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A HINDOO FABLE.
IT was six men of Indostan
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the Elephant
(Though all of them were blind),
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.
The First approached the Elephant,
And happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
“God bless me!—but the Elephant
Is very like a wall!”
The Second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried:”Ho!—what have we here
So very round and smooth and sharp?
To me ‘t is mighty clear
This wonder of an Elephant
Is very like a spear!”
The Third approached the animal,
And happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up and spake:
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a snake!”
The Fourth reached out his eager hand,
And felt about the knee.
“What most this wondrous beast is like
Is mighty plain,” quoth he;
“‘T is clear enough the Elephant
Is very like a tree!”
The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: “E’en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most;
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an Elephant
Is very like a fan!”
The Sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant
Is very like a rope!”
And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!
So, oft in theologic wars
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an Elephant
Not one of them has seen!
Someone who is unfazed by the rain,
undaunted by the wind,
unbowed by the snow or the summer sun.
Who is sound of body,
who wants nothing for himself,
and who never gives in to anger,
but is always smiling quietly within.
Someone who eats eight bowls of brown rice a day, simple farmers’ fare,
with a bowl of miso soup and a vegetable or two.
In all things
he never takes himself into account,
always learns by watching and listening to others,
and never forgets.
He lives in a thatched hut in a meadow in the shadow of a pine grove,
and if there is a sick child in the east,
goes to care for that child.
And if there is a mother overwhelmed by work in the west,
goes to carry her bundles of rice.
If someone is dying in the south,
goes and says there is nothing to fear.
If there is a dispute or lawsuit in the north,
goes and says to stop being petty.
And when there is a drought, he sheds tears.
And when there is a cold spell in summer,
he paces anxiously back and forth.
Someone who is known far and wide as a dreamer
and never praised,
but is not a nuisance to anyone either …
That is the kind of person
I would like to be.
An excerpt:
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
From the preface:
And did those feet in ancient time,
Walk upon Englands mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold:
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land.
No, not under the vault of another sky, not under the shelter of other wings. I was with my people then, there where my people were doomed to be.
Instead of a preface:
During the years of the Yezhov terror, I spent seventeen months standing outside the prison in Leningrad, waiting for news. One day someone ‘picked me out’. Then a woman with blue lips from the cold, who was standing behind me, and of course had never heard of my name, came out of the numbness which affected us all. She whispered in my ear (for we all whispered there): “Can anyone ever describe this?”
I said, “I can”.
Then something resembling a smile slid across what had previously been just a face…
2nd and 5th verses sum up life nicely:
Thou still unravished bride of quietness!
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flow’ry tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal -yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,
For ever panting and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” -that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
If this song doesn’t make you happier and feel like taking a walk, you have no soul. Just throwing that out.
On a light-hearted note, Yoko believed that she would visit totoro until well into middle school. In fact, I think somewhere in her mind she still hasn’t given up hope that totoro might call her one day.
Let’s walk, let’s walk, I’m as happy as can be!
I love to walk, let’s go quickly!
An uphill road, a tunnel, a meadow,
At a log bridge, a bumpy gravel path.
Passing under a spiderweb, a downhill path.
Let’s walk, let’s walk, I’m as happy as can be!
I love to walk, let’s go quickly!
A honeybee buzzes in a field of flowers,
a lizard in the sunshine, a snake takes a midday nap,
a grasshopper leaps, along the curving path.
Let’s walk, let’s walk, I’m as happy as can be!
I love to walk, let’s go quickly!
Foxes and badgers too, come out!
Let’s go exploring deep into the woods.
I have lots of friends, I’m so happy.
I have lots of friends, I’m so happy.
An old silent pond…
A frog jumps into the pond
Splash! Silence again
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream–and not make dreams your master,
If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings–nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And–which is more–you’ll be a Man, my son!
What color should I wear
To be myself?
The sky is blocked by buildings
And won’t answer
There’s always an exit
To any maze you stumble into
But if you just stand there
You’ll never reach the answer
No matter what you’re searching for
It’s not fun if you rush to the end.
Bloom and flutter splendidly
Throw aside your pride
Burn up your proud soul
You’ll never be the real thing
With fake colors
You know what you want
Right now
The best thrill
That makes your body tremble
No matter where you end up
It’s not fun if you rush through the present.
Let your heart burn with love
Swallow even the melancholy
And become crazy and beautiful
You’ll never be the real thing
With fake colors
I’ll be waiting there
Where the light shines without a shape
Run riot and be gorgeous
Throw aside your pride
Burn up your proud soul
On a neverending journey
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