A Christmas Carol (1959)

A Christmas Carol is the 1959 adaptation aired on the TV series Fredric March Presents Tales from Dickens. This stars Basil Rathbone as Ebenezer Scrooge. Fredric March narrates. This is a bare-bones, much-condensed version.

via Youtube:

The Battle of Life: A Love Story

The Battle of Life: A Love Story is a short 1846 novel by Charles Dickens. One scene takes place on Christmas:

So, guests were bidden, and musicians were engaged, and tables spread, and floors prepared for active feet, and bountiful provision made, of every hospitable kind. Because it was the Christmas season, and his eyes were all unused to English holly, and its sturdy green, the dancing room was garlanded and hung with it; and the red berries gleamed an English welcome to him, peeping from among the leaves.

You can read it online here or here. It begins,

Once upon a time, it matters little when, and in stalwart England, it matters little where, a fierce battle was fought. It was fought upon a long summer day when the waving grass was green. Many a wild flower formed by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet for the dew, felt its enamelled cup fill high with blood that day, and shrinking dropped. Many an insect deriving its delicate color from harmless leaves and herbs, was stained anew that day by dying men, and marked its frightened way with an unnatural track. The painted butterfly took blood into the air upon the edges of its wings. The stream ran red. The trodden ground became a quagmire, whence, from sullen pools collected in the prints of human feet and horses’ hoofs, the one prevailing hue still lowered and glimmered at the sun.

Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the sights the moon beheld upon that field, when, coming up above the black line of distant rising-ground, softened and blurred at the edge by trees, she rose into the sky and looked upon the plain, strewn with upturned faces that had once at mothers’ breasts sought mothers’ eyes, or slumbered happily. Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the secrets whispered afterwards upon the tainted wind that blew across the scene of that day’s work and that night’s death and suffering! Many a lonely moon was bright upon the battle-ground, and many a star kept mournful watch upon it, and many a wind from every quarter of the earth blew over it, before the traces of the fight were worn away.

They lurked and lingered for a long time, but survived in little things, for Nature, far above the evil passions of men, soon recovered Her serenity, and smiled upon the guilty battle-ground as she had done before, when it was innocent. The larks sang high above it, the swallows skimmed and dipped and flitted to and fro, the shadows of the flying clouds pursued each other swiftly, over grass and corn and turnip-field and wood, and over roof and church-spire in the nestling town among the trees, away into the bright distance on the borders of the sky and earth, where the red sunsets faded. Crops were sown, and grew up, and were gathered in; the stream that had been crimsoned, turned a watermill; men whistled at the plough; gleaners and haymakers were seen in quiet groups at work; sheep and oxen pastured; boys whooped and called, in fields, to scare away the birds; smoke rose from cottage chimneys; sabbath bells rang peacefully; old people lived and died; the timid creatures of the field, and simple flowers of the bush and garden, grew and withered in their destined terms: and all upon the fierce and bloody battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had been killed in the great fight.

But there were deep green patches in the growing corn at first, that people looked at awfully. Year after year they re-appeared; and it was known that underneath those fertile spots, heaps of men and horses lay buried, indiscriminately, enriching the ground. The husbandmen who ploughed those places, shrunk from the great worms abounding there; and the sheaves they yielded, were, for many a long year, called the Battle Sheaves, and set apart; and no one ever knew a Battle Sheaf to be among the last load at a Harvest Home. For a long time, every furrow that was turned, revealed some fragments of the fight. For a long time, there were wounded trees upon the battle-ground; and scraps of hacked and broken fence and wall, where deadly struggles had been made; and trampled parts where not a leaf or blade would grow. For a long time, no village-girl would dress her hair or bosom with the sweetest flower from that field of death: and after many a year had come and gone, the berries growing there, were still believed to leave too deep a stain upon the hand that plucked them.

The Seasons in their course, however, though they passed as lightly as the summer clouds themselves, obliterated, in the lapse of time, even these remains of the old conflict; and wore away such legendary traces of it as the neighbouring people carried in their minds, until they dwindled into old wives’ tales, dimly remembered round the winter fire, and waning every year.

You can listen to it read to you:

2046

2046 is a 2004 science fiction film, or -if you prefer- a romantic drama with science fiction elements, directed by Wong Kar-wai. This is so beautiful to watch.

Parts of it take place on Christmas Eve. "All memories are traces of tears." "Love is all a matter of timing. It's no good meeting the right person too soon or too late."

Part 1:

Part 2:

Part 3:

The soundtrack is wonderful. This song plays in the background during part of the movie:

The New York Times opens with this: "IN "2046," a story of longing and loss, the passage of time is marked not by the hands of a clock, but by the women who pass through one man's life" and says, "Mr. Wong is one of the few filmmakers working in commercial cinema who refuse to be enslaved by traditional storytelling. ... Mr. Wong makes movies, still a young art, that create meaning through visual images, not just words."

Roger Ebert says, "Since it is by Wong Kar Wai, "2046" is visually stunning" and calls it "a lovely meander". Rotten Tomatoes has a critics rating of 85%.

A Chaparral Christmas Gift

A Chaparral Christmas Gift is a short story by O. Henry. You can read it online here. It begins,

The original cause of the trouble was about twenty years in growing.

At the end of that time it was worth it.

Had you lived anywhere within fifty miles of Sundown Ranch you would have heard of it. It possessed a quantity of jet-black hair, a pair of extremely frank, deep-brown eyes and a laugh that rippled across the prairie like the sound of a hidden brook. The name of it was Rosita McMullen; and she was the daughter of old man McMullen of the Sundown Sheep Ranch.

There came riding on red roan steeds -or, to be more explicit, on a paint and a flea-bitten sorrel- two wooers. One was Madison Lane, and the other was the Frio Kid, But at that time they did not call him the Frio Kid, for he had not earned the honours of special nomenclature- His name was simply Johnny McRoy.

It must not be supposed that these two were the sum of the agreeable Rosita's admirers. The bronchos of a dozen others champed their bits at the long hitching rack of the Sundown Ranch. Many were the sheeps'- eves that were cast in those savannas that did not belong. to the flocks of Dan McMullen. But of all the cavaliers, Madison Lane and Johnny MeRoy galloped far ahead, wherefore they are to be chronicled.

Madison Lane, a young cattleman from the Nueces country, won the race. He and Rosita were married one Christmas day. Armed, hilarious, vociferous, magnanimous, the cowmen and the sheepmen, laying aside their hereditary hatred, joined forces to celebrate the occasion.

Sundown Ranch was sonorous with the cracking of jokes and sixshooters, the shine of buckles and bright eyes, the outspoken congratulations of the herders of kine.

But while the wedding feast was at its liveliest there descended upon it Johnny MeRoy, bitten by jealousy, like one possessed.

You can listen to the story read to you:

A Christmas Carol (1954)

This adaptation of the Charles Dickens classic is an episode from the television variety series Shower of Stars. Much condensed and faithful in parts, this is only an hour long. Fredric March is Scrooge and Basil Rathbone is Marley's Ghost.

via Youtube:

View from the Balcony

View from the Balcony:

by Ödön Márffy, a Hungarian painter who died December 3, 1959, 3 days after his 81st birthday. He was one of The Eight, "an avant-garde art movement of Hungarian painters active mostly in Budapest from 1909 to 1918. They were connected to Post-Impressionism and radical movements in literature and music as well, and led to the rise of modernism in art culture."

It's cold here, so even if I had a balcony I couldn't sit on it. I'll just stay all cozy inside while I drink my hot tea. Join me in a cup while we go over to the T Stands for Tuesday blogger gathering.

The Blue Bird

The Blue Bird is a 1940 movie. It's directed by Walter Lang and stars Shirley Temple, Spring Byington, and Nigel Bruce. The movie takes place during the Christmas season. I watched this looking for movies I hadn't seen that take place around Christmas. This is a simple, sappy story, and I can't imagine who would like it except for Shirley Temple fans. I'm not one of those people. .

via Youtube:

The NYT says, " As a children's show we suppose it is quite acceptable. At least it is edifyingly moral and moralistic and not too frightening". Rotten Tomatoes has an audience rating of 73%.

The Elves and the Shoemaker

I can't say I've ever thought of The Elves and the Shoemaker as a Christmas story, but there it is in black and white: "Now it befell that one evening not long before Christmas...". You can read this Grimms brothers tale online, including here and here. It begins,

A shoemaker, by no fault of his own, had become so poor that at last he had nothing left but leather for one pair of shoes. So in the evening, he cut out the shoes which he wished to begin to make the next morning, and as he had a good conscience, he lay down quietly in his bed, commended himself to God, and fell asleep. In the morning, after he had said his prayers, and was just going to sit down to work, the two shoes stood quite finished on his table. He was astounded, and knew not what to say to it. He took the shoes in his hands to observe them closer, and they were so neatly made that there was not one bad stitch in them, just as if they were intended as a masterpiece. Soon after, a buyer came in, and as the shoes pleased him so well, he paid more for them than was customary, and, with the money, the shoemaker was able to purchase leather for two pairs of shoes. He cut them out at night, and next morning was about to set to work with fresh courage; but he had no need to do so, for, when he got up, they were already made, and buyers also were not wanting, who gave him money enough to buy leather for four pairs of shoes. The following morning, too, he found the four pairs made; and so it went on constantly, what he cut out in the evening was finished by the morning, so that he soon had his honest independence again, and at last became a wealthy man. Now it befell that one evening not long before Christmas, when the man had been cutting out, he said to his wife, before going to bed, "What think you if we were to stay up to-night to see who it is that lends us this helping hand?"

Here's the edition of this story I had growing up:

The Apartment

The Apartment is a 1960 comedy directed by Billy Wilder and starring Jack Lemmon, Shirley MacLaine, Fred MacMurray, Jack Kruschen, Ray Walston, and Edie Addams. Much of the movie takes place during the Christmas holiday season. We have the DVD, but you can watch it online at Vimeo.

trailer:

The New York Times calls it "a gleeful, tender and even sentimental film". The Guardian gives it 5 out of 5 stars. The BBC has a positive review.

Variety has a positive review. The Hollywood Reporter calls it "an important and provocative film". Empire Online gives it 5 out of 5 stars and calls it "Absolutely brilliant".

Filmsite.org describes it as a

sophisticated yet cynical film of the early 60s is a bleak assessment of corporate America, big business and capitalism, success, and the work ethic, when a lowly but ambitious accountant enables his climb up the corporate ladder by ingratiating himself to his superiors

Roger Ebert has it on his list of Great Movies. Rotten Tomatoes has a 93% critics rating.

A Christmas Carol (1939 radio play)

A Christmas Carol is a radio play narrated by Orson Welles and starring Lionel Barrymore. It aired on December 24, 1939, as part of the Campbell Playhouse radio series, which was a continuation of Welles' Mercury Theatre on the Air.

You can see my blog posts on other Christmas Carol adaptations here.

The Tractate Middoth

The Tractate Middoth is a 1911 M.R. James ghost story said to be suited for Christmas time, though I don't see a connection between anything in the story and that season. It begins, "Towards the end of an autumn afternoon..."

He could hardly leave it without another look, 

though the recollection of what he had seen there made him shiver, 

even on that bright morning.

You can read it online here and listen to it here:

It has been adapted for tv and radio. This is the 2013 version, adapted by Mark Gatiss:

In 1951, it was adapted as The Lost Will of Dr Rant (with Leslie Nielsen) for the Lights Out mystery series:

Rushmore

Rushmore is a 1998 award-winning Wes Anderson film. I tend to like movies by this director, and this is widely considered one of his best. It stars Jason Schwartzman, Olivia Williams, and Bill Murray.

Part of the movie takes place during the Christmas season.

trailer:

The Guardian calls it an "outrageous, genre-defying movie" and "a finely-judged parable on the line between self-delusion and reality." Rolling Stone has a positive review. Empire Online concludes, "Offbeat and off centre highschool movie with ascerbic one liners delivered by a superb cast. A real treat."

Roger Ebert has a review from the time of the film's release. 89% of Rotten Tomatoes critics reviewers gave it positive reviews.

Orange Coffee

Orange Coffee

ground coffee (not instant)  1/3 cup
grated dried orange peel      1 1/2 teaspoon
cinnamon                             1/2 teaspoon
vanilla extract                      1/2 teaspoon

Thoroughly blend/mix all dry ingredients. Blend in vanilla extract. Scrape sides of container and mix again. You can use a blender for this, but I use a fork.

Makes 1 8-cup pot of coffee, or measure it out for individual pour-over servings.

I had this for Thanksgiving Day, and it was good with breakfast while we watched the parade on television:

and lunch:

and apple pie (compliments of The Daughter) and spice cake:

but my goal was to have the recipe tested and ready to go for the Christmas season. I've given a batch to The Daughter with a promise to refill it on request as I do the Spice Tea mix, and we will both enjoy it during the holidays.

I'm going to link up with the T Stands for Tuesday blogger gathering where we share a post that includes a drink. Please join us.

"Ain't I a Woman?"

Sojourner Truth was born into slavery in up-state New York in c. 1797 and grew up speaking Dutch. At about 29 years of age she escaped with her infant daughter (one of five children born to her, 4 of whom survived childhood). Learning that her 5 year old son, one of the 3 she had left behind who weren't covered by the New York Emancipation order that covered her and her infant, had been illegally sold to a man in Alabama, she successfully took the matter to court. In 1843 she became a Methodist, adopted the name Sojourner Truth, and began travelling around speaking an abolitionist message. In 1851 she participated in a lecture tour and gave her extemporaneous speech now known as "Ain't I a Woman?". There is no transcript or recording of the speech, and reports differ. No reports from the time include the phrase now used as the title. This is the report from the time from someone who heard the speech given and had her cooperation in the writing of the report:

Marius Robinson, who attended the convention and worked with Truth, printed the speech as he transcribed it in the June 21, 1851, issue of the Anti-Slavery Bugle.

One of the most unique and interesting speeches of the convention was made by Sojourner Truth, an emancipated slave. It is impossible to transfer it to paper, or convey any adequate idea of the effect it produced upon the audience. Those only can appreciate it who saw her powerful form, her whole-souled, earnest gesture, and listened to her strong and truthful tones. She came forward to the platform and addressing the President said with great simplicity: "May I say a few words?" Receiving an affirmative answer, she proceeded:

I want to say a few words about this matter. I am a woman's rights. I have as much muscle as any man, and can do as much work as any man. I have plowed and reaped and husked and chopped and mowed, and can any man do more than that? I have heard much about the sexes being equal. I can carry as much as any man, and can eat as much too, if I can get it. I am as strong as any man that is now. As for intellect, all I can say is, if a woman have a pint, and a man a quart –why can't she have her little pint full? You need not be afraid to give us our rights for fear we will take too much, –for we can't take more than our pint'll hold. The poor men seems to be all in confusion, and don't know what to do. Why children, if you have woman's rights, give it to her and you will feel better. You will have your own rights, and they won't be so much trouble. I can't read, but I can hear. I have heard the bible and have learned that Eve caused man to sin. Well, if woman upset the world, do give her a chance to set it right side up again. The Lady has spoken about Jesus, how he never spurned woman from him, and she was right. When Lazarus died, Mary and Martha came to him with faith and love and besought him to raise their brother. And Jesus wept and Lazarus came forth. And how came Jesus into the world? Through God who created him and the woman who bore him. Man, where was your part? But the women are coming up blessed be God and a few of the men are coming up with them. But man is in a tight place, the poor slave is on him, woman is coming on him, he is surely between a hawk and a buzzard.

The modern version now known was a re-write of Truth's words that cast her speech pattern and dialect as if she were a poor, black Southerner, quoting her at one point as saying, "Den dat little man in black dar, he say women can't have as much rights as men, 'cause Christ wan't a woman! Whar did your Christ come from?" It's not likely that this is what a woman of any race would sound like who had grown up speaking Dutch in up-state New York. Her speech was re-invented, and although there's no official transcript from the original speech, it's certain to have been much closer to the 1851 report from Robinson, who worked with Truth to compose his report. The speech has taken on a life of its own -over and above whatever she actually said in 1851- and I guess I'm just going to have to accept that what's understood to be what happened ain't always connected with what actually happened in much of history.

There have been attempts to reconstruct her speech using Afro-Dutch accented English, her particular dialect having been lost and not reconstructable, and the earliest report of the speech. Here's one:

Sojourner Truth died on this date in 1883.

Dom (The Cat's House)

Dom (The Cat's House) is an award-winning 1958 animated Russian short film directed by Leonid Amalrik about two poor homeless kittens who seek shelter with the wealthy cat "aunt" who has just built a fancy new house. When her home burns down she learns first-hand what it's like to be homeless and to be refused shelter. A sweet story.

Happy Evolution Day!

Evolution Day observes the date of the original publication of Charles Darwin's On the Origin of Species in 1859. The book can be read online here or here or here. Some people continue to misunderstand the theory, but there are explanations online that make it easy to understand even for folks like me for whom science is not a first language. LiveScience.com has some information, How Stuff Works has some basics, and Wikipedia has an entry.

This is a history of the theory:

This is a Nova documentary:

I haven't seen the videos yet, but I plan to watch them later in observance of the day.

Season of the Witch

Season of the Witch is a 2011 adventure/fantasy about two veteran crusaders (Ron Perlman and Nicholas Cage) who become disillusioned by the slaughter of innocents and leave the Crusade. They  get pressed into service by a dying cardinal (Christopher Lee) to take a witch to a monastery to use  the last remaining copy of the book to exorcise her and end the Bubonic plague. This is a fun film, with enough medieval/crusade history to give it real atmosphere and enough supernatural elements to add punch.

trailer:

An Old Fashioned Thanksgiving, by Louisa May Alcott

Happy Thanksgiving!

An Old Fashioned Thanksgiving is an 1881 short story by Louisa May Alcott. You can read it online at this link or have it read to you here. It begins,

Sixty years ago, up among the New Hampshire hills, lived Farmer Bassett, with a house full of sturdy sons and daughters growing up about him. They were poor in money, but rich in land and love, for the wide acres of wood, corn, and pasture land fed, warmed, and clothed the flock, while mutual patience, affection, and courage made the old farm-house a very happy home.

November had come; the crops were in, and barn, buttery, and bin were overflowing with the harvest that rewarded the summer's hard work. The big kitchen was a jolly place just now, for in the great fireplace roared a cheerful fire; on the walls hung garlands of dried apples, onions, and corn; up aloft from the beams shone crook-necked squashes, juicy hams, and dried venison—for in those days deer still haunted the deep forests, and hunters flourished. Savory smells were in the air; on the crane hung steaming kettles, and down among the red embers copper sauce-pans simmered, all suggestive of some approaching feast.

A white-headed baby lay in the old blue cradle that had rocked seven other babies, now and then lifting his head to look out, like a round, full moon, then subsided to kick and crow contentedly, and suck the rosy apple he had no teeth to bite. Two small boys sat on the wooden settle shelling corn for popping, and picking out the biggest nuts from the goodly store their own hands had gathered in October. Four young girls stood at the long dresser, busily chopping meat, pounding spice, and slicing apples; and the tongues of Tilly, Prue, Roxy, and Rhody went as fast as their hands. Farmer Bassett, and Eph, the oldest boy, were "chorin' 'round" outside, for Thanksgiving was at hand, and all must be in order for that time-honored day.

To and fro, from table to hearth, bustled buxom Mrs. Bassett, flushed and floury, but busy and blithe as the queen bee of this busy little hive should be.

"I do like to begin seasonable and have things to my mind. Thanksgivin' dinners can't be drove, and it does take a sight of victuals to fill all these hungry stomicks," said the good woman, as she gave a vigorous stir to the great kettle of cider apple-sauce, and cast a glance of housewifely pride at the fine array of pies set forth on the buttery shelves.

"Only one more day and then it will be time to eat. I didn't take but one bowl of hasty pudding this morning, so I shall have plenty of room when the nice things come," confided Seth to Sol, as he cracked a large hazel-nut as easily as a squirrel.

"No need of my starvin' beforehand. I always have room enough, and I'd like to have Thanksgiving every day," answered Solomon, gloating like a young ogre over the little pig that lay near by, ready for roasting.

"Sakes alive, I don't, boys! It's a marcy it don't come but once a year. I should be worn to a thread-paper with all this extra work atop of my winter weavin' and spinnin'," laughed their mother, as she plunged her plump arms into the long bread-trough and began to knead the dough as if a famine was at hand.

Tilly, the oldest girl, a red-cheeked, black-eyed lass of fourteen, was grinding briskly at the mortar, for spices were costly, and not a grain must be wasted. Prue kept time with the chopper, and the twins sliced away at the apples till their little brown arms ached, for all knew how to work, and did so now with a will.

"I think it's real fun to have Thanksgiving at home. I'm sorry Gran'ma is sick, so we can't go there as usual, but I like to mess 'round here, don't you, girls?" asked Tilly, pausing to take a sniff at the spicy pestle.

"It will be kind of lonesome with only our own folks." "I like to see all the cousins and aunts, and have games, and sing," cried the twins, who were regular little romps, and could run, swim, coast and shout as well as their brothers.

"I don't care a mite for all that. It will be so nice to eat dinner together, warm and comfortable at home," said quiet Prue, who loved her own cozy nooks like a cat.

"Come, girls, fly 'round and get your chores done, so we can clear away for dinner jest as soon as I clap my bread into the oven," called Mrs. Bassett presently, as she rounded off the last loaf of brown bread which was to feed the hungry mouths that seldom tasted any other.

"Here's a man comin' up the hill, lively!" "Guess it's Gad Hopkins. Pa told him to bring a dezzen oranges, if they warn't too high!" shouted Sol and Seth, running to the door, while the girls smacked their lips at the thought of this rare treat, and Baby threw his apple overboard, as if getting ready for a new cargo.

But all were doomed to disappointment, for it was not Gad, with the much-desired fruit. It was a stranger, who threw himself off his horse and hurried up to Mr. Bassett in the yard, with some brief message that made the farmer drop his ax and look so sober that his wife guessed at once some bad news had come; and crying, "Mother's wuss! I know she is!" out ran the good woman, forgetful of the flour on her arms and the oven waiting for its most important batch.

The man said old Mr. Chadwick, down to Keene, stopped him as he passed, and told him to tell Mrs. Bassett her mother was failin' fast, and she'd better come to-day. He knew no more, and having delivered his errand he rode away, saying it looked like snow and he must be jogging, or he wouldn't get home till night.

"We must go right off, Eldad. Hitch up, and I'll be ready in less'n no time," said Mrs. Bassett, wasting not a minute in tears and lamentations, but pulling off her apron as she went in, with her mind in a sad jumble of bread, anxiety, turkey, sorrow, haste, and cider apple-sauce.

A few words told the story, and the children left their work to help her get ready, mingling their grief for "Gran'ma" with regrets for the lost dinner.

"I'm dreadful sorry, dears, but it can't be helped. I couldn't cook nor eat no way, now, and if that blessed woman gets better sudden, as she has before, we'll have cause for thanksgivin', and I'll give you a dinner you won't forget in a hurry," said Mrs. Bassett, as she tied on her brown silk pumpkin-hood, with a sob for the good old mother who had made it for her.

Not a child complained after that, but ran about helpfully, bringing moccasins, heating the footstone, and getting ready for a long drive, because Gran'ma lived twenty miles away, and there were no railroads in those parts to whisk people to and fro like magic. By the time the old yellow sleigh was at the door, the bread was in the oven, and Mrs. Bassett was waiting, with her camlet cloak on, and the baby done up like a small bale of blankets.

It was very loosely adapted for television with Jacqueline Bisset, and you can view it divided into two parts. Part 1:

Part 2:

A Life at Stake

A Life at Stake is a 1955 film noir starring Angela Lansbury. Jane Darwell is the landlady. Fairly standard for its genre, but it has Angela Lansbury in it:

so how can you not watch?

via Youtube:

TCM has an overview.

Still Life with Frosted Glass Mug, Apples and Pine Branch

Still Life with Frosted Glass Mug, Apples and Pine Branch (c.1902):

by Paula Modersohn-Becker, who died of a postpartum embolism at the age of 31 on November 21, 1907, after the birth of her first child. These early deaths are tragic. She was the first artist to paint nude self-portraits, and the New Yorker article gives a sense of what she might have accomplished had she lived. Her last words: "What a pity." What an understatement!

She has a museum in Bremen, "the first museum in the world to be dedicated to the work of a female painter."

Rainer Maria Rilke wrote Requiem for a Friend in her memory. It is in the public domain, but this translation is not, so I will post an excerpt and link to the original. There is a translation that can be used for non-commercial purposes here.

Requiem for a Friend

I have my dead and I have let them go and was amazed to see them so contented, so at home in being dead, so cheerful, so unlike their reputation. Only you return; brush past me, loiter, try to knock against something, so that the sound reveals your presence. Oh don’t take from me what I am slowly learning. I’m sure you have gone astray if you are moved to homesickness for anything in this dimension. We transform these Things; they aren’t real, they are only the reflections upon the polished surface of our being.

I thought you were much further on. It troubles me that you should stray back, you, who have achieved more transformation than any other woman.That we were frightened when you died... no; rather: that your stern death broke in upon us, darkly, wrenching the till-then from the ever-since - this concerns us: setting it all in order is the task we have continually before us. But that you, too, were frightened, and even now pulse with your fear, where fear can have no meaning; that you have lost even the smallest fragment of your eternity, Paula, and have entered here, where nothing yet exists; that out there, bewildered for the first time, inattentive, you didn’t grasp the splendor of the infinite forces, as on earth you grasped each Thing; that, from the realm which had already received you, the gravity of some old discontent had dragged you back to measurable time. This often startles me out of dreamless sleep at night, like a thief climbing in my window.

...


Are you still here? Are you standing in some corner? You knew so much of all this, you were able to do so much; you passed through life so open to all things, like an early morning. I know: women suffer; for love means being alone; and artists in their work sometimes intuit that they must keep transforming, where they love. You began both; both exist in that which any fame takes from you and disfigures. Oh you were far beyond all fame; were almost invisible; had withdrawn your beauty, softly, as one would lower a brightly colored flag on the gray morning after a holiday. You had just one desire: a year’s long work - which was never finished; was somehow never finished. If you are still here with me, if in this darkness there is still some place where your spirit resonates on the shallow sound waves stirred up by my voice: hear me: help me. We can so easily slip back from what we have struggled to attain, abruptly, into a life we never wanted; can find that we are trapped, as in a dream, and die there, without ever waking up. This can occur. Anyone who has lifted his blood into a years-long work may find that he can’t sustain it, the force of gravity is irresistible, and it falls back, worthless. For somewhere there is an ancient enmity between our daily life and the great work. Help me, in saying it, to understand it.

Do not return. If you can bear to, stay dead with the dead. The dead have their own tasks. But help me, if you can without distraction, as what is farthest sometimes helps: in me.

She had painted his portrait the year before her death:

The glass in the painting at the top of my post is my connection to T Stands for Tuesday, where we share a post with a drink in it and visit with each other. Join me? A warm welcome is waiting for you.