Author: Rob

Crunchy Canadians call their generation to come home:

Wallace would agree:

Now, it is just here that true poetic civilization differs from that paltry and mechanical civilization that holds us all in bondage. Bad customs are universal and rigid, like modern militarism. Good customs are universal and varied, like native chivalry and self-defence. Both the good and the bad civilization cover us as with a canopy, and protect us from all that is outside. But a good civilization spreads over us freely like a tree, varying and yielding because it is alive. A bad civilization stands up and sticks out above us like an umbrella – artificial, mathematical in shape; not merely universal, but uniform. So it is with the contrast between the substances that vary and the substances that are the same wherever they penetrate. By a wise doom of heaven men were commanded to eat cheese, but not the same cheese.

Make certain to read the entire thing.

I’ve been through a kind of inspirational winter. Where I once saw greenery and new life and felt light breaking open inside of me, there was for a long while an expanse of ice and snow. Things die in the winter. They curl up and decay and molder and traces of themselves and traces of other things all coalesce until there is only dark earth.

That happens with the imagination, too. Passion, hope, fierceness of belief grow brown-edged, curl inward and crumble.

But “there lives the dearest fresness deep down things.”* The dying and dead things are a humus of memory. And somewhere there is life. Breathing silent, pushing slowly upward.