Laudator Temporis Acti

[W]hen they are wearied, the earth is their bed, such food as they can snatch amid toil satisfies them, their time for sleep is shorter than the night.

fatigatis humus cubile est, cibus, quem occupati rapiunt, satiat, tempora somni artiora quam noctis sunt.

[T]he making of a medieval manuscript was dirty, smelly, often boring and certainly back-breaking. It involved blood, urine, excrement and earwax. From the visceral process of preparing animal skin, to the wrist-straining tedium of endless writing, to the foul-smelling ingredients of illumination, to the finger-numbing effort of sewing tough parchment together — making a manuscript was an act of hard labour.

We have become largely an urban folk, but there lies, deep down in the hearts even of those who have toiled in our cities for two or three generations, an ineradicable love of country things and country beauty, as it may exist in them traditionally and subconsciously; and to them, as much as and even more than to ourselves, the country represents the eternal values and the eternal traditions from which we must never allow ourselves to be separated.

For wine is the most beneficial of beverages, the pleasantest of medicines, and the least cloying of appetizing things, provided that there is a happy combination of it with the occasion as well as with water.

καὶ γὰρ ποτῶν ὠφελιμώτατόν ἐστι καὶ φαρμάκων ἥδιστον καὶ ὄψων ἀσικχότατον, ἂν τύχῃ τῆς πρὸς τὸν καιρὸν εὐκρασίας μᾶλλον ἢ τῆς πρὸς τὸ ὕδωρ.

How this lonesome journey has taught me to love the class of men that is called the lower, which, however, in the eyes of God is certainly the highest! Here one finds all virtues united: self-restraint, contentment, straightforwardness, fidelity, joy over most humble possessions, innocence, patience...

Wie sehr ich wieder, auf diesem duncklen Zug, Liebe zu der Classe von Menschen gekriegt habe! die man die niedre nennt! die aber gewiss für Gott die höchste ist. Da sind doch alle Tugenden Beysammen, Beschräncktheit, Genügsamkeit, Grader Sinn, Treue, Freude über das leidlichste Gute, Harmlosigkeit, Dulden...

A sure sign of a good book is that the older we grow the more we like it. A youth of 18 who wanted and above all could say what he felt would say of Tacitus something like the following: Tacitus is a difficult writer who knows how to depict character: and sometimes gives excellent descriptions, but he affects obscurity and often introduces into the narration of events remarks that are not very illuminating; you have to know a lot of Latin to understand him. At 25 perhaps, assuming he has in the interim done more than read, he will say: Tacitus is not the obscure writer I once took him for, but I have discovered that Latin is not the only thing you need to know to understand him — you have to bring a great deal with you yourself. And at 40, when he has come to know the world, he may perhaps say: Tacitus is one of the greatest writers who ever lived.

Ein sicheres Zeichen von einem guten Buch ist, wenn es einem immer besser gefällt je älter man wird. Ein junger Mensch von 18, der sagen wollte, sagen dürfte und vornehmlich sagen könnte was er empfindet, würde von Tacitus etwa folgendes Urteil fällen: Tacitus ist ein schwerer Schriftsteller, der gute Charaktere zeichnet und vortrefflich zuweilen malt, allein er affektiert Dunkelheit und kommt oft mit Anmerkungen in die Erzählung der Begebenheiten herein, die nicht viel erläutern, man muß viel Latein wissen um ihn zu verstehn. Im 25ten vielleicht, vorausgesetzt, daß er mehr getan hat als gelesen, wird er sagen: Tacitus ist der dunkle Schriftsteller nicht für den ich ihn ehmals gehalten, ich finde aber, daß Latein nicht das einzige ist was man wissen muß um ihn zu verstehen, man muß sehr viel selbst mitbringen. Und im 40ten, wenn er die Welt hat kennen lernen, wird er vielleicht sagen, Tacitus ist einer der ersten Schriftsteller, die je gelebt haben.

In imagination I hie me to Greece as to enchanted ground. No storms vex her coasts, no clouds encircle her Helicon or Olympus, no tempests sweep the peaceful Tempe or ruffle the bosom of the placid Ægean; but always the beams of the summer's sun gleam along the entablature of the Acropolis, or are reflected through the mellow atmosphere from a thousand consecrated groves and fountains; always her seagirt isles are dallying with their zephyr guests, and the low of kine is heard along the meads, and the landscape sleeps — valley and hill and woodland — a dreamy sleep. Each of her sons created a new heaven and a new earth for Greece.

A king had three wives, one Persian, one Arab, and one Coptic. One night he lay beside the Persian woman and asked her, "What time is it?" She answered, "It is the hour of dawn." He asked her, "How do you know?" She answered, "Because the scent of the roses and basil is rising and the birds are beginning to sing." The next night he lay with the Arab woman and asked her the same question. She answered, "It is the hour of dawn. I know it because the pearls of my necklace feel cold against my breast." On the third night he lay with the Coptic woman and he asked her the same question and she answered, "It is the hour of dawn. I know because I have to go to stool."

Labels: noctes scatologicae