Search

 

 This site is a group of like-minded people sharing their thoughts together on one site. Peruse, join the conversation by comment, and enjoy. 

For a description of this society's purpose and forming click here but not here.

Follow us on Twitter @Ink_Society

Friday
Jul252014

Prayer

"Prayer"
Oil on Canvas - 1878
William Powell Frith 

The humble soul composed of love and fear
Begins at home, and lays the burden there,
When doctrines disagree.
He says, in things which use hath justly got,
'I am a scandal to the Church,' and not
'The Church is so to me.'

--George Herbert

Tuesday
Jul222014

Still Life with a Jug, Cheese, Onions, Fish and a Knife

"Still Life with a Jug, Cheese, Onions, Fish and a Knife"
Oil on Canvas - 1854
 François Bonvin

My forthcoming work in five volumes, "The Neglect of Cheese in European Literature" is a work of such unprecedented and laborious detail that it is doubtful if I shall live to finish it. Some overflowings from such a fountain of information may therefore be permitted to springle these pages. I cannot yet wholly explain the neglect to which I refer. Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese. Virgil, if I remember right, refers to it several times, but with too much Roman restraint. He does not let himself go on cheese. The only other poet I can think of just now who seems to have had some sensibility on the point was the nameless author of the nursery rhyme which says: "If all the trees were bread and cheese"—which is, indeed a rich and gigantic vision of the higher gluttony. If all the trees were bread and cheese there would be considerable deforestation in any part of England where I was living. Wild and wide woodlands would reel and fade before me as rapidly as they ran after Orpheus.

--G.K. Chesterton, Alarms and Discursions, "Cheese"

Tuesday
Jul082014

Swallow or Swift

"Swallow or Swift"

Oil on Slate - Date Unknown

Alfred Worthington (1834-1927)

Now since watching my swallow by the riverside yesterday I have been trying to analyse these poignant emotions that are aroused in autumn and in spring-time by the going and the coming of the swallows. I am convinced that, when I see the swallows leaving the russet autumn, and preparing for their northward flight, there is something deeper in my sadness than a mere shrinking from a winter that is too mild to have any terrors. And I am equally certain that the keen delight that is mine when my heart leaps up to greet the first swallow in August is far greater than a smug relief at the passing of the cold. Now it happens that a second pleasurable experience yesterday followed fast upon the heels of the first. For in the evening I was invited to attend a cinematograph entertainment, and I went. I could not help comparing and contrasting the riverside experience of the afternoon and the pleasure of the pictures at night. The swallow completely satisfied me; the pictures, although excellent in themselves, quite failed to do so. Now why this thusness? What was the difference between the pleasure that I found in seeing the swallow skim, with camel-hair touch, over the green, green grass, and the pleasure that I found in the pictures in the darkened hall? There is an essential difference. The real intensity of my happiness depends, as Sir Launfal discovered, upon the extent to which it is shared. The pleasure that I feel as I watch the first swallow is a pleasure that I share with almost everybody; the pleasure that I feel as I watch the flickering films is a pleasure that I share with almost nobody. It is true that on the river-bank I was alone, and that the hall at night was crowded; but, over against that, I remember that when I passed into the darkened hall to see the pictures I said good-bye to all the ages. Plato never saw a picture show; Paul never saw a picture show; Oliver Cromwell never saw a picture show; Mr. Gladstone never saw a picture show. As I glanced around these shelves of mine before going to the entertainment , I realized that I was cutting the painter that united me with these heroic spirits here. Tennyson and Carlyle, Dickens and Thackeray, Macaulay and Gibbon never went to picture shows! By laughing and crying over these realistic representations I am cutting myself clean off from all antiquity, from all history, and even from my own ancestry. My grandfather and grandmother never went to a picture show! And for aught I know, I am exposing myself to the contempt and ridicule of posterity as well. My grandchildren may laugh at me if they hear that I went to see a contrivance that may seem to them so old-fashioned and clumsy. The picture show separates me from everybody; but the swallow links me up with everybody.

--Frank Boreham, from "The First Swallow" in The Golden Milestone

Saturday
May172014

The Temptation of St. Anthony

The Temptation of St. Anthony
Oil on Wood Panel, c. 1522-1525
Jan Wellens de Cock, Flemish, 1506-1527

Look at the painting again.

 

Proverbs 5:1-6
My son, be attentive to my wisdom;
incline your ear to my understanding,
 that you may keep discretion,
and your lips may guard knowledge.
 For the lips of a forbidden woman drip honey,
and her speech is smoother than oil,
 but in the end she is bitter as wormwood,
sharp as a two-edged sword.
Her feet go down to death;
her steps follow the path to Sheol;
she does not ponder the path of life;
her ways wander, and she does not know it.

 

Thursday
May152014

Princess with Vultures

"Princess with Vultures"

Oil on Canvas - 1893

Henry Justice Ford

"I have no regrets for masterpieces unwritten, for genius unfulfilled. It has long seemed abundantly clear to me that I was born into a dying, if not already dead, civilization, whose literature was part of the general decomposition; a heap of rubble scavenged by scrawny English Lit. vultures, and echoing with the hyena cries of Freudians looking for their Marx and Marxists looking for their Freud." 

--Malcolm Muggeridge, Chronicles of Wasted Time