IMAGE: Giovanni De Min, The Choice of Hercules (1812)
_The_choice_of_Hercules_-_Giovanni_de_Min_-_gallerie_Accademia_Venice.jpg)
The Death of Marcus Aurelius
Wednesday, September 16, 2026
Henry David Thoreau 18
Ralph Waldo Emerson 23
—from Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals (8 November, 1838)
Tuesday, September 15, 2026
Monday, September 14, 2026
The Basel Dance of Death 20
Matthäus Merian, The Basel Dance of Death: The Merchant (1616)
Your time is here, now you must die.
Death cannot be bribed with money or goods.
Now dance along in high spirits."
my chests and boxes were all full.
Death has despised my wealth,
and deprived me of life and limb."
Seneca, Moral Letters 86.5
How some persons nowadays condemn Scipio as a boor because he did not let daylight into his perspiring room through wide windows, or because he did not roast in the strong sunlight and dawdle about until he could stew in the hot water!
“Poor fool,” they say, “he did not know how to live! He did not bathe in filtered water; it was often turbid, and after heavy rains almost muddy!”
But it did not matter much to Scipio if he had to bathe in that way; he went there to wash off sweat, not ointment. And how do you suppose certain persons will answer me? They will say: “I don’t envy Scipio; that was truly an exile’s life—to put up with baths like those!”
Friend, if you were wiser, you would know that Scipio did not bathe every day. It is stated by those who have reported to us the old-time ways of Rome that the Romans washed only their arms and legs daily—because those were the members which gathered dirt in their daily toil—and bathed all over only once a week.
Here someone will retort: “Yes; pretty dirty fellows they evidently were! How they must have smelled!”
But they smelled of the camp, the farm, and heroism. Now that spick-and-span bathing establishments have been devised, men are really fouler than of yore.
What says Horatius Flaccus, when he wishes to describe a scoundrel, one who is notorious for his extreme luxury? He says: “Buccillus smells of perfume.”
Show me a Buccillus in these days; his smell would be the veritable goat-smell—he would take the place of the Gargonius with whom Horace in the same passage contrasted him. It is nowadays not enough to use ointment, unless you put on a fresh coat two or three times a day, to keep it from evaporating on the body. But why should a man boast of this perfume as if it were his own?
“Poor fool,” they say, “he did not know how to live! He did not bathe in filtered water; it was often turbid, and after heavy rains almost muddy!”
But it did not matter much to Scipio if he had to bathe in that way; he went there to wash off sweat, not ointment. And how do you suppose certain persons will answer me? They will say: “I don’t envy Scipio; that was truly an exile’s life—to put up with baths like those!”
Friend, if you were wiser, you would know that Scipio did not bathe every day. It is stated by those who have reported to us the old-time ways of Rome that the Romans washed only their arms and legs daily—because those were the members which gathered dirt in their daily toil—and bathed all over only once a week.
Here someone will retort: “Yes; pretty dirty fellows they evidently were! How they must have smelled!”
But they smelled of the camp, the farm, and heroism. Now that spick-and-span bathing establishments have been devised, men are really fouler than of yore.
What says Horatius Flaccus, when he wishes to describe a scoundrel, one who is notorious for his extreme luxury? He says: “Buccillus smells of perfume.”
Show me a Buccillus in these days; his smell would be the veritable goat-smell—he would take the place of the Gargonius with whom Horace in the same passage contrasted him. It is nowadays not enough to use ointment, unless you put on a fresh coat two or three times a day, to keep it from evaporating on the body. But why should a man boast of this perfume as if it were his own?
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86
As a child of two continents, it was sometimes hard to feel at home, but it also gave me the benefit of seeing a few things from a broader perspective. Even in my own lifetime, many of those contrasts have gradually disappeared, as our cultures become homogenized, so I now torture my own children with endless stories about how both America and Europe used to be. Like Seneca, my intention is to point toward what is perennial, not merely to linger on the past.
At American schools, I was confused when my peers were always talking about taking showers, at many different times during the day, and they became deeply anxious if they were ever denied the chance to do so. There were showers in the morning, and showers in the evening, and showers after sports or any sort of physical exertion. I finally realized they had an aversion to the slightest presence of sweat, which also explained why the continually covered themselves with a variety of deodorants and antiperspirants.
Now my mother, very of much of the European old school, would not have permitted me to leave the house dirty or smelly, but I was never told to shower daily. I was, however, expected to wash thoroughly as a part of my routine, and I would be sent back to the bathroom if I cut any corners. A sink, a washcloth, and a bar of soap were the tools. A proper bath was added once a week, and only more often if I somehow made a terrible mess of myself.
To the American, the European would seem like a filthy beast, stinking to high heaven, and to the European, the American would seem like a spoiled brat, wallowing in decadence. Both were exaggerations, of course, and yet I couldn’t help but notice how the average Bostonian was still a far sloppier, grubbier, and, dare I say, ruder fellow than the average Austrian. Let us be careful about what we mean by being clean.
Both Seneca and my mother may have been on to something.
By the time I became a teacher, my students still appeared to be showering before class, since most of them crawled in with wet hair, but I was sometimes alarmed by the smell in the room. No, it wasn’t just sweat, it was also stale beer, masked by the pungent scent of cheap body spray. I once observed a young man fumigate himself from head to toe with a can, for well over a minute, which was a world away from my spritz of 4711 after shaving, or that dab of Eau Sauvage on a special occasion, from a bottle that lasted me over a decade.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
I can honestly say that I am very rarely offended by someone’s body odor, and when I am, I must remind myself that it is usually due to circumstances beyond their control. A man who has been working probably should smell of sweat, though if he is well-mannered, he will wash up before he sits down at the table. Nor do I mind the smell of hay, compost, goats, horses, or cattle, as they are a sign that I am in a properly natural place.
What does sadden me, however, is the attempt to conceal our rough physicality, to hide behind some fancy perfume. It is yet another instance of putting on an act, of pretending to be better than we really are. No, I correct myself: not better at all, but worse, because we are hardly being authentic. It isn’t our scent to begin with.
A man should not have to drench himself with chemicals before he faces the world, and a woman should not have to spend an hour “putting on her face” before she is taken seriously.
As a child of two continents, it was sometimes hard to feel at home, but it also gave me the benefit of seeing a few things from a broader perspective. Even in my own lifetime, many of those contrasts have gradually disappeared, as our cultures become homogenized, so I now torture my own children with endless stories about how both America and Europe used to be. Like Seneca, my intention is to point toward what is perennial, not merely to linger on the past.
At American schools, I was confused when my peers were always talking about taking showers, at many different times during the day, and they became deeply anxious if they were ever denied the chance to do so. There were showers in the morning, and showers in the evening, and showers after sports or any sort of physical exertion. I finally realized they had an aversion to the slightest presence of sweat, which also explained why the continually covered themselves with a variety of deodorants and antiperspirants.
Now my mother, very of much of the European old school, would not have permitted me to leave the house dirty or smelly, but I was never told to shower daily. I was, however, expected to wash thoroughly as a part of my routine, and I would be sent back to the bathroom if I cut any corners. A sink, a washcloth, and a bar of soap were the tools. A proper bath was added once a week, and only more often if I somehow made a terrible mess of myself.
To the American, the European would seem like a filthy beast, stinking to high heaven, and to the European, the American would seem like a spoiled brat, wallowing in decadence. Both were exaggerations, of course, and yet I couldn’t help but notice how the average Bostonian was still a far sloppier, grubbier, and, dare I say, ruder fellow than the average Austrian. Let us be careful about what we mean by being clean.
Both Seneca and my mother may have been on to something.
By the time I became a teacher, my students still appeared to be showering before class, since most of them crawled in with wet hair, but I was sometimes alarmed by the smell in the room. No, it wasn’t just sweat, it was also stale beer, masked by the pungent scent of cheap body spray. I once observed a young man fumigate himself from head to toe with a can, for well over a minute, which was a world away from my spritz of 4711 after shaving, or that dab of Eau Sauvage on a special occasion, from a bottle that lasted me over a decade.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
I can honestly say that I am very rarely offended by someone’s body odor, and when I am, I must remind myself that it is usually due to circumstances beyond their control. A man who has been working probably should smell of sweat, though if he is well-mannered, he will wash up before he sits down at the table. Nor do I mind the smell of hay, compost, goats, horses, or cattle, as they are a sign that I am in a properly natural place.
What does sadden me, however, is the attempt to conceal our rough physicality, to hide behind some fancy perfume. It is yet another instance of putting on an act, of pretending to be better than we really are. No, I correct myself: not better at all, but worse, because we are hardly being authentic. It isn’t our scent to begin with.
A man should not have to drench himself with chemicals before he faces the world, and a woman should not have to spend an hour “putting on her face” before she is taken seriously.
—Reflection written in 1/2014
Sunday, September 13, 2026
Maxims of Goethe 93
When you lose interest in anything, you also lose the memory for it.
IMAGE: Elihu Vedder, Memory (1870)
Ellis Walker, Epictetus in Poetical Paraphrase 65
If I should boast I wealthier am than you,
It follows not that I am better too;
If I should say, I'm the more florid man,
It follows not, I therefore better am.
It rather follows, I am richer far,
Therefore my well-fill'd bags the better are:
My tongue is better hung, my phrase more neat,
Therefore my language is the more compleat,
Your bags and fluent speech have some pretence
To being better, to more excellence,
But you are neither wealth, nor eloquence.
It follows not that I am better too;
If I should say, I'm the more florid man,
It follows not, I therefore better am.
It rather follows, I am richer far,
Therefore my well-fill'd bags the better are:
My tongue is better hung, my phrase more neat,
Therefore my language is the more compleat,
Your bags and fluent speech have some pretence
To being better, to more excellence,
But you are neither wealth, nor eloquence.
Saturday, September 12, 2026
Frippisms 8
When we have nothing to say, it is very hard to say nothing.
When we have nothing to do, it is very hard to do nothing.
William Hogarth, Industry and Idleness 3
The most unsuitable thoughts can have a way of popping into our heads during the most dignified occasions. For a good number of years, any formal dinner would have me obsessed with watching television, and going to church would make me crave a cigarette. I suspect the sense that I was being "forced" to fulfill some tedious duty was an excuse to stubbornly dwell upon an instant gratification.
I could also blame the Devil for my temptations, of course, but wherever that itch is coming from, I am the only one who decides if I will scratch it. Why might I call it such a great sacrifice to give an hour to honor my own family, or to praise the Almighty? In the end, our habits won't change if our priorities won't change—the more we choose to value it, the more we will gladly endure to achieve it.
In other words, when I truly recognize it as a duty, I will no longer consider it to be tedious.
So Francis prays on a Sunday because he judges his character to be most important. And Tom gambles on a Sunday because he judges his passions to be most important. Given, once again, that they have both been handed the same opportunities, there is no getting around their personal responsibility as the root cause.
Some of my students have tried to defend Tom, and I an actually quite sympathetic. Perhaps Francis and Tom have different temperaments, or they were raised under different conditions? We all have our peculiar inclinations, and our environment will indeed impose incredible obstacles: could we not show a bit more compassion to Tom, and perhaps teach him gently before callously casting him aside?
I wholeheartedly agree, for we should offer forgiveness not once, not twice, but seventy by seven times, just as it is only through our own patient understanding that we can inspire others to understand. Nevertheless, there is little to be done for someone who absolutely refuses to be helped, and there is a vast difference between the man who falls down and the man who won't get back up.
I know the burden of a bad habit all too well, yet I also know the power of a good habit to lighten the load. Despite the inertia, changing the direction of my life begins with a purity of intention, and great oaks from little acorns grow.
Having been there myself, I do not think it unfair to say that Tom fails to be good because he still doesn't want to be good.
I do not agree with those who claim there are certain "criminal types" who are beyond any chance of reform, mainly because I do not subscribe to their view of a man as a mere machine. Where there is a good will, my redemption is always possible, but I condemn myself when I obstinately cling to my vices.
The politicians will blame the economy, and the therapists will blame your mother, and the doctors will try to sell you a little pill. In the meantime, those of common sense will recognize why fiddling with the circumstances is never enough. Ultimately, we will all have to be accountable for ourselves.
So there can be no doubt concerning the gravity of Tom's choices, Hogarth presents an especially vivid scene. Tom isn't just skipping church, he is gambling. He isn't just gambling, he is cheating at the game of hustle-cap. He isn't just cheating, he is doing so on a tombstone.
One would think that being surrounded by bones might offer him a clue. . . .
Proverbs 19:29
Judgments are prepared for scorners
and stripes for the back of Fools
Friday, September 11, 2026
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Seneca, Moral Letters 86.4
In the early days, however, there were few baths, and they were not fitted out with any display. For why should men elaborately fit out that which, costs a penny only, and was invented for use, not merely for delight?
The bathers of those days did not have water poured over them, nor did it always run fresh as if from a hot spring; and they did not believe that it mattered at all how perfectly pure was the water into which they were to leave their dirt.
Ye gods, what a pleasure it is to enter that dark bath, covered with a common sort of roof, knowing that therein your hero Cato, as aedile, or Fabius Maximus, or one of the Cornelii, has warmed the water with his own hands!
For this also used to be the duty of the noblest aediles—to enter these places to which the populace resorted, and to demand that they be cleaned and warmed to a heat required by considerations of use and health, not the heat that men have recently made fashionable, as great as a conflagration—so much so, indeed, that a slave condemned for some criminal offence now ought to bebathed alive!
It seems to me that nowadays there is no difference between “the bath is on fire,” and “the bath is warm."
The bathers of those days did not have water poured over them, nor did it always run fresh as if from a hot spring; and they did not believe that it mattered at all how perfectly pure was the water into which they were to leave their dirt.
Ye gods, what a pleasure it is to enter that dark bath, covered with a common sort of roof, knowing that therein your hero Cato, as aedile, or Fabius Maximus, or one of the Cornelii, has warmed the water with his own hands!
For this also used to be the duty of the noblest aediles—to enter these places to which the populace resorted, and to demand that they be cleaned and warmed to a heat required by considerations of use and health, not the heat that men have recently made fashionable, as great as a conflagration—so much so, indeed, that a slave condemned for some criminal offence now ought to bebathed alive!
It seems to me that nowadays there is no difference between “the bath is on fire,” and “the bath is warm."
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86
As much as this whole letter may come across as an extended grievance, I find it encouraging to learn how the people of any time or place are tempted by extravagance. Whether in ancient Rome or in modern New York, to recognize our weaknesses can point us back to our strengths.
We are all, of course, drawn to the pleasures of the flesh, but on an even deeper level, we desperately crave being significant, and we come to believe that putting on an elaborate show is the quickest way to making our mark. If we pretend on the outside, other people will surely think us worthy on the inside, and so a pursuit of vanity takes the place of building any genuine character.
We collect the trinkets and the trophies, acting as if our lives must be a continual performance, such that a bath is no longer about getting clean, or our work is no longer about being of service, or our friendships are no longer about offering love. How can it be used to promote the image? How can it increase our prestige? How can it make us feel more important?
If I only choose to look honestly, I can find the pretensions in the most ridiculous of places. How many of us remember drinking water from what we used to call bubblers? I would keep track of which ones actually ran cold, something I considered a special treat.
Yet somewhere during the 1990’s, bottled water became all the rage, to the point where the designer labels we carried around with us were an expression of our cultural identity, a statement about the smartest style and the most progressive politics wrapped up in a tidy package.
Was it cleaner, or healthier, or better for the planet? I don’t rightly know, but I do know how much money we spent for those accessories, how much new trash it produced, and how people would insist they could taste the purity, even after a mischievous friend of mine had secretly replaced the contents with regular tap water. Is it technically a lie if we have convinced ourselves of the falsehood?
Every generation has its own varieties. I suspect a good man will drink or bathe with whatever water he has at hand, without getting too worried about its pedigree.
As much as this whole letter may come across as an extended grievance, I find it encouraging to learn how the people of any time or place are tempted by extravagance. Whether in ancient Rome or in modern New York, to recognize our weaknesses can point us back to our strengths.
We are all, of course, drawn to the pleasures of the flesh, but on an even deeper level, we desperately crave being significant, and we come to believe that putting on an elaborate show is the quickest way to making our mark. If we pretend on the outside, other people will surely think us worthy on the inside, and so a pursuit of vanity takes the place of building any genuine character.
We collect the trinkets and the trophies, acting as if our lives must be a continual performance, such that a bath is no longer about getting clean, or our work is no longer about being of service, or our friendships are no longer about offering love. How can it be used to promote the image? How can it increase our prestige? How can it make us feel more important?
If I only choose to look honestly, I can find the pretensions in the most ridiculous of places. How many of us remember drinking water from what we used to call bubblers? I would keep track of which ones actually ran cold, something I considered a special treat.
Yet somewhere during the 1990’s, bottled water became all the rage, to the point where the designer labels we carried around with us were an expression of our cultural identity, a statement about the smartest style and the most progressive politics wrapped up in a tidy package.
Was it cleaner, or healthier, or better for the planet? I don’t rightly know, but I do know how much money we spent for those accessories, how much new trash it produced, and how people would insist they could taste the purity, even after a mischievous friend of mine had secretly replaced the contents with regular tap water. Is it technically a lie if we have convinced ourselves of the falsehood?
Every generation has its own varieties. I suspect a good man will drink or bathe with whatever water he has at hand, without getting too worried about its pedigree.
—Reflection written in 1/2014
IMAGE: Edmond Paulin, Cross-section of the Baths of Diocletian (1880)
Thursday, September 10, 2026
James Vila Blake, Sonnets from Marcus Aurelius 31
ἢ τὸ μὲν τοῦ λύχνου φῶς, μέχρι σβεσθῇ, φαίνει καὶ τὴν αὐγὴν οὐκ ἀποβάλλει: ἡ δὲ ἐν σοὶ ἀλήθεια καὶ δικαιοσύνη καὶ σωφροσύνη προαποσβήσεται;
—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 12.15
31.
Yet giveth me its faithfulness of light
As when ’twas new and tall; ’tis constant so,
And constant still will be, a golden sight.
Its upright pencil and unlessened shine
Have been so from its first enkindled beam,
And so will be until its stock decline
And all its flesh dissolve as in a dream
'Twere shame indeed if so the candle shame thee;
For what, my soul! shall beamy powers that store thee
With honor, soberness and peace, defame thee
By smoky ire and going out before thee?
Our ruling part divine, it is most sure,
Should rule the while the ruled parts endure.
* * * * *
In sum: Doth thy soul lapse in poorer mine,
Or am I quenched in thee?—that is the query.
How can I answer, or in what design
Marshal my hours now ultimate and weary?
For should I crave thy glory’s rich estate,
Then were thy better bounties for me crossed;
Yet if before thy soul my soul abate,
My freedom is engrossed in thee and lost.
But we together, and both i' the sun, can walk,
Commune of friend and foe, of sky and earth,
Of trees, rains, rivers, birds, with starry talk;
Yet in my way I have the dearer mirth:
I hallow can, and chant, thy lofty light,
As thou canst not my dimmer lowly plight.
IMAGE: Jan Moraczynski, Vanitas (1851)
Wednesday, September 9, 2026
Plutarch, The Life of Cato the Younger 32
Accordingly, the opponents of Cato were alarmed and had recourse to violence. To begin with, upon Bibulus himself, as he was going down into the forum, a basket of ordure was scattered; then the crowd fell upon his lictors and broke their fasces; and finally missiles flew and many persons were wounded.
All the other senators fled from the forum at a run, but Cato went off last of all at a walk, turning about and protesting to the citizens. Accordingly, not only was the law for the distribution of lands passed, but also a clause was added requiring the whole senate to swear solemnly that it would uphold the law, and give its aid in case any one should act contrary to it, and heavy penalties were pronounced against such as would not take the oath.
All took the oath, therefore, under compulsion, bearing in mind the fate of Metellus of old, whom the people suffered to be banished from Italy because he would not swear to a similar law. For this reason, also, did the women of Cato's family earnestly and with tears beseech him to yield and take the oath, earnestly, too, did his friends and intimates.
But the one who was most successful in persuading and inducing him to take the oath was Cicero the orator, who advised and showed him that it was possibly even a wrong thing to think himself alone in duty bound to disobey the general will; and that his desperate conduct, where it was impossible to make any change in what had been done, was altogether senseless and mad.
Moreover, it would be the greatest of evils if he should abandon the city in behalf of which all his efforts had been made, hand her over to her enemies, and so, apparently with pleasure, get rid of his struggles in her defense; for even if Cato did not need Rome, still, Rome needed Cato, and so did all his friends; and among these Cicero said that he himself was foremost, since he was the object of the plots of Clodius, who was openly attacking him by means of the tribuneship.
By these and similar arguments and entreaties, we are told, both at home and in the forum, Cato was softened and at last prevailed upon. He came forward to take the oath last of all, except Favonius, one of his friends and intimates.
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Seneca, Moral Letters 86.3
I have so far been speaking of the ordinary bathing establishments; what shall I say when I come to those of the freedmen? What a vast number of statues, of columns that support nothing, but are built for decoration, merely in order to spend money! And what masses of water that fall crashing from level to level! We have become so luxurious that we will have nothing but precious stones to walk upon.
In this bath of Scipio’s there are tiny chinks—you cannot call them windows—cut out of the stone wall in such a way as to admit light without weakening the fortifications; nowadays, however, people regard baths as fit only for moths if they have not been so arranged that they receive the sun all day long through the widest of windows, if men cannot bathe and get a coat of tan at the same time, and if they cannot look out from their bathtubs over stretches of land and sea.
So it goes; the establishments which had drawn crowds and had won admiration when they were first opened are avoided and put back in the category of venerable antiques as soon as luxury has worked out some new device, to her own ultimate undoing.
In this bath of Scipio’s there are tiny chinks—you cannot call them windows—cut out of the stone wall in such a way as to admit light without weakening the fortifications; nowadays, however, people regard baths as fit only for moths if they have not been so arranged that they receive the sun all day long through the widest of windows, if men cannot bathe and get a coat of tan at the same time, and if they cannot look out from their bathtubs over stretches of land and sea.
So it goes; the establishments which had drawn crowds and had won admiration when they were first opened are avoided and put back in the category of venerable antiques as soon as luxury has worked out some new device, to her own ultimate undoing.
—from Seneca, Moral Letters 86
Despite my griping, I am wary of those who glorify the past, just as I am wary of those who latch onto the latest craze. In both cases, the extremes arise from a failure to build our lives on a firm foundation, the timeless truths that are never at the mercy of either obstinacy or volatility. As long as humans remain humans, the virtues will remain virtues.
Regardless of the fashions, the best sort of bathtub will help us to wash away the day’s grime and to soothe our aching muscles; how strange that those who never seem to break a sweat from an honest day’s work are the ones most concerned with installing the most elaborate fixtures.
There is no shame in convenience, as long as it does not conflict with conscience, but the pursuit of luxury leads us down a path toward decadence, where the essence is confused with the accidents, and character is compromised for the sake of comfort. It is no longer “aesthetics” once the beautiful is reduced to mere indulgence. You will sadly find this to be a symptom of any decaying culture.
Just as the ancient Romans became obsessed with opulent baths, I think of how modern Americans seek out ever more hedonistic ways to spend their money. As a child, I saw the birth of the mighty shopping malls, and yet within a decade they were already being replaced by far more exciting diversions, which contained a whole new set of amusements.
The old buildings slowly decayed, the big brands moving out in favor of discount stores, massage parlors, insurance offices, and evangelical churches. Now most of them are being torn down, to be replaced by luxury condominiums.
It is much the same with restaurants, movie theaters, and hotels. Whole neighborhoods will rise and fall because people refuse to be happy with a life that is pure and simple. The High Street seems to rotate its trendy shops by the month, like the internet crazes change by the week, or even by the day.
Only those who lack a peace within themselves are forever craving their next fix. We believe the fads to be daring and liberating, when they are really just lazy and slavish.
Despite my griping, I am wary of those who glorify the past, just as I am wary of those who latch onto the latest craze. In both cases, the extremes arise from a failure to build our lives on a firm foundation, the timeless truths that are never at the mercy of either obstinacy or volatility. As long as humans remain humans, the virtues will remain virtues.
Regardless of the fashions, the best sort of bathtub will help us to wash away the day’s grime and to soothe our aching muscles; how strange that those who never seem to break a sweat from an honest day’s work are the ones most concerned with installing the most elaborate fixtures.
There is no shame in convenience, as long as it does not conflict with conscience, but the pursuit of luxury leads us down a path toward decadence, where the essence is confused with the accidents, and character is compromised for the sake of comfort. It is no longer “aesthetics” once the beautiful is reduced to mere indulgence. You will sadly find this to be a symptom of any decaying culture.
Just as the ancient Romans became obsessed with opulent baths, I think of how modern Americans seek out ever more hedonistic ways to spend their money. As a child, I saw the birth of the mighty shopping malls, and yet within a decade they were already being replaced by far more exciting diversions, which contained a whole new set of amusements.
The old buildings slowly decayed, the big brands moving out in favor of discount stores, massage parlors, insurance offices, and evangelical churches. Now most of them are being torn down, to be replaced by luxury condominiums.
It is much the same with restaurants, movie theaters, and hotels. Whole neighborhoods will rise and fall because people refuse to be happy with a life that is pure and simple. The High Street seems to rotate its trendy shops by the month, like the internet crazes change by the week, or even by the day.
Only those who lack a peace within themselves are forever craving their next fix. We believe the fads to be daring and liberating, when they are really just lazy and slavish.
—Reflection written in 1/2014
Tuesday, September 8, 2026
Monday, September 7, 2026
White Heron
John Ciardi (1916-1986)
What lifts the heron leaning on the air
I praise without a name. A crouch, a flare,
a long stroke through the cumulus of trees,
a shaped thought at the sky — then gone. O rare!
Saint Francis, being happiest on his knees,
would have cried Father! Cry anything you please
I praise without a name. A crouch, a flare,
a long stroke through the cumulus of trees,
a shaped thought at the sky — then gone. O rare!
Saint Francis, being happiest on his knees,
would have cried Father! Cry anything you please
But praise. By any name or none. But praise
the white original burst that lights
the heron on his two soft kissing kites.
When saints praise heaven lit by doves and rays,
I sit by pond scums till the air recites
It’s heron back. And doubt all else. But praise.
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