In this chapter of Forests: The Shadows Of Civilization, Robert Harrison talks about how forests have affected humanity, from the time of their creation till our modern lifestyle now. To start off with, he talks about how the ancient city of Rome was always depicted as having an origin in forests. He uses an example of a poem which states that men moved into the forests of where Rome was to be founded, and chases mythological creatures, (such as fawns and satyrs) away from them. He then goes on to talk about Giambattista Vico, who was an Italian theroist from Naples, living in the 18th centurary.
Vico uses the story of Noah to talk about humanity's origin. The floods that caused Noah to build the great Arc resulted in massive forests growing, and covering the earth. The descendents of Noah spread across the earth and became solitary creatures that converted into animals, essentially. They were abanded as babies by their mothers, had no families or conciousness and fed on fruits and water. They had no laws, and became incestuous and brutal. He talks about how the giants were at peace, even thought they were brutal to one another.
However, one day the giants decided to investigate what was causing storms in the sky. They cut down the trees and saw lightning and heard thunder, but saw no cause. So, understandably, they created an origin. God. This caused them to begin to question their existence, and begin to create concepts such as family, law and science. These were created in an attempt to get closer to God, or Jove, as he is called in this excerpt.
In essence, this story is re-telling the meme of 'curiosity killed the cat', in saying that the investigation of things unknown leads to the destruction of known things.
Monday 30 August 2010
Thursday 26 August 2010
And a poem, too.
Neurull’s Coming
Deep in the barren wastes of the Darkland,
A lake exists.
A lake so foul,
Even dragons fear it.
A layer of blackness, shrouding the shell of the lake;
Septic corpses of urgals and trolls rot within.
Deep in the murky, deadly sea,
A whirlpool sucks in the mangled bodies.
A whirlpool with teeth,
A whirlpool that is alive.
Rumbling, the lake trembles,
Creating waves of despair.
Black charred bones,
Disintegrated skulls,
Scraps of sinew and
Strings of flesh upon its shores.
The lake,
Damned by gods and people alike.
Elves, the most sensitive of all,
Are confounded by its taint.
Black magic,
Wreaths the lake in rot and corruption.
The lake, an abomination,
is named Zagan the mirror,
for it reveals death in life,
And life in death.
Many an adventurer laden with his fallen comrade,
Wishing to gaze upon his live face once more,
Arrives at Zagan
Only to be claimed.
Claimed by the waking evil,
Claimed by Neurull,
The god of death.
Tendrils of decaying flesh,
Fetid and rotting,
Writhe from the lake.
The adventurer is grabbed,
Pulled into the acidic waters.
Then he is thrown out,
Melting,
The hissing flesh of his face
Distorted into an eternal scream
Hungry for redemption.
They are the Deathly Wanderers,
For they travel the unsuspecting world,
Killing all in their path.
And the only thing in the way of the Wanderers,
Are the paladins,
Warriors for Heironius,
God of valour,
Who battle the wanderers wherever they traipse.
But Neurull peers at the paladins and plots,
The tortured demise of the paladins
So that he can come forth,
Forth from his unholy imprisonment
To wreak havoc upon the peaceful world of Faerûn
We prophesy Neurull’s waking!
Deep in the barren wastes of the Darkland,
A lake exists.
A lake so foul,
Even dragons fear it.
A layer of blackness, shrouding the shell of the lake;
Septic corpses of urgals and trolls rot within.
Deep in the murky, deadly sea,
A whirlpool sucks in the mangled bodies.
A whirlpool with teeth,
A whirlpool that is alive.
Rumbling, the lake trembles,
Creating waves of despair.
Black charred bones,
Disintegrated skulls,
Scraps of sinew and
Strings of flesh upon its shores.
The lake,
Damned by gods and people alike.
Elves, the most sensitive of all,
Are confounded by its taint.
Black magic,
Wreaths the lake in rot and corruption.
The lake, an abomination,
is named Zagan the mirror,
for it reveals death in life,
And life in death.
Many an adventurer laden with his fallen comrade,
Wishing to gaze upon his live face once more,
Arrives at Zagan
Only to be claimed.
Claimed by the waking evil,
Claimed by Neurull,
The god of death.
Tendrils of decaying flesh,
Fetid and rotting,
Writhe from the lake.
The adventurer is grabbed,
Pulled into the acidic waters.
Then he is thrown out,
Melting,
The hissing flesh of his face
Distorted into an eternal scream
Hungry for redemption.
They are the Deathly Wanderers,
For they travel the unsuspecting world,
Killing all in their path.
And the only thing in the way of the Wanderers,
Are the paladins,
Warriors for Heironius,
God of valour,
Who battle the wanderers wherever they traipse.
But Neurull peers at the paladins and plots,
The tortured demise of the paladins
So that he can come forth,
Forth from his unholy imprisonment
To wreak havoc upon the peaceful world of Faerûn
We prophesy Neurull’s waking!
Some shared reading
I wrote this two years ago in my English class. I thought perhaps it should be shared.
Enjoy.
The Chair
The marble chair stood in the middle of the room. No heat emanated from the cold, black stone. The armrests, ornately carved, end in slender, feminine hands. The back, carved comfortably, was an effigy of a fair maiden. The chair was so deep a black that your eyes would refuse to focus on that dark chair. It seemed as if the chair was looming at you, with the white figures outlined in the deep night of the chair.
The room containing that cold, foreboding chair was in was just as torturous, but in a subtler sense. The room was silent, so silent it would drive you insane. But one thing, just one thing made it unbearable. A metronome sitting on a stone desk is the corner, seemed not to break the silence, but to exaggerate the muted atmosphere of the murky room. From the ceiling hung a lantern, enclosed in black filters, which bathe the room in a sort of black light. One portal, a stone door, led away from the horrible place.
The man sitting in the chair looked calm. But at a closer look, you could see that his eyes were wild, akin to those of a badger. His knuckles, white from gripping the stone in his pale hands, shuddered in hysteria from the eternal silence and sparseness of the room. His face, unshaven and pale, looked as if daylight had forsaken him. Although he wasn’t bound by any physical means, he felt compelled to sit in that chair. Forever.
As the stone door slid open, a tall, terrible man entered the room. As he did so, a radiance of calm flew out of his being into the man in the chair. The new comer was clad regally, with purple jacket and burgundy trousers. A black steel blade was strapped to his waist, the jewel encrusted hilt showing from the black scabbard. But even though he was clothed in riches and his blade was made of a rare and invaluable material, his face was want completed his form. The man’s face was showed no emotion, it was cold and plain. The utter lack of feeling in the man’s face made the poor person in the chair feel ever more distressed. His face had been altered by his masters to have that very effect on the slovenly man in the chair. As the torturer entered the room, he knew, as he had always known, that this was the man who made his life a misery.
‘Ah, Mr. Thompson, I see you haven’t tried to escape again… hmmm? Well, its not as if you could get any further than last time. And to think of what you did to the guard. I’m still trying to get the stain of the wall. But, no worries, I think our new friend is going to help us out today.’ The man in purple turned to the door, and motioned forwards. Two surly looking men, carrying a ‘barrow of cages came through the door. They left the wooden transport in the middle of the room, and left. The man in purple took one of the cages in the ‘barrow and peered into it. Inside was a large rat, the size of a small dog. The man gave it to Mr. Thompson, and told him to hold it over his chest. Mr. Thompson looked blankly at the regal man, but complied. The man in purple took a brace of rope from his side and began tying down poor Mr. Thompson. Soon, his arms were completely bound, and his arms similarly so. Then, the regal man strode over to the metronome and struck a match on it.
As the match fizzled to life, the man in purple walked back to the terrified man, and then, subtly let the match catch a light on the wooden cage. The rat, terrified, began to burrow through the wood and into the poor man’s chest. The rat continued to burrow until he reached the man’s ribcage, and then the man in purple reached in and withdrew the gore-covered rodent. He dropped it to the floor, and with one fluid movement squashed the rat under the heel of his boot. He then looked towards the hardly breathing life in the chair, and nodded, cruelly. The man in purple began to leave the room, as he was done with that man for the day, and hoped he would get information off of him the next. As he left, two women, dressed in medical uniform came rushing into the room, and began to tend the quickly dying man. As the door slid shut, behind the leaving man, all they could hear was the ever so often squeak as the man’s bloody heels scraped the floor.
Enjoy.
The Chair
The marble chair stood in the middle of the room. No heat emanated from the cold, black stone. The armrests, ornately carved, end in slender, feminine hands. The back, carved comfortably, was an effigy of a fair maiden. The chair was so deep a black that your eyes would refuse to focus on that dark chair. It seemed as if the chair was looming at you, with the white figures outlined in the deep night of the chair.
The room containing that cold, foreboding chair was in was just as torturous, but in a subtler sense. The room was silent, so silent it would drive you insane. But one thing, just one thing made it unbearable. A metronome sitting on a stone desk is the corner, seemed not to break the silence, but to exaggerate the muted atmosphere of the murky room. From the ceiling hung a lantern, enclosed in black filters, which bathe the room in a sort of black light. One portal, a stone door, led away from the horrible place.
The man sitting in the chair looked calm. But at a closer look, you could see that his eyes were wild, akin to those of a badger. His knuckles, white from gripping the stone in his pale hands, shuddered in hysteria from the eternal silence and sparseness of the room. His face, unshaven and pale, looked as if daylight had forsaken him. Although he wasn’t bound by any physical means, he felt compelled to sit in that chair. Forever.
As the stone door slid open, a tall, terrible man entered the room. As he did so, a radiance of calm flew out of his being into the man in the chair. The new comer was clad regally, with purple jacket and burgundy trousers. A black steel blade was strapped to his waist, the jewel encrusted hilt showing from the black scabbard. But even though he was clothed in riches and his blade was made of a rare and invaluable material, his face was want completed his form. The man’s face was showed no emotion, it was cold and plain. The utter lack of feeling in the man’s face made the poor person in the chair feel ever more distressed. His face had been altered by his masters to have that very effect on the slovenly man in the chair. As the torturer entered the room, he knew, as he had always known, that this was the man who made his life a misery.
‘Ah, Mr. Thompson, I see you haven’t tried to escape again… hmmm? Well, its not as if you could get any further than last time. And to think of what you did to the guard. I’m still trying to get the stain of the wall. But, no worries, I think our new friend is going to help us out today.’ The man in purple turned to the door, and motioned forwards. Two surly looking men, carrying a ‘barrow of cages came through the door. They left the wooden transport in the middle of the room, and left. The man in purple took one of the cages in the ‘barrow and peered into it. Inside was a large rat, the size of a small dog. The man gave it to Mr. Thompson, and told him to hold it over his chest. Mr. Thompson looked blankly at the regal man, but complied. The man in purple took a brace of rope from his side and began tying down poor Mr. Thompson. Soon, his arms were completely bound, and his arms similarly so. Then, the regal man strode over to the metronome and struck a match on it.
As the match fizzled to life, the man in purple walked back to the terrified man, and then, subtly let the match catch a light on the wooden cage. The rat, terrified, began to burrow through the wood and into the poor man’s chest. The rat continued to burrow until he reached the man’s ribcage, and then the man in purple reached in and withdrew the gore-covered rodent. He dropped it to the floor, and with one fluid movement squashed the rat under the heel of his boot. He then looked towards the hardly breathing life in the chair, and nodded, cruelly. The man in purple began to leave the room, as he was done with that man for the day, and hoped he would get information off of him the next. As he left, two women, dressed in medical uniform came rushing into the room, and began to tend the quickly dying man. As the door slid shut, behind the leaving man, all they could hear was the ever so often squeak as the man’s bloody heels scraped the floor.
Tuesday 24 August 2010
Comparing "Questions Of Conquest" And "Freedom and Democracy"
In reading both of these pieces, I can sense similarities in both the way that they write, and some obscure similarities in the points they are making.
In Questions, the author is trying to make a point about how Europeans come and destroyed millenia of South American culture. One example of this is in the quote, '...fastidiously catechized in the Indian villages by the extirpators of idolatries like Father Arriaga, to justify the devastations of idols, amulets, ornaments, handicrafts and tombs.' This quote is sentiment is echoed in F&D, where the author talks about the effect that emotions have on the human mind. The authour talks about how the restricitive environment of school effects the students mind, and eventually causes him to become the docile member of society that society wants them to be.
The styles of writing are very similar, as both write in the first person, and use very expression and high-level English to get across their points.
In Questions, the author is trying to make a point about how Europeans come and destroyed millenia of South American culture. One example of this is in the quote, '...fastidiously catechized in the Indian villages by the extirpators of idolatries like Father Arriaga, to justify the devastations of idols, amulets, ornaments, handicrafts and tombs.' This quote is sentiment is echoed in F&D, where the author talks about the effect that emotions have on the human mind. The authour talks about how the restricitive environment of school effects the students mind, and eventually causes him to become the docile member of society that society wants them to be.
The styles of writing are very similar, as both write in the first person, and use very expression and high-level English to get across their points.
Wednesday 18 August 2010
Language Style
In We, the language is similar to the language essay in a variety of ways. In my opinion, the language, in both cases is very formal and intelligent. Zanyatin writes as if he is speaking to people, or as if it is directly his thoughts coming down onto paper. This is especially evident in the essay about language, where he states that the essay is infact written from a lecture that he said to his college class. Both are written in lecture format, as if they are lessons to people, which is understandable from both pieces. WE is written from the P.O.V of somebody telling 'lesser' beings about his society, and On Language is written to tell people about language itself.
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