Books +
John Muir recalling his journey at age 8 (I think) from Scotland to the US with his brother and father:
We joyfully sailed away from beloved Scotland, flying to our fortunes on the wings of the winds, care-free as thistle seeds. We could not then know what we were leaving, what we were to encounter in the New World, nor what our gains were likely to be. We were too young and full of hope for fear or regret, but not too young to look forward with eager enthusiasm to the wonderful schoolless bookless American wilderness.
- - - - - - -
The following is from The Hours, by Michael Cunningham. Somehow it connects to John Muir (or perhaps both only connect to me). I haven't seen the movie and I don't intend to.
Yes, Clarissa thinks, its time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then sleep - it's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills, more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything that we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more.
Heaven only knows why we love it so.
We joyfully sailed away from beloved Scotland, flying to our fortunes on the wings of the winds, care-free as thistle seeds. We could not then know what we were leaving, what we were to encounter in the New World, nor what our gains were likely to be. We were too young and full of hope for fear or regret, but not too young to look forward with eager enthusiasm to the wonderful schoolless bookless American wilderness.
- - - - - - -
The following is from The Hours, by Michael Cunningham. Somehow it connects to John Muir (or perhaps both only connect to me). I haven't seen the movie and I don't intend to.
Yes, Clarissa thinks, its time for the day to be over. We throw our parties; we abandon our families to live in Canada; we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then sleep - it's as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out of windows or drown themselves or take pills, more die by accident; and most of us, the vast majority, are slowly devoured by some disease or, if we're very fortunate, by time itself. There's just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything that we've ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) knows these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning; we hope, more than anything, for more.
Heaven only knows why we love it so.
posted by Scott Warren at 12:04 PM
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