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Showing posts with the label Oregon

Of toilets

The British famously named one of their scientific boats Boaty McBoatface; in the same spirit, I hereby christen our new toilet Flushton McFlushface – “Flushy,” for short. (Karin’s dad kindly installed it yesterday.)

“Flushy” resided some days in our parlor, inside a big box, and became like a piece of furniture to us – which, I suppose, is what it is. Samuel and Daniel played upon, and inside, the box.

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The Middle Ages weren’t always so-called. Likewise, our old toilet, previously unnamed, is now “Not Quite Flushy” because of its position in the History of Toilets – and because of its chief defect.

We carried it out to the front porch where, due to rain, churchgoing (ours, not the toilet’s), etc., it has remained. With luck, it’ll be immortalized by Google Street View. This afternoon it toppled onto its side. I don’t know if it was pushed by wind, urchins, or stray cats; or if a part of it simply crumbled.

I intend to break it into smaller pieces with a hammer, to fit it into the trash.

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Enough of toilets. For the second half of my reading year I’m plotting a march through Dostoevsky. Curious thing. His canon is crowned by the “five major novels.” Russians list them differently than do English speakers. Russians include The Adolescent; English speakers typically don’t. They might include Notes from the Underground (a novella) or reduce the list to four. It’s not as egregious as, e.g., Oregon’s having become the best college football team in the Midwest’s 18-team Big Ten Conference; but it’s gerrymandered, all right.

Anyway, I plan to read Notes, the Russians’ “five,” and probably The Double and The Gambler; so, either way, I’m covered.

P.S. See this useful webpage re: translations.

April’s poem

Here is Thriftbooks.com’s list of the most popular books in each state in 2021.

A few good books, a lot of “meh” ones, and some stinkers.

I am a little surprised that so many people are reading about birds, plants, and rocks. (See: Maine, Michigan, Montana, Oregon, Virginia, and Wisconsin.)

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This month’s poetry is from the Purgatorio, canto XI. It modifies the Paternoster. The proud recite it while doing their penance.

They circle around, bearing burdens that make them stoop; and they look at sculptures of the humble.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Our Father in Heaven, not by Heaven bounded
but there indwelling for the greater love
Thou bears’t Thy first works in the realm first-founded,

hallowed be Thy name, hallowed Thy Power
by every creature as its nature grants it
to praise Thy quickening breath in its brief hour.

Let come to us the sweet peace of Thy reign,
for if it come not we cannot ourselves
attain to it however much we strain.

And as Thine Angels kneeling at the throne
offer their wills to Thee, singing Hosannah,
so teach all men to offer up their own.

Give us this day Thy manna, Lord we pray,
for if he have it not, though man most strive
through these harsh wastes, his speed is his delay.

As we forgive our trespassers the ill
we have endured, do Thou forgive, not weighing
our merits, but the mercy of Thy will.

Our strength is as a reed bent to the ground:
do not Thou test us with the Adversary,
but deliver us from him who sets us round.

This last petition, Lord, with grateful mind,
we pray not for ourselves who have no need,
but for the souls of those we left behind.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(Translator: John Ciardi)

My niece, etc.

Ana shares this photo of David and little Ada.


What a sweetie!

Tomorrow, Karin & I will spend some time with my high school friend, Dan, and his wife and three young children. They recently moved from Vermont to southwestern Michigan.

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My current reading:

(1) Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars, translated by Robert Graves (1957), revised by some other dude (2007).

(2) Michael Grant, The Twelve Caesars.

“Robert Graves’ Penguin version … is entertaining, but has to be used with caution.”

Yes, I expect that Graves sneaks in a few extra poisonings.

(3) Terri Jentz, Strange Piece of Paradise.

True crime.

Vacationing from Yale, the author camps out in the Oregon desert and is mutilated by a mysterious axeman. Decades later, she returns to the scene to seek out the axeman, his motive, and cosmic meaning.

The book is highly introspective: was the author’s trauma due to herself, or to the axeman? The author writes 100+ pages before even considering the latter possibility.

Still, it isn’t bad.

(4) Lois Duncan, Down a Dark Hall, original 1974 version.

This classic gothic school novel is by the author of I Know What You Did Last Summer and Stranger with My Face.

(The 2011 update incorporates new technology – email, cell phones, etc. – NO GOOD.)

To be continued. …