Jonathan Franzen: Great American Novelist

     While pedaling at the gym this morning I read the following article in Time. It's the cover story this week. I confess I haven't been much of a fan of Franzen, but am definitely rethinking that stance. There were a number of things mentioned in the article that really hit home with me as a struggling writer. Particularly his position on getting work done; he enters, at 7 am each day, an empty rented office he has removed all distractions from including any possible link to the Internet. The Kirkegardian observations about busyness as avoidance of not just work, but unpleasant real life realities, was a bit of an eye-opening slap upside the head for me.  I am an extremely busy person who gets far too little writing done.
     I attach a link to the article here for you in case you too are in the mood for a bit of self-flagellation.

Jonathan Franzen: Great American Novelist

Barflies, rejoice: It's Charles Bukowski's birthday

It's Bukowski's birthday, so I'm sharing two links related to writing; the first about him, the second by him. Each a little gift for us to unwrap. This should be done with a glass of wine, and a toast to Chuck.

Barflies, rejoice: It's Charles Bukowski's birthday

http://therumpus.net/2010/08/happy-birthday-bukowski/

Celia and Me

     Oh man. Rough week. My firstborn had minor surgery, moved off to college, and some type of evil virus has invaded my lap top. I thought for awhile I might have lost a great deal of my work. A writer's nightmare. But after a few hours of excavation I think we have retrieved most of it. Haven't been able to save the laptop yet. It needs professional help.   
     Friday night I did get to go out, and attended a play. Well, more of an educational one woman show really. It was at a small theatre in my neighborhood and it was about the life of Celia Thaxter. I was excited to see this show because Celia has been a strong influence on me, and I was studying her work long before I made the decision to become a writer. Here is one of her poems, followed by one I wrote about her influence a couple of years ago.

ALONE
by: Celia Thaxter (1835-1894)

HE lilies clustered fair and tall;

I stood outside the garden wall;

I saw her light robe glimmering through

The fragrant evening's dusk and dew.

 

She stopped above the lilies pale;

Up the clear east the moon did sail;

I saw her bend her lovely head

O'er her rich roses blushing red.

 

Her slender hand the flowers caressed,

Her touch the unconscious blossoms blessed;

The rose against her perfumed palm

Leaned its soft cheek in blissful calm.

 

I would have given my soul to be

That rose she touched so tenderly!

I stood alone, outside the gate,

And knew that life was desolate. 




Crossing Over




I remember my other life

though it seems like a dream

about another woman;

when I was Goody Gordon.

 

We bought the rundown

little white house in Maine,

as close to a seaside cottage

as we could manage.




On moving in day

I nursed the the first baby

in the backyard and happily

planned our forever there.


And for the next decade

I tried so very hard

to be Donna Reed

making a wonderful life.

 

But it was Celia Thaxter

who kept calling to me;

come and smell the sea rose,

tickle your toes in the tidal tow.

 

Dance away dainty days of

rock hopping and inking poems
in our prettiest penmanship,
but I ignored her until

 

we became riddled with tumors

the wallpaper unfurled, and

our little house and the twin towers
caved into smoky soot and sadness




and there just wasn't any point

in being Goody Gordon anymore.

So at last I lay you and Donna to rest

and took Celia's slender hand.




Skirts flapping in the chilly winds

we walk the beach, creating

a new imperfect life that is

filled with wonder.

The View From Here: Lynda Barry : Poetry Documentaries : Video : The Poetry Foundation

I'm not quite sure how she did it, but she convinced me that I need to work on memorization.

The View From Here: Lynda Barry : Poetry Documentaries : Video : The Poetry Foundation

Maybe Moby?

      "Moby Dick can be read as the world's best how-to book." - Robert Pinsky
Interesting posit for a poet to take. What do you think he means by this?

Rules for Writers

     Got a semi-acceptance this week, which I'm only semi-excited about. Will post more about it when all of the details have been worked out. Also made a big decision about one of my children's book projects that I have been trying to move forward for quite awhile, and spent some time reworking that manuscript. I really think it's finished now! Got one press release out. Attended a monthly meeting called Writer's Night Out that I haven't been able to get to for a couple of months, and chatted with a few other writers about the rules that they do and don't live by. These socials are always quite interesting. Every one there always seems to want to know the same thing from the others ~ how do you make this life work for you? I wonder if we aren't looking for some simple rules for success where none really exist?... Also got a little work done promoting the book that is a new little side gig of mine, and a little volunteer work done lining up next year's featured poets for the Portsmouth Poet Laureate Program.
     It was Woody Allen who said two interesting things about success that I think are highly applicable to writing;

"If you're not failing every now and again, it's a sign you're not doing anything very innovative", and

"Eighty percent of success is showing up."

     Here are a few links that I wanted to share; my latest column about a woman who knows how to get things done, Janet Fitch's rules for writing from the LA Times which I found instructive, and a very interesting site for bibliophiles that a friend shared with me yesterday.

http://www.seacoastonline.com/articles/20100804-LIFE-8040305

Janet Fitch's 10 rules for writers

http://fivebooks.com/

Prickly Pear Poetry Project

       I've been wanting to post something for awhile about this ~ The Prickly Pear Poetry Project. That is the name of the non-profit I co-founded in 2008 with my friend Kyle Potvin. She and I met at local poetry readings and in time discovered that we both read and wrote a lot of poetry about cancer. Kyle is a breast cancer survivor, and I have lost several people including my husband to cancer. We talked a lot about how helpful this particular poetry had been and continues to be, to both of us, and we agreed that we would like to help other people who have been affected by cancer find the solace in it that we did. So we created a 2 to 3 hour workshop that we offer to anyone interested at hospitals, clinics, cancer centers and churches. These workshops are always powerful testaments to artistic expression as therapeutic for body and soul. We read poems to the attendees and then lead them in writing exercises. Sharing is always optional but most people chose to read their work, and some pretty amazing things happen. Please let anyone you know in the medical community that this workshop is available. We offer it free to anyone who would like to participate, and ask the facility to provide an honorarium to cover our expenses if they are able to pay. You can find us on Face Book too. Here is an example of a poem I wrote in one of the workshops that resulted from a writing prompt.


The Oncology Ward

The hall of oncology
feels like the corridor
to another alien place,
the exit sign so literal.
Tubes and hoses help
to hold you here,
while bells and buzzers beep
over gently asked questions
that doctors deflect
while the taste of regret
takes hold and chokes.

copyrighted material, please don't use without permission.

     Below is a link to the book that got me started on this path shortly after my husband's death nine years ago. I since got to meet Donald Hall. He was nervous about giving a reading so I didn't want to bother him with my Prickly Pear story, but I would like him to know. Maybe I'll get another chance...
     My next post will be about my trip to the Emily Dickinson Museum.

Book Geek Vacation Day

I'm taking a road trip on Friday to visit the Emily Dickinson Museum at her home in Amherst, Massachusetts. In preparation (aren't my vacations rather geeky?!) I have been reading two new books I was thrilled to acquire. One is a biography, discussed on NPR with the author in the following link. It looks like it isn't going to be a particularly enthralling read. The other I think, is. I started it last night and by page forty had been completely seduced by the author Jerome Charyn.  His premise is brilliant, and it looks like so too is his execution. A novel called The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson. I'd like to write more for you now - tell you what I have and have not accomplished, but I want to go read my new book... http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1133921

Sassy

     Last night Joan Baez was in town, and while I was at home feeling sorry for myself for missing the show I dug out this piece I wrote the last time I saw her perform. I do hope that my writing has matured at least a little bit since then. The demographic for this publication was 55+, and that also comes across in it.

Joan Baez: Still Sassy at 67

Published by Seacoast Media Group, December 2008

     For the last few months I had been thinking about writing a piece about the large number of famous people who turned 50 this year, especially in the entertainment industry. That little boy pop stars Donny Osmond and Michael Jackson had 50 candles to blow out kind of blew my mind. And it is impossible to be unimpressed with how four hours of physical training a day looks on Madonna at 50. I’d been thinking that reaching the half-century mark was a milestone worth mentioning.

     That was until I went to see Joan Baez perform at Berklee, and I realized that those little whippersnappers don’t deserve a mention. Not yet anyway.

     Born in January 1941 Joan is deservedly known as one of the foremost folk singers and songwriters of the century, but really is a much broader talent than that. She is also well known for her social activism, and once said, “Action is the antidote to despair.” As with all true artists, her work has always been an expression of her beliefs and passions, and she has even been jailed for hers. Though for the first time in her professional life she recently endorsed a candidate for president (guess who), she is still a serious pacifist and her fire is not fading. She says her direction in life was shaped when she met Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr. at a Quaker meeting in 1956.

     Joan moved to Boston at the age of 17 and spent only one year studying music, more in small clubs and coffee houses than at university, before she became a hit at the 1959 Newport Folk Festival. By the time she played Woodstock (when she was 6 months pregnant) she was already well known. It was a thrill for me to hear her sing Swing Low Sweet Chariot which was one of the songs she performed on the Woodstock stage. She has been at it ever since, and told us, “It’s crazy that I’ve been up here for 50 years, but it’s crazier that you’re still there.”

     With all due respect to Madonna, I honestly think that Joan Baez has never looked more beautiful than she does now, and that it is a natural beauty that can only come with loving your age. There is a healthy elegance about her that clearly radiates out from her center, where her remarkable voice also originates.

     She says she no longer has the full 3 octave-vocal-range she is known for, and while her voice has certainly deepened with age, she was nothing short of amazing when she performed for 90 minutes for us, on her feet the whole time, giving her band a break but never taking one herself, and graciously responding to two standing ovations.

     She has perfected her stage show, knowing exactly how to communicate with her audience; how much to give to them and ask of them, how to make them laugh (her Dylan impression is a hoot!) and cry. And even how to lead them in song, as she did on her final number, an acapella rendition of Amazing Grace that she led us in singing along with her, like the most devout choir director. As when I heard Odetta sing House of the Rising Sun acapella I was moved in a way that defies articulation.

     It felt like I had just participated in the quintessential aging hippie experience, as I filed out of the auditorium behind a white haired gentleman using a cane, and dabbing tears from my cheeks. It was the only concert I’ve ever been to, and I have been to many, where the only thing I could say after was “Amen.”

     Lest you think you have little in common with this 67 year old political and pop-culture icon, know that she is adjusting to being a grandmother, and that she is currently living with and caring for her 95 year old mother. Amen to that too.

Duotropes and Pearl Earrings

     Yesterday morning, after a leisurely workout at the dojo, I was having a brunch meeting with a couple of local poets, (yeah if I complain about my life you should e-slap me) both very accomplished writers. We were doing some of our annual planning as board members for the Portsmouth Poet Laureate Program. But, as poets will, we got off track a few times, and during one of those side discussions, I received a great tip that I think is going to make a big difference for me. Maybe you all already know about it, and were keeping it a secret from me! I have reached a point in my amateur writing career where getting organized is paramount, and it has become hard to keep track of what I am sending out, and when and where it was sent. Turns out I can do all of that at Duotrope, a website designed for writers that offers a submission tracker among other things. I am going to begin using it today and will report back in a few weeks.

     After going to hear Paul Harding speak about his Pulitzer Prize winning novel last week, I embarked on A Tracy Chevalier personal reading kick that has been sheer summer pleasure for me. (I have gotten some writing done in between reading fits.) As soon as I finished The Virgin Blue, which I actually found exciting to read, I grabbed a copy of Girl With A Pearl Earring. Though I saw the movie years ago I had never read the book. Chevalier really writes the way I want to. I would like to hear what others think of her work.

A Matter of Style?

No Dear T. ~ just this:

"Thank you so much for sending your work to Crab Creek Review. We received over 2,000 poems for our Ekphrastic Portfolio and chose less than 1% of these poems. The number of submissions exceeded our wildest expectations. Please know that we read your work with great care. As writers ourselves, we know the considerable undertaking it is to send a submission out into the world. We are sorry that we can't take all the strong work we read and wish you great success in placing your work elsewhere."
     Actually got two of those emails as I had submitted two poems. Once you get used to them they are not so bad. I take them as confirmation that I am getting my work out there and at least some of the time, it is getting some consideration. Hopefully the rejection was more a matter of style than substance. Over the last week I did get a couple things out, including one short story that is locally based historical fiction that another author agreed to read for me as I am concerned with historical and geographical accuracy and he is a subject matter expert. I also signed on to a new mini-gig that I am very excited about and have put a few hours into this week. I'll explain in detail when I formally announce it in an upcoming post. Fell behind in most of my work really, and have a lot of catching up to do. My kids have been extra needy the last week, especially the oldest who I am preparing to send off to college. That takes a lot of parental energy when the kid is a foot-dragger. And I just don't function well during heat waves. Yesterday afternoon I took most of the day off and started a new book that I chose just for pleasure. It really did feel like guilty pleasure to do that. And it really was an indulgence since most of the books I have been reading for the last year have been assigned to me in one way or another. A few nights ago I went to a reading given by Paul Harding who just won the Pulitzer for his first novel Tinkers. I wasn't a big fan of the book, and felt like I was the only one who wasn't. It even made me question my literary legitimacy. I really liked the guy, enjoyed his reading, and recognized the originality of the work, It just didn't capture my attention. The truth is I like stories more like the one I'm into now; The Virgin Blue. I'm a big Tracy Chevalier fan. It's just a matter of style I guess, but I do wonder what it says about me as a writer. And in closing, this silly test I took yesterday on FaceBook said my style is that of Dan Brown whose work I have not studied at all.

I write like
Dan Brown

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Brazing beautiful bridges

     Here is my column, from this morning's Portsmouth Herald. Jeanne is the youngest person I have ever interviewed for my column which I have been writing for five years. Despite her youth she still qualifies as someone who has been here a good long time and who has been contributing to creating community. Those are the local people that I like to talk to and write about.
     Jeanne Givens: Brazing beautiful bridges SeacoastOnline.com and here is a photo of her with her sculpture that the paper couldn't print.

Monday Morning Emilyzing

      Looks like I'm going to share most of the Emily Dickinson information that I am studying myself these days. Can't seem to help myself. I don't know if she is making the news more lately or if she is just making my radar more lately because of my renewed interest in her work. It would be hard to believe that she was always the subject of so much current discussion. Either way it is a wonderful legacy for a poet. I find it quite remarkable. In the link I share below she is being discussed by her current predecessor in popularity, Billy Collins.
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=128272101
     I have had a couple of new developments with my own poetry in the last couple of days; I had my first paid poetry reading which was very rewarding to do, even though the crowd was not really a crowd. I also entered into an agreement with artist Frannie Schwabb to exhibit an ekphrastic poem I wrote last year with the painting that inspired it, in an art show to be held in the fall.
     Here is a little something that is helping put my Monday morning into perspective;

For Each Ecstatic Instant


by Emily Dickinson

For each ecstatic instant
We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.

For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.

Rabid Foxes and Library Love

     Even though I missed my quarterly book club for writer's meeting at my local library last night (a continual stream of problems at home grounded me again) I can't say how much I appreciate my library. A decent library was one of the major reasons why I moved to this town and am willing to pay terribly high property taxes. All libraries are struggling right now, and in many ways their struggle is worse than ever. Here is a hideous example of what they are up against;
Fox News Attacks Chicago Libraries 
     This kind of sentiment is reaching the masses, and that is a scary thing to me. Certainly it is true that libraries will have to change with the times and if you actually visit libraries you can see that they are. Willingly and enthusiastically.
      Take a look and go get a book. Your library needs your support, and is probably air conditioned!

God Bless America

    Three submissions out this week, and I'm calling it quits. So that's one for each day that I'm taking off. If I can. I need a holiday, but I have a hard time not working. So I'm telling myself (and you) ~ Let the games begin. Problem is I think I'm too tired for the games! Ah well, I can always read on the beach which I think would do me a world of good. I am struggling with Tinkers right now, but more about that another time.
     I did want to share this link to an article about food writing among other things. I have an unfinished cook book project, and an unfinished memoir project, and found myself enthralled by the talk of the trend of merging the two. It's an intriguing idea that I've been thinking about all afternoon. I haven't read this book, or any of his others. Does anybody have any opinions?

      http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jun/19/anthony-bourdain-food-writing

Craftsmanship

     I have been a fan of John Irving for a long time. In fact he is one of the few authors that I have remained a fan of for a long period of time. Most authors, and readers for that matter, change over time, and we move on to other affairs of the mind or heart. While in my 'hood we consider Irving a local, I really don't think that my enduring interest is about that. Or about his robust good looks and engaging intellect though in all honesty these are probably contributing factors. I think it's about his writing. I found this brief interview with him thought provoking. He makes an interesting distinction here about the difference between being an artist and a craftsman. My problem is that I am not sure that I understand the difference. Give it a listen and see if you can help me out...

Maids and Butlers and No Help At All

      Emily made the news again this week with this interesting new look at her work by author Aife Murray. It is especially interesting to contrast this glimpse into her life against the backdrop of the other story that I recently posted about regarding her late life love affair.
http://www1.voanews.com/english/news/american-life/Servants-Enhanced-Work-of-Renowned-American-Poet-96883084.html
    It also makes a lot of sense to me when you compare her life story to my own. I would be a prolific (though not necessarily talented) writer too, if I had a kitchen maid and other house and yard servants to tend to my home and family for me. Almost everything that takes me away from my work are responsibilities that Emily was able to delegate to servants who in turn gave her daily life interesting nuances to write even more about. And then for someone else to write about yet again a century later. Can you tell how frustrated I am?! I have had a pretty hard week, peppered primarily with pet problems, and had no help at all which gets frustrating sometimes.
     I didn't like the images that came up when I googled maid, so I switched to butler, and this guy comes up about 100 times more than Rhett. Don't know who he is, but now I want a butler more than I want a maid. I'm pretty sure it would enhance my writing.

Dwelling in Possibility

    My brother Will sent me this link, and I am so glad he did. I loved reading it, and can't resist sharing it with you. It makes me think of the Mona Lisa. One can not know what a woman is really thinking. I see some interesting underlying ideas to ponder about the ethics of the poet (all of us, not just Emily). And also find it a bit intriguing that Emily's "improbable" tryst started when she was 47 years old, suggesting that perhaps I do not need to adopt any "cobweb attitudes" of my own. . . Emily’s secret love - The Boston Globe

New series

      Not much to report on this week in the way of accomplishments. Life has been a tad hectic lately, downright hairy really. Did get one submission out and completed negotiations for a series I'll be writing for my local paper this summer and the first came out today;
http://www.seacoastonline.com/articles/20100620-NEWS-6200336

Happy Bloomsday!

     I am a bit surprised that my little literary hamlet doesn't celebrate Bloomsday. I think we should, and just might take it upon myself to do something about that for next year. For today it will have to suffice to blog about Bloomsday.
     Bloomsday is a special celebration of just one day, June 16th. Specifically June, 16, 1904, the day James Joyce wrote about in his novel Ulysses. The celebration started in Dublin but has gone global, and most cities celebrate it with readings and meetings and lots of good Guinness. It really is a remarkable work well worth celebrating year after year, because it takes years to discover all of the little jewels Joyce has hidden for us in it's pages. It works best as a group effort I think. It takes a village to read Ulysses.
     Here is the Wiki synopsis;
     Ulysses chronicles the passage of Leopold Bloom through Dublin during an ordinary day, 16 June 1904 (the day of Joyce's first date with his future wife, Nora Barnacle). The title alludes to Odysseus (Latinised into Ulysses), the hero of Homer's Odyssey, and establishes a series of parallels between characters and events in Homer's poem and Joyce's novel (e.g., the correspondences between Leopold Bloom and Odysseus, Molly Bloom and Penelope, and Stephen Dedalus and Telemachus). Joyce fans worldwide now celebrate 16 June as Bloomsday.
      Ulysses contains approximately 265,000 words from a lexicon of 30,030 words (including proper names, plurals and various verb tenses), divided into eighteen episodes. Since publication, the book attracted controversy and scrutiny, ranging from early obscenity trials to protracted textual "Joyce Wars." Ulysses' stream-of-consciousness technique, careful structuring, and experimental prose—full of puns, parodies, and allusions, as well as its rich characterisations and broad humour, made the book a highly regarded novel in the Modernist pantheon. In 1999, the Modern Library ranked Ulysses first on its list of the 100 best English-language novels of the 20th century

     Here are a couple of recent links I'd like to share -
About Bloomsday; http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/11/books/11bloom.html
About the latest (phone app) controversy; http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/ireland/2010/0615/1224272520637.html
The entire text;  http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/4300

Bleating

     Just got my report card for the graduate class in Narrating Illness that I recently completed. Feeling very disappointed and sheepish. Got a B+. Since it came with no explanation I'm going to go with the idea that I didn't get an A because of imperfect attendance. It can't be because my writing was imperfect, right?!?
     Having a very rough week here working on my house and preparing for kid graduations so have gotten very little writing related work done. Further sheepishness.

Main Entry: sheep·ish

Pronunciation: \ˈshē-pish\
Function: adjective
Date: 13th century
1 : resembling a sheep in meekness, stupidity, or timidity
2 : affected by or showing embarrassment caused by consciousness of a fault
— sheep·ish·ly adverb
— sheep·ish·ness noun


Animal metaphors, based on animal behavior, are common in many languages. Here are some from English:

That was kind of 'catty' of you.
The problem has been dogging us all week.
Don't be cowed by his bullying.
The stock market has ended its bullish streak, and is now going into bear mode.
(And note the various metaphors and extended metaphors in this headline:) 'Investors, mauled by bear market, come clawing after their brokers.'
Stop horsing around; we've got work to do.
I really don't have patience for any monkey business.
Stop badgering me; you've been bugging me all day about that.
After that faux pas, he acted really kind of sheepish.
He didn't want to tell me, but I ferreted it out.
He's been beavering away all week on his little project.
She's so mousy, I hardly realized she was in the room.
He ratted on her and now her goose is cooked.

Lovely, loving, loved

This one is a bit of a departure for my column; Trish Truax: Lovely, loving, loved SeacoastOnline.com

...Touched With Fire

     I like studying old speeches. Great oration yet another of the dying arts. I too find most of the speeches of yesteryear quite long winded, and think it must be a reflection of our short little attention spans, because we were raised on simple sound bites and predigested news clips. I study them for the writing that went into them. Behind every great speech was a great writer. If we are lucky they are or were one and the same. The following is one of the most famous, and oft quoted, Memorial Day speeches ever given, and and it was given here in my home state. Can you make it to the end ... ?

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

 

"In Our Youth Our Hearts Were Touched With Fire"

[An address delivered for Memorial Day, May 30, 1884, at Keene, NH, before John Sedgwick Post No. 4, Grand Army of the Republic.]


Not long ago I heard a young man ask why people still kept up Memorial Day, and it set me thinking of the answer. Not the answer that you and I should give to each other-not the expression of those feelings that, so long as you live, will make this day sacred to memories of love and grief and heroic youth--but an answer which should command the assent of those who do not share our memories, and in which we of the North and our brethren of the South could join in perfect accord.


So far as this last is concerned, to be sure, there is no trouble. The soldiers who were doing their best to kill one another felt less of personal hostility, I am very certain, than some who were not imperilled by their mutual endeavors. I have heard more than one of those who had been gallant and distinguished officers on the Confederate side say that they had had no such feeling. I know that I and those whom I knew best had not. We believed that it was most desirable that the North should win; we believed in the principle that the Union is indissoluable; we, or many of us at least, also believed that the conflict was inevitable, and that slavery had lasted long enough. But we equally believed that those who stood against us held just as sacred conviction that were the opposite of ours, and we respected them as every men with a heart must respect those who give all for their belief. The experience of battle soon taught its lesson even to those who came into the field more bitterly disposed. You could not stand up day after day in those indecisive contests where overwhelming victory was impossible because neither side would run as they ought when beaten, without getting at least something of the same brotherhood for the enemy that the north pole of a magnet has for the south--each working in an opposite sense to the other, but each unable to get along without the other. As it was then , it is now. The soldiers of the war need no explanations; they can join in commemorating a soldier's death with feelings not different in kind, whether he fell toward them or by their side.


But Memorial Day may and ought to have a meaning also for those who do not share our memories. When men have instinctively agreed to celebrate an anniversary, it will be found that there is some thought of feeling behind it which is too large to be dependent upon associations alone. The Fourth of July, for instance, has still its serious aspect, although we no longer should think of rejoicing like children that we have escaped from an outgrown control, although we have achieved not only our national but our moral independence and know it far too profoundly to make a talk about it, and although an Englishman can join in the celebration without a scruple. For, stripped of the temporary associations which gives rise to it, it is now the moment when by common consent we pause to become conscious of our national life and to rejoice in it, to recall what our country has done for each of us, and to ask ourselves what we can do for the country in return.


So to the indifferent inquirer who asks why Memorial Day is still kept up we may answer, it celebrates and solemnly reaffirms from year to year a national act of enthusiasm and faith. It embodies in the most impressive form our belief that to act with enthusiasm and faith is the condition of acting greatly. To fight out a war, you must believe something and want something with all your might. So must you do to carry anything else to an end worth reaching. More than that, you must be willing to commit yourself to a course, perhaps a long and hard one, without being able to foresee exactly where you will come out. All that is required of you is that you should go somewhither as hard as ever you can. The rest belongs to fate. One may fall-at the beginning of the charge or at the top of the earthworks; but in no other way can he reach the rewards of victory.


When it was felt so deeply as it was on both sides that a man ought to take part in the war unless some conscientious scruple or strong practical reason made it impossible, was that feeling simply the requirement of a local majority that their neighbors should agree with them? I think not: I think the feeling was right-in the South as in the North. I think that, as life is action and passion, it is required of a man that he should share the passion and action of his time at peril of being judged not to have lived.


If this be so, the use of this day is obvious. It is true that I cannot argue a man into a desire. If he says to me, Why should I seek to know the secrets of philosophy? Why seek to decipher the hidden laws of creation that are graven upon the tablets of the rocks, or to unravel the history of civilization that is woven in the tissue of our jurisprudence, or to do any great work, either of speculation or of practical affairs? I cannot answer him; or at least my answer is as little worth making for any effect it will have upon his wishes if he asked why I should eat this, or drink that. You must begin by wanting to. But although desire cannot be imparted by argument, it can be by contagion. Feeling begets feeling, and great feeling begets great feeling. We can hardly share the emotions that make this day to us the most sacred day of the year, and embody them in ceremonial pomp, without in some degree imparting them to those who come after us. I believe from the bottom of my heart that our memorial halls and statues and tablets, the tattered flags of our regiments gathered in the Statehouses, are worth more to our young men by way of chastening and inspiration than the monuments of another hundred years of peaceful life could be.


But even if I am wrong, even if those who come after us are to forget all that we hold dear, and the future is to teach and kindle its children in ways as yet unrevealed, it is enough for us that this day is dear and sacred.


Accidents may call up the events of the war. You see a battery of guns go by at a trot, and for a moment you are back at White Oak Swamp, or Antietam, or on the Jerusalem Road. You hear a few shots fired in the distance, and for an instant your heart stops as you say to yourself, The skirmishers are at it, and listen for the long roll of fire from the main line. You meet an old comrade after many years of absence; he recalls the moment that you were nearly surrounded by the enemy, and again there comes up to you that swift and cunning thinking on which once hung life and freedom--Shall I stand the best chance if I try the pistol or the sabre on that man who means to stop me? Will he get his carbine free before I reach him, or can I kill him first?These and the thousand other events we have known are called up, I say, by accident, and, apart from accident, they lie forgotten.


But as surely as this day comes round we are in the presence of the dead. For one hour, twice a year at least--at the regimental dinner, where the ghosts sit at table more numerous than the living, and on this day when we decorate their graves--the dead come back and live with us.


I see them now, more than I can number, as once I saw them on this earth. They are the same bright figures, or their counterparts, that come also before your eyes; and when I speak of those who were my brothers, the same words describe yours.


I see a fair-haired lad, a lieutenant, and a captain on whom life had begun somewhat to tell, but still young, sitting by the long mess-table in camp before the regiment left the State, and wondering how many of those who gathered in our tent could hope to see the end of what was then beginning. For neither of them was that destiny reserved. I remember, as I awoke from my first long stupor in the hospital after the battle of Ball's Bluff, I heard the doctor say, "He was a beautiful boy", [Web note: Lt. William L. Putnam, 20th Mass.] and I knew that one of those two speakers was no more. The other, after passing through all the previous battles, went into Fredericksburg with strange premonition of the end, and there met his fate.[Web Note: Cpt. Charles F. Cabot, 20th Mass.]


I see another youthful lieutenant as I saw him in the Seven Days, when I looked down the line at Glendale. The officers were at the head of their companies. The advance was beginning. We caught each other's eye and saluted. When next I looked, he was gone. [Web note: Lt. James. J. Lowell, 20th Mass.]


I see the brother of the last-the flame of genius and daring on his face--as he rode before us into the wood of Antietam, out of which came only dead and deadly wounded men. So, a little later, he rode to his death at the head of his cavalry in the Valley.


In the portraits of some of those who fell in the civil wars of England, Vandyke has fixed on canvas the type who stand before my memory. Young and gracious faces, somewhat remote and proud, but with a melancholy and sweet kindness. There is upon their faces the shadow of approaching fate, and the glory of generous acceptance of it. I may say of them , as I once heard it said of two Frenchmen, relics of the ancien regime, "They were very gentle. They cared nothing for their lives." High breeding, romantic chivalry--we who have seen these men can never believe that the power of money or the enervation of pleasure has put an end to them. We know that life may still be lifted into poetry and lit with spiritual charm.


But the men, not less, perhaps even more, characteristic of New England, were the Puritans of our day. For the Puritan still lives in New England, thank God! and will live there so long as New England lives and keeps her old renown. New England is not dead yet. She still is mother of a race of conquerors--stern men, little given to the expression of their feelings, sometimes careless of their graces, but fertile, tenacious, and knowing only duty. Each of you, as I do, thinks of a hundred such that he has known.[Web note: Unfortunately for New England, no such "conquerors" have played for the Red Sox since 1918]. I see one--grandson of a hard rider of the Revolution and bearer of his historic name--who was with us at Fair Oaks, and afterwards for five days and nights in front of the enemy the only sleep that he would take was what he could snatch sitting erect in his uniform and resting his back against a hut. He fell at Gettysburg. [Web note: Col. Paul Revere, Jr., 20th Mass.].


His brother , a surgeon, [Web note: Edward H.R. Revere] who rode, as our surgeons so often did, wherever the troops would go, I saw kneeling in ministration to a wounded man just in rear of our line at Antietam, his horse's bridle round his arm--the next moment his ministrations were ended. His senior associate survived all the wounds and perils of the war, but , not yet through with duty as he understood it, fell in helping the helpless poor who were dying of cholera in a Western city.


I see another quiet figure, of virtuous life and quiet ways, not much heard of until our left was turned at Petersburg. He was in command of the regiment as he saw our comrades driven in. He threw back our left wing, and the advancing tide of defeat was shattered against his iron wall. He saved an army corps from disaster, and then a round shot ended all for him. [Web note: Major Henry Patten, 20th Mass.]


There is one who on this day is always present on my mind. [Web note: Henry Abbott, 20th Mass.] He entered the army at nineteen, a second lieutenant. In the Wilderness, already at the head of his regiment, he fell, using the moment that was left him of life to give all of his little fortune to his soldiers.I saw him in camp, on the march, in action. I crossed debatable land with him when we were rejoining the Army together. I observed him in every kind of duty, and never in all the time I knew him did I see him fail to choose that alternative of conduct which was most disagreeable to himself. He was indeed a Puritan in all his virtues, without the Puritan austerity; for, when duty was at an end, he who had been the master and leader became the chosen companion in every pleasure that a man might honestly enjoy. His few surviving companions will never forget the awful spectacle of his advance alone with his company in the streets of Fredericksburg.[Web note: The legendary suicidal charge of the 20th Mass. Regiment occurred on Dec. 11, 1862.] In less than sixty seconds he would become the focus of a hidden and annihilating fire from a semicircle of houses. His first platoon had vanished under it in an instant, ten men falling dead by his side. He had quietly turned back to where the other half of his company was waiting, had given the order, "Second Platoon, forward!" and was again moving on, in obedience to superior command, to certain and useless death, when the order he was obeying was countermanded. The end was distant only a few seconds; but if you had seen him with his indifferent carriage, and sword swinging from his finger like a cane, you would never have suspected that he was doing more than conducting a company drill on the camp parade ground. He was little more than a boy, but the grizzled corps commanders knew and admired him; and for us, who not only admired, but loved, his death seemed to end a portion of our life also.


There is one grave and commanding presence that you all would recognize, for his life has become a part of our common history. [Web note: William Bartlett, 20th Mass.]. Who does not remember the leader of the assault of the mine at Petersburg? The solitary horseman in front of Port Hudson, whom a foeman worthy of him bade his soldiers spare, from love and admiration of such gallant bearing? Who does not still hear the echo of those eloquent lips after the war, teaching reconciliation and peace? I may not do more than allude to his death, fit ending of his life. All that the world has a right to know has been told by a beloved friend in a book wherein friendship has found no need to exaggerate facts that speak for themselves. I knew him ,and I may even say I knew him well; yet, until that book appeared, I had not known the governing motive of his soul. I had admired him as a hero. When I read, I learned to revere him as a saint. His strength was not in honor alone, but in religion; and those who do not share his creed must see that it was on the wings of religious faith that he mounted above even valiant deeds into an empyrean of ideal life.


I have spoken of some of the men who were near to me among others very near and dear, not because their lives have become historic, but because their lives are the type of what every soldier has known and seen in his own company. In the great democracy of self-devotion private and general stand side by side. Unmarshalled save by their own deeds, the army of the dead sweep before us, "wearing their wounds like stars." It is not because the men I have mentioned were my friends that I have spoken of them, but, I repeat, because they are types. I speak of those whom I have seen. But you all have known such; you, too, remember!

It is not of the dead alone that we think on this day. There are those still living whose sex forbade them to offer their lives, but who gave instead their happiness. Which of us has not been lifted above himself by the sight of one of those lovely, lonely women, around whom the wand of sorrow has traced its excluding circle--set apart, even when surrounded by loving friends who would fain bring back joy to their lives? I think of one whom the poor of a great city know as their benefactress and friend. I think of one who has lived not less greatly in the midst of her children, to whom she has taught such lessons as may not be heard elsewhere from mortal lips. The story of these and her sisters we must pass in reverent silence. All that may be said has been said by one of their own sex---
But when the days of golden dreams had perished,


And even despair was powerless to destroy,


Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,


Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.


Then did I check the tears of useless passion,


weaned my young soul from yearning after thine


Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten


Down to that tomb already more than mine.
Comrades, some of the associations of this day are not only triumphant, but joyful. Not all of those with whom we once stood shoulder to shoulder--not all of those whom we once loved and revered--are gone. On this day we still meet our companions in the freezing winter bivouacs and in those dreadful summer marches where every faculty of the soul seemed to depart one after another, leaving only a dumb animal power to set the teeth and to persist-- a blind belief that somewhere and at last there was bread and water. On this day, at least, we still meet and rejoice in the closest tie which is possible between men-- a tie which suffering has made indissoluble for better, for worse.


When we meet thus, when we do honor to the dead in terms that must sometimes embrace the living, we do not deceive ourselves. We attribute no special merit to a man for having served when all were serving. We know that, if the armies of our war did anything worth remembering, the credit belongs not mainly to the individuals who did it, but to average human nature. We also know very well that we cannot live in associations with the past alone, and we admit that, if we would be worthy of the past, we must find new fields for action or thought, and make for ourselves new careers.
But, nevertheless, the generation that carried on the war has been set apart by its experience. Through our great good fortune, in our youth our hearts were touched with fire. It was given to us to learn at the outset that life is a profound and passionate thing. While we are permitted to scorn nothing but indifference, and do not pretend to undervalue the worldly rewards of ambition, we have seen with our own eyes, beyond and above the gold fields, the snowy heights of honor, and it is for us to bear the report to those who come after us. But, above all, we have learned that whether a man accepts from Fortune her spade, and will look downward and dig, or from Aspiration her axe and cord, and will scale the ice, the one and only success which it is his to command is to bring to his work a mighty heart.


Such hearts--ah me, how many!--were stilled twenty years ago; and to us who remain behind is left this day of memories. Every year--in the full tide of spring, at the height of the symphony of flowers and love and life--there comes a pause, and through the silence we hear the lonely pipe of death. Year after year lovers wandering under the apple trees and through the clover and deep grass are surprised with sudden tears as they see black veiled figures stealing through the morning to a soldier's grave. Year after year the comrades of the dead follow, with public honor, procession and commemorative flags and funeral march--honor and grief from us who stand almost alone, and have seen the best and noblest of our generation pass away.
But grief is not the end of all. I seem to hear the funeral march become a paean. I see beyond the forest the moving banners of a hidden column. Our dead brothers still live for us, and bid us think of life, not death--of life to which in their youth they lent the passion and joy of the spring. As I listen , the great chorus of life and joy begins again, and amid the awful orchestra of seen and unseen powers and destinies of good and evil our trumpets sound once more a note of daring, hope, and will.
Source: The Essential Holmes: Selections From the Letters, Speeches, Judicial Opinions, and Other Writings of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., Edited and With an Introduction by Richard A Posner (University of Chicago Press, 1992) pp. 80-87.