Alexander Pope (1668-1745)
'Tis with our judgments as our watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own.
(from "An Essay on Criticism"
in The Major Works, Pat Rogers, ed.
Oxford University Press, 2008
p. 19)
Showing posts with label 18th Century Literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 18th Century Literature. Show all posts
Thursday, June 21, 2018
Friday, May 04, 2018
Voltaire on the Wars of Catholics and Protestants
In his article "Climate" from the Philosophical Dictionary (1764), Voltaire argues that the weather, the natural environment, and of course other causes greatly influence religious beliefs in different countries and regions. They influence the creed behind the religion, and they also influence the way the religion is practiced in its daily details.
He gives this nutshell summary of the Thirty Years' War — it is so frivolous and glib about a horrendous historical period that it is funny again:
From: Voltaire, The Philosophical Dictionary. H.I. Woolf, ed. New York: Knopf, 1924
via Hanover Historical Texts Project
***
In French:
Quelle cause a détaché le nord de l’Allemagne, le Danemark, les trois quarts de la Suisse, la Hollande, l’Angleterre, l’Écosse, l’Irlande, de la communion romaine ?... la pauvreté. On vendait trop cher les indulgences et la délivrance du purgatoire à des âmes dont les corps avaient alors très-peu d’argent. Les prélats, les moines, engloutissaient tout le revenu d’une province. On prit une religion à meilleur marché. Enfin, après vingt guerres civiles, on a cru que la religion du pape était fort bonne pour les grands seigneurs, et la réformée pour les citoyens.
From: Voltaire, Œuvres complètes de Voltaire, Vol. 18. Garnier, 1878 (pp. vii-xi).
via Wikisource
He gives this nutshell summary of the Thirty Years' War — it is so frivolous and glib about a horrendous historical period that it is funny again:
"What cause detached the north of Germany, Denmark, three-quarters of Switzerland, Holland, England, Scotland, Ireland, from the Roman communion? Poverty. Indulgences and deliverance from purgatory were sold too dear to souls whose bodies had at that time very little money. The prelates, the monks devoured a province's whole revenue. People took a cheaper religion. At last, after twenty civil wars, people believed that the Pope's religion was very good for great lords, and the reformed religion for citizens."
From: Voltaire, The Philosophical Dictionary. H.I. Woolf, ed. New York: Knopf, 1924
via Hanover Historical Texts Project
***
In French:
Quelle cause a détaché le nord de l’Allemagne, le Danemark, les trois quarts de la Suisse, la Hollande, l’Angleterre, l’Écosse, l’Irlande, de la communion romaine ?... la pauvreté. On vendait trop cher les indulgences et la délivrance du purgatoire à des âmes dont les corps avaient alors très-peu d’argent. Les prélats, les moines, engloutissaient tout le revenu d’une province. On prit une religion à meilleur marché. Enfin, après vingt guerres civiles, on a cru que la religion du pape était fort bonne pour les grands seigneurs, et la réformée pour les citoyens.
From: Voltaire, Œuvres complètes de Voltaire, Vol. 18. Garnier, 1878 (pp. vii-xi).
via Wikisource
Saturday, April 21, 2018
Voltaire on the Worth of the Pyramids
Although the great, sober-minded reference works of the Enlightenment era, the 'dictionaries' of pre-Revolutionary France, are unknown territory to me, I enjoy two of the satirical dictionaries that arose then and centuries afterward: Ambrose Bierce's Devil's Dictionary, published in 1911 in the United States, and Voltaire's Philosophical Dictionary, first published in 1764 in Geneva. (Being a sort of liber non grata in the French skeptic's native country.)
It's as refreshing as ever, by the way, to read books that are meant to be enjoyed by the reader.
And I'm naive — i.e., my standards might not be high — but I was charmed, surprised, and pleased by this passage in one of Voltaire's articles (which is related to the debate about whether contemporary culture is equally good as, better, or far worse than, the literature and other culture of the Romans and Greeks):
*
But I like Voltaire's skepticism of the pyramids' purpose. (And his reduction of e.g. the Great Wall of China to the embodiment of 'a great patience in the peoples.') I grew up reading about Ancient Egypt, watching televised documentaries, exploring the dynasties in school and briefly in university; all, reverentially. Less rosily, I was taught or told as an urban legend, if I remember correctly, that the Great Wall of China was built so brutally that the bones of the workers are trapped within the stones — a mirror of the Canadian Pacific Railway in the country where I grew up, where (in the 19th century) around a thousand Chinese guest workers were killed by dynamite as well as by other dangers and privations.* But what good did building the pyramids, the mastabas and the Sphinx achieve? Is uncritical admiration for them out of keeping with our respect for democratic principles and the rights of the individual? (It's true, of course, that Egyptians who were oppressed 4,000 or more years ago would have fared no better if our generation were perfectly skeptical and enlightened about the monumental building initiatives of their day.) Perhaps our thoughtless amazement at the monuments of ancient Egypt is a clue that we are more attracted to pharaonical, and other, dictatorships than we'd like to think.
1 Voltaire's Philosophical Dictionary, "Ancients and Moderns"
Selected and Translated by H. I. Woolf
Mineola, NY: Dover Publications (2010), pp. 18-19
° Original French:
Les Chinois, plus de deux cents ans avant notre ère vulgaire, contruisirent cette grande muraille qui n'a pu les sauver de l'invasion des Tartares. Les Égyptiens, trois mille ans auparavant, avaient surchargé la terre de leurs étonnantes pyramides, qui avaient environ quatre-vingt-dix mille pieds carrés de base. Personne ne doute que si on voulait entreprendre aujourd'hui ces inutiles ouvrages, on n'en vînt aisément à bout en prodiguant beaucoup d'argent. La grande muraille de la Chine est un monument de la crainte; les pyramides sont des monuments de la vanité et de la superstition. Les unes et les autres attestent une grande patience dans les peuples, mais aucun génie supérieur. Ni les Chinois, ni les Égyptiens n'auraient pu faire seulement une statue telle que nos sculpteurs en forment aujourd'hui.
From: Oeuvres complètes de Voltaire, vol. VII, Paris: Furne et Cie. (1947), p. 102
[Google Books]
* "A quiz for Joe Oliver: How many died building CPR?" [Globe and Mail]
by Michael Babad, January 10, 2012
It's as refreshing as ever, by the way, to read books that are meant to be enjoyed by the reader.
And I'm naive — i.e., my standards might not be high — but I was charmed, surprised, and pleased by this passage in one of Voltaire's articles (which is related to the debate about whether contemporary culture is equally good as, better, or far worse than, the literature and other culture of the Romans and Greeks):
"The Chinese, more than two hundred years before our era, constructed that great wall which was not able to save them from the invasion of the Tartars. The Egyptians, three thousand years before, had overloaded the earth with their astonishing pyramids, which had a base of about ninety thousand square feet. Nobody doubts that, if one wished to undertake today these useless works, one could easily succeed by a lavish expenditure of money. The great wall of China is a monument to fear; the pyramids are monuments to vanity and superstition. Both bear witness to a great patience in the peoples, but to no superior genius. Neither the Chinese nor the Egyptians would have been able to make even such a statue such as those which our sculptors form today." 1 °These condemnations of ancient Chinese and Egyptian inspiration evidently aren't logically watertight. Perhaps pharaohs and emperors and other patrons, who were the ones at whose whim some of the ancient art and architecture survive into the present day, had a rather pedestrian aesthetic and perhaps their guidelines were metaphorical straight-jackets. Their legacy is no realistic reflection on the potential of ancient Chinese and Egyptians on the whole.
 |
| 'Nankow Pass: Gate of the Great Wall' in China, its Marvel and Mystery T. Hodgson Liddell, New York: J. Lane Co. (1910) via Wikimedia Commons |
*
But I like Voltaire's skepticism of the pyramids' purpose. (And his reduction of e.g. the Great Wall of China to the embodiment of 'a great patience in the peoples.') I grew up reading about Ancient Egypt, watching televised documentaries, exploring the dynasties in school and briefly in university; all, reverentially. Less rosily, I was taught or told as an urban legend, if I remember correctly, that the Great Wall of China was built so brutally that the bones of the workers are trapped within the stones — a mirror of the Canadian Pacific Railway in the country where I grew up, where (in the 19th century) around a thousand Chinese guest workers were killed by dynamite as well as by other dangers and privations.* But what good did building the pyramids, the mastabas and the Sphinx achieve? Is uncritical admiration for them out of keeping with our respect for democratic principles and the rights of the individual? (It's true, of course, that Egyptians who were oppressed 4,000 or more years ago would have fared no better if our generation were perfectly skeptical and enlightened about the monumental building initiatives of their day.) Perhaps our thoughtless amazement at the monuments of ancient Egypt is a clue that we are more attracted to pharaonical, and other, dictatorships than we'd like to think.
1 Voltaire's Philosophical Dictionary, "Ancients and Moderns"
Selected and Translated by H. I. Woolf
Mineola, NY: Dover Publications (2010), pp. 18-19
° Original French:
Les Chinois, plus de deux cents ans avant notre ère vulgaire, contruisirent cette grande muraille qui n'a pu les sauver de l'invasion des Tartares. Les Égyptiens, trois mille ans auparavant, avaient surchargé la terre de leurs étonnantes pyramides, qui avaient environ quatre-vingt-dix mille pieds carrés de base. Personne ne doute que si on voulait entreprendre aujourd'hui ces inutiles ouvrages, on n'en vînt aisément à bout en prodiguant beaucoup d'argent. La grande muraille de la Chine est un monument de la crainte; les pyramides sont des monuments de la vanité et de la superstition. Les unes et les autres attestent une grande patience dans les peuples, mais aucun génie supérieur. Ni les Chinois, ni les Égyptiens n'auraient pu faire seulement une statue telle que nos sculpteurs en forment aujourd'hui.
From: Oeuvres complètes de Voltaire, vol. VII, Paris: Furne et Cie. (1947), p. 102
[Google Books]
* "A quiz for Joe Oliver: How many died building CPR?" [Globe and Mail]
by Michael Babad, January 10, 2012
Friday, August 18, 2017
Montesquieu's Persian Letters and His Fellow Authors
The Persian Letters of Montesquieu have turned into one of the books that cause me to enter a subway train, read a few sentences, and then emerge befuddled as the train reaches my station barely — as I feel — seconds later.
It consists of an imaginary bundle of letters written by, of, or to a pair of Persian men — one younger, one older — who travel to Paris and describe the society they find. The coming excerpt from the 75th letter is not my favourite passage, since I think it is not particularly profound and not aimed at any crucial grievance in societies past or present.
I venture to think, too, that people read far fewer books than one might think from Montesquieu's representations. But it is funny enough to share generally, and personally a comfort to me for not achieving anything authorly by way of publication:
Source: Les lettres persanes, ibibliotheque.fr (Copyright Le Figaro, Éditions Garnier)
***
Rough translation: 'The rage of most of the French is to possess wit; and the rage of those who want wit, is to make books. Nevertheless there is nothing so ill conceived: nature wisely appears to have preordained that the nonsense of men be fleeting, and books immortalize it. An idiot should be satisfied with having annoyed all those who have lived with him; he wants to torment future generations still; he wants his nonsense to triumph over the oblivion by which he might have profited like the tomb; he wants posterity to be informed that he has lived, and to know forever that he was a fool.'
It consists of an imaginary bundle of letters written by, of, or to a pair of Persian men — one younger, one older — who travel to Paris and describe the society they find. The coming excerpt from the 75th letter is not my favourite passage, since I think it is not particularly profound and not aimed at any crucial grievance in societies past or present.
I venture to think, too, that people read far fewer books than one might think from Montesquieu's representations. But it is funny enough to share generally, and personally a comfort to me for not achieving anything authorly by way of publication:
 |
| 1721 Edition of the Persian Letters From the Skoklosters Slott collection, Lake Mälaren, Sweden via Wikimedia Commons |
"La fureur de la plupart des Français, c’est d’avoir de l’esprit ; et la fureur de ceux qui veulent avoir de l’esprit, c’est de faire des livres.
"Cependant il n’y a rien de si mal imaginé : la nature semblait avoir sagement pourvu à ce que les sottises des hommes fussent passagères ; et les livres les immortalisent. Un sot devrait être content d’avoir ennuyé tous ceux qui ont vécu avec lui : il veut encore tourmenter les races futures ; il veut que sa sottise triomphe de l’oubli, dont il aurait pu jouir comme du tombeau ; il veut que la postérité soit informée qu’il a vécu, et qu’elle sache à jamais qu’il a été un sot.”
Source: Les lettres persanes, ibibliotheque.fr (Copyright Le Figaro, Éditions Garnier)
***
Rough translation: 'The rage of most of the French is to possess wit; and the rage of those who want wit, is to make books. Nevertheless there is nothing so ill conceived: nature wisely appears to have preordained that the nonsense of men be fleeting, and books immortalize it. An idiot should be satisfied with having annoyed all those who have lived with him; he wants to torment future generations still; he wants his nonsense to triumph over the oblivion by which he might have profited like the tomb; he wants posterity to be informed that he has lived, and to know forever that he was a fool.'
Thursday, December 01, 2016
A Toast To Winter: Part I, Matthias Claudius
The days have become so short now, and as grey as if dredged up from the seabed on a hazy northern morning, and at -6°C so cold by the measure of early German winters, that one solution to the chill fog that invades the mind too might seem to be to dive into summer literature. But instead I will try the cure by 'hair of the dog,' and mention books and poems and plays that celebrate, or at least describe, winter.
FIRST, a poem. Matthias Claudius is a German poet whose subjects take him through the everyday of a time span that seems broader, because I think it is still so relatable, than the swathe of the 18th and 19th century (1740 to 1815) that he personally knew. Transformed into songs, like Der Mond ist aufgegangen and, in the realm of the classics, 'Death and the Maiden,' his verse made him familiar even in my Canadian-German household in the 1990s.
To illustrate the poem I have chosen here, a figure of Winter would be far more appropriate, gnarled and foreboding or gleefully hard as described. But instead I have chosen some rather more tame and cheerful pictures by Ludwig Richter.
***
Ein Lied hinterm Ofen zu singen
Der Winter ist ein rechter Mann,
Kernfest und auf die Dauer;
Sein Fleisch fühlt sich wie Eisen an,
Und scheut nicht süß noch sauer.
War je ein Mann gesund, ist er's;
Er krankt und kränkelt nimmer,
Weiß nichts von Nachtschweiß noch Vapeurs,
Und schläft im kalten Zimmer.
Er zieht sein Hemd im Freien an,
Und läßt's vorher nicht wärmen;
Und spottet über Fluß im Zahn
Und Kolik in Gedärmen.
Aus Blumen und aus Vogelsang
Weiß er sich nichts zu machen,
Haßt warmen Drang und warmen Klang
Und alle warme Sachen.
Doch wenn die Füchse bellen sehr,
Wenn's Holz im Ofen knittert,
Und um den Ofen Knecht und Herr
Die Hände reibt und zittert;
Wenn Stein und Bein vor Frost zerbricht
Und Teich' und Seen krachen;
Das klingt ihm gut, das haßt er nicht,
Denn will er sich tot lachen. –
Sein Schloß von Eis liegt ganz hinaus
Beim Nordpol an dem Strande;
Doch hat er auch ein Sommerhaus
Im lieben Schweizerlande.
Da ist er denn bald dort bald hier,
Gut Regiment zu führen.
Und wenn er durchzieht, stehen wir
Und sehn ihn an und frieren.
*
A spur-of-the-moment translation by me. (The last verse is pure guesswork.)
A Song
to be sung behind the stove
Winter is an honest man,
Sound as a nut and long enduring;
His flesh feels firm as iron
And fears not sweet nor sour.
If ever a man was well, he is;
He falls sick or sickens never,
Night sweats or vapors knows he not,
And sleeps in a chilly chamber.
He pulls his shirt on in the open
And lets it not be warmed before;
And jeers at seepages of teeth
And colic of the bowels.
For flowers and the song of birds
He has no use whatever,
Hates warm throngs and hates warm tones
And hates warm things altogether.
Yet when the foxes bark in force,
The logs in the stove are crackling
And around the stove the man and master
Rub their hands and shiver;
When stone and bone crack in the frost
And ponds and lakes do shatter;
It pleases his ear, he hates it not,
For he wants to die of laughing.
His ice palace lies far away
At the North Pole near the shore;
And yet he has a summer house
In dear old Switzerland.
There he is — now there, now here —
To mount his regime well.
And when he passes through, we stand
And look at him and freeze.
***
Sources:
Wikipedia: "Matthias Claudius" (English language)
Spiegel Online: Project Gutenberg: "Matthias Claudius: Der Wandsbecker Bote - Kapitel 164" (German language)
The poem was written in 1782 — "Ein Lied hinterm Ofen zu singen" (September 18, 2013) on the blog "Gedichtauswahl begründet"
To illustrate the poem I have chosen here, a figure of Winter would be far more appropriate, gnarled and foreboding or gleefully hard as described. But instead I have chosen some rather more tame and cheerful pictures by Ludwig Richter.
***
Ein Lied hinterm Ofen zu singen
Der Winter ist ein rechter Mann,
Kernfest und auf die Dauer;
Sein Fleisch fühlt sich wie Eisen an,
Und scheut nicht süß noch sauer.
War je ein Mann gesund, ist er's;
Er krankt und kränkelt nimmer,
Weiß nichts von Nachtschweiß noch Vapeurs,
Und schläft im kalten Zimmer.
Er zieht sein Hemd im Freien an,
Und läßt's vorher nicht wärmen;
Und spottet über Fluß im Zahn
Und Kolik in Gedärmen.
Aus Blumen und aus Vogelsang
Weiß er sich nichts zu machen,
Haßt warmen Drang und warmen Klang
Und alle warme Sachen.
Doch wenn die Füchse bellen sehr,
Wenn's Holz im Ofen knittert,
Und um den Ofen Knecht und Herr
Die Hände reibt und zittert;
Wenn Stein und Bein vor Frost zerbricht
Und Teich' und Seen krachen;
Das klingt ihm gut, das haßt er nicht,
Denn will er sich tot lachen. –
Sein Schloß von Eis liegt ganz hinaus
Beim Nordpol an dem Strande;
Doch hat er auch ein Sommerhaus
Im lieben Schweizerlande.
Da ist er denn bald dort bald hier,
Gut Regiment zu führen.
Und wenn er durchzieht, stehen wir
Und sehn ihn an und frieren.
*
A spur-of-the-moment translation by me. (The last verse is pure guesswork.)
A Song
to be sung behind the stove
Winter is an honest man,
Sound as a nut and long enduring;
His flesh feels firm as iron
And fears not sweet nor sour.
If ever a man was well, he is;
He falls sick or sickens never,
Night sweats or vapors knows he not,
And sleeps in a chilly chamber.
He pulls his shirt on in the open
And lets it not be warmed before;
And jeers at seepages of teeth
And colic of the bowels.
For flowers and the song of birds
He has no use whatever,
Hates warm throngs and hates warm tones
And hates warm things altogether.
Yet when the foxes bark in force,
The logs in the stove are crackling
And around the stove the man and master
Rub their hands and shiver;
When stone and bone crack in the frost
And ponds and lakes do shatter;
It pleases his ear, he hates it not,
For he wants to die of laughing.
His ice palace lies far away
At the North Pole near the shore;
And yet he has a summer house
In dear old Switzerland.
There he is — now there, now here —
To mount his regime well.
And when he passes through, we stand
And look at him and freeze.
***
Sources:
Wikipedia: "Matthias Claudius" (English language)
Spiegel Online: Project Gutenberg: "Matthias Claudius: Der Wandsbecker Bote - Kapitel 164" (German language)
The poem was written in 1782 — "Ein Lied hinterm Ofen zu singen" (September 18, 2013) on the blog "Gedichtauswahl begründet"
 |
| Illustration of Der alte Turmhahn by Eduard Mörike Adrian Ludwig Richter, 1855 Via Wikimedia Commons |
 |
| Auszug der Sennen Adrian Ludwig Richter, 1827 Oil on canvas Via Wikimedia Commons |
 |
| Matthias Claudius: Der Wandsbecker Bote Lead pencil sketch by Adrian Ludwig Richter (1803-1884), Winter landscape with snowman and sleigh via Wikimedia Commons |
Friday, September 19, 2014
Burns's Shelterless Mouse
'To a Mouse' is one of my favourite poems, which I came across during school. Robert Burns wrote it in 1785, after he indeed met by putting athwart a nest of mice amid agricultural pursuits, according to his brother. He writes it from the point of view of marauding man, with a half-affectionate disrespect that is already in the first lines. I am guessing from a knowledge of English rather than of Scots, but he is naming the mouse 'little, sleek, cowering and timorous.'
Its Scots Wikipedia entry is worth citing here:
*
***
Its Scots Wikipedia entry is worth citing here:
'To a Mouse' (Scots: Tae a Moose) is a Scots poem written bi Robert Burns in 1785 that wis includit in the Kilmarnock Volume, his first settin furth o musradry.
*
I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
 |
| Northumberland Bestiary: folio 33. Between 1250 and 1260. via Wikimedia Commons |
WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Enemy Books: Clarissa
WHILE the much more challenging effort of achieving the next 'Master Drawings' blog post grinds onward very slowly, I thought it would be nice to begin featuring books which I cannot stand for whichever reason.
Having the feeling that I can only embarrass myself by hurling serious invective at books which are classics and whose virtues are clearly too lofty for me to understand; having the feeling that perhaps when I am older my opinions will change diametrically; and having the feeling that these books at least enjoy originality or a certain distinction at the crest of a burst of literary fervour and Zeitgeist; I have decided to avoid proper 'posts' and only introduce them briefly and as inaccurately as mood suggests.
But the main point of an Enemy Books series is to invite readers to leave a comment to describe the beauties which they find in the work. (Even if the Enemy Book blog post in question is months old.)
Agreement with my invective is also welcome, however, and so are suggestions for a next enemy book.
***
Context and Rating
FOR the dubious honour of the first Enemy Book, I hereby name Clarissa by Samuel Richardson.
Completeness of Ordeal: Did not finish.
Birthdate of Enmity: ca. 2005.
(It was part of a largely unwise attempt to search amongst Jane Austen's contemporaries and favourite books
Having the feeling that I can only embarrass myself by hurling serious invective at books which are classics and whose virtues are clearly too lofty for me to understand; having the feeling that perhaps when I am older my opinions will change diametrically; and having the feeling that these books at least enjoy originality or a certain distinction at the crest of a burst of literary fervour and Zeitgeist; I have decided to avoid proper 'posts' and only introduce them briefly and as inaccurately as mood suggests.
But the main point of an Enemy Books series is to invite readers to leave a comment to describe the beauties which they find in the work. (Even if the Enemy Book blog post in question is months old.)
Agreement with my invective is also welcome, however, and so are suggestions for a next enemy book.
***
Context and Rating
FOR the dubious honour of the first Enemy Book, I hereby name Clarissa by Samuel Richardson.
Completeness of Ordeal: Did not finish.
Birthdate of Enmity: ca. 2005.
(It was part of a largely unwise attempt to search amongst Jane Austen's contemporaries and favourite books
Friday, December 07, 2012
On the Urgent Vitality of Books
"Vous les méprisez les livres [. . .]; mais songez que tout l'univers connu n'est gouverné que par des livres,You despise books, but remember that all the known world, excepting only savage nations, is governed by books, writes Voltaire, speaking of the Veda, Koran, and Confucius's proverbs. I like this idea of books ruling the world: constitutions and declarations of independence, university textbooks, a driver's instruction manual, municipal bylaws, and even the phone book. It's certainly easier to argue their effects than to quantify what effect J.K. Rowling or Mo Yan have had on the world.
*
Si vous avez un procès, votre bien, votre honneur, votre vie même dépend de l'interprétation d'un livre que vous ne lisez jamais. [. . .] mais il en est des livres comme des hommes, le très-petit nombre joue un grand rôle, le reste est confondu dans la foule.
In a lawsuit or criminal process, your property, your honor, perhaps your life, depends on the interpretation of a book which you never read. It is, however, with books as with men, a very small number play a great part, the rest are confounded with the multitude.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Autumn, a Season and an Harmonie
CROWN'D with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf,While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on
*
broad and brown, below,
Extensive harvests hang the heavy head.
*
till the ruffled air
Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow.
Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky;
The clouds fly different; and the sudden sun
By its effulgent glide gilds the' illumined field,
And black by fits the shadows sweep along
*
[Illustration: Autumn (1573) by Giuseppe Arcimboldo,
In the Musée du Louvre; via Wikimedia Commons]
Friday, June 17, 2011
Voltaire and the Tiny Diamond in the Rough
Voltaire (1694-1778)
French philosopher and author
***
From Zadig ou la Destinée, histoire orientale (1752), Voltaire, éd. Flammarion, coll. Librio, 2004, chap. « Le Brigand », p. 43 via"Voltaire," Wikiquote
Portrait of Voltaire (1778 copy by Catherine Lusurier of 1718 work by Nicolas de Largillière; currently in the Musée national des Châteaux de Versailles et de Trianon) via Wikimedia Commons
French philosopher and author
***
Il y avait autrefois un grain de sable qui se lamentait d'être un atome ignoré dans le désert; au bout de quelques années il devint diamant, et il est à présent le plus bel ornement de la couronne du roi des Indes.
From Zadig ou la Destinée, histoire orientale (1752), Voltaire, éd. Flammarion, coll. Librio, 2004, chap. « Le Brigand », p. 43 via"Voltaire," Wikiquote
*
Portrait of Voltaire (1778 copy by Catherine Lusurier of 1718 work by Nicolas de Largillière; currently in the Musée national des Châteaux de Versailles et de Trianon) via Wikimedia Commons
Friday, June 04, 2010
The Mysterious Imp of Chanteloup
Marie de Vichy-Chamrond, Marquise du Deffand; 1697-1780
Letter writer and salonnière
Lettres de la Marquise Du Deffand à Horace Walpole, Vol. III (Paris: 1812) at Gallica
*
The abbé informs me that at Chanteloup the devil has been taken in a trap; that he has the size of a cat, the skin of a tiger, the tail of a lemur, and the muzzle of a stone-marten; and that he reeks fit to bowl one over. The abbé questioned him and, as he replied nothing, concluded him an idiot; and is confirmed in the opinion which he has always held, that the devil does not have the wit which is commonly supposed.
*
From the context of the letter it is evident that neither the abbé nor Mme. du Deffand took this fascinating episode seriously. So the deadpan satire with which she wrote of it elevates a depressing example of anachronistic superstition — hopefully the poor animal, possibly a skunk, wasn't maltreated — into a flight of shrewd whimsy.
The continuing relevance of the story itself is proven, for example, by the great time and thought which the North American media devote to the Montauk Monster and other mysterious foundling creatures. Every century appears to require its mythology.
Letter writer and salonnière
L'abbé me mande qu'on a pris à Chanteloup le diable dans un piège, qu'il est de la grandeur d'un chat, il a la peau d'un tigre, la queue d'un makis, le museau d'une fouine, qu'il pue à renverser; l'abbé l'a interrogé, et comme il n'a rien répondu, il conclut qu'il est un sot, et se confirme dans l'opinion qu'il a toujours eue, que le diable n'a pas l'esprit qu'on lui suppose.From Lettre CLXXIV (Paris, le 30 octobre 1773)
Lettres de la Marquise Du Deffand à Horace Walpole, Vol. III (Paris: 1812) at Gallica
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The abbé informs me that at Chanteloup the devil has been taken in a trap; that he has the size of a cat, the skin of a tiger, the tail of a lemur, and the muzzle of a stone-marten; and that he reeks fit to bowl one over. The abbé questioned him and, as he replied nothing, concluded him an idiot; and is confirmed in the opinion which he has always held, that the devil does not have the wit which is commonly supposed.
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From the context of the letter it is evident that neither the abbé nor Mme. du Deffand took this fascinating episode seriously. So the deadpan satire with which she wrote of it elevates a depressing example of anachronistic superstition — hopefully the poor animal, possibly a skunk, wasn't maltreated — into a flight of shrewd whimsy.
The continuing relevance of the story itself is proven, for example, by the great time and thought which the North American media devote to the Montauk Monster and other mysterious foundling creatures. Every century appears to require its mythology.
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