reward — and what they actually have can be pretty galling for you. Not to mention times when you don't feel justly rewarded for your efforts and assets! But it takes a lot to get you angry enough to say or do anything, so overt conflicts are few and far between in your life.

Getting Unstuck in Your Life

You may not know it yet, but you're ready to take some chances. You'll break out of insecurities and stuck places in your life when you open up to new experiences. Try something new and pay attention to how it makes you feel. You have a natural resilience; so don't fear that your experiments with work, interests, relationships or self-exploration will fail. Wherever they lead you, you'll find yourself with more self-knowledge and a richer understanding of your place in the world.

An Angry, Wrathful God

My father was not what one would ordinarily consider to be an intellectual, but like most intellectuals he had resources of character that manifested themselves in his elusiveness. He was brash, or perhaps simply foolish, an untested young man -- a man-boy -- who walked out of high school in the middle of the tenth-grade, and found no one following him. No one quit Central High School in the tenth grade. It was a school for academically-talented boys, boys who were college bound. He was a selfish man. A selfish and elusive man. Or maybe no, merely so physically rude that he appeared selfish. Whatever he did had such personal force that it seemed offensive. Like sticking his tongue out to examine it in the mirror. Like shaving in front of me, talking all the while, while my eyes followed his razor through the thin spread of brushless cream. And when he was through, his jaw was as blue as before. That was offensive. That was selfishness of a profound sort. Yet he was also elusive. He kept his razor clean. It always looked unused. He never left blotches of gloppy shaving cream in the sink. He never left the shower faucet dripping. He never left towels wadded up. You never knew he'd been there. He had a way of being both conspicuous and inconspicuous. He was both obscure and preeminently visible -- how beautiful that is to contemplate. His breathing was noisy. Bending over the television or adjusting the thermostat, or reaching down to retrieve a section of the newspaper from the floor, you could hear the concentration of turning or reaching in his release of breath, as if assuring himself that he was working hard and that something considerable was at stake.

He didn't accept me for a long time as a child. I had blond hair like a goy. Golden blond, fine hair. My sister was dark, her pure black hair a source of pride to my father. In retrospect I would say that my father was ashamed of me, of my goyisheh hair, my goyisheh reticence, my goyisheh passivity. He found it odd that he was my father. Why would I think that if it wasn't so? When I was a boy I myself questioned my paternity. Could this man really be my father? This old Jewish man, so many years older than my blond, goyisheh mother. It all seems so silly now. How could this man not be my father? He seemed to study his son like a psychologist through a pane of glass. My father perpetuated our apartness, my sense of otherness. He didn't understand what I meant when I flirted with him like a woman, the way a shy girl flirts with her first crush. Do boys flirt with their fathers -- passively, obscurely? He didn't understand my angers, or what I wanted when I pleased him. With his legs crossed at the knees and his large rude eyes magnified by his glasses. With his bald head, that ancient bald head that, to a seven-year-old, resembled President Eisenhower's.

But this describes just a moment's oversensitive perception by the little criminal of perception. He was never warm and affectionate. He was my secret, elusive lover. A powerful and furious presence in my life. Like Jehovah. I feared him as if he were an angry, wrathful God. What I remember is the lectures. He wanted me to grow up with a sense of my Jewishness. He wrestled my mother for my soul. He worked on me to counteract the bad influences of my mother, with her Christian notions and Christmas decorations. That was our relationship -- my relationship with my father -- his teaching me to have a sense of myself as a Jew.

The Legacy

Should we not look for the first traces of imaginative activity as early as in childhood? The child's best-loved and most intense occupation is with his play or games. Might we not say that every child at play behaves like a creative writer, in that he creates a world of his own, or, rather, re-arranges the things of his world in a new way which pleases him? It would be wrong to think he does not take that world seriously; on the contrary, he takes his play very seriously and he expends large amounts of emotion on it. The opposite of play is not what is serious but what is real. In spite of all the emotion with which he cathects his world of play, the child distinguishes it quite well from reality; and he likes to link his imagined objects and situations to the tangible and visible things of the real world. This linking is all that differentiates the child's 'play' from 'phantasying'.
Sigmund Freud, Creative Writers and Day-Dreaming.
A man's maturity—consists in having found again the seriousness one had as a child, at play.
Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil.
Ludwig Geyer . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . Father Geyer . . .
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Thursday, December 26, 1878).
. . . had left him a toy theater for which he made himself some puppets, and at some point he started to write a play about knights of old.
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
“ . . . I made a little boat out of a cigar box and rag figures, with red and white shirts . . . blue ribbons around the head, and I put them out into the sunlight . . . ”
Helen A. Cooper, Thomas Eakins The Rowing Pictures.
. . . with all the men armed and arrayed in battle formation.
Medieval Sourcebook: The Battle of Hattin 1187.
The opening scene of this gory melodrama fell into his sisters' hands, and their scornful laughter was terrible to hear. It may well have been a similar play that Cacilie . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . Richard's eldest sister . . .
Hollis Alpert, Burton.
. . . recalled him presenting during a summer excursion to Loschwitz, where the Geyers owned a cottage.
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
May had begun, and after weeks of cold and wet a mock summer had set in.
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
The young adventurer who was planning dramas on a Shakespearean scale almost as soon as . . .
Ernest Newman, The Life of Richard Wagner.
. . . the family had made its . . .
Alice Ferguson, Mouton brothers stake claim in Vermilionville.
. . . arrival in the country . . .
Ludwig van Beethoven, Symphony No. 6 ("The Pastoral").
. . . set up his miniature stage beside the steps on the castle hill.
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
On this high note the puppet show commences.
Herman Wouk, War and Remembrance.
As a boy, even as a child, I was thrown much upon myself.
Anthony Trollope, An Autobiography.
To be sure no one was aware of him. The family was entirely absorbed in . . .
Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
. . . the continuing "ordinary cares of life."
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
Thus it came to pass that I . . .
Anthony Trollope, An Autobiography.
. . . an invisible scourge . . .
Richard Wagner, Das Rheingold.
. . . was always going about with some castle in the air firmly built within my mind.
Anthony Trollope, An Autobiography.
A seventh child, eight years after the last-born, I . . .
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
—fortunately or unfortunately—
Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
. . . rang the bell at the gates of life as a belated and rather unwanted guest.
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
The family . . .
Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
. . . were but . . .
Charles Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop.
. . . used to him, it seemed; they suffered him among them . . .
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
. . . while he, for his part, . . .
Leo Tolstoy, Boyhood.
. . . simply detached himself from the cold and unrewarding world and retreated into phantasy.
Frances Donaldson, P.G. Wodehouse.
Such was Wagner's response to a deep existential need—his means of escape.
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
His dreams . . .
Michael Chabon, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay: A Novel.
. . . obscure and ambiguous . . .
Henry James, In the Cage.
. . . dreams of transcendence—
Richard Schickel, They Sorta Got Rhythm.
. . . had always been Houdiniesque: they were the dreams of a pupa struggling in its blind cocoon, mad for a taste of light and air . . .
Michael Chabon, The Amazing Adventure of Kavalier & Clay: A Novel.
. . . yet enjoying in some curious way . . .
J. Moussaieff Masson, The Psychology of the Ascetic.
. . . the glory of its aloneness.
Roger Zelazny, Auto-da-Fe.
Through his sensibility and charm he was sought after as a friend. . . . But what he was searching for, and never found, was real spiritual involvement with another person.
Vivien Noakes, Edward Lear.
"I shall surely leave the world with my great longing to have seen and known a man I truly venerate, who has given me something, unsatisfied. In my childhood years I used to dream I had been with Shakespeare, had conversed with him; that was my longing finding expression."
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Friday, May 26, 1871).
He loved Geyer . . .
Robert W. Gutman, Richard Wagner: The Man, His Mind, and His Music.
. . . and gilded with mythical significance . . .
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
. . . several lines from . . .
Harry Rusche, John Hamilton Mortimer. The Poet, 1775.
. . . a little play that Geyer wrote for the family circle in . . .
Ernest Newman, The Life of Richard Wagner.
. . . I think it was toward the end of December, 1817.
Ludwig van Beethoven, Conversation Book.
" . . . As for Richard, there's no need to worry about him. He goes his own way so quietly, . . .
Ludwig Geyer, Die Uberraschung.
. . . but he . . .
William Shakespeare, Hamlet.
. . . will find his public."
Ludwig Geyer, Die Uberraschung.
They are words, mere words, are they not? . . . But yet there is something in them—
Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Der Rosenkavalier.
Had Geyer been gifted with prophetic vision he could not have painted a truer picture of . . .
Ernest Newman, The Life of Richard Wagner.
. . . a son . . .
Richard Wagner, Siegfried.
. . . who later became great—
Erik H. Erikson, Young Man Luther.
. . . by preserving in . . .
Charles Darwin, The Variation of Animals and Plants Under Domestication.
. . . himself the clear eye of the . . .
Erik H. Erikson, Insight and Responsibility.
. . . child who satisfies . . .
U.S. Social Security Administration, Disability Requirement to Entitle a Grandchild When a Parent is Disabled.
. . . the charismatic hunger of mankind . . .
Erik H. Erikson, Young Man Luther.
. . . by waving . . .
Jonathan Swift, Gulliver’s Travels.
. . . his wand of magic over the world
Richard Wagner, Die Walkure.
Geyer pinned all his brightest hopes on Richard . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . his tender heir . . .
William Shakespeare, Sonnet No. I
. . . and it was with a feeling of placid exultation that . . .
Mark Twain, Roughing It.
. . . the older man perceived that the lad was not entirely unresponsive to all the tender notice lavished on him.
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
But by the autumn of 1821, when the boy was barely eight and a half years old, Geyer was already dead.
Hans Mayer, Portrait of Wagner.
On the afternoon of . . .
Adam Gopnik, The City and the Pillars: Taking a Long Walk Home.
. . . the day my father died . . .
Richard Ford, Love Lost.
. . . the old schoolmaster . . .
Charles Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop.
. . . came and took me . . .
Richard Wagner, My Life.
. . . for a journey . . .
Charles Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop.
. . . to the country. We walked all the way, and did not arrive until nightfall. On the way I asked him many questions about the stars, about which he gave me my first intelligent notions.
Richard Wagner, My Life.
I never saw the heavens so . . .
William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale.
. . . brim with . . .
Charles Dickens, The Old Curiosity Shop.
. . . stars—countless stars.
Bertolt Brecht, Galileo.
I thought of their unfathomable distance, and the slow inevitable drift of their movements out of the unknown past into the unknown future.
H.G. Wells, The Time Machine.
It was a . . .
Mark Twain, Roughing It.
. . . dream night, the comet, the Wain, Orion, full moon, the mildest air, and motionless silence!
Cosima Wagner’s Diaries (Tuesday, October 31, 1882).
I believe I was too frightened and amazed to cry.
Richard Wagner, My Life.
In Richard’s account, . . .
Hollis Alpert, Burton.
. . . his schoolmaster had said . . .
Jerome Jerome, Three Men In A Boat.
. . . “Of you he hoped to make something.”
Richard Wagner, My Life.
I remember that for a long time after I used to imagine . . .
Richard Wagner, Autobiographical Sketch.
. . . father's posthumous approval . . .
Michael Elkin, Jerry Lewis: The former Borscht Belter, now 69, plays the Devil in Damn Yankees on Broadway.
. . . and . . .
Albert Bigelow Paine, Mark Twain: A Biography. 1907-1910.
. . . desired to please . . .
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
. . . him; . . .
Albert Bigelow Paine, Mark Twain: A Biography. 1907-1910.
. . . suffered agonies at the thought of failure
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
I could not help thinking . . .
Jack London, The Mutiny of the Elsinore.
'If my father were alive, what would he say to this?'
Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams.
The earliest recollections of my childhood are fixed on this stepfather and pass from him to the theater.
Richard Wagner, My Life.
Incidentally, a word about Wagner's . . .
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Case of Wagner.
. . . Autobiographical . . .
Sigmund Freud, An Autobiographical Study.
. . . writings:
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Case of Wagner.
Throughout his life . . .
Hollis Alpert, Burton.
. . . he was an . . .
Mark Twain, Roughing It.
. . . endless and remarkable raconteur. He liked most of all to delve into the past and tell of his origins
Hollis Alpert, Burton.
The reader will already have noticed . . .
K.R. Eissler, Talent and Genius.
. . . that Wagner . . .
Mark Twain, At the Shrine of St. Wagner.
. . . is above all an actor.
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Case of Wagner.
But to continue:—
George Gordon, Lord Byron, Don Juan.
What attracted me so strongly to the theater, in which I include the stage itself, the compartments behind the scenes, and the dressing-rooms, was not so much the desire for entertainment and diversion, such as motivates today's theatergoers, but rather a tingling delight in finding myself in an atmosphere that represented such a contrast to normal life by its purely fantastic and almost appallingly attractive quality. Thus a set, or even a flat—perhaps representing a bush—or a costume or even only a characteristic piece of one, appeared to me to emanate from another world and be in a certain sense interesting as apparitions, and contact with all this would serve as a lever to lift me out of a monotonous everyday reality into that fascinating demoniacal realm.
Richard Wagner, My Life.
And so I learned that there were two kinds of reality, but that of the stage was far more real.
Arthur Miller, Timebends.
One birthday, probably his tenth, was made memorable by a sudden storm that swept the flimsy . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . toy . . .
Albert Bigelow Paine, Mark Twain: A Biography. 1907-1910.
. . . theater into the air, ripped the curtain to shreds, and scattered the puppets in all directions. The heavens opened, sending the audience scampering down the steps . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . they had to turn this way and that . . .
John Russell Brown, Shakespeare and His Theatre.
. . . in search of shelter but the bedraggled playwright continued his performance in a voice choked with tears, clasping the remains of his ruined theater in his arms.
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
The others called him, at first gaily, then imploringly; he would not hear.
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
He eventually consented to be taken home, still weeping. For some time afterward, mutilated puppets would occasionally be discovered and returned to him by sympathetic playmates.
That was how it all began. It was his first theatrical rumpus, a characteristic clash with incalculable forces.
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
In the space of a few minutes the sky had turned black and it began to rain. Soon the rain increased until it became a stubborn downpour and the thick earth . . . changed to a blanket of mud, a hands-breadth deep.
Primo Levi, Moments of Reprieve: A Memoir of Auschwitz.
What is difficult to render in adult language is the combination, almost the fusion of delight and menace, of fascination and unease I experienced as I retreated to my room, the drains spitting under the rain-lashed eaves, and sat, hour after entranced hour, turning the pages, committing to memory . . .
George Steiner, Errata: An Examined Life.
Hardly was he well inside his room when the door was hastily pushed shut, bolted and locked. The sudden noise in his rear startled him so much that his little legs gave beneath him. It was his sister who had shown such haste.
Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
Until then I had had so many ways out of everything, and now I had none.
Franz Kafka, A Report to an Academy.
I was glad . . .
Hermann Hesse, Demian.
. . . glad and grateful . . .
Ludwig van Beethoven, Symphony No. 6 ("The Pastoral").
. . . when I finally lay in my bed.
Hermann Hesse, Demian.
I felt that it had become my . . .
Ulrich Baer, Listening to Survivors’ Testimonies.
. . . haven of refuge
Isaac Deutscher, Israel’s Tenth Birthday.
Beyond the open window . . .
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 16).
—one could hear rain drops beating on the window gutter—
Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
. . . the sound of insects has not ceased, not faltered.
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 16).
When I had lain in bed awhile, enveloped by its warmth and safety, my fearful heart turned back once more in confusion and hovered anxiously above what was now past.
Hermann Hesse, Demian.
There I lay aside . . .
Arnold Schoenberg, A Survivor From Warsaw.
. . . turning the pages, committing to memory . . .
George Steiner, Errata: An Examined Life.
. . . the contents of . . .
Jack London, The Mutiny of the Elsinore.
. . . a small book in blue waxen covers.

It was a pictorial guide to coats of arms in the princely city [of Salzburg] and surrounding fiefs. Each blazon was reproduced in color, together with a brief historical notice as to the castle, family-domain, bishopric, or abbey which it identified. The little manual closed with a map marking the relevant sites, including ruins, and with a glossary of heraldic terms.
Even today, I can feel the pressure of wonder, the inward shock which this chance "pacifier" triggered.
George Steiner, Errata: An Examined Life.
The creative writer does the same as the child at play. He creates a world of phantasy which he takes very seriously—that is, which he invests with large amounts of emotion—while separating it sharply from reality.
Sigmund Freud, Creative Writers and Day-Dreaming.
Delving back into the past, immersing himself in his childhood and adolescence, contemplating his early career, conjuring up all the joy and anguish of a lifelong quest for fulfillment—all the errors and delusions, too—Wagner was inundated with a profusion of mental images during his weeks and months in Venice . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . the city from which . . .
H.G. Wells, When the Sleeper Wakes.
. . . a shocked and respectful world received the news of his decease.
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
He lived off the past and was haunted by it. He dreamed of going skating . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . on a frozen lake, . . .
Alan Lightman, Einstein’s Dreams.
. . . recalled scenes from his childhood and described them to Cosima, was once more addressed in his dreams as Richard Geyer . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . Geyer, . . .
Theodor Herzl, Old-New Land.
. . . the name of the musician’s real father
Desmond Stewart, Theodor Herzl: Artist and Politician. A Biography of the Father of Modern Israel.
I had the lonely child's habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life.
George Orwell, Why I Write.
I remember a little incident in connection with . . .
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
. . . Grandmother Geyer, who was still alive, . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . and shared . . .
Charles Dickens, Bleak House.
. . . her gloomy back room with some captive robin redbreasts.
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
Lest it . . .
William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale.
. . . grieve her deeply . . .
Richard Wagner, Gotterdammerung.
. . . her eldest . . .
Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.
. . . son's death had to be . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . hidden from her . . .
Richard Wagner, Gotterdammerung.
. . . a pretense in which Richard, too, was expected to join. He took off his mourning and talked to the ailing old woman as though Ludwig still existed—strangely enough, without difficulty.
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
Be that as it may.
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
I felt adventure in my blood . . .
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
I had put together a drama in which Shakespeare, principally through . . .
Richard Wagner, My Life.
. . . both Hamlet and Lear . . .
K.R. Eissler, Discourse on Hamlet and HAMLET.
. . . had contributed.
Richard Wagner, My Life.
Once more:
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Case of Wagner.
Words, words, mere words . . .
William Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida.
The plot was essentially a variation of Hamlet; my alteration consisted in the fact that my hero, upon the appearance of the ghost of a father murdered in similar circumstances and calling for vengeance, is galvanized into immediate action and goes mad after a series of murders.
Richard Wagner, My Life.
The unreality of the writer's imaginative world, however, has very important consequences for the technique of his art; for many things which, if they were real, could give no enjoyment, can do so in the play of phantasy, and many excitements which, in themselves, are actually distressing, can become a source of pleasure for the hearers and spectators at the performance of a writer's work.

There is another consideration for the sake of which we will dwell a moment longer on this contrast between reality and play. When the child has grown up and has ceased to play, and after he has been labouring for decades to envisage the realities of life with proper seriousness, he may one day find himself in a mental situation which once more undoes the contrast between play and reality. As an adult he can look back on the intense seriousness with which he once carried on his games in childhood; and, by equating his ostensibly serious occupations of to-day with his childhood games, he can throw off the too heavy burden imposed on him by life and win the high yield of pleasure afforded by humour.
Sigmund Freud, Creative Writers and Day-Dreaming.
Oh, that is my salvation, this ability to convert the most serious of things into nonsense in a flash—it has always kept me from going over the brink. Thus, for example, in the midst of my composing today, I . . .
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Tuesday, August 6, 1878).
. . . found it quite impossible to compose . . .
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Elective Affinities.
. . . a single modulation or turn.
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Friday, April 12, 1878).
He took up his pen several times and laid it down again because he could not make up his mind what he ought to . . .
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Elective Affinities.
. . . write and . . .
Mark Twain, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.
. . . rose up and wandered . . .
Mark Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.
. . . through the rooms and now and again . . .
Cosima Wagner’s Diaries (Tuesday, October 3, 1882).
. . . wrote . . .
Albert Bigelow Paine, Mark Twain: A Biography. 1907-1910.
. . . down a joke . . .
Cosima Wagner’s Diaries (Tuesday, October 3, 1882).
. . . but was . . .
Albert Bigelow Paine, Mark Twain: A Biography. 1907-1910.
. . . indisposed.
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Tuesday, October 3, 1882).
He resolved, he rose to his feet . . .
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
. . . to leave the . . .
Mark Twain, Roughing It.
. . . noble apartment of the palace . . .
Mark Twain, The Prince and the Pauper.
. . . where he lived . . .
Mark Twain, A Burlesque Biography.
—and now undertook a walk, in the hope that air and exercise might send him back refreshed to a good evening's work.
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
Moored at ground-floor level and ready for use at all times was the gondola presided over by Luigi, Wagner's favorite gondolier. Luigi used to ferry him to St. Mark's Square, . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . beneath balconies of delicate marble traceries flanked by carven lions . . .
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
. . . through the canal under the Bridge of Sighs . . .
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Thursday, November 16, 1882).
. . . round slippery corners of wall, past melancholy fa¸ades with ancient business shields reflected in the rocking water.
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
There, there . . .
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Wilhelm Meister.
. . among the . . .
Mark Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.
. . . Notable Sights of Venice . . .
Mark Twain, Innocents Abroad.
. . . Wagner . . .
Mark Twain, At the Shrine of St. Wagner.
. . . liked to sit on the stone bench in front of the basilica, unrecognized and unnoticed by the strollers and tourists who gazed up at the four bronze horses on the portico. He would sit there hunched with his elbows propped on his knees, a pose in which he half-humorously predicted that his corpse would someday be discovered.
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
This leads to many jokes!
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Sunday, November 26, 1882).
The Sense of Humor . . .
Max Eastman, The Sense of Humor.
. . . was a palliative that never failed to ease the strain and pain of his relations with the world around him.
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
"It would be my greatest triumph if I were to make you all laugh in my final hour."—
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Wednesday, May 19, 1880).
When we know what all are, we must bewail us,
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime
To laugh at all things—for I wish to know
What, after all, are all things—but a show?
George Gordon, Lord Byron, Excerpt from Don Juan.
But yet . . .
Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Der Rosenkavalier.
The human theater of life, . . .
Erik H. Erikson, Young Man Luther.
. . whether . . .
Mark Twain, The Mysterious Stranger.
. . . circumscribed for each . . .
Erik H. Erikson, Young Man Luther.
. . . person . . .
Mark Twain, The Mysterious Stranger.
. . . by the power of . . .
Erik H. Erikson, Young Man Luther.
. . . comedy or tragedy . . .
R.D. Laing, The Self and Others.
. . . Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, . . .
William Shakespeare, The Tempest.
. . . and will not be recall'd
George Gordon, Lord Byron, Manfred.
Not that he knew it, Wagner's own bond with Venice was already sealed.
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
Wagner had, in fact, signed his own death warrant in going . . .
Ernest Newman, The Life of Richard Wagner.
. . . to Venice, . . .
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
. . . though his resilient temperament and his indomitable will were able to postpone execution of the sentence for a few . . .
Ernest Newman, The Life of Richard Wagner.
. . . priceless, equable days . . .
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
. . . yet.
Ernest Newman, The Life of Richard Wagner.
—Ah, this old magician!
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Case of Wagner.
Verily, . . .
William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale.
. . . like an aging actor . . .
Mike Wilson, Death of a Pumpkin: Day 8.
. . . set down in the middle of a Shakespeare play!
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Friday, September 5, 1879).
—But, alas, . . .
William Shakespeare, Cymbeline.
. . . the old wizard . . .
Joseph Conrad, Tales Of Unrest.
. . . no longer had the strength to play a part.
Robert W. Gutman, Richard Wagner: The Man, His Mind, and His Music.
My friends! His death . . .
Is Jesus The Son Of God.
. . . was as glorious as his life.
Paul von Joukowsky, Letter to Malwida von Meysenbug Describing the Death of Wagner.
Our adventurer felt his senses wooed by . . .
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
. . . the shrill, folklike singing of a boy rowing a gondola through storm and rain . . .
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Saturday, October 28, 1882).
It seemed to him the pale and lovely Summoner out there smiled at him and beckoned; . . .
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
. . . the journey home, beneath glittering stars with the bells tolling, is wonderful.
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Tuesday, October 31, 1882).
Already the burning Pleiades descend into the sea.
Arrigo Boito, Otello (after the play by William Shakespeare).
And in the evening . . .
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Tuesday, October 31, 1882).
. . . as the . . .
Mark Twain, Christian Science.
. . . deathly stillness grows ever deeper . . .
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Elective Affinities.
—it was an . . .
Mark Twain, Christian Science.
. . . unforgettable moment . . .
Hermann Levi, Letter to His Father (Rabbi Levi of Giessen).
. . . when with weary eyes . . .
Celia Moss, Mordecai: A Tale of the English Jews in the Thirteenth Century.
. . . he remarked slowly,
Emma Goldman, Living My Life.
. . . laying down his pen, . . .
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness.
"I am like Othello. The long day's task is done."
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.

FDR's First Inaugural Address -- March 4, 1933

I am certain that my fellow Americans expect that on my induction into the Presidency I will address them with a candor and a decision which the present situation of our people impel.

This is preeminently the time to speak the truth, the whole truth, frankly and boldly. Nor need we shrink from honestly facing conditions in our country today. This great Nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance. In every dark hour of our national life a leadership of frankness and vigor has met with that understanding and support of the people themselves which is essential to victory. I am convinced that you will again give that support to leadership in these critical days.

In such a spirit on my part and on yours we face our common difficulties. They concern, thank God, only material things. Values have shrunken to fantastic levels; taxes have risen; our ability to pay has fallen; government of all kinds is faced by serious curtailment of income; the means of exchange are frozen in the currents of trade; the withered leaves of industrial enterprise lie on every side; farmers find no markets for their produce; the savings of many years in thousands of families are gone.

More important, a host of unemployed citizens face the grim problem of existence, and an equally great number toil with little return. Only a foolish optimist can deny the dark realities of the moment.

Yet our distress comes from no failure of substance. We are stricken by no plague of locusts. Compared with the perils which our forefathers conquered because they believed and were not afraid, we have still much to be thankful for. Nature still offers her bounty and human efforts have multiplied it. Plenty is at our doorstep, but a generous use of it languishes in the very sight of the supply. Primarily this is because the rulers of the exchange of mankind’s goods have failed, through their own stubbornness and their own incompetence, have admitted their failure, and abdicated. Practices of the unscrupulous money changers stand indicted in the court of public opinion, rejected by the hearts and minds of men.

True they have tried, but their efforts have been cast in the pattern of an outworn tradition. Faced by failure of credit they have proposed only the lending of more money. Stripped of the lure of profit by which to induce our people to follow their false leadership, they have resorted to exhortations, pleading tearfully for restored confidence. They know only the rules of a generation of self-seekers. They have no vision, and when there is no vision the people perish.

The money changers have fled from their high seats in the temple of our civilization. We may now restore that temple to the ancient truths. The measure of the restoration lies in the extent to which we apply social values more noble than mere monetary profit.

Happiness lies not in the mere possession of money; it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort. The joy and moral stimulation of work no longer must be forgotten in the mad chase of evanescent profits. These dark days will be worth all they cost us if they teach us that our true destiny is not to be ministered unto but to minister to ourselves and to our fellow men.

Recognition of the falsity of material wealth as the standard of success goes hand in hand with the abandonment of the false belief that public office and high political position are to be valued only by the standards of pride of place and personal profit; and there must be an end to a conduct in banking and in business which too often has given to a sacred trust the likeness of callous and selfish wrongdoing. Small wonder that confidence languishes, for it thrives only on honesty, on honor, on the sacredness of obligations, on faithful protection, on unselfish performance; without them it cannot live.

Restoration calls, however, not for changes in ethics alone. This Nation asks for action, and action now.

Our greatest primary task is to put people to work. This is no unsolvable problem if we face it wisely and courageously. It can be accomplished in part by direct recruiting by the Government itself, treating the task as we would treat the emergency of a war, but at the same time, through this employment, accomplishing greatly needed projects to stimulate and reorganize the use of our natural resources.

Hand in hand with this we must frankly recognize the overbalance of population in our industrial centers and, by engaging on a national scale in a redistribution, endeavor to provide a better use of the land for those best fitted for the land. The task can be helped by definite efforts to raise the values of agricultural products and with this the power to purchase the output of our cities. It can be helped by preventing realistically the tragedy of the growing loss through foreclosure of our small homes and our farms. It can be helped by insistence that the Federal, State, and local governments act forthwith on the demand that their cost be drastically reduced. It can be helped by the unifying of relief activities which today are often scattered, uneconomical, and unequal. It can be helped by national planning for and supervision of all forms of transportation and of communications and other utilities which have a definitely public character. There are many ways in which it can be helped, but it can never be helped merely by talking about it. We must act and act quickly.

Finally, in our progress toward a resumption of work we require two safeguards against a return of the evils of the old order; there must be a strict supervision of all banking and credits and investments; there must be an end to speculation with other people’s money, and there must be provision for an adequate but sound currency.

There are the lines of attack. I shall presently urge upon a new Congress in special session detailed measures for their fulfillment, and I shall seek the immediate assistance of the several States.

Through this program of action we address ourselves to putting our own national house in order and making income balance outgo. Our international trade relations, though vastly important, are in point of time and necessity secondary to the establishment of a sound national economy. I favor as a practical policy the putting of first things first. I shall spare no effort to restore world trade by international economic readjustment, but the emergency at home cannot wait on that accomplishment.

The basic thought that guides these specific means of national recovery is not narrowly nationalistic. It is the insistence, as a first consideration, upon the interdependence of the various elements in all parts of the United States—a recognition of the old and permanently important manifestation of the American spirit of the pioneer. It is the way to recovery. It is the immediate way. It is the strongest assurance that the recovery will endure.

In the field of world policy I would dedicate this Nation to the policy of the good neighbor—the neighbor who resolutely respects himself and, because he does so, respects the rights of others—the neighbor who respects his obligations and respects the sanctity of his agreements in and with a world of neighbors.

If I read the temper of our people correctly, we now realize as we have never realized before our interdependence on each other; that we can not merely take but we must give as well; that if we are to go forward, we must move as a trained and loyal army willing to sacrifice for the good of a common discipline, because without such discipline no progress is made, no leadership becomes effective. We are, I know, ready and willing to submit our lives and property to such discipline, because it makes possible a leadership which aims at a larger good. This I propose to offer, pledging that the larger purposes will bind upon us all as a sacred obligation with a unity of duty hitherto evoked only in time of armed strife.

With this pledge taken, I assume unhesitatingly the leadership of this great army of our people dedicated to a disciplined attack upon our common problems.

Action in this image and to this end is feasible under the form of government which we have inherited from our ancestors. Our Constitution is so simple and practical that it is possible always to meet extraordinary needs by changes in emphasis and arrangement without loss of essential form. That is why our constitutional system has proved itself the most superbly enduring political mechanism the modern world has produced. It has met every stress of vast expansion of territory, of foreign wars, of bitter internal strife, of world relations.

It is to be hoped that the normal balance of executive and legislative authority may be wholly adequate to meet the unprecedented task before us. But it may be that an unprecedented demand and need for undelayed action may call for temporary departure from that normal balance of public procedure.

I am prepared under my constitutional duty to recommend the measures that a stricken nation in the midst of a stricken world may require. These measures, or such other measures as the Congress may build out of its experience and wisdom, I shall seek, within my constitutional authority, to bring to speedy adoption.

But in the event that the Congress shall fail to take one of these two courses, and in the event that the national emergency is still critical, I shall not evade the clear course of duty that will then confront me. I shall ask the Congress for the one remaining instrument to meet the crisis—broad Executive power to wage a war against the emergency, as great as the power that would be given to me if we were in fact invaded by a foreign foe.

For the trust reposed in me I will return the courage and the devotion that befit the time. I can do no less.

We face the arduous days that lie before us in the warm courage of the national unity; with the clear consciousness of seeking old and precious moral values; with the clean satisfaction that comes from the stern performance of duty by old and young alike. We aim at the assurance of a rounded and permanent national life.

We do not distrust the future of essential democracy. The people of the United States have not failed. In their need they have registered a mandate that they want direct, vigorous action. They have asked for discipline and direction under leadership. They have made me the present instrument of their wishes. In the spirit of the gift I take it.

In this dedication of a Nation we humbly ask the blessing of God. May He protect each and every one of us. May He guide me in the days to come.

Dinner with Brian and Paige

It was a few weeks before Easter. "Look," Brian suggested, "why don't you come to our house Sunday for a little Lent dinner. We're having some people by, and who knows?"

"Who knows?" I asked.

"Yes--who knows."

"What's a Lent dinner?"

"We made it up. For Lent. We didn't really want to do Mardi Gras. Too disrespectful, given the international situation."

"So you're doing Lent. I'm unclear on Lent. I mean, I know what the word means to those of us of the Jewish faith. But we don't usually commemorate these transactions with meals. Usually there's just a lot of sighing."

"It's like a pre-Easter Prince of Peace dinner," Brian said slowly. "You're supposed to give things up for Lent. Last year, we gave up our faith and reason. This year, we're giving up our democratic voice, our hope."

I had been looking forward to meeting Brian's goyisheh friends. I was, in fact, Brian's only Jewish friend. Brian himself was low-key, tolerant, self-deprecating to a fault. After all, he was the manager of the Cleveland Park Neighborhood Library. A self-described "ethnic Catholic," he once complained dejectedly about not having been cute enough to be molested by a priest. "They would just shake my hand very quickly," he said. Brian's friends, however, tended to be tense, intellectually earnest Protestants who drove new, metallic-hued cars and who within five minutes of light conversation could be counted on to use the phrase "strictly within the framework of."

"Paige has a divorcee friend she's inviting," Brian said. "I'm not trying to fix you up. I really hate that stuff. I'm just saying come. Eat some food. It's almost Easter season and--well, hey, we could use a Jew over here." Brian laughed heartily.

"Yeah, I'll reenact the whole thing for you," I said. "Yessirree. I'll come over and show you all how it's done."

My apartment building--though it was in what the rental company's brochure referred to as "a lovely, pedestrian neighborhood," abutting the streets named after the fifty states, and boasting instead streets named Ordway, Macomb, Newark, Porter and Sedgwick--was full of slow drains, leaky gas burners, stopped-up sinks, and excellent dust for scrawling curse words. Marilyn blows sailors. The draftier windows I had duct-taped up with sheets of plastic on the inside, as instructed by Homeland Security; cold air billowed the plastic inward like sails on a ship. On a windy day it was quite something. "Your whole apartment building could fly away," Brian said, when I told him about the situation.

"Not really," I said lightly. "But it is spinning. It's very interesting, actually."

The yard in front of the apartment building had already gone muddy with March and the flower beds were greening with the tiniest sprigs of stinkweed and quack grass. By June, the chemical weapons of terrorism aimed at the heartland might prove effective in weeding the garden. "This may be the sort of war I could really use!" the apartment manager said out loud to a resident.

Brian and Paige's house, on the other hand, with its perfect lines and friendly fussiness, reeking, I supposed, of historical-preservation tax credits, seemed an impossible dream to me, something plucked from a magazine article about childhood memories conjured on a deathbed. Something seen through the window by the Little Match Girl! Outside, the soffits were perfectly squared. The crocuses were like bells, and the Siberian violets like grape candies scattered in the grass. Soon their prize irises would be gorgeously crested cockatoos along the side yard. Inside, the smell of warm food almost made me weep. With my coat still on, I rushed past Paige to throw my arms around Brian, kissing him on both cheeks. "All the beautiful men must be kissed!" I exclaimed. After I'd got my coat off and wandered into the dining room, I toasted with the champagne that I myself had brought. There were eight guests there, all of whom I had never met before--and probably wouldn't have wanted to meet. That was enough for everyone. They raised their glasses with me. "To Lent!" I cried. "To the final days!" And in case that was too grim, I added, "And to the Resurrection! May it happen a little closer to home next time! Jesus Christ!" Soon I drifted back into the kitchen and, as I felt was required of me, shrieked at the pork. Then I began milling around again, apologizing for the crucifixion. "We really didn't intend it," I murmured. "Not really, not the killing part? We just kind of got carried away? You know how spring can get a little crazy, but, believe me, we're all really, really sorry."

The Indian Student at M.I.T.

When I was a boy my parents welcomed into our home a young Indian student, Sivananda "Shiv" Reddy, who was originally from Madras in south India; he was a frequent visitor to our home. He was from a wealthy family in Madras and had never had to do so much as pour himself a glass of water before moving to America, to study engineering at M.I.T. Life as a graduate student in Boston was a cruel shock, and in his first month he lost nearly twenty pounds. He had arrived in January, in the middle of a snowstorm, and at the end of a week he had packed his bags and gone to Logan, prepared to abandon the opportunity he'd worked toward all his life, only to change his mind at the last minute. He was living on Trowbridge Street in the home of a divorced woman with two young children who were always screaming and crying. He rented a room in the attic and was permitted to use the kitchen only at specified times of the day and instructed always to wipe down the stove with Windex and a sponge. My parents agreed that it was a terrible situation, and if they'd had a bedroom to spare they would have offered it to him. Instead, they welcomed him to our meals, and opened up our house to him at any time, and soon it was there he went between classes and on his days off, always leaving behind some vestige of himself: a nearly finished pack of cigarettes, a newspaper, a piece of mail he had not bothered to open, a sweater he had taken off and forgotten in the course of his stay.

I remember vividly the sound of his exuberant laughter and the sight of his lanky body slouched or sprawled on the dull, mismatched furniture that filled our living room. He had a striking face, with a high forehead and a close-cropped haircut that made him look like the rugby player that he was. His long legs jiggled rapidly up and down where he sat, and his elegant hands trembled when he held a cigarette between his fingers, tapping the ashes into a teacup that my mother began to set aside for this exclusive purpose. Though he was a scientist by training, there was nothing rigid or predictable or orderly about him. He always seemed to be starving, walking through the door and announcing that he hadn't had lunch, and then he would eat ravenously, reaching behind my mother to steal cutlets as she was frying them, before she had a chance to set them properly on a plate with red-onion salad. In private, my parents remarked that he was a brilliant student, a star at the University of Madras who had come to M.I.T. with an impressive assistantship, but Shiv Reddy was cavalier about his classes, skipping them with frequency. "These Americans are learning equations I knew at Gary's age," he would complain. He was stunned that my second-grade teacher didn't assign any homework, and that at the age of seven I hadn't yet been taught square roots or the concept of pi.

This fictional post was inspired by my friend, Shiv Reddy.

Parsifal at Bayreuth

A Boy's World

As a boy I treasured anything discarded. I took my education peculiarly and lived an entirely secret intellectual life. I had my eye on my father's World War II rucksack which he kept hidden away in the basement of our house but would not attempt to rifle through it unless my father was not around. In my mind the meaning of something was perceived through its neglect. When it was safe I looked through the rucksack, examining carefully the treasures it contained. I was alert not only to discarded materials but to unexpected events and coincidences. I learned nothing at school but I did well because nothing was demanded of me. My third-grade teacher was an iron-haired woman who trained her students in declamation and clapped her hands as they practiced in their notebooks the curved lines that were thought to encourage good penmanship. At home I showed a fondness for building model ships and airplanes and rarely missed reproductions of historical pictures in magazines and books which I would cut out and save, and for some reason these tastes, which the family found unexceptional, were a comfort to them. My mother suspected I was a strange child, although she shared this sense of me with no one, not even my father. Any indication that her son was ordinary heartened her. She wished I had friends. My mother and father were too preoccupied with their own concerns to be of use to me, so it was left to my sister, six years older than me, to cultivate what might be my oddity or merely my independence of spirit.

I thought of my father, forty-seven years old at my birth, as discarded treasure. I accepted the stories he told as images of truth, and therefore as propositions that could be tested. I found proof in my own experience of the instability of both things and people. I could look at the hairbrush on the bureau and it would sometimes slide off the edge and fall to the floor. If I raised the window in my room it might shut itself at the moment I thought the room was getting cold. I liked to go to the movies downtown with my father on Saturday afternoons. I knew the motion pictures depended on the capacity of humans, animals or objects to forfeit portions of themselves, residues of shadow and light which they left behind. Did my father not always tell me that his mother said that moving pictures were "just shadows, shadows on the wall?" I listened with fascination to the 45 rpm record player we owned and played the same records over and over, as if to test the endurance of a duplicated event. My favorite recordings were Sigmond Romberg's The Student Prince and a brief excerpt from the second act of Wagner's Tristan und Isolde.

Alone in Papa's Library

"In the beginning was the Word!"
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust.
Words, words, words, words . . .
Candide (Excerpt from “Words, Words, Words,” lyrics by Leonard Bernstein).
. . . words; words as live things to be loved.
Sigmund Freud and William C. Bullitt, Thomas Woodrow Wilson: A Psychological Study.
The small boy lived in a world of books, the books which overflowed his . . .
T.Z. Lavine, From Socrates to Sartre: The Philosophic Quest.
. . . father’s . . .
Richard Wagner, Siegfried.
. . . study, the lending-library books of his grandmother, . . .
T.Z. Lavine, From Socrates to Sartre: The Philosophic Quest.
. . . the French Countess Marie d’Agoult, . . .
Cosima Wagner’s Diaries (translator’s introduction).
. . . the books from which . . .
T.Z. Lavine, From Socrates to Sartre: The Philosophic Quest.
. . . Mama . . .
Cosima Wagner’s Diaries (translator’s introduction).
. . . read him stories. “I began my life,” . . .
T.Z. Lavine, From Socrates to Sartre: The Philosophic Quest (quoting Jean-Paul Sartre, The Words).
. . . he said, . . .
Jacques Pepin, The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen.
. . . “as I shall no doubt end it: amidst books.” The words in these books became the world which he longed to possess and manipulate, . . .
T.Z. Lavine, From Socrates to Sartre: The Philosophic Quest (quoting Jean-Paul Sartre, The Words).
. . . but which now assumed the garb of . . .
Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo.
. . . tantalizing fruit . . .
Jacques Pepin, The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen.
. . . forbidden fruit, that . . .
Rabbi Heshy Grossman, Jerusalem Views.
. . . dangled well out of reach.
Jacques Pepin, The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen.
His father did his utmost to beget in the son as great a love of words as he had himself. He never permitted the child to use an incorrect word or to utter a slipshod sentence. After their walks together, the boy and his father would talk over the whole experience, . . .
Sigmund Freud and William C. Bullitt, Thomas Woodrow Wilson: A Psychological Study.
. . . his father . . .
William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale.
. . . insisting that every description, every idea be expressed completely in perfect English. As soon as the boy learned to read, they played by the hour the game of "synonyms," taking turns holding the dictionary.
Sigmund Freud and William C. Bullitt, Thomas Woodrow Wilson: A Psychological Study.
What I liked best about him was his universality; he would pay scant attention to his own affairs or his family's, but, instead, his passionate interest would be aroused by some piece of literature or a remote item in an encyclopedia.
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
The son loved the teaching . . .
Sigmund Freud and William C. Bullitt, Thomas Woodrow Wilson: A Psychological Study.
( . . . as if it came from Prospero himself.)
J.D. Salinger, SEYMOUR—An Introduction.
Synonyms became his favorite game. He began to love words as much as his father loved them.
Sigmund Freud and William C. Bullitt, Thomas Woodrow Wilson: A Psychological Study.
Now . . . now I go back thirty-five years. No, I don't go back . . . I come back.
Claude Lanzmann, Shoah.
. . . back to a time when reality itself is little more than a playground for the imagination, the realm of the storyteller's once-upon-a-time.
Gilbert Rose, William Faulkner's Light in August: The Orchestration of Time in the Psychology of Artistic Style.
Recently, . . .
Sigmund Freud, Letter to Wilhelm Fliess.
. . . I stumbled upon [a] childhood memory of my father, when I was a boy of five, . . .
Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams.
. . . or perhaps . . .
Henry David Thoreau, Walden.
. . . six or seven.
Sigmund Freud and William C. Bullitt, Thomas Woodrow Wilson: A Psychological Study.
My father kept . . .
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
. . . a fair-sized private library . . .
Francis Crick, Of Molecules and Men.
. . . a library temptingly rich in . . .
Will & Ariel Durant, A Dual Autobiography.
. . . the stuff of wonder.
Frank Ryan, Virus X: Tracking the New Killer Plagues — Out of the Present and Into the Future.
Leather-bound books reached from floor to ceiling.
John Le Carre, The Night Manager.
It was irresistible!
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
. . . glorious!
Sigmund Freud, Notes Upon a Case of Obsessional Neurosis.
At that stage, I must confess, . . .
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
. . . my father's . . .
Richard Wagner, Siegfried.
. . . holy of holies . . .
John Le Carre, The Night Manager.
. . . the room in which he . . .
Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.
. . . had assembled everything of consequence from his three-score-years-and-ten —
Joachim Kohler, Nietzsche and Wagner: A Lesson in Subjugation.
. . . that room was . . .
Charles Dickens, The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby.
. . . out of bounds, . . .
John Le Carre, The Night Manager.
. . . the most sacred of the relics . . .
Joachim Kohler, Nietzsche and Wagner: A Lesson in Subjugation.
. . . now displayed in glass cases . . .
Frank Rich, Conversations with Sondheim.
. . . for posterity . . .
Sigmund Freud, An Autobiographical Study.
. . . stood there . . .
H.G. Wells, A Moonlight Fable.
. . . once upon a time . . .
K.R. Eissler, Goethe: A Psychoanalytic Study 1775-1786.
. . . as . . .
William Shakespeare, The Tempest.
. . . mysteries which were hidden from me.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Confessions.
But then, . . .
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
—why not confess it?—
Howard Carter and A.C. Mace, The Tomb of Tut-Ankh-Amen.
I prowled hungrily among those treasures, . . .
Will & Ariel Durant, A Dual Autobiography.
—assembled there once and for all . . .
Joachim Kohler, Nietzsche and Wagner: A Lesson in Subjugation.
. . . hidden from all . . .
Richard Wagner, Das Rheingold.
. . . in the inner chambers of . . .
Peter Schrag, Test of Loyalty.
. . . father's personal library, . . .
J. Moussaieff Masson, Final Analysis.
. . . like an ancient tablet locked in a vault.
R. Lipkin, A Look into Life's Chemical Past: A Computer Model of Gene Regulation Yields Some Evolutionary Clues.
It is astonishing—I find so many years later—what a clear picture I have of these early days.
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
I remember . . .
J. Moussaieff Masson, Final Analysis.
Thoughtless, shallow-brained Fool!
Richard Wagner, Parsifal.
I remember once, . . .
J. Moussaieff Masson, Final Analysis.
I said—
T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land.
I dashed to . . .
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
. . . father, looked at the library, and said, "This will one day belong to me, when I am big, you will be dead then."
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Tuesday-Monday, February 10-16, 1874).
. . . silly boy now, what would his Papa say?
John Le Carre, The Night Manager.
His father . . .
Sigmund Freud and William C. Bullitt, Thomas Woodrow Wilson: A Psychological Study.
. . . scolded him and said, . . .
Genesis. A New Translation of the Classic Biblical Stories by Stephen Mitchell.
"What do you mean by that?"
Sigmund Freud and William C. Bullitt, Thomas Woodrow Wilson: A Psychological Study.
Since I am old you should accord me some honor.
Richard Wagner, Siegfried.
. . . but his father kept thinking about this for a long time afterward.
Genesis. A New Translation of the Classic Biblical Stories by Stephen Mitchell.
He was just eight then.
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 7).
I loved, and could not get enough of, the discoveries I was making there. . . .
The house was like a gigantic treasure chest.
J. Moussaieff Masson, Final Analysis.
One other thing I just thought of. One time, . . .
J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye.
One evening before going to sleep I disregarded the rules . . .
Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams.
. . . and entered the . . .
Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist.
. . . book-lined room . . .
Hermann Hesse, Excerpt from A Dream.
. . . the close, twilit room . . .
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 7).
. . . intensely curious about what was inside . . .
J. Moussaieff Masson, Final Analysis.
And saw that I was not the only guest. An old man stood before that grand array of tomes.
Hermann Hesse, Excerpt from A Dream.
I imagined . . .
J. Moussaieff Masson, Final Analysis.
. . . for a moment . . .
Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams.
. . . I was seeing a ghost;
Cosima Wagner’s Diaries (Sunday, June 6, 1869).
But no—
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
The older man (clearly my father . . .)
Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams.
. . . was . . .
Richard Wilbur, Excerpt from Lamarck Elaborated.
. . . occupied with the task of arranging his library.
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (Thursday, July 2, 1874).
I am unpacking my library. Yes, I am. The books are not yet on the shelves, not yet touched by the mild boredom of order. I cannot march up and down their ranks to pass them in review before a friendly audience. You need not fear any of that. Instead, I must ask you to join me in the disorder of crates that have been wrenched open, the air saturated with the dust of wood, the floor covered with torn paper, to join me among the piles of volumes . . .
Walter Benjamin, Unpacking My Library.
. . . volumes by . . .
James Joyce, A Painful Case.
. . . Goethe, Rousseau, Dickens . . .
Geoffrey Skelton, Wieland Wagner: The Positive Sceptic.
. . . six-hundred-odd volumes . . .
Guido Suchtelen, The Spinoza Houses at Rijnsburg and The Hague.
. . . that are seeing daylight again after two years of darkness, so that you may be ready to share with me a bit of the mood. It is certainly not an elegiac mood but, rather, one of anticipation—which these books arouse in a genuine collector.
Walter Benjamin, Unpacking My Library.
Here was the inner meaning, here the key,
To poetry, to wisdom, and to science.
Magic and erudition in alliance
Opened the door to every mystery.
These books provided pledges of all power
To him who came here at this magic hour.
Hermann Hesse, Excerpt from A Dream.
And yet, . . .
Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
. . . more and more . . .
Charles Darwin, Origin of Species.
. . . the Old Man . . .
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust.
. . . had to bid farewell to the dream, the feeling and the pleasure of infinite possibilities, of a multiplicity of futures. Instead of the dream of unending progress, of the sum of all wisdom, [a timid youth who approached him with worshipful curiosity] stood by, a small, near, demanding reality, an intruder and nuisance, but no longer to be rebuffed or evaded. For the boy represented, after all, the only way into the real future, the one most important duty, the one narrow path along which [his] life and acts, principles, thoughts, and glimmerings could be saved from death and continue their life in a small new bud.
Hermann Hesse, Magister Ludi: The Glass Bead Game.
A little while elapsed.
Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
The study is lighted now, by a greenshaded reading lamp sitting upon the desk.
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 4).
The old man . . .
Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha.
. . . took off his cravat, put on his dressing gown and slippers, and his nightcap; and sat down . . .
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol.
. . . at his desk . . .
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
. . . to compose a tranquil letter . . .
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Elective Affinities.
. . . in the pool of light from the shaded lamp.
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 16).
Somebody had been writing to him about me.
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness.
(or so I fully believed)
Charles Dickens, David Copperfield.
And memory knows this; twenty years later memory is still to believe On this day . . .
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 7).
. . . he resolved to write
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (February 1883, final entry).
. . . a personal note.
The Diary of Richard Wagner: The Brown Book 1865-1882.
—a letter I still have in my possession.
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
I was fascinated.
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness.
Hidden in the shadows . . .
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 9).
. . . as noiseless as a ghost, . . .
Joseph Conrad, The Secret Sharer.
I saw that he was earnestly intent
Upon some task, and I could not resist
A strange conviction that I had to know
The manner of his work, and what it meant.
Hermann Hesse, Excerpt from A Dream.
After my father's death I opened it myself, thinking there might be, for anything I knew, some . . .
Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit.
. . . deletions and corrections in the text . . .
Hermann Hesse, Magister Ludi: The Glass Bead Game.
. . . something surprisingly new.
Sigmund Freud, Letter to Wilhelm Fliess.
That evening, however, . . .
Edgar B.P. Darlington, The Circus Boys on the Plains.
. . . silent and motionless at the side, . . .
Richard Wagner, Parsifal.
. . . I watched the old man, . . .
Hermann Hesse, Excerpt from A Dream.
. . . as if quite dumbfounded.
Richard Wagner, Parsifal.
I was not a little afraid, I must confess, to have to face the dreaded Papa alone.
Arthur Rubinstein, My Young Years.
He took up his pen several times and laid it down again because he could not make up his mind what he ought to write.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Elective Affinities.
At last he had a fortunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up his whole head . . .
Mark Twain, The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg.
"Ha!" muttered the old man, "yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!"
Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit.
One gets sometimes such a flash of inspiration, you know.
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness.
Papa was speaking
Cosima Wagner's Diaries (February 1883, final entry).
Almost whispering, he read some lines to himself:
Hermann Hesse, Magister Ludi: The Glass Bead Game.
Gracious, Exalted Friend
The Diary of Richard Wagner: The Brown Book 1865-1882.
In days gone by . . .
Richard Wagner, Letter to King Ludwig II of Bavaria.
. . . so his thoughts ran . . .
Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit.
. . . I would simply discard anything which might have served as a memento of me . . . Then one morning I called out all over the house, 'I have a son!' All of a sudden the whole world looked different! The happy mother realized immediately that my whole past and future had acquired a completely new meaning . . . From then on every relic was preserved: letters, manuscripts, books which I once used, every line I had ever written, were tracked down and collected; my life was recorded in ever greater detail, pictures of all the places and houses I had lived in were accumulated.
Richard Wagner, Letter to King Ludwig II of Bavaria.
. . . the text concluded by saying, . . .
Primo Levi, The Periodic Table.
I do not remember ever having . . .
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Confessions.
. . . broken out of the ring of what I have already done and cannot ever undo . . .
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 14).
. . . but before I . . .
Charles Dickens, Great Expectations.
. . . abandon myself to my fatal destiny, let me turn for a moment to the prospect that . . .
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Confessions.
. . . at least . . .
Charles Dickens, Great Expectations.
My son, for all his tender years, shall on reaching maturity, know exactly who his father was.
Richard Wagner, Letter to King Ludwig II of Bavaria.
a letter to the King
The Diary of Richard Wagner: The Brown Book 1865-1882.
If only I could have seen it lying finished before me!
Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams.
I listened. There was nothing more.
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness.
With these words, and with a hasty gesture . . .
Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit.
. . . he laid down his pen, . . .
Fergus Hume, Mystery of a Hansom Cab.
. . . and came to a full stop at last.
Charles Dickens, Little Dorrit.
Then it happened.
William Faulkner, Light in August.
The next moment . . .
George Orwell, 1984.
. . . the old man . . .
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 19).
. . . became sensible of confused noises in the air;
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol.
He can feel the other looking at him . . .
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 13).
—and with a half-unconscious action, . . .
Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
. . . fidgets with coins in his pocket.
Alan Lightman, Einstein's Dreams.
'How now!'
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol.
Who’s there?
William Shakespeare, Hamlet.
Is it you, boy?
Richard Wagner, Siegfried.
'What do you want with me?'
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol.
It was quite still then.
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 7).
The little eight-year-old . . .
Ernest Newman, The Life of Richard Wagner.
. . . Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear . . .
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol.
. . . stepped out . . .
Aldous Huxley, Brave New World.
. . . from the shadows . . .
Alan Lightman, Einstein's Dreams.
. . . knelt down at once beside his father . . .
Franz Kafka, The Judgment.
. . . and, by an impulse, . . .
Thomas Hardy, Jude the Obscure.
. . . begged a lucky coin from him
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
In the old man's weary face . . .
Franz Kafka, The Judgment.
. . . the boy, undressed for bed and in his shirt, . . .
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 7).
. . . saw the pupils, over-large, fixedly looking at him from the corners of the eyes.
Franz Kafka, The Judgment.
The boy still knelt. He did not move at all.
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 7).
His father said pityingly, in an offhand manner:
Franz Kafka, The Judgment.
Poor boy.
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 17).
'My time is nearly gone.'
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol.
"I am old enough that any new day may be my deathday. . . ."
Harold Bloom, The Book of J.
"Here," he said. He opened his purse and took a coin from it.
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 8).
But be patient!
Richard Wagner, Das Rheingold.
"You will soon be getting other things from me, dear child."
Martin Gregor-Dellin, Richard Wagner: His Life, His Work, His Century.
The boy was off like a shot . . .
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol.
. . . carrying the coin . . .
Tom Krattenmaker, New Dollar Coin Destined to Fail, Swarthmore Economist Says.
. . . clutched hot and small in his palm as a child might.
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 8).
Not another word. That was their meeting, their conversation, and their parting.
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol.
He was just eight then. It was years later that memory knew what he was remembering; years after that night when . . .
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 7).
. . . that moment in the library . . .
Alan Lightman, Einstein's Dreams.
. . . came back to him.
Peter Gay, Freud: A Life for Our Time.
We may say that . . .
K.R. Eissler, Talent and Genius.
. . . inheritance is the soundest way of acquiring a collection. For a collector's attitude toward his possessions stems from an owner's feeling of responsibility toward his property. Thus it is, in the highest sense, the attitude of an heir, and the most distinguished trait of a collection will always be its transmissibility.
Walter Benjamin, Unpacking My Library.
An hour passed.
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice.
Or perhaps . . .
John Le Carre, The Night Manager.
. . . perhaps it is an hour later, perhaps three.
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 14).
The old man . . .
Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha.
—quite alone now—
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness.
. . . fumbled for his watch . . .
H.G. Wells, The Time Machine.
. . . that had slipped out of his pocket while he was . . .
Joachim Kohler, Nietzsche and Wagner: A Lesson in Subjugation.
. . . playing with his watch chain.
Franz Kafka, The Judgment.
"My watch!" he ejaculated.
Ernest Newman, The Life of Richard Wagner.
He took up the watch and closed it and returned it to his pocket, looping the chain again through his suspender.
William Faulkner, Light in August (Chapter 7).
He had forgotten to wind it so the watch was dead . . .
Gilbert Rose, William Faulkner's Light in August: The Orchestration of Time in the Psychology of Artistic Style.
Now it was ticking again.
Joachim Kohler, Nietzsche and Wagner: A Lesson in Subjugation.
But he knew it was late without having to look at the watch.
Gilbert Rose, William Faulkner's Light in August: The Orchestration of Time in the Psychology of Artistic Style.
In this world, a second is a second is a second. Time paces forward with exquisite regularity, at precisely the same velocity in every corner of space.
Alan Lightman, Einstein's Dreams.
And yet, not exactly!
H.G. Wells, The Time Machine.
No doubt a . . .
Anthony Trollope, The Prime Minister.
. . . detailed examination of the question . . .
Albert Einstein, Relativity: The Special and General Theory.
. . . would show that . . .
Henry James, Washington Square.
Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.
William Shakespeare, Othello.
For a moment I suspected that my intellect had tricked me. Then I noted the clock.
H.G. Wells, The Time Machine.
. . . the clock in the corner.
Alan Lightman, Einstein's Dreams.
A moment before, as it seemed, it had stood at a minute or so past ten; now it was . . .
H.G. Wells, The Time Machine.
. . . midnight.
William Shakespeare, Othello.
Time!
George Gordon, Lord Byron, Excerpt from To Time.
The clock indicates the moment—but what does eternity indicate?
Walt Whitman, Song of Myself.
He then became lost in his own thoughts, without really knowing what he was thinking about.
Buket Uzuner, An Unbearable Passion.
The past rose before his eyes . . .
Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha.
. . . undone after all and played backward in memory and forward in hope . . .
Gilbert Rose, William Faulkner's Light in August: The Orchestration of Time in the Psychology of Artistic Style.
Now I am on the last half-emptied case . . .
Walter Benjamin, Unpacking My Library.
. . . of worm-eaten books thickly laden with dust . . .
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust.
. . . and it is way past midnight. Other thoughts fill me than the ones I am talking about—not thoughts but images, memories. Memories of the cities in which I found so many things: Riga, Naples, Munich, Danzig, Moscow, Florence, Basel . . .
Walter Benjamin, Unpacking My Library.