''Suicide'' in The Lord of the Rings...

I have just voted on that poll of the University of Bath on assisted suicide. Is there a more monstrous concept? Imagine standing before God on the Day of Judgement and having ''accomplice in the murder of a loved one'' on the list of one's sins. I shiver to think of my own position on that dreadful Day, and I have never made recourse to anti-Evangelical and anti-Life ''answers'' to problems that can be resolved through earnest prayer and repentance. If only people had thought not only for this life but for eternity. It basically means that not only the poor terminally ill victim has the ultimate sins of Pride and Despair on their conscience but also the accomplice in their unfortunate death. At least two people written out of the Book of Life...not to mention the lunatic Babel-building doctors and scientists who devise such abominable notions, and all in the name of ''mercy.'' Evil delusions and lies...

Suicide is dealt with few times in Tolkien, but where it is mentioned, it is rightly seen as tragic. Those familiar with The Lord of the Rings will perhaps remember this passage:

'''He will not wake again,' said Denethor. 'Battle is vain. Why should we wish to live longer? Why should we not go to death side by side?'
'Authority is not given to you, Steward of Gondor, to order the hour of your death,' answered Gandalf. 'And only the heathen kings, under the domination of the Dark Power, did thus, slaying themselves in pride and despair, murdering their kin to ease their own death.''' (The Lord of the Rings, Book V, Chapter VII, The Pyre of Denethor).

One of the early critics of The Lord of the Rings (I can't presently remember his name) criticized the book for containing no reference to religion. Sorry, mate, you've completely missed the point! It was Tolkien's genius to make little mention of cults (where they are mentioned, they are associated with worship of the Dark Lord, who surrounds his abode with fire) or religious practices - and yet the absence of any overt religion makes the very air of Middle-earth heavy with a deep and refreshing religious fragrance. You only have to have senses to perceive it, like small, but significant, nuggets like this quotation. Rather like the Liturgy - God reveals Himself through veiling.

Interestingly, one of the most important ends of the Istari (or Wizards) was to save the minds of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth from corruption, as much as their physical selves and their lands. Their angelic powers (they were angelic beings, the Maiar, akin to the ancient Valar) were directed primarily towards encouragement of Elves and Men to good, to deeds of valour, to unite and endure - ultimately, to put away visions of Despair and ruin. Tolkien saw them as somewhat consonant with our Guardian Angels...except that the only one who remained true to his mission was Gandalf, in a sense, the ''Guardian Angel'' of the West against the tyranny of Sauron. Imagine how he was greeted when the White Ship docked in the Bay of Eldamar...

The above painting is by Ted Nasmith, the famous Tolkien illustrator, and depicts Gandalf coming to the rescue of Faramir with Pippin through Rath Dínen. Again, not as I imagined that Street at all, but then I can't project the images of my mind onto this blog unfortunately...

The Lay of Leithian, Part III...

Let us return to the beautiful Lay of Leithian. We have seen that Daeron the Minstrel had long espied the meetings of Lúthien and Beren and that at last he had betrayed the lovers to the King. In wonder and anger Thingol spoke to his daughter, and...

Then Lúthien stepped lightly forth:

''Far in the mountain-leaguered North,

my father,'' said she, ''lies the land

that groans beneath King Morgoth's hand.

Thence came one hither, bent and worn

in wars and travail, who had sworn

undying hatred of that king;

the last of Bëor's sons, they sing,

and even hither far and deep

within thy woods the echoes-creep

through the wild mountain-passes cold,

the last of Bëor's house to hold

a sword unconquered, neck unbowed,

a heart by evil power uncowed.

No evil needst thou think or fear

of Beren son of Barahir!

If aught thou hast not flesh nor limb,

and I will lead him to thy hall,

a son of kings, no mortal thrall.''

Downward with gentle hand she led

through corridors of carven dread

whose turns were lit by lanterns hung

or flames from torches that were flung

on dragons hewn in the cold stone

with jewelled eyes and teeth of bone.

Then sudden, deep beneath the earth

the silences with silver mirth

were shaken and the rocks were ringing,

the birds of Melian were singing;

and wide the ways of shadow spread

as into archéd halls she led

Beren in wonder. There a light

like day immortal and like night

of stars unclouded, shone and gleamed.

A vault of topless trees it seemed,

whose trunks of carven stone there stood

like towers of an enchanted wood

in magic fast for ever bound,

bearing a roof whose branches wound

in endless tracery of green

lit by some leaf-emprisoned sheen

of moon and sun, and wrought of gems,

and each leaf hung on golden stems.

Lo! there amid immortal flowers

the nightingales in shining bowers

sang o'er the head of Melian,

while water for ever dripped and ran

from fountains in the rocky floor.

There Thingol sat. His crown he wore

of green and silver, and round his chair

a host in gleaming armour fair.

Then Beren looked upon the king

and stood amazed; and swift a ring

of elvish weapons hemmed him round.

Then Beren looked upon the ground,

for Melian's gaze had sought his face,

and dazed there drooped he in that place,

and when the king spake deep and slow:

''Who art thou stumblest hither? Know

that none unbidden seek this throne

and ever leave these halls of stone!''

no word he answered, filled with dread.

But Lúthien answered in his stead:

''Behold, my father, one who came

pursued by hatred like a flame!

Lo! Beren son of Barahir!

What need hath he thy wrath to fear,

foe of our foes, without a friend,

whose knees to Morgoth do not bend?''

''Let Beren answer!'' Thingol said.

''What wouldst thou here? What hither led

thy wandering feet, O mortal wild?

How hast thou Lúthien beguiled

or darest thus to walk this wood

unasked, in secret? Reason good

'twere best declare now if thou may,

or never again see light of day!''

Then Beren looked in Lúthien's eyes

and saw a light of starry skies,

and thence was slowly drawn his gaze

to Melian's face. As from a maze

of wonder dumb he woke; his heart

the bonds of awe there burst apart

and filled with the fearless pride of old;

in his glance now gleamed an anger cold.

''My feet hath fate, O king,'' he said,

''here over the mountains bleeding led,

and what I sought not I have found,

and love it is hath here me bound.

Thy dearest treasure I desire;

nor rocks nor steel nor Morgoth's fire

nor all the power of Elfinesse

shall keep that gem I would possess.

For fairer than are born to Men

A daughter hast thou, Lúthien.''

(The History of Middle-earth, Volume III, The Lays of Beleriand, pp 187-190).

Antiphona ad Offertorium...

I have often said before that I enjoy Requiem Masses - indeed, I would replace (were I ''in charge'' of things) boring Ferial Masses with Requiems for the suffering souls in Purgatory, since this is very important. I have only ever MCd one Requiem Missa Cantata before and so, trying to focus upon the ceremonies, didn't have much of an opportunity, nor have I since, to peruse the texts of the Mass - trying to remember things like ''Rex tremendae maiestatis,'' and ''Qui Mariam absolvisti,'' no candles for the Gospel, etc. I did a little of this yesterevening in the Sacristy with the old Missal, and I read the Offertory verse to myself. Isolated from my dictionary, I had to ask Fr Finigan what certain odd words meant (all of which turned out to be what I had guessed they meant anyway), and it was quite lovely. Here is the Offertory verse with my translation:

Domine Iesu Christe, Rex gloriae, libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum de poenis inferni et de profundo lacu: libera eas de ore leonis, ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum: sed signifer sanctus Michael repraesentet eas in lucem sanctam: Quam olim Abrahae promisisti, et semini eius. ℣ Hostias et preces tibi, Domine laudis offerimus: tu supplice pro animabus illis, quarum hodie memoriam facimus: fac eas, Domine, de morte transire ad vitam: Quam olim Abrahae promisisti et semini eius. O Lord Jesus Christ, King of glory, set the souls of all the faithful departed at liberty from the pains of Hell and from the deep lake; free them from the mouth of the lion, neither let them be absorbed into Tartarus, nor let them fall into obscurity: but let the holy standard-bearer Michael show them the holy light: as you once promised to Abraham and to his seed. ℣ To you, O Lord, we offer sacrifices and prayers of praise: you receive them for those souls, of whom today we make memory: make them, O Lord, to pass from death unto life: as you once promised to Abraham and to his seed.

Let's have more High Masses of Requiem and less Low Mass...! The above painting shouldn't need an introduction, but it is William Blake's rendering of the Last Judgement. It's awfully plain isn't it?

I forgot to mention...

Being wrapped up in the Relics of St Thérèse and Latin and other things, I forgot to pay my due respects to St Edward the Confessor, the penultimate Anglo-Saxon King of the English (although he was technically half-Norman through his mother Emma, and his mother tongue was Norman-French, and he had lived in Normandy for 30 years since his mother had brought the young prince as a child refugee from the wars between the Saxons and the Danes!), who happens to be one of my favourite Saints. I think he should be, as he was in the days of the Angevins, the Patron Saint of this Isle. He at least had something to do with it. In a certain sense, he was ''bullied'' or ''forced'' into a religious life by Godwin, Earl of Wessex, but he got his ''revenge'' if that can be said of a Saint, by producing no children by Godwin's daughter, thrust upon him in marriage in 1045. He was a saintly man and a wise king, and his reign was good (even if he kept having to look over his shoulder at Godwin). I am yet, however, to read the famous Vita Ædwardi Regis. Tolkien probably knew it well. I believe, though I am not sure, that it was at around his time that the Sovereigns were first called the ''kinsman and advocate of the poor.'' Here is my translation of the Collect for his Mass. I did this in the Sacristy whilst going through the old Missal before Benediction this evening:

Deus, qui beatem regem Eduardum Confessorem tuum aeternitatis gloria coronasti: fac nos, quaesumus; ita eum venerari in terris, ut cum eo regnare possimus in caelis. Per Dominum. O God, who has crowned blessed Edward thy Confessor with eternal glory: make us, we beseech thee, so as to venerate him on earth that we may be able to reign with him in heaven. Through the Lord.

St Edward the Confessor, pray for us.

And now...

It has been a long old week for me, but very eventful and fulfilling. I have been very busy and tired (although, not half as busy as some people I know, I'll warrant) these last few days especially, and my head is still buzzing from Tuesday. I had Latin this morning, the highlight of any week (although clearly not this week), 2 hours of utter bliss - shame it is only one lesson a week - they really ought to have lessons everyday, but I don't decide that sort of thing. As it turns out, my Latin teacher was at Westminster on Wednesday to see St Thérèse. She queued up for only a short while, then one of the stewards (a former student) noticed her and ushered her to the front! Lucky for some, although I enjoyed waiting - it seemed to be part of the whole, if that makes sense. I did my boring homework in the Library this afternoon, after which I checked my emails (I only had one!), and then finished my translation of Book I, Chapter I of The Imitation of Christ. I'll post that after I go over it. I am still working on my post about Tolkien and liturgical reform. It is one of those things that I should have finished the day I started it (over a week ago!) but I just haven't found the time. Tomorrow, being the only day of the week where I am technically not required to be anywhere or do anything, I plan to spend entirely to myself - although I'll probably end up doing something anyway. Maybe I'll return to The Lay of Leithian...

By the way, if I hear anything more about essays I shall boil over...

Forgiveness from Frodo...

Quite apart from the high sentiments of great and Marian Catholicism in The Lord of the Rings (I am quite sure Tolkien would find this rendering too ''solemn!'') are the good, solid, earthy and very Hobbit-like virtues which are so intrinsic to our Faith. One of these is Forgiveness. A favourite chapter of mine in The Lord of the Rings comes at the very end of the Book, which, as you'd expect, was simply ignored in the film trilogy:

''Saruman looked round at their hostile faces and smiled. 'Kill him!' he mocked. 'Kill him, if you think there are enough of you, my brave hobbits!' He drew himself up and stared at them darkly with his black eyes. 'But do not think that when I lost all my goods I lost all my power! Whoever strikes me shall be accursed. And if my blood stains the Shire, it shall wither and never again be healed'
The hobbits recoiled. But Frodo said: 'Do not believe him! He has lost all power, save his voice that can still daunt and deceive you, if you let it. But I will not have him slain. It is useless to meet revenge with revenge; it will heal nothing. Go, Saruman, by the speediest way!'
'Worm! Worm!' Saruman called; and out of a nearby hut came Wormtongue, crawling, almost like a dog. 'To the road again, Worm!' said Saruman. 'These fine fellows and lordlings are turning us adrift again. Come along!'
Saruman turned to go, and Wormtongue shuffled after him. But even as Saruman passed close to Frodo a knife flashed in his hand, and he stabbed swiftly. The blade turned on the hidden mail-coat and snapped. A dozen hobbits, led by Sam, leaped forward with a cry and flung the villain to the ground. Sam drew his sword.
'No, Sam!' said Frodo. 'Do not kill him even now. For he has not hurt me. And in any case I do not wish him to be slain in this evil mood. He was great once, of a noble kind that we should not dare to raise our hands against. He is fallen, and his cure is beyond us; but I would still spare him, in the hope that he may find it.'
Saruman rose to his feet, and stared at Frodo. There was a strange look in his eyes of mingled wonder, and respect and hatred. 'You have grown, Halfling,' he said. 'Yes, you have grown very much. You are wise, and cruel. You have robbed my revenge of sweetness, and now I must go hence in bitterness, in debt to your mercy. I hate it and you! Well, I go and I will trouble you no more. But do not expect me to wish you health and long life. You will have neither. But that is not my doing. I merely foretell.''' (The Lord of the Rings, Book VI, Chapter VIII, The Scouring of the Shire).

The Little Flower...

Flos, flos, florem has always been one of my favourite Declensions in Latin, and I see that in a new light now. This evening I went to Westminster Cathedral to reverence the Relics of St Thérèse of Lisieux. I arrived at the Piazza at around 7:30pm and was greeted immediately by the Franciscan Sisters of the Immaculate, who come regularly to Mass at Blackfen. They gave me one of their medals, which was sweet. I joined the queue, which was very long for a weekday evening, and we marched ''forward in faith,'' as it were, slowly. Passers by asked me questions about what was going on, and I was delighted to tell them what little I know about St Thérèse, although I wish that I had known more. There was an awful Ecumenical Service going on which I could see and hear on a big screen just off Morpeth Terrace as I was queuing up, but fortunately that was over by the time I got to the West Doors.

Anyway, I got to the doors after about 35 minutes queueing and bought two Roses. The procession inside the Cathedral was somewhat quicker than outside, and it was very touching to see the many devout and decorous Faithful kneeling in the side chapels and clutching their Rosaries, or in many cases just their Roses, or kneeling in silent prayer by the many votive candles. The grand organ was still playing after the service, and as I drew nearer and nearer to the Relics, encased in a glass box, something stirred in me, and a dam broke. It was at this point that I started to cry and clutched tightly at my beautiful roses for comfort and solace. I became oblivious then to the crowds, which, in spite of my snobbery the other day, weren't as bad as I thought they'd be, and the sole ultimate focus of my heart and mind was this exquisite Reliquary in the centre of the Nave. At length, I came even to the wonderful saint herself and felt something move, as subtle as it was profound, and my eyes welled with tears, thinking about my sins and the great privilege of being in the presence of this beautiful Saint. I wept with the most bitter contrition, but also in the knowing of God's presence, mediated by the Relics of this most beautiful Saint, and shared by so many Catholics in and outside the Cathedral. Of course, it was all too brief, and I was swept aside, and after a brief moment of silent prayer before the Relics, I was obliged to go off. I retired to a packed side Chapel to pray and knelt in the midst of all these roses. I got up, and went out.

I wandered about for a while without purpose, but then returned to the Piazza. It was at this point, on my way home, that I bumped into Joanna Bogle again - purely by chance! She is so marvellous, wise and very witty, and we talked for about two hours. She was there handing out leaflets for her Catholic History Walks, and I think I shall make the effort next time - they do sound fantastic! We talked about many things, but probably the most appropriate thing was the sizeable crowds, not a single file of elderly women but people of all ages - in front of me in the queue in fact was a young family with a small baby. We both agreed that Catholicism in England was vibrant, popular and very much alive - and you can't get any more Catholic than visiting the Relics of a Saint! What a marvellous and memorable evening, certainly one of the chief events of my adult life - and I had no particular devotion to St Thérèse before this week. That will change as of now, and in fact, I shall add her face to my ''saint-roll'' thingy in the side-bar!

I hope that others who visited the Relics had as wonderful an experience as I did. God bless o/

How we see ourselves...

Fr Hunwicke has a very resonant post on his blog about Identity. I have often wrestled with this point in my short, albeit evanescent life. I say evanescent because I lay in bed this morning and while staring at the ceiling I was comparing my life to that of a friend of mine 10 years my junior. I simply thought that ''10 years has gone by pretty quick'' and began to wonder what good I had done, or had been rendered unto me, in that time. I don't tend to have sentimental feelings about trivial things, but lately a sense of melancholy or loss, even of impending loss, has been creeping into the dark corners of my mind. Things aren't permanent, things can be lost, one can become lost, and frankly, I am feeling pretty hopeless about things at present. I am only 21, but I feel old - ridiculous though that may seem - and, well, wasted. There are things that I feel ought to have been done by now - I should have gone on the Grand Tour of Italy (after the manner, not in every grim detail mind you! of the 18th century Grand Tourist), I should have my Degree, I should be reading Classics, I should be well rid of that nightmare of a job by now. But I seem to be stuck in some sort of mire of procrastination, and a grim stasis of immediate and fruitless pleasures - all the while I feel the winds of change and progress passing me by, quite literally.

I read a most interesting memoir once, called Girl, Interrupted, by Susanna Kaysen, a woman about 40 years older than I who has Borderline Personality Disorder (I am aware that there is a film, loosely based on the memoir, with the same name - just don't bother going to see it, it's rubbish). I enjoy works of this kind because they are very personal and eloquent - The Lord of the Rings is a similar work in this sense, it is very personal. In fact, shortly before publication, Tolkien wrote to his friend Fr Robert Murray, SJ, and remarked: ''I have exposed my heart to be shot at.'' This memoir narrates in a somewhat erratic and jumpy fashion her experiences in the McLean Hospital in the late 1960s, when she was my age. In a chapter called aptly ''Velocity and Viscosity,'' she says that mental illnesses (that is, of course, if one links Asperger Syndrome with a ''mental illness'' - I don't, nor do I consider myself to be disabled) come in two forms: slow and fast. This is not to do with onset or duration, but the quality of the illness itself. For example, the quality of a ''slow'' kind of illness would be viscosity. Kaysen does not list Asperger Syndrome in the list (it was not generally known in the '60s), but things like catatonia, depression etc. She writes:

''Experience is thick. Perceptions are thickened and dulled. Time is slow, dripping slowly through the clogged filter of thickened perception. The body temperature is low. The pulse is sluggish. The immune system is half-asleep. The organism is torpid and brackish. Even the reflexes are diminished, as if the lower leg couldn't be bothered to jerk itself out of its stupor when the knee is tapped.''

I can identify with this plethora of perceptions, to a limited extent. This is not to say, however, that my existence is juxtaposed to a constant lethargy. I think that I would contrast this experience of viscosity with the fact that my own existence seems slow but I am also at once aware that it is slow, I am aware of the plethora of perceptions and their qualities, but being aware, I cannot do anything about it. The experience is like putting one's head out of a fast-travelling car window, closing one's eyes, and feeling the wind and the sun - or that memorable and more than resonant quote from The Lord of the Rings: ''It was that more than the drag of the Ring that made him cower and stoop as he walked. The Eye: that horrible growing sense of a hostile will that strove with great power to pierce all shadows of cloud, and earth, and flesh, and to see you: to pin you under its deadly gaze, naked, immovable. So thin, so frail and thin, the veils were become that still warded it off. Frodo knew just where the present habitation and heart of that will now was: as certainly as a man can tell the direction of the sun with his eyes shut. He was facing it, and its potency beat upon his brow.''

It is a prejudice to equate Procrastination with laziness, but it so happens that people do. They are mistaken, of course, grievously so. As a student, I am expected to write essays and meet deadlines. Someone said once that meeting deadlines is like training to jump through a succession of hoops. Sometimes, however, it is quite impossible, and I fail in a severe kind of way. Say I am expected to write an essay with this title: To what extent are the modern ideas of Inter-religious dialogue and Ecumenism annexed to Relativism? This is a cogent question, but difficult to answer. Since one of the criterion for Asperger Syndrome is the presence of restricted, repetitive and stereotyped patterns of behaviour, thoughts and interests, my approach to this question is bound to be marked by the transfixingly repetitive thoughts already being repeated in my mind over, and over, and over again in so many waves - the Latin word for wave is ''unda'' from which we get our ''inundate'' - this word encapsulates the feeling in this odd way. And so, if this does not seem altogether incomprehensible, my approach to the question is impossibly difficult. It is like my thoughts - and I think constantly - are battling one with the other, or since they are transfixed and immovable sometimes, at least trying to shout each other down. Rather like the Music of the Ainur in a certain sense, with the discord of the music of Melkor, as a clamorous unison as of many trumpets braying upon a few notes, making endless war upon the Ainur. It is rather like thinking about something ineffable and trying to articulate it - it is quite impossible. Imagine a clogged filter, with water dripping slowly through. It is like approaching an essay, an essay about a subject I have no interest in, dislodges an avalanche of thoughts that get stuck somewhere. Where do they get stuck, and why? That, I think, no one will ever know, but the answer to that question is, I suppose, the answer to all my problems...

In writing essays, I get bogged down with frivolities and minute details. I remember one essay I wrote, for which I was given a measly 2:1, I spent two days, two valuable days, ruminating over the subtler philological and theological implications of one word. In essays at Undergraduate level, this is neither encouraged nor appropriate, nor does it gain one extra marks with the tutor. I find that by focusing on details I am loosing marks. But why is this so? No one else seems to bother with details. It irritates me when I read in tomes or other books things like: ''we must needs move on for want of space'' or ''it will suffice to give a mere résumé of its contents.'' It irritates me because details are important and tributary to the whole. I have often been accused of ''not seeing the wood for the trees'' but why is this bad? Without details there would be no trees, no woodland. In an essay criteria, I am often awarded a ''satisfactory'' or even ''poor'' mark for ''focus on key issues.''

Wasting one's time thinking is an enjoyable pursuit, at least to me. I could quite literally entertain myself for years at a time just by thinking. I think about everything and anything. Thinking almost makes my job bearable, I just escape, although it doesn't always work. However, trying to think about essays and how best to complete them without being too meticulous causes immense amounts of stress. You may ask: would you wish to change your mind, your peculiar mind, for a mind better suited to academic success - sausage factory mentality in other words - just to pass your degree? I would say no, emphatically NO. I just wish that it were easier. The grievous thing about my sort of thinking, though, is that time passes by so quickly. This may be a rather lame way to end this post, but I suppose I can only re-echo Lord Henry's admonition to Dorian Gray:

''The world belongs to you for a season....The moment I met you I saw that you were quite unconscious of what you really are, of what you really might be. There was so much in you that charmed me that I felt I must tell you something about yourself. I thought how tragic it would be if you were wasted. For there is such a little time that your youth will last - such a little time. The common hill-flowers wither, but they blossom again. The laburnum will be as yellow next June as it is now. In a month there will be purple stars on the clematis, and year after year the green night of its leaves will hold its purple stars. But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!'' (Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Chapter II).

I am by no means advocating hedonism as the cure for perpetual stasis, but there must be something I can do. At the moment, I am enjoying Latin - I find great joy in translation. Unfortunately, I began this post by thinking about one's ''identity.'' I suppose I had better conclude by at least saying something about that! What I have written sort of evolved with the telling, and it has been interesting to relate. I suppose I most identify with a wandering Sindarin Elf in Beleriand in the quiet of the world before the return of Morgoth, or your average northern barbarian newly acquainted with the Classics - perhaps even taken to Rome by the legions. What is my purpose in life? Lord only knows...I just think that perhaps my mind is an anomaly, an enigma to the whole, I just don't quite fit in, and can only watch as the time goes by...

These are probably ravings, so forgive me if they seem altogether incomprehensible!

Aesthetics and all that...

What is the most beautiful thing in this world? I was thinking about that during the boring Ferial Mass shorn of appropriate commemorations this evening. You'd think that as Master of Ceremonies I'd be focused upon the Celebrant and Servers, but to my sorrow, my mind wandered. Beauty is not, however, something inappropriate to meditate during Mass. I have oft thought of that now hackneyed and irritating expression: ''beauty is in the eye of the beholder.'' It seems to suggest a relativistic and subjective view of the nature of beauty (beauty and beautiful are themselves, incidentally, aesthetically unpleasing words, and are quite embarrassing to say - and to hear sometimes), that the object is a tabula rasa, as it were, with the ''beholder'' projecting upon this faceless object a vision of loveliness - but perhaps there is at least some truth in it. The face of one's beloved is, I suppose, the most beautiful thing to someone in love. The Blessed Sacrament is the most beautiful thing in the world to a homo religiosus. I wonder what the most beautiful thing in the world is to me? I think that to be pierced by something so wonderful, such as reading The Field of Cormallen in The Lord of the Rings, or experiencing the eucatastrophic High Mass, a Marian Feast day, or to be haunted in the most profound and religious sense by the memory of a beautiful loved one (or relative, whatever) is the most beautiful thing in this world, as it suggests purity and poignancy. It is certainly a source of consolation amidst cares and griefs, that however miserable life might be sometimes (and it is downright miserable sometimes), God is the supreme author of loveliness. I had these thoughts also a few nights ago when walking home from church late at night after Benediction. I looked at the Moon, glowing in a frozen sky through the grey clouds, kindled tremulously to silver. My thought was that no one had ever painted it, and that the vision was therefore evanescent, and would disappear beyond all recall, even mine, but that I was privileged to see it. It was extraordinarily pretty. If only all things could be beautiful, as emanating from the love and light of God...

Are these ravings?

Sitemeter question...

I have just checked my Sitemeter, and one of the referrals to my blog today came from a google question, namely: ''was J.R.R Tolkien an atheist?''

I have no doubt that the question was asked sincerely, but I ask: are atheists even capable of creating works of aesthetic genius?

Which is better...?

Today I have been thinking somewhat about Mass and Vespers. Mass is the jewel in the crown of the Church's liturgical tradition, the meeting point between Heaven and Earth, but which is better? A Solemn Vespers in the Old Rite with six Pluvialistae, sung beautifully by a professional choir in a beautiful church such as Spanish Place or the Oratory, with the ritual carried out splendidly and reverently by the Servers, or a Low Mass in the New Rite with vulgar vernacular hymns? Am I focused too much on the ''externals'' of liturgy? That might well be a charge brought against me by a narrow-minded Modernist, making excuses for an impoverished and somewhat aliturgical ceremony, but we must remember that ceremonies are not the mere window-dressing of Liturgy. Sacred ceremonies go right to the heart of the Church's mystery, and therefore it might be asked...which is superior Liturgy? Sometimes I think that the many, too many, Masses that are on offer have made the mystery of the Mass seem complacent and commonplace to some, even the most sincere Catholics - perhaps a contributing factor in the grotesque liturgical reforms of the 20th century, and therefore sung Office has been pushed to one side. I would rather have Mass in the morning and sung Vespers in the evening, as of old, at least on Sundays. Do away with evening Masses and bring back sung Office!

The Relics of St Thérèse...

The Relics of St Thérèse have arrived at Aylesford Priory. We used to go there for Mass on our patronal Feast Day and for Corpus Christi when I was at school, and I enjoyed it there - well everything except the Mass itself of course. I have an excuse not to visit Aylesford tomorrow - I have to work - but I doubt I'd go even if I could. I am all for the reverence and veneration of Relics - it is a beautiful and intrinsic part of Catholic devotion - but I can only recall my experience of Cologne Cathedral four years ago when I went to World Youth Day. The Cathedral was so packed it vastly ruined any sense of awe or sacredness that one would have felt otherwise. My ideal experience would be to visit the Relics of the Saint in a dark and holy church at night, with only the light of votive candles to go by, and to spend about half an hour before them in silent prayer, alone. Unfortunately, at events such as these, one has to put up with people, and lots of them.

Those of you who have read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, may recall that dream the boy often had...

Latin lessons...

Forgive the lack of posts but I have been very busy these last few days. It's good to be ''back to normal'' after such a long, and somewhat stressful, holiday. I am still tired. I was dragged out by my mother to the country today - normally I enjoy days out to the country but it was damp and miserable out, and I was tired. And I have work tomorrow, o me miserum!

On Thursday I had my first Latin lesson of the Michaelmas term, and enjoyed it thoroughly. We did various ''warm-up'' exercises, one of them being a poem by Catullus about Clodia (since it was apparently ''national poetry day'') which reads: Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior. My translation was: ''I hate and I love. You will ask wherefore I do this. I know not, but I feel it being done, and I am tormented.'' Certainly an ambivalent poem. The next ''warm-up'' exercise was from the works of Ælfric of Eynsham, a 10th century Anglo-Saxon monk and homilist. The work itself is called Ælfric's Colloquy, written for boys learning Latin in a monastery at the end of the 10th century. It's quite humorous actually, and easy to read. What struck me though was this: Unusquisque scit si flagellatus erat an non [''everyone knows if he has been beaten or not'']. Now, when I read that, I asked the teacher whether ''erat'' should not be ''esset,'' naturally because ''si'' makes the sentence a conditional clause and that the verb should take the subjunctive. I was right! I was then told to go and do a Classics degree (I would if I could), but apparently this is incomplete - since I have opted to use the subjunctive ''esset.'' then ''an non'' should then be changed to ''necne'' - so said a most erudite Latinist to me yesterevening. My teacher explained that this was because of the general declension in the knowledge of Latin at around this time...

Afterwards, I went into the Library and photocopied a few chapters from De Imitatione Christi (a 1900 edition) and translated the first three paragraphs of Book I, Chapter I. I aim to have this translated by the end of Sunday. I won't look at it this evening, I am too tired. I shall just retire to my room and read some Tolkien. I am currently working on a post about J.R.R Tolkien and 20th century liturgical reform (inspired by the edifying events of Tuesday), but I wouldn't expect that anytime soon! Maybe next week sometime, it's quite long. Now that would be a great doctoral thesis! The above image is from a manuscript by Ælfric depicting the construction of the Tower of Babel - how appropriate for a post about languages!

A Study day in Breviary reform...

This morning I made my way down to Blackfen for a Study Day of the Society of St Catherine of Siena on the St Pius X reforms of the Roman Breviary 1911-1913. Rubricarius of the St Lawrence Press delivered a most fascinating lecture (you can download it on his blog) on the subject, going through the Hours of the Divine Office and making various comparisons between different Uses (such as the Monastic Breviary), even different Rites such as the Byzantine Rite, and going through the various reasons for reform and how this relates to the modern Breviary and to the greater liturgical history of the Church. It was most interesting and edifying. One thing made everyone giggle - he said that if you imagined everyday in Lent as a ferial day, at the end of the week you'd have recited over 400 Psalms (the ferial offices being notoriously long) under the pre-1911 rubrics!

After the talk we had a short service of Benediction with a prayer for priests. I have only served Benediction on my own once before, and it was rather tricky having to juggle the offices of MC and Thurifer, but apparently my serving didn't appear too outrageous! Then we had a delicious lunch in the large hall - we are all most grateful to the ladies who volunteered. After coffee and a nice chat, we returned to the church for pre-1911 Solemn Vespers for the Feast of St Bruno. We had the appropriate commemorations too, since we are within the Octave of Rosary Sunday! By this time Jonathan, who kindly took the day off work, had come to the rescue and we both divided the offices of Acolytes, Thurifer and Master of Ceremonies between us. It was truly splendid, and a first for the parish as we agreed afterwards - the church having been built in the '30s!

I love to attend sung Offices, particularly Vespers. Alas, though, that they occur so rarely (I have served Vespers only a handful of times in my life) - I can't see why; the practicalities for a properly ordered sung Vespers are not insurmountable. I'd personally rather attend a Sung Vespers than a Low Mass. What a boon for the Church it would be if there were more sung Office and less Low Masses!

St Bruno, pray for us.