(no subject)
Work, work, work. I actually think I'm beginning to read my Latin more or less fluently! Hooray! I'm going to take advantage of this after the exams and start making more use of my beautiful book of Virgil.
In other news: having seen larissa_bright's posting of her old fanfiction.net profile, I went hunting through the bowels of my doughty computer Edith for the oldest bit of my own writing I could find (at least, the oldest that looked at all interesting). By the method of finding a) the oldest folder, b) the oldest folder inside it and c) the oldest word document in that folder that wasn't school-work, I've turned up this, created at 16.49 on the 11th September 2001:
Sunset
Fire divine in the west transforms
Twisted columns of fluted white with
A soft flush of peach. Sky-castles gleam,
Riches beyond imagination
Above the pale city pastel-mist
Encased. Between the pillars the sun
Shines to make the King’s rubies dance with
Blinding flame in their frame of tree-twigs,
Black against the sky-scape. Among the
Higher dove-winged clouds the moon is, a
Crescent window to the Silver Sea.
Venus rises as a herald; the
Sun descends with the clouds, clearing the
Ballroom for the constellations. The
City beneath shuns the twilight but
Above the great dance begins again.
It could be worse. The odd sort of breathlessness between the lines I probably thought was poetic, or something. There's plenty of other minor works on my computer. I couldn't find any that were entirely laughable, though this one, from almost exactly a year later - 13th September 2002, is certainly a bit odd:
Ealyn, a wanderer, speaketh in a low voice as she stands near to the East Window of the Great Hall of Icthalion. Below, beneath the shivering stars, a light frost resteth most silent upon the gleaming City of Icthalion Marine, over which the dagger-thin sliver of the Huntress riseth. Warm light from the single candle on the wide sill of that widest Window mingleth with her silver beams on the page that herewith beareth the record of the Tale that is told, that it might never pass away. I, Scribe Osellë, most senior apprentice to Master Scribe Annan, do hereby testify in her absence that I have committed to ephemeral ink the exact account as Ealyn gave it, moreover, that upon her return the Wandering Scribe shall herself formally approve this transcript.
Pompous, moi?
alfgifu
In other news: having seen larissa_bright's posting of her old fanfiction.net profile, I went hunting through the bowels of my doughty computer Edith for the oldest bit of my own writing I could find (at least, the oldest that looked at all interesting). By the method of finding a) the oldest folder, b) the oldest folder inside it and c) the oldest word document in that folder that wasn't school-work, I've turned up this, created at 16.49 on the 11th September 2001:
Sunset
Fire divine in the west transforms
Twisted columns of fluted white with
A soft flush of peach. Sky-castles gleam,
Riches beyond imagination
Above the pale city pastel-mist
Encased. Between the pillars the sun
Shines to make the King’s rubies dance with
Blinding flame in their frame of tree-twigs,
Black against the sky-scape. Among the
Higher dove-winged clouds the moon is, a
Crescent window to the Silver Sea.
Venus rises as a herald; the
Sun descends with the clouds, clearing the
Ballroom for the constellations. The
City beneath shuns the twilight but
Above the great dance begins again.
It could be worse. The odd sort of breathlessness between the lines I probably thought was poetic, or something. There's plenty of other minor works on my computer. I couldn't find any that were entirely laughable, though this one, from almost exactly a year later - 13th September 2002, is certainly a bit odd:
Ealyn, a wanderer, speaketh in a low voice as she stands near to the East Window of the Great Hall of Icthalion. Below, beneath the shivering stars, a light frost resteth most silent upon the gleaming City of Icthalion Marine, over which the dagger-thin sliver of the Huntress riseth. Warm light from the single candle on the wide sill of that widest Window mingleth with her silver beams on the page that herewith beareth the record of the Tale that is told, that it might never pass away. I, Scribe Osellë, most senior apprentice to Master Scribe Annan, do hereby testify in her absence that I have committed to ephemeral ink the exact account as Ealyn gave it, moreover, that upon her return the Wandering Scribe shall herself formally approve this transcript.
Pompous, moi?
alfgifu