Free download.
Book file PDF easily for everyone and every device.
You can download and read online Entering the Chinese Mind and other Sonnets file PDF Book only if you are registered here.
And also you can download or read online all Book PDF file that related with Entering the Chinese Mind and other Sonnets book.
Happy reading Entering the Chinese Mind and other Sonnets Bookeveryone.
Download file Free Book PDF Entering the Chinese Mind and other Sonnets at Complete PDF Library.
This Book have some digital formats such us :paperbook, ebook, kindle, epub, fb2 and another formats.
Here is The CompletePDF Book Library.
It's free to register here to get Book file PDF Entering the Chinese Mind and other Sonnets Pocket Guide.
Entering the Chinese Mind: and Other Sonnets [Joseph Tsang Mang Kin] on leondumoulin.nl *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers.
Table of contents
As for the plumbing, the less said the better.
The image of Hopkins living and working in Newman House was the inspiration for No Worst, There is None , so for Tighe and his co-creators the obvious way to proceed was to stage the show in the building itself as a site-specific piece. An early champion was Poetry Ireland, followed by the Arts Council, which approved a grant application. In any case, as Tighe explains, ripping up the rugs or building a set on the staircase was never an option: the trio had a different kind of show in mind. If you try to explain them, it can all get quite academic.
Setting them to music allows us to convey the feeling in a more immediate way. And for me, it was quite easy to translate some of that energy into music.
Smart Search
The idea is to merge theatre and exhibition space: as the audience moves through the house, led by John Henry Newman himself, doors will open into various rooms, revealing installations inside. Sculptures will be illuminated with lines of poetry. They also happen to be Anglican choristers — a somewhat mischievous choice, since both Newman and Hopkins himself are numbered among the most famous of converts. They were both English. They were both converts. Nor, it would appear from these late poems, did he find much comfort in his religion.
Hopkins was probably gay, and may well have chosen to join the Jesuit order because of its emphasis on discipline for body and mind. Nowadays people can adopt religion in a way independent of church. That really stuck in my head, that line. There was a constant battle between his role as a priest and his role as a poet.
Advanced Search
The contrast between such uplifted exuberance and the horrifying downward spiral of No Worst, There Is None could hardly be more stark and, says Tighe, this dramatic disparity is a major theme in the play. To walk into the room is a heart-rending experience; desolation seems to lurk in the dusty air. On the other side of the hall the room where Hopkins taught Greek — and where James Joyce was, in due course, to study it — is reconstructed in such painstaking detail that it even smells the way a classics classroom should. To enter that mind-space is to open up many possibilities.
Many vistas. Many strange things. The show lasts for one hour, and audience numbers are restricted to 25 per performance. The terrible trouble with Hopkins Tue, Sep 29, , I select ' The Raven ' as most generally known. If any literary work is too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression; for, if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and everything like totality is at once destroyed.
I should be carried too far out of my immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted, and which with the poetical stands not in the slightest need of demonstration--the point, I mean, that Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem. Two things are invariably required: first, some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, second, some amount of suggestiveness, some under-current, however indefinite, of meaning.
It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that richness to borrow from colloquy a forcible term which we are too fond of confounding with the ideal. The opposition of these two characters and attitudes is complete. Upon the one side a vast preoccupation with human meaning and morals, with health and the common reality and love and democracy, a grand contempt for beauty, and for the effort to attract or gratify a reader with "verbal melody," a contempt for everything that savors of deliberate technique in art.
Upon the other side also contempt--contempt like a piece of cold analytical steel for every pretense that the technique of art is not deliberate, that poets are not seeking to attract and gratify, that truth or moral or meaning instead of beauty is the portent of a poem--a disposition to seek beauty in unique and even unhealthy places, a lonely aristocratic heart of pain, and a preoccupation with "verbal melody" never before or since equalled in poetry.
The details of this difference are fascinating, but the generalization of it is what will illumine the modern problems about poetry. To Edgar Allan Poe a poem was an objective thing, to Walt Whitman poetry was an act of subjective expression. Poe would take sounds and melodies of words almost actually into his hands, and carve and model them until he had formed a beautiful vessel, and he would take emotions and imaginations out of his heart and weave and inlay them in that vessel, and even the crimson out of his blood, and finally for "enrichment" he would seek out in his mind the hue of some meaning or moral to pour over it until it was perfect.
And these beautiful vessels he would set forth for view and purchase, standing aside from them like a creative trader, proud, but no more identified with them than as though he had made them out of the colors of shells. To Walt Whitman a poem was not a thing. His poetry was himself. His meanings, emotions, experiences, love and wonder of life, filled him and he overflowed in language--without "art," without purpose but to communicate his being. So he maintained. His poem was never an object to him, even after it had flowed full and he sought to perfect its contours.
His emendations were not often objective improvements; they were private remodellings to make the language a more direct and fluent identity with what he considered himself. This was the task upon which he labored as the poet of democracy and social love.
Mason, R.A.K
Now, it is not merely an accident, or a reflection upon America or upon human nature, that Walt Whitman, with all his yearnings over the average American and his offering of priesthood and poetry to the people, should remain the poet of a rather esoteric few, whereas Poe--even with the handful of poems he wrote--may be said to be acceptable to the generality of men. The Raven, or Helen, or Annabelle Lee, or some sad musical echo of the death of beauty, might be found in illuminated covers on the most " average " of American parlor tables, but never anything there of Walt Whitman--unless it be " Captain, My Captain!
And there is something deeply and really pathetic in this fact, and something which only an adequate science of verse can explain. For the emotions and the meanings of Walt Whitman's poetry are actually the ones that interest simple and thoughtful people who have leisure to feel. His realizations of life would be acceptable and be honored, as much at least as great art is ever honored, by the "divine average," if they had been conveyed, as Poe's were, in vessels of light, which would make them objective, and from which they might brim over with excess of subjective meaning and emotion.
I do not mean to express a wish that Walt Whitman had conveyed them so, or the opinion that he could have been a more stupendous poetic and moral hero of nature by writing otherwise than he did. His propulsive determination to put forth in this facile nineteenth century culture, sweet with the decay and light with the remnant fineries of feudal grandeur, the original, vast, unfinished substance of man, was a phenomenon like the rising of a volcanic continent amid ships on the sea.
Joseph Tsang Mang Kin - AbeBooks
No word but the words in his book can portray the magnitude of his achievement; no critic but Envy could judge it except as itself and by its own standard. But as a prophetic example of the poems of the future, and especially the poems of democracy and social love, it suffers a weakness--the weakness that Walt Whitman's character suffered.
- Building Business Value.
- Mitch & Me: Mitch the Snitch!
- Arthurs Round: The Life and Times of Brewing Legend Arthur Guinness?
- Entering the Chinese mind and other sonnets / Joseph Tsang Mang Kin..
- Account Options?
- Braxtons Quest (The Mayan Gods).
- Jabberwocky;
It is egocentric and a little inconsiderate of the importance of other people. Walt Whitman composed wonderful passages about universal social love, but he could not be the universal poet exactly because he was not social enough.
He was not humble enough to be social. The rebel egoism of democracy was in him the lordly and compelling thing, and though his love for the world was prodigious, it was not the kind of love that gives attention instinctively to the egoism of others. There may be no grand passion for the idea, but there is a natural companionship with the fact of "democracy," in Poe's statement that he "kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work universally appreciable," and that statement more characteristically distinguishes his attitude from Walt Whitman's than the different ways they had of talking about beauty.
All poets who mould their poems objectively, even though they may conceive themselves to be utterly alone with beauty, are really in social communion with humanity. For that is what the word objective means. An object , or as we say, a "thing," differs from other elements of our experience only in that it can be experienced in the same form at different times and by different persons. And for an object to be beautiful is for it to hold value in itself, so that various perceivers may come from all sides and find it there. Therefore one who moulds an object towards external perfection, however sad his solitude, enters directly into the "universal friendship" toward which Walt Whitman directed so.
One who pours out phrases direct from his emotion may experience a relief and glory that implies listeners, and he may win listeners, but they will each rebuild out of his phrases their own different poem, and they will comprise in their number only those endowed with the special power to build poems out of phrases poured out. And whatever we may wish were true of the world, it is not true that the majority are so endowed. Therefore the poetry that is highly subjective is almost inevitably the poetry of a few; and the "direct expression of emotion" achieves a less clear and general social communion than the embodiment of emotion in an object of art.
It could be established, I believe, with mechanical precision, that the rhythmic values most cherished by the social rebels who now write so much "free verse," are values practically incommunicable to others, and absolutely incommunicable by the method usually adopted, that of printing words on a page. A little of that icy matter-of-fact realism with which Poe used to scatter the sweet foggy thoughts of the literarious, while it might not affect the art of these poets, would surely reduce the volume of what they have to say about it.
For instance, here is the answer of one of them to an assertion that the line division in free-verse is "arbitrary," and that if we copied one of these long poems in solid prose, the poet himself could hardly ever divide it again as it was:. Much of it is, of course--so are many canvases mere splashy imitations of Matisse. But there is free verse that resolves itself into just those lines a little more subtly than sonnets or triolets--by virtue of pauses, of heart-beats, of the quickness or slowness of your breath, and maybe of your pulse itself.
It tries to give the rhythm value of those hesitations, those quickenings and slowings of the flow of ideas, the flutterings--it is closer to the breath , as modern music and modern dance are, or as primitive music and primitive dance were. It is impossible not to respond to such assertions, for we know in ourselves what these exquisite differential experiences are.
- Selected Poems of E. G. Hennig;
- UK or Worldwide subscribers!
- Mo, The Daring Dingo (Animal Antics Book 1);
Any one who has ever written love-letters--which are a kind of aboriginal free-verse--knows what they are. And yet I believe it is obvious, if not demonstrable, that most of them are too individual to be communicated even to a lover. Human nature is too various for it to be true that the same hesitations, the same quickenings and slowings of the flow of ideas, flutterings of the breath or pulse, will reproduce themselves in another upon the perception of the same visible symbols. And while this fact may make the art of composition seem a little monotonous, it is better that art should be monotonous than that the world should.
And it would be a monotonous world in which different people were so much alike, or we ourselves so much alike at different moments, that these minute filigrees of feeling should be altogether durable and capable of being served round in paper and ink. There are values of verbal rhythm in a flow of thought and feeling which exist for one individual alone, and for him once only. There are other values less delicate which he can reproduce in himself at will, but can not altogether communicate to other minds whose thoughts and feelings are too much their own.
There are other values, still less delicate, which he might communicate by vocal utterance and rhythmic gesture, taking possession as it were of the very pulse and respiration of others. But poetry which is composed for publication ought to occupy itself with those rhythmic values which may be communicated to other rhythmic minds through the printing of words on a page. It ought to do this, at least, if it pretends to an attitude that is even in the most minute degree social. This statement is borne out by Mr. William Morrison Patterson's account of the records of Amy Lowell's reading of her poems in his laboratory.
It constitutes the preface of the second edition of his book, "The Rhythm of Prose" a book which, upon the true basis of experimentation, analyzes and defines convincingly for the first time the nature of rhythmical experience, and the manner in which itis derived by the reader both from prose and metrical poetry. Until it is amplified or improved by further investigation, this book will surely be the basis of every scientific discussion of the questions involved here.
A mature science of rhythm might be imagined to stride into the room where these poets are discussing the musical values of their verse, seize two or three of the most "free" and subtle among them, lock them into separate sound-proof chambers, and allow them to read one of their favorite passages into the ear of an instrument designed to record in spatial outline the pulsations of vocal accent.
It is safe to assert that there would be less identity in the actual pulsations recorded than if the same two were reading a passage of highly wrought English prose. Its line division has neither a metrical nor a logical significance that exists objectively. It can mean at any time anything that is desirable to the whims, or needful to the difficulties, of the reader or the writer. It is a very sign and instrument of subjectivity.
To incorporate in a passage of printed symbols an indeterminate element so marked and so frequent as that, is to say to the reader--"Take the passage and organize it into whatever rhythmical pattern may please yourself. And since it is possible for one who is rhythmically gifted to organize any indeterminate series of impressions whatever into an acceptable rhythm, he frequently produces a very enjoyable piece of music, which he attributes to the author and, having made it himself, is not unable to admire.