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Archive O-P

· A Little Poem by George Orwell · Poem from Burma by George Orwell · Summer-Like by George Orwell · A Dressed Man by George Orwell · Our Minds Are Married, But We Are Too Young by George Orwell · Luigi Pirandello: Geluksvogels. Verzamelde verhalen · Charlotte Perkins Gilman: The Anti-Sufragists · The Precipice: Neoliberalism, the Pandemic and the Urgent Need for Radical Change by Noam Chomsky and C. J. Polychroniou · The Foundling by Josephine Preston Peabody · PARK (platform for visual arts) publiceert overzicht tentoonstellingsprojecten 2018 – 2020 · Richard Ovenden: Burning the books. A history of knowledge under attack · Canticle Of The Babe by Josephine Preston Peabody

»» there is more...

A Little Poem by George Orwell

 

A Little Poem

A happy vicar I might have been
Two hundred years ago
To preach upon eternal doom
And watch my walnuts grow;

But born, alas, in an evil time,
I missed that pleasant haven,
For the hair has grown on my upper lip
And the clergy are all clean-shaven.

And later still the times were good,
We were so easy to please,
We rocked our troubled thoughts to sleep
On the bosoms of the trees.

All ignorant we dared to own
The joys we now dissemble;
The greenfinch on the apple bough
Could make my enemies tremble.

But girl’s bellies and apricots,
Roach in a shaded stream,
Horses, ducks in flight at dawn,
All these are a dream.

It is forbidden to dream again;
We maim our joys or hide them:
Horses are made of chromium steel
And little fat men shall ride them.

I am the worm who never turned,
The eunuch without a harem;
Between the priest and the commissar
I walk like Eugene Aram;

And the commissar is telling my fortune
While the radio plays,
But the priest has promised an Austin Seven,
For Duggie always pays.

I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And woke to find it true;
I wasn’t born for an age like this;
Was Smith? Was Jones? Were you?

George Orwell
(1903 – 1950)
A Little Poem

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, AUDIO, CINEMA, RADIO & TV, Orwell, George


Poem from Burma by George Orwell

 

Poem from Burma

Brush your teeth up and down, brother,
Oh, brush them up and down!
All the folks in London Town
Brush their teeth right up and down,
Oh! How they shine!
Aren’t they bloody fine?
Night and morning, my brother,
Oh brush them up and down!”

George Orwell
(1903 – 1950)
Poem from Burma

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, George Orwell, Orwell, George


Summer-Like by George Orwell

Summer-Like

Summer-like for an instant the autumn sun bursts out,
And the light through the turning elms is green and clear;
It slants down the path and ragged marigolds glow
Fiery again, last flames of the dying year.

A blue-tit darts with a flash of wings, to feed
Where the coconut hangs on the pear tree over the well;
He digs at the meat like a tiny pickaxe tapping
With his needle-sharp beak as he clings to the swinging shell.

Then he runs up the trunk, sure-footed and sleek like a mouse,
And perches to sun himself; all his body and brain
Exult in the sudden sunlight, gladly believing
That the cold is over and summer is here again.

But I see the umber clouds that drive for the sun,
And a sorrow no argument ever can make away
Goes through my heart as I think of the nearing winter,
And the transient light that gleams like the ghost of May;

And the bird unaware, blessing the summer eternal,
Joyfully labouring, proud in his strength, gay-plumed,
Unaware of the hawk and the snow and the frost-bound nights,
And of his death foredoomed.

George Orwell
(1903 – 1950)
Summer-Like

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, George Orwell, Orwell, George


A Dressed Man by George Orwell

 

A Dressed Man

A dressed man and a naked man
Stood by the kip-house fire,
Watching the sooty cooking-pots
That bubble on the wire;

And bidding tanners up and down,
Bargaining for a deal,
Naked skin for empty skin,
Clothes against a meal.

‘Ten bob it is,’ the dressed man said,
‘These boots cost near a pound,
This coat’s a blanket of itself.
When you kip on the frosty ground.’

‘One dollar,’ said the nakd man,
‘And that’s a hog too dear;
I’ve seen a man strip off his shirt
For a fag and a pot of beer.’

‘Eight and a tanner,’ the dressed man said,

George Orwell
(1903 – 1950)
A Dressed Man

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, George Orwell, Orwell, George


Our Minds Are Married, But We Are Too Young by George Orwell

 

Our Minds Are Married,
But We are Too Young

Our minds are married, but we are too young
For wedlock by the customs of this age
When parent homes pen each in separate cage
And only supper-earning songs are sung.
Times past, when medieval woods were green,
Babes were betrothed, and that betrothal brief.
Remember Romeo in love and grief—
Those star-crossed lovers—Juliet was fourteen.

Times past, the caveman by his new-found fire
Rested beside his mate in woodsmoke’s scent.
By our own fireside we shall rest content
Fifty years hence keep troth with hearts desire.

We shall remember, when our hair is white,
These clouded days revealed in radiant light.

George Orwell
(1903 – 1950)
Our Minds Are Married, But We are Too Young

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive O-P, Archive O-P, George Orwell, Orwell, George, Romeo & Juliet


Luigi Pirandello: Geluksvogels. Verzamelde verhalen

Geluksvogels bevat een keuze uit Luigi Pirandello’s Novellen voor een jaar, in een blinkend nieuwe vertaling van Yond Boeke en Patty Krone.

Pirandello schreef deze opmerkelijk hoogwaardige verzameling verhalen tussen 1894 en 1936. Zijn dood belette hem het project – één novelle voor elke dag van het jaar – te voltooien.

De diversiteit van zijn verhalen, die getuigen van groot psychologisch inzicht, een buitengewoon scherp gevoel voor humor en immens mededogen, is exemplarisch voor Pirandello’s enorme veelzijdigheid als schrijver.

Hij voert een breed scala aan markante personages ten tonele: van arme Siciliaanse boeren die tevergeefs strijden tegen de clerus tot wufte stedelingen die verstrikt raken in hun eigen overspel, van een wanhopige patiënt die in een New Yorks ziekenhuis uit het raam springt tot een geëxalteerde actrice die het moet opnemen tegen een vleermuis.

Pirandello laveert virtuoos tussen vlotte dialogen, van weemoed doortrokken landschapsbeschrijvingen en filosofische bespiegelingen over het aardse bestaan. Sommige verhalen blijken ook nu nog verrassend actueel.

Luigi Pirandello (1867-1936), geboren in een gegoede familie op Sicilië, kreeg in 1934 de Nobelprijs voor de Literatuur. De verfilming van zijn verhalen door Paolo en Vittorio Taviani, Kaos, werd wereldberoemd.

# new translations
Geluksvogels Verzamelde verhalen
Auteur: Luigi Pirandello

Taal: Nederlands
Vertaald door Yond Boeke & Patty Krone
Hardcover
Druk: 1 februari 2022
832 pagina’s
ISBN 9789028213142
€ 45,00

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Pirandello, Luigi, Pirandello, Luigi


Charlotte Perkins Gilman: The Anti-Sufragists

 

The Anti-Sufragists

Fashionable women in luxurious homes,
With men to feed them, clothe them, pay their bills,
Bow, doff the hat, and fetch the handkerchief;
Hostess or guest; and always so supplied
With graceful deference and courtesy;
Surrounded by their horses, servants, dogs–
These tell us they have all the rights they want.

Successful women who have won their way
Alone, with strength of their unaided arm,
Or helped by friends, or softly climbing up
By the sweet aid of “woman’s influence”;
Successful any way, and caring naught
For any other woman’s unsuccess–
These tell us they have all the rights they want.

Religious women of the feebler sort–
Not the religion of a righteous world,
A free, enlightened, upward-reaching world,
But the religion that considers life
As something to back out of !– whose ideal
Is to renounce, submit, and sacrifice.
Counting on being patted on the head
And given a high chair when they get to heaven–
These tell us they have all the rights they want.

Ignorant women–college bred sometimes,
But ignorant of life’s realities
And principles of righteous government,
And how the privileges they enjoy
Were won with blood and tears by those before–
Those they condemn, whose ways they now oppose;
Saying, “Why not let well enough alone?”
Our world is very pleasant as it is”–
These tell us they have all the rights they want.

And selfish women–pigs in petticoats–
Rich, poor, wise, unwise, top or bottom round,
But all sublimely innocent of thought,
And guiltless of ambition, save the one
Deep, voiceless aspiration–to be fed!
These have no use for rights or duties more.
Duties today are more than they can meet,
And law insures their right to clothes and food–
These tell us they have all the rights they want.

And, more’s the pity, some good women too;
Good, conscientious women with ideas;
Who think–or think they think–that woman’s cause
Is best advanced by letting it alone;
That she somehow is not a human thing,
And not to be helped on by human means,
Just added to humanity–an “L”–
A wing, a branch, an extra, not mankind–
These tell us they have all the rights they want.

And out of these has come a monstrous thing,
A strange, down-sucking whirlpool of disgrace,
Women uniting against womanhood,
And using that great name to hide their sin!
Vain are their words as that old king’s command
Who set his will against the rising tide.
But who shall measure the historic shame
Of these poor traitors–traitors are they all–
To great Democracy and Womanhood!

Charlotte Perkins Gilman
(1860-1935)
The Anti-Sufragists
Suffrage Songs and Verses

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive O-P, Archive O-P, Feminism, The Ideal Woman


The Precipice: Neoliberalism, the Pandemic and the Urgent Need for Radical Change by Noam Chomsky and C. J. Polychroniou

In this powerful collection of interviews, Noam Chomsky exposes the problems of our world today, as we stand in this period of monumental change, preparing for a more hopeful tomorrow.

‘For the left, elections are a brief interlude in a life of real politics, a moment to ask whether it’s worth taking time off to vote . . . Then back to work. The work will be to move forward to construct the better world that is within reach.’

He sheds light into the phenomenon of right-wing populism, and exposes the catastrophic nature and impact of authoritarian policies on people, the environment and the planet as a whole. He captures the dynamics of the brutal class warfare launched by the masters of capital to maintain and even enhance the features of a dog-eat-dog society. And he celebrates the recent unprecedented mobilizations of millions of people internationally against neoliberal capitalism, racism and police violence.

We stand at a precipice and we must fight to pull the world back from it.

Noam Chomsky is Institute Professor in the Department of Linguistics and Philosophy at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Boston. A member of the American Academy of Science, he has published widely in both linguistics and current affairs. His books include At War with Asia, Towards a New Cold War, Fateful Triangle: The U. S., Israel and the Palestinians, Necessary Illusions, Hegemony or Survival, Deterring Democracy, Failed States: The Abuse of Power and the Assault on Democracy and Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of the Mass Media.

C. J. Polychroniou is a regular contributor to Truthout as well as a member of Truthout’s Public Intellectual Project. He has published several books and his articles have appeared in a variety of journals, magazines, newspapers, and popular news websites.

# new books
The Precipice: Neoliberalism, the Pandemic
and the Urgent Need for Radical Change
by Noam Chomsky
and C. J. Polychroniou
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Penguin Books Ltd
June 24, 2021
Language ‏ : ‎ English
ISBN-10: ‎ 0241993938
ISBN-13: ‎ 978-0241993934
Paperback
368 pages
€ 7,99

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, - Bookstores, Archive C-D, Archive O-P, Noam Chomsky, Racism, REPRESSION OF WRITERS, JOURNALISTS & ARTISTS


The Foundling by Josephine Preston Peabody

 

The Foundling

Beautiful Mother, I have toiled all day;
And I am wearied. And the day is done.
Now, while the wild brooks run
Soft by the furrows–fading, gold to gray,
Their laughters turned to musing–ah, let me
Hide here my face at thine unheeding knee,
Beautiful Mother; if I be thy son.

The birds fly low. Gulls, starlings, hoverers,
Along the meadows and the paling foam,
All wings of thine that roam
Fly down, fly down. One reedy murmur blurs
The silence of the earth; and from the warm
Face of the field the upward savors swarm
Into the darkness. And the herds are home.

All they are stalled and folded for their rest,
The creatures: cloud-fleece young that leap and veer;
Mad-mane and gentle ear;
And breath of loving-kindness. And that best,–
O shaggy house-mate, watching me from far,
With human-aching heart, as I a star–
Tempest of plum’d joys, just to be near!

So close, so like, so dear; and whom I love
More than thou lovest them, or lovest me.
So beautiful to see,
Ah, and to touch! When those far lights above
Scorch me with farness–lights that call and call
To the far heart, and answer not at all;
Save that they will not let the darkness be.

And what am I? That I alone of these
Make me most glad at noon? That I should mark
The after-glow go dark?
This hour to sing–but never have–heart’s-ease!
That when the sorrowing winds fly low, and croon
Outside our happy windows their old rune,
Beautiful Mother, I must wake, and hark?

Who am I? Why for me this iron Must?
Burden the moon-white ox would never bear;
Load that he cannot share,
He, thine imperial hostage of the dust.
Else should I look to see the god’s surprise
Flow from his great unscornful, lovely eyes–
The ox thou gavest to partake my care.

Yea, all they bear their yoke of sun-filled hours.
I, lord at noon, at nightfall no more free,
Take on more heavily
The yoke of hid, intolerable Powers.
–Then pushes here, in my forgetful hand,
This near one’s breathless plea to understand.
Starward I look; he, even so, at me!

And she who shines within my house, my sight
Of the heart’s eyes, my hearth-glow, and my rain,
My singing’s one refrain–
Are there for her no tidings from the height?
For her, my solace, likewise lost and far,
Islanded with me here, on this lone star
Washed by the ceaseless tides of dark and light.

What shall it profit, that I built for her
A little wayside shelter from the stark
Sky that we hear, and mark?
Lo, in her eyes all dreams that ever were!
And cheek-to-cheek with me she shares the quest,
Her heart, as mine for her, sole tented rest
From light to light of day; from dark–till Dark.

Yea, but for her, how should I greatly care
Whither and whence? But that the dark should blast
Our bright! To hold her fast,–
Yet feel this dread creep gray along the air.
To know I cannot hold her so my own,
But under surge of joy, the surges moan
That threaten us with parting at the last!

Beautiful Mother, I am not thy son.
I know from echoes far behind the sky.
I know; I know not why.
Even from thy golden, wide oblivion:
Thy careless leave to help thy harvesting,
Thy leave to work a little, live, and sing;
Thy leave to suffer–yea, to sing and die,
Beautiful Mother! …
Ah, Whose child am I?

Love sang to me. And I went down the stair,
And out into the darkness and the dew;
And bowed myself unto the little grass,
And the blind herbs, and the unshapen dust
Of earth without a face. So let me be.

For as I hear, the singing makes of me
My own desire, and momently I grow.
Yea, all the while with hands of melody,
The singing makes me, out of what I was,
Even as a potter shaping Eden clay.

Ever Love sings, and saith in words that sing,
‘Beloved, thus art thou; and even so
Lovely art thou, Beloved!’–Even so,
As the Sea weaves her path before the light,
I hear, I hear, and I am glorified.

Love sang to me, and I am glorified
Because of some commandment in the stars.
And I shall grow in favour and in shining,
Till at the last I am all-beautiful;
Beautiful, for the day Love sings no more.

Josephine Preston Peabody
(1874 – 1922)
The Foundling

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive O-P, Archive O-P


PARK (platform for visual arts) publiceert overzicht tentoonstellingsprojecten 2018 – 2020

PARK is een kunstinitiatief opgericht in 2013 door Rob Moonen in samenwerking met een zestal andere Tilburgse kunstenaars. Op dit moment bestaat de PARK werkgroep uit Linda Arts, René Korten, Rob Moonen en Liza Voetman.

PARK ziet de noodzaak van een middenpodium dat zich positioneert tussen Kunstpodium T en Museum De Pont en zet zich daarvoor in door een tentoonstellingsprogramma in de voormalige Goretti-kapel aan het Wilhelminapark te Tilburg te realiseren.

PARK richt zich op actuele ontwikkelingen binnen de hedendaagse kunst én op kunstenaars met gedegen ervaring en bewezen kwaliteit. Er wordt plek geboden aan regionale collega’s maar ook aan landelijk of internationaal opererende kunstenaars, juist om een positieve bijdrage aan de discussie over actuele kunst tot stand te brengen.

De werkgroep ambieert het podium van belang te laten zijn op landelijk niveau, maar bij elk project wordt met nadruk gezocht naar een inhoudelijke koppeling met de stad. De werkgroep is er van overtuigd dat samenwerking met andere partijen de zichtbaarheid en functionaliteit van de plek zal versterken, maar ook dat de plek een waardevolle stimulans voor de beeldende kunst in de stad en de regio zal kunnen zijn.

PARK wil een bijdrage leveren aan de ontwikkeling van een gunstig productie- en vestigingsklimaat voor beeldend kunstenaars uit de regio door deze in contact te brengen met een nationaal en internationaal netwerk.

Per jaar worden er vier a vijf projecten en een zomerresidentie gerealiseerd met waar mogelijk een bijpassend raamprogramma in de vorm van lezingen, kunstenaarsgesprekken, muziek en film.

Nieuw boek over activiteiten PARK

PARK maakte een boek waarin alle tentoonstellingsprojecten, alle ongeveer 200 deelnemende kunstenaars en alle extra activiteiten in de periode 2018-2020 aan bod komen.
Het rijk-geïllustreerde full-colour boek, met teksten van Anneke van Wolfswinkel en Rob Moonen in Nederlands en Engels, is vormgegeven door Berry van Gerwen. Het telt ruim 200 pagina’s en verschijnt in een oplage van 600 stuks.
Het is de opvolger van de eerder verschenen boeken ‘PARK 2013-2015’ en ‘PARK 2016-2018’.

Het boek kost € 17,50 exclusief eventuele verzendkosten. Verzendkosten binnen Nederland bedragen € 5,- per exemplaar, binnen Europa € 10,- per exemplaar.

Alle tentoonstellingsprojecten, alle ongeveer 200 deelnemende kunstenaars en alle extra activiteiten in de periode 2018-2020 komen aan bod.

Het rijk-geïllustreerde full-colour boek, met teksten van Anneke van Wolfswinkel en Rob Moonen in Nederlands en Engels, is vormgegeven door Berry van Gerwen. Het boek telt ruim 200 pagina’s en verschijnt in een oplage van 600 stuks.

De normale verkoopprijs van één exemplaar is € 17,50 inclusief 9% BTW, exclusief verzendkosten.
Korting bij aanschaf van meerdere exemplaren:
Twee exemplaren voor € 30,-
Drie exemplaren voor € 40,-

Bestellen: zie adres website. Verzendkosten binnen Nederland bedragen € 5 per exemplaar. Voor verzendkosten naar het buitenland kunt u contact opnemen via de website. U kunt het boek ook ophalen tijdens de reguliere openingstijden.

Deelnemende kunstenaars / participating artists:
Piet Dieleman, Jan van der Ploeg, Beat Zoderer, Koen Delaere, Ide André, Toine Horvers, Niko de Wit, Marina Visic, Tineke Schuurmans, Paul van Rijswijk, Chantal Rens, Tyrell Kuipers, Stijn Kriele, Pim Kersten, Jasper van Aarle, Ien Lucas, Jochem Rotteveel, Jonathan van Doornum, Stefan Cammeraat, Bart Hess, Jenny Holzer, Mark Manders, Johan Tahon, Guus Voermans, Stan Wannet, Jenny Ymker, Bram van Helden, Nick Steur, Ienke Trinks, Wild Vlees, Thomas Swinkels, Ronald de Bloeme, Olaf Holzappel, Jonas Wijtenburg, Tom Claassen, Roland Sohier, Hans Klein Hofmeijer, Ronny Delrue, Florette Dijkstra, ArpaÏs De Bois, Heringa / Van Kalsbeek, Wiesje Peels / Steffen Maas, Lennart Lahuis, Lieven Segers, Koen Vermeulen, Renée van Trier, Bram Braam, Anneke Eussen, Astrid Abels, Hans van Asch, Linda Arts, Atelier La Machine, Niels Ballemans, Simon Benson, Fieke van Berkom, Tarek Beshta, Gam Bodenhausen, Claudia den Boer, Peter Bouwmans, Danielle van Broekhoven, Helmie Brugman, Aurelia van der Burght, Liesbeth Bijkerk, Ruud de Caluwe, Mark Cohen, Michiel Corten, Lennart Creutzburg, Steve Cromsigt, Michaela Davidova, Femke Dekkers, Cor van Dixhoorn, Vince Donders, Miek van Dongen, Paul van Dongen, David Engel, Jacomijn den Engelsen, Jesse Fischer, Kirsty Fletcher, Frans Franssen, Alexandra Fraser, Fred Geven, Eefje Goos, Nan Groot Antink, Vincent Hagnauer, Coen van Ham, Janine Hendriks, Caren van Herwaarden, Jola Hesselberth, Marianne van Hest, Jolijn van den Heuvel, Mark van den Heuvel, Menno Heijstek, Florence Husen, Wanda Janota, Bas Ketelaars, Gaston Klein, Hanneke Klinkum, Kees van der Knaap, Marja Koenraad, Guus Koenraads, Jordy Koevoets, Lucia Koevoets, René Korten, José Krijnen, Liedeke Kruk, Judith Kuijpers, Tyrell Kuipers, Marjolein Landman, Anna Lange, Ivo van Leeuwen & Sander Neijnens, Danielle Lemaire, Sarah Linde, Gijs van Lith, Margriet Luyten, Mainkunstenaars, Fons Manders, Saskia de Marée, Vincent McGourty, Janus Metsaars, Vera Meulendijks, Jolanda Moolenaar, Rob Moonen, Wiebo van Mulligen, Remy Neumann, Bertil Neijts, Toos Nijssen, Dineke van Oosten, Frits Peeters, Brigitte Picavet, Carola Popma, Har van der Put, Just Quist, Claudette van de Rakt, Anke Reevers, Chantal Rens, Stijn Rompa, Frans van Santvoort, Lilia Scheerder, Ro-Nalt Schrauwen, Ron Schöningh, Eef Schoolmeesters, Karin Schreppers, Lydia Scheurleer, Ies Schute, Lucas Silawanebessy, Ingrid Simons, Yda Sinay, Ian Skirvin, Roel Sloot, Rob Smulders, Joran van Soest, Ine van Son, Bo Stokkermans, Jos van der Sommen, Lise Sore, Francine Steegs, Nick J. Swarth, Asha Swillens, Anna Marie van Thiel de Vries, Hugo Tieleman, Sabina Timmermans, Renée van Trier, Lieke Tripaldelli, Mieke Van den Hende, Guus van der Velden, Leopold van de Ven, Nina van de Ven, Dieke Venema, Erik Vermeulen, Cecile Verwaaijen, Judith de Vet, Josine Vissers, Roos Vogels, Ruth de Vos, Roger Walschots, Marie-Louise Wasiela, Hanneke Wetzer, Tine van de Weyer, Bas Wiegmink, Yvonne Willemse, Hans de Wit, Emmy Zwagers.

• PARK 2018-2020
• nieuwe uitgave PARK Tilburg 2021

P A R K
Wilhelminapark 53, 5041 ED Tilburg
park(at)park013.nl
https://park013.nl/nl/contact
Twitter.com/ParkTilburg
Facebook.com/Park013
https://www.instagram.com/park_tilburg/

Tijdens tentoonstellingen geopend:
vrijdag 13.00 – 17.00 uur
zaterdag 13.00 – 17.00 uur
zondag 13.00 – 17.00 uur
Toegang is gratis

PARK ligt op 10 minuten loopafstand van het Centraal Station Tilburg in de nabijheid van Museum De Pont. Er is beperkt parkeergelegenheid voor de deur.

PARK
Rob Moonen, Linda Arts, René Korten, Liza Voetman
Graphic design: Berry van Gerwen, Breda
Supported by: Gemeente Tilburg, KunstLoc, provincie Noord Brabant, Mondriaan Fonds

• fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, Architecture, Archive O-P, Art & Literature News, Art Criticism, AUDIO, CINEMA, RADIO & TV, Exhibition Archive, Linda Arts, Park


Richard Ovenden: Burning the books. A history of knowledge under attack

The director of the famed Bodleian Libraries at Oxford narrates the global history of the willful destruction―and surprising survival―of recorded knowledge over the past three millennia.

Libraries and archives have been attacked since ancient times but have been especially threatened in the modern era. Today the knowledge they safeguard faces purposeful destruction and willful neglect; deprived of funding, libraries are fighting for their very existence. Burning the Books recounts the history that brought us to this point.

Richard Ovenden describes the deliberate destruction of knowledge held in libraries and archives from ancient Alexandria to contemporary Sarajevo, from smashed Assyrian tablets in Iraq to the destroyed immigration documents of the UK Windrush generation. He examines both the motivations for these acts―political, religious, and cultural―and the broader themes that shape this history. He also looks at attempts to prevent and mitigate attacks on knowledge, exploring the efforts of librarians and archivists to preserve information, often risking their own lives in the process.

More than simply repositories for knowledge, libraries and archives inspire and inform citizens. In preserving notions of statehood recorded in such historical documents as the Declaration of Independence, libraries support the state itself. By preserving records of citizenship and records of the rights of citizens as enshrined in legal documents such as the Magna Carta and the decisions of the US Supreme Court, they support the rule of law. In Burning the Books, Ovenden takes a polemical stance on the social and political importance of the conservation and protection of knowledge, challenging governments in particular, but also society as a whole, to improve public policy and funding for these essential institutions.

Richard Ovenden
Burning the books. A history of knowledge under attack
Publisher: ‎ Belknap Press
An Imprint of Harvard University Press
November 17, 2020
Language: ‎English
Hardcover
320 pages
ISBN-10: ‎ 0674241207
ISBN-13: ‎ 978-0674241206
$29.95

Burning the Books is available internationally through the following publishers:
US: Harvard UP
German: Surhkamp
Italian: Solferino
Spanish: Editorial Critica
Arabic: Arab Scientific Publishers

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Canticle Of The Babe by Josephine Preston Peabody

 

Canticle Of The Babe

I

Over the broken world, the dark gone by,
Horror of outcast darkness torn with wars;
And timeless agony
Of the white fire, heaped high by blinded Stars,
Unfaltering, unaghast;–
Out of the midmost Fire
At last,–at last,–
Cry! …
O darkness’ one desire,–
O darkness, have you heard?–
Black Chaos, blindly striving towards the Word?
–The Cry!

Behold thy conqueror, Death!
Behold, behold from whom
It flutters forth, that triumph of First-Breath,
Victorious one that can but breathe and cling,–
This pulsing flower,–this weaker than a wing,
Halcyon thing!–
Cradled above unfathomable doom.

II

Under my feet, O Death,
Under my trembling feet!
Back, through the gates of hell, now give me way.
I come.–I bring new Breath!
Over the trampled shards of mine own clay,
That smoulder still, and burn,
Lo, I return!
Hail, singing Light that floats
Pulsing with chorused motes:–
Hail to thee, Sun, that lookest on all lands!
And take thou from my weak undying hands,
A precious thing, unblemished, undefiled:–
Here, on my heart uplift,
Behold the Gift,–
Thy glory and my glory, and my child!

III

(And our eyes were opened; eyes that had been holden.
And I saw the world, and the fruits thereof.
And I saw their glories, scarlet-stained and golden,
All a crumbled dust beneath the feet of Love.
And I saw their dreams, all of nothing worth;
But a path for Love, for Him to walk above,
And I saw new heaven, and new earth.)

IV

The grass is full of murmurs;
The sky is full of wings;
The earth is full of breath.
With voices, choir on choir
With tongues of fire,
They sing how Life out-sings–
Out-numbers Death.

V

Who are these that fly;
As doves, and as doves to the windows?
Doves, like hovering dreams round Love that slumbereth;
Silvering clouds blown by,
Doves and doves to the windows,–
Warm through the radiant sky their wings beat breath.
They are the world’s new-born:
Doves, doves to the windows!
Lighting, as flakes of snow;
Lighting, as flakes of flame;
Some to the fair sown furrows;
Some to the huts and burrows
Choked of the mire and thorn,–
Deep in the city’s shame.
Wind-scattered wreaths they go,
Doves, and doves, to the windows;
Some for worshipping arms, to shelter and fold, and shrine;
Some to be torn and trodden,
Withered and waste, and sodden;
Pitiful, sacred leaves from Life’s dishonored vine.

VI

O Vine of Life, that in these reaching fingers,
Urges a sunward way!
Hold here and climb, and halt not, that there lingers
So far outstripped, my halting, wistful clay.
Make here thy foothold of my rapturous heart,–
Yea, though the tendrils start
To hold and twine!
I am the heart that nursed
Thy sunward thirst.–
A little while, a little while, O Vine,
My own and never mine,
Feed thy sweet roots with me
Abundantly.
O wonder-wildness of the pushing Bud
With hunger at the flood,
Climb on, and seek, and spurn.
Let my dull spirit learn
To follow with its longing, as it may,
While thou seek higher day.–
But thou, the reach of my own heart’s desire,
Be free as fire!
Still climb and cling; and so
Outstrip,–outgrow.

O Vine of Life, my own and not my own,
So far am I outgrown!
High as I may, I lift thee, Soul’s Desire.
–Lift thou me higher.

And thou, Wayfaring Woman, whom I meet
On all the highways,–every brimming street,
Lady Demeter, is it thou, grown gaunt
With work and want?
At last, and with what shamed and stricken eyes,
I see through thy disguise
Of drudge and Exile,–even the holy boon
That silvers yonder in the Harvest-moon;–
That dimly under glows
The furrows of thy worn immortal face,
With mother-grace.

O Queen and Burden-bearer, what of those
To whom thou gavest the lily and the rose
Of thy far youth?… For whom,
Out of the wondrous loom
Of thine enduring body, thou didst make
Garments of beauty, cunningly adorned,
But only for Death’s sake!
Largess of life, but to lie waste and scorned.–
Could not such cost of pain,
Nor daily utmost of thy toil prevail?–
But they must fade, and pale,
And wither from thy desolated throne?–
And still no Summer give thee back again
Thine own?

Lady of Sorrows,–Mother,–Drudge august.
Behold me in the dust.

Josephine Preston Peabody
(1874 – 1922)
Canticle Of The Babe

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