like the flame, like the night and the dark, i am not you
30 Days Meme
Day 14 ** A non-fictional book
Don't worry, I'm not going to post the Jerry book. Either of them. And since I don't have my Hero Of A Thousand Faces --- *looks pointedly at a certain person* --- this will have to do.
Is there any place for the ancient myths of our ancestors in modern times? Could their shadowy presence in our common imagination be more influential than we realize?
Across the globe many societies still believe in an Otherworld of spirits, gods and daimons, which the West has banished to the unconscious mind and now only visits in dreams. Yet this visionary tradition continues to subvert the rational universe, shooting out of the shadows in times of intense religion and philosophical transition.
In his dazzling history of the imagination, Patrick Harpur links together fields as far apart as Greek philosophy and depth psychology, Renaissance magic and tribal ritual, Romantic poetry and the ecstasy of the shaman, to trace how myths have been used to make sense of the world. He uncovers that tradition which alchemists imagined as a Golden Chain of initiates, who passed their mysterious 'secret fire' through the ages.
As this inspiring book shows, the secret of this perennial wisdom is that of an imaginative insight: a simple way of seeing that re-enchants our existence and restores us to our own true selves.
This is the book that develops what Joseph Campbell began in The Hero Of A Thousand Faces, about the mythology of ancient times right up to the mythology of our modern times. It's a slim book but my god, every page makes me stop and stare blindly with the silence of an exploded enlightenment. And for a writer, it's the most incredible invigorating read, the same way Campbell is. This current novel was quite a sleek simple thing until I got to a certain point in Patrick Harpur's book and my brain started fizzing over with all these possibilities. Now my novel is a sprawling hero(ine)'s journey that is so much richer and deeper and more satisfying to write and read.
In a fit of delirious optimism, I lent this book to a rather smart member of the tribunal where I work. When he returned it, he told me in not so many words that he found it utterly ridiculous. And as he talked on, I realised slowly ... he didn't get it. He couldn't see why Harpur banged on about myths and fairy tales and dreams. He didn't see the value of everything Harpur said in every sentence, didn't understand the huge shimmering concept behind every page, the truth that is right there in the blurb. Imagination makes our world. Operative verb being 'makes'. Makes.
I'd love to quote something from the actual book but every section is so interconnected to the rest of it that I cannot and don't want to damage any of it by isolating a bit. Suffice it to say it's aaaaaaaaallll fascinating, everything from the discussion of medicine to serial killers to shamanic journeys to the myth (!) of the atom. Utterly fascinating fascinating book.
Also, cos I read a lot of biographies too:
Because, as I just realised, my grandmother died the same year as Kate Hepburn. Kate died in June, my grandmother in September. And I remember reading the end of the book in Broadway Food Court, suddenly in tears and shocked terribly because I never knew Kate had cancer too, this hideous demon I had come to know with a sudden unwelcome intimacy.
It's a remarkable book, all the more so for its subjectivity. I liked that so very much, that A. Scott Berg says right up front that he's a huge fan of Kate brought into her circle, that the book is a series of recollections and conversations. That's exactly what I wanted to read. I didn't want some lofty personage handing me down a cold objective account of this woman who was apparently cold and lofty and objective herself. I wanted someone to show me what it was like to be Katharine Hepburn's friend, what it was like to have her look at you and talk to you and react to you. God, I wanted that so much so often. I used to have daydreams of talking with her, arguing and discussing things with her. I wanted to be her friend just like A. Scott Berg. I wanted her to be my friend.
I haven't read it since. Perhaps I should. But it's stayed with me in so many ways, so many significant shifts of viewpoint upon her career and how the reality differed from what she portrayed in her own book. How she was even more independent and fearless than she made herself out to be. And how A. Scott Berg does this fabulous thing of letting you know exactly how difficult Kate was without ever demeaning her. I liked that so much. He loved her, yes, and he saw her clear too.
And ha, now I realise Kate died on the 29th of June. Michael died on the 25th of June. I could really seriously begin to dislike the month of June, you know.
Here's a great review and excerpt, even cites my very favourite moment about Spence.
And finally, in the most prosaic sense:
Roget's Thesaurus, the Everyman edition, edited by DC Browning.
When I was very young, I used to read the encyclopaedia. Can't remember whether it was Brittanica or another kind. It was those brown ones in twenty-something volumes. Or was it fourteen? We had the whole set. I remember being told how very expensive they were but they were also this total status symbol and I remember being vaguely disgusted by this, by people boasting about having them just to have them. So I was determined to read them all. I started from A and got to about G, I think. Sometimes I skipped to the slimmer ones. Sometimes I made myself start the thickest ones. The country entries bored me the worst but god, I loved the biological ones and the entertainment personalities best. But I never completed the whole set and always felt a bit stupid for it.
Then I moved onto the dictionary. And that pissed me off royally. I remember feeling increasingly caged and resentful, and finally exploded in this rage of "why does everything have to be their way? Why can't I make up my own definitions? I hate this! You're making everything BORING!" It just seemed too claustrophobic and restrictive to me. Reductive, I realise now. The dictionary reduced everything and captured nothing.
So I switched to the thesaurus. And fell into pure delight, the sheer ecstacy of words upon words upon words, lists of words that I didn't need to define, just sound out in my head and glean their purpose from the words around them, modern words and deliciously archaic words, words I had never seen in any other book or even heard people say, words that were now lovely sounds and fragments of melodies in my head. My god, I loved that experience so much. For several school holidays, my most thrilling plan was to start at the beginning of the thesaurus and read it all the way through. And oh yeah, I did it. More than once. I couldn't wait.
When I was in the fifth standard --- oh how old would I have been? finished tenth standard at the age of fourteen, so fifth was ... *tries to subtract in head, gives up, opens up the calculator* ... nine?! oh jesus, that can't be right, no unfortunately it is cos I started year eleven here at fifteen --- my grandmother who was also the headmistress of the primary section of my school said "the only person in this class who actually knows how to use a thesaurus ..." and I wondered with slight awe who this very cool intelligent person was and how come I didn't know about this person already? "... is dri." Oh jesus. It's not that hard. Jeeeezzz ...
And I still have it. The very same copy which belonged to my mum. I remember I asked her once why she had it and she told me it was because she was in advertising. Made sense to me at the time. Now I think of those so quaint archaic words and snort. No way did she use any of those in Eighties Bombay ad campaigns. It's totally broken, whole sections have come apart from the spine and the rest of the book. And I even bought a new version so I didn't have to damage this one more. But the new one is too small and cramped and cheap. It has no magic, no weight to its pages, the print too mean and crude. And worst of all, it doesn't have all the words my beloved Everyman's Edition does. No wonder, cos it's the Concise edition which I didn't even realise when I got it. Faugh! Even the sight of it still irritates me.
First published 1952, most recent revisions 1971. *lol* Nine years before I was born.
And wow, I just remembered. I was reading it once, sitting on the bed against the wall, completely happy and absorbed. And either my mum or my granny came past and asked with some oddness, "dri, what are you reading?" I looked up and replied, "The thesaurus." And got this slightly odd silence but no protest because whoever it was went on their way and never mentioned it again. At the time, I didn't think anything of it. Heh. It was only years later in some general conversation that I realised "Oh. Er. People don't generally read thesauri? Oh. Um. All right, then I'm clearly a freak and better not admit this to other people."
Now I'm pretty sure I'm not the only freak. And really I can't think of anything better or more enjoyable for a writer to do. Seriously. Find an old heavy battered yellowed thesaurus, preferably one that began several decades before your birth, and read it cover to cover. It's the most gorgeous orgasmic experience. I felt so full after each experience, so empowered and powerful. It was exhilarating.
And ha, the headings used to bewilder me more than the actual words in the body of each entry. I used to think "what does that mean?!" and then read the body and think "ohhh, maybe that means ...? Oh, okay. Huh." Best of all were the entries that had the opposites in the column beside them so I could compare and correlate. Funny how you teach yourself things without realising you're actually teaching yourself. Funny how what were magical unusual words then are now quite familiar almost mundane words. I think that's a good thing.
Happiness, felicity, bliss, beatitude, beatification, enchantment, transport, rapture, ravishment, ecstasy, heaven, summum bonum, paradise, Eden, Arcadia, nirvana, elysium, empyrean.
To indulge in, treat oneself, solace oneself, revel, riot, luxuriate in, gloat over; to be on velvet, in clover, in heaven, etc; to enjoy oneself; to congratulate oneself, hug oneself.
Pleased, enjoying, relishing, liking, gratified, glad, gladdened, rejoiced, delighted, overjoyed, charmed.
Cheered, enlivened, flattered, tickled, indulged, regaled, treated.
Comfortable, at ease, easy, cosy, satisfied, content, luxurious, on velvet, in clover, on a bed of roses, sans souci.
Happy, blest, blessed, blissful, overjoyed, enchanted, captivated, fascinated, transported, raptured, rapt, enraptured, in raptures, in ecstasies, in a transport, beatified, in heaven, in the seventh heaven, in paradise.
Oh god yes, the delight in listing them, sounding them out in my head is still there, still intoxicating.
Guh. Words.
Day 15 ** A fanfic
Day 16 ** A song that makes you cry (or nearly)
Day 17 ** An art piece (painting, drawing, sculpture, etc.)
Day 18 ** Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 19 ** A talent of yours
Day 20 ** A hobby of yours
Day 21 ** A recipe
Day 22 ** A website
Day 23 ** A YouTube video
Day 24 ** Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 25 ** Your day, in great detail
Day 26 ** Your week, in great detail
Day 27 ** This month, in great detail
Day 28 ** This year, in great detail
Day 29 ** Hopes, dreams and plans for the next 365 days
Day 30 ** Whatever tickles your fancy
Oh man. I have so many movies --- don't you leer at me, Robert Mitchum! --- to watch before returning them tomorrow but I'm so exhausted. This time tomorrow I'll be in Bowral, yaaaaaaaaaayyyyy!
And ha, today I booked my birthday dinner at a place where the Beach Boys will apparently perform with the Sydney Symphony. O rly? Dennis Wilson too? *snort* Oh, you are not funny, dri.
Day 14 ** A non-fictional book
Don't worry, I'm not going to post the Jerry book. Either of them. And since I don't have my Hero Of A Thousand Faces --- *looks pointedly at a certain person* --- this will have to do.
Is there any place for the ancient myths of our ancestors in modern times? Could their shadowy presence in our common imagination be more influential than we realize?
Across the globe many societies still believe in an Otherworld of spirits, gods and daimons, which the West has banished to the unconscious mind and now only visits in dreams. Yet this visionary tradition continues to subvert the rational universe, shooting out of the shadows in times of intense religion and philosophical transition.
In his dazzling history of the imagination, Patrick Harpur links together fields as far apart as Greek philosophy and depth psychology, Renaissance magic and tribal ritual, Romantic poetry and the ecstasy of the shaman, to trace how myths have been used to make sense of the world. He uncovers that tradition which alchemists imagined as a Golden Chain of initiates, who passed their mysterious 'secret fire' through the ages.
As this inspiring book shows, the secret of this perennial wisdom is that of an imaginative insight: a simple way of seeing that re-enchants our existence and restores us to our own true selves.
This is the book that develops what Joseph Campbell began in The Hero Of A Thousand Faces, about the mythology of ancient times right up to the mythology of our modern times. It's a slim book but my god, every page makes me stop and stare blindly with the silence of an exploded enlightenment. And for a writer, it's the most incredible invigorating read, the same way Campbell is. This current novel was quite a sleek simple thing until I got to a certain point in Patrick Harpur's book and my brain started fizzing over with all these possibilities. Now my novel is a sprawling hero(ine)'s journey that is so much richer and deeper and more satisfying to write and read.
In a fit of delirious optimism, I lent this book to a rather smart member of the tribunal where I work. When he returned it, he told me in not so many words that he found it utterly ridiculous. And as he talked on, I realised slowly ... he didn't get it. He couldn't see why Harpur banged on about myths and fairy tales and dreams. He didn't see the value of everything Harpur said in every sentence, didn't understand the huge shimmering concept behind every page, the truth that is right there in the blurb. Imagination makes our world. Operative verb being 'makes'. Makes.
I'd love to quote something from the actual book but every section is so interconnected to the rest of it that I cannot and don't want to damage any of it by isolating a bit. Suffice it to say it's aaaaaaaaallll fascinating, everything from the discussion of medicine to serial killers to shamanic journeys to the myth (!) of the atom. Utterly fascinating fascinating book.
Also, cos I read a lot of biographies too:
Because, as I just realised, my grandmother died the same year as Kate Hepburn. Kate died in June, my grandmother in September. And I remember reading the end of the book in Broadway Food Court, suddenly in tears and shocked terribly because I never knew Kate had cancer too, this hideous demon I had come to know with a sudden unwelcome intimacy.
It's a remarkable book, all the more so for its subjectivity. I liked that so very much, that A. Scott Berg says right up front that he's a huge fan of Kate brought into her circle, that the book is a series of recollections and conversations. That's exactly what I wanted to read. I didn't want some lofty personage handing me down a cold objective account of this woman who was apparently cold and lofty and objective herself. I wanted someone to show me what it was like to be Katharine Hepburn's friend, what it was like to have her look at you and talk to you and react to you. God, I wanted that so much so often. I used to have daydreams of talking with her, arguing and discussing things with her. I wanted to be her friend just like A. Scott Berg. I wanted her to be my friend.
I haven't read it since. Perhaps I should. But it's stayed with me in so many ways, so many significant shifts of viewpoint upon her career and how the reality differed from what she portrayed in her own book. How she was even more independent and fearless than she made herself out to be. And how A. Scott Berg does this fabulous thing of letting you know exactly how difficult Kate was without ever demeaning her. I liked that so much. He loved her, yes, and he saw her clear too.
And ha, now I realise Kate died on the 29th of June. Michael died on the 25th of June. I could really seriously begin to dislike the month of June, you know.
Here's a great review and excerpt, even cites my very favourite moment about Spence.
And finally, in the most prosaic sense:
Roget's Thesaurus, the Everyman edition, edited by DC Browning.
When I was very young, I used to read the encyclopaedia. Can't remember whether it was Brittanica or another kind. It was those brown ones in twenty-something volumes. Or was it fourteen? We had the whole set. I remember being told how very expensive they were but they were also this total status symbol and I remember being vaguely disgusted by this, by people boasting about having them just to have them. So I was determined to read them all. I started from A and got to about G, I think. Sometimes I skipped to the slimmer ones. Sometimes I made myself start the thickest ones. The country entries bored me the worst but god, I loved the biological ones and the entertainment personalities best. But I never completed the whole set and always felt a bit stupid for it.
Then I moved onto the dictionary. And that pissed me off royally. I remember feeling increasingly caged and resentful, and finally exploded in this rage of "why does everything have to be their way? Why can't I make up my own definitions? I hate this! You're making everything BORING!" It just seemed too claustrophobic and restrictive to me. Reductive, I realise now. The dictionary reduced everything and captured nothing.
So I switched to the thesaurus. And fell into pure delight, the sheer ecstacy of words upon words upon words, lists of words that I didn't need to define, just sound out in my head and glean their purpose from the words around them, modern words and deliciously archaic words, words I had never seen in any other book or even heard people say, words that were now lovely sounds and fragments of melodies in my head. My god, I loved that experience so much. For several school holidays, my most thrilling plan was to start at the beginning of the thesaurus and read it all the way through. And oh yeah, I did it. More than once. I couldn't wait.
When I was in the fifth standard --- oh how old would I have been? finished tenth standard at the age of fourteen, so fifth was ... *tries to subtract in head, gives up, opens up the calculator* ... nine?! oh jesus, that can't be right, no unfortunately it is cos I started year eleven here at fifteen --- my grandmother who was also the headmistress of the primary section of my school said "the only person in this class who actually knows how to use a thesaurus ..." and I wondered with slight awe who this very cool intelligent person was and how come I didn't know about this person already? "... is dri." Oh jesus. It's not that hard. Jeeeezzz ...
And I still have it. The very same copy which belonged to my mum. I remember I asked her once why she had it and she told me it was because she was in advertising. Made sense to me at the time. Now I think of those so quaint archaic words and snort. No way did she use any of those in Eighties Bombay ad campaigns. It's totally broken, whole sections have come apart from the spine and the rest of the book. And I even bought a new version so I didn't have to damage this one more. But the new one is too small and cramped and cheap. It has no magic, no weight to its pages, the print too mean and crude. And worst of all, it doesn't have all the words my beloved Everyman's Edition does. No wonder, cos it's the Concise edition which I didn't even realise when I got it. Faugh! Even the sight of it still irritates me.
First published 1952, most recent revisions 1971. *lol* Nine years before I was born.
And wow, I just remembered. I was reading it once, sitting on the bed against the wall, completely happy and absorbed. And either my mum or my granny came past and asked with some oddness, "dri, what are you reading?" I looked up and replied, "The thesaurus." And got this slightly odd silence but no protest because whoever it was went on their way and never mentioned it again. At the time, I didn't think anything of it. Heh. It was only years later in some general conversation that I realised "Oh. Er. People don't generally read thesauri? Oh. Um. All right, then I'm clearly a freak and better not admit this to other people."
Now I'm pretty sure I'm not the only freak. And really I can't think of anything better or more enjoyable for a writer to do. Seriously. Find an old heavy battered yellowed thesaurus, preferably one that began several decades before your birth, and read it cover to cover. It's the most gorgeous orgasmic experience. I felt so full after each experience, so empowered and powerful. It was exhilarating.
And ha, the headings used to bewilder me more than the actual words in the body of each entry. I used to think "what does that mean?!" and then read the body and think "ohhh, maybe that means ...? Oh, okay. Huh." Best of all were the entries that had the opposites in the column beside them so I could compare and correlate. Funny how you teach yourself things without realising you're actually teaching yourself. Funny how what were magical unusual words then are now quite familiar almost mundane words. I think that's a good thing.
Happiness, felicity, bliss, beatitude, beatification, enchantment, transport, rapture, ravishment, ecstasy, heaven, summum bonum, paradise, Eden, Arcadia, nirvana, elysium, empyrean.
To indulge in, treat oneself, solace oneself, revel, riot, luxuriate in, gloat over; to be on velvet, in clover, in heaven, etc; to enjoy oneself; to congratulate oneself, hug oneself.
Pleased, enjoying, relishing, liking, gratified, glad, gladdened, rejoiced, delighted, overjoyed, charmed.
Cheered, enlivened, flattered, tickled, indulged, regaled, treated.
Comfortable, at ease, easy, cosy, satisfied, content, luxurious, on velvet, in clover, on a bed of roses, sans souci.
Happy, blest, blessed, blissful, overjoyed, enchanted, captivated, fascinated, transported, raptured, rapt, enraptured, in raptures, in ecstasies, in a transport, beatified, in heaven, in the seventh heaven, in paradise.
Oh god yes, the delight in listing them, sounding them out in my head is still there, still intoxicating.
Guh. Words.
Day 15 ** A fanfic
Day 16 ** A song that makes you cry (or nearly)
Day 17 ** An art piece (painting, drawing, sculpture, etc.)
Day 18 ** Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 19 ** A talent of yours
Day 20 ** A hobby of yours
Day 21 ** A recipe
Day 22 ** A website
Day 23 ** A YouTube video
Day 24 ** Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 25 ** Your day, in great detail
Day 26 ** Your week, in great detail
Day 27 ** This month, in great detail
Day 28 ** This year, in great detail
Day 29 ** Hopes, dreams and plans for the next 365 days
Day 30 ** Whatever tickles your fancy
Oh man. I have so many movies --- don't you leer at me, Robert Mitchum! --- to watch before returning them tomorrow but I'm so exhausted. This time tomorrow I'll be in Bowral, yaaaaaaaaaayyyyy!
And ha, today I booked my birthday dinner at a place where the Beach Boys will apparently perform with the Sydney Symphony. O rly? Dennis Wilson too? *snort* Oh, you are not funny, dri.