Veni, veni, Emmanuel

Yesterday was Advent Sunday, so this is an appropriate hymn:

Annunciation to the Shepherds, Flemish miniature, c. 1480

O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Wisdom from on high,
Who orderest all things mightily;
To us the path of knowledge show,
And teach us in her ways to go.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan’s tyranny;
From depths of hell Thy people save,
And give them victory over the grave.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Day-spring, come and cheer
Our spirits by Thine advent here;
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Key of David, come,
And open wide our heavenly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, O come, great Lord of might,
Who to Thy tribes on Sinai’s height
In ancient times once gave the law
In cloud and majesty and awe.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Thou Root of Jesse’s tree,
An ensign of Thy people be;
Before Thee rulers silent fall;
All peoples on Thy mercy call.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Bid Thou our sad divisions cease,
And be Thyself our King of Peace.

Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

Thanksgiving

My American friends have a Thanksgiving tradition,
which I have to admire. It’s good to thank God for things.

I’m thankful that I live in a stable country. I’m thankful for my family. I’m thankful for the music. And I’m thankful for Jesus.

Arsenic and very old lace

Apparatus for the Marsh test

According to the Guardian, it seems that there is evidence that Jane Austen died of arsenic poisoning. Or at least, so says a crime writer who has written a novel about the idea.

What I’d like to see, though, is a steampunk detective novel about the investigation of Austen’s murder. That would sell like hot cakes.

Steampunk detective (photo by John Nakamura Remy, 2009)

Tip o’ the fedora to Zen Of Writing

Things to do in Australia: a list for visitors

Great Ocean Road (photo by “Camelboy,” 2010)

1. Drive the Great Ocean Road
2. Take the ferry to Manly
3. Swim the Great Barrier Reef
4. Take in G for George at the War Memorial
5. Watch the sunset colours of Uluru
6. Watch the Sydney to Hobart arrive at Constitution Dock
7. See the The Pioneer at the NGV

Melbourne laneway (photo by Rae Allen, 2010)

8. Shop the Block Arcade and the laneways of Melbourne
9. Practice saying “G’day” until you can say it like an Australian
10. Spot the elusive platypus
11. Learn to play the didgeridoo
12. Spend an evening at an opera or two
13. Climb the nearest mountain
14. Pan for gold or dig for opals

We’re happy little Vegemites, as bright as bright can be (photo by “Tristanb,” 2004)

15. Have some Vegemite on your toast
16. Taste the gelati on Lygon Street
17. Slurp some noodles in Chinatown
18. Try some bush tucker for a change
19. Drink a Tim Tam Slam
20. Put some Barra on your burger
21. Have some pavlova for dessert

J’aime la belle France

I love France. I love its history, which includes stories about ancestors of mine. I love the fact that it has “two hundred and forty-six varieties of cheese.” I love the cathedrals – and all the other buildings that have stood for so long. I’m not too keen on the French Revolution, though.

Notre Dame, Paris (photo by “Tom S.,” 2007)

I love French artists and sculptors. I love Rodin and Renoir, and I could happily spend a month in the Louvre.

Louvre, Paris (photo by Benh Lieu Song, 2010)

I love the invention of the Metric System, and I remember how much simpler it made things when we adopted it. I love the flying Trains à Grande Vitesse. I love being reminded of the French airmail legacy when I read a novel by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry or attach a “par avion” sticker to an envelope.

TGV at Gare de Lyon, Paris (photo by Sebastian Terfloth, 2005)

I love Art Nouveau stations on the Métro. I love French cinema (well, most of it).

Poster, La Cité des Enfants Perdus

I love French mathematicians – Marin Mersenne, Blaise Pascal, and Henri Poincaré, to name just a few. Nicolas Bourbaki taught me to say “injective” and “surjective.” Jean-Yves Girard taught me “System F.” And, of course, Évariste Galois died in a duel.

“Ne pleure pas, Alfred! J’ai besoin de tout mon courage pour mourir à vingt ans.”

And I love the language.

Vive la France!

And the Sailor, Home from the Sea

“There, in the moonlight, hill after slow-rising hill of wheat blew in tidal winds with the motion of waves. An immense Pacific of grain shimmered off beyond seeing, with his house, his now-recognized ship, becalmed in its midst.”

Andrew Wyeth, “Christina's World,” 1948

“‘No marker?’ asked the minister.

‘Oh, no, sir, and never will be one.’

The minister started to protest, when Hanks took his arm, and walked him up the hill a way, then turned, and pointed back.

They stood a long moment. The minister nodded at last, smiled quietly and said, ‘I see. I understand.’

For there was just the ocean of wheat going on and on forever, vast tides of it blowing in the wind, moving east and ever east beyond, and not a line or seam or ripple to show where the old man sank from sight.

‘It was a sea burial,’ said the minister.”

— from the superb short story by Ray Bradbury

Wheat harvest, Idaho

I love Italy

I love Italy. I love the fact that the ground oozes history – Etruscan, Greek, Roman, and of course, so much Christian history as well. One of Paul’s epistles was, after all, written to Italy, and it mentions in passing early Italian Christians – not that we know anything much about them.

The magnificent concrete dome of the Pantheon in Rome (c. 126 AD, but converted to a church in the 7^thcentury) as painted by Giovanni Paolo Panini

I love the Italian scientific legacy. I guess everyone knows that Galileo is a hero of mine (it’s a shame the Jesuits gave him such a hard time). But working in science, one is also constantly reminded of Avogadro, Galvani, Marconi, Torricelli, Volta, and other great Italian pioneers of science. What’s more, I was brought up on a translation of Scienza: Enciclopedia Tecnica e Scientifica, which was profusely illustrated with wonderful photographs taken in Italy. I still remember it fondly.

Galileo presents his telescope to the Doge of Venice, as painted by Giuseppe Bertini

I love Italian art and architecture – Brunelleschi, Botticelli, Giotto, Leonardo, Michelangelo, Raphael, and so many others. Visiting Florence and Rome was one of the best experiences of my life.

Sunset over Florence (photo by “stevehdc,” 2008)

I love Italian literature. Above all else, the divine Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso; but among more recent works, those of Calvino and Eco. It is unfortunate that I can only read them in translation.

Dante bemoans the corruption in the church, as depicted by Giovanni di Paolo

I love Italian composers – Allegri, Vivaldi, Verdi, ... and I love Italian cinema – The Bicycle Thief, A Fistful of Dollars, And the Ship Sails On.

Poster for Once Upon a Time in the West

I love the fact that Italy used to have banknotes with huge numbers on them (yes, I know that reflects a legacy of terrible inflation, but I still enjoyed having them in my hands, and I think it a little sad that a new generation will miss the currency references in, for example, The Icicle Thief). Here is Alessandro Volta on an old 10,000 lira note:

10,000 lira banknote (scan by “Golle95”)

I really love Italian food – ciabatta, focaccia, minestrone, risotto, spaghetti, tortellini, gelati, tiramisu, zabaglione, and all those other delicious things to eat. And I really, really love Italian coffee. Thank you, Achille Gaggia and Francesco Illy!

I think I’ll just drink both, thanks (photo by Mark Prince, 2006)

I am the 0.000000014%

I am the 0.000000014%. The so-called 99% does not represent me.

Photo: Dave Wilcox, Melbourne, 2011

I represent myself, since I have hopes and dreams which you can only imagine.

And, as I am fortunate enough to live in a democracy, when representing myself is not enough, I elect people to represent me.

Because my 0.000000014% counts just as much as yours. My hopes and dreams have the same weight that yours do. That’s how democracy works.

I love England

I love England. I love constitutional monarchy, the Westminster system, and Magna Carta.

“No Freeman shall be taken or imprisoned, or be disseised of his Freehold, or Liberties, or free Customs, or be outlawed, or exiled, or any other wise destroyed; nor will We not pass upon him, nor condemn him, but by lawful judgment of his Peers, or by the Law of the Land. We will sell to no man, we will not deny or defer to any man either Justice or Right.”

King John is forced to sign Magna Carta, 1215

I love living in a former colony of England, rather than a former colony of anyone else.

I love the centuries-old university traditions of Oxford and Cambridge.

Chapel of Emmanuel College, Cambridge (photo by Steve Cadman, 2008)

I love the English language (though it is not my mother tongue) for its expressiveness, its large vocabulary, and its (potential) precision.

I love hundreds of English authors from Jane Austen to John Wyndham.

I love the great city of London – among many other things, for the British Museum.

And I love the “green and pleasant” English countryside.

Clare Bridge, Cambridge (photo by Robert Edwards, 2009)

“Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing ‘Oh, how beautiful!’ and sitting in the shade” – Rudyard Kipling, The Glory of the Garden

I love the USA

I love the United States of America. I love its mountains, I love the Grand Canyon (though I have only seen it from altitude), and I love Niagara Falls. I even love the flat bits in the middle.

The Grand Canyon from above (photo: Jérôme, 2007)

Since childhood, I’ve been fascinated by the USA’s Native Americans. In spite of some very hard knocks (described so well in Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee), they’re still standing. I love the courage of the Sioux, the endurance of the Inuit, and the flexibility of the Navajo.

19^th century Navajo blanket

I love the history of the USA. While it does not go as far back as European history, I’ve still felt it a privilege to walk the streets of San Francisco and Alexandria, and the fields of Gettysburg. I love the fact that the Puritans arrived because of a matter of principle, and principles continued to be taken seriously enough to start wars (although it would have been better to have avoided the wars). I love the fact that everyone goes to church (even, in some places, the atheists), although I wish that the theology of some preachers was a little less crazy.

Little Round Top, Gettysburg (photo: Rlwelch, 2004)

I love the fact that Americans have helped defend both the country of my birth and the country of my parents’ birth.

US paratroopers dropping near Grave in Europe, 17/9/44

I would not be the person I am today without the American emphasis on science. It gave us the lightning rod, the transistor, the IGY, and the moon landing, but also generated a flood of quality educational materials that spread as far as Australia (although today, sadly, this emphasis has faded a little and needs some encouragement).

Many small steps; one giant leap

I love the wonderful fantasy and science fiction literature that the USA has produced. I love Connie Willis, Cordwainer Smith, Patricia McKillip, Robert Heinlein, Roger Zelazny, Ursula Le_Guin, and all the others.

Passage by Connie Willis

And I love the movies: Bringing Up Baby, Casablanca, North by Northwest, Blade Runner, Pale Rider, and all the other classics. Where did that Hollywood magic go?

Poster for Rear Window

Of course, I hasten to add, I love Australia even more. And there are quite a few other countries of which I’m also extremely fond.

Recent reading

Over the past two months, I finished the following books (among others). Links go to my reviews. Books marked with ♥ (fiction) or ♦ (non-fiction) were particularly good:

• Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino ♥
• Notes From The Tilt-A-Whirl by N. D. Wilson
• The Tower at Stony Wood by Patricia A. McKillip ♥
• Only A Theory by Kenneth R. Miller
• The Edge of Evolution by Michael J. Behe
• Winter Rose by Patricia A. McKillip ♥
• The Dream of Perpetual Motion by Dexter Palmer

Earlier reviews (fiction):

• Captain Blood by Rafael Sabatini
• At the Mountains of Madness by H.P. Lovecraft ♥
• The Manual of Detection by Jedediah Berry ♥
• Ukridge by P.G. Wodehouse
• Sovereign by C.J. Sansom
• A Good Man Is Hard to Find and Other Stories by Flannery O’Connor ♥
• Impossible Things by Connie Willis
• Blackout/All Clear by Connie Willis ♥

Earlier reviews (non-fiction):

• Surprised by Oxford: A Memoir by Carolyn Weber ♦
• Citrus: A History by Pierre Laszlo
• Field Notes on Science & Nature by Michael R. Canfield ♦
• C. S. Lewis on the Final Frontier: Science and the Supernatural in the Space Trilogy by Sanford Schwartz ♦
• Think by John Piper
• Natural Experiments of History by Jared Diamond and James A. Robinson
• Social Understanding by Jürgen and Christina Klüver
• The Secret Life of Birds by Colin Tudge
• Galileo by Mitch Stokes
• Modern Art and the Death of a Culture by H.R. Rookmaaker
• Terra – Tales of the Earth: Four Events That Changed the World by Richard Hamblyn ♦
• Philosophy, Science and the Sovereignty of God by Vern S. Poythress

Ten Lost Cities

In the spirit of my previous post, here are some cities of which only the bones are visible:

1. Heracleion (port of Alexandria), Egypt – abandoned 8^th century, now under water

2. Petra, Jordan – abandoned c. 600

3. Ephesus, Turkey – abandoned 15^th century

4. Great Zimbabwe, Zimbabwe – abandoned 15^th century

5. Machu Picchu, Peru – abandoned 1572

6. Palenque, Mexico – abandoned c. 800

7. Chaco Canyon, USA – abandoned 12^th century

8. Mandu, India – abandoned 18^th century

9. Hashima Island, Japan – abandoned 1974

10. Prypiat, Ukraine – abandoned 1986

Click images for photo credits.

Invisible Cities: a book review

Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino

I recently re-read Invisible Cities by Italian author Italo Calvino (1972, translated from Italian 1974, 127 pages). This superb little book consists mostly of short sketches of imaginary cities. I can only describe them by quoting one:

“Despina can be reached in two ways: by ship or by camel. The city displays one face to the traveller arriving overland and a different one to him who arrives by sea.

When the camel driver sees, at the horizon of the tableland, the pinnacles of the skyscrapers come into view, the radar antennae, the white and red windsocks flapping, the chimneys belching smoke, he thinks of a ship; he knows it is a city, but he thinks of it as a vessel that will take him away from the desert, a windjammer about to cast off, with the breeze already swelling the sails, not yet unfurled, or a steamboat with its boiler vibrating in the iron keel; and he thinks of all the ports, the foreign merchandise the cranes unload on the docks, the taverns where crews of different flags break bottles over one another’s heads, the lighted, ground-floor windows, each with a woman combing her hair.

In the coastline’s haze, the sailor discerns the form of a camel’s withers, an embroidered saddle with glittering fringe between two spotted humps, advancing and swaying; he knows it is a city, but he thinks of it as a camel from whose pack hang wineskins and bags of candied fruit, date wine, tobacco leaves, and already he sees himself at the head of a long caravan taking him away from the desert of the sea, toward oases of fresh water in the palm trees’ jagged shade, toward palaces of thick, whitewashed walls, tiled courts where girls are dancing barefoot, moving their arms, half-hidden by their veils, and half-revealed.

Each city receives its form from the desert it opposes; and so the camel driver and the sailor see Despina, a border city between two deserts.”

That was “Cities and Desire 3,” one of many equally wonderful sketches in this book, which I heartily recommend. It has influenced several other writers, as well as many artists (e.g. Colleen Corradi Brannigan, Ron McBurnie, and others). But Calvino does not only give us beautifully poetical descriptions. Cities are human institutions (and Augustine reminds us that there is a celestial city, Dante that there is an infernal one). We gain certain insights into the human condition from Calvino’s cities, like this one (“Hidden Cities 2”):

“In Raissa, life is not happy. People wring their hands as they walk in the streets, curse the crying children, lean on the railings over the river and press their fists to their temples. In the morning you wake from one bad dream and another begins. At the workbenches where, every moment, you hit your finger with a hammer or prick it with a needle, or over the columns of figures all awry in the ledgers of merchants and bankers, or at the rows of empty glasses on the zinc counters of the wineshops, the bent heads at least conceal the general grim gaze. Inside the houses it is worse, and you do not have to enter to learn this: in the summer the windows resound with quarrels and broken dishes.

And yet, in Raissa, at every moment there is a child in a window who laughs seeing a dog that has jumped on a shed to bite into a piece of polenta dropped by a stonemason who has shouted from the top of the scaffolding. ‘Darling, let me dip into it,’ to a young serving-maid who holds up a dish of ragout under the pergola, happy to serve it to the umbrella-maker who is celebrating a successful transaction, a white lace parasol bought to display at the races by a great lady in love with an officer who has smiled at her taking the last jump, happy man, and still happier his horse, flying over the obstacles, seeing a francolin flying in the sky, happy bird freed from its cage by a painter happy at having painted it feather by feather, speckled with red and yellow in the illumination of that page in the volume where the philosopher says: ‘Also in Raissa, city of sadness, there runs an invisible thread that binds one living being to another for a moment, then unravels, then is stretched again between moving points as it draws new and rapid patterns so that at every second the unhappy city contains a happy city unaware of its own existence.’ ”

Photo by “Debs,” 2006

Other favourites of mine are Diomira (“Cities & Memory 1”), Sophronia (“Thin Cities 4”), Octavia (“Thin Cities 5,” illustrated here), Baucis (“Cities & Eyes 3”), and Argia (“Cities & the Dead 4,” which I have quoted before).

This book gets a rare five stars.

Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino: 5 stars