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Pastimes : Let's Talk About Our Feelings!!! -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: greenspirit who wrote (50206)	8/9/1999
From: The Philosopher	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 108807

Very much appropriate to our thread now. I accept that it is an area where I have fallen far short of the ideal here recently.

To: greenspirit who wrote (50206)	8/9/1999 12:04:00 AM
From: The Philosopher	Respond to of 108807

My grandmother, who was a true lady, tried to teach her grandchildren that one should never say anything unless it was kind, true, and necessary. I don't necessarily hold to the necessary part; a lot of social intercourse which isn't essential but serves as a social lubricant would be lost. But the kind and true parts are something to aspire to. Grandmothers are often wiser than we give them credit for being. Our youth culture has lost much in losing our respect for the wisdom of age. We isolate and warehouse those whom we should cherish.

To: greenspirit who wrote (50206)	8/9/1999 12:26:00 AM
From: The Philosopher	Read Replies (2) \| Respond to of 108807

This evening's discussion reminded me forcefully of lines from Gray's Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. I hope you know it. I used to love teaching it to my high school classes; it's both insightful and accessible, and probably has a greater number of quoted and recognizable lines per stanza (after only "a tree is a tree is a tree," which is one for one.) It's too long to quote in full here, but the lines which came to my mind tonight are those which speak of the importance and value of simple lives. When I sit back and think on the question, I am mystified as to why I and others fall into the habit of negativism, of putting-down, of turning away from even the attempt to recongize the decency and nobility of everyond. The lines at issue are: Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the Gates of Mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.