"Drama usually bases itself on the bedrock of original sin, whether the writer thinks in theological terms or not . . . The novelist doesn't write about people in a vacuum; he writes about people in a world where something is obviously lacking, where there is the general mystery of incompleteness and the particular tragedy of our own times to be demonstrated and the novelist tries to give you, within the form of the book, a total experience of human nature at any time. For this reason the greatest dramas naturally involve the salvation or loss of the soul. When there is no belief in the soul, there is very little drama."

- Flannery O'Connor

Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger and Hans Urs von Balthasar "Mary: The Church at the Source"

Evelyn Waugh "Brideshead Revisited"

Fulton J. Sheen "The World's First Love"

John Steinbeck "East of Eden"

Ralph Dutton "The English Garden"

Giorgio Locatelli "Made in Italy"

Harper Lee "To Kill a Mockingbird"

Fyodor Dostoevsky "The Brothers Karamazov" (translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky)

"The universe God called into being has in it these two great divisions–the world of spirits and the world of matter. It is a special reason for man’s existence that he makes these two worlds–locks these two worlds, we might say–into one universe by belonging to both. Without man, spirit and matter would be two spheres, not touching; but man, belonging to one by his soul, to the other by his body, joins them together. Think of the universe, not as two unrelated spheres, but as a figure eight, with man on both sides of the join.

This is man’s special function in the universe. His body is not just an accident, a punishment for sin from which he is to work free, a temporary embarrassment to be shed at death as a butterfly sheds its cocoon; it is essential if he is to act his part in the universe. That is one reason for the resurrection of our bodies at the last day; we should not be men without them, but only inadequate angels."

(pp 54 - 55)


Sheed, F.J. "Theology for Beginners". St. Anthony Messenger Press: 1981.

"God could have restored man to himself by simply forgiving man’s sin, but then there would have been mercy without justice. The problem confronting man was something like that which confronts an orchestra leader. The score is written and given to an excellent director. The musicians, well-skilled in their art, are free to follow the director or to rebel against him. Suppose that one of the musicians decides to hit a wrong note. The director might do either of two things: he might either ignore the mistake, or he might strike his baton and order the measure to be replayed. It would make little difference, for that note has already gone winging into space, and since time cannot be reversed, the discord goes on and on through the universe, even to the end of time. Is there any possible way by which this voluntary disharmony can be stopped? Certainly not by anyone in time. It could be corrected on condition that someone would reach out from eternity, would seize that note in time and arrest it in its mad flight. But would it still not be a discord? No, it could be made the first note in a new symphony and thus be made harmonious!

Sheen, Fulton J. "The World’s First Love". Image Books, 1956. pp 22 - 23

"As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed! - but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation.

The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them."

(p 28)


"The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were young, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to make her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his disposition made him happy in accomodating those, whose situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In shewing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction of a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman, though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsment likewise, is not often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a residence within his own manor."

(p.32)

"Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne’s attention, and she was beginnning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had parsticularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, ’You must not inquire too far, Marianne -- remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country -- the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug -- with righ meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility -- and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promonotories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque.’

’I am afraid it is but too true,’ said Marianne; ’but why should you boast of it?’

’I suspect,’ said Elinor, ’that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own.’

’It is very true,’ said Marianne, ’that admiration of landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning.’

’I am convinced,’ said Edward, ’that you really feel all the delight in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect, but not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall, straight and flourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of nettles, or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower -- and a troop of tidy, happy villagers please me better than the finest banditti in the world.’

Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her sister. Elinor only laughed."


(pp 92 - 93)


"’My love, you contradict every body,’ -- said his wife with her usual laugh. ’Do you know that you are quite rude?’

’I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred.’

’Aye, you may abuse me as you please,’ said the good-natured old lady, ’you have taken charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you.’

Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain: and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted.

’Mr Palmer is so droll!’ said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. ’He is always out of humour.’

Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very sill woman, -- but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. -- It was rather a wish of distinction she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thying before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one of him except his wife."

(pp 106 - 107)

from Jane Austen "Sense and Sensibility". Everyman’s Library, New York; 1992 ed.

Almost two years ago, a friend of mine gave me a copy of Thomas Merton's book "Seeds", a collection of his excerpted writings. Right away, I could tell that it was a very good book, full of powerful writing and ideas, which would no doubt affect the way I think, feel, and live.

So naturally, I set the book away on my bookshelf.

You see, I could tell that if I started reading Merton's writing, it would force me to face up to a lot of the incongruency in both the world and in my own life. And one has to be ready to do that! One has to be ready when one opens the windowshades in a room that has collected years' worth of miscellanea, bric-a-brac, and debris. One shouldn't open those blinds on a sunny day if one isn't ready to get out the dustcloth, the vacuum cleaner, and most likely a box to take things to Goodwill.

I'd been thinking about that book for awhile, and I knew there would be a time coming when I would sit down and open it up again. On one quiet, late night this week, I pulled Merton out from under a stack of books. Maybe I was in a mood to throw open those blinds.

The first chapter is entitled "Real and False Selves". Here is an excerpt:

"If we want to understand alienation, we have to find where its deepest taproot goes--and we have to realize that this root will always be there. Alienation is inseparable from culture, from civilization, and from life in society. It is not just a feature of "bad" cultures, "corrupt" civilizations, or urban society. It is not just a privilege reserved for some people in society. . . . Alienation begins when culture divides me against myself, puts a mask on me, gives me a role I may or may not want to play. Alienation is complete when I become completely identified with my mask, totally satisfied with my role, and convince myself that any other identity or role is inconceivable. The man who sweats under his mask, whose role makes him itch with discomfort, who hates the division in himself, is already beginning to be free. But God help him if all he wants is the mask the other man is wearing, just because the other one does not seem to be sweating or itching. Maybe he is no longer human enough to itch. (Or else he pays a psychiatrist to scratch him.)"

(Thomas Merton, "Seeds")

some recent listenings:

various Bach (mostly instrumental keyboard music and cantatas)

Villa-Lobos "Bachianas Brasilieras" (complete version by the Nashville Symphony)

Midlake "The Trials of Van Occupanther"
(a current band that is doing warm, 1970s sounding soft rock)

TV on the Radio "Return to Cookie Mountain" (eclectic NYC band)

Sufjan Stephens "Illinois"

Led Zeppelin "Physical Graffiti"

The Who "Quadrophenia"

Jars of Clay "Good Monsters"

Ruben Gonzalez "Introducing . . . Ruben Gonzalez"

various Motown jams (sitting at the feet of Jamerson)

various Rolling Stones jams


some recent readings:

Jane Austen "Pride and Prejudice", "Emma", and "Persuasion"

Ernest Hemingway "The Nick Adams Stories"

Richard J. Foster "Celebration of Discipline"


some recent viewings:

I Am Cuba (dir. Mikhail Kalatosov) 1964
-- beautiful photography and thrilling, gravity-defying camerawork!

Quadrophenia (dir. Frank Roddam) England, 1979

The Passion of Joan of Arc (dir. Carl Theodor Dreyer) 1928

The Garden of the Finzi-Continis (dir. Vittorio de Sica) Italian, 1970

Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man (dir. Lian Lunson) 2006

Le Notti Bianche ("White Nights") (dir. Luchino Visconti) Italian, 1957

"I went to a restaurant that serves 'lunch at any time' . . . so I ordered bean soup during the Renaissance."

- Steven Wright

I woke up and nothing meant anything. All of a sudden I was in the wrong world. Everything was blank; or rather, everything wasn't blank--I was just blank to everything. Nothing meant anything, and I didn't want to be here.

But the world I had just come from wasn't the right one, either. That wasn't the right world; I could see that now. It was a dream world but not in the sense that you dream it--I mean, not in the active sense. You don't dream it--it's dreamed for you. Well, I guess you are the one that dreams it--the dream comes from your subconscious and your subconscious is you. It's even the biggest part of you, they say. They say that if we were to imagine each person as an iceberg, the big part hidden below the water would be the subconscious, and the little part visible above the water would be the conscious.

I made a cup of tea, toasted a bagel, and stepped outside. The light was still strong but the day was quickly fading. The shadows were gradually taking up more and more of the lawn. I sat down outside the front door, my bare feet on the concrete steps. The steps were warm, but covered with shade now they wouldn't stay warm. My phone was sitting next to me. I didn't want my phone next to me. Then I thought about calling my brother.

I'm outside, and the world is continuing. Cars and people and the world is continuing. The world must be continuing.

The blue shade had almost taken over now. My glasses were sitting next to me. I could pick them up and put them on if I wanted to. I could do anything if I wanted to. It was that kind of a world. Amazing, really. Even the bagel was aware of possibilities--it had both sesame and poppy seeds.

a junkyard for
Cracker Jack jewelry
dime store trinkets
discarded tinsel

golden tombstones
electric powered vigils
a misplaced constellation
amber fading starlight

a runway strip to nowhere
a circuitboard to nothing
pitched into the desert night

Vegas--lit up with
a thousand invitations
and ten thousand farewells