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02.03.08
The weekend after I got home from last summer’s tour with Jim Bianco I smashed the big knuckle of my left index finger when a bungy cord interacted poorly with a pile of wood that I was trying to pull out of the back of my car. My father-in-law thought it was hilarious, but tried to act concerned. I tore the skin open pretty good and bled all over myself, so I wasn’t surprised when it kept hurting for a week after the “accident”. Also, I had a bunch of projects around the house that needed to get done, mostly involving some sort of fence building . . . so I just kept going along as planned even though my finger was really sore.
A few weeks later when the skin was totally healed, but I could still barely bend my finger, I went to the drugstore and bought a splint for it. For those of you who may have rocked the popsicle stick and first-aid tape splint at some point, you would definitely be pleasantly surprised (as I was) at the evolution of the finger splint. They’re mostly made from some sort of aluminum-type alloy and foam, and they’re in JUST the right shape. You can get them in different sizes, and they have both one-side and wrap-around models depending on how much protection you think you’re going to need. You don’t really want a perfectly straight splint (a la popsicle stick), because that’s not really how your fingers want to sit naturally. Also, no matter what you did to avoid it, the stick always dug into your hand at the bottom of your finger — and you know what happens when filthy two-day-old popsicle-stick-on-boy-finger gets under the skin? Yep, hand infection. And getting a bandaid to stay on that part of a kid’s hand is impossible. OK, you get the picture.
So I put the splint on my finger and finally started admitting that I thought maybe I’d really hurt it, as in, REALLY hurt it. I’m really not a fan of the long-lasting injury vibe, although they’re inevitable. My friend Mike hurt his back lifting my mom’s coffee table at band practice in 1985, and he still calls me every time he throws it out to remind me that my mom’s stupid concrete coffee table has ruined his life. I don’t like to have any hovering debts, which is what a lingering injury is to me. When I buy something on eBay I always pay for it immediately. It makes accounting easier. I don’t want to spend all the money in my checking account and then have someone say “hey, you owe me for the ukulele strings”. Probably a popular syndrome of people who’ve spent extended periods of time generating very little cash flow. Injuries are kinda like that. My neck gets really stiff sometimes, and those “sometimes” always seem to coincide with a bad review, my son getting sick, and me getting ready to leave for three weeks of driving 10 hours a day. See what I mean? Those long-term injuries are just wild cards out there in the ether waiting to come back and visit you at the most inopportune moment possible. More on that later I’m afraid.
So after I finally told everyone that I was concerned about my finger being broken or something, they started predictably conspiring to make me go to a doctor. I don’t like going to the doctor, so I thought about it for two more weeks, and when finally the worrying became worse than ANY news that the doctor could possibly have given me, I went. My wife’s aunt made me an appointment with a hand and finger specialist in their hometown (we were visiting the in-laws at the time). Yikes. Small town doctor in Albemarle North Carolina, hometown of Kellie Pickler of American Idol fame. She went to my son’s birthday right before she first tried out because she’s good friends with my wife’s cousin — but again, that’s another story.
The doctor’s name was “Mack”, which I figured would make him a classic southern small town doctor type. Not sure what that is, but figured I was about to find out. The waiting room was pretty much exactly what you would expect. There was a guy in there who’d busted his leg really badly on a job site a year or so earlier, still had pins sticking in him, the whole deal. He seemed really uncomfortable, not really present, and looked like he was probably younger than he looked. Does that make sense? Anyway, I decided that he’d probably been a really hard-working construction guy who had some bad luck and found himself unable to work and having an affair with vicodin, or oxycontin, or some such horror, along with daytime TV. Of course self-pitying depression of this type doesn’t come naturally to the burly construction worker dude type, but is part and parcel for drug addicts — which I figured was probably making it even more confusing for him, and making him more depressed, which would make him want to take more drugs, which would make him feel more sorry for himself, etc. It really is like a spiral. Oops, I did it again. Back to the point . . .
The good doctor turned out to be a Seikh, complete with turban and all. I was surprised that no one had mentioned it. After all, this is a small southern town where a lot of kids go into the military after high school. I’m not saying that everyone there would immediately think that anyone wearing a turban is the enemy . . . but I was surprised that it wasn’t even mentioned.
We talked for a while. I lied about how long ago I’d hurt my finger, since I thought he’d think I was an idiot for waiting six weeks to check on an injury that could have such a very negative impact on my professional and personal life. He sent me for an x-ray, looked at it, and told me that it wasn’t broken but that I’d “smashed the daylights out of it” and that it could be another couple of weeks before the pain started to ease and I started to get flexibility back. In the meantime, he told me not to wear the splint unless I needed the added protection for a specific reason. I asked him what I could do for the pain, which I guess he took as me soliciting a prescription, because he told me that I didn’t need a prescription. “I meant ‘ice or heat’” I said. “Oh, heat” he said, somewhat embarrassed I think. At this point I figured he’d taken one look at me and decided that I was there for pills. I didn’t care though, my finger was going to get better.
And it did get better, finally. Went to another doctor several weeks later and got a second opinion, which matched the first opinion only with a longer recovery time. Also, the second doctor offered me something for pain, which I refused. In mid-December I started writing a song for a movie. The finger was still hurting quite a bit, which probably worked in my favor because it forced me to keep the song really simple — which is what movie folks often like. But that was the first time I’ve been able to play the guitar in any real way since August, almost four months total. Scary. And it’s still not all the way better. My grandmother told me that after a certain age things don’t heal completely, they just organize themselves in such a way that you only really notice the very top of the list.
On the flipside of being terrified, I learned to play with three fingers . . . and started buying ukuleles on eBay because they’re much easier on the fretting hand. How all of this plays into the bigger picture I don’t know, other than that there will probably be more ukulele on future projects . . . and it looks like some of the future projects are going to be really cool:
My brother got a grant from PBS to finish the documentary that he’s been working on for the last 5 or 6 years, “Next Year Country”. Check out www.nextyearcountry.com to see the trailer and read about it. I did the music for the trailer with my friend Ben Peeler, who plays lapsteel guitar in my band — and we’re going to do all of the score music for the movie in my new studio here in Asheville this summer. My brother and I have been talking about me doing a “music inspired by the film” album to put out at the same time that movie starts to go to festivals and stuff. I think it’s a great idea. He thought that my song “The Crossing” would be a good place to start, for those of you who’ve heard that song live.
I’m also starting to write for my friend Stephen Adly Guirgis’ new play “The Little Flower of East Orange” — look him up online if you’re interested. We went to see his last play, which was directed by his friend Phillip Seymour Hoffman, at Union Square in New York. It was amazing. I’d known Guirgis for years from the Hotel Cafe days in Hollywood, and always knew that he was a talented dude, but it’s so amazing when you find out that a person you know is one of THOSE dudes. Anyway, super humbled and excited at the prospect of working with him . . . especially in a real live theater setting. So cool.
Aside from that . . . getting ready to release the most recent album “Gary Jules” (the airplane record) in Australia, Canada, and then the UK and Europe — so I will hope to be seeing all of my long lost old country friends sometime this year. I’ll try and keep you updated on that stuff, now that I can type again. Wink.
Hope you are all well.
Much love GJ
Posted on 2.03.08
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November 10, 2007
Two things:
1. My friends Ben and Amy are getting married today. We weren’t able to go, but just wanted to wish the love, life and luck . . . you know, the good stuff. Much love from us to you on your big day. And, on a completely different vibe . . .
2. Everyone is talking about the Yeats poem “The Second Coming” and it’s relevance to our current situation in Iraq. I’ve been re-reading a bunch of pre/during/and post WWI poetry and thought I’d share it for those of you who’ve not read it before — not because I think the end of the world is coming (I mean, I guess it is technically) but because it’s just plain rad. BTW, it’s not just now that people are talking about this poem [or WWI era lit in general (ie T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland” etc)] — Joan Didion wrote a book called “Slouching Toward Bethlehem”. I think Joni Mitchell has a song called that too. OK, here it is:
William Butler Yeats — The Second Coming (1920)
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?Posted on 11.10.07
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Halfway Home
Left North Carolina on June 30th . . . 12 hours to Long Island New York to meet Jim Bianco at his dad’s house in Long Beach. Swam in the Atlantic Ocean. Played Brooklyn and DC, then visited our friends Al and Holly (who we’ll get back to in a minute) at Al’s folks’ place in Ocean City Maryland, miniature golf capital of the universe, for Fourth of July. Rode a rollercoaster and nearly threw-up, then rode it again so Jim could film it for our tour movie (which you can see at either of our myspace pages). Still didn’t throw up. Jim ate funnel cake, I caught a croaker, then we left.
Played Pittsburgh, Philly, Hoboken, Chicago, Kansas City, Oklahoma City, and Denver. We got the front windows tinted and couldn’t roll them down for 3 days on a toll road in a torrential rainstorm. It was mostly over 100 degrees. We didn’t talk to anyone except hotel front deskers and waitresses for almost three days. Finally ate Mexican food on the way from Denver to Aspen, in Glenwood Springs Colorado. Don’t remember the name, but it was a SUPER REAL taco shop in a mini-mall on the left side of the road if your driving out of Glenwood toward Aspen.
Played with the Cowboy Junkies in Aspen at the Belly-Up Tavern, same family as the one in Solana Beach. Rad club. Cowboy Junkies were cool, but their guitar tech was a dick for no reason. One of those “I hope I meet him again somewhere” kind of guys just so I can remind him of how much of a dick he is, and for no reason. If you’re reading this Mr. Cowboy Junkies guitar tech, we all live on the road and deserve at least basic politeness until we prove ourselves unworthy thereof. You are a dick, and for no good reason whatsoever. Jim was sick and getting sicker, so we split for Utah.
Played a super cool punk rock bar in Salt Lake City called Burt’s Tiki Room. Played Boise and stayed in an island-themed hotel that was very well air conditioned. Played San Francisco and visited with my friend Dominique who came and hung-out backstage, took pics, and was a regular joy to see as always. Along with just being super chill, Dominique always brings awesome gift bags . . . this year she brought me a diary and a gift certificate for In N Out, which Jim and I nearly killed ourselves with somewhere near Sacramento about a week later.
Left SF after the show over the Golden Gate Bridge, through San Quentin, and to Portland to play the next night — which is about 650 miles I think. Visited CDBaby and did a podcast the morning after the show. Jim got into a little trouble with a secret operative on our day off . . . but I’ll let him tell you that story. Drove to Seattle with Twitchy and played that night at the Crocodile where a girl fight broke out during “Falling Awake”, then to Spokane the next night at the Big Easy where we get to hang with our friend Brandy who always takes us out to eat late night and usually to sing karaoke.
The show in Spokane was on July 21st, exactly 3 weeks after opening night in Brooklyn. Woke up the next morning and started the 1400 mile journey to LA — which was awesome. Put together a band in LA . . . some old friends, some new. Al Sgro (keys, perc, bv’s), Holly Conlan (killing the harmonies and looking super hot), Jim Bianco (electric piano), Ben Peeler (lapsteel and electric guitar), Jon Button (bass for days), and Brendan Buckley (drums and drums). Played with Tears for Fears in Saratoga and Orange County. Headlined Humphry’s Backstage in San Diego with the band . . . JB opening. A good time was had by all.
Sitting in San Diego now, visiting with my whole family. Went surfing in the Pacific Ocean yesterday with my friend Kurt . . . going back to LA tomorrow for a week of meetings and traffic.
On August 18th Jim and I start heading back toward the country via Dallas, Austin, Atlanta, Charlotte and Asheville.
Can’t wait.
Posted on 8.05.07
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CRITICISM
Went online the other night after the show and read some of the original reviews of some of my favorite records. Super cool. Interesting to read bad reviews of records (ie Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon”) that have since become classics . . . even more the lukewarm reviews about “Astral Weeks” (Van Morrison), “Exile in Guyville” (Liz Phair), or “The Bends” (Radiohead).
The whole thing got me thinking about criticism in general — criticism of art in particular. Reminded me of Alexander Pope’s “An Essay on Criticism”, so I went back and read it again for the first time in several years. Amazing. Makes me realize what it must feel like for religious folks to read their respective holy books. So inspiring.
Figured I’d copy and paste it here for anyone who has the time and interest. My favorite part is:
“Poets like Painters, thus, unskill’d to trace
The naked Nature and the living Grace,
With Gold and Jewels cover ev’ry Part,
And hide with Ornaments their Want of Art.
True Wit is Nature to Advantage drest,
What oft was Thought, but ne’er so well Exprest”The last part supposedly inspired John Lennon to write “All You Need is Love” (There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done, Nothing you can sing that can’t be sung, etc.)
Anyway, enjoy if you will. We’re in Salt Lake City tonight, Boise tomorrow. Hope to see you all soon.
ALEXANDER POPE — AN ESSAY ON CRITICISM
‘Tis hard to say, if greater Want of Skill
Appear in Writing or in Judging ill,
But, of the two, less dang’rous is th’ Offence,
To tire our Patience, than mis-lead our Sense:
Some few in that, but Numbers err in this,
Ten Censure wrong for one who Writes amiss;
A Fool might once himself alone expose,
Now One in Verse makes many more in Prose.‘Tis with our Judgments as our Watches, none
Go just alike, yet each believes his own. [10]
In Poets as true Genius is but rare,
True Taste as seldom is the Critick’s Share;
Both must alike from Heav’n derive their Light,
These born to Judge, as well as those to Write.
Let such teach others who themselves excell,
And censure freely who have written well.
Authors are partial to their Wit, ’tis true,
But are not Criticks to their Judgment too?Yet if we look more closely, we shall find
Most have the Seeds of Judgment in their Mind; [20]
Nature affords at least a glimm’ring Light;
The Lines, tho’ touch’d but faintly, are drawn right.
But as the slightest Sketch, if justly trac’d,
Is by ill Colouring but the more disgrac’d,
So by false Learning is good Sense defac’d.
Some are bewilder’d in the Maze of Schools,
And some made Coxcombs Nature meant but Fools.
In search of Wit these lose their common Sense,
And then turn Criticks in their own Defence.
Each burns alike, who can, or cannot write, [30]
Or with a Rival’s or an Eunuch’s spite.
All Fools have still an Itching to deride,
And fain wou’d be upon the Laughing Side;
If Maevius Scribble in Apollo’s spight,
There are, who judge still worse than he can writeSome have at first for Wits, then Poets past,
Turn’d Criticks next, and prov’d plain Fools at last;
Some neither can for Wits nor Criticks pass,
As heavy Mules are neither Horse or Ass.
Those half-learn’d Witlings, num’rous in our Isle, [40]
As half-form’d Insects on the Banks of Nile:
Unfinish’d Things, one knows now what to call,
Their Generation’s so equivocal:
To tell ‘em, wou’d a hundred Tongues require,
Or one vain Wit’s, that might a hundred tire.But you who seek to give and merit Fame,
And justly bear a Critick’s noble Name,
Be sure your self and your own Reach to know.
How far your Genius, Taste, and Learning go;
Launch not beyond your Depth, but be discreet, [50]
And mark that Point where Sense and Dulness meet.Nature to all things fix’d the Limits fit,
And wisely curb’d proud Man’s pretending Wit:
As on the Land while here the Ocean gains,
In other Parts it leaves wide sandy Plains;
Thus in the Soul while Memory prevails,
The solid Pow’r of Understanding fails;
Where Beams of warm Imagination play,
The Memory’s soft Figures melt away.
One Science only will one Genius fit; [60]
So vast is Art, so narrow Human Wit;
Not only bounded to peculiar Arts,
But oft in those, confin’d to single Parts.
Like Kings we lose the Conquests gain’d before,
By vain Ambition still to make them more:
Each might his sev’ral Province well command,
Wou’d all but stoop to what they understand.First follow Nature, and your Judgment frame
By her just Standard, which is still the same:
Unerring Nature, still divinely bright, [70]
One clear, unchang’d and Universal Light,
Life, Force, and Beauty, must to all impart,
At once the Source, and End, and Test of Art.
Art from that Fund each just Supply provides,
Works without Show, and without Pomp presides:
In some fair Body thus th’ informing Soul
With Spirits feeds, with Vigour fills the whole,
Each Motion guides, and ev’ry Nerve sustains;
It self unseen, but in th’ Effects, remains.
Some, to whom Heav’n in Wit has been profuse. [80]
Want as much more, to turn it to its use,
For Wit and Judgment often are at strife,
Tho’ meant each other’s Aid, like Man and Wife.
‘Tis more to guide than spur the Muse’s Steed;
Restrain his Fury, than provoke his Speed;
The winged Courser, like a gen’rous Horse,
Shows most true Mettle when you check his Course.Those Rules of old discover’d, not devis’d,
Are Nature still, but Nature Methodiz’d;
Nature, like Liberty, is but restrain’d [90]
By the same Laws which first herself ordain’d.Hear how learn’d Greece her useful Rules indites,
When to repress, and when indulge our Flights:
High on Parnassus’ Top her Sons she show’d,
And pointed out those arduous Paths they trod,
Held from afar, aloft, th’ Immortal Prize,
And urg’d the rest by equal Steps to rise;
Just Precepts thus from great Examples giv’n,
She drew from them what they deriv’d from Heav’n
The gen’rous Critick fann’d the Poet’s Fire, [100]
And taught the World, with Reason to Admire.
Then Criticism the Muse’s Handmaid prov’d,
To dress her Charms, and make her more belov’d;
But following Wits from that Intention stray’d;
Who cou’d not win the Mistress, woo’d the Maid;
Against the Poets their own Arms they turn’d,
Sure to hate most the Men from whom they learn’d.
So modern Pothecaries, taught the Art
By Doctor’s Bills to play the Doctor’s Part,
Bold in the Practice of mistaken Rules, [110]
Prescribe, apply, and call their Masters Fools.
Some on the Leaves of ancient Authors prey,
Nor Time nor Moths e’er spoil’d so much as they:
Some dryly plain, without Invention’s Aid,
Write dull Receits how Poems may be made:
These leave the Sense, their Learning to display,
And theme explain the Meaning quite awayYou then whose Judgment the right Course wou’d steer,
Know well each Ancient’s proper Character,
His Fable, Subject, Scope in ev’ry Page, [120]
Religion, Country, Genius of his Age:
Without all these at once before your Eyes,
Cavil you may, but never Criticize.
Be Homer’s Works your Study, and Delight,
Read them by Day, and meditate by Night,
Thence form your Judgment, thence your Maxims bring,
And trace the Muses upward to their Spring;
Still with It self compar’d, his Text peruse;
And let your Comment be the Mantuan Muse.When first young Maro in his boundless Mind [130]
A Work t’ outlast Immortal Rome design’d,
Perhaps he seem’d above the Critick’s Law,
And but from Nature’s Fountains scorn’d to draw:
But when t’examine ev’ry Part he came,
Nature and Homer were, he found, the same:
Convinc’d, amaz’d, he checks the bold Design,
And Rules as strict his labour’d Work confine,
As if the Stagyrite o’er looked each Line.
Learn hence for Ancient Rules a just Esteem;
To copy Nature is to copy Them. [140]Some Beauties yet, no Precepts can declare,
For there’s a Happiness as well as Care.
Musick resembles Poetry, in each
Are nameless Graces which no Methods teach,
And which a Master-Hand alone can reach.
If, where the Rules not far enough extend,
(Since Rules were made but to promote their End)
Some Lucky Licence answers to the full
Th’ Intent propos’d, that Licence is a Rule.
Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, [150]
May boldly deviate from the common Track.
Great Wits sometimes may gloriously offend,
And rise to Faults true Criticks dare not mend;
From vulgar Bounds with brave Disorder part,
And snatch a Grace beyond the Reach of Art,
Which, without passing thro’ the Judgment, gains
The Heart, and all its End at once attains.
In Prospects, thus, some Objects please our Eyes,
Which out of Nature’s common Order rise,
The shapeless Rock, or hanging Precipice. [160]
But tho’ the Ancients thus their Rules invade,
(As Kings dispense with Laws Themselves have made)
Moderns, beware! Or if you must offend
Against the Precept, ne’er transgress its End,
Let it be seldom, and compell’d by Need,
And have, at least, Their Precedent to plead.
The Critick else proceeds without Remorse,
Seizes your Fame, and puts his Laws in force.I know there are, to whose presumptuous Thoughts
Those Freer Beauties, ev’n in Them, seem Faults: [170]
Some Figures monstrous and mis-shap’d appear,
Consider’d singly, or beheld too near,
Which, but proportion’d to their Light, or Place,
Due Distance reconciles to Form and Grace.
A prudent Chief not always must display
His Pow’rs in equal Ranks, and fair Array,
But with th’ Occasion and the Place comply,
Conceal his Force, nay seem sometimes to Fly.
Those oft are Stratagems which Errors seem,
Nor is it Homer Nods, but We that Dream. [180]Still green with Bays each ancient Altar stands,
Above the reach of Sacrilegious Hands,
Secure from Flames, from Envy’s fiercer Rage,
Destructive War, and all-involving Age.
See, from each Clime the Learn’d their Incense bring;
Hear, in all Tongues consenting Paeans ring!
In Praise so just, let ev’ry Voice be join’d,
And fill the Gen’ral Chorus of Mankind!
Hail Bards Triumphant! born in happier Days;
Immortal Heirs of Universal Praise! [190]
Whose Honours with Increase of Ages grow,
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow!
Nations unborn your mighty Names shall sound,
And Worlds applaud that must not yet be found!
Oh may some Spark of your Coelestial Fire
The last, the meanest of your Sons inspire,
(That on weak Wings, from far, pursues your Flights;
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes)
To teach vain Wits a Science little known,
T’ admire Superior Sense, and doubt their own! [200]Of all the Causes which conspire to blind
Man’s erring Judgment, and misguide the Mind,
What the weak Head with strongest Byass rules,
Is Pride, the never-failing Vice of Fools.
Whatever Nature has in Worth deny’d,
She gives in large Recruits of needful Pride;
For as in Bodies, thus in Souls, we find
What wants in Blood and Spirits, swell’d with Wind;
Pride, where Wit fails, steps in to our Defence,
And fills up all the mighty Void of Sense! [210]
If once right Reason drives that Cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with resistless Day;
Trust not your self; but your Defects to know,
Make use of ev’ry Friend — and ev’ry Foe.A little Learning is a dang’rous Thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring:
There shallow Draughts intoxicate the Brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.
Fir’d at first Sight with what the Muse imparts,
In fearless Youth we tempt the Heights of Arts, [220]
While from the bounded Level of our Mind,
Short Views we take, nor see the lengths behind,
But more advanc’d, behold with strange Surprize
New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise!
So pleas’d at first, the towring Alps we try,
Mount o’er the Vales, and seem to tread the Sky;
Th’ Eternal Snows appear already past,
And the first Clouds and Mountains seem the last:
But those attain’d, we tremble to survey
The growing Labours of the lengthen’d Way, [230]
Th’ increasing Prospect tires our wandering Eyes,
Hills peep o’er Hills, and Alps on Alps arise!A perfect Judge will read each Work of Wit
With the same Spirit that its Author writ,
Survey the Whole, nor seek slight Faults to find,
Where Nature moves, and Rapture warms the Mind;
Nor lose, for that malignant dull Delight,
The gen’rous Pleasure to be charm’d with Wit.
But in such Lays as neither ebb, nor flow,
Correctly cold, and regularly low, [240]
That shunning Faults, one quiet Tenour keep;
We cannot blame indeed — but we may sleep.
In Wit, as Nature, what affects our Hearts
Is nor th’ Exactness of peculiar Parts;
‘Tis not a Lip, or Eye, we Beauty call,
But the joint Force and full Result of all.
Thus when we view some well-proportion’d Dome,
The World’s just Wonder, and ev’n thine O Rome!)
No single Parts unequally surprize;
All comes united to th’ admiring Eyes; [250]
No monstrous Height, or Breadth, or Length appear;
The Whole at once is Bold, and Regular.Whoever thinks a faultless Piece to see,
Thinks what ne’er was, nor is, nor e’er shall be.
In ev’ry Work regard the Writer’s End,
Since none can compass more than they Intend;
And if the Means be just, the Conduct true,
Applause, in spite of trivial Faults, is due.
As Men of Breeding, sometimes Men of Wit,
T’ avoid great Errors, must the less commit, [260]
Neglect the Rules each Verbal Critick lays,
For not to know some Trifles, is a Praise.
Most Criticks, fond of some subservient Art,
Still make the Whole depend upon a Part,
They talk of Principles, but Notions prize,
And All to one lov’d Folly Sacrifice.Once on a time, La Mancha’s Knight, they say,
A certain Bard encountring on the Way,
Discours’d in Terms as just, with Looks as Sage,
As e’er cou’d Dennis, of the Grecian Stage; [270]
Concluding all were desp’rate Sots and Fools,
Who durst depart from Aristotle’s Rules.
Our Author, happy in a Judge so nice,
Produc’d his Play, and beg’d the Knight’s Advice,
Made him observe the Subject and the Plot,
The Manners, Passions, Unities, what not?
All which, exact to Rule were brought about,
Were but a Combate in the Lists left out.
What! Leave the Combate out? Exclaims the Knight;
Yes, or we must renounce the Stagyrite. [280]
Not so by Heav’n (he answers in a Rage)
Knights, Squires, and Steeds, must enter on the Stage.
So vast a Throng the Stage can ne’er contain.
Then build a New, or act it in a Plain.Thus Criticks, of less Judgment than Caprice,
Curious, not Knowing, not exact, but nice,
Form short Ideas; and offend in Arts
(As most in Manners) by a Love to Parts.Some to Conceit alone their Taste confine,
And glitt’ring Thoughts struck out at ev’ry Line; [290]
Pleas’d with a Work where nothing’s just or fit;
One glaring Chaos and wild Heap of Wit;
Poets like Painters, thus, unskill’d to trace
The naked Nature and the living Grace,
With Gold and Jewels cover ev’ry Part,
And hide with Ornaments their Want of Art.
True Wit is Nature to Advantage drest,
What oft was Thought, but ne’er so well Exprest,
Something, whose Truth convinc’d at Sight we find,
That gives us back the Image of our Mind: [300]
As Shades more sweetly recommend the Light,
So modest Plainness sets off sprightly Wit:
For Works may have more Wit than does ‘em good,
As Bodies perish through Excess of Blood.Others for Language all their Care express,
And value Books, as Women Men, for Dress:
Their Praise is still — The Stile is excellent:
The Sense, they humbly take upon Content.
Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound,
Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found. [310]
False Eloquence, like the Prismatic Glass,
Its gawdy Colours spreads on ev’ry place;
The Face of Nature was no more Survey,
All glares alike, without Distinction gay:
But true Expression, like th’ unchanging Sun,
Clears, and improves whate’er it shines upon,
It gilds all Objects, but it alters none.
Expression is the Dress of Thought, and still
Appears more decent as more suitable;
A vile Conceit in pompous Words exprest, [320]
Is like a Clown in regal Purple drest;
For diff’rent Styles with diff’rent Subjects sort,
As several Garbs with Country, Town, and Court.
Some by Old Words to Fame have made Pretence;
Ancients in Phrase, meer Moderns in their Sense!
Such labour’d Nothings, in so strange a Style,
Amaze th’unlearn’d, and make the Learned Smile.
Unlucky, as Fungoso in the Play,
These Sparks with aukward Vanity display
What the Fine Gentleman wore Yesterday! [330]
And but so mimick ancient Wits at best,
As Apes our Grandsires in their Doublets treat.
In Words, as Fashions, the same Rule will hold;
Alike Fantastick, if too New, or Old;
Be not the first by whom the New are try’d,
Nor yet the last to lay the Old aside.But most by Numbers judge a Poet’s Song,
And smooth or rough, with them, is right or wrong;
In the bright Muse tho’ thousand Charms conspire,
Her Voice is all these tuneful Fools admire, [340]
Who haunt Parnassus but to please their Ear,
Not mend their Minds; as some to Church repair,
Not for the Doctrine, but the Musick there.
These Equal Syllables alone require,
Tho’ oft the Ear the open Vowels tire,
While Expletives their feeble Aid do join,
And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line,
While they ring round the same unvary’d Chimes,
With sure Returns of still expected Rhymes.
Where-e’er you find the cooling Western Breeze, [350]
In the next Line, it whispers thro’ the Trees;
If Chrystal Streams with pleasing Murmurs creep,
The Reader’s threaten’d (not in vain) with Sleep.
Then, at the last, and only Couplet fraught
With some unmeaning Thing they call a Thought,
A needless Alexandrine ends the Song,
That like a wounded Snake, drags its slow length along.
Leave such to tune their own dull Rhimes, and know
What’s roundly smooth, or languishingly slow;
And praise the Easie Vigor of a Line, [360]
Where Denham’s Strength, and Waller’s Sweetness join.
True Ease in Writing comes from Art, not Chance,
As those move easiest who have learn’d to dance,
‘Tis not enough no Harshness gives Offence,
The Sound must seem an Eccho to the Sense.
Soft is the Strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth Stream in smoother Numbers flows;
But when loud Surges lash the sounding Shore,
The hoarse, rough Verse shou’d like the Torrent roar.
When Ajax strives, some Rocks’ vast Weight to throw, [370]
The Line too labours, and the Words move slow;
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the Plain,
Flies o’er th’unbending Corn, and skims along the Main.
Hear how Timotheus’ vary’d Lays surprize,
And bid Alternate Passions fall and rise!
While, at each Change, the Son of Lybian Jove
Now burns with Glory, and then melts with Love;
Now his fierce Eyes with sparkling Fury glow;
Now Sighs steal out, and Tears begin to flow:
Persians and Greeks like Turns of Nature found, [380]
And the World’s Victor stood subdu’d by Sound!
The Pow’rs of Musick all our Hearts allow;
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.Avoid Extreams; and shun the Fault of such,
Who still are pleas’d too little, or too much.
At ev’ry Trifle scorn to take Offence,
That always shows Great Pride, or Little Sense;
Those Heads as Stomachs are not sure the best
Which nauseate all, and nothing can digest.
Yet let not each gay Turn thy Rapture move, [390]
For Fools Admire, but Men of Sense Approve;
As things seem large which we thro’ Mists descry,
Dulness is ever apt to Magnify.Some foreign Writers, some our own despise;
The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize:
(Thus Wit, like Faith by each Man is apply’d
To one small Sect, and All are damn’d beside.)
Meanly they seek the Blessing to confine,
And force that Sun but on a Part to Shine;
Which not alone the Southern Wit sublimes, [400]
But ripens Spirits in cold Northern Climes;
Which from the first has shone on Ages past,
Enlights the present, and shall warm the last:
(Tho’ each may feel Increases and Decays,
And see now clearer and now darker Days)
Regard not then if Wit be Old or New,
But blame the False, and value still the True.Some ne’er advance a Judgment of their own,
But catch the spreading Notion of the Town;
They reason and conclude by Precedent, [410]
And own stale Nonsense which they ne’er invent.
Some judge of Authors’ Names, not Works, and then
Nor praise nor blame the Writings, but the Men.
Of all this Servile Herd the worst is He
That in proud Dulness joins with Quality,
A constant Critick at the Great-man’s Board,
To fetch and carry Nonsense for my Lord.
What woful stuff this Madrigal wou’d be,
To some starv’d Hackny Sonneteer, or me?
But let a Lord once own the happy Lines, [420]
How the Wit brightens! How the Style refines!
Before his sacred Name flies ev’ry Fault,
And each exalted Stanza teems with Thought!The Vulgar thus through Imitation err;
As oft the Learn’d by being Singular;
So much they scorn the Crowd, that if the Throng
By Chance go right, they purposely go wrong;
So Schismatics the plain Believers quit,
And are but damn’d for having too much Wit.Some praise at Morning what they blame at Night; [430]
But always think the last Opinion right.
A Muse by these is like a Mistress us’d,
This hour she’s idoliz’d, the next abus’d,
While their weak Heads, like Towns unfortify’d,
‘Twixt Sense and Nonsense daily change their Side.
Ask them the Cause; They’re wiser still, they say;
And still to Morrow’s wiser than to Day.
We think our Fathers Fools, so wise we grow;
Our wiser Sons, no doubt, will think us so.
Once School-Divines this zealous Isle o’erspread; [440]
Who knew most Sentences was deepest read;
Faith, Gospel, All, seem’d made to be disputed,
And none had Sense enough to be Confuted.
Scotists and Thomists, now, in Peace remain,
Amidst their kindred Cobwebs in Duck-Lane.
If Faith it self has diff’rent Dresses worn,
What wonder Modes in Wit shou’d take their Turn?
Oft, leaving what is Natural and fit,
The current Folly proves the ready Wit,
And Authors think their Reputation safe, [450]
Which lives as long as Fools are pleas’d to Laugh.Some valuing those of their own, Side or Mind,
Still make themselves the measure of Mankind;
Fondly we think we honour Merit then,
When we but praise Our selves in Other Men.
Parties in Wit attend on those of State,
And publick Faction doubles private Hate.
Pride, Malice, Folly, against Dryden rose,
In various Shapes of Parsons, Criticks, Beaus;
But Sense surviv’d, when merry Jests were past; [460]
For rising Merit will buoy up at last.
Might he return, and bless once more our Eyes,
New Blackmores and new Milbourns must arise;
Nay shou’d great Homer lift his awful Head,
Zoilus again would start up from the Dead.
Envy will Merit as its Shade pursue,
But like a Shadow, proves the Substance true;
For envy’d Wit, like Sol Eclips’d, makes known
Th’ opposing Body’s Grossness, not its own.
When first that Sun too powerful Beams displays, [470]
It draws up Vapours which obscure its Rays;
But ev’n those Clouds at last adorn its Way,
Reflect new Glories, and augment the Day.Be thou the first true Merit to befriend;
His Praise is lost, who stays till All commend;
Short is the Date, alas, of Modern Rhymes;
And ’tis but just to let ‘em live betimes.
No longer now that Golden Age appears,
When Patriarch-Wits surviv’d thousand Years;
Now Length of Fame (our second Life) is lost, [480]
And bare Threescore is all ev’n That can boast:
Our Sons their Fathers’ failing language see,
And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.
So when the faithful Pencil has design’d
Some bright Idea of the Master’s Mind,
Where a new World leaps out at his command,
And ready Nature waits upon his Hand;
When the ripe Colours soften and unite,
And sweetly melt into just Shade and Light,
When mellowing Years their full Perfection give, [490]
And each Bold Figure just begins to Live;
The treach’rous Colours the fair Art betray,
And all the bright Creation fades away!Unhappy Wit, like most mistaken Things,
Attones not for that Envy which it brings.
In Youth alone its empty Praise we boast,
But soon the Short-liv’d Vanity is lost!
Like some fair Flow’r the early Spring supplies,
That gaily Blooms, but ev’n in blooming Dies.
What is this Wit which must our Cares employ? [500]
The Owner’s Wife, that other Men enjoy,
Then most our Trouble still when most admir’d,
And still the more we give, the more requir’d;
Whose Fame with Pains we guard, but lose with Ease,
Sure some to vex, but never all to please;
‘Tis what the Vicious fear, the Virtuous shun;
By Fools ’tis hated, and by Knaves undone!If Wit so much from Ign’rance undergo,
Ah let not Learning too commence its Foe!
Of old, those met Rewards who cou’d excel, [510]
And such were Prais’d who but endeavour’d well:
Tho’ Triumphs were to Gen’rals only due,
Crowns were reserv’d to grace the Soldiers too.
Now, they who reached Parnassus’ lofty Crown,
Employ their Pains to spurn some others down;
And while Self-Love each jealous Writer rules,
Contending Wits becomes the Sport of Fools:
But still the Worst with most Regret commend,
For each Ill Author is as bad a Friend.
To what base Ends, and by what abject Ways, [520]
Are Mortals urg’d thro’ Sacred Lust of praise!
Ah ne’er so dire a Thirst of Glory boast,
Nor in the Critick let the Man be lost!
Good-Nature and Good-Sense must ever join;
To err is Humane; to Forgive, Divine.But if in Noble Minds some Dregs remain,
Not yet purg’d off, of Spleen and sow’r Disdain,
Discharge that Rage on more Provoking Crimes,
Nor fear a Dearth in these Flagitious Times.
No Pardon vile Obscenity should find, [530]
Tho’ Wit and Art conspire to move your Mind;
But Dulness with Obscenity must prove
As Shameful sure as Importance in Love.
In the fat Age of Pleasure, Wealth, and Ease,
Sprung the rank Weed, and thriv’d with large Increase;
When Love was all an easie Monarch’s Care;
Seldom at Council, never in a War:
Jilts rul’d the State, and Statesmen Farces writ;
Nay Wits had Pensions, and young Lords had Wit:
The Fair sate panting at a Courtier’s Play, [540]
And not a Mask went un-improv’d away:
The modest Fan was liked up no more,
And Virgins smil’d at what they blush’d before —
The following Licence of a Foreign Reign
Did all the Dregs of bold Socinus drain;
Then Unbelieving Priests reform’d the Nation,
And taught more Pleasant Methods of Salvation;
Where Heav’ns Free Subjects might their Rights dispute,
Lest God himself shou’d seem too Absolute.
Pulpits their Sacred Satire learn’d to spare, [550]
And Vice admir’d to find a Flatt’rer there!
Encourag’d thus, Witt’s Titans brav’d the Skies,
And the Press groan’d with Licenc’d Blasphemies —
These Monsters, Criticks! with your Darts engage,
Here point your Thunder, and exhaust your Rage!
Yet shun their Fault, who, Scandalously nice,
Will needs mistake an Author into Vice;
All seems Infected that th’ Infected spy,
As all looks yellow to the Jaundic’d Eye.Learn then what Morals Criticks ought to show, [560]
For ’tis but half a Judge’s Task, to Know.
‘Tis not enough, Taste, Judgment, Learning, join;
In all you speak, let Truth and Candor shine:
That not alone what to your Sense is due,
All may allow; but seek your Friendship too.Be silent always when you doubt your Sense;
And speak, tho’ sure, with seeming Diffidence:
Some positive persisting Fops we know,
Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so;
But you, with Pleasure own your Errors past, [570]
An make each Day a Critick on the last.‘Tis not enough your Counsel still be true,
Blunt Truths more Mischief than nice Falsehood do;
Men must be taught as if you taught them not;
And Things unknown propos’d as Things forgot:
Without Good Breeding, Truth is disapprov’d;
That only makes Superior Sense belov’d.Be Niggards of Advice on no Pretence;
For the worst Avarice is that of Sense:
With mean Complacence ne’er betray your Trust, [580]
Nor be so Civil as to prove Unjust;
Fear not the Anger of the Wise to raise;
Those best can bear Reproof, who merit Praise.‘Twere well, might Criticks still this Freedom take;
But Appius reddens at each Word you speak,
And stares, Tremendous! with a threatning Eye
Like some fierce Tyrant in Old Tapestry!
Fear most to tax an Honourable Fool,
Whose Right it is, uncensur’d to be dull;
Such without Wit are Poets when they please. [590]
As without Learning they can take Degrees.
Leave dang’rous Truths to unsuccessful Satyrs,
And Flattery to fulsome Dedicators,
Whom, when they Praise, the World believes no more,
Than when they promise to give Scribling o’er.
‘Tis best sometimes your Censure to restrain,
And charitably let the Dull be vain:
Your Silence there is better than your Spite,
For who can rail so long as they can write?
Still humming on, their drowzy Course they keep, [600]
And lash’d so long, like Tops, are lash’d asleep.
False Steps but help them to renew the Race,
As after Stumbling, Jades will mend their Pace.
What Crouds of these, impenitently bold,
In Sounds and jingling Syllables grown old,
Still run on Poets in a raging Vein,
Ev’n to the Dregs and Squeezings of the Brain;
Strain out the last, dull droppings of their Sense,
And Rhyme with all the Rage of Impotence!Such shameless Bards we have; and yet ’tis true, [610]
There are as mad, abandon’d Criticks too.
The Bookful Blockhead, ignorantly read,
With Loads of Learned Lumber in his Head,
With his own Tongue still edifies his Ears,
And always List’ning to Himself appears.
All Books he reads, and all he reads assails,
From Dryden’s Fables down to Durfey’s Tales.
With him, most Authors steal their Works, or buy;
Garth did not write his own Dispensary.
Name a new Play, and he’s the Poet’s Friend, [620]
Nay show’d his Faults — but when wou’d Poets mend?
No Place so Sacred from such Fops is barr’d,
Nor is Paul’s Church more safe than Paul’s Church-yard:
Nay, fly to Altars; there they’ll talk you dead;
For Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread.
Distrustful Sense with modest Caution speaks;
It still looks home, and short Excursions makes;
But ratling Nonsense in full Vollies breaks;
And never shock’d, and never turn’d aside,
Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering Tyde! [630]But where’s the Man, who Counsel can bestow,
Still pleas’d to teach, and not proud to know?
Unbiass’d, or by Favour or by Spite;
Not dully prepossest, nor blindly right;
Tho’ Learn’d well-bred; and tho’ well-bred, sincere;
Modestly bold, and Humanly severe?
Who to a Friend his Faults can freely show,
And gladly praise the Merit of a Foe?
Blest with a Taste exact, yet unconfin’d;
A Knowledge both of Books and Humankind; [640]
Gen’rous Converse; a Sound exempt from Pride;
And Love to Praise, with Reason on his Side?Such once were Criticks, such the Happy Few,
Athens and Rome in better Ages knew.
The mighty Stagyrite first left the Shore,
Spread all his Sails, and durst the Deeps explore;
He steer’d securely, and discover’d far,
Led by the Light of the Maeonian Star.
Poets, a Race long unconfin’d and free,
Still fond and proud of Savage Liberty, [650]
Receiv’d his Laws, and stood convinc’d ’twas fit
Who conquer’d Nature, shou’d preside o’er Wit.Horace still charms with graceful Negligence,
And without Method talks us into Sense,
Will like a Friend familarly convey
The truest Notions in the easiest way.
He, who Supream in Judgment, as in Wit,
Might boldly censure, as he boldly writ,
Yet judg’d with Coolness tho’ he sung with Fire;
His Precepts teach but what his Works inspire. [660]
Our Criticks take a contrary Extream,
They judge with Fury, but they write with Fle’me:
Nor suffers Horace more in wrong Translations
By Wits, than Criticks in as wrong Quotations.See Dionysius Homer’s Thoughts refine,
And call new Beauties forth from ev’ry Line!Fancy and Art in gay Petronius please,
The Scholar’s Learning, with the Courtier’s Ease.In grave Quintilian’s copious Work we find
The justest Rules, and clearest Method join’d; [670]
Thus useful Arms in Magazines we place,
All rang’d in Order, and dispos’d with Grace,
But less to please the Eye, than arm the Hand,
Still fit for Use, and ready at Command.Thee, bold Longinus! all the Nine inspire,
And bless their Critick with a Poet’s Fire.
An ardent Judge, who Zealous in his Trust,
With Warmth gives Sentence, yet is always Just;
Whose own Example strengthens all his Laws,
And Is himself that great Sublime he draws. [680]Thus long succeeding Criticks justly reign’d,
Licence repress’d, and useful Laws ordain’d;
Learning and Rome alike in Empire grew,
And Arts still follow’d where her Eagles flew;
From the same Foes, at last, both felt their Doom,
And the same Age saw Learning fall, and Rome.
With Tyranny, then Superstition join’d,
As that the Body, this enslav’d the Mind;
Much was Believ’d, but little understood,
And to be dull was constru’d to be good; [690]
A second Deluge Learning thus o’er-run,
And the Monks finish’d what the Goths begun.At length, Erasmus, that great, injur’d Name,
(The Glory of the Priesthood, and the Shame!)
Stemm’d the wild Torrent of a barb’rous Age.
And drove those Holy Vandals off the Stage.But see! each Muse, in Leo’s Golden Days,
Starts from her Trance, and trims her wither’d Bays!
Rome’s ancient Genius, o’er its Ruins spread,
Shakes off the Dust, and rears his rev’rend Head! [700]
Then Sculpture and her Sister-Arts revive;
Stones leap’d to Form, and Rocks began to live;
With sweeter Notes each rising Temple rung;
A Raphael painted, and a Vida sung!
Immortal Vida! on whose honour’d Brow
The Poet’s Bays and Critick’s Ivy grow:
Cremona now shall ever boast thy Name,
As next in Place to Mantua, next in Fame!But soon by Impious Arms from Latium chas’d,
Their ancient Bounds the banish’d Muses past: [710]
Thence Arts o’er all the Northern World advance,
But Critic Learning flourish’d most in France.
The Rules, a Nation born to serve, obeys,
And Boileau still in Right of Horace sways.
But we, brave Britons, Foreign Laws despis’d,
And kept unconquer’d and unciviliz’d,
Fierce for the Liberties of Wit, and bold,
We still defy’d the Romans as of old.
Yet some there were, among the sounder Few
Of those who less presum’d, and better knew, [720]
Who durst assert the juster Ancient Cause,
And here restor’d Wit’s Fundamental Laws.
Such was the Muse, whose Rules and Practice tell,
Nature’s chief Master-piece is writing well.
Such was Roscomon — not more learn’d than good,
With Manners gen’rous as his Noble Blood;
To him the Wit of Greece and Rome was known,
And ev’ry Author’s Merit, but his own.
Such late was Walsh, — the Muse’s Judge and Friend,
Who justly knew to blame or to commend; [730]
To Failings mild, but zealous for Desert;
The clearest Head, and the sincerest Heart.
This humble Praise, lamented Shade! receive,
This Praise at least a grateful Muse may give!
The Muse, whose early Voice you taught to Sing,
Prescrib’d her Heights, and prun’d her tender Wing,
(Her Guide now lost) no more attempts to rise,
But in low Numbers short Excursions tries:
Content, if hence th’ Unlearned their Wants may view,
The Learn’d reflect on what before they knew: [740]
Careless of Censure, not too fond of Fame,
Still pleas’d to praise, yet not afraid to blame,
Averse alike to Flatter, or Offend,
Not free from Faults, nor yet too vain to mend.Posted on 7.14.07
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Hey Folks. Welcome to my new journal page.
I’ve decided that I’m not a particularly good journal writer unless I’m really inspired by something cool happening – and when something cool happens I usually want to enjoy it rather than worrying about writing it down.
So, though I pledge to do my best on the journal entry thing . . . I think most of the time I’ll just check in and let folks know the important stuff. I have a friend, one that I consider to be a very good friend, named Mason. He and I almost never get to see each other except occasionally on the road for a few hours, or while passing through each other’s hometowns once every year or so – so we keep up by sporadic email, text, and the odd ten-minute phone call. I realized the last time I saw him that no matter how long (or short, rather) our meetings are, Mason always wants to know what I’m listening to and what I’m reading. For grown folks who have families and careers and stuff, I think that knowing what a friend is thinking about is a good way to feel personally connected without the benefit of a lot of personal contact. That’s kinda how I think the journal thing is going to work out for me. I’d like it to be interactive. I’ll check in and let you know what I’m reading, listening to, watching, or thinking about – then you (the collective “you” out there) write me at info@garyjules.com and let me know what YOU”RE thinking, reading, listening to. If something interesting pops up, I’ll post it in the journal. How’s that sound? Kind of a slightly altered “forum” type set up.
Wow, look at that – looks like a real journal entry so far.
Anyway, on with the program:
READING: A Biography of Albert Einstein. The man so fully believed in the theory of general relativity that he was willing to allow that the gravity of the sun was so intense that it could actually BEND light. Turns out he was right of course. When asked if, as a religious man, he was a habitual reader of scripture, Einstein answered something like ‘Why would I be? I speak mathematics. It would not make any sense to read the interpretations of fanatics when one can read the script itself written by the hand of God’. Quincy, if you’re reading this, this is your cue to start a thinking man’s discussion of Faith – I’m game. I loved math as a kid, but never really understood it as a language until way later, by which time I was no longer a good math student . . . luckily the Einstein book isn’t too mathy.
LISTENING TO: Sufjan Stevens, Illinoise. Fascinated by his arrangements and the combination of literature, serial killers, and intelligent, earnest, controversial religious subjects. I know, it’s a cliché, but I’m interested in faith . . . the history, purpose, and power of faith. Sue me. Anyway, Sufjan is a master of balancing the sublime and the secular, the remarkable and the everyday – and the songs are just so CATCHY. My son dances around like a maniac whenever “I fell in love again . . . all things go, all things go” comes on. “That’s MY song, daddy. ALLFINGSGO!!”. And the best part is, he’ll bounce around for a while and then eventually get very still, listening over and over until he falls asleep. Every parent who reads this will know what I mean when I say, God bless you Sufjan Stevens.
Until next time . . .
Posted on 6.19.07