Monday, August 13, 2012
Harper's Magazine
The indefatigable gnomes at Gutenburg Schloss continue their inestimable task of reviving old tales for curious or nostalgic tragics such as I am. The number of books they revive and preserve is amazing. Many of the resulting recreations would only have relevance for people with a specific interest. But I am always pleased to browse the lists and to discover a gem or two which takes me back to the days of my youth, renewing acquaintance with Wells, Burroughs, Haggard, Chesterton, Dumas and so many more.
A recent visit to the stock piles resulted in my discovery of the early printings of Harper's New Magazine, an American endeavour inaugurated in the 1850s to provide access to world-wide writers of quality. These monthly collections include articles from other magazines or serialized novels covering fiction and items of social and scientific interest at that period. The variety is rich. Naturally there is some dross, but also a variety of riches with pleasant surprises. They frequently feature extracts from my old friend Charlie Dickens who was currently publishing his weekly periodical,"Household Words". So I have decided to apprentice myself to Harper's Magazine for a while to see if it can refresh congealing grey matter a little.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Remembering Charlie
This year is the 200th anniversary of the birth of one of the greatest English wordsmiths, Charles Dickens. Recently, people all over the world celebrated his arrival and the subsequent creation of his literary outpourings. Dickens used his intimate knowledge of London's occupants and environs to freeze Victorian social mores for millions of devoted readers. His creative process was a difficult one, as so many of his books and sketches were written under pressure as weekly episodes for magazines. He managed his task so well that fans anxiously awaited the next instalment as if it was a Victorian "Home & Away" production. He had (and has) his detractors, but his true devotees, of whom I am one, can read his stories again and again and still get pleasure from them.
Dickens himself was a complex character, and his story is as interesting as any fiction he created. It seems that so many great writers and poets were egocentric to such an extent that they were unaware of, or ignored, the sensitivities of others. Dickens could be generous and charming; he could write stories that showed a deep knowledge of human emotions but he frequently treated his family, and in particular his wife, abominably. It is humbling to think that even the greatest have flaws.
Dickens himself was a complex character, and his story is as interesting as any fiction he created. It seems that so many great writers and poets were egocentric to such an extent that they were unaware of, or ignored, the sensitivities of others. Dickens could be generous and charming; he could write stories that showed a deep knowledge of human emotions but he frequently treated his family, and in particular his wife, abominably. It is humbling to think that even the greatest have flaws.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
The Blogg Identity
Recently, as I was making one of my sporadic attempts to tidy my work environment, both physical and technological, I came upon a dusty container crowded with dormant Bloggs who had been hiding away since 2010. [I'm fairly sure there was no Anna Frank Blogg amongst them]. For the uninitiated, a Blog is a series of ad hoc communications per medium of the Internet, and Bloggs are the fragile creatures that inhabit this world. They have varied personalities. Some are of serious mien, posing as deep thinkers; others have a humorous vein, prone to exaggeration and oddballitis; while a few,unfortunately,are light-weight creatures whose main claim to fame is their ability to fill blank space with inanities and trivialities.
It was quite pleasant renewing acquaintance with these Bloggs, and they happily reminded me of events and attitudes that were prevalent a couple of years ago. Whether they have any relevance today is very debatable, but they aroused enough enthusiasm to encourage me to add a few more members to the clan. Regularity and longevity cannot be guaranteed, but I am looking forward to exercising my brain and imagination while the tools are at hand. Incidentally, I have been advised that some of these Bloggs come from the Turgid family. This doesn't really matter. Anything goes and there is room for everyone in our mansion.
It was quite pleasant renewing acquaintance with these Bloggs, and they happily reminded me of events and attitudes that were prevalent a couple of years ago. Whether they have any relevance today is very debatable, but they aroused enough enthusiasm to encourage me to add a few more members to the clan. Regularity and longevity cannot be guaranteed, but I am looking forward to exercising my brain and imagination while the tools are at hand. Incidentally, I have been advised that some of these Bloggs come from the Turgid family. This doesn't really matter. Anything goes and there is room for everyone in our mansion.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Literary Decisions
For the average, non-expert aficionado of novel reading, there is often a need for assistance in decision-making so that time and effort are not expended unnecessarly upon inferior material. There are always "experts" and amateurs who will perform this task in a modest but assured manner. One of the earliest of these kindly guides was an American, George Ade, who produced a book called "Fables in Slang" in 1899 from column extracts in the "Chicago Record" newspaper. Here is one of his Fables.
THE FABLE OF THE MAN WHO DIDN'T CARE FOR STORYBOOKS
Once there was a blue Dyspeptic, who attempted to Kill Time by reading Novels, until he discovered that all Books of Fiction were a Mockery.
After a prolonged Experience he came to know that every Specimen of Light Reading belonged to one of the following Divisions:
1. The Book that Promises well until you reach the Plot, and then you Remember that you read it Summer before last.
2. The book with the Author's Picture as a Frontispiece. The Author is very Cocky. He has his Overcoat thrown back, so as to reveal the Silk Lining. That Settles it!
3. The Book that runs into a Snarl of Dialect on the third Page and never gets out.
4. The delectable Yarn about a Door-Mat Thief, who truly loves the Opium Fiend. Jolly Story of the Slums.
5. The Book that begins with a twenty-page Description of Sloppy Weather: "Long swirls of riven Rain beat somberly upon the misty Panes," etc., etc.
You turn to the last Chapter to see if it Rains all the way through the Book. This last Chapter is a Give-Away. It condenses the whole Plot and dishes up the Conclusion. After that, who would have the Nerve to wade through the Two Hundred and Forty intermediate Pages?
6. The Book in which the Pictures tell the Story. After you have seen the Pictures there is no need to wrestle with the Text.
7. The Book that begins with a Murder Mystery—charming Picture of Gray-Haired Man discovered Dead in his Library—Blood splashed all over the Furniture—Knife of Curious Design lying on Floor.
You know at once that the most Respected and least suspected Personage in the Book committed the awful Crime, but you haven't the Heart to Track him down and compel him to commit Suicide.
8. The Book that gets away with one Man asking another: "By Jove, who is that Dazzling Beauty in the Box?"
The Man who asks this Question has a Name which sounds like the Title of a Sleeping Car.
You feel instinctively that he is going to be all Mixed Up with that Girl in the Box before Chapter XII. is reached; but who can take any real Interest in the Love Affairs of a Man with such a Name?
9. The Book that tells all about Society and how Tough it is. Even the Women drink Brandy and Soda, smoke Cigarettes, and Gamble. The clever Man of the World, who says all the Killing Things, is almost as Funny as Ally Sloper. An irritable Person, after reading nine Chapters of this kind of High Life, would be ready to go Home and throw his Grandmother into the Fire.
10. The dull, gray Book, or the Simple Annals of John Gardensass. A Careful Study of American Life.
In Chapter I. he walks along the Lane, stepping first on one Foot and then on the Other, enters a House by the Door, and sits in a four-legged wooden Chair, looking out through a Window with Glass in it. Book denotes careful Observation. Nothing happens until Page 150. Then John decides to sell the Cow. In the Final Chapter he sits on a Fence and Whittles. True Story, but What's the Use?
Why continue? The Dyspeptic said that when he wanted something really Fresh and Original in the Line of Fiction he read the Prospectus of a Mining Corporation.
Moral: Only the more Rugged Mortals should attempt to Keep Up on Current Literature.
THE FABLE OF THE MAN WHO DIDN'T CARE FOR STORYBOOKS
Once there was a blue Dyspeptic, who attempted to Kill Time by reading Novels, until he discovered that all Books of Fiction were a Mockery.
After a prolonged Experience he came to know that every Specimen of Light Reading belonged to one of the following Divisions:
1. The Book that Promises well until you reach the Plot, and then you Remember that you read it Summer before last.
2. The book with the Author's Picture as a Frontispiece. The Author is very Cocky. He has his Overcoat thrown back, so as to reveal the Silk Lining. That Settles it!
3. The Book that runs into a Snarl of Dialect on the third Page and never gets out.
4. The delectable Yarn about a Door-Mat Thief, who truly loves the Opium Fiend. Jolly Story of the Slums.
5. The Book that begins with a twenty-page Description of Sloppy Weather: "Long swirls of riven Rain beat somberly upon the misty Panes," etc., etc.
You turn to the last Chapter to see if it Rains all the way through the Book. This last Chapter is a Give-Away. It condenses the whole Plot and dishes up the Conclusion. After that, who would have the Nerve to wade through the Two Hundred and Forty intermediate Pages?
6. The Book in which the Pictures tell the Story. After you have seen the Pictures there is no need to wrestle with the Text.
7. The Book that begins with a Murder Mystery—charming Picture of Gray-Haired Man discovered Dead in his Library—Blood splashed all over the Furniture—Knife of Curious Design lying on Floor.
You know at once that the most Respected and least suspected Personage in the Book committed the awful Crime, but you haven't the Heart to Track him down and compel him to commit Suicide.
8. The Book that gets away with one Man asking another: "By Jove, who is that Dazzling Beauty in the Box?"
The Man who asks this Question has a Name which sounds like the Title of a Sleeping Car.
You feel instinctively that he is going to be all Mixed Up with that Girl in the Box before Chapter XII. is reached; but who can take any real Interest in the Love Affairs of a Man with such a Name?
9. The Book that tells all about Society and how Tough it is. Even the Women drink Brandy and Soda, smoke Cigarettes, and Gamble. The clever Man of the World, who says all the Killing Things, is almost as Funny as Ally Sloper. An irritable Person, after reading nine Chapters of this kind of High Life, would be ready to go Home and throw his Grandmother into the Fire.
10. The dull, gray Book, or the Simple Annals of John Gardensass. A Careful Study of American Life.
In Chapter I. he walks along the Lane, stepping first on one Foot and then on the Other, enters a House by the Door, and sits in a four-legged wooden Chair, looking out through a Window with Glass in it. Book denotes careful Observation. Nothing happens until Page 150. Then John decides to sell the Cow. In the Final Chapter he sits on a Fence and Whittles. True Story, but What's the Use?
Why continue? The Dyspeptic said that when he wanted something really Fresh and Original in the Line of Fiction he read the Prospectus of a Mining Corporation.
Moral: Only the more Rugged Mortals should attempt to Keep Up on Current Literature.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Fabulous Renewal
The observant reader will have noticed a lengthy sabbatical by Wordsmith as he once again dabbled in the time-consuming practice of Family Genealogy. Although the research in this area is never done, it is time to put away the charts for a while. So here he is again at the bench hammering away at another artifact.
Reverting to the First Person, I must report that I have recently rediscovered Aesop and his marvellous fables. It must be acknowledged that many of the 650+ fables credited to Aesop through the good work of his publicists were in existence long before the birth of this philosophical character, and many more were added over the Centuries. It is convenient to subsume all under his name, an Aesopean Genre. Several of these fables used to be found in School Readers for various grades, back in a time when there was a much greater emphasis upon good behaviour and character building in official textbooks.
I have just become reacquainted with one of these, the meeting between Androcles and the Lion. The moral of this fable was "Gratitude is the sign of noble souls". I was never sure whether this referred to Androcles or the Lion. I think we were advised that it would always be best to be kind to all animals. In our walks through the Australian bush, I have constantly been on the alert for lions in trouble, but have so far not discovered any. The Australian animals I have come across have generally scuttled quickly away before I could render any assistance to them. Having a noble soul and being unable to find a recipient for your kindness can be very frustrating. Maybe one of the other Fables will give me more scope for character-building.
Reverting to the First Person, I must report that I have recently rediscovered Aesop and his marvellous fables. It must be acknowledged that many of the 650+ fables credited to Aesop through the good work of his publicists were in existence long before the birth of this philosophical character, and many more were added over the Centuries. It is convenient to subsume all under his name, an Aesopean Genre. Several of these fables used to be found in School Readers for various grades, back in a time when there was a much greater emphasis upon good behaviour and character building in official textbooks.
I have just become reacquainted with one of these, the meeting between Androcles and the Lion. The moral of this fable was "Gratitude is the sign of noble souls". I was never sure whether this referred to Androcles or the Lion. I think we were advised that it would always be best to be kind to all animals. In our walks through the Australian bush, I have constantly been on the alert for lions in trouble, but have so far not discovered any. The Australian animals I have come across have generally scuttled quickly away before I could render any assistance to them. Having a noble soul and being unable to find a recipient for your kindness can be very frustrating. Maybe one of the other Fables will give me more scope for character-building.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Questions from A Telling Sign
Everyone knows that Wordsmith Mansion is situated on the side of a long-extinct volcanic cinder cone that is now called Halloran's Hill, (sometimes written with an apostrophe; more frequently without). Apart from a small patch of forest, this hill area was cleared by and named after a farmer named Halloran.
In order to encourage visitors and locals to visit our mansion and to enjoy the great scene from the summit of the hill, there have been 10 directional or tourism signs erected in aproximately 1.5 kilometres from the edge of the CBD (Central Business District for commercial cognoscenti). The Word Police have reported that a crime has been committed with the erection of an eleventh sign to guide befuddled voyagers. Obviously, someone in Council decided that the message was not getting through, or they hadn't spent this year's signage allocation, so a very large sign was commissioned to be set up about 50 metres from two existing signs, thus providing a bit more reading material for motorists about to negotiate the Robert Street roundabout.
It would be interesting to discover just how many people were involved in the planning and implementation of this project. Did Councillors debate and decide before adding to Atherton's sign collection ? Did they pass their decision onto a CEO and other Council office employees ? Was there one decision-maker who signed off on the wording, layout, etc. before involving a sign-writing firm or council sub-section where specialists in the construction of such creations went into action ? Was there a council representative who okayed the finished product before passing it on to the labouring force to erect in the Main Street ? A crew of at least 4 men would have toiled assiduously for at least one day to erect the sign and stand back, tired but proud of their masterpiece.
There was only one small problem overlooked ! The name "Hallorans" had been misspelt with the transposition of two vowels to create "Hallarons Hill". What will happen now ? How long will this visual affront remain to provide bewilderment and amusement for visitors and locals? Will the sign remain untouched, or will the whole process have to be repeated at further cost? Will the offending section be merely covered over with a remedial patch ? Mr Halloran must be turning in his grave with anger or amusement !
In order to encourage visitors and locals to visit our mansion and to enjoy the great scene from the summit of the hill, there have been 10 directional or tourism signs erected in aproximately 1.5 kilometres from the edge of the CBD (Central Business District for commercial cognoscenti). The Word Police have reported that a crime has been committed with the erection of an eleventh sign to guide befuddled voyagers. Obviously, someone in Council decided that the message was not getting through, or they hadn't spent this year's signage allocation, so a very large sign was commissioned to be set up about 50 metres from two existing signs, thus providing a bit more reading material for motorists about to negotiate the Robert Street roundabout.
It would be interesting to discover just how many people were involved in the planning and implementation of this project. Did Councillors debate and decide before adding to Atherton's sign collection ? Did they pass their decision onto a CEO and other Council office employees ? Was there one decision-maker who signed off on the wording, layout, etc. before involving a sign-writing firm or council sub-section where specialists in the construction of such creations went into action ? Was there a council representative who okayed the finished product before passing it on to the labouring force to erect in the Main Street ? A crew of at least 4 men would have toiled assiduously for at least one day to erect the sign and stand back, tired but proud of their masterpiece.
There was only one small problem overlooked ! The name "Hallorans" had been misspelt with the transposition of two vowels to create "Hallarons Hill". What will happen now ? How long will this visual affront remain to provide bewilderment and amusement for visitors and locals? Will the sign remain untouched, or will the whole process have to be repeated at further cost? Will the offending section be merely covered over with a remedial patch ? Mr Halloran must be turning in his grave with anger or amusement !
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Words of War
Another Anzac Day has passed by and thousands of families have remembered departed relatives, victims of Man's inhumanity to his own kind. They deserve to be mourned, but they did not deserve to be brutally killed. Behind the military smokescreen of "glory" words such as valour, heroism, sacrifice, honour, pride and discipline, little is ever said of political opportunism, moral blackmail, soul-destroying physical and emotional bombardment, business venality and the sorrows of families deprived of loved ones because of incompetence, ignorance and self-inflated egos of supposed leaders.
This year, because I am once more working on Okey genealogy, I try to think of how Mrs W's ancestors felt with their tragic series of losses. Grandfather John Okey was a grocer before WW1, surely a most unmilitary occupation. He was sent off to fight in North Africa and later to the mud and madness of France, leaving behind a wife and young family to struggle financially, socially and emotionally. The "Great War" ended on 11th November 1918. John was killed in action on 10th September 1918 at the Somme, only two months before the official armistice. He was part of an unnecessary ongoing conflict, when leaders on both sides were aware that Germany's defeat had been obtained.
Only one day earlier, 9th September 1918, John's cousin, Whitfield Okey, had died of wounds incurred in the same area of conflict in France. To complete the tragedy of "threes", John's young brother, Norris Okey, though unfit for service overseas, joined the Territorial Army which allowed service in the UK only. During his 1 year 3 months service, Norris was hospitalised for heart and other illnesses. He was discharged and began another personal battle with beaucracy to obtain a pension. As he seemed about to have some success, he died on 17th January 1919, 2 months after the war's end (4 months after the death of his brother). The Okeys had lost 3 close family in 4 months at the end of the lengthy, brutal, often mismanaged fight between "civilized" nations. The Okey family must have been distraught and confused and despairing, and this situation would have been mirrored in the homes of thousands of grieving families.
It is very difficult to create a balance sheet that shows how all the misery, fear, pain and frustration for combatants and their families was necessary for national pride, financial opportunism, territorial ambitions accompanied by irrational decision-making.
The slogan appropriately says "Lest We Forget", but sometimes I think that perhaps we just never knew !
This year, because I am once more working on Okey genealogy, I try to think of how Mrs W's ancestors felt with their tragic series of losses. Grandfather John Okey was a grocer before WW1, surely a most unmilitary occupation. He was sent off to fight in North Africa and later to the mud and madness of France, leaving behind a wife and young family to struggle financially, socially and emotionally. The "Great War" ended on 11th November 1918. John was killed in action on 10th September 1918 at the Somme, only two months before the official armistice. He was part of an unnecessary ongoing conflict, when leaders on both sides were aware that Germany's defeat had been obtained.
Only one day earlier, 9th September 1918, John's cousin, Whitfield Okey, had died of wounds incurred in the same area of conflict in France. To complete the tragedy of "threes", John's young brother, Norris Okey, though unfit for service overseas, joined the Territorial Army which allowed service in the UK only. During his 1 year 3 months service, Norris was hospitalised for heart and other illnesses. He was discharged and began another personal battle with beaucracy to obtain a pension. As he seemed about to have some success, he died on 17th January 1919, 2 months after the war's end (4 months after the death of his brother). The Okeys had lost 3 close family in 4 months at the end of the lengthy, brutal, often mismanaged fight between "civilized" nations. The Okey family must have been distraught and confused and despairing, and this situation would have been mirrored in the homes of thousands of grieving families.
It is very difficult to create a balance sheet that shows how all the misery, fear, pain and frustration for combatants and their families was necessary for national pride, financial opportunism, territorial ambitions accompanied by irrational decision-making.
The slogan appropriately says "Lest We Forget", but sometimes I think that perhaps we just never knew !
Monday, April 26, 2010
How Do I love thee ?
Sometimes, as I listen to the unintelligible screamed garbage hurled at young people by their musical idols, or read truncated phone messages or coded Face Book entries, I wonder how lovers of today express themselves. Are their messages stored away lovingly, or are they unworthy of remembrance ? I realize that "poetry" can be superficial or pretentious at times but it is a hard heart that would not be moved by the following.
In the Victorian era, Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote one of the loveliest and most enduring love poems. It is well worth visiting once again.
How shall I love thee ? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when being out sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life ! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Perhaps, being modern, you prefer something briefer.
If, instead of being a petite Victorian lady, the writer was one of the following, the answer to this question may have been different.
How do I Love thee ?
Cardiologist ...with all my heart.
Marathon Runner ... all the way.
Indian ... without reservation.
Contortionist ... head over heels
Psychoanalyst .. unshrinkingly
Dieter ... through thick and thin.
Wheelwright ... tirelessly.
Farmer ... whole hog.
Coturier ... in my fashion.
Now, a return to sanity. There is a temptation to look at "The Birthday" by Christina Georgina Rosetti. But let's see how a male looks at this Question. In Sonnet 18, my friend William S. says;
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath too short a date:
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as man can breath, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
And finally, a cheeky entry of the Wordsmith's cellared for maturity half a dozen years ago. There is no claim to parity with the words that have gone before. It is simply a modest addendum.
Come with me and share my life;
Green are the hills and clear the rippling streams.
Abandon all this crazy noise and strife,
Enjoy with me some space and time for dreams.
The clock of nature moves with slower beat,
Untrammelled by the artificial goals
That cities force unseeing slaves to meet,
Squeezing their lives and shrivelling their souls.
The wooded fields and endless skies expand
Each sense to open every door;
Horizons beckon with a promise grand,
Their changing sameness blending peace with awe.
Together we will spurn the world,
Needing no other, if you would be my wife.
Our flag of passion waits to be unfurled;
Oh, come with me and be my Life !
In the Victorian era, Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote one of the loveliest and most enduring love poems. It is well worth visiting once again.
How shall I love thee ? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when being out sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life ! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Perhaps, being modern, you prefer something briefer.
If, instead of being a petite Victorian lady, the writer was one of the following, the answer to this question may have been different.
How do I Love thee ?
Cardiologist ...with all my heart.
Marathon Runner ... all the way.
Indian ... without reservation.
Contortionist ... head over heels
Psychoanalyst .. unshrinkingly
Dieter ... through thick and thin.
Wheelwright ... tirelessly.
Farmer ... whole hog.
Coturier ... in my fashion.
Now, a return to sanity. There is a temptation to look at "The Birthday" by Christina Georgina Rosetti. But let's see how a male looks at this Question. In Sonnet 18, my friend William S. says;
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath too short a date:
Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as man can breath, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
And finally, a cheeky entry of the Wordsmith's cellared for maturity half a dozen years ago. There is no claim to parity with the words that have gone before. It is simply a modest addendum.
Come with me and share my life;
Green are the hills and clear the rippling streams.
Abandon all this crazy noise and strife,
Enjoy with me some space and time for dreams.
The clock of nature moves with slower beat,
Untrammelled by the artificial goals
That cities force unseeing slaves to meet,
Squeezing their lives and shrivelling their souls.
The wooded fields and endless skies expand
Each sense to open every door;
Horizons beckon with a promise grand,
Their changing sameness blending peace with awe.
Together we will spurn the world,
Needing no other, if you would be my wife.
Our flag of passion waits to be unfurled;
Oh, come with me and be my Life !
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Misty Mountains Odyssey
Since coming to dwell on the Tablelands, we have neglected our usual practice of poking around in every available corner, and some less accessible ones also, until we know as much as, or more than, most of the locals. To give credit where it is undeniably due, the history and geography of this area has been documented better than most, and history groups continue to make more and more information available. To return to our present personal exploratory inadequacies, we are slowly getting back on track and we are determined to travel the highways and byways of the district. There is so much variety in such a relatively small area that there can be no valid excuse not to get out and appreciate it.
This week our trip, encouraged by the Southern Overlanders, was up into a pocket of the misty mountains to mythical Topaz. This is a tiny collection of scattered farm houses hidden in the scrub at the end of an isolated road. It could not be described as a township or even a village. It is a former gold-mining area, but there is little to be seen of its gloriy days, especially as mist accompanied us all morning, muddy tracks proved uninviting and grass and scrub had reclaimed so much of the country. Mt Bartle Frere is within sight of the area, and there is a designated walking track to its summit, a trip that sadly we would be unable to accomplish these days. The Lone Ranger has walked this track and camped at the summit, an enviable journey, even with its accompanying discomforts; e.g. leeches behind the eyelids. We confined our efforts to a mobile exploration until the road had reached a point of petering out.
Throughout the trip we were shrouded in mist or fog. Topaz is quite high and because of its position on the slopes of the range it is frequently mentioned on evening TV as being among the top rainfall areas. Its nearest centre is a damp little village called Butchers Creek which has the luxury of a school and a decrepit Local Hall. On a lot of the hill-tops and upper slopes there are tea plantations, (some in an overgrown, neglected state). These individual farms sell their harvest of tea tips to the Nerada Tea Plantation for blending etc. We visited the Plantation to browse its history and sample some of its brews.
After descending the mountains, we visited the Malanda Tourist Information Centre where there is an excellent small display of local history, photos, nature information and lots of books produced by the hard-working Eacham Historical Society. We finally arrived home having had a lovely morning, despite inclement weather. We feel that we are beginning to live up to our previous standards of inquiry and look forward to our next excursion.
P.S. We heard on this morning's news report that the Malanda Tourist Centre had been destroyed by fire. This will be a great historical loss and we feel deeply for all those people who had worked so diligently for so long to build a fine presentation.
This is a good example of why we should visit and examine as much as possible at every opportunity. Do not put them off ! They may not be there next time you come around !!
This week our trip, encouraged by the Southern Overlanders, was up into a pocket of the misty mountains to mythical Topaz. This is a tiny collection of scattered farm houses hidden in the scrub at the end of an isolated road. It could not be described as a township or even a village. It is a former gold-mining area, but there is little to be seen of its gloriy days, especially as mist accompanied us all morning, muddy tracks proved uninviting and grass and scrub had reclaimed so much of the country. Mt Bartle Frere is within sight of the area, and there is a designated walking track to its summit, a trip that sadly we would be unable to accomplish these days. The Lone Ranger has walked this track and camped at the summit, an enviable journey, even with its accompanying discomforts; e.g. leeches behind the eyelids. We confined our efforts to a mobile exploration until the road had reached a point of petering out.
Throughout the trip we were shrouded in mist or fog. Topaz is quite high and because of its position on the slopes of the range it is frequently mentioned on evening TV as being among the top rainfall areas. Its nearest centre is a damp little village called Butchers Creek which has the luxury of a school and a decrepit Local Hall. On a lot of the hill-tops and upper slopes there are tea plantations, (some in an overgrown, neglected state). These individual farms sell their harvest of tea tips to the Nerada Tea Plantation for blending etc. We visited the Plantation to browse its history and sample some of its brews.
After descending the mountains, we visited the Malanda Tourist Information Centre where there is an excellent small display of local history, photos, nature information and lots of books produced by the hard-working Eacham Historical Society. We finally arrived home having had a lovely morning, despite inclement weather. We feel that we are beginning to live up to our previous standards of inquiry and look forward to our next excursion.
P.S. We heard on this morning's news report that the Malanda Tourist Centre had been destroyed by fire. This will be a great historical loss and we feel deeply for all those people who had worked so diligently for so long to build a fine presentation.
This is a good example of why we should visit and examine as much as possible at every opportunity. Do not put them off ! They may not be there next time you come around !!
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Whining and Dining
Recent reports from the Vineyard indicate that there is a glut of wine on the market at present. Sales are declining and many grape growers could cease production, leaving a few large companies controlling the industry. I hadn't realized that my semi-abstemious approach to alcohol use could have such far-reaching consequences. I suppose that I should follow the current political posturing and say that I am Very Sorry and the "Buck Stops With Me". However, I feel that there are other factors influencing this decline; competition, expansion, advertising overkill, greed and lack of availability of pleasure-money. It would be a pity if the wide range of wines currently filling the shelves of the wine cellars should diminish.
Once upon a time, the large wine producers had a "take it or leave it" approach to presenting their wares. The relatively plain labelling was dignified with an occasional flourish or two. Gradually, smaller boutique wineries found space on the shelves and began to revolutionise wine choices. Colourful pictures began to decorate bottles, and even cartoons appealed to the quirky tastes of some customers, while the names of Vineyards ranged from Geographic to Eccentric ...Mount Erebus Estate, Loaded Dog, Twin Virgins, Limestone Manor ...
Browsing the shelves of the bright, fluoro-lit commercial distributors and trying to make a decision has become as exciting and time consuming as selecting books from a well stocked library. Variety and visual excitement present a formidable challenge. This feeling is somewhat diminished when the home cellar is consulted. Half a dozen dusty bottles in the dark rear of a clothes cupboard does not induce the same pleasureable indecision.
The creation of reverse-side information has also contributed to the mystique of wine choices. If bottles reverted to former plain identification of products, how would imbibers know what to do with the contents. Former connoisseurs who spent so much time sniffing a modicum of wine in the bottom of a large glass in search of the scent of mountainside magnolias with just a suspicion of chamomile and a lingering licorice aroma will no longer know what to do with their wine, other than to drink it. They will also miss being guided into other fields of sensory exploration. When they finally taste the product, how will they be able to differentiate between the subtle flavour of burnt artichoke with a memory of ripe blueberries and the brisk assault of mellow watermelon with an undercurrent of wild choko, unless they have the experts' written guidance.
Finally, what about those poor cooks who will be left standing among their paraphernalia of ingredients, with gaping mouth and glazed eye like a defunct Murray Cod, unable to decide what would be an appropriate dish to accompany the chosen wine. This decline of the initiation into and guidance through the mysterious, esoteric world of wine imbibing would be sadly missed. It's time for everyone to help reverse this dire situation. Personally, I am off to spend an hour or so in selecting a couple of bottles of elixir to supplement our cellar.
Once upon a time, the large wine producers had a "take it or leave it" approach to presenting their wares. The relatively plain labelling was dignified with an occasional flourish or two. Gradually, smaller boutique wineries found space on the shelves and began to revolutionise wine choices. Colourful pictures began to decorate bottles, and even cartoons appealed to the quirky tastes of some customers, while the names of Vineyards ranged from Geographic to Eccentric ...Mount Erebus Estate, Loaded Dog, Twin Virgins, Limestone Manor ...
Browsing the shelves of the bright, fluoro-lit commercial distributors and trying to make a decision has become as exciting and time consuming as selecting books from a well stocked library. Variety and visual excitement present a formidable challenge. This feeling is somewhat diminished when the home cellar is consulted. Half a dozen dusty bottles in the dark rear of a clothes cupboard does not induce the same pleasureable indecision.
The creation of reverse-side information has also contributed to the mystique of wine choices. If bottles reverted to former plain identification of products, how would imbibers know what to do with the contents. Former connoisseurs who spent so much time sniffing a modicum of wine in the bottom of a large glass in search of the scent of mountainside magnolias with just a suspicion of chamomile and a lingering licorice aroma will no longer know what to do with their wine, other than to drink it. They will also miss being guided into other fields of sensory exploration. When they finally taste the product, how will they be able to differentiate between the subtle flavour of burnt artichoke with a memory of ripe blueberries and the brisk assault of mellow watermelon with an undercurrent of wild choko, unless they have the experts' written guidance.
Finally, what about those poor cooks who will be left standing among their paraphernalia of ingredients, with gaping mouth and glazed eye like a defunct Murray Cod, unable to decide what would be an appropriate dish to accompany the chosen wine. This decline of the initiation into and guidance through the mysterious, esoteric world of wine imbibing would be sadly missed. It's time for everyone to help reverse this dire situation. Personally, I am off to spend an hour or so in selecting a couple of bottles of elixir to supplement our cellar.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Odd Occupational Words
All occupations develop their own language. Sometimes these words remain a trade secret, seldom known or used by outsiders. A few breach the barriers and are absorbed into everyday speech, at times with an altered meaning.
Here are some examples from a Cartoonist's Lexicon. Whether they are archaic and deceased or still in active use I cannot say.
Did you know ?
BLURGITS or SWALLOOPS are the curved lines after running feet.
BRIFFITS are clouds of dust left by a runner; also showing anger or fighting.
SPURLS are the coils indicating drunkenness.
SQUEENS are star-bursts or circles indicating intoxication, sickness or dizziness.
PLEWDS are sweat drops, tear drops, etc.
WAFTEROMS are odour lines.
AGITRONS are wiggly lines around an object that is shaking.
DITES are diagonal lines drawn across something flat and clear such as windows, mirrors, etc.
HITES are horizontal straight lines tracking after something with great speed, or falling from a height.
VITES are vertical lines indcating reflectivity.
INDOTHERMS are wavy rising lines indicating steam or heat from hot objects.
LUCAFLECT is a shiny spot on an object.
SOLARADS are radiation lines from something luminous; sun or light bulbs.
STAGGERATRON is the series of dashes that show an erratic path.
OCCULAMAS are giant Xs on eyes to show the character is dead.
Finally, swearing is so popular that it has more than one name. So a speech balloon with swear-word symbols can be called a GRAWLIX, NITTLE, JARN, QUIMP or a VULGARAT.
See how many can be found in your next interaction with a Cartoon.
Here are some examples from a Cartoonist's Lexicon. Whether they are archaic and deceased or still in active use I cannot say.
Did you know ?
BLURGITS or SWALLOOPS are the curved lines after running feet.
BRIFFITS are clouds of dust left by a runner; also showing anger or fighting.
SPURLS are the coils indicating drunkenness.
SQUEENS are star-bursts or circles indicating intoxication, sickness or dizziness.
PLEWDS are sweat drops, tear drops, etc.
WAFTEROMS are odour lines.
AGITRONS are wiggly lines around an object that is shaking.
DITES are diagonal lines drawn across something flat and clear such as windows, mirrors, etc.
HITES are horizontal straight lines tracking after something with great speed, or falling from a height.
VITES are vertical lines indcating reflectivity.
INDOTHERMS are wavy rising lines indicating steam or heat from hot objects.
LUCAFLECT is a shiny spot on an object.
SOLARADS are radiation lines from something luminous; sun or light bulbs.
STAGGERATRON is the series of dashes that show an erratic path.
OCCULAMAS are giant Xs on eyes to show the character is dead.
Finally, swearing is so popular that it has more than one name. So a speech balloon with swear-word symbols can be called a GRAWLIX, NITTLE, JARN, QUIMP or a VULGARAT.
See how many can be found in your next interaction with a Cartoon.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Illustrious Illustrator
Recently I received the pleasant surprise of a belated birthday gift from my grandaughters. Presents are like little babies. They are always welcome whether they are on time, premature or belated. This little cutie was "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" by Lewis Carrol. Naturally, the story is captivating, irrespective of the number of times one has read it, and this edition is elevated further by its special presentation. The pages are subtly tinted to give the book an antique feeling, while the printing is light and spacious. The thickness of the pages encourages the reader to enjoy touching them. The crowning achievement is the flow of illustrations that adorn the majority of the pages. The illustrator is Australian Robert Ingpen ( a delightful surname) who always manages to find a fresh approach to stories that have been illustrated so many times before. His artistry and presentation captures the mood of the story, with each picture carrying a world of symbolism.
As may be noticed by the very perceptive, I am a great fan of Ingpen's work and, with the help of my delightful family, I have been collecting them for several years. Altogether he has designed and illustrated over 100 books, a few of which I have in my collection. The ones I am most enraptured with are in a series of "Classic" children's stories by famous authors. He produces a book a year in this series and each new presentation creates an immediate impatient desire for his next one.
So far I have Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, 2005
The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling, 2006
The Wind In The Willows by Kenneth Grahame; Centenary Edition, 2007
A Christmas Carol by my old friend Charles Dickens, 2008
and my new Alice's Adventures ... by Lewis Carrol, 2009.
Somewhere along the way I missed "Peter Pan and Wendy"; "Pinnochio" and "Around The world in Eighty Days". That gives me some goals when I browse second-hand shops. I have two other books with his illustrations; "Australian Gnomes" and " The Rare Bear", so there are only another 90 or so to find.
Robert Ingpen has a well-deserved prominent position in my Literary Hall of Fame.
As may be noticed by the very perceptive, I am a great fan of Ingpen's work and, with the help of my delightful family, I have been collecting them for several years. Altogether he has designed and illustrated over 100 books, a few of which I have in my collection. The ones I am most enraptured with are in a series of "Classic" children's stories by famous authors. He produces a book a year in this series and each new presentation creates an immediate impatient desire for his next one.
So far I have Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, 2005
The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling, 2006
The Wind In The Willows by Kenneth Grahame; Centenary Edition, 2007
A Christmas Carol by my old friend Charles Dickens, 2008
and my new Alice's Adventures ... by Lewis Carrol, 2009.
Somewhere along the way I missed "Peter Pan and Wendy"; "Pinnochio" and "Around The world in Eighty Days". That gives me some goals when I browse second-hand shops. I have two other books with his illustrations; "Australian Gnomes" and " The Rare Bear", so there are only another 90 or so to find.
Robert Ingpen has a well-deserved prominent position in my Literary Hall of Fame.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Jekyll & Hyde Words
During a recent "First Tuesday Book Club" programme on the magic box, one of the books being discussed was "The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde", by Robert Louis Stevenson. Panelist Marieke Hardy made a comment with which I agree. She said that so many of the wonderful words used in this book, and others of the period, sadly were no longer in current use. We know that this is the nature of language, that it should constantly change, but not all changes are for the better.
Another point which found agreement within the panel was that, at no time, did Stevenson describe in detail the gruesome injuries inflicted on the victims, yet the words used captured the aura and horror of each event. This contrasts with so many novels of today which seem to have degenerated into manuals of forensic medicine to create the shock-horror aspects of their story. This has grown from an apparent desire to show realism, but it so prevalent now that readers are being brainwashed into becoming mutilation voyeurs. Let's get back to the use of language to develop atmosphere and let the imagination of the reader link with the writer's story-telling skills in a shared creation.
Another point which found agreement within the panel was that, at no time, did Stevenson describe in detail the gruesome injuries inflicted on the victims, yet the words used captured the aura and horror of each event. This contrasts with so many novels of today which seem to have degenerated into manuals of forensic medicine to create the shock-horror aspects of their story. This has grown from an apparent desire to show realism, but it so prevalent now that readers are being brainwashed into becoming mutilation voyeurs. Let's get back to the use of language to develop atmosphere and let the imagination of the reader link with the writer's story-telling skills in a shared creation.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
War Relics
During World War II, the Atherton Tableland had army camps scattered about where soldiers recovered from battles fought, or prepared for their next assaults, probably in New Guinea. There was a large army hospital situated at Rocky Creek, just past Tolga. On Sunday the three of us, Mrs W., myself and the family guard dog drove out to Rocky Creek where a very pleasant area has been created among the trees to commemorate all those who served in the area which had been home for a while for many Battalions. Granite boulders have been set up, each with a plaque detailing the specifics of each army group -- corps' colour patches, battle areas served, etc. One half of the area has been left clear of trees to provide a camping and rest area for caravans. This is practically free, as a gold coin donaton is all that is asked for. It is extremely popular during the main Summer touring season.
The way in which the memorial area has been created and maintained deserves praise. We have driven past so often without realizing just how much thought and effort has been put into the place. Our main reason for driving out was to have a closer look at the area and, in particular, to get some photos of a corrugated iron "igloo" which had been built as a Recreation Hut that would have been able to cater for a very large number of soldiers and nurses for movies, games and dances. It is one of the few remaining examples of this style of easily constructed building left. There are still a few in Atherton which are occupied. The Recreation Hut was owned and lived in by a private family after the war and they must have really rattled around in its huge area. Later it was donated to the Shire Council. Its size and situation out of town meant that upkeep was a most expensive proposition, so the igloo was forgotten and left to rust and deteriorate over the years. Council cannot afford to renew the old place to serve the community in any way, so it has been passed along to the State Government. One feels that any idea of renewal will prove to be costly and daunting, so it is likely to be left to decay further until it is no longer safe and has to be destroyed. A very significant link with the history of this country, and this area in particular, will be lost forever. So, that is why we have stored a memory or two before it is too late.
Despite a little bit of drizzle which seems to have become almost permanent here during the last fortnight, we had a pleasant morning. More excursions are planned.
The way in which the memorial area has been created and maintained deserves praise. We have driven past so often without realizing just how much thought and effort has been put into the place. Our main reason for driving out was to have a closer look at the area and, in particular, to get some photos of a corrugated iron "igloo" which had been built as a Recreation Hut that would have been able to cater for a very large number of soldiers and nurses for movies, games and dances. It is one of the few remaining examples of this style of easily constructed building left. There are still a few in Atherton which are occupied. The Recreation Hut was owned and lived in by a private family after the war and they must have really rattled around in its huge area. Later it was donated to the Shire Council. Its size and situation out of town meant that upkeep was a most expensive proposition, so the igloo was forgotten and left to rust and deteriorate over the years. Council cannot afford to renew the old place to serve the community in any way, so it has been passed along to the State Government. One feels that any idea of renewal will prove to be costly and daunting, so it is likely to be left to decay further until it is no longer safe and has to be destroyed. A very significant link with the history of this country, and this area in particular, will be lost forever. So, that is why we have stored a memory or two before it is too late.
Despite a little bit of drizzle which seems to have become almost permanent here during the last fortnight, we had a pleasant morning. More excursions are planned.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Etymological Archaeology
Some words end up as road-kill in busy ever-changing human vocabularies. Others are merely injured and limp along in altered shape for a while until they too pass away, rarely to be seen again. A few are preserved like stuffed animals in a museum for the occasional browser to pause and stare at with an unbelieving shake of the head.
Here are a few museum pieces, inexpertly glued together to form a little tale.
A wurp from the castle, a bellibone who was acersecomic took adlubescence in beeking on cold nights, so she croodled to the hearth where she would glop porridge. She was usually quite a gundygut and ate until she quetched. Sometimes she would pingle when she dreamed of the killbuck whose lovedrury she caressed. As a dilling she had few friends and was agruwed at the faldoodle of the hoddypeaks in the village. She didn't like to squiddle or spuddle. Sadly she was widdershins because the man she loved was a porknell and a magsman. How sad !
Translation: A stone's throw from the castle, a lovely maiden whose hair had never been cut took pleasure in basking before the fire on cold nights, so she crept close to the hearth where she would greedily swallow porridge. She was usually quite a glutton and ate until she moaned and twitched in pain. Sometimes she would eat with little appetite when she dreamed of the fierce looking fellow whose keepsake she caressed. As a child born when her parents were old, she had few friends and was horrified at the nonsense of the simpletons in the village. She didn't like to waste time with idle talk nor make trifles appear important. Sadly, she was unlucky because the man she loved was as fat as a pig and a swindler. How sad !
Advertisement to pay for this entry: HELP STAMP OUT PHILATELY !!!
Here are a few museum pieces, inexpertly glued together to form a little tale.
A wurp from the castle, a bellibone who was acersecomic took adlubescence in beeking on cold nights, so she croodled to the hearth where she would glop porridge. She was usually quite a gundygut and ate until she quetched. Sometimes she would pingle when she dreamed of the killbuck whose lovedrury she caressed. As a dilling she had few friends and was agruwed at the faldoodle of the hoddypeaks in the village. She didn't like to squiddle or spuddle. Sadly she was widdershins because the man she loved was a porknell and a magsman. How sad !
Translation: A stone's throw from the castle, a lovely maiden whose hair had never been cut took pleasure in basking before the fire on cold nights, so she crept close to the hearth where she would greedily swallow porridge. She was usually quite a glutton and ate until she moaned and twitched in pain. Sometimes she would eat with little appetite when she dreamed of the fierce looking fellow whose keepsake she caressed. As a child born when her parents were old, she had few friends and was horrified at the nonsense of the simpletons in the village. She didn't like to waste time with idle talk nor make trifles appear important. Sadly, she was unlucky because the man she loved was as fat as a pig and a swindler. How sad !
Advertisement to pay for this entry: HELP STAMP OUT PHILATELY !!!
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Only his mother ...
Rumour has been drifting around the market-place that the notorious Cane Toad has changed his name. Instead of Bufo marinus, he now wishes to be called Rhinella marina. It seems that the story is true. Obviously, he now considers Bufo to be too coarse and common, and who could blame him. Rhinella has much more class and may make him more attractive to former critics. So when you wander out in the evening and greet him with a cheery "What ho, Bufo", you will find that he ignores you completely. As he is still getting used to his new name, he probably won't respond to " Hi, yellah fellah, Rhinella " either. We have a feeling that the new name will not result in a change of habits. The noted dramatist Will Shakespeare ( with whom I am very friendly ) claims "that which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet", and in similar vein, we feel that a Cane Toad by any other name is still an ugly PEST !
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Good Medicine
Last night the Wordsmith hillside residence resounded to the sound of laughter and singing, and the wine flowed freely. The purpose of this Bacchanal was to celebrate the news that Mrs W. received from her personal Physician that day. Having made a close study of chicken entrails and consulted the latest astrological charts, he pronounced her to be free of evil spirits to such an extent that she will not need to visit him for a year, until next March. Naturally my dear spouse was much relieved at the news as there is always a small doubt hidden deeply when we visit soothsayers and physicians, even when we hope for and expect no problems.. His series of tests and manipulations could produce no adverse effects. All admirers, friends and relatives will be most pleased at this excellent result. Good news is always the best medicine !
Monday, March 29, 2010
Language Watch
Sgt Peda Gogue of the Word Police has reported an ABC Saturday morning announcer who became excited about an artistic creation, twice describing it as "very unique". The miscreant has been released on bail. If he offends again in the next twelve months, his sentence will be a month in gaol,(or jail, if he is American), accompanied by a large dictionary so he can study the rules concerning comparisons. Perhaps we might then be spared discussions about objects or events that are most unique, very unique, nearly unique and so on. This man is a potential threat to the community and he must be stopped before he progresses on to the uniquest things he has found. We know that serial meaning manglers usually increase their vile crimes in search of shock satisfaction. The Word police will be keeping a very close ear on this fellow and his Saturday programmes.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Errands of Mercy
For a couple of Wednesdays per month, I will now have to desert my word-smithing to act as chauffeur, guardian and junior assistant to Mrs W. as she travels about the environs of Atherton, delivering meals and pleasant contact to people who are elderly, ill or in need of assistance. Meals on Wheels,(or Mills on Wills if you are from N.Z.), is a non-profit organization that receives a partial Government contribution towards its operational costs. Volunteers are its life-blood. It provides meal preparation and delivery to people who might otherwise be deprived of needed nourishment. Most of the recipients on our route are ladies, but there are two gentlemen at present. Naturally there will be additions and deletions from the list as situations change. It is sad to think of the loneliness that so many of these people must experience. Regular visits of volunteers with food and a few words of good will and support must be a small but invaluable boost to their morale. We will try to do our best as little cogs in a very big wheel.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Language of Politics
Last night while I was watching the Magic Box, I came across a news item about the teachers at Church Schools who were marching down the streets of Brisbane, bellowing about their right to have an increase in salary. One of the most raucous shouters was proudly waving his placard while declaiming, " The teachers in every other state get more than us, and we only want a salary like what they get." That should have convinced a few parents of his worth. I feel that such demonstrations might be effective as a last resort, when other means have failed to achieve desired goals, but I have never subscribed to the infantile chanting procedure of negotiation -- "What do we want ? When do we want it ? Now !!" Well, that certainly convinced me.
I would suggest that what the gentleman under discussion may not have wanted, but certainly needed, was to return to school to learn a little more about his own language before being allowed to face a class again. Hopefully, he was not an English Teacher, but the teacher of any subject, no matter how esoteric, should be able to use and teach language as an integral part of his style. After making this fresh acquaintance with the tools of his trade, he might go back to his class and perhaps justify his claim that he was worth $84000 a year !! I know there are great numbers of committed, capable teachers who fully deserve to be paid top salaries for their dedication, and they should receive every encouragement and support to achieve this. So, to them I apologise for my diatribe.
My cavorting mendicant would probably imagine that a diatribe was a group of contestants in "The Biggest Loser".
I would suggest that what the gentleman under discussion may not have wanted, but certainly needed, was to return to school to learn a little more about his own language before being allowed to face a class again. Hopefully, he was not an English Teacher, but the teacher of any subject, no matter how esoteric, should be able to use and teach language as an integral part of his style. After making this fresh acquaintance with the tools of his trade, he might go back to his class and perhaps justify his claim that he was worth $84000 a year !! I know there are great numbers of committed, capable teachers who fully deserve to be paid top salaries for their dedication, and they should receive every encouragement and support to achieve this. So, to them I apologise for my diatribe.
My cavorting mendicant would probably imagine that a diatribe was a group of contestants in "The Biggest Loser".
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