BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Stanley Ketchel was shot in the back and killed by the common law husband of the woman who had been cooking his breakfast."
Ring Lardner, 1910.
Ketchel is considered by many to be the greatest middle-weight who ever fought. He liked women.
Lardner's lead is likely the greatest lead ever written.
mek
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
cacozelia
ka-ko-zeel'-i-a
A stylistic affectation of diction, such as throwing in foreign words to appear learned.
Bad taste in words or selection of metaphor, either to make the facts appear worse or to disgust the auditors.
Example
This is an adultery against the state, to have sex under the trophies of Miltiades. —Seneca
cacozelia
ka-ko-zeel'-i-a
A stylistic affectation of diction, such as throwing in foreign words to appear learned.
Bad taste in words or selection of metaphor, either to make the facts appear worse or to disgust the auditors.
Example
This is an adultery against the state, to have sex under the trophies of Miltiades. —Seneca
Thursday, September 21, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Inscription found in an old copy of the Forty Days of Musa DaghTo Lynn, Aug 3rd 1946
The years have gone to dust, and all we weigh
The days when love was full and always true.
They withered to the ground, and yet the ray
Shines on the fruits of Mornings from the dew.
We grow from dawn to darkness and the day
In flowing streams, an filled with with mournful rue,
Falls on the stranger’s calm and lovely way,
Desiring only peace, a solitary peace.
And yet when dawn doth bring the softest rain,
And hope, with fellowship delight of love,
Arises from the soul, and floats above,
With love no earthly creature can sustain,
Then do I know the sight of my eyes behold,
Tis you, my sweet, my aching eyes enfold.
Marcel
Inscription found in an old copy of the Forty Days of Musa DaghTo Lynn, Aug 3rd 1946
The years have gone to dust, and all we weigh
The days when love was full and always true.
They withered to the ground, and yet the ray
Shines on the fruits of Mornings from the dew.
We grow from dawn to darkness and the day
In flowing streams, an filled with with mournful rue,
Falls on the stranger’s calm and lovely way,
Desiring only peace, a solitary peace.
And yet when dawn doth bring the softest rain,
And hope, with fellowship delight of love,
Arises from the soul, and floats above,
With love no earthly creature can sustain,
Then do I know the sight of my eyes behold,
Tis you, my sweet, my aching eyes enfold.
Marcel
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Inscription found in an old copy of the Forty Days of Musa Dagh
To Lynn, Aug 3rd 1946
The years have gone to dust, and all we weigh
The days when love was full and always true.
They withered to the ground, and yet the ray
Shines on the fruits of mornings from the dew.
We grow from dawn to darkness and the day
In flowing streams, and filled with with mournful rue,
Falls on the stranger’s calm and lovely way,
Desiring only peace, a solitary pew.
And yet when dawn doth bring the softest rain,
And hope, with flourishing delight of love,
Arises from the soul, and floats above,
With love no earthly creature can sustain,
Then do I know the sight of my eyes behold,
Tis you, my sweet, my aching eyes enfold.
Marcel
Inscription found in an old copy of the Forty Days of Musa Dagh
To Lynn, Aug 3rd 1946
The years have gone to dust, and all we weigh
The days when love was full and always true.
They withered to the ground, and yet the ray
Shines on the fruits of mornings from the dew.
We grow from dawn to darkness and the day
In flowing streams, and filled with with mournful rue,
Falls on the stranger’s calm and lovely way,
Desiring only peace, a solitary pew.
And yet when dawn doth bring the softest rain,
And hope, with flourishing delight of love,
Arises from the soul, and floats above,
With love no earthly creature can sustain,
Then do I know the sight of my eyes behold,
Tis you, my sweet, my aching eyes enfold.
Marcel
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Albert Einstein
There was a young lady named bright,
Whose speed was far faster than light;
She set out one day
In a relative way,
And returned home the previous night.
Arthur Buller, Punch, 19 DEC 1933
Albert Einstein
There was a young lady named bright,
Whose speed was far faster than light;
She set out one day
In a relative way,
And returned home the previous night.
Arthur Buller, Punch, 19 DEC 1933
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Socratic Wisdom
In ancient Greece (469 - 399 BC), Socrates was widely lauded for hiswisdom. One day the great philosopher came upon an acquaintance who ran up to himexcitedly and said, "Socrates, do you know what I just heard about one ofyour students?"
"Wait a moment," Socrates replied. "Before you tell me I'd like you to pass a little test. It's called the 'Test of Three'." "Three?" "That's right, "Socrates continued. "Before you talk to me about my student,let's take a moment to test what you're going to say.
The first test is Truth. Have you made absolutely sure that what you are about to tell me istrue?" "No," the man said, "actually I just heard about it." "All right," said Socrates. "So you don't really know if it's true or not.
Now let's try the second test, the test of Goodness. Is what you are about to tell me about my student something good?" "No, on the contrary..." "So," Socrates interrupted, "you want to tell me something bad about him even though you're not certain it's true?" The man shrugged, a little embarrassed.
Socrates continued. "You may still pass though, because there is a third test - the filter of Usefulness. Is what you want to tell me about mystudent going to be useful to me?" "No, not really..."
"Well," concluded Socrates, "if what you want to tell me is neither True, nor Good, nor even Useful, why tell it to me at all?" The man was defeated and ashamed. This is the reason Socrates was such a great philosopher, and held in such high esteem.
It also explains why he never found out that Plato was banging his wife.
Socratic Wisdom
In ancient Greece (469 - 399 BC), Socrates was widely lauded for hiswisdom. One day the great philosopher came upon an acquaintance who ran up to himexcitedly and said, "Socrates, do you know what I just heard about one ofyour students?"
"Wait a moment," Socrates replied. "Before you tell me I'd like you to pass a little test. It's called the 'Test of Three'." "Three?" "That's right, "Socrates continued. "Before you talk to me about my student,let's take a moment to test what you're going to say.
The first test is Truth. Have you made absolutely sure that what you are about to tell me istrue?" "No," the man said, "actually I just heard about it." "All right," said Socrates. "So you don't really know if it's true or not.
Now let's try the second test, the test of Goodness. Is what you are about to tell me about my student something good?" "No, on the contrary..." "So," Socrates interrupted, "you want to tell me something bad about him even though you're not certain it's true?" The man shrugged, a little embarrassed.
Socrates continued. "You may still pass though, because there is a third test - the filter of Usefulness. Is what you want to tell me about mystudent going to be useful to me?" "No, not really..."
"Well," concluded Socrates, "if what you want to tell me is neither True, nor Good, nor even Useful, why tell it to me at all?" The man was defeated and ashamed. This is the reason Socrates was such a great philosopher, and held in such high esteem.
It also explains why he never found out that Plato was banging his wife.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I have thought about inherent value for many years-- especially when it concerns art. There is a story, which I believe to be true, about a dinner party in the South of France, attended by Picasso. While at dinner, he needed to use the rest room and was told that it was on the second floor. He went to the guest bathroom and notice one of his drawings on the wall.
When he returned to dinner he remarked to the hostess that he had noticed his drawing upstairs in the bathroom. She contradicted him, and said that she had been told that it was only a reproduction that she had inherited from her late husband.
"Oh, no!" Picasso replied, "it is definitely an original drawing and my signature on the bottom is real."
The hostess jumped from the table, and ran upstairs. Moments later she carried the framed drawing downstairs, took a painting down from the mantle piece, and replaced it with the original Picasso drawing.
Picasso asked whether the picture had changed since she learned that it was the original and not a reproduction.
"What," he asked, "made it deserving of the place of honor in the hostess' home?" He wanted to know "why it shouldn't remain in the bathroom," and whether, "it was a different piece of art."
mek
I have thought about inherent value for many years-- especially when it concerns art. There is a story, which I believe to be true, about a dinner party in the South of France, attended by Picasso. While at dinner, he needed to use the rest room and was told that it was on the second floor. He went to the guest bathroom and notice one of his drawings on the wall.
When he returned to dinner he remarked to the hostess that he had noticed his drawing upstairs in the bathroom. She contradicted him, and said that she had been told that it was only a reproduction that she had inherited from her late husband.
"Oh, no!" Picasso replied, "it is definitely an original drawing and my signature on the bottom is real."
The hostess jumped from the table, and ran upstairs. Moments later she carried the framed drawing downstairs, took a painting down from the mantle piece, and replaced it with the original Picasso drawing.
Picasso asked whether the picture had changed since she learned that it was the original and not a reproduction.
"What," he asked, "made it deserving of the place of honor in the hostess' home?" He wanted to know "why it shouldn't remain in the bathroom," and whether, "it was a different piece of art."
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It doesn't exactly mean what I thought:
improvident \im-PROV-uh-duhnt; -dent\, adjective:Lacking foresight or forethought; not foreseeing or providing for the future; negligent or thoughtless.
Elizabeth's husband . . . had been a reckless, improvident man, who left many debts behind him when he died suddenly of a consumption in September 1704.-- David Nokes, Jane Austen: A Life
Lily is spoiled, pleasure-loving, and has one of those society mothers who are as improvident as a tornado.-- Elizabeth Hardwick, Sight-Readings: American Fictions
He called the decision "an exercise in raw judicial power" that was "improvident and extravagant."-- Linda Greenhouse, "White Announces He'll Step Down From High Court", New York Times, March 20, 1993
Improvident derives from Latin improvidens, improvident-, from im- (for in-), "not" + providens, provident-, present participle of providere, "to see beforehand, to provide for," from pro-, "before, forward" + videre, "to see."
It doesn't exactly mean what I thought:
improvident \im-PROV-uh-duhnt; -dent\, adjective:Lacking foresight or forethought; not foreseeing or providing for the future; negligent or thoughtless.
Elizabeth's husband . . . had been a reckless, improvident man, who left many debts behind him when he died suddenly of a consumption in September 1704.-- David Nokes, Jane Austen: A Life
Lily is spoiled, pleasure-loving, and has one of those society mothers who are as improvident as a tornado.-- Elizabeth Hardwick, Sight-Readings: American Fictions
He called the decision "an exercise in raw judicial power" that was "improvident and extravagant."-- Linda Greenhouse, "White Announces He'll Step Down From High Court", New York Times, March 20, 1993
Improvident derives from Latin improvidens, improvident-, from im- (for in-), "not" + providens, provident-, present participle of providere, "to see beforehand, to provide for," from pro-, "before, forward" + videre, "to see."
Monday, September 18, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Buster Stronghart is my nom de plume and, perhaps, my alter-ego. I write a blog under that name and use it for an occasional original remark, more often very short quotations -- my latest being from Dr. Johnson, " In memorial disquisitions no man is on his oath." The blog may be found at www.BusterStronghart.blogspot.com -- my own original remarks are initialed, "mek," quotations from others (real writers or philosophers) are always identified.
A short, morose autobiographical poem may be found at Aug 24, and a friend's "counter-poem" answering my maudlin whining may be found in boldface just under it.
The photos are something new reflecting the fact that I have purchased a new camera and am trying to learn to post photos and to take them.
An explanation about Harry and "his last shoot in Texas," is in order, for those of us, like me, who have missed fifty years of installments.
The books, the books, oh the books...I am divesting myself of over fifty years of accumulated books (about 2000) --I wouldn't call it a "collection" it's really an "accumulation." Serious literature, history, philosophy (mostly only partly read), a lot of poetry, and of course many of the classics so resented by feminists in the sixties, seventies, and eighties. I am so glad that they are getting over their hatred of dead white men.
Buster and I consider ourselves to be pro-woman; in fact we have loved women overly much during the testosterone years, but we have never understood feminist criticism. Well, actually, we understand very little of any lit crit...
--I have told my boys, Aaron and Max, that they should feel worse for me now during the dispersion of my books, than they should when I am dying. It is bad. I have sold a few, and given many to Patti's children who have room, but my boys have no room, although Max would really like to have some--the remainder will go to the Garrison Library to be put up for sale next September. They have given me about twenty-five feet by eight rows of library shelving in their store room for the books. I think that they will just about fit there. It's nice seeing them all laid out together and in order. I'll take pictures with my new camera.
Cutting work back is fine but don't stop working until they measure you for the long, six-sided box. It's a mistake to do so. What work are you doing? The last I heard you were managing a ballet company, I think, which would be great because at about that time another woman whom I knew as a girl was managing the New York Ballet, Patty Avedon, niece of Richard Avedon. Of course, I haven't seen her since 1955, if then, so I have no idea where she is now.
I stopped (accosted) Richard Avedon on the street one day, just a month before he died, to ask about Patty, Michael and Keith, the three Avedons that Patti and I (and maybe you too) knew from 69th Avenue. He told me that Keith had died, Patty was "out west," and Michael had disappeared.
Anyway, with the 65% free time you have made for yourself take a look at www.BusterStronghart.blogspot.com , Don't forget what I said above about August 24.
mek
Buster Stronghart is my nom de plume and, perhaps, my alter-ego. I write a blog under that name and use it for an occasional original remark, more often very short quotations -- my latest being from Dr. Johnson, " In memorial disquisitions no man is on his oath." The blog may be found at www.BusterStronghart.blogspot.com -- my own original remarks are initialed, "mek," quotations from others (real writers or philosophers) are always identified.
A short, morose autobiographical poem may be found at Aug 24, and a friend's "counter-poem" answering my maudlin whining may be found in boldface just under it.
The photos are something new reflecting the fact that I have purchased a new camera and am trying to learn to post photos and to take them.
An explanation about Harry and "his last shoot in Texas," is in order, for those of us, like me, who have missed fifty years of installments.
The books, the books, oh the books...I am divesting myself of over fifty years of accumulated books (about 2000) --I wouldn't call it a "collection" it's really an "accumulation." Serious literature, history, philosophy (mostly only partly read), a lot of poetry, and of course many of the classics so resented by feminists in the sixties, seventies, and eighties. I am so glad that they are getting over their hatred of dead white men.
Buster and I consider ourselves to be pro-woman; in fact we have loved women overly much during the testosterone years, but we have never understood feminist criticism. Well, actually, we understand very little of any lit crit...
--I have told my boys, Aaron and Max, that they should feel worse for me now during the dispersion of my books, than they should when I am dying. It is bad. I have sold a few, and given many to Patti's children who have room, but my boys have no room, although Max would really like to have some--the remainder will go to the Garrison Library to be put up for sale next September. They have given me about twenty-five feet by eight rows of library shelving in their store room for the books. I think that they will just about fit there. It's nice seeing them all laid out together and in order. I'll take pictures with my new camera.
Cutting work back is fine but don't stop working until they measure you for the long, six-sided box. It's a mistake to do so. What work are you doing? The last I heard you were managing a ballet company, I think, which would be great because at about that time another woman whom I knew as a girl was managing the New York Ballet, Patty Avedon, niece of Richard Avedon. Of course, I haven't seen her since 1955, if then, so I have no idea where she is now.
I stopped (accosted) Richard Avedon on the street one day, just a month before he died, to ask about Patty, Michael and Keith, the three Avedons that Patti and I (and maybe you too) knew from 69th Avenue. He told me that Keith had died, Patty was "out west," and Michael had disappeared.
Anyway, with the 65% free time you have made for yourself take a look at www.BusterStronghart.blogspot.com , Don't forget what I said above about August 24.
mek
Sunday, September 17, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
My sister and wife have each objected to the photos I choose to place on the blog. They each believe that I am better looking. I believe that I have worked 68 years to earn that face and that's the one I'll show and that's the one of which I'll be proud.
mek
My sister and wife have each objected to the photos I choose to place on the blog. They each believe that I am better looking. I believe that I have worked 68 years to earn that face and that's the one I'll show and that's the one of which I'll be proud.
mek
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Understand, do not deny, from the very beginning, we live in a state of perpetual decay.
mek
Understand, do not deny, from the very beginning, we live in a state of perpetual decay.
mek
Monday, September 04, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I am a Jew, born outside the tribe. My mother was a Ruth, named Grace, who followed her husband. So one side of me comes from Norwegian stock.
But I am a Jew. I am not licensed to be a Jew. I do not join the rituals. I doubt that there is a God. But I am there. Here I am, God.
Remember: Ben Gurion insited that anyone who declares himself to be a Jew is a Jew. And Sartre asserted that if anyone points at you and shouts "Jew," then you are a Jew.
I qualify on both counts.
mek
I am a Jew, born outside the tribe. My mother was a Ruth, named Grace, who followed her husband. So one side of me comes from Norwegian stock.
But I am a Jew. I am not licensed to be a Jew. I do not join the rituals. I doubt that there is a God. But I am there. Here I am, God.
Remember: Ben Gurion insited that anyone who declares himself to be a Jew is a Jew. And Sartre asserted that if anyone points at you and shouts "Jew," then you are a Jew.
I qualify on both counts.
mek
Sunday, September 03, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
They judged me by their appropriate tool,
Except as a fellow handled an ax,
They had no way of knowing a fool.
Robert Frost...Two tramps at Mudtime
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
They judged me by their appropriate tool,
Except as a fellow handled an ax,
They had no way of knowing a fool.
Robert Frost...Two tramps at Mudtime
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A pox on all steps but big ones.
Thou'rt my son in any case and I could wish a better, you too might wish a better father.
Neither Thought nor Talk pays the Toll.
...............John Barth, The Sot Weed Factor
A pox on all steps but big ones.
Thou'rt my son in any case and I could wish a better, you too might wish a better father.
Neither Thought nor Talk pays the Toll.
...............John Barth, The Sot Weed Factor
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