Dove & Brush News On This Day

Saturday, June 14, 2003 for my niece Elisa's wedding by Peter Y. Chou

Full Moon, Saturday, June 14, 2003,
Thomas Fogarty Winery, Woodside, California—
Wedding of Elisa Cheng & Ben Lubin

Elisa Cheng, daughter of David & Margaret Cheng, marries Benjamin Lubin, son of Steven & Wendy Lubin, at the Thomas Fogarty Winery, Woodside, California. Bride & Groom met each other while studying at Harvard University. A hundred guests were present on a bright sunny day overlooking the bay to celebrate this joyful occasion filled with beauty and poetry. The finely engraved wedding invitation quotes Shakespeare's Sonnet 76: “For as the sun is daily new and old, / So is my love still telling what is told.” The poetry continues on the wedding program with Robert Browning's “Grow old along with me! / The best is yet to be” ( Rabbi Ben Ezra from Dramatis Personae, 1864). Poetry and song continued in the wedding ceremony when Pablo Neruda's Love Sonnet IX and Rilke verses were read, and Puccini's "O mio babbino caro" was sung. The wedding processionals included Schubert's Impromptu in G Flat and Wedding March by Steven Lubin, the bridegroom's father (composed for his wedding, June 2, 1974). Pastor Joseph Steinke officiated the wedding and spoke inspiring words to the audience, telling them to look at their loved ones and ask "Do I love him or her with the same intensity I did when we were first married?" He tells the gathering that Elisa and Ben love each other so much that they selected this beautiful place to share the joy of love with their family and friends. We are blessed to witness this marriage of bliss. Elisa honored her grandparents who have passed on, saying “They showed us some of the best qualities of life and love, and for that, we will always be grateful.” Elisa loved fairy tales as a child and wrote prize-winning fairy tale stories in school. The cold fog up at Skyline that lasted for two days cleared up in time for this happiest of happy days for her and Ben. Truly, Elisa has composed a lovely fairy-tale wedding, sharing the beauty of her love with Ben and all her family and friends. May the warm sun, the gentle full moon, and the sparkling stars bless this happy couple always. (Elisa's Wedding Photos; NY Times 6-15-2003, Weddings & Celebrations)

Philadelphia, June 14, 1777— Continental Congress Adopts the Stars & Stripes as the First Flag of the United States

The American Revolutionary War began when the 13 colonies formed the Continental Congress and declared their independence from the British. The first official flag, known as the Stars and Stripes or Old Glory, was approved by the Continental Congress: "Resolved, That the Flag of the United States be 13 stripes, alternate red and white; that the Union be 13 stars, white in a blue field, representing a new constellation." According to legend, Betsy Ross (1752-1836), a seamstress from Philadelphia sewed the first American flag and presented it to George Washington, George Ross, and Robert Morris. In 1916, President Woodrow Wilson issued a presidential proclamation declaring June 14 Flag Day. It was not until August 3rd, 1949, that President Truman signed an Act of Congress designating June 14 of each year as National Flag Day.
The Continental Congress
June 14 - American Flag Day,
Flag Day Timeline,
Flag Day (Library of Congress),
Betsy Ross and the American Flag,
Ross Flag: Point-Counterpoint,
13 Star Flags - (1777-1795),
The History Of Flag Day,
Drafting the Declaration of Independence,
What do the colors of the Flag mean?,
A Flag Store of U. S. Historical Flags,

Betsy Ross presenting flag
to George Washington

Sonoma: June 14, 1846— Republic of California Proclaimed

The Bear Flag of the Republic of California was designed by William Todd, nephew of Mary Todd (Mrs. Abraham) Lincoln. It was hoisted in Sonoma on June 14, 1846, after a Mexican garrison was defeated by 33 revolutionaries. Led by Captain Ezekiel Merritt and William B. Ide, they captures the Mexican General Mariano Guadalupe Vallejo and his aides. The flag with a star, grizzly bear, and the words "California Republic" flew for 26 days before being replaced by the Stars and Stripes on July 9, 1846. The Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo on February 2, 1848 ended the Mexican War, by the terms of which California is ceded to the United States. California was admitted to the Union on September 9, 1850.
Bear Flag Revolt of 1846,
Sonoma, Home of the Bear Flag Revolt
Bear Flags of Sonoma,
Chimes of Mission Bells,
PBS: The West,
The Sonoma Plaza,
Chronology of California History,

Revere Guidon

June 14, 1940— German Troops Occupies Paris in World War II

On May 10, German armed forces began their offensive against France, which had only 60 divisions, and French General Weygand termed their deployment "a line of troops without depth or organization." Artillery shelling and air cover helped the German army to breach the impermeable Maginot defense line. The Wehrmacht routed the French army within a few days. The 37 French divisions were defeated or surrendered en masse. The government fled from Paris to Bordeaux. German forces marched into Paris. The next day, June 14, French military forces began to retreat from the Maginot Line. Columns of refugees attempting to escape the conquering German army were savaged by Luftwaffe bombing raids on the roads. France surrendered to Nazi Germany on June 22. The armistice agreement, tailored to Hitler's terms, was signed in the same railroad car at Compiègne in which Germany had surrendered to France 22 years ago. Hitler personally witnessed the humiliation of the French. For him and the Germans, it was sweet revenge. Marshal Pétain blamed his country's defeat on "too few children, too few armaments, too few allies."

Germans captures Paris, Germany occupies Paris, Arthur Szyk: Occupied Paris, 1940,
Rebbe's flight from Europe, Hugo Gutmann: Escaped Three Times, World War II Timeline,
WWII Internet Museum: European Theater, America at War: World War II (pre-1941)

June 14, 1942— Walt Disney's Film Bambi Premieres

Disney's Bambi is one of the world's most endearing animated tale about the beauty of nature and the miracle of life. This immortal blend of classic storytelling and unforgettable characters is most fondly remembered as Walt Disney's all-time favorite picture. It was nominated for three Academy Awards (1942)— Best Song: "Love Is a Song," Best Scoring of a Dramatic or Comedy Picture, and Best Sound Recording.

Bambi (1942), Disney's Bambi, Bambi Coloring Page, Bambi Video Clip 1, Bambi Video Clip 2, Bambi Video Reviews at, Bambi Disney E-cars, Bambi Disney Video Lithographs, Felix Salten: Deer Bambi, Felix Salten (1869-1945): Bambi's Author, Bambi, the Austrian Deer

Port Stanley, Falkland Islands, June 14, 1982—
Argentina Surrenders to British

On June 14th the Argentine garrison in Port Stanley is defeated. The Argentine commander, Mario Menendez, agreed to a cease-fire and surrendered as 9800 Argentine troops put down their weapons. On June 20th the British formally declared an end to hostilities and established a Falkland Islands Protection Zone of 150 miles. This undeclared war lasted 74 days and claimed nearly 1000 casualties. The British took about 10,000 Argentine prisoners during the undeclared war. Argentina lost 655 men while Britain lost 236. Argentina's defeat discredited the military government and led to the return of democracy in Argentina in 1983.

The Falklands War (1982),
The Falkland Islands War,
Falkland Islands War of 1982,
Britannica: Falkland Islands War
Naval History: Falklands War 1982,
Falkand Islands History,
15 years after Falklands war,
Falkands War Video,
Falkland Islands Philatelic Bureau,

New York City: June 14, 1986—
Alan Jay Lerner, Broadway Lyricist, Playwright, Screenwriter Dies at 67

Alan Jay Lerner is best remembered for the many Broadway musicals he wrote with long-time collaborator Frederick Loewe. These songs include Brigadoon (1947), Paint Your Wagon (1951), My Fair Lady (1956), and Camelot (1960). They have become classics and were later successfully adapted to the screen by Lerner who was also a noted playwright and a screenwriter. Born into a wealthy family (the owners of Lerner's clothing stores), Lerner had a privileged education at Choate and Harvard. He teamed up with Loewe in 1943 to write What's Up?, and the pair remained together through 1960 when Loewe retired. Lerner also worked with the Gershwins in An American in Paris (1951), Burton Lane in On a Clear Day You Can See Forever (1965), and Andre Previn in Coco (1969). As a screenwriter, Lerner earned an Oscar for his screenplay and story for An American in Paris in 1951. Seven years later, he won again for Gigi (1958). He and Loewe also shared an Academy Award for the film's title song. In 1974, he and Loewe reunited to work on The Little Prince. Lerner and Loewe received the prestigious Kennedy Center Award in 1985.

Lycos Profile: Alan Jay Lerner,
IBDB: Broadway Productions Database,
Kennedy Center Honors,
IMDb: Lerner's Filmography
MSN Entertainment Bio
NJTheater Bio
Frederick Loewe Foundation

Geneva, Switzerland: June 14, 1986—
Jorge Luis Borges, Argentine Writer, Dies at 86

Jorge Luis Borges was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina on August 24, 1899. He was profoundly influenced by European culture, English literature, and the philosopher Bishop Berkeley, who argued that there is no matter except mind. Most of Borges's tales embrace universal themes— the often recurring circular labyrinth can be seen as a metaphor of life or a riddle which theme is time. Although he was a perennial candidate for the Nobel Prize, Borges never became a Nobel Laureate. In 1961, Borges shared the International Publishers' Prize with Samuel Beckett. He was awarded the degree of Doctor of Letters, honoris causa from both Columbia and Oxford University. Borges was a small man, stooped, frail, white-haired and blind for the last 30 years as a result of a hereditary disease. His soft smile and sightless gaze masked the intricate mind of an author whose short stories are filled with riddles and metaphysical humor. He was philosophical about his blindness, saying "Blindness is no handicap for a writer of fantasy. It leaves the mind free and unhampered to explore the depths and heights of human imagination." (Tulane University, Jan. 27, 1982). Borges moved from Buenos Aires to Geneva early in 1986 after suffering from emphysema. On April 26, 1986, Borges married his long-time secretary Maria Kodama, to whom he once dedicated a book with the inscription, "You will be what I perhaps don't understand." In his Preface to Borges' Labyrinths, André Maurois says Borges' stories “suffice for us to call him great because of their wonderful intelligence, their wealth of invention and their tight, almost mathematical style.” In "Funes the Memorious", Borges tells about a man thrown off a horse and attained prodigious memory, recalling daily cloud patterns, reconstructing all his dreams and waking hours. In "The Mirror of Enigmas", Borges elucidates the work of the Jewish Cabalist Léon Bloy, saying that every detail of our lives has symbolical value, concluding with what it is like to have a divine mind. To read Borges' stories and poems is to expand one's mental horizons to the infinite. (Sources: San Francisco Examiner, June 15, 1986, A-25; Borges, Labyrinths)

Literary Biography, Mauricio Betancourt's Essay, Garden of Forking Paths, Borges Center for Studies & Documentation, Jorge Luis Borges Collection at UVa, Garden of Jorge Luis Borges, Poem: "The Art of Poetry", "Borges and I", Jorge Luis Borges at MIT, April 13, 1980, Borges: Who Needs Poets? (NY TIMES, May 8, 1971), Jorge Luis Borges & the plural I (New Criterion Vol. 18, No. 3, November 1999)

June 14: Born on this day
1736 Charles-Augustin de Coulomb, French physicist (formulated Coulomb's Law)
1811 Harriet Beecher Stowe, U.S. author (Uncle Tom's Cabin)
1820 John Bartlett, U.S. editor (compiled Familiar Quotations)
1821 Vasile Alecsandri, Romanian lyric poet & dramatist
1855 Robert La Follette, Wisconsin govenor, presidential candidate (Progressive)
1856 Andrey Markov, Russia, mathematician (Markov Chain)
1864 Alois Alzheimer, Germany, psychiatrist/pathologist (Alzheimer Disease)
1868 Karl Landsteiner, immunologist/pathologist (Nobel 1930)
1874 Edward Bowes, U.S. radio personality (Major Bowes Amateur Hour)
1906 Margaret Bourke-White, U.S. photojournalist
1906 Carl Esmond, Vienna, Austria, actor (Smash-Up)
1906 Gil Lamb, Minneapolis, actor (Hit Parade of 1947, Riding High)
1908 John Scott Trotter, Charlotte NC, orch leader (George Gobel Show)
1909 Burl Ives, Hunt Ill, folk singer/actor (Cat on a Hot Tin Roof)
1910 Rudolf Kempe, Niederpoyritz Germany, conductor (Tonhalle Orch 1965-72)
1917 Lash La Rue, Gretna Louisiana, cowboy actor (Lash of the West, Wyatt Earp)
1918 Dorothy McGuire, Omaha Neb, actress (Old Yeller, Summer Magic)
1919 Sam Wanamaker, Chicago, Ill, actor (Holocaust, Competition, Raw Deal)
1921 Gene Barry, NYC, actor (Bat Masterson, Name of the Game, Burke's Law)
1925 Pierre Salinger, newsman (ABC), President JFK's press secretary
1928 Ernesto (Che) Guevara, Latin American revolutionary of guerrilla warfare
1929 Cy Coleman [Seymour Kaufman], songwriter (Witchcraft, Sweet Charity)
1931 Marla Gibbs, Chicago Ill, actress (Florence-Jeffersons, Mary-227)
1933 Jerzy Kosinski, Polish-born American novelist (Painted Bird, Being There)
1940 Ben Davidson, LA Calif, actor (Rhino-Ball Four, Code R)
1940 Jack Bannon, LA Calif, actor (Art-Lou Grant, Trauma Center)
1946 Donald Trump, real estate developer (Trump Towers/Plaza/Castle)
1946 Ralph McAllister, Ingersol II NYC, newspaper publisher
1949 Bob Frankston, programmer (VisiCalc)
1949 Rochelle Firestone, Kansas City MO, actress (Hellhole)
1952 Eddie Mekka, Worcester Mass, actor (Carmine-Laverne & Shirley)
1954 Will Patton, Charleston SC, actor (No Way Out, Ballzaire the Cajun)
1958 Eric Heiden, Wisconsin 0.5/1/1.5/5/10K speed skater (Olympic-5 golds-1980)
1961 Boy George O'Dowd, androgynous rock musician (Culture Club)
1969 Steffi Graf, West Germany, tennis player (Grand Slam 1988)

June 14: Events on this day
1642 1st compulsory education law in America passed by Massachusetts
1775 United States Army founded
1777 Continental Congress adopts Stars & Stripes replacing Grand Union flag
1801 Benedict Arnold Revolutionary War general & traitor, dies in London
1834 Hardhat diving suit patented by Leonard Norcross, Dixfield, Maine
1834 Sandpaper patented by Isaac Fischer Jr, Springfield, Vermont
1841 1st Canadian parliament opens in Kingston, Ontario
1846 U.S. settlers in Sonoma proclaimed the Republic of California (Bear Flag)
1847 Bunson invents a gas burner. Lab teachers celebrate worldwide
1864 Battle of Pine Mt, Gen Leonidas Polk killed in action
1870 All-pro Cincinnati Red Stockings suffer 1st loss in 130 games
1876 1st player to hit for the cycle (George Hall, Phila Athletics)
1876 California Street Cable Car Railroad Co gets its franchise
1881 Player piano patented by John McTammany, Jr, Cambridge, Mass
1900 Hawaiian Republic becomes the US Territory of Hawaii
1917 Gen Pershing & his Headquarter staff arrived in Paris during WW I
1919 1st nonstop air crossing of Atlantic (Alcock & Brown) leaves Newfoundland
1922 President Harding becomes first U.S. President heard on radio (WEAR),
         dedicating the Francis Scott Key memorial, Fort McHenry, Baltimore
1928 Republican National Convention, nominated Herbert Hoover in Kansas City
1934 Max Baer KO's Primo Carnera in 11th round for heavyweight boxing champ
1938 Chlorophyll patented by Benjamin Grushkin
1938 Dorothy Lathrop wins the 1st Caldecott Medal (children's books author)
1940 German forces occupied Paris during World War II
1940 Nazis opened a concentration camp at Auschwitz in German-occupied Poland
1941 Ground broken for Boeing Plant II (ex-AFLC Plant 13) Wichita KS
1942 1st bazooka rocket gun produced Bridgeport, Connecticut
1942 Walt Disney's film Bambi is released
1944 1st B-29 raid against mainland Japan
1946 Canadian Library Association established
1951 1st commercial computer, UNIVAC 1, enters service at Census Bureau
1953 Elvis Presley graduates from LC Humes High School in Memphis, Tenn
1953 Yanks sweep Indians 6-2, 3-0 before 74,708 win streak at 18 straight
1954 Pres Eisenhower signs order adding words "under God" to the Pledge
1961 106oF, hottest temperature in San Francisco
1963 Valery Bykovsky in Vostok 5 orbits earth 81 times in 5 days
1965 Beatles release the album "Beatles VI"
1965 Cincinatti Red Jim Maloney no-hits NY Mets but loses in 11, 1-0
1965 John Lennon's 2nd book "A Spaniard in the Works" is published
1967 Launch of Mariner V for Venus fly-by
1967 USSR launches Kosmos 166 for observation of Sun from Earth orbit
1969 John & Yoko appear on David Frost's British TV Show
1975 USSR launches Venera 10 for Venus landing
1976 "Gong Show" premieres on TV (syndication)
1977 Alan Reed actor (Mr Adams & Eve/voice (Fred Flintstone), dies at 69
1982 Argentina surrenders to British on Falkland Islands, after 74-day conflict
1985 Lebanese Shiite Muslims hijack TWA 847 after takeoff from Athens, Greece
1986 Alan Jay Lerner Broadway librettist, dies in NY at 67
1986 Jorge Luis Borges Argentine author, dies in Geneva at 86
1986 Marlin Perkins "Wild Kingdom" host, dies near St Louis at 81
1987 LA Lakers win NBA title with a 106-93, victory over the Celtics
1989 Nolan Ryan becomes 2nd pitcher to defeat all 26 teams in major leagues
1989 Pistons sweep LA for NBA title, Kareem Abdul Jabber's final NBA game
1989 Rocker Carol King gets a star in Hollywood's walk of fame
1990 Detroit Pistons beat Portland, 4 games to 1 for NBA championship
1991 Leroy Burrell of USA sets the 100m record (9.90) in NYC
1991 Space Shuttle STS 40 (Columbia 12) lands

June 14: Quotes on this day—

Just a few words, dear friends, to tell you that I am very well and more and more finding out who I am, learning to distinguish between what is really me and what is not. I am working hard and absorbing all I can which comes to me on all sides from without, so that I may develop all the better fro within. During the last few days I have been in Tivoli. The whole complex of its landscape with its details, its views, its waterfalls, is one of those experiences which permanently enrich one's life...

One more observation. For the first time I can say that I am beginning to love trees and rocks, and yes, Rome itself; till now I have always found them a little forbidding. Small objects, on the other hand, have always delighted me, because they reminded me of the things I saw as a child. But now I am beginning to feel at home here, though I shall never feel as intimate with these things as I did with the first objects in my life. This thought has led me to reflect on the subject of art and imitation.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), Italian Journey, Rome, June 16, 1787
      translated by W. H. Auden & Elizabeth Mayer (1968), pp. 341-342

We had not been long at table before Herr Seidel was announced, accompanied by the Tyrolese. The singers remained in the garden room, so that we could see them perfectly through the open doors, and their song was heard to advantage from that distance... Fräulein Ulrica and I [Eckermann] were particularly pleased with the "Strauss" and "Du, du liegst mir im Herzen", and asked for a copy of them. Goethe seemed by no means so much delighted as we. "One must ask children and birds," said he, "how cherries and strawberries taste." Between the songs, the Tyrolese played various national dances, on a sort of horizontal guitar, accompanied by a clear-toned German flute... [News arrived that the Grand Duke of Weimar died on his journey hither from Berlin. Since Goethe had worked intimately with the Duke for over 50 years, this news was kept from Goethe. Later his son communicated the sad tidings to his father.] I saw Goethe late in the evening. Before I entered his chamber, I heard him sighing and talking aloud to himself: he seemed to feel that an irreparable rent had been torn in his existence. All consolation he refused, and would hear nothing of the sort. "I thought," said he, "that I should depart before him; but God disposes as he thinks best; and all that we poor mortals have to do, is to endure and keep ourselves upright as well and as long as we can."

The Dowager Grand Duchess received the melancholy news at her summer residence of Wilhelmsthal... Goethe went soon to Dornburg, to withdraw himself from daily saddening impressions, and to restore himself by fresh activity in a new scene. By important literary incitements on the part of the French, he had been once more impelled to his theory of plants; and this rural abode, where, at every step into the pure air, he was surrounded by the most luxurious vegetation, in the shape of twining vines and sprouting flowers, was very favorable to such studies... And, indeed, there was, from windows at such a height, an enchanting prospect. Beneath was the variegate valley, with the Saale meandering through the meadows. On the opposite side, toward the east, were woody hills, over which the eye could wander afar, so that one felt that this situation was, in the daytime, favorable to the observation of passing showers losing themselves in the distance, and at night to the contemplation of the eastern stars and the rising sun.

"I enjoy here," said Goethe, "both good days and good nights. Often before dawn I am already awake, and lie down by the open window, to enjoy the splendor of the three planets, which are at present to be seen together, and to refresh myself with the increasing brilliancy of the morning-red. I then pass almost the whole day in the open air, and hold spiritual communion with the tendrils of the vine, which say good things to me, and of which I could tell you wonders. I also write poems again, which are not bad, and, if it were permitted me, I should always to remain in this situation.

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832),
     Conversations with Eckermann, Sunday, June 15, 1828

"Pray without ceasing"— It is the duty of men to judge men only by their actions. Our faculties furnish us with no means of arriving at the motive; the character, the secret self. We call the tree good from its fruits & the man from his works. [This is the title and opening of Emerson's first sermon as pastor in Cambridge, Mass.]

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), Journal, Sunday, June 11, 1826

After a fortnight's wandering to the Green Mountains & Lake Champlain yet finding you dear Ellen nowhere & yet everywhere I come again to my own place, & would willingly transfer some of the pictures that the eyes saw, in living language to my page; yea translate the fair & magnificent symbols into their own sentiments. But this were to antedate knowledge. It grows into us, say rather, we grow wise & not take wisdom; and only in God's own order & by my concurrent effort can I get the abstract sense of which mountains, sunshine, thunder, night, birds, & flowers are the sublime alphabet.

Truth produces confidence in itself. Truth contains its ultimate reason. As a ball whose heat increases lights its own path. Few are free. Truth makes free. The man who thinks all good to consist in wealth, that is, the miser, not only mistakes, but is under the dominion, as we say, of an error... You desist at once from a thousand enforced works & words— you are free from this delusion. You are free to follow the natural constitution of your mind & the Universe.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), Journals, June 15, 1831

On we came passing the fine Cascade of Pissevache & stopped an hour at St Maurice. Thence in more convenient vehicles thro' a country of grandest scenery passing thro' Clarens & along the banks of Lake Leman, by the Castle of Chillon then through Vevey & we reached Lausanne before nightfall. The repose & refreshment of a good hotel were very welcome to us after riding two nights; but the next morning (14th June) was fine, and Mr Wall & I walked out to the public promenade, a high & ornamented grove which overlooks the Lake & commands the view of a great amphitheatre of mountains. We are getting towards France. In the café where we breakfasted we found a printed circular inviting those whom it concerned to a rifle-match, to the intent, as the paper stated, "of increasing their skill in that valuable accomplishment, & of drawing more closely the bonds that regard with which we are, &c," After breakfast I inquired my way to Gibbon's house & was easily admitted to the garden. The summerhouse is removed but the floor of it is still there, where the History was written & finished. I stood upon it & looked forth upon the noble landscape of which he speaks so proudly. I plucked a leaf of the limetree he planted, & of the acacia— successors of those under which he walked. I have seen however many landscapes as pleasant & more striking. At 10 o'clock we took the steamboat for Geneva & sailed up lake Leman. The passage was very long— seven hours— for the wind was ahead, & the engine not very powerful. We touched at Coppet. The lake is most beautiful near Geneva. It was not clear enough to see Mont Blanc or else it was not visible. Mount Varens & Monte Rosa were seen.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journal, June 13-14, 1833

Power is one great lesson which Nature teaches Man. The secret that he can not only reduce under his will, that is, conform to his character, particular events but classes of events & so harmonize all the outward occurrences with the states of mind, that must he learn. Worship, must he learn.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journal, June 14-15, 1836

It is the distinction of genius that it is always inconceivable— once & ever a surprise. Shakspeare we cannot account for, no history, no "life & times" solves the insoluble problem. I cannot slope things to him so as to make him less steep & precipitous; so as to make him one of many, so as to know how I should write the same things. Goethe, I can see, wrote things which I might & should also write, were I a little more favored, a little cleverer man. He does not astonish. But Shakspear, as Coleridge says, is as unlike his contemporaries as he is unlike us. His style is his own. And so is Genius ever total & not mechanically composabel. It stands there a beautiful unapproachable whole like a pinetree or a strawberry— alive, perfect, yet inimitable; nor can we find where to lay the first stone, which given, we could build the arch. Phidias or the great Greeks who made the Elgin marbles & the Apollo & Laocoon belongs to the same exalted category with Shakspear & Homer. And I imagine that we see somewhat of the same possibility boundless in countrymen & in plain motherwit & unconscious virtue as it flashes out here & there in the corners.

When I read the North American Review, or the London Quarterly, I seem to hear the snore of the muses, not their waking voice. I was in a house where tea comes like a loaded wagon very late at night. Read & think. Study now, & now garden. Go alone, then go abroad. Speculate awhile, then work in the world. Yours affectionately.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journal, June 13-15, 1838

It is a superstition to insist on vegetable or animal or any special diet. All is made up at last of the same chemical atoms. The Indian rule shames the Graham rule— A man can eat anything: cats, dogs, snakes, frogs, fishes, roots, & moss. All the religion, all the reason in the new diet is that animal food costs too much. We must spend too much time & thought in procuring so varied & stimulating diet & then we become dependent on it.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journal, June 14, 1840

We are too civil to books. For a few golden sentences we will turn over & actually read a volume of 4 or 500 pages. Even the great books. 'Come', say theym 'we will give you the key to the world'— Each poet each philosopher says this, & we expect to go like a thunderbolt to the centre, but the thunder is a superficial phenomenon, makes a skin-deep cut, and so does the Sage— whether Confucius, Menu, Zoroaster, Socrates; striking at right angles to the globe his force is instantly diffused laterally & enters not. The wedge turns out to be a rocket. I have found this to be the case with every book I have read & yet I take up a new writer with a sort of pulse beat of expectation.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journal, June 1841

A highly endowed man with good intellect & good conscience is a Man-woman & does not so much need the complement of Woman to his being, as another. Hence his relations to the sex are somewhat dislocated & unsatisfactory. He asks in Woman, sometimes the Woman, sometimes the Man.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journal, June 14, 1842

Be an opener of doors for such as come after thee,
and do not try to make the universe a blind alley.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journal, June 15, 1844

Every thing teaches transition, transference, metamorphosis: therein is human power, in transference, not in creation; & therein is human destiny, not in longevity but in removal. We dive & reappear in new places.

How attractive is land, orchard, hillside, garden, in this fine June! Man feels the blood of thousands in his body and his heart pumps the sap of all this forest of vegetation through his arteries. Here is work for him & a most willing workman.

Literature should be the counterpart of nature & equally rich. I find her not in our books. I know nature, & figure her to myself as exuberant, tranquil, magnificent in her fertility— coherent, so that every thing is an omen of every other. She is not proud of the sea or of the stars, of space or time; for all her kinds share the attributes of the selectest extremes. But in literature her geniality is gone— her teats are cut off, as the Amazons of old.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals, June 1847

I do not count the hours I spend in the woods, though I forget my affairs there & my books. And, when there, I wander hither & thither; any bird, any plant, any spring, detains me. I do not hurry homewards for I think all affairs may be postponed to this walking. And it is for this idleness that all my businesses exist.

— Ralph Waldo Emerson, Journals, June 1857

How often, when we have been nearest each other bodily, have we really been farthest off! Our tongues were the witty foils with which we fenced each other off. Not that we have not met heartily and with profit as members of one family, but it was a small one surely, and not that other human family... Thus much, at least, our kindred temperament of mind and body— and long family-arity— have done for us, that we already find ourselves standing on a solid and natural footing with respect to one another, and shall not have to waste time in the so often unavailing endeavor to arrive fairly at this simple ground. Let us leave trifles, then, to accident; and politics, and finance, and such gossip, to the moments when diet and exercise are cared for, and speak to each other deliberately as out of one infinity into another— you there in time and space, and I here. For beside this relation, all books and doctrines are no better than gossip or the turning of a spit. Equally to you and Sophia, from
Your affectionate brother, H. D. Thoreau

Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862),
      Letter to Helen Thoreau, [Thoreau's older sister] Concord, June 13, 1840

The seringo sings now at noon on a post; has a light streak over eye. How rapidly new flowers unfold! as if Nature would get through her work too soon. One has as much as he can do to observe how flowers successively unfold. It is a flowery revolution, to which but few attend. Hardly too much attention can be bestowed on flowers We follow, we march after, the highest color; that is our flag, our standard, our "color". Flowers were made to be seen, not overlooked. Their bright colors imply eyes, spectators. There have been many flower men who have rambled the world over to see them. The flowers robbed from an Egyptian traveller were at length carefully boxed up and forwarded to Linnaeus, the man of flowers. The common, early cultivated red roses are certainly very handsome, so rich a color and so full of blossoms; you see why even blunderers have introduced them into their gardens.

— Henry David Thoreau, Journal, June 15, 1852

On leaving the house about eight o'clock at night, met the tall, pretty working girl. I followed her as far as the Rue de Grenelle, always meditating what course to pursue and almost miserable because I had the chance. I am always like that. I found afterwards, all sorts of ways to use in accosting her, and when it was the right time for them, I opposed them with the most absurd difficulties. My resolutions always evaporate when there is need of action... I have not enough simple, commonplace energy to overcome the thing by busying myself some other way. As long as inspiration is lacking, I am bored. There are some people who, in order to avoid boredom, know how to set themselves a task and accomplish it.

Eugene Delacroix (1798-1863), Journal, Monday, June 14, 1824

An architect who really fulfills all the conditions of his art seems to me a phoenix far more rare than a great painter, a great poet, or a great musician. It is absolutely evident to me that the reason for this resides in that absolutely necessary accord between great good sense and great inspiration. The details of utility which form the point of departure for the architect, details which are of the essence of things, take precedence over all the ornaments: and yet he is not an artist unless he lends fitting ornaments to the usefulness which is his theme. I say fitting; for, even after having established the exact relationship of his plan withevery aspect of customary usage, he cannot embellish this plan save in a certain manner: he is not free to be lavish or sparing with ornaments; they are compelled to be as appropriate to the plan as the latter has been to customary usage. The sacrifices which the painter and the poet make to grace, to charm, and to the effect on the imagination, excuse certian things which exact reason would condemn as false. The only license which the architect permits himself may perhaps be compared with that which the great writer indulges in when, to a certain extent, he creates his own language. When he uses terms which are of the current speech of everybody, the special turn he gives them makes of them new terms; in the same way, by the employment, at once calculated and inspired, of ornaments which are within the domain of all in his possession, the architect gives to them a surprising novelty and reaches that form of the beautiful which it is given to his art to attain. An architect of genius will copy a monument and will be able, by variants, to render it original; he will render it fitting for its place, he will observe in distances and proportions such order that he will make it completely new. The common run of architects can copy only in a literal way, and so, to the humiliating confession of their impotence which they seem to make, they add lack of success even in imitating; for the monument they build, an imitation to the last detail, can never be in exactly the same conditions as the one which they imitate. Not only are they unable to invent a beautiful thing, but they spoil the fine original creation which, in their hands, becomes a flat and insignificant thing, as we are so surprised to discover. Those whose procedure is not to imitate en bloc and with exactitude, work haphazardly, so to speak; the rules teach them that they have to ornament certain parts, and they ornament those parts, whatever the character of the monument and whatever its surroundings.

Eugene Delacroix, Journal, Friday, June 14, 1850

The execution of the dead bodies in the picture of Python [ceiling of the Galerie d'Apollon], that is my real execution, the one suited to my temperament. I should not paint that way from nature, and the freedom that I get in this way compensates for the absence of the model. I must remember the characteristic difference between this and the other parts of my picture.
Allegory of Glory. Freed from terrestial bonds and sustained by Virtue, Genius arrives at the dwelling place of Glory, its final goal: it abandons it remains to livid monsters, personifying envy, unjust persecution, etc.

Eugene Delacroix, Journal, Saturday, June 14, 1851

After dinner, took a walk in the park with young Rodrigues, a babe at the breast of painting, getting his milk from Picot [François-Edouard Picot (1786-1868)], and tiring me a little with his naive conversation; but thanks to his good will, I got some fresh air amidst the most beautiful trees in the world.

Eugene Delacroix, Journal, Champrosay, June 14, 1855

I sit next to Aubert at dinner, at the Hôtel de Ville. He tells me that despite a happy life, he would not want to begin again to live, because of those thousand bitternesses with which life is sowed. This is the more remarkable because Aubert is a complete voluptuary: at his present age, he can still take enjoyment in the company of a woman. The sovereign good would therefore be tranquillity. Why not begin early with giving to tranquillity its pre-eminent position? If man is destined one day to find out that calm stands above all else, why not give oneself a life which can afford that anticipated calm, while still containing some of those sweet enjoyments which are not the same thing as the fearful upheavals caused by the passions? But how one must watch oneself if one would be spared them, when they are so greatly to be feared!

Eugene Delacroix, Journal, Thursday, June 14, 1856

From what you say Dear Austin I am forced to conclude that you never received my letter which was mailed for Boston Monday, but two days after you left— I don't know where it went to... Your room looks lonely enough— I do not love to go in there— whenever I pass thro' I find I 'gin to whistle, as we read that little boys are wont to do in the graveyard. I am going to set out Crickets as soon as I find time that they by their shrill singing shall help disperse the gloom— will they grow if I transplant them? You importune me for news, I am very sorry to say "Vanity of vanities" there's no such thing as news— it is almost time for the cholera, and then things will take a start!... Give our love to our friends, thank them much for their kindness; we will come and see them and you tho' now it is not convenient. All of the folks send love.   Your aff Emily.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), Letter to Austin Dickinson, 15 June, 1851

Dear Friend.
I find you with Dusk— for Day is tired, and lays her antediluvian cheek to the Hill like a child. Nature confides now— I hope you are joyful frequently, these beloved Days. And the health of your friend bolder. I remember her with my Blossoms and wish they were her's.
                Whose Pink career may have a close
                Portentous as our own, who knows?
                To imitate these Neighbors fleet
                In awe and innocence, were meet.
Summer is so kind I had hoped you might come. Since my Father's dying, everything sacred enlarged so— it was dim to own— When a few years old— I was taken to a Funeral which I now know was of peculiar distress, and the Clergyman asked "Is the Arm of the Lord shortened that it cannot save?" He italicicized the "cannot". I mistook the accent for a doubt of Immortality and not daring to ask, it besets me still, though we know that the mind of the Heart must live if it's clerical part do not. Would you explain it to me? I was told you were once a Clergyman. It comforts an instinct if another have felt it too. I was rereading your "Decoration". You may have forgotten it.
                Lay this Laurel on the One
                Too intrinsic for Renown—
                Laurel— vail your deathless tree—
                Him you chasten, that is He!
Please recall me to Mrs— Higginson—
Your scholar.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), Letter to Thomas W. Higginson, June, 1877

Dear Friend,
Thank you for the paper. I felt it almost a bliss of sorrow that the name so long in Heaven on earth, should be on earth in Heaven. Do you know if either of his sons have his mysterious face or his momentous nature? The stars are not hereditary. I hope your brother and himself resumed the tie above, so dear to each below. Your bond to your brother reminds me of mine to my sister— early, earnest, indissoluble. Without her life were fear, and Paradise a cowardice, except for her inciting voice... are you certain there is another life? When overwhelmed to know, I fear that few are sure. My sister gives her grief with mine. Had we known in time, your brother would have borne our flowers in his mute hand. With tears, E. Dickinson.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), Letter to Charles H. Clark, mid-June, 1883

Dear Theo,
You must tell me especially what pictures you have seen lately, and also if any new etchings or lithographs have been published. Let me know as much as you can about these things, for I do not see much of them here as it is only a wholesale house. Considering the circumstances, I am doing pretty well. So far the boardinghouse where I am staying pleases me. There are also three German boarders who are very fond of music, they play the piano and sing, so we spend very pleasant evenings together. I am not so busy here as I was in The Hague; I work only from nine in the morning to six in the evening, and on Saturdays we close at four o'clock. I live in one of the suburbs of London, where it is relatively quiet. It reminds me of Tilburg or some such place. I spent some very pleasant days in Paris, and, as you can imagine, I enjoyed all the beautiful things I saw at the exhibition and in the Louvre and the Luxembourg. The house in Paris is splendid and much bigger than I had thought, especially the one in the Place de l'Opera... The country is beautiful here, quite different from Holland or Belgium. Everywhere you see charming parks with high trees and shrubs. Everyone is allowed to walk there. At Easter, I made an interesting excursion with the Germans, but these gentlemen spend a great deal of money and I shall not go out with them in the future... À Dieu, best wishes, Vincent

Vincent Van Gogh, Letter to Theo, London, 13 June 1873

Dear Theo,
I have thinking it over for a long time, and a few days ago it was so splendid one evening and I made my sketch in such a way that later I made hardly any changes in the main lines of the composition. Then I had a man as a model right on the spot; he climbed onto those heaps of coal and stood in different spots so that I could see the proportion of the figure in different places. But since then I have made several figure studies for it, though the figures will only be small. Just while making these studies, the plan for an even larger drawing is beginning to take root, namely one of potato digging, and I am so absorbed in it that I think you will perhaps find something in it, too... Yes, I should like to start that drawing one of these days. I have the grounds pretty well in my mind, and will choose a fine potato field at my ease and make studies of it for the lines of the landscape. The drawing ought to be finished— at least an elaborate sketch of it— toward autumn, when the potatoes are dug, and I should only have to put in the finishing touches... so it has ripened in my mind. The figures ought to be such that it would be true everywhere, rather than a costume study. Well, that blank canvas preoccupies me continually, and while making studies, I am already looking for new ones... I am working with great animation these days, and am relatively untired because I am so interested in it. As you know, I had repressed my desire to make compositions for a long time, and in that respect a revolution has taken place in me now because the time was ripe for it, and I breathe more freely now that I have loosened the reins which I had put on myself. But I believe it was a good thing after all that I drudged so long on the studies; for it is true in all things, especially with regard to figures, that one must study seriously, and not suppose that one knows it already... Adieu, write as soon as you can. Good luck! With a handshake, Yours sincerely, Vincent

Vincent Van Gogh, Letter to Theo, The Hague, 13 or 14 June 1883

My dear Theo,
I am working on a landscape with wheat fields which, I think, is as good as, say, the white orchard. It is in the same style as the two landscapes of the Butte Montmartre which were at the Indépendants, but I think it is more robust and rather more stylish. And I have another subject, a farm and some haystacks, which will probably be the pendant. I am very curious to know what Gauguin plans to do. I hope he'll be able to come. You will tell me that it's pointless to think about the future, but the painting is progressing slowly and where that's concerned you do have to plan ahead. If I sold no more than a few canvases, that would be neither Gauguin's salvation nor mine. To be able to work one has to order one's life as best one can, and to secure one's existence one needs a fairly solid basis. I he and I stay here for a long time, our pictures will become more and more individual, precisely because we shall have made a more thorough study of subjects in this region... If Gauguin were willing to join me, I think it would be a step forward for us. It would establish us squarely as the explorers of the South... I must try to achieve the solidity of colour that I got in that picture that kills the rest. I remember what Portier used to say, that his Cézannes, seen by themselves, looked like nothing on earth, but that when placed next to other canvases they wiped the colour out of all the rest. And also that the Cézannes looked good in gold, which implies a brilliant palette. Perhaps, perhaps, I am therefore on the right track and I am getting an eye for the countryside here. We'll have to wait and see... With a handshake, I hope that you will be able to write one of these days. Ever yours, Vincent

Vincent Van Gogh, Letter to Theo, Arles, 13 June 1888

My dear Theo,
In case of doubt it is better to do nothing. I think that is what I said in the letter to Gauguin, and that is what I think now, having read his answer... you have been lucky to meet Guy de Maupassant. I have just read his firs book, Des Vers, poems dedicated to his master Flaubert; there is one, "Au bord de l'eau", which is already himself. What Van der Meer of Delft is to Rembrandt among the painters, he is to Zola among the French novelists... The great revolution— art for the artists— Lord, Lord, perhaps it is Utopia: well then, so much the worse for us. I feel that life is so short and goes so fast; well, being a painter, one must paint after all... With a handshake for you and Mourier. Ever yours, Vincent

Vincent Van Gogh, Letter to Theo, Arles, 15 June 1888

My dear Theo,
At last I have heard news of my furniture, the man with whom it is has been ill all the time, having been gored by a bull when he was helping to unload them. So his wife wrote me that this was the reason why they put it off from one day to another, but that on Saturday, that is today, they will send it. They have had no luck, the wife has been ill too and is not yet completely recovered, but there wasn't a word of reproach in the letter, except that it had pained them that I did not come to see them before leaving; that pained me too. I have another study in the style of the "Harvest", which is in your room where the piano is. Some fields seen from a height, with a road and a little carriage on it; now I am working on a field of poppies in alfalfa. I have a vineyard study, which M. Gachet liked very much the last time he came to see me. For the moment I have nothing else to tell you; a letter came from Mother, she had been at Nuenen and was longing for your arrival and to see the little one. A good handshake for you both. Evers yours, Vincent

Vincent Van Gogh, Letter to Theo, Auvers-sur-Oise, 14 June 1890

My Dear Monsieur Faure,
I receive your friendly summons and am going to start right away on your Courses. Will you come here towards the end of next week to see how it is progressing? The unfortunate thing is that I shall have to go and see some real racing again and I do not know if there will be any after the Grand Prix. If it is finished I shall set to work on the Blanchisseuse. In any case you will be able to see something of your own next Saturday, 24 June, between 3 and 6 o'clock.
Kind regards, Degas

Edgar Degas (1834-1917),
     Letter to Felix Faure, Thursday morning, 16 June, 1886

Dear friend W. O'C
Here I am sitting up in the big chair— I got up ab't noon, (& shall keep up an hour or two), & send you my actual sign manual to show proof)— Have been pretty ill, indeed might say pretty serious, two days likely a close call— but Dr [Richard Maurice] Bucke was here, & took hold of me without gloves— in short, Monday last (four days since) I turned the tide pronouncedly & kept the favorable turn Tuesday forenoon— havnt since kept the good favoring turn the last two days—... Dr B went back to Canada last Tuesday night, R.R. train— I am half thro' on my little "November Boughs"— & am stuck of it & proofs &c— Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman (1819-1892),
     Letter to William D. O'Connor, Camden, June 14, 1888
     Edwin Haviland Miller (Ed.), Selected Letters of Walt Whitman,
     University of Iowa Press, Iowa City, 1990, p. 255

a hard day. Somber premonition of parting on the Königsplatz. Departure from Munich on June 30th. Should this love not become my life and merely have been my most beautiful dream, then I shall find upon awakening that strength has turned to bitterness. And woe to that which deceives, no matter how beautiful it is. The powerful, the frightful truth shall win.

Do not ask what I am. I am nothing. I only know about my happiness. Do not ask whether I deserve it. Know that it is rich and deep. I wanted to reach the goal before sunset. Near her. I had walked briskly. But I had reckoned badly. The unspeakable longing for the goal made the many hours heavy. Over a wild pass, I want to reach the gentle valley.

Paul Klee, Diaries of Paul Klee, June 13, 1901
     University of California Press, Berkeley (1964), p. 55

Tapering off; on the fourteen, departure at 12:35 p.m. From the Sezession exhibition, a few pictures left a lasting impression: Zuloago [sic], The Bullfighter's Family, Hodler: Impressions of Four Ladies. The Glaspalast had nothing to offer.

Paul Klee, Diaries of Paul Klee, June 14, 1903
     University of California Press, Berkeley (1964), p. 143

I was so much in need of keeping my head perfectly cool, and now a downright tropical intermezzo fell from heaven. I wandered about restlessly. Once I stood all of a sudden by the Aare. I had wandered there so completely engrossed in myself, it was as if my brain had been burned out. What a sight— suddenly the emerald, racing waters and the sunny, golden bank! I felt as if I had awakened from a wild dream. For a long time I had not bothered to look at the landscape. Now it lay there in all its splendor, deeply moving! How I had missed it, had had to miss it, because I wanted to miss it! Until today I had led a life of thought, stern and void of the hot blood, and I shall go on leading it, because I wish to do so. O sun, Thou my lord! The time has not yet come, the tangle of struggle and defeat has not yet been unraveled. There are still swamps, warm vapors rise and collect between me and the firmament, a host of arrows are turned against me.

Working with white corresponds to painting in nature. As I now leave the very specific and strictly graphic realm of black energy. I am quite aware that I am entering a vast region where no proper orientation is at first possible. This terra incognita is mysterious indeed. But the step forward must be taken. Perhaps the hand of mother nature, now come much closer, will help me over many a rough spot... I am ripe for the step forward.

Paul Klee, Diaries of Paul Klee, June 1904
     University of California Press, Berkeley (1964), p. 152

Granted: I am relatively satisfied with my etchings, but I cannot go on in this way, for I am not a specialist. Nevertheless, for the time being, I won't drop it at all, but rather find the logical way out. A hope tempted me the other day as I drew with the needle on a blackened pane of glass. A playful experiment on porcelain had given me the idea. Thus: the instrument is no longer the black line, but the white one. The background is not light, but night. Energy illuminates: just as it does in nature. This is probably a transition from the graphic to the pictorial stage. But I won't paint, out of medesty and cautiousness! So now the motto is, "Let there be light!" Thus I glide slowly over into the new world of tonalities.

Paul Klee, Diaries of Paul Klee, June 1905
     University of California Press, Berkeley (1964), p. 175

Toward evening, Head Physician Pickert came to see me and brought me the fifth number of the fourth year of the Weisse Blätter, containing a small essay by Adolf Behne about my watercolors. Pickert wanted all sorts of explanations about Expressionism and was exceptionally amiable. The paymaster gaped, the "Doctor" and the young lady stared. How funny that my rising fame should have reached the Fifth Flying School! And so I am no longer an obscure, workaday tool of a dauber, because it says so in the newspaper.

Paul Klee, Diaries of Paul Klee, June 13, 1917
     University of California Press, Berkeley (1964), p. 371

This is the first time in a while, Merline, that I recognize your writing from the good old days; even the envelope was like one of your watercolors— and as for the letter, it seemed to have covered in one wing beat the entire distance! Meline, Beloved, you know how I've wished that you might be able, independently of our sufferings and the pains we have experienced, to feel as immanent and effectual the innumerable riches that from my heart have gone out to yours. If you have managed to do so, how sweet will be the day of our reunion, my dear friend. If I never speak to you of my heart it is because I have not yet dared to examine it since it slipped from the hand of that God who shook it so strenuously during the months of work. I confess that I still feel as if I were convalescing from those creative emotions, and a bit like one who, with trembling knees, comes down again from the highest peak, from his elemental, unexplored, and ineffable nature...

You had no curiosity about my guests— and here again, coincidentally, I find myself once more in the midst of a "series", but after the 15th or 20th of June there will remain only the K.'s ( a visit of the greatest importance) to come, and, I hope, bring up the rear of this long processional of friendship. In any case, you'll find me at the Bellevue for about another fortnight; I had long promised Frieda a few moments of vacation, for she had nothing left to wear against the heat, which here (as everywhere) is beating down full force. I'm not sure of being able to bear an entire summer in the Valais, without a little break from the heat somewhere. But I have no definite plans as yet. And you, Dearest— please do not keep any more of your letters; send them all, especially those which might tell me something of your ideas for the summer... Au revoir, Merline— write to      René

Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926), Letter to Baladine Klossowska
     June 12, 1922 (Grand Hotel Château Bellevue), Letters to Merline
     (trans. Jesse Browner), Paragon House, NY, 1989, pp. 151-152

I admit your accusation of impressionism and dogmatism. Suddenly, in a world full of tones and tints and shadows I see a colour and it vibrates on my retina. I dip a brush in it and say, 'See, tha's the colour!' So it is, so it isn't.

D. H. Lawrence (1885-1930), Letter to Helen Corke, June 1909
      (12 Colworth Road, Addiscombe, Croydon)

My dear Lou,
Let me write in pencil again. Isn't it damnably cold? I hope the weather'll warm up for next week. This week has got the lid on— I merely exist in a box of days, until Saturday. So I'm not going to write much of a letter... the book of short stories is practically promised for the Spring: agreeable all round. I've worked quite hard: begun a picture, long promised, for Mac., and written a short story, 32 pages long, in two nights [Perhaps 'The Old Adam']. Smart work, eh? Don't worry, I shall be lively enough next week [George V's coronation]. But the nights are cold as the icy tomb.

D. H. Lawrence (1885-1930), Letter to Louie Burrows, 14 June 1911
     (12 Colworth Road, Addiscombe, Croydon)

My dear Mac,
Your letter made me miserable for you. I got it at Beuerberg. I shall never forget Beuerberg. It is near the mountains, in the wonderful meadows at the head of the Loisach— a white, tiny village, with a great church, white-washed outside, with a white minaret and a black small bulb— half renaissance, half moorish— brought back from the Turkish wars, a reminiscence— but inside, baroque, gilded, pictures, gaudy, wild, savagely religious. We stayed at an old inn, a reat forsaken place. The peasants dined in the long table in the hall, looking out of the open door at the chestnut trees and the cloister. There I read your letter. I was on my honeymoon. I am not legally married. Perhaps some day the great scandal will come out. But I don't care. I have been fearfully happy. I long to go back to Frieda on Monday. I am in love— and, my God, it's the greatest thing that can happen to a man. I tell you, find a woman you can fall in love with. Do it. Let yourself fall in love, if you haven't done so already. You are wasting your life. How miserable your last letter! Nowadays, men haven't the courage and strength to love. You must know that you're committing slow suicide. Do for the lord's sake find some woman you can respect and love, and love her, and let her love you. Decide to do it. As you go on, you die. Now decide to live... I tried several women— I did it honestly— and now, thank God, I have got a woman I love. You have no idea what it means.

Lord, it's a great thing to have met a woman like Frieda. I could stand on my head for joy, to think I have found her. We've been together for three weeks. And I love her more every morning, and every night. Where it'll end, I don't know. She's got a great, generous soul— and a splendid woman to look at. But I'm afraid I sound a fool. You know I'm not frivolous. All this I say to you, is really earnest. Do you know, I don't think you were fond enough of me. I was very fond of you. But you don't trust yourself, or you don't trust other people. You won't let yourself be really fond, even of a man friend, for fear he find out your weaknesses. As if your good qualities wouldn't outweigh, a dozen times, your failings! But you mistrust folk— even decent folk. It is a blemish in you, a lack of courage, a want of faith and of higher generosity. All this because you perplex and distress me so. Don't say it was only a mood, your last letter— it was not. It is a permanent thing, this sadness of yours, because you feel your life, as a life, is going to waste. Don't let it. Buck up and do something with it. Look at Aylwin too! Don't be angry with me, will you. Write and tell me how you liked The Trespasser... It is Walpurgis Night festival tonight— I should have gone— but it rains. Do you want me to buy you some Geographical picture-postcards, or anything down here? Tell me if you do.
Vale! D. H. Lawrence

D. H. Lawrence (1885-1930), Letter to Arthur McLeod, 15 June 1912
   (Herausgeber des Archivs für Sozialwissenscharft und Sozialpolitik, Müchen N.O. 2)

My dear Mary
Something inside one weeps and won't be comforted. But it's no good grieving.— But there was something in those still days, before the war had gone into us, which was beautiful and generous— a sense of flowers rich in the garden, and sunny tea-times when one was at peace— when we were happy with one another, really— even if we said spiteful things afterwards. I was happy, anyway. There was a kindliness in us, even a certain fragrance in our meeting— something very good, and poignant to remember, now the whole world of it is lost. Perhaps we shall be happy again. I do think Gilbert let you down unpardonably. But perhaps we can get right— though differently. I am terribly weary in my soul of all things, in the world of man. Do you remember our 'island' scheme? Frieda sends her love— I mine.

D. H. Lawrence, Letter to Mary Cannan, 14 June, 1918
     (Mountain Cottage, Middleton by Wirksworth, Derby)

I may be blind. I looked for a long time at a head of reddish-brown hair and decided it was not yours. I went home quite dejected. I would like to make an appointment but it might not suit you. I hope you will be kind enough to make one with me— if you have not forgotten me!

James Joyce (1879-1940), Letter to Nora Barnacle,
     15 June, 1904 (60 Shelbourne Road, Dublin)
[Nora Barnacle (21 March 1884-10 April 1951), who was to become Joyce's wife. She was the daughter of Thomas Barnacle, a baker, & Anne Branacle, both of Galway City. She came to Dublin to work as a chambermaid at Finn's Hotel. Joyce met her shortly before the date of this letter, and arranged to see her on 14 June. She failed to turn up at the promised time, and their first walk together took place almost certainly on 16 June, to be commemorated later as the date of the action of Ulysses. Richard Ellmann (Ed.), Selected Letters of James Joyce, Viking Press, NY, 1975, p. 21]

Dear Miss Weaver: There has been so much hammering and moving going on here that I could scarely hear my thoughts and then I have just dodged an eye attack. In fact when I was last writing to you I felt pain and rushed off to the clinic where the nurse sent me on to Dr. Borsch. He said I had incipient conjuncticitis from fatigue probably... I hope you have the Contact book. I put a few more puzzles into my piece [Finnegans Wake, pp. 30-34]. I am working hard at Shem and then I will give Anna Livia to the Calendar. Morel [French poet, Auguste Morel] will have to type all again as my typist is away. I have got out my sackful of notes but can scarcely read them, the pencilolings are so faint. They were written before the thunder stroke... Tuohy [Patrick Joseph Tuohy (1894-1930), Irish painter] wants to come here to paint me...
            (With apologies to Miss Gertrude Stein)
Is it dreadfully necessary
(I mean that I pose etc) is it useful, I ask
We all know Mercury will know when
            he Kan!
      but as Dante saith:
      1 Inferno is enough
Basta, he said, un' inferno, perbacco!
And that bird—
He       oughter know!

(With apologies to Mr. Ezra Pound)

Did Fossett change those words? They was two. Doesn't matter. 'Gromwelling' I said and what? O, ah! Bisexycle. That was the bunch. Hope he does, anyhow. O rats! It's just a fool thing, style. I just shoot it off like: If he aint done it, where's the use? Guess I'm through with that bunch.
            (With apologies to Mr Robert McAlmon)
(Re-enter Hamlet)

James Joyce (1879-1940), Letter to Harriet Shaw Weaver,
     13 June 1925 (2 Square Robiac, 192 rue de Grenelle, Paris VII)
[Note: 'gromwelled' and 'bisexycle' appear on pp. 116 and 115 respectively of Finnegans Wake.]

Dear Lucia: Mamma has dispatched to you today some articles of clothing. As soon as the list of what you want comes we will send off the things immediately... The heat clouds my spectacles and I see with difficulty what I write! But you could hire a machine. At Geneva certainly you would find one. Something is always lacking in my royal palace. Today is the turn of ink. I send you the programme of the Indian dancer Uday Shankar. If he ever performs at Geneva don't miss going there. He leaves the best of the Russians far behind. I have never seen anything like it. He moves on the stage floor like a semi-divine being. Altogether, believe me, there are still some beautiful things in this poor old world.

Mamma is chattering on the telephone with the lady above who dances the one-step so well and fished my note of a thousand lire out of the lift. The subject of the conversation between them is the lady on the fifth floor who breeds dogs. These 'friends of man' hinder the lady on the fourth floor from meditating like the Buddha. Now they have finished with dogs and are speaking of me.

I see great progress in your last letter but at the same time there is a sad note which we do not like. Why do you always sit at the window? No doubt it makes a pretty picture but a girl walking in the fields also makes a pretty picture. Write to us oftener. And let's forget money troubles and black thoughts. Ti abbraccio...

— James Joyce (1879-1940),
     Letter to Lucia Joyce, 15 June 1934 (42, rue Galilée, Paris)

Our last day— our last hour rather. I sit on a flat rock by the stream, while Hugh bathes. We have just been talking about Woodstock, about the feeling we both have that we want to realize the place, return home with a satisfying certainty that while we were here, we knew we were here and we noticed everything, that our minds did not travel within a hazy shell of its own making. Usually when people live in the city they are thinking of the country, and when in the country, of the city. The New Yorker dreams of Paris while the Parisian wonders about New York. And we go through life without definitely realizing any place. They all remain unreal to us. We speak of sensation that our visit somewhere was like a dream. It happens sometimes, too, that the novelty of it is too sharp for our slow-moving senses, and when we recover from the shock, it is already time to go. It demands distance to see the thing as a whole.

Anaïs Nin (1903-1977) Diary, June 15, 1924

We are reading and writing in bed. Today in spite of the rain I conquered my egoist's mood, which is so hateful. I have been thinking of other things. Antonio [Valencia, 20-year South American old pianist], for one, has been occupying my mind. He is with us often now because he feels lonely and homesick. Il est la sagesse même [He is wisdom itself], beautifully balanced, extremey intelligent and pure. He has very fine, soft eyes. His devotion to Joaquin is remarkably unselfish and active and beneficial to my thoughtless brother. He has gentleness, very modestly hidden learning, and no desire to shine at all. And he is talented. His quiet manner makes most people overlook him— people like Horace, at least. But at concerts, he has won admiration and sympathy before beginning to play, just by the way he comes on and by a charming simplicity. Last Christmas I gave him a journal book like mine, which he is filling slowly. It is strange to see, with Horace, how necessary talk is to keep pleasure alive. With Antonio it is not. He is one of the very few persons with whom you can be absolutely silent.

— Anaïs Nin (1903-1977) Diary, June 14, 1926

There are supposed to be two 'I''s— the one is lower and unreal, of which all are aware [ego]; and the other, the higher and the real, which is to be realised [Self]. You are not aware of yourself while asleep, you are aware in wakefulness; waking, you say that you were asleep; you did not know it in the deep sleep state. So then, the idea of diversity has arisen along with the body-consciousness; this body-consciousness arose at some particular moment; it has origin and end. What originates must be something. What is that something? It is the 'I'-consciousness. Who am I? Whence am I/ On finding the source, you realise the state of Absolute Consciousness.

The world is not external. The impressions cannot have an outer origin. Because the world can be cognised only by consciousness. The world does not say that it exists. It is your impression. Even so this impression is not consistent and not unbroken. In deep sleep the world is not cognised; and so it exists not for a sleeping man. Therefore the world is the sequence of the ego. Find out the ego. The finding of its source is the final goal... Can the world exist without someone to perceive it? Which is prior? The Being-consciousness or the rising-consciousness? The Being-consciousness is always there, eternal and pure. The rising-consciousness rises forth and disappears. It is transient... The world is the result of your mind. Know your mind. Then see the world. You will realise that it is not different from the Self.

Ramana Maharshi (1879-1950), Talks, June 15, 1935
      Talks with Sri Ramana Maharshi (4th Ed.),
      Sri Ramanasramam, Tiruvannamalai, India, 1968, pp. 56-57

Mr. Cohen desired an explanation of the term "blazing light" used by Paul Brunton in the last chapter of A Search in Secret India.
Ramana: Since the experience is through the mind only it appears first as a blaze of light. The mental predispositions are not yet destroyed. The mind is however functioning it its infinite capacity in this experience. As for nirvikalpa samadhi, i.e., samadhi of non-differentiation (undifferentiated, supreme, beatific repose), it consists of pure consciousness, which is capable of illumining knowledge or ignorance; it is also beyond light or darkness. That it is not darkness is certain; can it be however said to be not light? At present objects are perceived only in light. Is it wrong to say that realisation of one's Self requires a light? Here light would mean the consciousness which reveals as the Self only. The yogis are said to see photisms of colours and lights preliminary to Self-Realisation by the practice of yoga.

Aurobindo advises complete surrender. Let us do that first and await results, and discuss further, if need be, afterwards and not now. There is no use discussing transcendental experiences by those whose limitations are not divested. Learn what surrender is. It is to merge in the source of the ego. The ego is surrendered to the Self. Everything is dear to us because of love of the Self. The Self is that to which we surrender our ego and let the Supreme Power, i.e., the Self, so what It pleases. The ego is already the Self's. We have no rights over the ego, even as it is. However, supposing we had, we must surrender them.

Visitor: What about bringing down divine consciousness from above?
Ramana: As if the same is not already in the Heart? "O Arjuna, I am in the expanse of the Heart," says Krishna. "He who is in the sun, is also in this man," says a mantra in the Upanishads. "The Kingdom of God is within", says the Bible. All are thus agreed that God is within. What is to be brought down? From where? Who is to bring what, and why? Realisation is only the removal of obstacles to the recognition of the eternal, immanent Reality. Reality is. It need not be taken from place to place... Let us first realise and then see... The fact is: There is Reality. It is not affected by any discussions. Let us abide as Reality and not engage in futile discussions as to its nature.

Ramana Maharshi (1879-1950), Talks, June 14, 1936
      Talks with Sri Ramana Maharshi (4th Ed.),
      Sri Ramanasramam, Tiruvannamalai, India, 1968, pp. 167-169

When I entered the hall in the evening Bhagavan was saying: "Everything we see is changing, always changing. There must be something unchanging as the basis and source of all this. It is not mere thinking or imagining that the 'I' is unchanging. It is a fact of which every one is aware. The 'I' exists in sleep when all the changing things do not exist. It exists in dream and in waking. The 'I' remains changeless in all these states while other things come and go."

Ramana Maharshi (1879-1950), Day By Day with Bhagavan
     (Diary of A. Devaraja Mudaliar), June 15, 1946

June. Luxembourg Gardens: A Sunday morning full of wind and sunlight. Over the large pool the wind splatters the waters of the fountain; the tiny sailboats on the windswept water and the swallows around the huge trees. Two youths discussing: "You who believe in human dignity."
Prologue: "Love..."
                "It's the same word."
Although in daylight the flights of birds always seem aimless, in the evening they always seem to have found a destination. They are flying toward something. Thus it is perhaps in the evening of life... Is there an evening of life?

Van Gogh struck by a thought of Renan: "Forget oneself; achieve great things, reach nobility and go beyond the vulgarity in which the existence of most individuals stagnates."
"If one continues loving sincerely what is truly worthy of love and does not waste one's love on insignificant things and meaningless things and colorless things, gradually one will get more light and become stronger."
"If one perfects oneself in a single thing and understands it fully, one achieves in addition understanding and knowledge of many other things."
"I am a faithful sort of person in my faithlessness."
"If I make landscapes, there will always be a hint of faces in them."
He quotes Doré's remark: "I have the patience of an ox."
"I cannot readily, in life and in painting too, get along without God, but I cannot, when ill, get along without something that is greater than I, which is my life, the power of creation."
Van Gogh's long groping until the age of 27 before finding his way and discovering that he is a painter.

Albert Camus (1913-1960), Notebooks 1942-1951, June, 1943 (pp. 74-76)

Beautiful day. A frothy light, shining and soft above and around the huge beeches. It seems secreted by all the branches. the clusters of leaves stirring slowly in that blue gold like a thousand mouths with multiple lips salivating all day long this airy, golden, sweet juice— or else a thousand little contorted green bronze waterspouts ceaselessly irrigating the sky with a blue and sparkling water— or else... But that's enough.

The end of the absurd, rebellious, etc., movement, the end of the contemporary world consequently, is compassion in the original sense; in other words, ultimately love and poetry. But that calls for an innocence I no longer have. All I can do is to recognize the way leading to it and to be receptive to the time of the innocents. To see it, at least, before dying.

— Albert Camus (1913-1960), Notebooks 1942-1951,
     Panelier, June 17, 1947 (pp. 157-158)

Dear Friend,
Your Cambridge speech adds a new element to the personal expression of your convictions, your apprehensions and your hopes, along with the whole philosophy emanating from them, for the future of the international community. With you, one clearly perceives all the refinement of a moral conclusion that must, first of all, be based upon the evolution of the human spirit and the safeguarding of all "spiritual" resources... Please continue to let me read everything that can help me follow you in your patient efforts between meditation and action. [There is always time for reflection, even in the most hectic of times.] Thank you for the "Times Literary Supplement" ["St.-John Perse: Poet of the Far Shore" (May 2, 1958)]. A rather surprising favorable article in that very circumspect paper. But how well it illustrates the concrete English spirit vis-à-vis poetry! Here, at the other extreme, no less typical, is an example of a French analytical study, with all its dialectical complacency and its taste for complexity— intelligent, I may add, but terribly spoiled by the academic tone (I don't know anything at all about the author). Your reference to Schiller's "Ode to Joy" has piqued my curiosity. But it would probably not be worth reading in translation. For you, dear Friend, my wishes for a good sojourn in Europe. May you hear, someday, near your house, the neighing of untethered horses on your piece of Nordic bluff. Affectionately yours, Alexis St L. Leger

Alexis Léger (1887-1975), Letter to Dag Hammarskjöld,
     Williamsburg, Massachusetts, June 15, 1958
     Marie-Noëlle Little (Ed.), The Poet and the Diplomat: Correspondence of Dag
     Hammarskjöld and Alexis Léger
, Syracuse University Press, 2001 (pp. 80-81)

Cher Alexis,
Your letter and Anabase gave me great pleasure, although I cannot fail to note the tone of concern which rings again in your lines and to which I am very responsive. I am happy to learn that, again, you will have a summer at the Mediterranean in contact with a world which in its timelessness lifts us out of the accidental for which— and in which— we carry part of the responsiblity. I sent Anabase straight on to the Royal Library in order to have it bound properly. So protected it will, indeed, come to rest together with all the other works you have so kindly sent me or with which, although they stem from other sources and traditions, it finds itself in close kinship... May I hope that you will find time and inspiration to the new poems which I can see growing out of your praise to the earth in Chronique. It was good to have you both with me for a quiet but, as always, rewarding evening. Affectueusement, Dag

Dag Hammarskjöld (1905-1961), Letter to Alexis Léger, June 13, 1960
     Marie-Noëlle Little (Ed.), The Poet and the Diplomat: Correspondence of Dag
     Hammarskjöld and Alexis Léger
, Syracuse University Press, 2001 (pp. 108-109)

Now what is meditation? There are those who say that in meditation you must control your thought. What does such control imply? It implies contradiction, which is a form of conflict. You try to concentrate on something, and other thoughts creep in which you keep pushing away, so concentration gradually becomes a process of exclusion. It is like the schoolboy who wants to look out of the window, but the teacher tells him to look at his book, and the effort to look at his book is called concentration. But such concentration is exclusion. I think there is a state of attention in which concentration is not exclusion... In attention there is no conflict. Attention can be understood only when you see the significance of trying to concentrate through control— which means that the effort to concentrate ceases. As long as you are making an effort to concentrate, there is contradiction, conflict; therefore, there is no attention, and you must have attention.

Meditation is not prayer. Prayer implies supplication, begging, and that is utterly immature. You pray only when you are in difficulties. A happy man doesn't pray. It is only the sorrowful man who prays, the man who is asking for something, or who is afraid of losing something...

What is generally called contemplation implies a center from which to contemplate; it means being in a state to receive, to accept, and again that is not meditation. To lay the foundation for meditation, one has to understand all this, so that there is no fear, no sorrow, no motive, no effort of any kind. If you cease to make effort merely because someone has told you that you mustn't make effort, you are trying to achieve that effortless state, and it cannot be achieved. You have to undertand the whole structure of effort, and only then will you have laid the foundation for meditation. That foundation is not fragmentary; it is not a thing to be gradually put together by thought, by the desire for success, achievement, or in the hope of experiencing something much wider and greater. All that has to stop. And when the foundation has been laid, then the brain becomes completely quiet. It is no longer responding to any form of influence or suggestion; it has ceased to have visions; it is no longer caught in or conditioned by the past. To be in that state of quietness is absolutely essential. The brain is the result of centuries of time. It is the biological, the animalistic result of influence, of culture, of the whole psychological structure o society. And it is only when the brain is completely quiet, without a movement, but alive, not made dead by discipline, by control, by suppression— it is only then that the mind can begin to operate. But this absolute quietness of the brain is not a state to be achieved. It comes about naturally, easily, when you have laid the foundation, when there is no longer a division as the thinker and the thought.

All this is part of meditation; meditation is not just at the end of it. Laying the foundation is being free of fear, sorrow, effort, envy, greed, ambition— free of the whole psychological structure of society. When through self-knowledge the brain is no longer an accumulative machine, then it is quiet, still, silent... But when there is that state of silence, then there is the coming into being of that immensity, that unnameable. There is then neither acceptance nor denial; there is no entity who experiences the immensity. There is no experiencer— and that is the most marvelous part of it. There is only that immense, timeless movement, and if you have gone that far, you will know what creation is.

Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895-1986), Fifth Talk in London, June 14, 1962
     Collected Works of J. Krishnamurti, Vol. XIII (1962-1963),
     Kendall/Hunt Publishing, Dubuque, Iowa, 1992, pp. 195-196

Dear Larry...
Just got fantastic snapshot of Allen, Peter and Gary Snyder sitting with Tibetan robes with backdrop of Nepalese snowcapt mounts— Also a 10,000 word masterpiece letter from Allen, neatly typed, detailing all the adventures from Paris on thru Middle East etc.— Incidentally Fernando Pivano, girl who translates us beats in Milano in Italian is at Stanford tending sick husband, guess she'll look you up— I'm going now in three days on plane to Paris, then boat-train to London, then cottage on moors somewhere, even Ireland, later Helsinki etc.— And next year Japan I guess— Just read Nabokov's Lolita which is one of the classics of world literature and ranks with Joyce, Proust, Mann and Genet in the divine solipsism of modern literature... My opinion of him, earlier formed by critics, was low... and so there you have our marvelously competent American critics.
Jean Louis

Jack Kerouac, Letter to Lawrence Ferlinghetti,
     June 15, 1962 (JK PO Box 700, Orlando, Fla.)
      Selected Letters: 1957-1969,
     Ed. Ann Charters, Viking, NY, 1999, p. 342

One of those almost imageless dreams visually, but nonetheless most vivid. In this dream I saw, and was in communication with, a woman who was moving on a ground that moved under her. She had no control over the ground, which seemed to carry her around at random and had no meaning, no visible pattern or goal. But she was on the verge of a total choice, a conscious abandonment of her will to the seemingly haphazard movement under her wherever it might take her. I then saw her after this choice, and what before had been an unfocussed drifting here and there had become a controlled and beautiul pattern in which every movement was highly conscious— though the actual motion of the ground remained entirely the same. The "ground movements" were, of course, her fate, her destiny, and the thought has long been familiar to me. The dream, however, was not just a repeated theme in the head; it was an actual experience, an awareness of that which transcends both active and passive, meaningful and meaningless, in a unity beyond words, although I still— rightly, I think— struggle to express and define as precisely as is possible. Yesterday's talk with Barbara Mowat about The Tempest was behind— or in front of— the dream.

Helen Luke (1904-1995), Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On,
     June 15, 1979 (Apple Farm, Three Rivers, Michigan)
     Parabola Books, Bell Tower, NY, 2000, p. 154

Russell Lockhart was here on Saturday. He and his wife have an old handprinting press and have produced two books already. He gave me the second— a poem by Marc Hudson, "Journal for an Injured Son," very beautiful. It has brought powerful images to me, especially some words in the preface by Lockhart. Marc wrote the poem for his brain-damaged baby— "These poems are not only a father's gift to his son; they are a gift to the injured spirit in each of us."

The image came to me suddenly, the memory which has remained vividly alive in me all through the 75 years since that day when I must have been about six years old. I am standing again in the small sitting room of our flat in St. John's Wood and my mother is telling me— probably in response to my questioning— about my father's death. I had known of course the fact that my father had died in India when I was eight months old, and that was why I had no Daddy like other children. One day some children had come to visit us with their parents, and I remember that I went up to the father and said shyly, "May I please sit on your knees, because you see I don't have a Daddy," and he lifted me onto his lap. It is likely that this growing awareness in me of loss led to that talk with my mother. I remember none of her words but her voice broke as she told of how he had come to England on leave during those first months after my birth and had spent much time carrying me round the garden of his parents' house where I was born. My mother had come back to England before her confinement because of delicate health. We were about to go out to Bombay to join him when the news came of his sudden illness and death. They had been intensely happy in their marriage; my mother and others who knew him told me in later years of the extraordinary joy that he radiated to those close to him, so that their angry moods or resentments somehow dissolved in his presence. When he died while she was so far away, my mother told me, she too came near to death and cursed God, and only the fact that I was there kept her alive...

When I read Marc Hudson's poems and Lockhart's words— "These poems are not only a father's gift to his son; they are a gift to the injured spirit in each of us"— there came to me a yearning to make "a daughter's gift to an injured mother." If only I could write of that experience in poetry, I thought. Some single lines even formed in me. Anyone who has read Charles Williams's Descent into Hell and has allowed the profundity of the images of "exchange" with an ancestor to enter into his or her soul, will know that a "daughter's gift to an injure mother" through language, even many years after the mother's death, may be valid. I do not think I could write an actual poem— I am no poet— but sometimes, now and then, the spirit of poetry has entered into my prose writing, and that spirit springs out of the images themselves.

One early morning this week I lay dozing, half dreaming, with a feeling of being in search of an image for that experience of my childhood— and suddenly the image was there and I realized that all my life I had somehow been waiting for it to become visible. It is very simple: I saw that at that moment, young as I was, I had become a vessel— and my very body I saw as a dark, empty vase into which the grief of my mother was poured and contained. Through the years, whenever the memory returned, I felt again the almost unbearable pain of loss which entered into me, and was somehow aware of an extraordinary stillness beyond tears; but never until now have I seen myself in that moment of time as a vessel, or know that I would feel that she had poured into that vessel a gift from her inmost being, something that was mine to carry, something that would give meaning to so much of my life.

Perhaps that experience was the beginning of the myth behind my life. It was the first real experience, in the deep sense of the word, that I had known. For an "experience" is not a mere outer happening or emotional reaction. It is something that an individual passes through consciously and learns from: "ex" means "out of" and "per" is also the root of "peril" and implies the presence of danger. An experience is born of a perilous happening which touches both conscious and unconscious and does not come to fruition without work and imagination. Perhaps all true experiences must be carried in the vessel of our being, sometimes for a lifetime, before they are born again in new creation.

Helen Luke (1904-1995), Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On,
     June 13, 1985 (Apple Farm, Three Rivers, Michigan)
     Parabola Books, Bell Tower, NY, 2000, p. 226-228

"My problems start when the smarter bears and the dumber visitors intersect."
— Yosemite Park official Steve Thompson.

Ken Wilber, One Taste: The Journals of Ken Wilber, Saturday, June 14, 1998
     Shambhala, Boston, 1999, p. 128

Random House asked for a literary title for Science and Religion (and could I use the words "soul" or "spirit" or some such?). Oh well. Thinking of Oscar Wilde's great quote ["There is nothing that will cure the senses but the soul, and nothing that will cure the soul but the senses"], I suggested several variations on Sense and Soul, and they finally settled on The Marriage of Sense and Soul: Integrating Science and Religion. So there it is. So much for my diatribes against the commodification of the words "soul" and "spirit"— I'm now guilty as charged.

Ken Wilber, One Taste: The Journals of Ken Wilber, Sunday, June 15, 1998
     Shambhala, Boston, 1999, p. 128

Born on June 14:

Charles-Augustin Coulomb

born June 14, 1736
Angoulême, France
French Physicist
Math Biography;
Pictorial Biography
Coulomb's Law
Coulomb SI Unit
Formula & unit of charge
Grandfather of soil mechanics
Honored on Eiffel Tower;
Lunar Crater

Harriet Beecher Stowe

born June 14, 1811
Litchfield, Connecticut
American Author
Uncle Tom's Cabin
NY Times Obituary,
Stowe Center, CT,
Harriet's Life & Times,
Her Work & Life,
Uncle Tom's Cabin,
Women Writers,
Women History,
1974 Ohioana Year Book

John Bartlett

born June 14, 1820
Plymouth, Mass.
American Editor
Familiar Quotations
Short Biography,
Bartlett's Quotation,
Grave Site at
Mt. Auburn Cemetry

Alois Alzheimer (1864-1915)
born June 14, 1864
Marktbreit, Germany
German psychiatrist
Short Biography,
Alzheimer Bio,
Pictorial Biography,
Birthplace Photos,
Alzheimer's Disease Info
Alzheimer's Disease News
Alzheimer Center, OH
Alzheimer's Disease International

Karl Landsteiner

born June 14, 1868
Vienna, Austria
Nobel Medicine 1930
discovery blood types
Nobel Biography,
Presentation Speech,
Nobel Lecture,
Blood Typing Game,
Eat Right 4 Your Type,
Landsteiner Papers
(Rockefeller University)

Margaret Bourke-White

born June 14, 1904
Bronx, New York
American Photojournalist
Britannica Biography,
Pictorial Bio,
Women in History,
A Photographer's Life,
Book Review,
Biography in Gallery M
Bourke-White's Photos

Che Guevara (1928-1967)
born June 14, 1928
Rosario, Argentina
Argentine Revolutionary
Time 100: Heroes & Icons,
Time Cover: Aug. 8, 1960,
Che-Lives Archive,
Che Guevara Info,
Bio & Photos,
Info & Links
Death of Che Guevara,
Web Links

Donald Trump
born June 14, 1946
New York City
U.S. Real Estate Tycoon
Trump Hotels & Casinos,
Infoplease: Short Bio,
July 26, 2002 Interview,
Man of the Week
Washington Speakers Bureau

Eric Heiden
born June 14, 1958
Madison, Wisconsin
American Speed Skater
Infoplease: Mini-Bio,
Olympic Moment,
Five Olympic Golds
ESPN: Reluctant hero
Heiden Wins 5th Gold
Washington Post (2-24-1980)
CPR Radio Interview (Oct. 2002)
MD, UC Davis

Steffi Graf
born June 14, 1969
Mannheim, Germany
German Tennis Player
Stefanie Graf Web Site,
Infoplease: Short Bio
7-time Wimbledon Champ,
Steffi Forever Fan Site
Career Highlights
CNN-Sports Illustrated

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