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grandhotelabyss · 3 years

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This is the public-facing rhetorical move par excellence of the radical academic theorist: revel in your radicalism in the seminar room and peer-reviewed journals, but describe your program in the most bland, banal, who-could-possibly-object way for general audiences. Did you know that Marxism is “a refusal to take things for granted”? Why not “follow your dreams” while we’re at it? Never mind the part where “[w]e shall put you in front of a good wall and shoot you,” to quote a poem of Brecht’s. You see this today, too, with the left-identitarians, thinkers who have a nihilistically extensive critique of liberal society—who posit in fact the urgent need to destroy this society—and then, when queried by the public or its representatives, will reply that it’s just about treating people fairly, dude.

But to give the formulation its due, if you truly take nothing for granted, if you never silence the critical intellect, you will in your own mind delegitimize your state and every state, the lives of your neighbors and then your very own life, and you will shoot yourself in the head, as in the aforementioned fictional case of Leo Naphta and the nonfictional one of Mitchell Heisman, possibly after you’ve shot some others à la Brecht or Naptha’s model Lukács, because the critical intellect left to its own devices will annul first the world and then itself. Which is why the profoundest thinkers, i.e., novelists and poets and playwrights, have always suggested a plunge into contact with reality to arrest deconstructive thought processes, from Hamlet to Herzog. Make art, make crafts, have sex, have a child, take a walk, take a drink, dig a garden, plant a tree, get revenge, get a cat—anything at all to remind you that the critical intellect allows itself to be annihilatingly disappointed at the world’s corruption only because it has lost touch with it, literally, and that criticism’s proper service to humanity is as guide and guardrail to action, not as universal solvent.

(Note the details of Hamlet’s example: he only had to kill one person, but deconstructive thought processes made him responsible in whole or part for at least four other deaths and made him suicidal as well; only when he resolved to “let be” could he strike his sole legitimate target, but by then the collateral damage was so great that he forfeited his own life and his country was conquered. A parable for the would-be revolutionary.)

Deconstruction at its best reminded us of these truths, as implied by the quotation from Montaigne that introduces Derrida’s epochal essay on “Structure, Sign, and Play,” but because it was premised on the very purity it set out to debunk—the centered structure organized by neat binary oppositions—it became a very purist argument for impurity. There’s always another binary to undermine over the horizon, always something else and more you could be doing to decenter; so deconstruction finally lent itself to the deranged purity spirals that have marred intellectual life recently. What deconstruction says about strong texts’ essential non-essentialism is basically right, but strong texts achieve this irreducible complexity on tides of emotion that criticism of all sorts has always been bad at capturing, making them elements of reality as well as interpretations of it.

I append all of the above to Leo Robson’s excellent essay-obituary for J. Hillis Miller, from which I draw the opening quotation. This witty catalogue is my favorite paragraph in the piece:

You might say that the effect of deconstruction, in its literary-critical mode, was to augment a presiding canon of largely B-writers (Baudelaire, Benjamin, Borges, Blanchot, etc) with a group of H-figures (Hölderlin, Hegel, Heidegger, Hopkins, to some degree Hawthorne and Hardy), and to replace a set of keywords beginning ‘s’ – structure, sign, signifier, signified, semiotics, the Symbolic, syntagm, Saussure – with a vocabulary based around the letter ‘d’: decentring, displacement, dislocation, discontinuity, dedoublement, dissemination, difference and deferral (Derrida’s coinage ‘différance’ being intended to encompass both). And there was also a growing role for ‘r’: Rousseau, rhetoric, Romanticism (one of de Man’s books was The Rhetoric of Romanticism), Rilke, and above all reading, a word that appeared, as noun and participle, in titles of books by de Man, Hartman, and most prominently Miller: The Ethics of Reading, Reading Narrative, Reading for Our Time, Reading Conrad.

Also this fun fact: “as late as 2012, [Miller] had never read anything by Samuel Richardson.” I am always fascinated by the gaps in brilliant scholars’ reading, and the more time I spent in academe the more I noticed how large the gaps really were. A generalist-dilettante, I try to read a little bit of everything and am consequently bad at being a completist of any one subject or author that a scholar necessarily is. I’ve read Pamela but not Clarissa; for that matter, I’ve read around in Derrida and De Man but, except for his rather psychedelic 2002 primer On Literature, not so much in the late and lamented J. Hillis Miller.

Further reading: my short story, “White Girl,” a dramatization of deconstructive thought processes in action, partially inspired by what I was seeing right here on Tumblr a little less than a decade ago.

#j. hillis miller #literary theory #literary criticism #literature #leo robson #deconstruction #marxism

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avelera · 4 years

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A few fun notes I’ve picked up on the Crusades, as would be relevant to Nicky and Joe, courtesy of leaving Great Courses lectures on in the background while doing other stuff (meaning if you’re a huge fan of the history of the Crusades you definitely know more than me):

- Nicolò di Genova could have been one of several, not necessarily mutually exclusive things before embarking on the Crusade - the second son of a wealthy/noble family (it would explain how he could afford the journey and weapons/armor), a poor brigand (one reason the Pope called the Crusades was to redirect European infighting and banditry) and/or a devout Christian who was spiritually moved by Pope Urban II’s call to arms. The devout option does not necessarily preclude either of the previous two possibilities, because the Pope promised total forgiveness of ALL sins (before and during) committed in one’s life and during the Crusades, so those who may have turned to banditry out of desperation but felt guilty for their immortal souls could have also been lured by the promise of spiritual reward, not just material reward.

- I’m going to go out on a limb and say Nicky was part of the Princes’ Crusade in 1096, the official one that Pope Urban wanted and I distinguish because there was a thing called the Peasants Crusade before of people who rose to the call but were, unfortunately, all non-fighting men, peasants, kids, fanatics, etc. and it went... badly. Very badly. The “crusaders” themselves (which means “cross bearers” btw) were pretty awful and killed a lot of innocent people on their way to the Holy land, and then they were wiped out when they got to Turkey anyway, and likely Nicky would be aware of these events (or even saw the piled bodies on his way to Jerusalem, if you want to go for a dramatic scene).

I’m guessing Nicky was with the Princes’ Crusade because he actually got to the Holy Land AND again, because he’s got armor (according to the comic flashbacks) which was pretty damn expensive. (A Watsonian rationale, the Doylist one is that Rucka was going for the image of foreign knights fighting in full plate and may not have thought out all the class and wealth implications of them having that armor). Oh, and Nicky if he traveled with the Princes’ Crusade in 1096 would have spent some time in Constantinople (November-April) while on his way there.

- The Crusaders captured Antioch before they made it to Jerusalem. I’m not sure The Old Guard clarifies which battle he and Joe first encountered each other in, it might have been Antioch, but I’m going to say it wasn’t, for several reasons. One, because of the credits that lists 1099, the year after, when Jerusalem fell, which was the last year of the First Crusade. (The other famous crusade, the Second Third Crusade of Orlando Bloom’s “Kingdom of Heaven” fame isn’t for almost 50 years after that.) And further, while it’s possible that Nicky fought Joe in Antioch before the Crusaders even made it to Jerusalem, but the push-pin in the map is also in Jerusalem and it’s where the most famous events of the First Crusade happened (and I’m not sure Rucka would be able to resist), so just from a dramatic standpoint too I think they probably fought in Jerusalem.

- To just couch it in a scene for a second, the Crusaders seeing Jerusalem for the first time was, by all accounts, breathtaking. It was a profoundly spiritual moment for these people who had taken up arms to fight for their God and traveled for years across strange lands and lost many of their compatriots to the fighting in Antioch as well as starvation/thirst/exhaustion/disease along the way, to reach this holiest of holy sites in the Christian canon.

- Unfortunately, the sight of Jerusalem might be the last moment of beauty we can expect from the European Crusaders. The accounts of the sack of Jerusalem are horrifying. The Crusaders laid siege to Jerusalem for just over a month, and once inside the gates, they massacred every single person in the city, until blood flowed through the streets.

- (Side note: if Nicky didn’t arrive with the main Crusader force coming over land through Turkey, he probably arrived instead with Genoese merchants who also brought the supplies needed to make the siege engines that broke through the walls, so it is possible Nicky was with them and came by boat, in which case he may feel a different kind of guilt for the atrocities that followed.)

- Having claimed the city, the Crusaders established the Kingdom of Jerusalem which would endure just barely over a hundred years. There would be constant fighting between Seljuks and the Crusaders throughout that century, complicated alliances between the Crusaders and the Seljuk’s rivals, the Fatimid Caliphate. Basically, you’d need to be a scholar or read something by a scholar who understands this much better than me to unwind it all.

When did Joe and Nicky meet in all of this? Is the Siege of Jerusalem the setting of their first mutual murder of one another? Or did they meet at a later battle? A lot of that is up to the writer, because based on the line about how they’d been taught to hate one another, one could take away that they’d been on either side of the conflict for a while, at least long enough to build up some animosity towards the other side, before they encountered each other. Or, one could take the line to mean that Nicky and Joe met early in the conflict, and had only the hatred they’d been taught driving them to fight.

Certainly the clash of the Franks, as the Seljuks called them (a word that is still found as a root for “foreigner” in Arabic to this day) or the Saracens, as the Christians called them, was a moment that was not, shall we say, hampered by sympathy on either side. The men of the other army must have been foreign and terrifying to both sides, both saw the other as infidels to the true faith, both had more or less a free pass by their religion and circumstances to not even see the other side as human (but, let’s remember, the Europeans were the invaders and the atrocities they committed are too lengthy and horrifying to go into here).

If Nicky and Joe had stayed in the Levant throughout the events of the following centuries of Crusades (perhaps together now? perhaps still on opposite sides for some time?) they could have been caught up in a rich and complicated world of the clash of civilizations between Europe and the Middle East, Christianity and Islam, met major historical figures like Richard the Lionheart and Saladin (or, An-Nasir Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub if we’re being accurate) the latter of which is one of the greatest examples of chivalry the world has ever known, to an extent that was hailed even by Europeans (seriously, it’s some Hollywood-level stuff, Saladin is amazing and would be the obvious hero in any historical fiction set during the Second or Third Crusade, I could see Yusuf sticking around just to serve him and Nicky even switching sides to do so, especially compared to the leadership on the European side and bastards like Raynald of Châtillon, but again, for a fun intro to these events watch “Kingdom of Heaven” with a heavy grain of salt).

A few final notes, before this becomes its own lecture on the Crusades. With regards to homophobia, it might not have been quite as present as many modern readers would assume. And you might be surprised by who would have been more OK with it.

- On the European side, homosexuality was a sin, sure, but pretty much all non-procreative sexual practices were a sin and it wasn’t as fiercely persecuted in the early 11th century as it would come to be later. This is not to say homosexuality was celebrated, but the punishment you’d receive was basically a civil punishment for being caught, needing to do penance for a few months to a year, not execution or torture or anything like that.

- And let’s remember throughout history, men have had few limitations enforced on their sex lives as long as they also fulfilled their duties to their families and the Church and that going on Crusade meant all of your sins were wiped away, before, during, and after (which is probably what led to the uninhibited nature of the atrocities committed by the Crusaders and I mean seriously, even the Pope who ordered the Crusades was horrified when he heard what happened).

So what I’m saying is, even if someone like Nicky was worried about going to Hell for having sex with men (and really, it would not be the #1 sin to be concerned about by any means in those times) he wouldn’t have to worry specifically while on Crusade. He’s in the clear at least as far as his immortal soul goes, though social censure could be another matter (assuming everyone else even cared about social censure too). Actually, it would be funny if Nicky’s generally relaxed demeanor in the modern era around murders and stuff is because as far as he’s concerned, he’s still got that Papal order saying all his sins are cleared because he joined the Crusades, lol.

- Meanwhile, on Joe’s side, we’re still in a time period that’s called the Islamic Golden Age where social strictures are relatively relaxed compared to what they’ll be at other points in Islamic history (sweeping generalization! please take it as such!) but it’s worth noting that Abu Nuwas, one of the most famous and acclaimed Islamic poets, wrote a ton of love poetry in the 700s and a not inconsiderable portion of that love poetry was devoted to homosexual love. Meaning, yeah, Yusuf wouldn’t just be able to quote poetry at Nicolò, he could quote specifically gay poetry at Nicolò, from one of his culture’s most renowned poets.

Similar to Europe, if my research is correct, homosexuality was pretty accepted, at least it’s not a high-priority punishable crime for men of privilege during this era the way it would be in some later eras. I don’t want to expound much more on Joe’s side because it’s definitely the one I have less knowledge of and authority to speak about but I will leave you, if you’ve made it this far, with the fact that being two men in love with each other when they met was much less of a serious issue than being two infidels (to the other’s religion) would have been, from a social standpoint.

#the old guard #tog meta #history #joe x nicky #nicky x joe #LONG post #also if someone has an authoritative biography of these guys somewhere PLEASE SEND IT TO ME #I'm making some pretty big leaps here like Joe being on the Seljuk side but that's only based on the date and location nothing biographical

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ambarto · 4 years

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Finwean Ladies Week Day Two: Lalwen

Headcanons again today, and this time I’d like to talk about my headcanons for Lalwen, which I think I have mentioned a little in the past but what better occasion than @finweanladiesweek to ramble about all my thoughts. I can tell you Lalwen is definitely one of my favorite characters to think about.

Lalwen was what we could call a biologist. She was fascinated with animals, and in particular with all the kinds of bugs, spiders, and various little creatures that crawl on the ground. She liked other animals too, although still of the small kind, and usually animals most people don’t overly like (think lizards, snakes, that kind of stuff). She maintained that those small and often unseen parts of the ecosystem were much more fascinating than the macroscopic world of large mammals and birds. She described many species, and while animals were her favorite field of study, she was also the first in Valinor to posit that mushrooms were not plants, which was a rather controversial statement at the time.

Out of all her siblings, she was the one who got along the best with Feanor. She was quick to brush off any unkind words he might say, and had a sharp enough tongue to put him back in his place. She actually rather enjoyed talking with him, as he was also a scholar, and could keep up with her discussions of the efficiency of spiderwebs even if it wasn’t really his field of study.

Regarding her other siblings, Lalwen’s favorite was Fingolfin. They argued a lot, but it was usually the kind of sibling spats that got forgotten quickly. He was always the most willing to engage with Lalwen’s interests, and to go with her on rides exploring Valinor. Findis and Finarfin, on the other hand, both had a fairly different temperament than Lalwen, and different interests too. While all four siblings loved each other, usually Findis and Finarfin stuck in one corner talking about one thing, while Fingolfin and Lalwen sat in another talking about something else.

Despite being a Princess, Lalwen’s presence in the politics of Valinor was almost non-existent. She learnt early on that all the occurrences of court didn’t interest her, and if she could avoid being present at any given occasion she did. Findis used to scold her sister much for this, calling her irresponsible, as she thought as members of the royal house it was their duty to engage with politics. Fingolfin, on the other hand, usually enabled his younger sister, thinking that there was no need for her to be as involved as the rest of their family.

Lalwen was always, and especially in her youth, a very restless spirit. Already as a child she was the kind of kid who was always outside and running around, and would hate having to be in the house for an entire day. Growing, she became that sort of girl who her parents almost never saw, so much she spent with her friends, and partying, and going on trips. And since she was old enough to travel on her own, she would so often take her horse and leave Tirion for days or weeks, or sometimes months too, to explore all there was to see in Valinor. It was because of this restlessness that she followed Fingolfin out of Valinor - the idea of an entire other continent she had never seen before was too big a temptation for her to stay behind, no matter how much her mother begged.

In Beleriand, she never had a land to rule over, because she never had any interest in ruling. Not only the various details and politics involved were things she had no interest into, but governing would also mean that she’d have to spend most of her time still in one place. For the most part, she made herself a home in Fingolfin’s lands, but would often travel around. It actually made her brother worry himself sick, as Lalwen had the tendency of leaving whenever and without sending letters or word of where she was, until six months later she would write him saying that she was staying in Himring for a while and also did Fingolfin know about this cool worm she had found?

She survived the Dagor Bragollach, but not easily. She was wounded on the field, and was carried out unconscious as Fingolfin’s forces retreated. She lost her hearing in one ear, and one of her legs was wounded in a way that left her with a heavy limp. The impaired mobility in particular wasn’t easy for her to deal with, as it made traveling so much harder. Not that she had much wish to entertain herself, not right after her brother had been killed. She remained in Fingon’s lands until the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, at which point she instead moved to the Falas with Cirdan, and later followed him to Balar. While she couldn’t fight on a battlefield, she had developed a great knowledge of poisons thanks to her studies on various venomous animals, and she helped develop cures for many of the poisons Morgoth used in his weapons.

After the War of Wrath, Lalwen decided she wouldn’t stay in Lindon under Gil-Galad. Part of the reason was that by then she had seen so many of her loved ones die that it brought her genuine pain to be around Gil-Galad and remember that he was almost all the family she had left, let alone have people call her ‘Princess’, as if the title meant anything by then. There was a loneliness in Lindon that could only be cured by being more alone, or at least, not with people who would constantly remind her of everything she had lost. But also, Lalwen’s desire to explore had never really stopped, and by then she had learnt how to deal with her disability, so she took a horse, and left.

Eventually, after much traveling, she realized that she was turning into an old lady, as Men said. She had traveled through all of Middle Earth, much of Harad, and had even decided to go look if she could Cuivienen a couple times, and she was growing tired of always being moving around. When she was a girl, that would have been the ideal, but after many thousands of years Lalwen found herself wishing to find a place to settle in. Not to mean that she would never travel again, just that she would have liked to have a nice house to go back to and rest, and know that there were people she knew waiting for her there. That being said, she also still wanted nothing to do with politics, not to mention that everyone else seemed to be handling things well, and she didn’t feel the need to upset any political balance with her reappearance. In the end, she decided to settle in Greenwood at some point during the Third Age. She did come clear to Thranduil about who she was, and he allowed her to stay so long as she did not cause trouble, which was alright by her. Other than him, very few people knew or suspected who the eccentric Noldo with a cane and a lot of opinions about taxonomical classifications was.

Lalwen had had through her life many romantic stories and affairs, and definitely more than many would deem appropriate for a Princess. With some Elven ladies, occasionally she’d fell in the bed of a mortal, and maybe once or twice in that of a Dwarf. The longer she lived the more she found old Valinorean ideas on marriage and courtship and so on rather stuffy. That being said, she had never really ruled out a wedding altogether, and the day she realized a Silvan hunter of Greenwood was starting to mean a lot to her, she decided maybe she was old enough to leave her amorous adventures behind and get herself a wife. Fortunately, her lady didn’t mind finding out that Lalwen was a mostly forgotten Noldor Princess, and Lalwen’s proposal was accepted with enthusiasm.

Eventually, Lalwen sailed back to the West with the Last Ship, together with Cirdan and Celeborn. She had seen as much of Middle Earth as there was to see, and while she did love the land, she had long since started thinking back about her homeland. Her wife, while not Eldar, had also started to get weary of a land that was more and more mortal and less and less suited for Elves, and decided that like many others of her people she also would have liked to follow the gulls.

Now, Findis, firstborn of Finwe and Indis, Princess of the Noldor, sister to the High King Arafinwe, known poet and debater, was as a general rule against violence, but when she saw her sister hop off a ship after six thousands years of no contact with a wife and apparently uncaring of having basically disappeared, her fist might have just happened to collide with Lalwen’s nose.

#finweanladiesweek #my headcanons #irime #lalwen

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bazzybelle · 5 years

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Carry On Countdown - Day Twenty-Seven

Notes: So I am giddy with excitement about writing this fic! It’s a snippet for an AU historical fiction (my personal favourite literary genre) that I’ve started working on. I have a basic outline drawn up, I have plots and tropes and quotes I want to use (I’ve even started making a playlist for it… because I’m THAT much of a dork), and those who I talk to on the regular know that I have not shut up about it. I’ve always loved The Renaissance in Florence, especially during the time of Lorenzo The Magnificent. My first university degree was History and Italian Culture, and the BULK of my classes involved the Florentine Renaissance (Neeeeeeeeerd). Ok! I won’t bore you all with details now, wait for my AU fic! Title and beginning quote are taken from the Neo-Platonist philosopher Marsilio Ficino.

Thank you to @carryonsimoncarryonbaz for your beta-work, and for sharing/encouraging my nerdiness for this topic, I look forward to discussing this story with you, as well as Plato’s philosophy! xD

Gonna tag also @fight-surrender, @f-ing-ruthless-baz and @giishu for being my never ending support board and for putting up with my non-stop photos of notes from my tiny tiny notebook.

Finally tagging @sbazzing... You wanted to be tagged in this.. here ya go! :)

Day 27 Prompt: Time Travel

Title: Love is a Dream of Beauty

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Artists in each of the Arts seek after and care for nothing but Love.

February 20th, 1490

BAZ

“Signore Pitch!”

I look up from the text I’m analyzing to see one of Lorenzo’s (yes, Lorenzo de’ Medici… Il Magnifico to most, but to me, he’s always been Lorenzo) assistants rushing towards me. He is one of the younger ones, I believe. What was his name?

Paolo?

Francesco?

Marco!

I put down the book I have been reading (Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita Libri - History of Rome - I’m working on translations for Book 9) and look at the nervous young man. I do not understand why the servants and assistants fear me. I suppose it is my dark and broody nature that unsettles them. Or maybe the fact that I have little to no patience for the courtly life and the politics that go along with it.

“Yes, Marco? How can I help you?” I gaze down at the young man. Maybe it’s my cold eyes that are constantly glaring and the way I always sneer when I’m annoyed that frightens the younger workers.

“Gran… Gran Maestro de’ Medici would like a word with you.” I take in a sharp breath and nod at the young man. If Lorenzo wants to speak with me, it is for one of two reasons; either I have done something that displeases him (unlikely), or he wants something of me. A request from Lorenzo de’ Medici is not a request one simply ignores (though, Lorenzo has a soft spot for me, so I can get away with more than others).

“Is it urgent?” I raise an eyebrow at Marco, which only increases his nervousness. Honestly! Why does he have to be so apprehensive? It’s not like I am going to bite him or anything! Marco looks to the floor, not wanting to meet my eyes.

“He said to call for you immediately, Signore Pitch.”

I sigh deeply and offer him a curt nod. “Very well. I shall be with him shortly.” I turn back to my book. I want to finish this last page before going to meet Lorenzo. I look up briefly to notice that Marco is still standing nervously in front of me. I roll my eyes at him and point to the door. “You may leave.”

Marco stumbles out of my room. I shake my head and continue with my translations. It is my unofficial job at the Academy, to translate these texts from Greek to Latin as well as the local vernacular. I am not fond of the vernacular, but there are still groups within the city that hold onto the linguistic belief set forth by the great poet, Dante. My peers may look down on those who choose to practice the vernacular, but Angelo Poliziano (my teacher, mentor, dearest friend) insists that I keep an open mind to the shifts and changes that come with learning the language.

Satisfied with the quality of my translations, I close the books and stretch my back. I do not know how long I had been sitting at that table before Marco came to fetch me. Maybe I will go for a brief ride through the countryside to clear my head, once my meeting with Lorenzo is through.

As I make my way through the corridors and halls of the villa, my mind begins to wander (this often happens, Marsilio Ficino calls it the philosopher’s curse) and I think about the young assistant. I should have expected the uncomfortable interaction based on how he addressed me alone.

I am known by many names in this court. Signore Pitch is one, but I find that to be dreadfully formal. I am not a master, nor am I nobility (well… not anymore). Amongst my peers and the scholars at the Academy, as well as the members of Lorenzo’s court, I am referred to as Tyrannus (which is probably worse than Signore Pitch, but these Florentines do love their classical history). My closest friends (of which I can count on one hand) refer to me as Basil or Baz, which is frankly what I prefer. It was what my mother and father called me before they died.

There is also what enemies of the Medici like to refer to me as: The Displaced Prince. I would find it rather insulting, if I wasn’t so amused by it. They are not wrong in calling me that, except I was never really a prince. My family was a noble one, but we fell from grace many years ago. Actually, I may be the last member of my family remaining. I suppose that’s why Lorenzo has kept me around all these years. I have been around the court of Lorenzo de’ Medici long enough to understand how the politics work around here. I am of noble blood and eligible for a political match that could work in Lorenzo’s favour, and continue on for his son, Piero. It’s truly a shame that I have no interest in political matches.

Or marriage for that matter.

I reach Lorenzo’s quarters. I knock on the door and wait patiently to be received. Lorenzo doesn’t typically spend much time here at his villa in Careggi. Most of his time is spent in the city itself, at his central palazzo. He has been here for a couple of days, and I wonder if he had come all this way in order to speak to me in person. Lorenzo de’ Medici never does anything without an ulterior motive.

The door opens and I am ushered inside, where I find Lorenzo sitting at his desk, pen in hand, and a focused look on his face. He looks up to see me and his face brightens.

“Tyrannus! How are you, my dear boy!”

I enter the room and lightly bow my head. Lorenzo isn’t an official ruler of Florence, but as the head of the Medici family, it is a simple gesture of courtesy. “Good afternoon, Gran Maestro de’ Medici.” I address him by his official title, again as a sign of respect. I am many things, ill-mannered is not one of them. Lorenzo raises an eyebrow at me and shakes his head.

“Tyrannus, you have been a member of my household for nearly 15 years, I think at this point, you may call me Lorenzo.”

Lorenzo stares knowingly at me. I return the gaze with a raised eyebrow of my own before we both begin to laugh. Lorenzo rises from his seat and comes to greet me. He grabs my shoulders and pulls me into a hug and kisses me on both cheeks. He pulls back to get a good look at me and smiles brightly.

“Ahhhh… It’s good to see you! We do not see you very often anymore. I imagine Angelo has been working you to near death!” I laugh light-heartedly and shake my head.

“Not at all, Lorenzo. I rather enjoy the work, to be honest. It does me good to leaf through the books that once belonged to my family. To hold the pieces that are left of their legacy.”

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to spend time amongst my family’s books. I was a very precocious child, always asking questions and wanting to absorb as much knowledge as I could. When I first arrived in Florence, all I wanted to do was spend time in the library. When Giuliano was still around, he would remind me to have fun and to allow myself to have a childhood… Despite that, most of my life was spent amidst the company of older, learned men.

Lorenzo claps my shoulder and gives it a tiny shake. “Always so somber aren’t you? Your family’s legacy is not dead. You are still around.” He looks into my eyes. Brown eyes, contrasting to my grey.

I sigh at him and start to step away from his grasp. “Only because the Divine has willed it so.”

“You truly have been spending far too much time with the philosophers!” Lorenzo gives me another hearty laugh. “I do need to take a visit to The Academy. It has been far too long since I’ve taken part in one of Marsilio’s symposia.” I detect a hint of melancholic nostalgia in Lorenzo’s voice. Ficino would tell me of the time where Lorenzo was more carefree and would spend days within the Academy, debating the nature of Plato and his ideas on Love. Those were the days before his duties to his family and Florence began to weigh heavily on him.

A small laugh escapes through my nose.“They do become rather heated. I could hear them shouting from my study the last time.”

“As every great debate ought to be!” Lorenzo leads me towards his desk, but does not sit down just yet. “Now, Tyrannus. There was a reason I asked to see you.” I nod knowingly and smirk at him.

“You would not be Il Magnifico if there wasn’t an ulterior motive to everything you do.”

Lorenzo laughs heartily. Few people are allowed to see him like this. I am one of the lucky few, for he has known me since I was a child.

And, I remind him of his brother… Giuliano. If circumstances were different, it would be Giuliano giving me this talk, as opposed to Lorenzo. He picks up a small weight from his desk and begins to run it through his hands.

“Tyrannus, you will be celebrating your birthday soon, will you not?” He points to me as he asks me the question. I nod my head in response.

“Yes, Lorenzo. On the 24th, I shall be turning 20 years old.”

Lorenzo stares off wistfully. “Ahh… To be young with a future full of promise. Do not take these days for granted. Soon enough, you will be cursing the ways your body fails you.” He frowns towards his legs. Lorenzo’s family is plagued with gout. His father died as a result of his gout, and he started showing signs much later in his life. Lorenzo has not been as lucky. He clears his throat and continues.

“But I digress. Now, when I decided to take you in as a ward of the Medici family, I told myself I would treat you as if you were one of my own children. I believe I have done a decent job of that.”

I nod and smile at him. “You have. I would have never had the opportunities to read from my family’s ancient texts had your family not taken me in.”

“Correct. Now, it is my duty as your guardian to ensure that a beneficial match is made for you.”

I frown and take a step back. “A… match?” I decide to try and play ignorant. I had a feeling that this discussion was coming. Still, it was not something I was interested in. Besides, I may be Lorenzo’s ward, but I am hardly a member of the Medici family.

“Of course! It is only proper that we find a suitable match for you!” Lorenzo places the weight back down on the desk and begins to shuffle a few of the papers lying about.

“Lorenzo… I do not think anyone would want to be wedded to a Displaced Prince.” I purposely use the slanderous name against me in order to make a point. It may be a name given to insult me, and it does not really bother me. But it is a name based in small truths. I have no lands, no titles, no stability. Lorenzo’s face darkens and addresses me in an aggrieved voice.

“Let me tell you something Tyrannus. Do not allow the words of bitter men to leave a lasting impact on your soul. Now I will make it my duty to see that a proper marriage alliance is secured for you.”

I appreciate the concern, I truly do. But marriage is not a future I see for myself. “Lorenzo. What if I did not want that? I am perfectly content to remain amongst my family’s books in the Academy,” I respond solemnly. My wish is that he drop the subject, but Lorenzo de’ Medici does not work that way.

“Nonsense Tyrannus. You are the sole remaining member of a family that has been around since the time of Constantine the Great! It is your duty to ensure your line does not die.” He waves his arms extravagantly. It is very difficult work not to roll my eyes at him. Men like Lorenzo put far too much emphasis on the past. Yes, it is important to know our past, but too much focus on it causes one to lose sense of the future. I come from an ancient family, it is true, but that family is gone now.

“Lorenzo, I have made peace with my family line dying with me since I was a child. I have my family’s books; I have their legacy and I intend on keeping it alive through their words.” I speak in a soft, somber voice. I almost plead with him to understand my position on the matter.

Lorenzo grabs my shoulders and looks me in the eyes once more. “Will you at least let me try? For your parents…”

My back stiffens and I very nearly glare at him. He knows I cannot say no when my parents are concerned. I sigh in resignation and furrow my brows. I see that I will not win this argument with him, so I offer a compromise; a deal with him.

“What if I gave you until the end of this year? Until the Epiphany celebration; to find me a suitable match? One that I approve of as well.” I emphasize that I shall have the final say (if there is any say at all).

Lorenzo regards me with an astounded look. “You truly have become a part of this family, Tyrannus! Only a Medici would offer up a deal like that.”

I nod towards him and shrug my shoulders. “I did learn from the best. Shall we shake on it?” I offer my hand and Lorenzo takes it willingly.

“Until the Epiphany celebration I shall do whatever it takes to get you married.”

“I don’t doubt that. Would that be all, Lorenzo?” I am ready to get out of this meeting. I really do need some time outside of this building in order to process everything that has just occured. Maybe a ride to one of the neighbouring villages will do me some good.

Lorenzo puts a halt to my plans almost immediately. “Not quite. I had a feeling I would win you over today, so I requested that Signore Botticelli paint a miniature portrait of you. He is already expecting you.”

I try to not groan out loud. Sandro Botticelli is one of the city’s finest painters. At the same time, he is one of the most arrogant men in existence. He has painted every member of Lorenzo’s family, and has never once done so without a complaint. He had been gone from the city for quite some time (The Vatican requested his talents for their holy Basilica). I suppose now that he’s back, Lorenzo has already begun with the commissions. I shake my head at him; the impossible man.

“You truly are one of a kind, Lorenzo.”

“That’s why they call me Il Magnifico. Now go on. You may take one of the horses into town.” Lorenzo walks back to his chair. He settles in and waves me away. I bow my head at him and exit the room.

“Thank you, gran Maestro.”

I make my way to the stables, stopping by my rooms to put on some warm outer clothes. I could walk to the city, but it really is much faster to go by horse and with the sun making its way into midday, I should make my way to Botticelli’s workshop as quickly as possible, before the day begins to darken.

I mount my favourite horse, a chocolate mare I’ve called Minerva, and start to ride towards Florence. As I pass the hills and small houses that dot the trail, I think about how the events of my life have brought me here to this moment.

I come from a long line of nobility from the lost empire of Byzantium, on my mother’s side. She, as well as her family were forced to flee the city of Constantinople when she was a young girl. My grandfather, having impeccable foresight, knew the war against the Ottoman Turks was lost. So he had arranged for all of the ancient books and texts from my family’s libraries to be moved to Florence, to the libraries of Cosimo de’ Medici (Lorenzo’s grandfather). My family was offered sanctuary within the court, but my grandfather had other obligations to attend to. My mother was betrothed to my father, a nobleman from England, so my family settled there. It was where I was born and where I spent the first five years of my life.

But because turbulence and bad luck seem to follow my family like a dark cloud, it wasn’t long before we were destroyed once again. England, at the time, was in the middle of a dynastic war between two royal families; The Yorks and the Lancasters. My father was a Lancastrian and while that worked to his benefit for the longest time, my mother, sharing the same aptitude for forethought as her father, knew that our time in the sun would not last. She had written to several powerful houses in Italy (The Sforza, the Argonese, the de’ Medici, and the Este), and offered them everything we had left if they would take me in, should it be necessary. Out of those families, only Giuliano de’ Medici responded.

I remember the last night I saw my mother and father as if it were yesterday. I still have dreams about it. I remember being asleep in my chambers, when my mother swept inside, bright ruby-red dress flowing around her. She roused me from my sleep and scooped me up into her arms. I could not understand what was happening at the time. She rushed me through the kitchens, where a small band of trusted servants were waiting for us. With tears in her eyes, she held onto me, running her fingers through my dark hair. I remember her smoothing the strands from my face as she reminded me to remain strong and to never forget the lineage I was born into, even in the darkest of nights. The last thing she told me was that I was the very best of both her and my father and that she would always be with me. With a final kiss on my head and a caress of my cheek, she was gone, ruby skirts flowing behind her. I remember crying out to her, begging her to come back. None of it mattered, for we were soon off, galloping on horses as we rode into the night.

My mother had managed to obtain passage for myself and my governess aboard a ship headed to one of the ports controlled by the Florentines. I don’t remember much of the journey to Florence. I think my mind has decided to block those memories from me. All the better, for I wish to never think of them. I do remember docking at one of the ports and my governess quietly ushering me into a small inn, where a tall, handsome man with flowing dark hair and kind brown eyes was waiting for us: Giuliano de’ Medici.

Giuliano was the younger, more care-free brother of Lorenzo. He was, by all accounts, the heart and soul of the Medici family, and it was because of his gentle heart that I found my way into the Palazzo Medici. That day, he took me aside and explained to me that he would be taking care of me from now on. When I asked about my parents, he was kind, yet truthful. He explained that it was almost certain that my parents did not survive the attack. I remember being determined not to cry in front of this stranger, but the thought of my mother was too much for me. A strong, reassuring hand on my shoulder was all it took to let loose the floodgates. As he continued to pat my back, Giuliano explained that we would wait for word from England in case he was wrong, but that I should prepare myself for the worst. He did not sugar-coat the reality of my situation, and I suppose it was because of his honesty that I learned to quickly trust him.

For the next three years, Giuliano looked after me, and treated me as if I was his own son. It took some time for my walls to come down, but eventually I saw him as a father figure in my life. I was beginning to get a true sense of having a family again… when…

But I don’t think about that… About the blood and the knives. I don’t think about the Easter mass that would once again break apart any family and hope I dared to have.

I don’t think about any of that. Instead I make my way to Botticelli’s studio, where the impatient maestro is already waiting for me. I tie up my horse and proceed to knock on the door. The door opens in a rush. Before me stands Sandro Botticelli, all impertinence and self-importance.

“Tyrannus! Glad you could make it!” Botticelli gently grabs my sleeve and pulls me into the workshop. I stand tall and watch him with a disinterested look on my face.

“Signore Botticelli. Always a pleasure.” Botticelli rolls his eyes at my formal address and already begins to scurry about around the workshop. He calls out to me over his shoulder.

“Tyrannus, while I do appreciate the formal greeting, please call me Sandro.”

I shake my head and raise my hands in consternation. “Does no one around here appreciate formality? Fine… Sandro.”

Sandro places a stool in front of a window, where a little soft light has managed to come through. “I see you have finally given in to Lorenzo’s demands.”

“You know how it is. Whatever Lorenzo de’ Medici wants, Lorenzo de’ Medici gets. I would like to get this sitting done as soon as possible.” My continued icy tone is really unnecessary, but I have already had a long day and I find it difficult to mask my disdain.

“Yes yes, Tyrannus! We all know you have important work to do at the Academy! Tell Signore Poliziano that if he’s got a problem, he can take it up with Il Magnifico!” Sandro waves a hand dismissively towards me and then roughly points to the small stool. I roll my eyes and settle into place. Sandro starts to walk away and yells out towards the back rooms.

“Simon! Where are you, boy?! We are waiting for you!”

I straighten up and roll my shoulders back in surprise. I was not expecting this. I start to get up from the chair when Sandro places his hand on my shoulder, settling me back down. “Wait. I was under the impression that you-”

Sandro casts a dark glare at me and I settle back down. It is clear that he is beyond fed up with my attitude. “Please, I do not have the patience nor the time to paint yet another member of the gran maestro’s household. No, your miniature portrait will be handled by my young assistant. Simon!” He barks out once more, abrasively.

I adjust a crease in my shirt and tuck some of my raven-black hair behind my ear. I look up and my breath becomes caught in my throat.

A broad-shouldered, tawny-skinned young man rushes from the back rooms, carrying what seems to be half of Sandro’s art supplies in his hands. Canvases, boards, charcoal, and paints (why would he need paints right away). I quickly turn my head from him so as to conceal the blush creeping onto my cheeks (clearly I am embarrassed for this young man… nothing more…).

A loud crash makes me turn my head back. I notice a head full of long bronze curls before me, surrounded by scattered charcoal, paints, and brushes on the floor. He looks up at me, blue eyes sparkling and a deep red blush creeping across his face.

Damn it all…

“Apologies… Signore…” He starts to stammer at me. I lift a hand at him and narrow my eyes. I can feel my heart quicken as I begin to think about the many ways I can continue to make him blush. I shake the impure thoughts from my mind and conceal myself behind the mask of indifference I wear around court.

My impervious, cold mask. I need it now than ever. Because a blue-eyed, bronze-haired disaster has just crashed into me and I do not need disasters in my already unstable life.

So, time to scare away another rosy-cheeked young man.

“Pitch.” I reply, with acid in my voice. I turn to Sandro, who looks as if he is just about ready to murder the boy, and drawl out sarcastically, “I must say Sandro, you certainly know how to pick them. I was wondering why I had never seen this apprentice before. I suppose I have my answer.”

I look back to the young man, Simon, who has collected himself and is now wearing a look that could strike me dead. I laugh scornfully at him, which only angers him further.

Perfect.

“I think this one will prove to be more of a handful than you can handle. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be getting back to the Academy.” I lift myself from the stool and stroll towards the door. It takes every fibre of my being not to run out of that building as fast as I can. But I have been practiced in the art of nonchalance, so I make it to the door, when Sandro calls out to me.

“Tyrannus!”

I look back to Sandro and his unfortunate assistant. I give them both a mocking sneer and a graceful wave of my hand. “Apologies, Signore Botticelli. I know you are a very busy man. We can try again tomorrow, perhaps.”

I exit the workshop and take a minute to gather my thoughts. The poor boy will probably be getting a tongue lashing from Botticelli. I want to feel sorry for him, but I cannot allow myself to feel anything for him. I untie Minerva and begin to ride out of the city.

As I gallop away from the city, my thoughts start to become more and more cloudy. I try to focus on the translations I need to finish, or on the discussion that Lorenzo and I had earlier today. I even try to think about the many arguments between my Academy peers. But no matter how I try, I keep coming back to one thought and one image.

Of a boy with blue eyes, bronze curls, and a brightly flushed face.

Misfortune and misery seem to follow me around like a dark cloud. And the Divine seems to have played a cruel joke on me. Because after one look into those ordinary blue eyes and I now think I understand the inspiration behind Dante and Petrach’s poetry. I want to read Plato once more and determine if these feelings inside of me count as his version of Love.

How can it be? It is not possible. I pull on Minerva’s reins and hop off. I bend down and start to gasp for air.

It is not allowed…

I take several deep breaths and push my budding feelings down. As deep as they can go. I push them further than the pain of losing my mother, of losing my name. Of losing Giuliano. I shall not permit these feelings to ever come out again. I cannot go back to see Signore Botticelli and that boy!

Simon…

I hope that my cold, intimidating personality is enough to keep him as far away from me as possible. I hope that I have sufficiently scared him away. I hope I never have to look at those ordinary blue eyes again.

Any other path is not an option.

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hrk4 · 4 years

Text

My Sanskrit Story

I am an ardent student of Sanskrit.

Over the past few years, I’ve been learning Sanskrit in a slow, schizophrenic manner – a few weeks of frenetic study of grammar and literature with long months of lackadaisical, lukewarm engagement with the language, mostly through ‘study circles’ (we’ll come to this later) that I’m a part of. But I have kept at it constantly and never regretted it once.

My earliest exposure to Sanskrit was perhaps at the age of two. Born and raised in a typical Hindu middle-class family, I was taught simple shlokas and stotras. My father took me to Cubbon Park or Ulsoor Lake on Sunday mornings and on the way he would teach me verses from the Mukunda-mala (a poetical work composed by Kulashekhara azhvar, a ninth century king and poet-saint). My grandmother taught me the Krishna-ashtakam (usually during power-cuts) and my mother taught me verses from the Venkatesha-suprabhatam. At age three or four, I became a sort of ‘installation art’ at weddings where elders gathered around me, coaxing me to recite verses from the Mukunda-mala. (But of course, getting children to recite verses is not uncommon in our families. Many of you might have experienced this in your childhood.)

That was it, pretty much: Some stray verses committed to memory and the strong notion that Sanskrit was a great language. In spite of my rejection of orthodox theism, rituals, and outdated religious/superstitious practices during my rebellious adolescent years, strangely, I never lost respect for Sanskrit.

Most of my cousins studied Sanskrit in school but I didn’t have that good fortune. I wanted to learn the language but I didn’t know where to start; for years it remained a pipe dream.

By sheer chance, I got involved in co-writing a translation of the Bhagavad-Gita with Dr. Koti Sreekrishna in 2006. At that time, I didn’t know any Sanskrit. My role was to review and edit the English; after Dr. Sreekrishna produced a rough translation, I would work towards presenting the verses in the simplest way possible. By the time we published the book five years later, I had learnt a few words here and there, particularly when we discussed the meaning of difficult verses.

In early 2011, when the manuscript of our Gita translation was being sent to reviewers, someone suggested that I get the opinion of the renowned scholar, poet, and polymath Shatavadhani Dr. R Ganesh. Until then I hardly knew anything about him. When I phoned him, he spoke in an encouraging manner and I felt like I was speaking with a family elder rather than a celebrity-scholar. He graciously reviewed the manuscript and gave his feedback. I casually mentioned to him about my interest to learn Sanskrit and my helplessness at not knowing where to start. Not only did he give me general guidance but he also taught me some of the basics of Sanskrit grammar like noun forms, verb forms, sandhi, and samasa. More importantly, he taught me the real value of learning Sanskrit in today’s world.

The rest of this piece comprises what I’ve learnt from Dr. Ganesh about the study of Sanskrit coupled with my personal experiences. It might be of value to those interested in learning the language.

Why Study Sanskrit?

Given that learning Sanskrit—or any language for that matter—consumes considerable time and effort (and some money), it’s a good idea to think for a moment if it’s actually worth it. Now, the worthiness can be decided only by one’s intentions – Why do I want to study Sanskrit?

In my case, I love learning languages when the opportunity presents itself. The process of learning itself is a great deal of fun for linguaphiles like me. So if you are a language-lover, there’s no need to think any further. Go and learn Sanskrit!

There is a widespread notion that Sanskrit is a sacred language meant solely for rituals and that its literature is entirely ‘spiritual stuff.’ So if you’re someone who likes that sort of thing – tradition, philosophy, scriptures, and so forth – you might be thinking of learning the language. The good news is that you probably don’t need to learn Sanskrit.

If you are just interested in the Vedas and want to connect with the tradition better, you could consider learning Vedic recitation, which is definitely easier than learning Sanskrit. In addition, you can read a book or two on the philosophy of the Vedas or listen to lectures on the topic by scholars like Dr. Ganesh. Even those of you who are interested in philosophy can get by reading reliable translations of the Upanishads and Bhagavad-gita as well as general works on Indian philosophy by scholars like Prof. M Hiriyanna.

There is a feeling among the culturally inclined nationalists that it is our duty to preserve Indian heritage and showcase the glory of India’s past. Triggered by this missionary zeal, some people might wish to learn Sanskrit. This often leads to a narrow interest in hunting for science in ancient India, or in the study of traditional works of polity, economics, architecture, law, or other secular subjects. Again, the good news is that you don’t have to learn Sanskrit to accomplish this.

You can always look into reliable translations of works like Artha-shastra, Manu-smriti, Surya-siddhanta, or Brihat-samhita. You can also peruse through books on Indian history, ancient Indian mathematics, temple architecture, and so on. You could even take up the study of a serious treatise like P V Kane’s History of Dharmashastra. That will satiate your thirst to a large extent.

When something can be effectively translated from one language into another—particularly when the objective is to provide information or teach certain concepts—then there’s hardly a case for learning the source language. If I can give you the exact translation of a verse from the Gita and you understand it without any transmission losses, then why do you have to spend ten years of your life learning Sanskrit?

But there are things that simply can’t be translated. Jokes, for instance, are untranslatable when they employ puns or have strong cultural references. The same goes for poetry, where the structure and the substance are closely intertwined. So if you’re interested to explore the vast landscape of Sanskrit literature—Kalidasa’s masterpieces; the two great Epics (Ramayana and Mahabharata); Bana’s Kadambari; Shudraka’s Mricchakatika; Bharavi’s Kiratarjuniya; Vishakadatta’s Mudra-rakshasa; and many other poems, plays, and prose compositions—it is worthwhile taking steps to learn Sanskrit. Stories about gods and goddesses, romantic escapades, nature descriptions, episodes from the Epics, idiosyncrasies of public life, the history of a kingdom, tales of commoners – all this and more can entertain and enrich several lifetimes.

In addition to being a wonderful treasure trove of literature, Sanskrit is also a window to our past. Therefore, any serious student of Indian history, archaeology, sociology, culture, sculpture, philosophy, and so forth will benefit immensely if s/he learns Sanskrit. Here I wish to make a distinction between one who is interested in Indian history or philosophy or culture and a full-time student of these subjects (like a BA or MA student). Those who are merely interested to know more about a certain era in Indian history can read a book by R C Majumdar or Jadunath Sarkar and be fulfilled. But for students of history, the knowledge of Sanskrit will enable them to read inscriptions, contemporary literary works, and so on, which will prove invaluable for their careers.

However, if you’re looking to improve your knowledge of physics, become better at technology, get a promotion at work, or win an election, you will benefit from doing other things than learning Sanskrit.

Is Sanskrit Difficult?

A good way to learn a language is like how we all learnt our mother tongues – by listening and repeating, then slowly moving towards understanding and speaking, and then eventually starting to read and write. If you wish to learn Russian, Spanish, or Japanese, this approach works well. But Sanskrit is not a widely spoken language. And our motivation to learn Sanskrit is not so much trying to communicate with other people as it is to read and savour ancient (and modern) literature.

Although there are a number of people who fluently speak in Sanskrit, it is almost impossible to find a person who knows only Sanskrit and no other language. It’s therefore obvious that you don’t need Sanskrit to communicate with others; you can get by speaking Kannada or Tamil or English. (On the other hand, if you’re visiting the UK and can’t speak a word of English, you’re going to be in trouble!)

To learn Sanskrit, you might have to choose an approach that’s different from what’s popularly known as ‘immersion’ in language-learning circles.

There are some people who think that Sanskrit is extremely difficult and wonder if they can approach it at all. In fact, those who are familiar with one or more Indian languages already have the basic equipment to understand Sanskrit. The nuts and bolts of the grammar can give you sleepless nights but it’s probably not as hard as you think.

At the other end of the spectrum, there are people who think that attending a ten-day Sambhashana course or reading a ‘Learn Sanskrit in 30 Days’ book can give you mastery over Sanskrit. That’s a dangerous notion to harbour if you really want to learn the language.

So, the one line answer is that if you’re interested and pursue it sincerely, it’ll get easier along the way, and more importantly, the journey will be great fun after the initial fumbling about.

Learning Sanskrit

Where do I start?

The answer, surprisingly, is: anywhere. Just start. Sanskrit is an ocean and where does one begin to swim in an ocean? Somewhere. Put your feet in the water, slowly get inside, get used to the cold, and before you realize it, you’re already kicking your legs and having a good time.

And that’s what I did: just started at some point.

I would read a verse from the Gita and then read the English translation. I had learnt Kannada and Hindi at school and as a result, many of the words were familiar to me. Reading the translation after reading the original Sanskrit verse exposed me to new words. I committed verses to memory and later replayed them in my mind, trying to check if I remembered the meaning completely.

That said, the most suitable works to start off learning Sanskrit are lucid compositions like the Ramayana or the Pancha-tantra. Get hold of a reliable translation of one of these works (preferably in an Indian language); start by reciting the original Sanskrit verse or prose passage a couple times, then read through the translation, and go back to reading the Sanskrit – this way you slowly make connections between the words and their meanings. Instead of diving into the technicalities of grammar straightaway, spending time with literature will help you experience the beauty of the language.

Three to six months after commencing the study of a Sanskrit work, you can start learning up some grammar – by reading good books, watching online tutorials, or learning from a teacher.

I’m extremely fortunate that Dr. Ganesh taught me the basics of Sanskrit grammar. That set me off on a winding path of reading different aspects of grammar and trying to wrap my head around them. This continues even today. The more I hunt for rules, more the exceptions I find. My advice: Keep aside logic while learning basics. In the initial stages, don’t ask questions; simply accept things as they are. It just makes life easier. Over time, you’ll develop an intuition for the correct form of a word.

All said and done, it’s easy to start but difficult to keep going. What’s the solution for sustained study?

In my experience, learning a language requires both self-motivation and external agency. Unless one is driven from within, no amount of external push will be fruitful; when self-motivation is present, external agency becomes invaluable. For instance, Sanskrit is taught in schools and colleges – this is a push from outside (i.e., external agency). But only those with self-motivation learn the language well and continue reading literature long after they have graduated.

When I met Dr. Ganesh in 2011, he told me about a fortnightly ‘study circle’ he was conducting and extended an invitation to me. I had never heard the term before so I asked him what that was. A group of friends would catch up every other Saturday and read the Raghu-vamsham of Kalidasa.

I started attending the study circle. This went on for close to a year and I learnt a great deal. Owing to various reasons I became irregular in attending the sessions and after I shifted to another end of the city, I practically stopped going. During the years 2013–16, I moved around quite a bit and finally I shifted to Malleswaram in November 2016.

There came an inflection point in my Sanskrit study in 2017. Around that time, my good friend Raghavendra G S had started his PhD program in IISc. and my house happened to be a sort of midpoint between the metro station and his lab. One day I casually suggested that we should meet once a week and read a Sanskrit work together. He readily agreed and we started reading the Krishna-karna-amritam (a poetical work by Lilashuka). By the time we finished reading the text in early 2018, a few other friends showed interest in coming together to form a study circle. And so, in April 2018 we formed our Sanskrit study circle and have continued ever since. I also got the opportunity to join a few other study circles and this ensured that my Sanskrit study is ever fresh; over the past three years, not a week has gone by without a few hours of Sanskrit reading (unless I was travelling or unwell).

So if you want to learn Sanskrit, try to find even one other like-minded friend and get started. Even better if you can find more friends – especially those who know more Sanskrit than you. The ideal is a group of four to six, meeting once a week, for about an hour or ninety minutes. (You can meet in person or online – it shouldn’t make too much of a difference.) There are ample online resources and translations available for various Sanskrit works. Start reading a work together. Take turns to read the verses aloud. (Even when you’re reading Sanskrit by yourself, it’s useful to read aloud). Then look at the translation. Discuss. Read the original verse again. Then move forward. In the first few sessions, you may read just three or four verses in an hour but as you go forward, your speed will drastically improve and you’ll start getting comfortable. After a while, refer to the translations only after you’ve made an attempt to understand the original. This will slowly push you to rely on your memory and learning.

And once in a while, when there’s an opportunity to meet during a long weekend, you can take a short poetical work like Niti-shataka or Kali-vidambana and read the whole thing in one marathon session.

There are many possibilities with study circles. In fact, it can prove to be the mysterious ingredient to accelerate your learning. That’s been the case with me for sure. I’ve still got a long way to go before I can say that I’ve learnt Sanskrit but the journey itself has been incredible so far. Dr. Ganesh and friends have been largely responsible for what little Sanskrit I know. And for that I’m ever grateful.

Hari Ravikumar August 2020

Thanks to my friends Pratap Simha (for getting me to write this piece), Arjun Bharadwaj (for his valuable inputs), and Sudheer Krishnaswami (for his review and feedback).

#Sanskrit #Language learning

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atchiu-ruad · 5 years

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Do you have any information on Clìodnha and Mac Lir? I feel drawn to both of them, specifically her, when I look up gaelpol things but I don't know if it's wishful thinking and making up some UPG ~*~feelings~*~ (exmormon culty baggage is the main culprit here, I have a lot of hangups over "Is this Spiritual Contentment or Mental Gymnastics") Is there anything that you think I need to know considering Clìodnha or Mac Lir and how would you suggest building a relationship with them?

Hello (again?), Anon! I know less about Clíodhna than I do about Manannán mac Lir, but I was able to dig out a presentation by Morgan Daimler for the Year With Our Gods conference put on by Land, Sea, Sky Travel that discusses her. (If you haven’t run across them already, Morgan is a great resource for mythology- they have some books published through amazon and have a blog here, and Land Sea Sky Travel regularly organizes conferences & presentations on all sorts of things related to Gaelic and Brythonic Polytheism- they’re on facebook here and have their own website here)

Anyway, re: what I was able to find about Clíodhna, she is one of the figures in Irish mythology that isn’t explicitly named as one of the Tuatha Dé, but per Dáithí Ó hOgáin (another scholar worth looking up) her name may mean “the territorial one”, and seems like she may be a sovereignty goddess for Munster and the shoreline of County Cork, specifically. They actually have a particular wave in County Cork that is named for her, Clíodhna’s Wave, although I wasn’t able to find out what makes it so special. She has an association in her stories with doomed love, and drowns in at least two stories, one while leaving the Otherworld with a broken heart, and the other drowning while traveling with her lover, so between that and the wave bearing her name, it seems that she may have a motif of drowning/being swept away. She takes the form of a wren in some stories, and is also attended by magical birds whose song can heal the wounded and lull people to sleep. Beyond that, she is claimed as an ancestor and bean sidhe by the McCarthys and the O’Keefes, and is credited in more modern folklore as the queen of the mná sidhe.

Aaaand that’s pretty much all I’ve got for her, sorry. :/ I know that maryjones.us has a great collection of mythology, and the CELT database is definitely worth a look too, if you’re trying to find out more about Clíodhna. I don’t really have any experience with her myself, so I can’t offer any advice on how to build a relationship with her in particular beyond what I would suggest for getting to know any deity, which I’ll go into in a sec.

For Manannán, I can say from personal experience and from SPG I’ve heard from other GaelPols that Manannán seems to be one of the gods most interested in outreach to welcome new potential GaelPols, so it makes sense that you’re feeling drawn to him too! In my experience, he tends to be lighthearted and approachable. He is a poet, loves wordplay, and whenever I encounter him in dreamwork seems to be Up To Something (or more charitably, on the move). I’m about as landlocked as you can get, so in lieu of an ocean to go to, I’ve had good results with making a cup of tea for myself and one for him (it’s a drowned sacrifice in microcosm!) and just spending some quiet time together. I’ve seen other people talk about spending time with Manannán while doing a cleansing ritual or taking a long bath (six of one, half a dozen of another imo), or running into him in dreams. Basically, he is an intensely liminal god, so even if you can’t get to a seashore to try to spend time with him, there are plenty of between-spaces you can try, if just sitting with a cup of tea doesn’t work for you.

With either of them, or any other deities you are interested in building a relationship with, trying to learn more about them is a great place to start, but taking time to listen to the spiritual impressions you get is extremely valuable too. Spiritual discernment can be a scary concept if you’ve been gaslit by religious groups that you should have been able to trust already, but it’s still an important skill to build. If you don’t trust your own ability to tell the difference between you telling yourself what you want to hear and interaction with the gods at this point, it might be worth going through an intermediary. If you practice some form of divination, doing a reading can help you fine-tune whatever impressions you get. If you don’t, I’d recommend Allec @nicstoirm as a GaelPol diviner who has helped my wife sort out some delicate conversations with gods in the past. Trusting yourself enough to tell the difference between your internal voice and Someone Else can take work, even without baggage from unhealthy religious environments to sort through; try to be patient with yourself in the meantime. I had the same issue for a while, but you can gain in confidence with practice (and distance from the cult-y bullshit).

Basically, the getting to know a deity triad that I would offer is this: read their stories, try to make space to honor and think about them, and listen to your own thoughts and feelings about what you are learning and what you experience. It might be helpful to keep some sort of record that you can check yourself against if you’re worried about self-doubt and baggage getting in your way, too.

I hope this helps- feel free to stop by again if you have more questions, and good luck!

#Gaelic Polytheism #Clíodhna #Manannán mac Lir #na Déithe #Irish mythology #asked and answered #Anonymous #ruad ramblings

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flying-elliska · 5 years

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salut ellie! someone once asked you about your writing and you recommended falling in love with language and finding ways of writing you love. i was wondering, what books and/or writing styles are you in love with? it's just so interesting to know what somehow had an impact on the way you're writing bc i honestly adore your style

wow do you remember that ? that is such a flattering question oh my god. well, i’m still working on it. some of my favorites are (i’m very eclectic lmao) :

- His Dark Materials (it’s a fantasy book series ‘for kids’ but it’s actually insanely deep and philosophic) is pretty much the first book series that made me fall in love with stories, and made me want to write. I think I found it when I was 10, and it completely shaped me. It’s so ambitious and clever, it never talks down to the reader, brings up those amazing worlds and philosophical concepts and is still accessible to kids. Most of all it is so committed to atmosphere, to making it vivid, to really make you go through what the characters are. I’m thinking of it and I can remember exactly certain passages in an almost sensory way : the witch Serafina Pekkala describing what it feels like to feel the Aurora Borealis on her bare skin as she is flying through the arctic. The polar bear Iorek giving Lyra frozen moss to help bandage his wounds after a battle. The grilled poppy heads that the Jordan College scholars at Oxford eat during a meeting. The little Gallivespians on their dragonflies and the way the sun reflects off their poisonous spurs. That’s how you make a story stick ; that’s how you can put in deep stuff without ever making it boring. I am so excited they’re making a tv series because that shit deserves some recognition. And I mean the whole plot about the importance of stories, free will, the horror of religious fundamentalism....always relevant. Philip Pullman’s stuff is great in general, I love his Sally Lockhart series, which is more adult and adventure focused, and is a great deal of fun. And of course, the sequel to HDM he’s been putting out recently.

- I spent a lot of my teen years reading either crime novels or historical novels. (When I think of some of the stuff I read when I was 13 I’m like oh my god what were my parents doing lmao some of that was really horrible.) And I think it gave me a good feeling for suspense and setting, and how important tension is. One of my all time faves is Andrea Japp. She is a French writer who does mostly crime, involving complex/monstrous woman characters and a very sensory, poetic approach to language, often involving food, plants and poisons. My favorite by her is the “Season of the Beast”/Agnès de Souarcy chronicles, which is a crime series set in medieval times, with a cool independent lady at its core, crimes in a monastery, and this very gloomy end of times vibe that I love. I also read a lot of Scandi Noir stuff, I love the kind of ...laconic approach to life. And again : vibe. Vibe is so important. And Sherlock Holmes stories. I love the Mary Russell series that take place in that universe and are basically a big Mary Sue self insert guilty pleasure but are just. So much fun.

- I like poetry a lot - not stuff that is too wordy, but something short, sharp and vivid. i think reading poetry is essential to feeding your inner ‘metaphor culture’. I love Mary Oliver. Rimbaud, too, that I read at 17 and rocked my world. One of my underrated faves is Hồ Xuân Hương, a Vietnamese poet from the 18th century who was adept at using nature metaphors to hide both erotic stuff, irreverent jokes, and political criticism, and correspond with all the great scholars of her time under a pseudonym. Badass. Recently I bought ‘Soft Science’ by Franny Choi, which is about cyborgs, having a female body, emotions and politics and it’s absolutely brilliant.

- I love reading fairy tales, too. Currently reading (i always read a lot of books at once lol) Angela Carter’s Book of Fairy Tales, basically fairy tales for grown ups, collected from folklore all over the world, with an amazing kind of gruesome humor and wisdom. Norse mythology is also so damn funny. That one bit with Thor dressing up as a bride or Loki’s shenanigans...amazing. And I like fantasy, I find it very soothing to read for some reason, my fave has to be Robin Hobb and her Realm of the Elderlings series. And Terry Pratchett, especially the series with Death or the Witches. Just brilliant. Neil Gaiman too.

- I tend to be very impatient when it comes to literary fiction, I find a lot of it is self-indulgent, dreary. I’m a genre reader through and through, I need to be amazed. I loved ‘the Elegance of the Hedgehog’ by Muriel Barbery though. Some stuff by Amélie Nothomb, Virginie Despentes occasionally (they’re French writers with a very dark, wry approach to life, tho the first is more polished acid and the second very punk rock). And ‘Special Topics in Calamity Physics’ by Marisha Pessl is pretentious as hell but a lot of fun, if you like dark academia. Salman Rushdie has a way with language that is amazing.

- I read a lot of non-fiction. At the moment : the Cabaret of Plants (about the symbolic/socio historical meaning of plants and how they shaped history) by Richard Mabey and ‘Feminist Fight Club’ by Jessica Bennett. One I absolutely love is ‘the Botany of Desire’ by Michael Pollan in which he traces the history of four plant species (apple, potato, cannabis, tulip) and how they impacted us as much as we impacted them. I was obsessed with plants for most of my life as you can see lol (my mother is a herbalist and I wanted to become a botanist for quite a while.). Also philosophy/anthropology in little bits. I love Tim Ingold. Things about witches. Anything by Rebecca Solnit is incredible.

- I’ve been reading a lot of YA recently, because it’s fun and quick and keeps me reading, and has a lot of good female characters. Big fave recently : Jane Unlimited by Kristin Cashore. It’s about a young bisexual woman who’s grieving and comes to this weird house full of doors, each of which leads to a different path in life, and we follow her through each choice she can potentially make, each of one becomes a different genre of story : creepy ghost story, spy story, sci-fi, cute romance, etc. It’s so innovative and it’s a story that is also bisexual culture at its core. Also I absolutely love love love love love (etc forever) the Raven Cycle series by Maggie Stiefvater. What she does with language is just so cool, because she stays simple and efficient but uses her metaphors in such a fulgurant, vivid way. Some of her lines are just. bam! genius. #goals. Also Ronan Lynch is probably THE character that helped me the most with my coming out. He’s one of my forever faves. Of course Harry Potter, lmao, I was of the generation that pretty much grew up with him, the last book came out when I was 17. JK Rowling really should just stop rn. But I learned so much from those, about the importance of making your story feel like home, and having a clear emotional journey. And Harry is such a sarcastic little shit, I love him. And I love a Series of Unfortunate Events too, the darkly funny tone of it, the celebration of knowledge and resilience.

- I think in terms of the classics (I had to read in school lmao), I do like Victor Hugo a lot even though some of his stuff just doesn’t fucking stop. I also like Balzac and his Comédie Humaine, he’s very observant, mean and funny when it comes to people (even though it’s depressing.) Colette is my grandma’s fave writer and she is a rockstar, I love her (also hella bi culture). Jane Austen is great, I read Pride and Prejudice in one night straight, I was so hooked. Love Jane Eyre too. I read On the Road by Jack Kerouac while hopped up on opioid pain killers and that’s probably the only way to appreciate it, but it did mark me.

- But to be completely fucking candid, I probably read the most fanfic nowadays still. Esp since I got to college, I need to unwind when I read, and having characters you already know can be so comforting. Now, of course, there’s a lot of fanfic that is just fluff (nothing wrong with that) but I honestly really believe in the literary value of fanfic. Because some of that shit simply just really slaps and is well written. But also as a genre on its own : you just simply don’t get so much emotional nuance, and depth in most other things. Because these are characters we already know and the writers are not afraid to be self-indulgent and plot is secondary, we see shades of things that we never see anywhere else, we see relationships developping in the small things and wow that shit is breathtaking, bro, sometimes. The art of infinite variation on a theme. Even though a lot of fic writers could use a bit of stricter editing, and do stuff a bit too many unnecessary details in here, so does Victor Hugo soooooooo....

lol i could go on forever. i love book soooo much. uni kinda killed my reading appetite, I used to read several books a week when I was in middle school. hope i can get back there (although maybe not as much bc i have a life now lol.) but thinking about everything i have yet to read makes me sooooo happy. I want to get more into sci-fi, English lit classics. Basically I like stuff that’s witty, dark, political, hedonistic, with dry humor, but a warm heart. Stories that celebrate knowledge, curiosity and human weirdness. And that gets to the point. When I get bored by a book, I put it down, because I just don’t have the time. I also hate writers where you can tell that they think they’re better than other people. Misanthropy is boring. Thank you for this question anon I had a blast

#reading #books #book recs #literature #anon asks

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douchebagbrainwaves · 5 years

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WHAT NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ABOUT JANUARY

In January 1995, we and a couple friends started a company called Artix. The forum troll I have by now internalized doesn't even know where to begin in raising objections to this project. Unfortunately picking winners is harder than that. They certainly delivered. As it turns out, VC-backed startups are not that fearsome. In the other languages mentioned in this talk—Fortran, C, Java, and Visual Basic—it is not clear whether you can actually get work done. One difference I've noticed between great hackers and smart people in general is that hackers are more politically incorrect. College trained one to be a member of the professional classes.1 But as knowledge has grown more specialized, there are more points on the curve, and the inexorable progress of hardware would solve your problems. Maybe it's a bad idea for a company.

Whoever controls the device sets the terms. But as long as it's possible to detect bias whether those doing the selecting want them to or not.2 Of all the great programmers he wanted. Apparently when Robert first met him, Trevor had just begun a new scheme for micropayments?3 A symbol type.4 Feel free to make it big.5 If any incompatibility arises, you can be wise without being very smart. Lisp function and show that it is. It's very common for a group of founders to go through one lame idea before realizing that a startup will make it big. To some extent this was because the companies themselves had become sclerotic. Bill Gates started either.6

But rather the erosion of forces that had been pushing us together were an anomaly, a one-time combination of circumstances that's unlikely to be repeated—and indeed, that we would not want to repeat. They certainly delivered. Most of our educational traditions aim at wisdom.7 So we ditched Artix and started a new company led boldly into the future of hardware, users would follow. Microsoft shows, revenue is a lagging indicator in the technology business. And I was a Reddit user when the opposite happened there, and sitting in a coma at their desk, pretending to work.8 It seems reasonable to suppose the newest one will too.9

I might into Harvard Square or University Ave in the physical world.10 And open and good is what Macs are again, finally.11 As for libraries, their importance also depends on the application. Great hackers think of it as a book.12 Or more precisely, in Trevor's office. The technology companies are right.13 This summer, as an experiment, and an experiment in a very young field. Back in the days of fanfold, there was a correct decision in every situation, and if you couldn't switch ladders, promotion on this one was the only way to read them. But when I went looking for alternatives to fill this void, I found practically nothing.14

Besides which, art dealers are the most extreme form of fluff. They get smart people to write 99% of your code, but still keep them almost as insulated from users as they would be able to say who cares what investors think? I don't know how you'd run such a class in practice. A lot of the obstacles to ongoing diagnosis will come from the fact that the best ideas look initially like bad ideas. But ITA made it interesting by redefining the problem in a more ambitious way. Note too that Cisco is famous for doing very little product development in house. Meaning that unpleasant work pays. Most of the stuff I accumulated was worthless, because I think we can now call a startup: having brilliant people do work in which people have to invent anything.15 They have a sofa they can take a nap on when they feel the same way that not drinking anything would teach you how much you depend on water. Startups are that constrained for talent. Some switched from meat loaf to tofu, and others by playing zero-sum games.

The core of ITA's application is a 200,000 line Common Lisp program that searches many orders of magnitude more possibilities than their competitors, who apparently are still using mainframe-era programming techniques. Most of our educational traditions aim at wisdom. This is the kind of people it wants. And if we don't, the US could be seriously fucked. Cancer will show up on some sort of radar screen immediately. Microsoft seems resigned to, there will be no more great new stuff beyond whatever's currently in the pipeline. I'm so optimistic about HN. Books are more like a fluid than individual objects.16 And the use of these special, reserved field names, especially __call__, seems a bit of a hack. Perhaps the absent-minded professor is wise in his way, or wiser than he seems, but he's not wise in the way Confucius or Socrates wanted people to be.17

You can only do that if you want to really understand Lisp, or just expand your programming horizons, I would learn more about macros. Not quite so dominant as it had been. The importance of the first varies depending on whether you have control over the whole system and have the source code of all the things we could do, is this going to make it something that they themselves use.18 When we started Artix, I was still ambivalent about business. But it's all based on one unspoken assumption, and that means it has to be open and good is what Macs are again, finally. There are few corporations in which it would be suggested that executive salaries are at a maximum. Stuff used to be valuable, and now it's not. The reason the expected value is so high is web services. But for someone at the top, but unless taxes are high enough to discourage people from creating wealth, certainly.19 Symbols are effectively pointers to strings stored in a hash table. Considering how basic a red circle is, it is no surprise that the pointy-haired bosses.

Notes

The founders want the valuation is fixed at the command of the leading edge of technology. This was certainly true in the 1980s was enabled by a big VC firm wants to see it in the usual standards for truth. However, it often means the right thing. The solution is to the margin for error.

In principle you might be interested in each type of thinking, but sword thrusts.

Founders weren't celebrated in the future as barbaric, but at least once for that they don't have to track ratios by time of day, thirty years later. You also have to do it. Which is also a good idea to make people use common sense when interpreting it.

The liking you have the least experience creating it.

There are lots of search engines. Particularly since many causes of the latter.

Which OS? Com. Maybe at first you make money, in the category of people starting normal companies too.

To say anything meaningful about income trends, you won't be demoralized if they seem to have the balls to ask prospective employees if they used FreeBSD and stored their data in files too.

Obvious is an instance of a heuristic for detecting whether you realize it till I started using it out of the web.

In the early empire the price of an official authority makes all the investors agree, and this trick works so well.

The First Two Hundred Years. Org Worrying that Y Combinator to increase it, because they know you'll have to be doctors? There are many senses of the world you'd want to avoid collisions in.

But I think this is to do is form a union and renegotiate all the worse if you're measuring usage you need a meeting, then you're being starved, not because Delicious users are stupid.

So as a rule of thumb, the Patek Philippe 10 Day Tourbillon, is a good way to be secretive, because the publishers exert so much better than the don't-be poets were mistaken to be, and the Imagination by Hilbert and Cohn-Vossen. This was partly confidence, and why it's next to impossible to write great software in Lisp. Most were wrong, but except for money.

Delicious that had been with us he would have been; a vogue for conglomerates in the sale of products, because they suit investors' interests. Plus ca change. Donald J.

To get a low valuation, that you can't easily get a good open-source projects now that VCs may begin to conserve board seats for shorter periods. Bureaucrats manage to think of it, by Courant and Robbins; Geometry and the leading scholars of that. The existence of people like numbers.

It's like the application of math to real problems, and on the aspect they see of piracy is simply what they said. PR firm admittedly the best case. Miyazaki, Ichisada Conrad Schirokauer trans. When I talk about humans being meant or designed to live a certain threshold.

We have no trouble getting hired by these companies substitute progress for revenue growth with retained earnings was one firm that wanted to have them soon. Perhaps it would not be true that being part of your identity. The philosophers whose works they cover would be investors who say no to science as well.

By all means crack down on these. Acquisitions fall into in the former.

Particularly since many causes of the fake.

On the other meanings. Many of these titles vary too much to suggest that we don't have to talk to corp dev guys should be working to help SCO sue them.

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cramulus · 5 years

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Sufi Influences on Discordianism

On the title page of the Principia Discordia, you will find this inscription, next to a picture of Diogenes the Cynic

This is a bastardized version of a poem - here is the longer version:

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness— O, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

Who wrote the stanza on the title page?

Was it Kerry Thornley, under the pen name Lord Omar Khayyam Ravenhurst?

Was it Edward FitzGerald, English leisure-class jongleur and translator of Persian Poetry?

Or was it the Sufi, Omar Khayyam, "The Tentmaker", who lived in 1100?

or was it all of them?

In Kerry's introduction to the Principia, he writes:

My own favorite Holy Name -- Omar Khayyam Ravenhurst -- ... is a walking identity crisis. Anybody can say or do anything in the name of Omar Khayyam Ravenhurst. For better or worse, that never fails to confuse the authorities.

He goes on to relate a story about how he added that name to a roster when he was in Marine Basic Training, and nobody ever caught that it was a fake, and all sorts of rumors and stories began to crop up about this mysterious, fictional figure. At one point, somebody confuses a big truck driver named Buddha with Omar.

On the surface, all of this sounds like a funny little story about hacking bureaucracy using an assumed name, and for 20 years I never understood it's true depth.

There is an old Persian tradition of writing quatrains and attributing them to Omar Khayyam. This alone should tell us that Kerry Thornely was hiding something for us to find later. Kerry was aware of Sufism and Discordianism is, in some ways, an expression of it.

“I think of all the pube I got while reading the Rubaiyat” -MC Paul Barman

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam is a famous collection of poems. I collect copies of it--as of this morning, I own four of them. While the poems are evidentaly written by the persian poet Omar Khayyam, they were "translated" from Persian by Edward FitzGerald in the 1850s. He published four different editions of the work, with slightly different iterations of each quatrain.

The theme of the work seems to be about living in the moment, enjoying life, understanding that life is temporary, all that we see is fleeting and impermanent -- so let's have a good time while we can.

'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays.

When You and I behind the Veil are past, Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last, Which of our Coming and Departure heeds As the Sea’s self should heed a pebble-cast.

Wine is a recurring theme in the poetry, and the ecstacy of intoxication:

And lately, by the Tavern Door agape, Came stealing through the Dusk an Angel Shape, Bearing a vessel on his Shoulder; and He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!

I always imagined that young Kerry Thornley enjoyed these poems because when he and Greg Hill were growing Discordia, they were teens and in their 20s - and I myself spent a lot of my teens and 20s drunk off my ass and loving life. But there's actually a lot more going on here...

What was Omar Khayyam on about?

Omar Khayyam "the tentmaker" was a Sufi mathematician and astronomer. He also wrote poetry, but didn't consider himself a poet - he was much more famous as a mathematician. The original Rubaiyat is a Sufic work - that is, it transmits certain Sufic truths to those that are prepared to receive them.

The Sufis use coded language, hiding their truths behind symbols and shared reference points. A story may appear to outsiders as a joke, or a little moral lesson (like most of Aesop's fables). But to one with the ears to hear it, there is often another hidden meaning.

The grape, and wine (for example), is a clear sufi symbol. Decoded, it refers to divine ecstacy. Drunkenness is a metaphor for the personal transformation that takes place when one has tasted this mystical experience. So these verses about drinking wine and reading poetry with a loved one -- they are also about sharing a special connection, not just horizontally, between people, but vertically, a relationship with a higher purpose. A transformation of consciousness. A direct experience of divine love.

Sufism is the mystical subset of Islam. (Sort of like how Judiasm has its mystical practitioners of Kaballa). Many say that Sufism contains the "inner essence" of Islam. Some would even go so far as to say that this inner essence is the inner essence of all religions, and that Sufism has attached itself to Islam as a way of "sneaking in the back door", making the ideas palatable and acceptable within an orthodox religious society.

The original version of the Rubaiyat is full of hidden meanings (much of which was lost in translation). This is a classic sufi method - breaking the wisdom into little pieces, each shaped like the whole, and scattering it all over. These verses have actually been used by Sufi teachers to impart Sufic lessons.

Many Sufis do no think Edward FitzGerald realy picked up that "Sufic voice". His mentor, Professor Cowell, taught him Persian and introduced him to the Rubaiyat. Cowell was introduced to the work by talking with Indian scholars of the Persian language. But according to Idries Shah, in The Sufis, some think these scholars intentionally misled the professor. (which is also consistent with Sufi teaching...) Neither FitzGerald nor Cowell were fluent in Persian, and their translations are sometimes described as childish, simple. So maybe FitzGerald really thought that the poem was about how cool it is to get drunk, and was not trying to transmit a higher spiritual truth. At least, not intentionally.

But this might be too simple of an explanation, too. Some of FitzGerald's verses seem to reference other Sufic sources like the poet Hafiz - so it's likely he did do a lot of wide reading on the topic, even if he was never initiated.

Even if FitzGerald was totally ignorant of the sufic line of thinking, he may have, in his translation, captured part of it and inadvertently carried it forward. His translation became very popular. It sparked a literary fad in the 1890s, the "Khayyam Cult" was a poetic trend of writing verses in the style of the Rubaiyat, and sharing them in person, in the presence of wine, and love.

Maybe this is part of the sufi spirit

or maybe not

because it sparked some divine inspiration in Thornley, I'm inclined to believe that the inner meaning of the work was passed on via FitzGerald.

What does it mean? What does it meeeeean????

In 1960, when Kerry Thornley took on the name Lord Omar, he was tipping his hat to an ancient tradition. By including, on the title page of the Principia, his own "translation" of a verse from Fitzgerald, which is in turn a reading of Khayyam, and by adapting this old Persian tradition of attributing things to Omar Khayyam, he is telling us that Discordianism is tapping into something much older. The Principia and the Rubaiyat are in contact with the same thing. On the surface, the work is about happiness, physical enjoyment, relaxation, humor. But beneath the surface, there's something else. The inner-essence of all religions. Divine ecstacy. Hidden truth, encoded. A truth that cannot be captured neatly by the rational mind or transmitted by words. Like the inner meaning of a poem, it has to be sought after and discovered by the seeker, it cannot be simply transmitted by a teacher. The teacher can point to the door, can provide the tools for understanding, but the student must pass through it themselves, on their own effort.Khayyam tells us, by way of Fitzgerald, and by way of Thornley, that the vertical and the horizontal are the same thing. Divine love and love for one another are the same thing. That's why we raise our wine glasses together,whistling in the darkness.

#discordia #discordian #discordianism #sufi #omar khayyam #rubaiyat

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disorientedblog-archive · 6 years

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“A Form of Excavation” – Interview with Jihyun Yun on Writing Poetry in Korea and in Diaspora

Jihyun Yun is a Korean-American poet from California. A 2017 Fulbright Junior Research grantee and four-time Pushcart Prize nominee, she received her BA in Psychology from UC Davis and her MFA from New York University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bat City Review, 32 Poems, Adroit Journal, AAWW The Margins, and elsewhere. She currently resides in Ann Arbor Michigan where she is editing and querying her first full-length collection Some are Always Hungry. Follow her work on www.jihyunyun.com and on Twitter @jihyunyunpoetry.

Paige Morris: Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with Disoriented. First of all, could you tell me a little about yourself? Your essential or inessential biography, anything you deem noteworthy, is welcome.

Jihyun Yun: Thank you so much for reaching out! I’ve loved so much of what I’ve read on Disoriented and wholeheartedly support your mission, so I’m thrilled to be in dialogue now.

I’m a second-generation Korean-American. Though I was born and raised in California, Korean was my dominant tongue until I entered school, after which I swiftly and deliberately stopped using and forgot much of it. It’s a huge regret of mine that I’m trying to rectify now by practicing Korean as much as possible.

I came to poetry when I was a junior at UC Davis in California. Before then, I was a psychology major actively pursuing a career I wasn’t really equipped for in crisis counseling. The poem that flipped the switch in my head was Li Young Lee’s “Persimmons.” The way the poem handled identity and linguistic estrangement really spoke to me. That one poem was the reason I switched tracks so late in my undergrad to major in English and eventually enroll in New York University’s MFA program. It completely rerouted my life, which I am thankful for.

An inessential piece of biography is that I’m a complete glutton, and my love-language is food. My family and I cook for each other in lieu of saying I love you which I feel is true for many immigrant families. This is embarrassingly prevalent in my poetry.

PM: I, for one, love the centrality of food in your poems. I’m currently an MFA student myself, and in a recent class, a professor of mine—the poet Brenda Shaughnessy—said poets often spend their lives writing the same poem, carving smaller poems out of that one, writing variations on the same theme. How true would you say that is for you and your poetry? What would you say is the poem—the theme, the obsession, the question—you tend to circle back to in your work?

JY: (First of all, swoon. I love Brenda Shaughnessy’s work so much!) I would definitely agree with that idea, at least for myself. My work is obsessed with being the daughter of a family of immigrants, with my family history—particularly my Grandmother’s experience fleeing from North Korea during the war—and with food—both the having of and the dearth of, how food is informed by history or used as a vehicle to survive where you are othered. My poems really circle mostly around the lives of the women I love, so much so that my body of work is almost bereft of men. If they appear, they appear mostly as a vague, ominous force, like dangerous weather.

This vulturing around a handful of topics used to be a source of anxiety for me when I first began writing, but I no longer discredit myself for it. Navigating the same themes is a form of excavation for me. It’s interesting to read back on some of my very first poems about identity and those same obsessions I write about now, seeing how much internalized racism I still held in my throat at age 21, and understanding how far I’ve come.

PM: There are some fantastic, contemporary Korean American poets writing in diaspora today. The access each poet has to the place(s) they write about, from, and/or toward in their work, of course, varies. Some poets like Lee Herrick are said to be writing toward Korea from outside about topics like adoption, location, and exile. Other poets like Emily Jungmin Yoon write poems with dual sensitivities, rooted in both Korea and North America. Where in this diaspora, this conversation, do you see yourself and your poetry?

JY: I think I’m still trying to understand where I fit on this spectrum. On one hand, I know I am an inheritor of much of Korea’s modern history: my Grandparents both lived through the Japanese colonization of Korea and then the war, and my Great-Aunt was a “Western Princess,” a somewhat derogatory moniker that was used to refer to Korean prostitutes on US bases and camp-towns during the Korean War, many of which were conscripted into sexual labor via coercion and desperation. It’s impossible to feel unaffected by their testimonies I grew up listening to, and I believe it informs me in more ways than I fully understand. I feel a personal call to write towards them, but I know I must do so from the position of a guest, not fully rooted in either.

PM: Speaking of place, the first time I encountered your work was during a conference on Jeju Island in South Korea. You were a Fulbright scholar presenting your creative project, a collection of poems exploring the lives of the female divers, the Haenyeo (해녀), in Jeju and Busan. Can you talk about the origins of that project?

JY: I was actually encouraged to apply for the Fulbright grant by my thesis advisor, Yusef Komunyakaa. So many of my thesis poems were about family history and Korea, so when I told him that I’d actually never gone to Korea before except as a two-year-old, he insisted it would be important for me to experience living there.

I’ve been fascinated by the Haenyeo since I was young. My Grandma used to tell me stories, and I remember us watching a television documentary about the tradition together. I think when I first set out to write that project, I felt an urgency knowing that the tradition is slated to disappear in my lifetime.

About halfway through the grant, though, I noticed myself distancing from the project. Not because I was not interested and in awe of these women, but because I realized I wasn’t the right person for this task. I think this goes back to your question about where I see myself on the spectrum of Korean writers of diaspora. As a guest in the country with no familial ties to Jeju, I just ethically didn’t feel right about being the one to write this collection anymore.

I still continued to go observe and interact with the Haenyeo for the duration of my grant, but I no longer wrote poems about their work. Now my Fulbright work-in-progress manuscript is a long-form hybrid essay/memoir about my family’s immigration and repatriation, my feelings about failing the mission of my grant, and just basically being in Korea for the first time as a second-generation Korean. I’m realizing now that there is really no way for me to make that sound at all interesting, but I’m having a great time writing it.

PM: What is most salient to you now about the time you spent living in Korea?

JY: I lived in Busan on a street lined with love motels. A pickup truck drove down my alley every morning with a megaphone atop it announcing the price of hairtail and tilefish. The men on mopeds often nicked my ankles with the business cards they were paid to flick as they drove around the city. There was an old-school liquor store in my neighborhood run out of a grandma’s one-room home. When I went in to buy water or beer, she was usually behind a curtain watching TV. She would tell me to leave the money on the table and take whatever I need. I never even saw what she looks like. I spent many nights on Gwangalli beach, and the light show never failed to make me happy.

In Jeju, I helped a group of Haenyeo harvest a bunch of turban-conch from their shells. I did a homestay at one of the women’s home in a village where no one locked their doors. I went on a Jeju Massacre remembrance tour and listened to the testimony of a living survivor. I went to the basalt beaches and watched tourists enjoy themselves in the water. I took a volcanic rock back home with me in my pocket.

PM: How did your writing process change, if at all, while you were living in Korea?

JY: My time in Korea was such a gift in that it allowed me to treat writing as my full-time job, something I’d never experienced up to that point. In California and New York, I was always juggling writing with waitressing in order to make ends meet. In New York, I sometimes worked upwards of 50 hours a week and put writing on the backburner. I was lucky if I wrote one poem every few months. In Korea, I got to fully commit to immersing myself in the day-to-day life of the city, strike up lazy conversations with strangers and write for hours every day without guilt. Travelling was also a big part of my year in Korea. Most often to Jeju to talk to the Haenyeo, but also often to Uijeongbu, which is the city my mother was raised in and where my Grandparents have recently repatriated to.

PM: In what ways did your experience living in Korea inform your poetry, in the end?

JY: If living in Korea has informed my poetry in a significant way, I don’t think enough time has passed for me to detect it. As someone who had never travelled abroad before, I thought the transformation in my writing would be immediate and obvious, but it hasn’t really been so. Perhaps with more distance and time, though, I’ll look back and realize a shift had occurred without me even knowing it.

What I am thankful for are all the experiences and memories I have that I was able to render into poems. Like exploring Seoul with my Grandma and seeing the city through her eyes like a double-exposed film: the Seoul it is today and the Seoul it was in her youth. Revisiting her old elementary school, and the location where her first love’s cigarette factory used to stand (it’s a shopping complex now). Even if my general tone and way of writing experiences has not changed dramatically, I’m so glad to have so many memories catalogued to wrought poems out of.

PM: What draws you to places as subjects of poems? Are there other places you’re interested in writing about?

JY: This is also within Korea, but I regret never going to Iksan in Jeolla province during my Fulbright year, as that is where my Grandfather is from. My Grandfather’s early life has always been a bit of a question mark to me, but the bits and pieces I am told by my Mother and Grandmother are fascinating. I know he has some living relatives in Iksan, and I would love to talk to them. Whether or not I write about it would depend, though, as I’m not sure if there would be a permission there. But in the future, I would like to write about my Grandfather (and perhaps the other men in my life) more.

PM: What’s next for you? Are there any projects you’re excited to share, poetic or otherwise?

JY: An unexpected gift from my year on the Fulbright is that it helped me finish my first full-length collection of poems which I’d been working on since my MFA. I’m in the process of querying it now at various presses. In April, I am collaborating with The Visible Poetry Project and emerging filmmaker Damani Brissett on a short film based on my poem “All Female.” And I am steadily working on my aforementioned memoir, tentatively titled Our Blue the Hue of Thirst. I’ve never written memoir or lyric essay before and the newness is still giddying.

Photos provided by Jihyun Yun

#SouthKorea #Korea #Poetry #Inteview

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yoolee · 6 years

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SLBP Next Gen OC Babble

UH warning for Major Character Deaths (that did not necessarily occur in game – but did in history), exactly zilch consideration given to reality when it comes to offspring. And, to be fair, exactly zilch consideration given to much of anything. I’m just writing. WHO KNOWS what will come out until it’s done. Know how in greek mythology Athena just banged her way straight outta Zeus’s head, fully formed? Mood. I feel you Zeusy. I do.

These don’t all exist in the same time/AU? Though I also overlap them willy-nilly as I please. FEEL THE SELF-DISCIPLINE. (It feels like nothing. Nothing at all). This isn’t all of them. Just the ones that my fingers needed to get out of their system. I’m just along for the ride. If I ever add the rest it’ll be to this post.

BABY BOOKWORM (F): Brilliant, brutal, beautiful – looks like Saki, with Mitsun’s intellect behind it. In another time, she might have been a scholar, completely content (if somewhat cloistered) with her books and her studies, but war compromised her life in a big way. Her father was determined to protect her, but also wanted her to be able to protect herself, so he taught her swordmanship alongside her brother and retainers, and she looks enough like her twin brother that she’s not above swapping places with him to give herself more agency. Her father was beheaded by the Tokugawa for supporting Baby Monkey’s bid and as a result her relationship with aforementioned BM is strained at best. She blames him for a lot – including what she perceives is a weak will and inability to do anything with the power he was born with, but also feels tethered to him and his success because of how much her father loved him and her brother still does. She will push and push and push and push and is not entirely capable of accepting that she might be wrong in any given situation. Never relaxes. Permanently stuck in acerbic tongue rage mode with only rare, brief glimpses of Being Actually Human.

BABY BOOKWORM (M): A fast, fast thinker, but quiet about it. Grew up on stories of how wonderful Lord Hideyoshi is (and then was, in the past tense) so did his best to emulate until it became natural. Laid-back, friendly, but oh-so-manipulative. Comes across as the friendlier of the two, but is actually even more hard-wired to Logic over Emotion than his sister. Has a mind for tactics and strategy but doesn’t care to apply it – he’d rather be on the battlefield, in the middle of the mindlessness of it, than using his brain to bring it about. Gives the impression of a taut string about to be plucked, if you pay close enough attention, which most people don’t because next to the vibrating rage of his twin, he seems super chill. Never actually relaxes, though he tries, unless he’s around kids.

BABY MONKEY: His father was a farmer who became a soldier, and Baby Monkey is a soldier who wants to be a farmer. He craves peace and stability and can’t entirely stomach what’s necessary to attain it. Constantly feels like he is trying to live up to a myth. Genuinely kind person. Manipulative when he has to be, but not as good at it as his father, and each failure makes him feel a little smaller in his shadow. Happiest when the people around him are happy, so he gets back up every time and tries again, and tries desperately to shove down his own dislike for the spotlight so he can use to it to make them happy.

BABY TANUKI: Has the world—except for her father—wrapped around her delicate, darling fingers, and she might very well strangle it if given the chance. Doe-eyed and dear she is perceived as something of a simpleton, fragile and sweet and gentle and tender and loving and she is none of those things. She is calculating and vicious and quite nearly straight up immoral, except sufficiently unmotivated that for now it’s enough just to be adored by everyone and think them fools for it. There is a sort of seething fury at her lot in life, in knowing that troops won’t follow her into battle or bow at her feet in fear of the blood she’s spilled, and the only person who gets that is her father, who begrudgingly raised her to find power she clearly craves in other ways, without ever spelling out that what was what he was doing, trusting her to be smart enough and strong enough to take what she was taught and find some way to do what she wants once she figures out what that is. She is clever and capable, just doesn’t have a goal. The endless, endless mind games she plays and the adorations she collects are mostly a manifestation of the crushing boredom that comes from being a lady of the castle, as it were. Scary MF. Intense and deceitful. But for all her uncaring, she’s never actually really hurt anyone (maybe a few sore hearts) or been genuinely cruel – and in fact, she’s probably smoothed more situations and saved more souls in her quest to be loved and cherished by all than not. WILY.

BABY FLOWER: Loves her father but is painfully exasperated by him. She is his greatest treasure, most dearly loved, and even though he tells her that literally every time he sees her, she is always secretly happy to hear it, and the way her father’s quiet melancholy clears for just a moment when he does. Dutiful, responsible, serious and elegant, she genuinely enjoys being a Lady and all that it entails. Constantly, CONSTANTLY clamps down on her urge to gather and collect pretty things because she’s seen what it does but oh, OH how that impulse is there. Has had a crush on Ai for basically forever, but the older girl only sees her as a precious little sister and is pretty firm about that, to baby flower’s eternal heartbreak XD Can drink every Echigo retainer under the table, every time, without ever turning her cheeks pink, not that she does so often, because even if no one else can tell what happens to her mind when she takes that first sip she can, and the places she can go when she does frighten her, though she grimly appreciates knowing they are there if she needs them. Has an inherent nobility and grace that serve her very well.

BABY POET (Mitsuhide lol): COMPLICATED BUNDLE. Has an absolute, unbreakable, unbendable, unflinching code of honor. The world is black and white and there is no such thing as gray, and they live by that in a way most humans can’t manage or commit to. In a manner that often throws people though, they aren’t particularly judgey unless called on (usually by Baby Demon) to voice their thoughts, which are always, always honest and rarely easy to swallow. They don’t care what others do – it’s their own honor that matters, but it just makes them that much more of an astute observer, since they have little stake in others. They are incredibly perceptive and incredibly adept at getting to the heart of things in a way that can be unsettling if you haven’t been honest with yourself. Seems very quiet and polite and poetic—and to an extent, they are—but they also have a bit of a ‘burn down everything that is bad - including ourselves if are so - and start anew from the ashes’ take on life that can be, uh INTENSE. Not in any rush to do that – they’re pretty sure they’ll know when they’re called to do so. And they won’t flinch.

BABY DEMON: Solemn, quiet, serious, honorable. Saw a little too much a little too early and will spend his whole life trying to make up for debts that aren’t his – as well as the ones that are. Fully aware that if he manages to build the world in his vision there won’t be a place for him in it, which is probably why he hangs with Baby Poet, who knows it too. Often forgets about the little moments for himself – he works very hard to protect them for his followers (birthdays, blossom-viewing, weddings, good meals) but rarely, if ever, participates himself, until his retainers seek him out and drag him into it because they know he won’t break out of warlord mode without them forcing him to do so. Actually painfully shy and very, very sweet under it all, but ignores that because what value does that bring anyone?

BABY TIGER: Almost a carbon copy of his dad. Bold, brave, bigger than life. Charismatic and unstoppable, but not stupid (though he can be). Eyes are always shining about something. A realist who chooses to live as an optimist. Not a lord - the Takeda clan has been defeated by the time he is a teen, disbanded or absorbed into others, but he still loves people, and he is still a leader, and he will still protect anyone who asks it of him. Wanders hither and thither with Smolsuke, who chose to be his shadow like Sasuke was for his dad. Could care less about things like unity and Divine Rule - he cares about the people in front of him, and the lives they live now and what he has to do to keep them safe and make them better.

RANDOM RELATIONSHIPS:

Baby Bookworm (F) x Baby Tanuki: Should their paths ever cross they would loathe one another to their cores – mostly, yes, for the similarities simmering under the surface, the shared rage and brilliance. In particular, Tanuki would hate Bookworm for having the agency to go to battle, disguised as a man or not, and Bookworm would loathe her simply for the family she’s from and what they took from her, in addition to being a deceitful horror – because Bookworm would see through her instantly. Just like Tanuki would see through her and know just where to poke to make her hurt. IN THE MODERN WORLD they would be best friends who would rather die than admit a modicum of affection for one another, and probably occasionally contemplate murder, but would also be super chill roommies where Bookworm read and Tanuki murders throngs of zombies on a video game before getting dinner and bitching about the dumb people in their lives. Pants-wettingly TERRIFYING when they choose to be a united front.

Baby Bookworm (F) x Baby Monkey: Unadulterated rage and fearful sympathy. Bookworm hates him for not doing what she feels like he could be doing, not taking the power he has to make things better, and he feels guilt over what she’s lost and finds her presence exhausting (because it is). He also dislikes that she makes him feel inadequate, because it (possibly ironically, given her goals) makes it even harder to step up. Despite all of that, he really, truly wants her to be happy (in part, yes, out of his own guilt in her unhappiness) and that is motivating in its own way. They steer clear of one another, because it drains them both to go at it, which they do, every time, and so they spare themselves unless there’s no other choice.

Baby Brave x Baby Dragon: MEANT TO BE. Childhood love to something forever-lasting. They get to be happy because I said so. Fight me.

Baby Deer x Baby Jokester: They do settle! They stay in Europe for years until they decide it’s time for a family and they make their way back. Their parents know. Despite them supposedly running off without a trace, Nobuyuki shows up the day his first grandchild is born and kisses her brow before leaving, and a traveling merchant with a toothy grin sometimes stops by to deliver letters and goods that he refuses payment for. They don’t see their cousins, but their children meet theirs, someday.

Baby Flower x Baby Tiger: Baby tiger has been in love with her forever (or thinks he has been), but she pretty firmly prefers girls and has made that clear, so over time, they become best friends. Would not hesitate to die for one another, but they are both strong enough and smart enough and absolutely determined enough to manage to save the other’s ass without dying, because living for someone is so much better. He never quite gives up the torch he carries for her, but he tries to – even using her for advice on wooing and such XD since he’s pop’s ways work about 50% of the time.

Baby Bookworm (M) & Baby Monkey are also BFFS, as are Baby Tiger & Smolsuke

#sorry for shoving my BS tangential rambling on the fandom ^^;;;#I will try and keep it contained #I think it's mostly out of my system #slbp next gen

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reomanet · 6 years

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Remembering the Howard University Librarian Who Decolonized the Way Books Were Catalogued

Remembering the Howard University Librarian Who Decolonized the Way Books Were Catalogued Dorothy Porter challenged the racial bias in the Dewey Decimal System, putting black scholars alongside white colleagues Dorothy Porter in 1939, at her desk in the Carnegie Library at Howard University. (Moorland-Spingarn Research Center, Manuscript Division, Howard University) smithsonian.com November 26, 2018 In a 1995 interview with Linton Weeks of the Washington Post , the Howard University librarian, collector and self-described “bibliomaniac” Dorothy Porter reflected on the focus of her 43-year career: “The only rewarding thing for me is to bring to light information that no one knows. What’s the point of rehashing the same old thing?” For Porter, this mission involved not only collecting and preserving a wide range of materials related to the global black experience, but also addressing how these works demanded new and specific qualitative and quantitative approaches in order to collect, assess, and catalog them. As some librarians today contemplate ways to decolonize libraries—for example, to make them less reflective of Eurocentric ways of organizing knowledge—it is instructive to look to Porter as a progenitor of the movement. Starting with little, she used her tenacious curiosity to build one of the world’s leading repositories for black history and culture: Howard’s Moorland-Spingarn Research Center . But she also brought critical acumen to bear on the way the center’s materials were cataloged, rejecting commonly taught methods as too reflective of the way whites thought of the world. Working without a large budget, Porter used unconventional means to build the research center. She developed relationships with other book lovers and remained alert to any opportunity to acquire material. As Porter told Avril Johnson Madison in an oral history interview, “I think one of the best things I could have done was to become friends with book dealers… . I had no money, but I became friendly with them. I got their catalogs, and I remember many of them giving me books, you see. I appealed to publishers, ‘We have no money, but will you give us this book?’” Porter’s network extended to Brazil, England, France, Mexico—anywhere that she or one of her friends, including Alain Locke, Rayford Logan, Dorothy Peterson, Langston Hughes and Amy Spingarn, would travel. She also introduced to Howard leading figures like the historian Edison Carneiro of Brazil and pan-Africanist philosophers and statesmen Kwame Nkrumah and Eric Williams. As early as 1930, when she was appointed, Porter insisted that bringing Africana scholars and their works to campus was crucial not only to counter Eurocentric notions about blacks but also because, as she told Madison, “at that time . . . students weren’t interested in their African heritage. They weren’t interested in Africa or the Caribbean. They were really more interested in being like the white person.” Howard’s initial collections, which focused mainly on slavery and abolitionism, were substantially expanded through the 1915 gift of over 3,000 items from the personal library of the Reverend Jesse E. Moorland, a Howard alumnus and secretary of the Washington, DC, branch of the YMCA. In 1946, the university acquired the private library of Arthur B. Spingarn, a lawyer and longtime chair of the NAACP’s legal committee, as well as a confirmed bibliophile. He was particularly interested in the global black experience, and his collection included works by and about Black people in the Caribbean and South and Central America; rare materials in Latin from the early modern period; and works in Portuguese, Spanish, French, German, and many African languages, including Swahili, Kikuyu, Zulu, Yoruba, Vai, Ewe, Luganda, Ga, Sotho, Amharic, Hausa, Xhosa, and Luo. These two acquisitions formed the backbone of the Moorland-Spingarn collections. Porter was concerned about assigning value to the materials she collected—their intellectual and political value, certainly, but also their monetary value, since at the time other libraries had no expertise in pricing works by black authors. When Spingarn agreed to sell his collection to Howard, the university’s treasurer insisted that it be appraised externally. Since he did not want to rely on her assessment, Porter explained in her oral history, she turned to the Library of Congress’s appraiser. The appraiser took one look and said, “I cannot evaluate the collection. I do not know anything about black books. Will you write the report? . . . I’ll send it back to the treasurer.” The treasurer, thinking it the work of a white colleague, accepted it. This was not the only time that Porter had to create a workaround for a collection so as not to re-impose stereotyped ideas of black culture and Black scholarship. As Thomas C. Battle writes in a 1988 essay on the history of the Moorland-Spingarn Research Center, the breadth of the two collections showed the Howard librarians that “no American library had a suitable classification scheme for Black materials.” An “initial development of a satisfactory classification scheme,” writes Battle, was first undertaken by four women on the staff of the Howard University Library: Lula V. Allen, Edith Brown, Lula E. Conner and Rosa C. Hershaw. The idea was to prioritize the scholarly and intellectual significance and coherence of materials that had been marginalized by Eurocentric conceptions of knowledge and knowledge production. These women paved the way for Dorothy Porter’s new system, which departed from the prevailing catalog classifications in important ways. All of the libraries that Porter consulted for guidance relied on the Dewey Decimal Classification. “Now in [that] system, they had one number—326—that meant slavery, and they had one other number—325, as I recall it—that meant colonization,” she explained in her oral history. In many “white libraries,” she continued, “every book, whether it was a book of poems by James Weldon Johnson, who everyone knew was a black poet, went under 325. And that was stupid to me.” Consequently, instead of using the Dewey system, Porter classified works by genre and author to highlight the foundational role of black people in all subject areas, which she identified as art, anthropology, communications, demography, economics, education, geography, history, health, international relations, linguistics, literature, medicine, music, political science, sociology, sports, and religion. This Africana approach to cataloging was very much in line with the priorities of the Harlem Renaissance, as described by Howard University professor Alain Locke in his period-defining essay of 1925, “ Enter the New Negro .” Heralding the death of the “Old Negro” as an object of study and a problem for whites to manage, Locke proclaimed, “It is time to scrap the fictions, garret the bogeys and settle down to a realistic facing of facts.” Scholarship from a black perspective, Locke argued, would combat racist stereotypes and false narratives while celebrating the advent of black self-representation in art and politics. Porter’s classification system challenged racism where it was produced by centering work by and about black people within scholarly conversations around the world. The multi-lingual Porter, furthermore, anticipated an important current direction in African-American and African Diaspora studies: analyzing global circuits and historical entanglements and seeking to recover understudied archives throughout the world. In Porter’s spirit, this current work combats the effects of segmenting research on Black people along lines of nation and language, and it fights the gatekeeping function of many colonial archives. The results of Porter’s ambitions include rare and unusual items. The Howard music collections contain compositions by the likes of Antônio Carlos Gomes and José Mauricio Nunes Garcia of Brazil; Justin Elie of Haiti; Amadeo Roldán of Cuba; and Joseph Bologne, Chevalier de Saint-Georges of Guadeloupe. The linguistics subject area includes a character chart created by Thomas Narven Lewis, a Liberian medical doctor, who adapted the basic script of the Bassa language into one that could be accommodated by a printing machine. (This project threatened British authorities in Liberia, who had authorized only the English language to be taught in an attempt to quell anti-colonial activism.) Among the works available in African languages is the rare Otieno Jarieko , an illustrated book on sustainable agriculture by Barack H. Obama, father of the former U.S. president. Porter must be acknowledged for her efforts to address the marginalization of writing by and about black people through her revision of the Dewey system as well as for her promotion of those writings though a collection at an institution dedicated to highlighting its value by showing the centrality of that knowledge to all fields. Porter’s groundbreaking work provides a crucial backdrop for the work of contemporary scholars who explore the aftereffects of the segregation of knowledge through projects that decolonize, repatriate and redefine historical archives.