Irish Hills

The one fear no child will have to deal with (for as long as they live in this house, anyway) is the fear that they will run out of books to read.

I’m currently reading:

• Paradise Restored by David Chilton
• Shadowplay by Tad Williams
• At Large and At Small by Anne Fadiman
• The Fruit of Her Hands by Nancy Wilson
• The Saga of the Volsungs

and

• That Hideous Strength by C.S. Lewis

Rather light material, over all… and no, I am not reading them in that order. I have to admit, I have the bad habit of starting several books; they all look so good, I can’t resist them; it’s like trying to choose one truffle from all the other delicious looking truffles in a chocolate shop. But, even though I tend to start several books at once, I usually focus on reading only one book at a time when it comes down to reading them. It doesn’t really make sense.

What are you reading currently? One book, or many books?

Coram Deo!

Augustine was not an unduly superstitious young man, but the coincidence of this tonic arriving so soon after Jane had told him that a tonic was what he needed affected him deeply. It seemed to him that this thing must have been meant. He shook the bottle, uncorked it, and, pouring out a liberal tablespoonful, shut his eyes and swallowed it.
The medicine, he was glad to find, was not unpleasant to the taste. It had a slightly pungent flavour, rather like old boot-soles beaten up in sherry. Having taken the dose, he read for a while in a book of theological essays, and then went to bed.
And as his feet slipped between the sheets, he was annoyed to find that Mrs. Wardle, his housekeeper, had once more forgotten his hot-water bottle.
“Oh dash!” said Augustine.
He was thoroughly upset. He had told the woman over and over again that he suffered from cold feet and could not get to sleep unless the dogs were properly warmed up. He sprang out of bed and went to the head of the stairs.
“Mrs. Wardle!” bellowed Augustine in a voice that rattled the window-panes like a strong ‘nor-easter. Until tonight he had always been very much afraid of his housekeeper and had both walked and talked softly in her presence. But now he was conscious of a strange new fortitude. His head was singing a little, and he felt equal to a dozen Mrs. Wardles.
Shuffling footsteps made themselves heard.
“Well, what is it now?” asked a querulous voice.
Augustine snorted.
“I’ll tell you what it is now,” he roared. “How many times have I told you always to put a hot-water bottle in my bed? You’ve forgotten it again, you old clout-head!”
Mrs. Wardle peered up, astounded and militant.
“Mr. Mulliner, I am not accustomed–”
“Shut up!” thundered Augustine. “What I want from you is less back-chat and more hot-water bottles. Bring it up at once, or I leave tomorrow. Let me endeavour to get it into your concrete skull that you aren’t the only person letting rooms in this village. Any more lip and I shall walk straight round the corner, where I’ll be appreciated. Hot-water bottle ho! And look slippy about it.”
“Yes Mr. Mulliner. Certainly, Mr. Mulliner. In one moment, Mr. Mulliner.”
“Action! Action!” boomed Augustine. “Show some speed. Put a little snap into it.”
“Yes, yes, most decidedly Mr. Mulliner,” replied the chastened voice from below.
An hour later, as he was dropping off to sleep, a thought crept into Augustine’s head. Had he not been a little brusque with Mrs. Wardle? Had there not been in his manner something a shade abrupt — almost rude? Yes, he decided regretfully, there had. He lit a candle and reached for the diary which lay on the table at his beside.
He made an entry.

The meek shall inherit the earth. Am I sufficiently meek? I wonder. This evening, when reproaching Mrs. Wardle, my worthy housekeeper, for omitting to place a hot-water bottle in my bed, I spoke quite crossly. The provocation was severe, but still I was surely to blame for allowing my passions to run riot. Mem: Must guard agst. this.

When he woke the next morning, different feeling prevailed. He took his ante-breakfast dose of Buck-U-Uppo: and looking at the entry in the diary, could scarcely believe that it was he who had written it. “Quite cross?” Of course he had been quite cross. Wouldn’t anybody be quite cross who was for ever being persecuted by beetle-wits who forgot hot-water bottles?
Erasing the words with one strong dash of a thick-leaded pencil, he scribbled in the margin a hasty “Mashed potatoes! Served the old idiot right!” and went down to breakfast.

— Mulliner’s Buck-U-Uppo by P.G. Wodehouse

Coram Deo~

TOR. There are candles in the dark and cold voices.
I hear mass chanted for the master’s soul
in Ely isle. Thus ages pass,
and men after men. Mourning voices
of women weeping. So the world passes;
day follows day, and the dust gathers,
his tomb crumbles, as time gnaws it,
and his kith and kindred out of ken dwindle. So men flicker and in the mirk go out.
The world withers and the wind rises;
the candles are quenched. Cold falls the night.

The lights disappear as he speaks. Torhthelm’s voice becomes louder, but it is still the voice of one speaking in a dream.

It’s dark! It’s dark, and doom is coming!
Is no light left us? A light kindle,
and fan the flame! Lo! Fire now wakens,
hearth is burning, house is lighted,
men there gather. Out of the mists they come
through darkling doors whereat doom waiteth.
Hark! I hear them in the hall chanting:
stern words they sing with strong voices.
(He chants) Heart shall be bolder, harder be purpose,
more proud the spirit as our power lessens!
Mind shall not falter nor mood waver,
though doom shall come and dark conquer.
There is a great bump and jolt of the cart.
Hey! what a bump, Tída! My bones are shaken,
and my dream shattered. It’s dark and cold.

TÍD. Aye, a bump on the bone is bad for dreams,
and it’s a cold waking. But your words are queer,
Torhthelm my lad, with your talk of wind
and doom conquering and a dark ending.
It sounded fey and fell-hearted,
and heathenish, too: I don’t hold with that.
It’s night right enough; but there’s no firelight:
dark is over all, and dead is master.
When morning comes; it’ll be much like others:
more labour and loss till the land’s ruined;
ever work and war till the world passes away.

The cart rumbles and bumps on.

— J.R.R. Tolkien.

Coram Deo~