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Sat 3/27/2021 5:01 PM
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Greetings NYCPlaywrights

*** FREE THEATER ONLINE ***

VANYA AND SONIA AND MASHA AND SPIKE

NOW STREAMING THROUGH APRIL 11, 2021
USE CODE VANYAFREE TO STREAM FREE

This Tony® Award-winning Best Play (2013) takes 3 mismatched siblings (played to the hilt by Kristine Nielsen, David Hyde Pierce and Sigourney Weaver), adds 1 boy toy (Billy Magnussen), throws in themes from Chekhov, pours it all into a blender and mixes it up. The result? An utterly hilarious, touching work by master of comedy, Christopher Durang.

(After you register they will send you an email with a link to watch the show.)



*** DRAMATISTS GUILD END OF PLAY ***

End of Play.  is an annual initiative, created by the Dramatists Guild, to incentivize the completion of new plays, scores or songs over the period of one month. Starting with a successful launch in 2020, hundreds of participating dramatic writers across the world connected with one another to overcome obstacles that stand in the way of writing the first draft of new plays.

Each year, writers set goals for themselves at the beginning of End of Play.TM Month and post weekly updates about how they are doing to the community. Goals may include writing a new full-length play/musical, two one-act plays/musicals, or completing a second draft of any of the above. Ultimately, the goal of End of Play.TM  is to get writers to the finish line through motivation and community.  

How to Participate

Interested in taking part? The next round of End of Play.™ will take place in the month of April 2021 (pens up April 1, pens down April 30). Sign up using the registration form...

More info...


*** OPPORTUNITIES FOR PLAYWRIGHTS ***

Egg & Spoon’s 2021 Incubation Series provides developmental support for three BIPoC writers’ full-length plays over the summer of 2021. This expands previous Egg & Spoon programming by facilitating fifteen-hour workshops for playwrights. This program reflects our passion for developing new plays, and our commitment to building a more equitable and vibrant future for the American theatre.

***

2021 One Act Play Festival (OAPF) Presented by Artists’ Exchange
Plays should be original, short one act plays 10-15 minutes long (ideal length 10 minutes; no longer than 20 minutes maximum will be considered). Previously produced plays acceptable. Seeking Short Plays: Comedic, absurd, dramatic, satirical, farcical, musical, etc. are all welcome for review. Works for actors of all ages (children thru seniors) and abilities are strongly encouraged. Selected plays will be performed outdoors by Artists’ Exchange in Cranston, Rhode Island in late June 2021

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Sullivan County Dramatic Workshop seeks 10 minute plays to be presented at the Rivoli Theatre1 May 7 through May 16, 2021. In the event that theatres are not allowed to open due to New York State covid restrictions, SCDW will present these plays in a virtual format. All plays chosen must meet the following requirements:

*** FOR MORE INFORMATION about these and other opportunities see the web site at https://www.nycplaywrights.org ***


*** THE DARK LADY ***

It remains one of the great mysteries of English literature. Who, exactly, was the “Dark Lady” of Shakespeare’s Sonnets? Did she even exist? And, if so, who was this tantalising woman with “raven” brows and black hair to whom Shakespeare addressed a string of overtly passionate and sometimes explicit poems? Scholars have debated the issue for decades — potential candidates include Aline Florio, wife to a translator, Mary Fitton, a lady-in-waiting, and “Black Luce”, a brothel-owner.

But for many, the chief contender is Emilia Bassano, an accomplished poet and musician, whom historian A.L. Rowse identified as the elusive Dark Lady in 1973. She has been the occasional subject of novels and dramas as well as academic studies; now, a new play at Shakespeare’s Globe aims to coax Emilia out of the wings of history and on to centre stage at the very theatre dedicated to the bard.

More...

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The mysterious "Dark Lady" of Shakespeare's sonnets has long fascinated readers, with debate raging about her true identity. Now new research adds weight to the theory that the sexually voracious object of the poet's desire was an infamous London prostitute.

A Shakespeare scholar claims to have found evidence supporting a suggestion made in the 1930s that she was a madam called "Lucy Negro" or "Black Luce", who ran a notorious bawdy house in Clerkenwell.

Dr Duncan Salkeld, reader in Shakespeare studies at the University of Chichester, told The Independent that he has unearthed documentary records that lead him to conclude that she is "the foremost candidate for the dubious role of the Dark Lady".

Many of the sonnets 127 to 152 are addressed to an unidentified woman – the "Dark Lady" – with whom the Bard imagines an adulterous sexual relationship. She is a temptress, in sonnet 144 – "my female evil" and "my bad angel".

More...

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When Caroline Randall Williams’s book of poetry “Lucy Negro, Redux” was published in 2015, she hoped its words would transcend the pages on which they were printed. But she said she never imagined that the book would be turned into a ballet.

Paul Vasterling, the artistic director at Nashville Ballet, based in the Tennessee city that is also Ms. Williams’s hometown, read the book in 2016 and knew immediately that he wanted to adapt it for the stage. “The images the book pulled up for me are very dancelike,” Mr. Vasterling said. “Poetry is close to dance because it’s open to interpretation, and you bring yourself to it.”

“Lucy Negro, Redux” tells the story of a slice of Shakespeare’s love life from the perspective of the so-called Dark Lady for whom many of his sonnets were written. Some scholars and readers, including Ms. Williams, believe that the Dark Lady was Dark Luce or Lucy Negro — not just a woman with dark eyes and hair, but a black woman who owned a brothel in London.

More...

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When one hears mention of the Bard of Avon, one undoubtedly summons to mind images of a bearded man with a fluffy collar and balding head reciting the lines of his prose to a stunned crowd. Upon mention of his works, the mind conjures thoughts of his wonderful dramas and of his lyrical and beautiful sonnets. It is not often, then, that upon hearing the name “Shakespeare” one thinks of sexually provocative literature or the controversy which usually follows it. Upon deeper examination of his works, looking past the outward beauty of his prose, one can indeed often find sexual themes. The Dark Lady series of sonnets, however, require no deep examination to be seen as sexual. These final 28 Sonnets, detailing Shakespeare’s passionate and rather risqué affair with an unnamed woman, have been famously characterized as “bawdy” and “carnal” by many readers. The poems often feature extremely raunchy and suggestive themes, rather directly or indirectly, and give the reader a sense of the almost physical drive behind Shakespeare’s pen and his… nobler part. Despite their openly sexual nature, however, they are still timelessly beautiful in the eyes of many people. Shakespeare’s confidence as a poet was certainly not shaken even when writing such overtly sexual content.

More...

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Emilia Bassano is just one of the many candidates proposed to have been Shakespeare's Dark Lady, to whom a couple of dozen of his sonnets are written. Here are some of the others:

Mary Fitton (Thomas Taylor 1890, Bernard Shaw 1909)

1578-1647, a maid of honour to Queen Elizabeth the First, Mary Fitton certainly had an eventful sex life, giving birth to the illegitimate son of William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke and three other illegitimate children before marrying the father of the last, a son. In the late 19th and early twentieth century Mary was a top choice as Dark Lady, since Herbert was prime candidate for "Mr W. H." the dedicatee of the sonnets.

The theory was scuppered, according to Stanley Wells and Paul Edmondson in their book Shakespeare's Sonnets (2004): "her star waned when she was discovered to have been fair." I don't know, she doesn't look very fair in her portrait above, painted in about 1595.

George Bernard Shaw wrote a play called The Dark Lady of Shakespeare's Sonnets, with Mary Fitton as the woman in question. However, there is no evidence that Mary Fitton knew Shakespeare.

Jane Davenant 
Jane was the wife of an Oxford innkeeper, at whose inn, the Crown, Shakespeare sometimes stayed en route between London and Stratford. There was a rumour that Shakespeare stood as godfather to Jane's son, William. And more than a rumour - a claim made by the man himself - that William was in fact Shakespeare's son, born in 1606. The claim was also made by Arthur Acheson in his book Mistress Davenant:the Dark Lady of Shakespeare's Sonnets (1913). And it is true that the Earl of Southampton had also stayed at the same inn and would have met Jane.

More...

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Last month I described Shakespeare’s love, lust and ultimate dislike of the Dark Lady. So who was this sultry young woman? Several candidates have been suggested, including the idea that she did not exist at all, in other words that the entire sonnet sequence is no more than a literary exercise.

The likely lady is Emilia Lanier, an intelligent and dark-complexioned woman who was herself a minor poet. She was the orphan daughter of Baptist Bassano, one of the Queen’s Italian musicians, brought up in an aristocratic atmosphere by Susan Bertie, Countess of Kent. Emilia was five years younger than Shakespeare, and four years older than Shakespeare’s patron, the Earl of Southampton – just the right age to be the mistress of one and seductress of the other. For a while she was also the mistress of the Queen’s cousin, who was forty-three years her senior. When Emilia became pregnant, it was arranged that she be married to Alfonso Lanier, another Italian musician. Members of the Bassano musical family accompanied the performances of Shakespeare’s plays in the royal palaces. They were dark-skinned Venetians, and probably had some Jewish blood. Maybe it is not a coincidence that Shakespeare wrote a play about a Jewish family in Venice, and that one of the characters is named Bassanio.

Evidently the lady was a musician. There is a tender sonnet (Sonnet 128), written before the relationship soured, picturing her sitting and playing the harpsichord. The poet envies the keys, being tickled by her fingers:

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap/ To kiss the tender inward of thy hand;/ Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,/ At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand.

Later he realizes that he is just one of her many lovers, but he is still enslaved. In his infatuation, he asks her only to cherish his name (Sonnet 136):

Then in the number let me pass untold,/ Though in thy store’s account I one must be;/ For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold/ That nothing me, a something sweet to thee./ Make but my name thy love, and love that still,/ And then thou lovest me, for my name is Will.

More...

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The video of the spirited three-way debate on “Who is the Dark Lady of Shakespeare’s Sonnets?” at the Shakespeare Oxford Fellowship’s annual conference, is now online. Hank Whittemore argued in favor of Queen Elizabeth; John Hamill argued for Penelope Rich; and Katherine Chiljan argued for Anne Vavasour. The debate took place on October 13, 2018 in Oakland, California and was introduced by Earl Showerman and moderated by Jeff Falzone.


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Greek archaeologists have unearthed

 ATHENS (Reuters) - Greek archaeologists have unearthed by chance a more than 2,500-year-old bronze bull idol at the archaeological site of Olympia, the culture ministry said on Friday.

An observant archaeologist came across the mini-statue during work at the site, one of the most celebrated sanctuaries in ancient Greece, the ministry said in a statement.

With one of its horns sticking out of the ground after heavy rainfall, the statuette was found intact, close to the temple of ancient Greek god Zeus at Olympia, the birthplace of the ancient Olympic Games.

It was transferred to a laboratory for conservation.

Archaeologists believe that it was part of thousands of gifts offered to Zeus in the 1,050-700 B.C. period. Bulls and horses played an important role in the lives of ancient Greeks and so were frequently dedicated to the gods.

Eric Dolphy




Charles Mingus and Eric Dolphy, Salle Wagram


 

Salle Wagram





 

Harriet Frank Jr. with husband and writing partner Irving Ravetch on the set of Hud (1962).


 Ravetch worked mostly on Westerns such as Vengeance Valley (1951). With Frank, he approached producer Jerry Wald and proposed they adapt the William Faulkner novel The Hamlet (1940) for the screen.

The result was The Long, Hot Summer (1958), which primarily was an original story with one of Faulkner's characters at its center. When Wald greenlighted the film and asked Ravetch to choose a director, he suggested Martin Ritt, whom he knew from the Group Theatre and the Actors Studio in New York City.

 The Long, Hot Summer proved to be the first of eight projects – including The Sound and the Fury (1959), Hud (1963), Norma Rae (1979), Murphy's Romance (1985), and Stanley & Iris (1990) – written by Ravetch and Frank and directed by Ritt. Additional screenwriting credits include Home from the Hill (1960), The Dark at the Top of the Stairs (also 1960), The Reivers (1969), The Cowboys (1972), and The Spikes Gang (1974).

Ravetch and Frank were nominated for the Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay and won both the New York Film Critics Circle Award for Best Screenplay and the Writers Guild of America Award for Best Adapted Screenplay for Hud. He was a recipient of the Bronze Wrangler for The Cowboys, the Screen Laurel Award, and additional Oscar, WGA, and Golden Globe nominations.

Ravetch died from pneumonia on September 19, 2010.

Frank and Ravetch collaborated on two films released in 1960, Home from the Hill, an adaptation of the novel of the same name, and The Dark at the Top of the Stairs, an adaptation of a Tony award-winning play.

Frank and Ravetch reunited with Martin Ritt to write the screenplay for Hud (1963), adapted from the novel Horseman, Pass By (1961) by Larry McMurtry. The film received positive reviews by the critics, with the couple sharing a New York Film Critics Circle Award for "Best Screenplay" and a Writers Guild of America Award (WGA Award) for Best Written American Drama. They were nominated for an Academy Award in the category of Best Writing, Screenplay Based on Material from Another Medium.

 

Frank worked alongside her husband and Ritt on Hombre (1967), a Revisionist Western based on the novel of the same name.

The next year, Frank and Ravetch wrote the screenplay for House of Cards (1968, released in the U.S. the following year and directed by John Guillermin. For House of Cards, Frank was credited, together with her husband, under the pen name of James P. Bonner. Frank and Ravetch returned to the works of William Faulkner, writing the screenplay for a film adaptation of his last novel The Reivers (1969).

Frank and Ravetch wrote the screenplay for The Cowboys (1972), based on the novel of the same name, and The Carey Treatment (also 1972), based on the novel A Case of Need by Michael Crichton.

For the latter, the couple were credited under James P. Bonner, the last time they adopted the pen name. The couple reunited with Martin Ritt to write the screenplay for Conrack (1974), based on the autobiographical book The Water Is Wide, with Frank also working as producer. The film was commercially and critically well-received, winning a BAFTA award. The couple wrote for an adaptation of the novel The Bank Robber, released as The Spikes Gang (also 1974). Around this time, Frank also wrote the novels Single: a novel (1977), and Special Effects (1979).

Frank and Ravetch next project, Norma Rae (1979), was another collaboration with director Martin Ritt. The film tells the story of a factory worker from the Southern United States who becomes involved in labour union activities. Unusually, for the couple, the film was based on a true story, that of Crystal Lee Jordan. It was arguably their best received film, winning numerous awards, including two Academy Awards.

Another six years passed before the couple's next filmed screenplay, this time for the romantic comedy Murphy's Romance (1985), based on a novel by Max Schott. They worked again with director Martin Ritt, their seventh project together, and with Sally Field, who played the titular lead role in Norma Rae. Despite Murphy's Romance being well-received (it was nominated for two Academy Awards), it was five years before another Frank and Ravetch screenplay was shot; hired by Martin Ritt, the couple wrote the screenplay for Stanley & Iris (1990), loosely based on the novel Union Street by British writer Pat Barker.

Frank Jr. died at her home in Los Angeles on January 28, 2020 at age 96.

There's nothing like black and white film


A boy sits amid the ruins of a London bookshop following an air raid on October 8, 1940, reading a book titled “The History of London.”.


Edouard Boubat.

FDR in a rarely seen pose

Two women testing the temperature of Spadra Creek, Clarksville, 1953. Photographed by Yale Joel.

Untitled Daniel Teoli Jr.






Al my writer friends need to read this.......


 

It was one of those days.................


 

Seize the day

 


The first picture looks at you, the second one looks through you.” Soviet artist Eugen Stepanovich Kobytev before and after he went to war. These photographs were taken just 4 years apart

 


Was 1925 Literary Modernism’s Most Important Year?

 

Was 1925 Literary Modernism’s Most Important Year?

 

By Ben Libman

“An illiterate, underbred book it seems to me: the book of a self-taught working man, & we all know how distressing they are, how egotistic, insistent, raw, striking & ultimately nauseating.” So goes Virginia Woolf’s well-known complaint about “Ulysses,” scribbled into her diary before she had finished reading it. Her disparagement is catnip to those many critics who like to view “Mrs. Dalloway” — that other uber-famous, if more lapidary, modernist novel that spans the course of a single day — as Woolf’s rejoinder to Joyce. More than that, though, it tells us something important about our literary history. Nineteen twenty-two, the year of “Ulysses,” may well be ground zero for the explosion of modernism in literature. But the resultant shock wave is better captured by another year: 1925, that of “Mrs. Dalloway” and several other works, all now in the spotlight in 2021, as they emerge from under copyright.

If many an English-majored ear perks up at the sound of “1922,” it’s mostly because of the two somewhat ornery men who published their masterpieces that year: Joyce and T. S. Eliot. “Ulysses” and “The Waste Land” are taught everywhere and almost without exception as “signifying a definitive break in literary history,” to quote the critic Michael North from his book “Reading 1922.” Both the novel and the poem are notoriously challenging, obscurely allusive and highly uneasy about their modern time and the rubble of tradition astride which it stood. Both are also often distressing, egotistic, insistent, raw, striking and (depending on one’s mood) ultimately nauseating. And it is precisely these qualities that account for their hold on our literary imagination. They represent everything that literary modernism is meant to: rupture, difficulty and, of course, making it new.

Yet 1925 is arguably the more important date in modernism’s development, the year that it went mainstream, as embodied by four books whose influence continues to shape fiction today: Woolf’s “Mrs. Dalloway,” Ernest Hemingway’s debut story collection, “In Our Time,” John Dos Passos’ “Manhattan Transfer” and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby.” Compared with the masterpieces of 1922, these books — all slated for reissue in new editions this year — entered our culture in relatively unspectacular fashion. But it’s precisely their unassuming guise that allowed them, by osmosis rather than disruption, to diffuse their modernist conceits throughout the literary field, ensuring their widespread adoption.

In her 1919 essay, “Modern Fiction,” Woolf rebukes the popular novels of her time: “Is life like this? … Look within and life, it seems, is very far from being ‘like this.’ Examine for a moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day. The mind receives a myriad impressions — trivial, fantastic, evanescent or engraved with the sharpness of steel. From all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms. … Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semitransparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.”

It’s commonplace to call Woolf an impressionist in this peculiar sense, and yet it nails her novelistic craft. She is an inhabitant of minds. And the mind, in “Mrs. Dalloway” and later, in a more extreme sense, in “The Waves” (1931), is a kind of nebulous antenna tuning in and out of life’s frequencies, ever enveloped in its luminous halo. As the critic J. Hillis Miller once put it, the reader most often finds that she is “plunged within an individual mind which is being understood from inside by an ubiquitous, all-knowing mind.”

 

This is evident to us not from the novel’s immortal opening line — “Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself” — but from the one immediately following, which serves as a kind of mirror to the first, tipping us off that we must reread it as something other than objective assertion: “For Lucy had her work cut out for her.” Suddenly, with the lightly colloquial “cut out for her,” we are in the mind not of an omniscient narrator but of a character — Clarissa Dalloway, as the succeeding lines make clear. The reader ceases to think that she is being told what Mrs. Dalloway said about getting the flowers, and begins to think instead that Mrs. Dalloway is just remarking on that fact, as if to herself. And that changes everything.

This narrative technique, known as free-indirect speech, was part of Woolf’s quiet revolution. Though she did not invent it — arguably Austen, Flaubert and Edith Wharton got there first — Woolf perfected this mode, coloring it with the anxiety of modern subjectivity. Open any novel of the past 50 years, and you will find the narrator reporting thoughts that, for reasons of diction and tense, can only be those of a character. With varying degrees of indebtedness, each of these is an heir to Woolf and her narrators, who enter the world of their fictions as Clarissa Dalloway enters the world of her relations, “being laid out like a mist between the people she knew best.” That a narrator need not fiddle with chess pieces from on high but might linger like a cloud among foggy minds is a feature of modernism that has, as it were, contaminated literature ever since.

Opposed to the singularity of a work like “Ulysses” or “The Waste Land,” we have in “Mrs. Dalloway” the innovation of an enduring, deep structure — something like geometric perspective in painting, that contributes to the development of technique, rather than driving it up a dead end. So it is with “In Our Time,” “Manhattan Transfer” and “The Great Gatsby.” With “Big Two-Hearted River,” the last story in Hemingway’s collection, writers on either side of the Atlantic learned about the power of economy in writing. As if by revelation, it became clear that the solution to the problem of representing a collective trauma like World War I was not blabbering effusion, but its opposite.

“I always try to write on the principle of the iceberg,” Hemingway told The Paris Review in 1958. The “iceberg” technique became the calling card not only of postwar American writers like Raymond Carver and Cormac McCarthy, but also of the influential cadre of French existentialist novelists, including Céline, Malraux, Sartre and de Beauvoir. Most important, though, Hemingway became an exemplary stylist for the M.F.A. programs that sprang up across America after the war, and through which many of our canonized poets and novelists have since passed. As the scholar Mark McGurl puts it in his book “The Program Era,” “It would be hard to overestimate the influence of Hemingway on postwar writers, and … too easy to forget that the medium of his influence has been the school.”

The legacy of John Dos Passos is less distinct, though no less potent. You do not hear his name much now, but in his day Dos Passos was among the most celebrated novelists writing in English. To Sartre, he was “the greatest writer of our time”; there was none other “in which the art is greater or better hidden.” Perhaps this is because novels like “Manhattan Transfer” were among the first to try to recreate the seamless artifice that cinema appeared to lend to its fictions. Dos Passos’ novel takes as its protagonist not a character but New York City itself, and makes liberal use of literary jump-cuts and montage against a backdrop of action-filled narration that moves at a relentless clip. His is a multimedia literature, a modernist twist on the flabby forms of social realism that stitches a collage of press-clippings, newsreels and radio announcers’ voices into the narrative fabric.

With Fitzgerald, by contrast, we have the inverted alternative to Dos Passos’ realist modernism. In “The Great Gatsby” Fitzgerald — just as Eliot would do in fits and starts throughout his career — seeks the preservation of Symbolism in modern American literature. That a writer could opt not to deploy a literalist account of the consequences of American greed but instead vie to refine a handful of supercharged moments of signification, which might bloom as an epiphany in the reader’s imagination, was this novel’s reverberating testament. Gatsby is but a symbol of himself, a dream that outstrips the reality to which it refers. Until he is not. And the lasting gift of the novel — which has echoes in the late-modernist pastiches of Ralph Ellison’s “Invisible Man,” Thomas Pynchon’s paranoid conspiracies of signs and the biblical symbology of Marilynne Robinson’s “Housekeeping” — is to demonstrate the difference between the magic when it is on and the magic when it is gone.

It is fitting that “The Great Gatsby” sold few copies when it first appeared. Like the other great works of 1925, it did not announce itself with the bombast of “Ulysses.” Yet, like those other works, it has quietly endured, living on like a mist in our literary unconscious, spawning and shaping successive generations of writers and readers.

Ben Libman is a Ph.D. candidate in English at Stanford University.

 

 

 

 

— C.S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy

 

The evening that I now speak of was in October. I and one porter had the long, timbered platform of Leatherhead station to ourselves. It was getting just dark enough for the smoke of an engine to glow red on the underside with the reflection of the furnace. The hills beyond the Dorking Valley were of a blue so intense as to be nearly violet and the sky was green with frost. My ears tingled with the cold. The glorious week-end of reading was before me. Turning to the bookstall, I picked out an Everyman in a dirty jacket, Phantastes, a Faerie Romance, George MacDonald. Then the train came in. I can still remember the voice of the porter calling out the village names, Saxon and sweet as a nut—‘Bookham, Effingham, Horsley train.’ That evening I began to read my new book.

The woodland journeyings in that story, the ghostly enemies, the ladies both good and evil, were close enough to my habitual imagery to lure me on without the perceptions of a change. It is as if I were carried sleeping across the frontier, or as if I had died in the old country and could never remember how I came alive in the new. For in one sense the new country was exactly like the old. I met there all that had already charmed me in Malory, Spenser, Morris, and Yeats. But in another sense all was changed. I did not yet know (and I was long in learning) the name of the new quality, the bright shadow, that rested on the travels of Anodos. I do now. It was Holiness. For the first time the song of the sirens sounded like the voice of my mother of my nurse. Here we’re old wives’ tales; there was nothing to be proud of in enjoying them. It was as though the voice which had called to me from the world’s end were now speaking at my side. It was with me in the room, or in my own body, or behind me. If it had once eluded me by its distance, it now eluded me by proximity—something too near to see, too plain to be understood, on this side of knowledge. It seemed to have been always with me; if I could ever have turned my head quick enough I should have seized it. Now for the first time I felt that it was out of reach not because of something I could not do but because of something I could not stop doing. If I could only leave off, let go, unmake myself, it would be there. Meanwhile, in this new region all the confusions that had hitherto perplexed my search for Joy were disarmed. There was no temptation to confuse the scenes of the tale with the light that rested upon them, or to suppose that they were put forward as realities, or even to dream that if they had been realities and I could reach the woods where Anodos journeyed I should thereby come a step nearer to my desire. Yet, at the same time, never had the wind of Joy blowing through any story been less separable from the story itself. Where the gif and the idolon were most nearly one there was least danger of confusing them. Thus, when the great moments came I did not break away from the woods and cottages that I read of to seek some bodiless light shining beyond them, but gradually, with a swelling continuity (like the sun at mid-morning burning through a fog) I found the light shining on those woods and cottages, and then on my own past life, and on the quiet room where I sat and in my old teacher where he nodded above his little Tacitus. For I now perceived that while the air of the new region made all my erotic and magical perversions of Joy look like sordid trumpery, it had no such disenchanting power over the bread upon the table or the coals in the grate. That was the marvel. Up till now each visitation of Joy had left the common world momentarily a desert—‘The first touch of the earth went night to kill.’ Even when real clouds or trees had been the material of the vision, they had been so only by reminding me of another world; and I did not like the return to ours. But now I saw the bright shadow coming out of the book into the real world and resting there, transforming all common things and yet itself unchanged. Or, more accurately, I saw the common things drawn into the bright shadow. Unde hoc mihi? In the depth of my disgraces, in the then invincible ignorance of my intellect, all this was given me without asking, even without consent. That night my imagination was, in a certain sense, baptized; the rest of me, not unnaturally, took longer. I had not the faintest notion what I had let myself in for by buying Phantastes.

 


 

"When it comes to being gentle, start with yourself. Don’t get upset with your imperfections. Being disappointed by failure is understandable, but it shouldn’t turn into bitterness or spite directed at yourself."— St. Frances de Sales


 

Don’t fight darkness. Bring the light, and darkness will disappear. Maharishi Mahesh Yogi