Don Quixote – Cervantes (1)

Don Quixote Cover

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Jack reads selected passages 

from his favorite books

Unscripted. Unrehearsed. Unedited.

TODAY’S READING – 

The History and Adventures of the Renowned Don Quixote,
Miguel de Cervantes,
London, Folio Society, 1995
(Part 1 of 3)

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Don Quixote offers something unique in literature: the sight of an author teaching himself to write the first modern novel. As we read, a book is born and grows up before our eyes and eventually becomes so universal, so funny, so sad, so wise, that we wish it would never end. (From the Introduction to my Folio Society Limited Edition)

THE EXCERPT: 
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In a certain corner of La Mancha, the name of which I do not choose to remember, there lately lived one of those country gentleman, who adorn their halls with the rusty lance and worm-eaten target, and ride forth on the skeleton of a horse. . . .

Be it known, therefore, that this sad honest gentleman at his leisure hours, which engrossed the greatest part of the year, addicted himself to the reading of books of chivalry, which he perused with such rapture and application, that he had not only forgot the pleasure of the chase, but also utterly neglected the management of his estate: nay to such a pass did his curiosity and madness, in this particular, drive him, that he sold many good acres of Terra Firma, to purchase books of knight-errantry, with which he furnished his library to the utmost of his power; but none of them pleased him so much, as those that were written by the famous Feliciano de Silva, whom he admired as the pearl of all authors, for the brilliancy of his prose, and the beautiful perplexity of his expression. How was he transported, when he read those amorous complaints, and doughty challenges, that so often occur in his works.

“The reason of the unreasonable usage my reason has met with, so unreasons my reason, that I have reason to complain of your beauty;” and how did he enjoy the following flower of composition! “The high heaven of your divinity, which with stars divinely fortifies your beauty, and renders you meritorious of that merit, which by your highness is merited!”

The poor gentleman lost his senses, in poring over, and attempting to discover the meaning of these and other such rhapsodies, which Aristotle himself would not be able to unravel, were he to rise from the dead for that purpose only.

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The Christian Imagination

 

Christian ImaginationJack reads selected passages 

from his favorite books

Unscripted. Unrehearsed. Unedited.

TODAY’S READING – 

The Christian Imagination
“Authors, Authority, and the Humble Reader”
Peter J. Leithart, 2002. 

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Madeleine L’Engle on the reader: The reader, viewer, listener, usually grossly underestimates his importance. If a reader cannot create a book along with the writer, the book will never come to life. Creative involvement: that’s the basic difference between reading a book and watching TV.  (from Walking on Water)

THE EXCERPT: 

Works of fiction present a world to us. In some sorts of fiction, like fantasy or science fiction, the world of the novel is a world quite completely different from the world of our experience. In many cases, of course, the world presented is much like our own world. Paris and London were really cities in the late 18th century, the Bastille really did fall, severed heads really were mounted on pikes and paraded through the streets of Paris — these are not figments of Dickens’s imagination. But even the novel that strives for historical accuracy invites us to enter a world different from our own. Danton and Robespierre really existed, but Lucy Manette and Sidney Carton did not, and the world of A Tale of Two Cities is different from ours precisely because it is a world peopled by the likes of Sidney Carton and Lucy Manette.

No matter what the difference between the real and fictional worlds, reading intelligently requires a humble acceptance of the world of the novel. It is a poor reader, and a proud one, who throws aside A Tale of Two Cities with the sneering complaint that “It’s unrealistic. Sidney Carton never went to the guillotine.” A “suspension of disbelief” is elementary in reading fiction, but it is rarely recognized as an act of humility. In part, that is due to the dour connotations that “humility” has in contemporary usage, but here those connotations are completely out of place. As G. K. Chesterton said, humility makes a small, and that means that everything around us becomes large and astounding and magnificent. Humility before the world that the author presents means that we allow him to set the rules, but it also gives reading an element of play. Across the centuries, Dickens says to us, “I’ll pretend Jerry Cruncher was real if you will.” By opening the book and beginning to read, we are saying, “Let me play too.” To read well, we must become as little children.

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Adventures of Tom Bombadil – Tolkien

Tolkien Reader cover

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Jack reads selected passages 
from his favorite books 

Unscripted. Unrehearsed. Unedited.

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TODAY’S READING – 

The Tolkien Reader
“The Adventures of Tom Bombadil”
 

J.R.R. Tolkien, 1966. 

 

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While many are familiar with Tolkien’s involvement with the literary group The Inklings, it wasn’t the only literary group of which he was a member. Tolkien himself started the Coalbiters (meaning those who lounge so close to the fire in winter that they ‘bite the coal’), to persuade his friends that Icelandic literature was worth reading in the original language. The influence of the rhyme scheme of Icelandic mythology is evident in today’s reading.

There was a merry passenger,
A messenger, a mariner;
He built a gilded gondola
To wander in, and had in her
A load of yellow oranges
And porridge for his provender;
He perfumed her with marjoram
And cardamom and lavender.

He called the winds of argosies
With cargoes in to carry him
Across the rivers seventeen
And lay between to tarry him,
He landed all in loneliness
Where stonily the pebbles on
The running river Derrilyn
Goes merrily for ever on.
He journeyed then through meadow-lands
To Shadow-land that dreary lay,
And under hill and over hill
Went roving still a weary way.

He sat and sang a melody,
His errantry a-tarrying;
He begged a pretty butterfly
That fluttered by to marry him.
She scorned him and she scoffed at him,
She laughed at him unpitying;
So long he studied wizardry
And sigaldry and smithying.

He wove a tissue airy-thin
To snare her in; to follow her
He made him beetle-leather wing
And feather wing of swallow-hair
He caught her in bewilderment
With filament of spider-thread;
He made her soft pavilions
Of lilies, and a bridal bed
Of flowers and of thistle-down
To nestle down and rest her in;
And silken webs of filmy white
And silver light he dressed her in.

Interested in reading more?
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Autobiography of William Butler Yeats

IStock_000005761016XSmall Jack reads selected passages
from his favorite books

Unscripted. Unrehearsed. Unedited.

TODAY’S READING – 

Autobiography of William Butler Yeats, 1914. 

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I began reading W. B. Yeats after coming across a favorable recommendation from another author I admire, C. S. Lewis. Of his fellow Irishman, in a letter to a friend, Lewis wrote: “I have here discovered an author exactly after my own heart, whom I am sure you would delight in, W. B. Yeats. He writes plays and poems of rare spirit and beauty about our old Irish mythology.”

THE EXCERPT:

Someone at the Young Ireland Society gave me a newspaper that I might read some article or letter. I began idly reading verses describing the shore of Ireland as seen by a returning, dying emigrant. My eyes filled with tears and yet I knew the verses were badly written — vague, abstract words such as one finds in a newspaper. I looked at the end and saw the name of some political exile who had died but a few days after his return to Ireland. They had moved me because they contained the actual thoughts of a man at a passionate moment of life, and when I met my father I was full of the discovery. We should write out our own thoughts in as nearly as possible the language we thought them in, as though in a letter to an intimate friend. We should not disguise them in any way; for our lives give them force as the lives of people in plays give force to their words. Personal utterance, which had almost ceased in English literature, could be as fine an escape from rhetoric and abstraction as drama itself. But my father would hear nothing but drama; personal utterance was only egotism. I knew it was not, but as yet did not know how to explain the difference. I tried from that on to write out of my emotions exactly as they came to me in life, not changing them to make them more beautiful. “If I can be sincere and make my language natural, and without becoming discursive, like a novelist, and so indiscreet and prosaic,” I said to myself, “I shall, if good luck or bad luck make my life interesting, be a great poet; for it will be no longer a matter of literature at all.” Yet when I re-read those early poems which gave me so much trouble, I find little but romantic convention, unconscious drama. It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is. (p. 62)

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If Jesus Had Not Come

Empty manger
An Alternative History of Christmas

Christmas—the day God’s son entered the stream of human history and changed forever mankind’s destiny. Every year we read Bible verses and sing songs to celebrate this wondrous event.

But what if Jesus never came?

What if, instead of announcing Christ’s birth, the angel Gabriel appeared in the skies over Bethlehem and delivered the following announcement:

 Greetings, you who once were highly favored.
This is what the sovereign Lord says:

In the past I spoke to your forefathers through the prophets.
I revealed myself to those
who did not seek me;
to a nation that did not call out my name, I said, "Here am I, here am
I."
All day long I held out my hands to you,
and you turned away to pursue your own
imaginations.

Because you broke our covenant, its prophecies will not be fulfilled.
Those living in the land of the
shadow of death will not see a great light;
for to you, a child will not be born, a son not
given.
The One who is called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of
Peace will not appear
as foretold by the prophets. 

From this day forth, God will no longer hear your prayers.

He is not your God; you are not His people.

And the angel was gone.

The sky was empty.

And the people sang a new song:

While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
And thinking of their home,
The vigil of the night wore on,
They sat there all alone.

If Jesus had not come.

Salzburg, Austria
December, MMDLXXI a.u.c.

On a dark winter night, Joseph Mohr reflects on the bitter Napoleonic Wars that have ravaged the European countryside with a staggering death toll. Taking pen to paper, he writes: 

Silent night, darkest night,
Filled with fear, there’s no light.
God’s in heaven, not on earth;
How we long for a Savior’s birth.
Sleep without dreams of peace.
Sleep without dreams of peace.

If Jesus had not come.

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
December, MMDCXXI  a.u.c.

Philips Brooks, a university professor of philosophy, reminisces about a trip he made to Bethlehem three years earlier, where he’d hoped to find a measure of peace following four bitter years of civil war in America and the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln who, for Brooks, embodied the hope of the nation.

Lamenting the unfulfilled prophecy of an obscure Jewish prophet named Micah, Brooks composes a dirge.

O little town of Bethlehem, how ill we see thee lie.
Above they deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by;
And in thy dark streets gloomy, where evil wins the fight,
The pain and fears of all the years, has reigned supreme tonight.

If Jesus had not come.

Cologny, Switzerland
September, MMDCCV a.u.c.

A papyrologist hired by antiquities collector Martin Bodmer hunches over a recently acquired manuscript discovered in Jabal Aba Mana, Egypt. The acquisition includes copies of books V and VI of Homer’s Iliad; three comedies by the Greek dramatist Menander; and p66, a manuscript of questionable value containing the writings of an obscure Galilean fisherman named John. Like so many Jewish writers of his time, the fisherman’s discourse is a fatalistic view of life. The papyrologist translates the third chapter, the sixteenth verse:

For God did not love the world enough to send his only son,
so all mankind will perish and never know everlasting life.

If Jesus had not come.

Jerusalem, Judaea
5 Nisan 3821

Saul, one of the greatest post-covenant Rabbis, leads a Jewish uprising against Rome in an attempt to re-establish the throne of David on the abandoned temple mount. In a circular letter sent to synagogues throughout the Roman empire he describes the roads of Jerusalem lined with crosses bearing the bodies of martyrs to the cause. He issues a call for Jews everywhere to pledge their lives in support of the new kingdom of David:

Your attitude should not be that of God’s Son
who, being in the very nature of God
considered equality with God something to be grasped.
And He made himself something,
not taking the form of a servant,
not being made in human likeness;
He was not found in appearance of a man,
refusing to humble himself,
especially death on a cross.

If Jesus had not come.

Jerusalem, Judea
24 Iyyar 3841

A worldly tax collector named Matthew—hated by the Jews, loathed by his Roman employers—teaches his apprentice the realities of life in a God-forsaken world, telling him life’s only hope lies in the accumulation of wealth.

As you go into all the world
and see despair among the nations,
do not be swayed by the name
of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit;
teach your sons to live only for themselves.
For lo, God will never be with us,
not even at the end of the age.

If Jesus had not come.

But Jesus did come! If only for a moment, savor the greatest announcement mankind has ever heard:

For unto you is born this day in the city of David,
a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.

Gloria in excelsis Deo

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