May 1: Linda and Cheryl have indicated that we should have a "Mary Wollstonecraft Day" in spite of the hiatus. I agree and I am posting that today. It is not too late; anyone may still submit contributions to me and I will include them here. The idea is to let everyone know your pet peeve, political message, utopian dream, or venting on current events etc. Use e-mail. If you want a still better idea of what is expected, peruse MW Day 1999 or MW Day 2000. Here are the new postings for
Mary Wollstonecraft Day - May 1, 2001
- Cheryl - "Made in China"
- Linda - Pride ...
- Linda too - ... and Prejudice
- Mary - Of love
- Hank - Of love
- Ashton Dennis - Beware!
Asteroids and power crises
I mean, beware of those warnings!
Well, my friends are gone and my hair is grey.
I ache in the places
where I used to play.
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not coming on.
I'm just paying my rent everyday
In the Tower of Song.
I said to our Lady, "How lonesome does it get?"
Well, our Lady hasn't
answered yet,
But I hear her quill pen scratching all night long,
About a thousand floors above me
In the Tower of Song.
I was born like this, I had no choice.
I was born with the gift of a
golden voice.
And twenty seven Angels from the Great Beyond
Have
tied me to this keyboard, right here
In the Tower of Song.
So you can stick your little pins in that voodoo doll
- - I'm very sorry baby, doesn't look like me at all.
Ahh, they don't let a woman kill you, not
In the Tower of Song.
Now you can say that I have grown bitter, but of this you may be sure,
The rich have got their channels in the bedrooms of the poor.
And
there's a mighty judgment coming, but I might be wrong.
- - You see, I hear those funny male voices
I see you standing on the other side.
I don't know how the river got
so wide.
I loved you baby, way back when.
And all the bridges are
burning that we might have crossed,
But I feel so close to everything
that we lost
- - We'll never have to lose it again.
I bid you farewell, I don't know when I'll be back.
They're moving us
tomorrow to that Tower down the track.
But we are still hearing from
her, baby, long after she's gone.
Our Lady is speaking to us sweetly,
through a window
In the Tower of Song.
Leonard Cohen
Tower of
Song
(approximately)
And who by fire, who by water,
Who in the sunshine, who in the night time,
Who by high ordeal, who by common trial,
Who in your merry, merry month of May,
- who by very slow decay,
And who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate,
Who in these realms of love, who by something blunt,
Who by avalanche, who by powder,
Who for his greed, who for his hunger,
And who shall I say is calling?
And who by brave assent, who by accident,
Who in solitude, who in this mirror,
Who by his Lady's command, who by his own hand,
Who in mortal chains, who in power,
And who shall I say is calling?
Leonard Cohen
Who by Fire
June 27: I received a very odd entry in the Guest Book to which I wish to reply. Here is the entry. It was signed "NOT Fanny Price." The first paragraph is the guest quoting from my entry for George Eliot on the page, "What Some Women Should Not Have Said About Jane Austen."
'Poor Mary Ann, it almost seems that she was getting it from all directions. She was getting it from her live-in lover and, so it is reported, she was getting it from acquaintance. It is said that Alfred Lord Tennyson once told her that "he greatly admired her insight into character, but did not think her so true to nature as Shakespeare or Miss Austen".'
Shame on you! This is one of the most sexist approaches you can take to denigrate a woman because she doesn't agree with you! It fits very well with the rest of your site. Maybe you should put it up as a Motto!
First of all, my quote from Tennyson is accurate and easily found in the references - and is not my invention. Secondly, "denigrate" means to blacken one's reputation, I don't do anything like that. However, I do ridicule a comment on Jane Austen that is attributed to George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans) - and I do not apologize for ridiculing this example of superciliousness. Finally, "sexist" means to assign stereotypes - negative stereotypes - to one of the sexes. It is, at best, wrong-headed of you to call me that name for criticizing a particular woman in a particular instance and in a narrow context. In fact, I continually confront the sexist, revisionist interpretations of people like Patricia Rozema.
Far between sundown's finish an' midnight's broken toll
We ducked
inside the doorway, thunder crashing
As majestic bells of bolts struck
shadows in the sounds
Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing
- Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight
Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight
An' for each an' ev'ry underdog soldier in the night
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
In the city's melted furnace, unexpectedly we watched
With faces
hidden while the walls were tightening
As the echo of the wedding bells
before the blowin' rain
Dissolved into the bells of the lightning
- Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake
Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an' forsaked
Tolling for the outcast, burnin' constantly at stake
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail
The sky
cracked its poems in naked wonder
That the clinging of the church bells
blew far into the breeze
Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder
- Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind
Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind
An' the poet or painter behind, beyond his rightful time
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Through the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales
For the
disrobed faceless forms of no position
Tolling for the tongues with no
place to bring their thoughts
All down in taken-for-granted situations
- Tolling for the deaf and blind, tolling for the mute
Tolling for the mistreated, mateless mother, the mistitled prostitute
For the misdemeanor outlaw, chased and cheated by pursuit
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Even though a cloud's white curtain in a far-off corner flashed
An'
the hypnotic splattering mist was slowly lifted
Electric light still
struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be
kept from drifting
- Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An' for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Starry-eyed an' laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by
no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time
an' we watched with one last look
Spellbound an' swallowed 'til the
tolling ended
- Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones and worse
An' for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Bob
Dylan
Chimes of Freedom
We love you sweetheart, and we want you to be great. But, you will not be great, and this will not be your century unless you get yourself clean and sober. And please, darlin', please think about substituting a salad once in a while.
July 18: Jane Austen passed away in the early morning hours on this date in 1817. She was only forty-one years old. Some days later, her brothers and nephews laid her head beneath the roses - the roses, her eyes could not see.
And we laid her head down in the roses.
She had ribbons, ribbons,
ribbons
In her long, dark hair.
I don't know, it must have been the
roses;
All I knew was we would not forget her there.
I don't know, it must have been the roses,
The roses or red ribbons
in her long, dark hair.
I don't know, maybe it was the roses;
All I
knew was we would not forget her there.
Ten years the waves rolled the
Ships home from the sea,
Thinking
how well winds may blow
In all good company.
If I tell another what
Her own lips told to me,
May I lay 'neath the roses
And my eyes
no longer see.
I don't know, it must have been the roses,
The roses or red ribbons
in her long, dark hair.
I don't know, maybe it was the roses;
All I
knew was we would not forget her there.
One pane of glass in the window.
No one is complaining though,
Come in and shut the door.
Faded is the crimson from the
Ribbons
that she wore,
And it's strange how no one
Comes 'round here
anymore.
I don't know, it must have been the roses,
The roses or red ribbons
in her long, dark hair.
I don't know, maybe it was the roses;
All I
knew was we would not forget her there.
And we laid her head down in the roses.
She had ribbons, ribbons,
ribbons
In her long, dark hair.
I don't know, it must have been the
roses;
All I knew was we would not forget her there.
I don't know, it must have been the roses,
The roses or red ribbons
in her long, dark hair.
I don't know, maybe it was the roses;
All I
knew was we would not forget her there.
adapted from
"It Must Have Been the Roses"
by
Robert
Hunter of
The Grateful Dead
My apologies to Robert Hunter.
www.pemberley.com/pemb/adaptations/pp2/messages/22916.html
http://www.pemberley.com/pemb/adaptations/pp2/messages/23019.html
www.pemberley.com/pemb/adaptations/pp2/messages/23294.html
www.pemberley.com/pemb/adaptations/pp2/messages/23782.html
www.pemberley.com/pemb/adaptations/pp2/messages/23787.html
Picture a bright blue ball, just spinning, spinnin' free,
Dizzy with
eternity.
Paint it with a skin of sky,
Brush in some clouds and sea,
Call it home for you and me.
A peaceful place or so it looks from
space,
A closer look reveals the human race.
Full of hope, full of
grace
Is the human face,
But afraid we may lay our home to
waste.
There's a fear down here we can't forget.
Hasn't got a name just yet.
Always awake, always around,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Now watch as the ball revolves
And the nighttime falls.
Again the
hunt begins,
Again the bloodwind calls.
By and by, the morning sun
will rise,
But the darkness never goes
From some men's eyes.
It
strolls the sidewalks and it rolls the streets,
Staking turf, dividing
up meat.
Nightmare spook, piece of heat,
It's you and me.
You
and me.
Click flash blade in Ghetto night,
Rudies looking for a fight.
Rat cat alley, roll them bones.
Need that cash to feed that jones.
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall
down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Commissars and pin-stripe bosses
Roll the dice.
Any way they
fall,
Guess who gets to pay the price.
Money green or proletarian
gray,
Selling guns 'stead of food today.
So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And the politicians
throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes,
all fall down.
Heartless powers try to tell us
What to think.
If the spirit's
sleeping,
Then the flesh is ink.
History's page will thus be carved
in stone.
And we are here, and we are on our own.
On our own.
On
our own.
On our own.
If the game is lost,
Then we're all the same.
No one left to
place or take the blame.
We can leave this place an empty stone
Or
that shinin' ball we used to call our home.
So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And the politicians
throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes,
all fall down.
Shipping powders back and forth,
Singing black goes south and white
comes north.
In a whole world full of petty wars,
Singing I got mine
and you got yours.
And the current fashion sets the pace,
Lose your
step, fall out of grace.
And the radical, he rant and rage,
Singing
someone's got to turn the page.
And the rich man in his summer home,
Singing just leave well enough alone.
When his pants are down, his
cover's blown!
And the politicians throwin' stones,
So the kids they dance
And
shake their bones,
And it's all too clear we're on our own.
Singing
ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Picture a bright blue ball,
Just spinnin', spinnin', free.
Dizzy
with the possibilities.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes,
all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall
down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Throwing Stones
by John
Perry Barlow of
the Grateful Dead
with Bob Weir.
Recorded on In the Dark (Arista Records, 1987) .
Cora,
Wyoming
August -December, 1982
August 5:
All along the watchtower,
Princes kept the view
While all the
women came and went
Barefoot servants too.
Outside in the distance
A wildcat did growl,
Two riders were approaching,
The wind began
to howl!
All Along the
Watchtower
Bob Dylan
I feel your pain. What I am trying to say here is that you needn't be so anxious, the Bulletin Board will reopen on September 1. I will not have achieved all I had hoped for then, but the Board will reopen on that date.
August 10: I am thinking about Miss Bennet - again, about her visit to Pemberley, and about the way she was thought of there.
A gypsy wind is blowing warm tonight,
The sky is starlit and the time
is right;
Still, you say the Gardiners and you must go.
Before you
leave there's something you should know.
I've seen you smiling in the summer sun,
I've seen your long hair
flying when you run.
I've made my mind up that it's meant to be,
Someday Lady you'll accomp'ny me.
Someday Lady you'll accomp'ny me
Out where the rivers meet the
sounding sea.
You're high above me now, you're wild and free,
Ah but
someday Lady you'll accomp'ny me.
Someday Lady you'll accomp'ny me.
Some people say that love's a losing game,
You start with fire but
you lose the flame,
The ashes smolder but the warmth's soon gone.
You end up cold and lonely on your own.
I'll take my chances darlin' I'll risk it all,
I'll win your love or
I'll take the fall.
I made my mind up darlin' it's meant to be,
Someday Lady you'll accomp'ny me.
Someday Lady you'll accomp'ny
me.
It's written down somewhere, it's got to be.
You're high above me
flyin' wild and free,
Oh but someday Lady you'll accomp'ny me.
Someday Lady you'll accomp'ny me.
Someday Lady you'll accomp'ny me
Out where the rivers meet the
sounding sea.
I feel it in my soul, it's meant to be,
Oh someday
Lady you'll accomp'ny me.
Someday Lady you'll accomp'ny
me.
You'll Accomp'ny Me
Bob Seger
1782 |
1781 |
1789 |
I confess! I have always liked to see a hat on a woman. The neckline? - that's wonderful too. Le Brun was a monarchist, so she was exiled in 1789, the year of the French Revolution. She is considered narcissistic by some because she made thirty self-portraits. I am old fashioned, so I approve when an artist renders beautiful things. If the most beautiful object in her environment is herself, then I hope the artist will go for it. Thirty self-portraits? It should have been three hundred. Incidentally, here is more information about le Brun - including her commissions in England and another excellent self-portrait! Finally, here is a really sweet portrait of le Brun with her daughter.
Well it's Saturday night
You're all dressed up in blue
I been
watching you awhile
Maybe you've been watching me too
So somebody
ran out
Left somebody's heart in a mess
Well if you looking for love
Honey I'm tougher than the rest
Some girls they want a handsome Dan
Or some good-looking Joe
On
their arm, some girls like
- a sweet-talking Romeo
I learned you take what you can get
So if you're rough enough for love
Honey I'm tougher than the rest
The road is dark
And it's a thin thin line
But I want you to know
I'll walk it for you
- any time
Couldn't pass the test
Well if you're rough and ready for love
Honey I'm tougher than the rest
Well it ain't no secret
I've been around a time or two
Well I
don't know, baby, maybe you've been
- around too
All you gotta do is say yes
And if you're rough and ready for love
Honey I'm tougher than the rest
If you're rough enough for love
Baby I'm tougher than the rest
Tougher than the Rest - 1987
Bruce
Springsteen
August 24: We now have a domain name for this web site!
"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."
The line is one of high humor and it sets up for us the mood in the Meryton community at the arrival there of Mr. Bingley - just such a man! However, that doesn't mean that the Meryton folks were wrong. Even Mr. Bennet understood that; for, in spite of his teasing, he was one of the first to present his card to Bingley.
It is amusing to notice that the sentence also nicely summarizes the view of Thomas Malthus, who published about a decade before Jane Austen. This was the view that the middle class would marry whenever they had the resources, but not until. It was not Jane Austen's intent to summarize Malthus, but it suits me just fine.
August 27: Here is the final entry during our hiatus. I conclude with one last example of a famous male voice.
She used to work in a diner
Never saw a woman look finer
I used
to order just to watch her
- float across the floor
Never put her roots down
Daddy always kept movin', so she did too.
Somewhere on a desert highway
She rides a Harley-Davidson
Her
long blonde hair flyin' in the wind
She's been runnin' half her life
The chrome and steel she rides
Colliding with the very air she
breathes
The air she breathes.
You know it ain't easy
You've got to hold on
She was an unknown
legend in her time
Now she's dressin' two kids
Lookin' for a magic
kiss
She gets the far-away look in her eyes.
Somewhere on a desert highway
She rides a Harley-Davidson
Her
long blonde hair flyin' in the wind
She's been runnin' half her life
The chrome and steel she rides
Colliding with the very air she
breathes
The air she breathes.
Neil Young
I know! - I know! "unknown legend" is an oxymoron. But jeeze, just go with it. Are'nt you looking for the magic kiss?