Two Dogmas
Good morning, campers!
I have two things for you this year:
Charlotte Bronte, on the subject of unrequited love:
"I groaned under her bitter sternness. Never - never - oh, hard word! This hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope: she could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and broken-down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all life to despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times to defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour to Imagination - her soft, bright foe, our sweet Help, our divine Hope. We shall and must break bounds at intervals, despite the terrible revenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive as a devil: for me she was always envenomed as a step-mother. If I have obeyed her it has chiefly been with the obedience of fear, not of love. Long ago I should have died of her ill-usage, her stint, her chill, her barren board, her icy bed, her savage, ceaseless blows; but for that kinder Power who holds my secret and sworn allegiance. Often has Reason turned me out by night, in mid-winter, on cold snow, flinging for sustenance the gnawed bone dogs had forsaken: sternly has she vowed her stores held nothing more for me - harshly denied my right to ask better things...."
***
Please feel perfectly at ease ranting to me about your rich-man's lust for your maybe-murderous son's girlfriend, your boss who disguises himself as a gypsy to seduce you, your noble quest for an imaginary beautiful lady who's actually a scary, butch farmhand, or your doomed passion for a twelve-year-old girl. You won't be able to see it, but behind the screen, I'll be nodding sympathetically.
I have two things for you this year:
Charlotte Bronte, on the subject of unrequited love:
"I groaned under her bitter sternness. Never - never - oh, hard word! This hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope: she could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and broken-down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all life to despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times to defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour to Imagination - her soft, bright foe, our sweet Help, our divine Hope. We shall and must break bounds at intervals, despite the terrible revenge that awaits our return. Reason is vindictive as a devil: for me she was always envenomed as a step-mother. If I have obeyed her it has chiefly been with the obedience of fear, not of love. Long ago I should have died of her ill-usage, her stint, her chill, her barren board, her icy bed, her savage, ceaseless blows; but for that kinder Power who holds my secret and sworn allegiance. Often has Reason turned me out by night, in mid-winter, on cold snow, flinging for sustenance the gnawed bone dogs had forsaken: sternly has she vowed her stores held nothing more for me - harshly denied my right to ask better things...."
***
Please feel perfectly at ease ranting to me about your rich-man's lust for your maybe-murderous son's girlfriend, your boss who disguises himself as a gypsy to seduce you, your noble quest for an imaginary beautiful lady who's actually a scary, butch farmhand, or your doomed passion for a twelve-year-old girl. You won't be able to see it, but behind the screen, I'll be nodding sympathetically.