November 2nd, 2009

white

"...and I can see that it's a lie."

I have often said that I write too much. Of course, what I really mean is that I have to write too much, in order to be paid enough for everything I write in order to keep the bills paid. But, in some sense, the why of it is irrelevant. Drop the explanation and stick to the fact: I write too much. And sometimes I am made acutely aware of how much too much I write.

Yesterday, for example, smallpinkfish asked about the provenance of the following passage, which comes from The Dry Salvages, which I wrote in 2003, and which was published in 2004:

"’And still’” she said, “’we do not see that we are not gods, The holy fathers and holy mothers and demons of our lost antiquities, Adoro te devote, latens Deitas, quae sub his figuris vere latitas. We do not comprehend our insignificance at the feet of eternity.’

“’ We have not the time to learn. We have not the courage to admit. We have not the strength to accept, and, accepting, move beyond this grinding infancy. Instead, we bring snow and ice to birthday parties in Hell and congratulate our ignorance.’”


To start with, I couldn't remember it having been part of The Dry Salvages (the question did not originally state the source or context of the quote). When I was asked about the passage, I just assumed that I'd not written it, that I was quoting someone else, and set about trying to track down the author. I searched books, and I searched the internet. And this morning I realized that I wrote it. Well, not the Latin bit. That was borrowed from the Prayer of St. Thomas (ca. 1260).

One should not cease to recognize the face of one's own creations. Or, at least it seems that way to me.

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Sirenia Digest #47 went out to subscribers late last night, so if you're a subscriber, you should have it by now. I do hope that you enjoy "The Dissevered Heart."

This latest round of eBay auctions ends today, in just a bit. Please have a look.

And I have a few photographs, as promised, of this year's jack-o'-lantern, which is, by the way, the first I ever carved in New England (though, Spooky did the mouth, as I was impatient):

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