Academic literary studies apparently has little to do with the world in which living readers live. Bruce Fleming says, “It’s, well, academic, about syllabi and hiring decisions, how works relate to each other, and how the author is oppressing whomever through the work.”
The Apple Tree
My church’s choir is singing “Jesus Christ, The Apple Tree” this year. It’s a beautiful, traditional song. I can’t remember where I’ve heard it before, perhaps the same place you’ve heard but can’t remember too.
The apple has been used in many works of art as a symbol for sin or evil. I’m told the reason we think of the forbidden fruit, that unnamed fruit of The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, as an apple is the fact apple and evil are spelled the same in Latin, malum. So Adam is shown with the apple of sin in his hand or at his feet as he is driven from the Garden of Eden. But in this song, Jesus Christ is called an apple tree (cf. Song of Solomon 2) in part because he is the second Adam, the one who is taking sin away from us, the one who is bearing the burden of our curse in order to save us from ourselves. That’s why we can sing:
The tree of life my soul hath seen,
Laden with fruit and always green:
The trees of nature fruitless be
Compared with Christ the apple tree. Continue reading The Apple Tree
Hitman Sells Story to Hollywood
John V. Martorano, who confessed to killing for the mob as a plea bargin, has reportedly sold his story to a Hollywood producer. Some of the good guys who worked against him aren’t too happy about it, and lawman is trying to pass a state law against criminals profiting from their no-doubt-dramatic stories.
The Saga of Clarence
In weather like this, you pretty much have to blog about the snow and cold. But how to do it? Tell harrowing stories of my near-death experiences shoveling my driveway, or fighting traffic on Teflon streets? Fortunately I avoided both those activities today. Employ quirky and creative similes and metaphors, like James Lileks? I could try a weak emulation, but it’s late and I want to get to my Christmas cards. Casual wit takes a lot of hard work.
So I’ll talk about my Grandpa, Clarence Walker. I thought of him as I unloaded my groceries in the cold wind tonight. I remembered that Grandma Walker once told me that he had saved his brother’s (or brother-in-law’s) life, when they both got caught in a snowstorm in the woods. It was one of those classic situations where one guy wants to sit down and rest, and the other guy says, “No, you’ve gotta keep walking. If you fall asleep, you’ll die.” (I understand that’s not entirely true. You can sleep just fine in the snow if you’re well bundled up, especially if you let the snow drift on top of you like a blanket, as long as you’re not physically exhausted. It’s the exhaustion that kills you. I have to assume they were both exhausted that night).
This is Grandpa and Grandma Walker, with (reading left to right) my brother Moloch and me. Must have been around 1953. It was taken in the house in town to which they retired after Dad got married.
Continue reading The Saga of Clarence
“The Shadow Proves the Sunshine”
Mike S. Adams writes a powerful and paradoxical column today over at Town Hall, on the problem of evil.
What could be better? I’ll tell you what could be better!
A Christmas hymn from Sissel on top of the story! And that’s just what Santa’s got in his bag, because you’ve been good little boys and girls!
It seems somehow appropriate to the day, in some obscure way I can’t quite put my finger on. Mainly because my finger’s lost all feeling.
The winter shoe has now officially dropped. Or has been flung, rather, like an Iraqi journalist’s.
Oh, this is great!
The mighty Andrew Klavan is telling a Christmas ghost story in serial form over at Dirty Harry’s Place. Chapter One is here.
What could be better?
Begging your pardon
Just to let you know, I’m having connection problems on my home computer, and depending on how long I spend in Customer Service Purgatory, I may or may not get a real post up tonight. Or tomorrow. Or this week, or year.
Update: My connection miraculously regenerated itself while I was gone at work. This does not make me complacent. I know well that once a connection starts acting this way, complete breakdown will follow as night the day. But for now, I’m in business.
“At Christmas Time” By Anton Chekhov
“WHAT shall I write?” asked Yegor, dipping his pen in the ink.
Vasilissa had not seen her daughter for four years. Efimia had gone away to St. Petersburg with her husband after her wedding, had written two letters, and then had vanished as if the earth had engulfed her, not a word nor a sound had come from her since. So now, whether the aged mother was milking the cow at daybreak, or lighting the stove, or dozing at night, the tenor of her thoughts was always the same: “How is Efimia? Is she alive and well?” She wanted to send her a letter, but the old father could not write, and there was no one whom they could ask to write it for them.
But now Christmas had come, and Vasilissa could endure the silence no longer. She went to the tavern to see Yegor, the innkeeper’s wife’s brother, who had done nothing but sit idly at home in the tavern since he had come back from military service, but of whom people said that he wrote the most beautiful letters, if only one paid him enough. Vasilissa talked with the cook at the tavern, and with the innkeeper’s wife, and finally with Yegor himself, and at last they agreed on a price of fifteen copecks.
So now, on the second day of the Christmas festival, Yegor was sitting at a table in the inn kitchen with a pen in his hand. Vasilissa was standing in front of him, plunged in thought, with a look of care and sorrow on her face. Her husband, Peter, a tall, gaunt old man with a bald, brown head, had accompanied her. He was staring steadily in front of him like a blind man; a pan of pork that was frying on the stove was sizzling and puffing, and seeming to say: “Hush, hush, hush!” The kitchen was hot and close.
“What shall I write?” Yegor asked again.
“What’s that?” asked Vasilissa, looking at him angrily and suspiciously. “Don’t hurry me! You are writing this letter for money, not for love! Now then, begin. To our esteemed son-in-law, Andrei Khrisanfltch, and our only and beloved daughter Efimia, we send greetings and love, and the everlasting blessing of their parents.”
“All right, fire away!”
“We wish them a happy Christmas. We are alive and well, and we wish the same for you in the name of God, our Father in heaven–our Father in heaven–”
Vasilissa stopped to think, and exchanged glances with the old man.
“We wish the same for you in the name of God, our Father in Heaven–” she repeated and burst into tears.
That was all she could say. . . . (read on)
Dream journaling
I had a bizarre dream last night. Bizarre enough to tell you about.
Like most dreams, it was sparked by an incident during the preceding day. I had checked my mailbox and found it completely empty, even of junk mail. Which is a fairly uncommon thing, especially this time of year.
In my dream, I went out to check the mailbox again, and found it full of stuff. Not only mail, but packages. And there were packages, some of them Christmas wrapped, lying on my front step.
So I gathered what I could, took them inside, and went out to get the rest.
And there was Santa Claus, standing just outside the front awning. This was a huge Santa Claus, maybe twelve feet tall. I couldn’t actually see his face, but I recognized him from his outfit.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but these packages were meant for another address.”
So I went in to bring them out again, and that’s when I woke up.