how shells work

111. Some authorities state that groups of shells, like swarms of bees, have an especially large, old shell as their leader – one marvellously skillful at looking out for dangers – and that divers deliberately seek these shells, since, when they are caught, the rest wander aimlessly and are easily trapped in nets. Then they are heavily salted in earthenware pots; the salt eats away all the flesh, and the nuclei, as it were of their bodies, namely the individual pearls, sink to the bottom.”

(Pliny the Elder in Book IX (“Creatures of the Sea”) of Natural History; p. 136 in John Healy’s Natural History: A Selection.)

the decay of morality is caused by the produce of the sea

104. But why do I mention these trivial matters when shellfish are the prime cause of the decline of morals and the adoption of an extravagant life-style? Indeed, of the whole realm of nature the sea is in many ways the most harmful to the stomach, with its great variety of dishes and tasty fish.

105. But the foregoing pale into insignificance beside the purple-fish, purple robes and pearls. As if it were not enough for the produce of the seas to be stuffed down our throats, it is also worn on the hands, in the ears, on the head and all over the body of women and men alike! What has the sea to do with clothing, the waters and waves to do with wool? The sea receives us in a proper way only when we are without clothes. There may well be a strong alliance between the sea and our stomach, but what connection is there with our backs? Are we not satisfied by feeding on dangerous things without also being clothed by them? Do we get most bodily pleasure from luxuries that cost human life?”

(Pliny the Elder in Book IX (“Creatures of the Sea”) of Natural History; pp. 134–5 in John Healy’s Natural History: A Selection.)

the decay of science and the spread of avarice

3. Yet, in all conscience, people who know much of what has been published by earlier writers cannot be found. The research of men of former times was more productive, or their industry was more successful, a thousand years ago at the beginning of literature, when Hesiod began to expound his principles for farmers. His research was followed by several writers, and this has resulted in more work for us, since now we have to investigate not only subsequent discoveries but also those made by earlier authorities, because men’s laziness has brought about a complete destruction of records.

4. What cause for this shortcoming could there be other than the state of world affairs generally? The thing is that other customs have crept in; men’s minds are preoccupied with other matters and the only arts practised are those of greed. In earlier times people had their power limited to their own boundaries, and for that reason their talents were circumscribed; there was no scope for amassing a fortune, so they had to exercise the positive quality of respect for the arts. Accordingly they put the arts first, when displaying their resources, in the belief that the arts could bestow immortality. This was the reason why life’s rewards and achievements were so plentiful.

5. The expansion of the world and the growing extent of our resources proved harmful to subsequent generations. Senators and judges began to be chosen by wealth, and wealth was the only embellishment of magistrates and commanders; lack of children began to exert the highest influence and power, and legacy-hunting was the most profitable occupation. In such a climate the only pleasure consisted in possession, whereas the true prizes of life went to rack and run and all the arts that were called ‘liberal’ – from liberty the greatest good – became quite the opposite. Obsequiousness began to be the sole means of advancement. Different men worshipped greed in different ways and different contexts, although every man’s prayer had the same goal – namely, the acquisition of material possessions. Everywhere even distinguished people preferred to cultivate others’ vices rather than their own good qualities. The result is, I declare, that pleasure has begun to live, while life itself has come to an end.”

(Pliny the Elder in Book XIV (“Vines and Viticulture”) of Natural History; pp. 182–3 in John Healy’s Natural History: A Selection.)

still,

America is a fun country. Still, there are aspects of it which I would prefer not to think about. I am sure, for instance, that the large “chain” stores with their big friendly ads and so-called “discount” prices actually charge higher prices so as to force smaller competitors out of business. This sort of thing has been going on for at least 200 years and is one of the cornerstones on which our mercantile American society is constructed, like it or not. What with all our pious expostulations and public declarations of concern for the poor and the elderly, this is a lot of bunk and our own president plays it right into the lap of big business and uses every opportunity he can to fuck the consumer and the little guy. We might as well face up to the fact that this is and always has been a part of our so-called American way of life.

Nevertheless, there are a lot of people here who are sincerely in love with life and think they are on to something, and they may well be right. Even the dogs seem to know about it – you can tell by the way they stick their noses out of the car windows sometimes to whiff the air as it goes by. Old ladies know about and like it too. In fact, the older an American citizen gets the more he or she seems to get a kick out of life. Look at all the retirement communities and people who mow their own lawns and play gold. They surely have more pep than their counterparts in Asia or Europe, and one mustn’t be in too much of a hurry to make fun of such pursuits. They stand for something broader and darker than at first seems to be the case. The silver-painted flagpole in its concrete base surrounded by portulacas, the flag itself straining in the incredibly strong breeze, are signposts toward an infinity of wavering susceptible variables, if one but knew how to read them aright. The horny grocery boy may be the god Pan in disguise. Even a television antenna may be something else. Example: bearded young driver of pickup truck notes vinyl swimming pool cover is coming undone and stops to ask owner if he can be of assistance. Second example: groups of business people stranded in stalled elevator sing Cole Porter songs to keep their spirits up, helping each other recall the lyrics. Third example: a nursing home director convicted of a major swindle goes to the federal penitentiary for a period of not less than five years. Fourth example: you are looking down into a bottomless well or some kind of deep pool that is very dark with the reflected light so far in the distance it seems like a distant planet, and you see only your own face.

(John Ashbery, from The Vermont Notebook, pp. 381–3 in Collected Poems 1956–1987.)

the truth about camels

“A camel never travels beyond its normal daily mileage or carries more than a prescribed load. They are not so fast as horses for which they have an inborn hatred. Camels can endure thirst for four days and, when they have an opportunity to drink, fill themselves to make up for the time they have gone without and for their future needs; they stir up the water by trampling in it, otherwise they do not enjoy their drink. Camels live for fifty years, some even for a hundred, although even camels are liable to contract rabies.”

(Pliny the Elder in Book VII of Natural History; p. 117 in John Healy’s Natural History: A Selection.)

previously men had lived on acorns

191. It seems not inappropriate, before leaving our discussion of man’s nature, to point out what different people have discovered. Bacchus introduced buying and selling, the crown, the royal emblem and the triumphal processions. Ceres discovered corn; previously men had lived on acorns. She also invented milling and the making of flour in Attica (or, according to some authorities, in Sicily). This was the reason that Ceres was judged to be a goddess. Ceres was also the first to give laws – or, as others think, it was Rhadamanthus.”

(Pliny the Elder in Book VII of Natural History; p. 104 in John Healy’s Natural History: A Selection.)

come on, ordinary man

“Come on, ordinary man with that large big nonobli head, and that blanko berbecked fischial ekksprezzion Machinsky Scapolopolos, Duzinascu or other. Your machelar’s mutton leg’s getting musclebound from being too pulled. Noah Beery weighed stone thousand one when Hazel was a hen. Now her fat’s falling fast. Therefore, chatbags, why not yours? There are 29 sweet reasons why blossomtime’s the best. Elders fall for green almonds when they’re raised on bruised stone root ginger though it winters on their heads as if auctumned round their waistbands. If you’d had pains in your hairs you wouldn’t look so orgibald. You’d have Colley Macaires on your lump of lead. Now listen, Mr Leer! And stow that sweatyfunnyadams Simper! Take an old geeser who calls on his skirt. Note his sleek hair, so elegant, tableau vivant. He vows her to be his own honeylamb, swears they will be papa pals, by Sam, and share good times way down west in a guaranteed happy lovenest when May moon she shines and they twit twinkle all the night, combing the comet’s tail up right and shooting popguns at the stars. Creampuffs all to dime! Every nice, missymackenzies! For dear old grumpapar, he’s gone on the razzledar, through gazing and crazing and blazing at the stars. Compree! She wants her wardrobe to hear from above by return with cash so as she can buy her Peter Robinson trousseau and cut a dash with Arty, Bert or possibly Charley Chance (who knows?) so tolloll Mr Hunker you’re too dada for me to dance (so off she goes!) and that’s how half the gels in town has got their bottom drars while grumpapar he’s trying to hitch his braces on to his trars. But old grum he’s not so clean dippy between sweet you and yum (not on your life, boy! not in those trousers! not by a large jugful!) for someplace on the sly,where Furphy he isn’t by, old grum has his gel number two (bravevow, our Grum!) and he would like to canoodle her too some part of the time for he is downright fond of his number one but O he’s fair mashed on peaches number two so that if he could only canoodle the two, chivee chivoo, all three would feel genuinely happy, it’s as simple as A. B. C., the two mixers, we mean, with their cherrybum chappy (for he is simply shamming dippy) if they all were afloat in a dreamlifeboat, hugging two by two in his zoo-doo-you-doo, a tofftoff for thee, missymissy for me and howcameyou-e’enso for Farber, in his tippy, upindown dippy, tiptoptippy canoodle, can you? Finny.”

(Finnegans Wake, pp. 64–65.)

sentence: the problem with the irish

“But we have observed amongst the generality of the Irish, such a declension of Christianity, so great credulity to believe ever superstitious story, such confidence in vanity, such groundless pertinacy, such vitious lives, so little sense of true Religion and the fear of God, so much care to obey the Priests, and so little to obey God: such intolerable ignorance, such fond Oathes and manners of swearing, thinking themselves more obliged by swearing on the Mass-Book than the Four Gospels, and S. Patricks Mass-Book more than any new one; swearing by their Fathers Soul, by their Godsips hand, by other things which are the product of those many tales that are told them; their not knowing upon what account they refuse to come to Church, but onely that now they are old and never did, or their Country-men do not, or their Fathers or Grandfathers never did, or that their Ancestors were Priests, and they will not alter from their Religion; and after all, can give no account of their Religion, what it is; onely they believe as their Priest bids them, and go to Mass which they understand not, and reckon their beads to tell the number and the tale of their prayers, and abstain from eggs and flesh in Lent, and visit S. Patricks Well and leave pins and ribbands, yarn or thred in their holy wells, and pray to God, S. Mary and S. Patrick, S. Columbanus and S. Bridget, and desire to be buried with S. Francis’s chord about them, and to fast on Saturdays in honour of our Lady.”

(Jeremy Taylor, from The Golden Grove, pp. 35–36, cited by William Gass in his lecture on baroque prose at Columbia.)

morandi ii

Brushstroke and buringouge, cups
                                                         huddled together, black and white,
Still life and landscape, perspective and architecture,
Giorgio Morandi stayed home
And kept his distance and measure. And kept his silence.
No word for anything but his work.

Example: yellow and tan,
                                          rectangle, circle, square.
Example: cylinder, black and brown,
Table-line like a horizon one might approach from.
Example: angle and plane,
Scratches like an abyss,
                                       a Mondrian-absence one might descend to.

Corners of buildings, bottles, hillsides, shade trees and fields,
Color and form, light and space,
                                                      the losses we get strange gain from.

(Charles Wright, from Chickamauga.)

with simic and marinetti at the giubbe rosse

Where Dino Campana once tried to sell his sad poems
Among the tables,
Where Montale settled into his silence and hid,
Disguised as himself for twenty years,
The ghosts of Papini and Prezzolini sit tight
With Carlo Emilio Gadda
                                            somewhere behind our backs.

Let’s murder the moonlight, let’s go down
On all fours and mewl like the animals and make it mean what it means
Not even a stir
Not even a breath across the plates of gnocchi and roast veal.
Like everything else in Florence, that’s part of the past,
The wind working away away kneading the sea so muscles . . .

Those who don’t remember the Futurists are condemned to repeat them.
We order a grappa. We order a mineral water.
Little by little, the lucid, warm smile of the moon
Overflowed from the torn clouds.
                                                        Some ran.
A cry was heard in the solitude of the high plains.
Simic e Wright sulla tracchia. La luna ammazzata.

(Charles Wright, from Chickamauga.)