Quarant' Ore so far...

Things are going beautifully so far at Blackfen with the Quarant' Ore. Yesterday, Mass, a Votive Missa Cantata of the Blessed Sacrament, began at 8:00pm. The visiting Schola sang the Propers and Ordinary splendidly to the plainchant melodies of Mass IV for Double Feasts. The Blessed Sacrament now exposed for Adoration, the Acolytes lit the candelabrae and other surplus candles fitting to direct attention to our Sacramental Lord and after Mass we prepared for the Procession and Litanies. Liturgical processions can sometimes be unedifyingly untidy but our procession proved quite the opposite and we processed around the church singing the praises of God with the Pange Lingua. On our return to the Sanctuary, so great was the attendance that we were obliged to halt to allow worshippers to pass. Kneeling in the presence of Christ, the Sanctissimum was incensed after which the Litany of the Saints was intoned by the Cantors. The Litany of the Saints is my favourite Litany and in the immediate presence of Our Lord the petitions held an ineffable power, not altogether comfortable, albeit fair; I felt that the hand of God had reached into my soul and stirred those regions where love, awe and reverence are mingled and lost and mean little other than the knowing that God is here with us, and He loves us. Poorly expressed perhaps but such is the way of things. The feeling was very present at the time and perhaps not recapturable - I am especially not able to articulate it with unfitting language! After Mass, many stayed to watch. I watched myself after tidying up and went home finally after 3:00am.

Today, after a long wait, I got to the church at around 5:30pm and helped the Master of Ceremonies with a few odd bits. I set the Altar Missal, the small ugly one (we used this perforce for practical reasons), and changed some candles among other things, and the time for Mass drew near. The Mass was of course a Votive Mass pro pace, a Missa Cantata, celebrated at the Lady Altar. All the servers were under 14 years old and most were under 9! The parish choir chanted the Propers to the Rossini Psalm tones which, in an odd way, was reminiscent of the ''quiet'' nature of the Second Day of the Forty Hours. The absence of the bell came as a surprise to some. During the distribution of Holy Communion, the Adoro te Devote was sung beautifully, and what a fitting hymn for Holy Communion. I don't know it by heart yet, nor did I quite understand why Christ was referred to as the ''pious pelican,'' but there we are. Fr Finigan explained it afterwards; a beautiful simile derived from legend that the pelican pierced itself to feed its young.

After Mass, we changed more candles and retired to the parish club for refreshment. It was nice to catch up with a friend of mine whom I hadn't seen for two weeks. Then we went into the small hall for tea and a bite to eat before more watching. A film was on about St Thérèse...I won't be watching that again. And then, at around 11:30pm, we went into the church to watch...gosh this is a very ''matter of fact'' way of narrating this; ''then we did this, afterwards we did that,'' but maybe you all think otherwise. Having caught up on my Rosary and watched for a while, I read De Imitatione Christi (craftily my Latin homework, but it's still devotional and edifying in the reading). I only brought one chapter, so after I had read it I took up the Altar Missal. At this point, my little friend came over to sit next to me, and together (in hushed voices) we went through the Latin of the Missal, beginning, appropriately, with the Feast of Corpus Christi. I found the instruction in the presence of Our Lord not at all untoward and I am sure that it will bring grace and consolation to both of us - almost it reached the loftiness of a spiritual talk. I'd love to be able to teach Latin one day.

That's pretty much it up to now. I left the church at 3:00am again; I'd have stayed longer only I have to work tomorrow (well today actually!) and I need to catch up on some sleep anyway. I am looking forward to the next Mass. Mac has some photos on her blog. More information on Sunday afternoon. Glory be to God!

The above image is Gustave Dore's rendering of the Beatific Vision, as imagined by Dante in The Divine Comedy. I post this image because the spiritual graces of a Quarant' Ore can be so great that they bring about visions and miracles. During a Quarant' Ore at his parish church in 1944, J.R.R Tolkien saw a vision of the Light of God in the Blessed Sacrament. I shall post more on that soon...

Quarant' Ore...

We're having the Quarant' Ore at Blackfen presently. Apparently it is also going to be held at Ealing Abbey. It is a first for many of us. I think, however, that I am on Candle-replacement duty (being at least a tonsured cleric and all!) so I best get a ''bite'' to eat and be off...

All this ''conversion'' etc...

I seem to be the only one in the Blogosphere silent on this issue of Anglicans and their reception into the Church. Well, it is only a kind of reception really. If they're being given all these ''privileges,'' I daresay for ''pastoral'' reasons, such as being allowed to retain their tomfool traditions and married ''clergy,'' then I can't say that this is a real conversion at all. And all this is because of the obvious shortcomings of Anglicanism - all those women and homosexual priests etc. Speaking as a cradle Catholic, I can't honestly imagine how anyone could ever have been convinced with any conviction of any of the truths of Faith as an Anglican. Anglicanism, from the outside, all seems to be riddled with pretentious theological cop-outs, half-traditions and just has a sinister air about it. If the reception of so many Anglicans into the Church is because of the issue of women Bishops, just as there was a major influx of them into the Church 15 years ago with the introduction of women priests, then my confessedly cynical mind tells me that this is just reactionary, and therefore not based on real theological conviction at all. In a way, I find it personally insulting. Because it seems to me that, by implication, they view the Church as a ''second best thing'' almost, or worse, as a place to fly to to suit their lukewarm theological views. What better time than in a post-Conciliar church!

Why can't they be received into the Church as Tolkien was in 1900? The traditional and proper way: complete repudiation of Anglicanism, with all the scaffolding and silly, meaningless BCP ritual. We must remember that the Book of Common Prayer is full of theological barbs, hostile to Catholicism, and that for all the Church's endeavours to purge it of such barbs, there are undoubtedly going to remain one or two; evil seeds sown in the dark by Cranmer, ready to grow into evil fruit to the detriment of the Faith. Cranmer, remember, understood Liturgy and hated it. And one only has to look at certain recent Anglican converts to the Faith to see what they might bring with them...

That is not to say that there are not many sincere Anglicans who have no doubt ''seen the Light'' and desire a genuine reconciliation with the Church. For such as these, I thank God for their conversion.

A frivolous post...

Sigh...the year is fading fast, so evanescent, and the clocks go back soon, cold and dark as the realm of Morgoth. I find little solace in Tolkien at present, who seems a tad ''samey,'' (would that I had the pleasure of meeting him again for the first time!) and I fear for myself - maybe this is just an off day though. I wonder if readers have had similar feelings? For many months I have been troubled by nightmares of immanent and permanent failure, among other equally troubling thoughts. I know how odd that sounds, but such are the ambivalent thoughts turning over in my mind of minds at present. I think I need a holiday or something, a real one, not just ''time off.'' Blogging may be sporadic over the next few days, for there are some important things coming up and it wouldn't do for me to be distracted by this silly blog!

Ars scribendi...

The general consensus seems to be that my style of writing is very good. I am, confessedly, rather surprised by this because I had not heretofore considered my writing to be any better than your average genius...that absurdly grandiose and arrogant quip being my Sunday attempt at humour. I am sure HH Zephyrinus II knows what I mean...

Writing requires some skill, I suppose, and intelligence. But there is probably more to it than mere skill. Superlative writing, such as you will find in the works of Tolkien, Wilde, Dante, St Augustine, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy (I have, of course, deliberately missed out many worthy writers) probably requires some art beyond skill, a special Grace from God perhaps. My own writing, however (and not that I would dream of comparing this frivolous blog endeavour to any great author), suffers something grievous. Some posts, when I read them back to myself after they are published, lack something. I think either that they are poorly expressed (as is often the case, I can't seem to articulate some thoughts - if they are ineffable then this is to be expected, but often this is not the case), have an impoverished vocabulary, or, having ''writer's block'' (as I do right at this moment, incidentally!), I make recourse to the same modes of expression and the same words (those of you who read my post about Westminster might recall that I kept saying ''beautiful'' this, and ''marvellous'' that), or I seem to fall short of actually making a point about something - this is often the case with my academic writings.

Someone suggested that I should get some of the material on this blog published. I am flattered that you think my writing is that good (whoever said it, I can't presently remember), but who would publish it, and why, and for whom? I'd have to expand and edit some of it, of course, but how do you distinguish between what is and what isn't publishable? I think I would only publish stuff for pecuniary reasons...perhaps I'd never have to work at...that place...again. If so, great! Modern literature does, of course, portray a terrible crisis of artistic competence. When I read English Literature at GCSE, we had to read the most atrocious prose and poetry imaginable from a green anthology...St Paul's Compendium of C**p I called it, and it put me off pursuing literature to A Level. Would that I had designed the Syllabus! But this rubbish modern literature, or what passes for literature at any rate, needs to be done away with and perhaps those with the talent for writing ought to replace it. The same goes for ''Harry Potter,'' a series I had not hitherto mentioned on this blog; I loathe it cordially. God help the poor children who read it, to the ruin of their taste! I am, after all, enraged by the mere fact of its existence! O tempora! O mores!

Anyway, lamely I must conclude this post as my bedroom looks like the playground of an insane child...well perhaps not that bad, but there are books and papers scattered about the place and this needs to be sorted. Naturally, having Asperger Syndrome, I am meticulous and tidy in almost every detail, but to be so inclined requires lots of time, and at the moment, this is exactly what I lack. Yes, I could have attended to it on Friday, but I was completely disinclined.

Upcoming...

A correspondent (gosh that sounds grandiose!) sent me information about an interesting event coming up soon at the Oratory. On 29th October, Fr Thomas Crean, O.P, will be speaking on The Kingship of Christ and Religious Liberty. Fr Crean is the author of the best-selling A Catholic Replies to Professor Dawkins, and has recently published an excellent work of Catholic apologetic entitled Letters to a Non-Believer. The question of religious liberty has been one of the hottest potatoes of theological debate in recent decades. Father Crean has studied the subject in depth. Please come along if you are 18-35 and bring your friends. If you are new, do make yourself known to Fr Julian Large. As usual: refreshments afterwards.

So that's 8:00pm on Thursday 29th October AD, 2009 in St Wilfrid's Hall...

''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!