Yes, I think that the novel leads readers to vanity and egoism

From Buddha and Personality in v. 2 of Conversations between Borges and Osvaldo Ferrari:

Ferrari: Of course, you also indicated in that essay that the Western novel prefers ‘the flavour of souls’, in Proust and in other novelists.  And in Buddhism the negation of that flavour of souls, of that individuality of souls.

Borges: Yes, I think that the novel leads readers to vanity and egoism.  Novels talk about a single person and the features that distinguish them from other people, which encourages the reader to try and be a specific person and to have features that distinguish them from other people.  So that reading a novel indirectly promotes egoism and vanity and trying to be interesting.  Which is what happens with all young people.  When I was young, I was purposefully unhappy, because I wanted to be, well, Hamlet, or Byron, or Poe, or Baudelaire, or a character in a Russian novel.  On the other hand, now I try to seek calm, and not think about the personality, well, of a writer called Borges, who lived, let’s say, in the twentieth century (laughs), although he was born in the nineteenth.  I try t o forget those pedantic circumstance, no?  I try to live calmly, forgetting that character who is my companion.

I still feel a very great satisfaction when I find myself alone in a street

From Iris Origo’s Leopardi: A Study in Solitude (pg. 5)- recounting the life of the poet’s father.  I haven’t looked into whether the elder Leopardi’s Memoirs were ever published.

Two years later, when barely eighteen, he assumed, as head of the family, the complete management of the whole property – yet he was still forbidden by his mother to go out of the house, unless accompanied by his preceptor.  This restriction, although not unusual in families such as his, was particularly galling to Monaldo.  “To this day,” he wrote in his Memoirs, “although I am the father of twelve children (living and dead), a magistrate of the city, and forty-eight years of age, I still feel a very great satisfaction when I find myself alone in a street, without a tutor by my side.”

Until we all become absolutely wearied of it

From Oscar Wilde’s The Decay of Lying: An Observation:

Art creates an incomparable and unique effect, and, having done so, passes on to other things. Nature, upon the other hand, forgetting that imitation can be made the sincerest form of insult, keeps on repeating this effect until we all become absolutely wearied of it. Nobody of any real culture, for instance, ever talks nowadays about the beauty of a sunset. Sunsets are quite old-fashioned. They belong to the time when Turner was the last note in art. To admire them is a distinct sign of provincialism of temperament. Upon the other hand they go on. Yesterday evening Mrs. Arundel insisted on my going to the window, and looking at the glorious sky, as she called it. Of course I had to look at it. She is one of those absurdly pretty Philistines to whom one can deny nothing. And what was it? It was simply a very second-rate Turner, a Turner of a bad period, with all the painter’s worst faults exaggerated and over- emphasised.

This passage is better known for the Turner quip but I more enjoy Wilde’s stumbling directly onto what I always find his own artistic and intellectual failing – “Art creates an incomparable and unique effect, and, having done so, passes on to other things. [Wilde]…. keeps on repeating this effect until we all become absolutely wearied of it.”

A jacquerie, even if carried out with the most respectful of intentions, cannot fail to leave some traces of embarrassment behind it

From Saki’s The Stampeding of Lady Bastable.  My wife reminded me of this quote on the walk home from a cocktail dinner but I was too many drinks in to now remember the connected context.

On this particular morning the sight of Lady Bastable enthroned among her papers gave Clovis the hint towards which his mind had been groping all breakfast time. His mother had gone upstairs to supervise packing operations, and he was alone on the ground-floor with his hostess – and the servants. The latter were the key to the situation. Bursting wildly into the kitchen quarters, Clovis screamed a frantic though strictly non-committal summons: “Poor Lady Bastable! In the morning-room! Oh, quick!” The next moment the butler, cook, page-boy, two or three maids, and a gardener who had happened to be in one of the outer kitchens were following in a hot scurry after Clovis as he headed back for the morning-room. Lady Bastable was roused from the world of newspaper lore by hearing a Japanese screen in the hall go down with a crash. Then the door leading from the ball flew open and her young guest tore madly through the room, shrieked at her in passing, “The jacquerie! They’re on us!” and dashed like an escaping hawk out through the French window. The scared mob of servants burst in on his heels, the gardener still clutching the sickle with which he had been trimming hedges, and the impetus of their headlong haste carried them, slipping and sliding, over the smooth parquet flooring towards the chair where their mistress sat in panic-stricken amazement. If she had had a moment granted her for reflection she would have behaved, as she afterwards explained, with considerable dignity. It was probably the sickle which decided her, but anyway she followed the lead that Clovis had given her through the French window, and ran well and far across the lawn before the eyes of her astonished retainers.

Lost dignity is not a possession which can be restored at a moment’s notice, and both Lady Bastable and the butler found the process of returning to normal conditions almost as painful as a slow recovery from drowning. A jacquerie, even if carried out with the most respectful of intentions, cannot fail to leave some traces of embarrassment behind it.

Because if you don’t hurry, I’ll die before you get to me

From vol. 2 of Conversations, interviews in the early 1980s between Osvaldo Ferrari and Jorge Luis Borges (pg 49-50).

Ferrari: Talking about that – courage seems to be another of her characteristics.  One has to remember the telephone calls!

Borges: Yes, she once received a telephone call and a duly coarse, menacing voice said to her, “I’m going to kill you and your son.” “Why, senor?” my mother asked with a rather surprising courtesy. “Because I’m a Peronist.” “Well,” my mother said, “as far as my son is concerned, he leaves the house at 10 every morning.  All you have to do is wait for him and kill him.  As for me, I’m now (I don’t remember what age she was) 80-something years old – I would advise you not to waste your time talking on the telephone!  Because if you don’t hurry, I’ll die before you get to me.”  Then the voice put the phone down.  I asked her the day after, “Did someone call last night?” “Yes,” she said, “some fool called me at two in the morning,” and then she repeated the conversation.  After that there were no more calls.  Of course, that nuisance-caller terrorist must have been so shocked that he didn’t dare repeat his offence.

How little such a one must have had to think about, since he has had so much time for reading!

Guilty.

Students and learned men of every kind and every age go as a rule in search of information, not insight.  They make it a point of honour to have information about everything: It does not occur to them that information is merely a means toward insight and possesses little or no value in itself.  When I see how much these well-informed people know, I sometimes say to myself: Oh, how little such a one must have had to think about, since he has had so much time for reading!

From the Penguin anthology – Essays and Aphorisms (pg. 220).

Pangur Bán and I at work

I discovered this poem years ago in Helen Waddell’s The Wandering Scholars and just today found that Seamus Heaney had done a translation:

 

Pangur Bán and I at work,
Adepts, equals, cat and clerk:
His whole instinct is to hunt,
Mine to free the meaning pent.
More than loud acclaim, I love
Books, silence, thought, my alcove.
Happy for me, Pangur Bán
Child-plays round some mouse’s den.
Truth to tell, just being here,
Housed alone, housed together,
Adds up to its own reward:
Concentration, stealthy art.
Next thing an unwary mouse
Bares his flank: Pangur pounces.
Next thing lines that held and held
Meaning back begin to yield.
All the while, his round bright eye
Fixes on the wall, while I
Focus my less piercing gaze
On the challenge of the page.
With his unsheathed, perfect nails
Pangur springs, exults and kills.
When the longed-for, difficult
Answers come, I too exult.
So it goes. To each his own.
No vying. No vexation.
Taking pleasure, taking pains,
Kindred spirits, veterans.
Day and night, soft purr, soft pad,
Pangur Bán has learned his trade.
Day and night, my own hard work
Solves the cruxes, makes a mark.
There is a text and alternate – more to the word – translation here

I struck the board, and cried, “No more;  I will abroad!” 

The Collar by George Herbert.  The opening lines appear as an epigraph to Patrick Leigh Fermor’s A Time For Gifts – alongside the Petronius poem (He that disembarks on distant sands, becomes thereby the greater man.) I included a few days back.  I owe introduction to Herbert to Fermor.

I struck the board, and cried, “No more;
I will abroad!
What? shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free, free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me blood, and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit?
Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the year only lost to me?
Have I no bays to crown it,
No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted?
All wasted?
Not so, my heart; but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit and not. Forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands,
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away! take heed;
I will abroad.
Call in thy death’s-head there; tie up thy fears;
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need
Deserves his load.”
But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild
At every word,
Methought I heard one calling, Child!
And I replied My Lord.

The house therefore came to be referred to as the Trireme

From Athenaeus’ Learned BanquetersDeipnosophistae 2.37:

Timaeus of Tauromenium (FGrH 566 F 149) reports that there is a house in Acragas referred to as the Trireme for the following reason. Some young men were getting drunk inside; and their drunkenness made them so feverishly crazy that they thought they were sailing on a trireme and had run into a terrible storm at sea. They were so out of their minds that they started throwing all the furniture and bedding out of the house, thinking that they were throwing it into the sea because the pilot was telling them that the ship’s cargo needed to be jettisoned on account of the storm. And even though a crowd began to gather and steal the items being thrown out, the young men continued to act crazily. The next day the city’s chief officials came to the house, and a charge was issued against the young men, who were still seasick; when the magistrates questioned them, they responded that a storm had caused them trouble and forced them to jettison their excess cargo into the sea. When the officials expressed astonishment at their lunacy, one of the young men, who seemed in fact to be older than the others, said: “Triton sirs, I was so afraid, that I had thrown myself under the third course of rowing benchs, since that seemed like the lowest part of the ship, and was lying there.” They therefore forgave them for their craziness, ordered them not to consume any more wine, and let them go; and the young men expressing their gratitude . . . “If,” he said, “we escape this rough sea and reach a harbor, we will set up altars in our fatherland to you, along with the other sea-divinities, as manifest Savior gods, since you revealed yourselves to us at a crucial moment.” The house therefore came to be referred to as the Trireme.

Τίμαιος δὲ ὁ Ταυρομενίτης ἐν Ἀκράγαντι οἰκίαν τινά φησι καλεῖσθαι Τριήρη ἐξ αἰτίας τοιαύτης. νεανίσκους τινὰς ἐν αὐτῇ μεθυσκομένους ἐς τοσοῦτον cἐλθεῖν μανίας ἐκθερμανθέντας ὑπὸ τῆς | μέθης ὡς νομίζειν μὲν ἐπὶ τριήρους πλεῖν, χειμάζεσθαι δὲ χαλεπῶς κατὰ τὴν θάλασσαν· καὶ τοσοῦτον ἔκφρονας γενέσθαι ὡς τὰ ἀπὸ τῆς οἰκίας πάντα σκεύη καὶ στρώματα ῥίπτειν ὡς εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν, τὴν ναῦν διὰ τὸν χειμῶνα ἀποφορτίζεσθαι δόξαν αὐτοῖς λέγειν τὸν κυβερνήτην. συναθροιζομένων οὖν πολλῶν καὶ τὰ ῥιπτόμενα διαρπαζόντων οὐδ᾿ ὣς παύεσθαι τῆς μανίας τοὺς νεανίσκους. καὶ τῇ ἐπιούσῃ τῶν ἡμερῶν παραγενομένων τῶν στρατηγῶν ἐπὶ τὴν οἰκίαν ἐγκληθέντες dοἱ | νεανίσκοι ἔτι ναυτιῶντες ἀπεκρίναντο πυνθανομένων τῶν ἀρχόντων ὑπὸ χειμῶνος ἐνοχλούμενοι ἠναγκάσθαι ἀποφορτίσασθαι τῇ θαλάσσῃ τὰ περιττὰ τῶν φορτίων. θαυμαζόντων δὲ τῶν στρατηγῶν τὴν ἔκπληξιν τῶν ἀνδρῶν εἷς τῶν νεανίσκων, καίτοι δοκῶν τῶν ἄλλων πρεσβεύειν κατὰ τὴν ἡλικίαν, “ἐγὼ δ᾿,” ἔφη, “ἄνδρες Τρίτωνες, ὑπὸ τοῦ δέους καταβαλὼν ἐμαυτὸν ὑπὸ τοὺς θαλάμους ὡς ἔνι μάλιστα κατωτάτω ἐκείμην.” συγγνόντες οὖν τῇ αὐτῶν ἐκστάσει ἐπιτιμήσαντες eμὴ πλείονος οἴνου | ἐμφορεῖσθαι ἀφῆκαν. καὶ οἱ χάριν ἔχειν ὁμολογήσαντες <. . .> “ἂν λιμένος,” ἔφη, “τύχωμεν ἀπαλλαγέντες τοσούτου κλύδωνος, Σωτῆρας ὑμᾶς ἐπιφανεῖς μετὰ τῶν θαλασσίων δαιμόνων ἐν τῇ πατρίδι ἱδρυσόμεθα ὡς αἰσίως ἡμῖν ἐπιφανέντας.” ἐντεῦθεν ἡ οἰκία Τριήρης ἐκλήθη.

Neither fully fool nor fully wise

The opening three lines of Francois Villon’s Le (Grand) Testament.

En l’an trentiesme de mon eage,
Que toutes mes hontes j’eu beues,
Ne du tout fol, ne du tout sage.

In the thirtieth year of my life,
now that I’ve drunk down all my shames,
neither fully fool nor fully wise.

I turn 32 today and can for the last time round myself down to this over Dante’s nel mezzo of 35.