[lit-ideas] Re: 70 years ago today ...
- From: "Walter C. Okshevsky" <wokshevs@xxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx, Robert Paul <rpaul@xxxxxxxx>
- Date: Fri, 14 Jan 2011 15:15:01 -0330
Extraordinary! Allow me the opportunity, Watson, to attempt a discernment of
the
source of these most singular musings from our beloved RP.
I would venture .... 10 or 12 hefty drams of perhaps ... a Speyside?? No, no
...
the Highlands, yes ... and specifically the *Western* Highlands. Something
delicate and subtle, almost deceptive ... a touch of fruity seaweed perhaps
.... languidly becoming smoky. And something aromatic and smooth ....
Occcasionally surprisingly assertive - and even stinging and salty. But
natuerlich! The 32 year old Oban herself.
Behold the maiden who has (perchance only temporarily) seduced RP away from the
single malt purity of philosophy and into the bourbonesque heteronomy of the
creatures poetry and metaphor. Surely, only Socrates' own personal muse - the
ageless GlenDiotima can save him now. We devoutly await the merciful spiritual
and intellectual restoration of his slowly swooning soul. Gospodsi, Gospodsi
pomolimsya.
Walter O.
Loch Fyne Professor of Libational Phenomenology
Faculty of Distillatory Engineering
University of New Glascow
Nova Scotia, Canada
Quoting Robert Paul <rpaul@xxxxxxxx>:
>
> A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun
> to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling
> obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on
> his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general
> all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central
> plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and,
> farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves.
> It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the
> hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the
> crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the
> barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling
> faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of
> their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
>
>
>
>
>
> Ho, talk saveus!
>
>
> Robert Paul
>
>
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