José-Maria de Heredia – 9 Antoine et Cléopâtre

The last of the three-sonnet set bears the names of the principal actors in its title, but in the body of the poem they are not named. He is “the Roman”, she is merely “she”.

The setting is Alexandria, although not named, the atmosphere oppressive, ‘black’ now describes the Delta, and the River’s waves are – well, ‘broad’ is the most likely word, but the other two possibilities add to the heaviness of the atmosphere. Indeed, heaviness is a constant. The Roman wears a heavy breastplate; the child-woman seems to find her own body too heavy to hold up. She languishes, fainting - ployer et défaillir – so that he has to bend over her to respond to the invitation of the mouth she offers.

This scene is set before the Battle of Actium, but how long before? If it is not long after the Parthian campaign, perhaps when Antony is all dressed up for his triumph, then the vision in Cleopatra’s eyes represents another irony because Antony has not comprehended it, as history demonstrates. If it is just before he sets off to do battle with Octavian, then it is equivalent to the enlightenment which comes too late to Macbeth. (Either way, unless ironically given, Imperator is no title for such a fool!)

Also to be noticed are the “invincibles parfums” with which Cleopatra has deprived Antony of his wits (enivraient), and the reduction of so much gold in Le Cydnus to the “points d’or” in her eyes, and of herself from a great bird of prey to a child rocked in Antony’s embrace.

The final line is so impressive that the sonnet’s popularity may be ascribed to it. Yet it is an illusion wrought by José-Maria de Heredia, as did Shakespeare in his play, the culmination of a three-act drama of seeing without perceiving. With a fine flourish of wand, hat and cloak the poet dazzles his reader as effectively as ever Cleopatra bewitched Antony!

Below are the original sonnet, my prose translation, my verse translation, and one by Edward R. Taylor.

Antoine et Cléopâtre

Tous deux ils regardaient, de la haute terrasse,
L'Égypte s'endormir sous un ciel étouffant
Et le Fleuve, à travers le Delta noir qu'il fend,
Vers Bubaste ou Saïs rouler son onde grasse.

Et le Romain sentait sous la lourde cuirasse,
Soldat captif berçant le sommeil d'un enfant,
Ployer et défaillir sur son coeur triomphant
Le corps voluptueux que son étreinte embrasse.

Tournant sa tête pâle entre ses cheveux bruns
Vers celui qu'enivraient d'invincibles parfums,
Elle tendit sa bouche et ses prunelles claires;

Et sur elle courbé, l'ardent Imperator
Vit dans ses larges yeux étoilés de points d'or
Toute une mer immense où fuyaient des galères.


Prose translation (literal):
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA

Together they looked on, from the high terrace, as Egypt slept under a stifling sky, and the River, traversing the black Delta which it divides, towards Bubastis or Saïs rolled its thick/ oily/ broad waves.
And the Roman felt below his heavy cuirass, captive soldier lulling a child’s sleep, lying and fainting on his triumphant heart the voluptuous body his embrace strained [to him].
Turning her pale head/ face amid her brown, dark hair towards him who was drunk on irresistible perfumes, she offered her lips and her clear eyes.
And over her bent, the ardent Imperator saw in her large eyes starred with points of gold all of an immense sea in which galleys were fleeing.


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA (©2016 by Ruth Heredia)

Entwined together they gazed, from a terrace up high,
On Egypt lying torpid beneath a stifling sky;
And River - broad waves rolling to Saïs or Bubaste
On the black Delta divided by them as they passed.

A soldier cradling a child's sleep, captive of her art,
Her voluptuous body strained close in his embrace,
Pliant it was and swooning, on his exultant heart,
Beneath his heavy breastplate the Roman felt it press.

Pale amidst dark tresses, her face to him she raised,
Her mouth to him she offered, as her clear eyes gazed
On him, inebriated by her bewitching scent.

Commander-in-chief, love-maddened, over her he bent,
And saw in those wide eyes, starred with points of light
A vast seascape unfolded, and galleys all in flight.


ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA (Tr. by Edward R. Taylor, 1906)

On Egypt sleeping under stifling sky
From lofty terrace gazed the wistful twain,
And watched the Flood that cleaves the Delta's plain
Toward Sais or Bubastis onward ply.

'Neath his cuirass the Roman's heart beat high,
A captive soldier soothing infant's pain,
As her voluptuous form was fondly fain
Within his arms in yielding swoon to lie.

Turning her pale face mid its locks of brown
Toward him whose reason perfumes had struck down,
She raised her mouth and luring, lustrous eye;

And o'er her bent, the chieftain did behold
In her great orbs, starry with dots of gold,
Only unbounded seas where galleys fly.


"True poetry," said M. de Heredia in his discourse on entering the Academy, "dwells in nature and in humanity, which are eternal, and not in the heart of the creature of a day, however great." [Encyclopaedia Britannica 11th edition]


Ruth Heredia is the originator and holds the copyright to all material on this blog unless credited to some source. Please do not use it or pass it off as your own work. That is theft. If you wish to link it, quote it, or reprint in whole or in part, please be courteous enough to seek my permission.

José-Maria de Heredia – 8 Soir de Bataille

In 36 B.C. Mark Antony set off with a grande armée, to overthrow Phraates IV of Parthia. He had some initial success – such as this unidentified encounter, at the end of which the Parthian ruler and his mounted archers left the field, tempting Antony further in. Meanwhile his supply train with a huge battering ram had to move slower, guarded by two legions. They were attacked, the supplies destroyed, and 10,000 men taken captive. The campaign was a very costly disaster, Antony’s first military failure. Back he went to Egypt with the remnant of his army, for reinforcements. He led these against the Armenian ruler, his erstwhile ally, who had melted away from the scene with all his troops as soon as he saw the disaster that lay in wait for Antony. It was no great matter to overcome the deserter, after which Antony awarded himself a (necessarily imitation) triumph in Alexandria, with impious additions including Cleopatra and her three children by Antony. This was a serious insult to sober, righteous Romans.

None of this is mentioned in the sonnet, Soir de Bataille, but it is useful to keep it in mind, for the poet surely knew it, if one is to savour to the full some otherwise unexpected details: an adjective, a statement, and the rather odd emphasis on how Antony appears to his surviving troops. (José-Maria de Heredia was a well-read man, even a learned one, yet he wrote “Phraortes” instead of “Phraates” though the two were quite separate rulers, almost six centuries apart. Either he made a mistake or he preferred to use a name with the two syllables he required – as pronounced in French, and trusted to the ignorance of readers in general.)

Le choc avait été très rude. Les tribuns
Et les centurions, ralliant les cohortes,
Humaient encor dans l'air où vibraient leurs voix fortes
La chaleur du carnage et ses âcres parfums.

A short sharp shock of a statement, not filling the line, and in the Past Pluperfect. The rest of the quatrain is a description of the field in the aftermath of battle, using “parfums” for the “âcres” (acrid) smells of carnage.

D'un oeil morne, comptant leurs compagnons défunts,
Les soldats regardaient, comme des feuilles mortes,
Au loin, tourbillonner les archers de Phraortes;
Et la sueur coulait de leurs visages bruns.

With “mournful eyes”, the survivors count up the dead. Is this a field of defeat? To whom does the next phrase apply, separated by commas and not by a semicolon: “like dead leaves”? It seems appropriate to the fallen comrades, but no, it applies to the Parthian archers already some distance away yet still ‘turbulent’ - “tourbillonner” (to whirl about), and perhaps that, along with the heat, makes sweat run down the Roman soldiers’ faces.

Now for something interesting which may have been in the poet’s mind. Parthian archers were famous for a deadly tactic. At full gallop, in retreat, they could turn about and shoot accurately. They were accustomed to using this tactic in a pretended retreat to demoralise the enemy. Turbulent archers, truly!

The whole is rather an ominous description, and Antony is not yet apparent.

C'est alors qu'apparut, tout hérissé de flèches,
Rouge du flux vermeil de ses blessures fraîches,
Sous la pourpre flottante et l'airain rutilant,

The first tercet brings on Antony – unnamed. Later he will be referred to as ‘Imperator’. This is a title with an ironic undertone in the sonnet because, blind again (by implication), he does not seem to doubt his actions, while the poet is at pains to undermine the effect of flying purple cloak and gleaming armour by stating that he is spiked all over with arrows, blood from his fresh wounds still flowing.

Au fracas des buccins qui sonnaient leur fanfare,
Superbe, maîtrisant son cheval qui s'effare,
Sur le ciel enflammé, l'Imperator sanglant.

Subtle irony is present again in the final tercet, for trumpets may bray and Antony may master his frightened horse, he may even look about him with the arrogance and pride of a victor (“Superbe” – the French retains some of the full meaning of the Latin “superbus” which in English is largely lost), but the sky behind him is flaming and he himself is covered in his own blood. Hardly a good omen. Under the Republic, a general victorious in the field might be acclaimed “Imperator” by his troops. If it was a significant victory, that acclamation entitled him to apply to the Senate for a triumph. If the Senate agreed, he could retain the title until the end of the triumph, after which he must relinquish it with his command, his “imperium”. Here the troops look on with mournful eyes, especially when they watch those turbulent archers ride away. Only an Antonius Superbus could presume to regard himself an Imperator, yet he did, as we know from his unauthorised triumph. Was the poet being ironic here? Very likely. The use he makes of the title once again, in the final sonnet, in which Antony is not named, is distinctly ambiguous.

In my verse translation I have not used ‘Imperator’, a word not easily retained if I was to achieve any sort of regularity in the rhythm while losing not a single detail in the original. But I had one delicious moment of justified self-indulgence. The noun “rout” is now generally taken to be a disorderly retreat but it first entered English from Old French (itself derived from the Latin) in the early 13th century, and then it meant, among other things, “a group, or a company of soldiers”. Traces of that archaic meaning survived in the use of the word for a large and formal evening party (where rout-cakes would be served). My use carries both meanings, the common and the archaic, leaving open the possibility of a far from disorderly, indeed a cunning tactical retreat. And that in no way goes against the meaning of Heredia’s sonnet.

Below are the prose translation, mine in verse, and one by Edward R. Taylor.

Prose translation (literal):
EVENING OF BATTLE

The clash had been very brutal. The tribunes And the centurions, were rallying their cohorts, Breathing still in air which was vibrating to their loud voices The heat of carnage and its acrid scents.
With a mournful eye, counting their dead companions, The soldiers were looking on, as like dead leaves, Far off, whirl the archers of Phraortes; And sweat was running down their brown/ tanned faces.
It was then that appeared, bristling/ stuck all over with arrows, Red with crimson efflux from his fresh wounds, Beneath the flying purple and the glowing brass,
Amid the riot/ uproar of [military] trumpets sounding their fanfare/ calls, Superb, mastering his frightened horse, Against the sky inflamed, the bloodied Imperator.


EVENING OF BATTLE (©2016 by Ruth Heredia)

The clash was stark. Centurions, tribunes proud,
Rally their cohorts, those still drawing breath
In air vibrating with their voices loud,
Hot with carnage and acrid scents of death.

With mournful eyes the soldiers look about,
Count dead comrades, see in Phraortes’ rout
Archers, like distant dead leaves, go whirling;
And down their tanned faces sweat is pouring.

Then he appeared, whom many arrows pierce,
Red with the blood from fresh wounds still flowing,
‘Neath the flying purple and brass glowing,

Amid uproar of trumpets braying fierce,
Prideful, superb, on frightened steed mastered,
Backed by flaming sky, the Chief blood-boltered.


EVENING OF BATTLE (Tr. by Edward R. Taylor, 1906)

Severe the battle's shock: Centurions
And tribunes, rallying their men, once more
Inhale from air that trembles with their roar
The scents and ardors of red slaughter's sons.

With gloomy eyes, computing their lost ones,
The soldiers see Phraortes' archer corps 
Whirl like dead leaves afar, and quickly o'er
Their tawny cheeks the sweat all streaming runs.

And then appeared, with arrows bristling round,
Red from vermilion stream of many a wound,
'Neath floating purple and the brass's glare,

To sound of trumpet's flourish, grand of mien,
Quelling his plunging horse, and bathed in sheen
Of fiery sky, the Imperator there.



Ruth Heredia is the originator and holds the copyright to all material on this blog unless credited to some source. Please do not use it or pass it off as your own work. That is theft. If you wish to link it, quote it, or reprint in whole or in part, please be courteous enough to seek my permission.

José-Maria de Heredia – 7 Le Cydnus

No matter how technically perfect, how polished they may be, 118 sonnets all by the rule can seem monotonous. It was because of George Steiner in 1968 that I happened on José-Maria de Heredia. In an interview published by Le Figaro in May 2012, Steiner was so dismissive of Heredia that he described him as a Symboliste, although the poet belonged to the movement called Parnassien, out of which grew the Symbolistes: “My father presented me a volume of the Trophées of José-Maria de Heredia, a somewhat pompous Symbolist.” [My translation of his words in French.]

The last two sonnets in this series hardly do justice to the best of the poet. Three of these I have saved for the last. The Encyclopaedia Britannica commends Heredia’s sonnets: “These poems capture in verse a fugitive moment of history (usually classical or Renaissance) ... in one startling image ... [he] caps the beauty of each poem with a final couplet or line of especially haunting effect.” If one has reservations about such a conceit as the snapping shut of a gold-ribbed crimson fan in Soleil Couchant, if one finds some of the imagery there precious, there can be little reservation about the exuberance of Floridum Mare. Even better are the set of three sonnets with which this series winds up.

In the section Rome and the Barbarians is a close-knit set of three sonnets under the title Antony and Cleopatra, which build up to the final line of the third – and that has the same title. The full force of that final couplet can only be felt if all three sonnets are read in sequence, yet it is the third sonnet that is best known, from frequent inclusion in anthologies. The Penguin Book of French Verse Volume 3 includes it on its own.

There were many high-ranked Romans who had some lady of Eastern origin for bed-mate, their association quite public, but the Romans did not marry these companions. This is precisely why the affairs of Julius Caesar and of Mark Antony with Cleopatra were such a cause for scandal. Egypt was a very important protectorate during the Roman Republic, and afterwards a province of the Empire. It was also an old civilisation, older far than Rome. True, it lay near enough, merely to the south of the Middle Sea on whose northern shores were the once mighty Greece and the presently mighty Rome. But Egypt was dark of skin, burned by the sun, with strange gods, strange customs (the ruler marrying his sister), and a habit of ensnaring the northern conqueror. Look at what it did to Alexander. His successor in this part of his very short-lived empire was the Greek general Ptolemy Lagides, and what happened to him? He turned Egyptian. His half-breed descendants were as uncanny as any true-born Egyptian. That is how Romans not ensorcelled by an Egyptian regarded the matter.

Julius Caesar never became supreme ruler in Rome, and was killed before he could make good his promise of crowning Cleopatra his queen and naming their son his heir. Mark Antony had both the desire and the ability to achieve all this – in theory. When his Roman physical strength and military discipline came up against the wiles of Cleopatra, the result was predictable. But how differently it can be presented in verse or drama or a combination of both. With great skill, Heredia presents it, with many dramatic effects, as a conflict of ambitions rather than just a story of l’amour à la folie.

The first sonnet in the set has Cleopatra at the centre, in the second it is Antony; the third brings them together for the tragic climax. The first is Act One of a drama familiar to Classical Greece and Rome, the combat of Mars and Venus. At the outset, Venus is in the ascendant. In Act Two, it is Mars who is victorious. In Act Three, they play out their mutual destruction, for these are not two Immortals, merely pictured as such. They must pay the price for their choices.

All three sonnets are vividly pictorial. One could name artists to paint the scenes described. They are sensuous in other ways, too, evoking the smell, the sound, the tactile sense and the atmosphere appropriate to each setting. The unity of the set is further strengthened by Heredia’s use of language – he was known for his use of alliteration, assonance and onomatopoeia – and by the tension resulting from deliberate ambiguities of syntax that draw attention to the theme of ‘seeing’ and ‘failing to see’.

To appreciate Le Cydnus fully one should be familiar with the passage from Plutarch which supplied Shakespeare with one of his famous speeches. Heredia sharpens the picture with added detail. Plutarch wrote that such reports came to Tarsus of Cleopatra’s progress up the river Cydnus, that the citizenry left Antony seated on the tribunal in the marketplace and rushed to the riverbank to witness the Egyptian queen’s arrival. It should be kept in mind when reading the only mention of Antony – unnamed – in this sonnet. Cleopatra’s vessel had a gilded stern and silver oars. Its sails were purple and the canopy that sheltered her from the sun was cloth of gold. She was robed as Venus, and on either side of her, were boys dressed as Cupid.

Le Cydnus has many words suggesting glory, victory, splendour, and other sets of words that imply trapping, especially by seduction, and the dark consequences.

Sous l'azur triomphal, au soleil qui flamboie,
La trirème d'argent blanchit le fleuve noir
Et son sillage y laisse un parfum d'encensoir
Avec des sons de flûte et des frissons de soie.

The transferred epithet “triomphal” and “flamboie” used with the sun are suggestive of the intention of Cleopatra and of the impression she makes. The silver trireme’s reflection in the river (ominously black) whitens the water – deceptively? Its wake disperses perfumes (a recurring word in all three sonnets) like incense from a censer. This can be taken literally and innocently. Yet the words “encens – encensoir” have another meaning, which is flattery. This whole show put on by the Egyptian queen is to seduce the Roman general. The rustle of silk and the sound of flutes are partly incidental, partly may suggest the hissing of the Serpent of the Nile, as outraged Romans styled her.

À la proue éclatante où l'épervier s'éploie,
Hors de son dais royal se penchant pour mieux voir,
Cléopâtre debout en la splendeur du soir
Semble un grand oiseau d'or qui guette au loin sa proie.

The sparrow-hawk on the prow has two meanings. One implies that an image of Horus, the royal symbol of the Hawk, Cleopatra being Pharaoh, has been set there. It also begins imagery ruling this quatrain, of Cleopatra like a great golden bird leaning eagerly forward to seek her prey. (It is ironical that Rome’s symbol was that king of birds, the eagle – but was that ever in the poet’s mind?)

Voici Tarse, où l'attend le guerrier désarmé;
Et la brune Lagide ouvre dans l'air charmé
Ses bras d'ambre où la pourpre a mis des reflets roses.

The first tercet opens with a brief, abrupt statement like a stage direction. What does the rest of the sentence imply? Has the warrior laid aside his arms, or has he succumbed already to the Lagide’s charms? (Cleopatra’s ancestor, Ptolemy, was a by-blow given the name of his alleged father, as Lagos or Lagides.)

Et ses yeux n'ont pas vu, présage de son sort,
Auprès d'elle, effeuillant sur l'eau sombre des roses,
Les deux enfants divins, le Désir et la Mort.

The final tercet opens with “And ... eyes have not seen, omen of ... destiny.” In English it would be plain, in French the statement is ambiguous because the possessive agrees in gender with the possessed, not with the possessor. Who does not see? Since the children dressed as Cupids are on either side of her and Antony is facing Cleopatra, it makes more sense that he is the one who fails to see. It fits into a pattern running through the set, of what Antony should see and what he finally does see.

In this closing tercet there are more ill-omens. Once more the river is dark – “sombre” is the word. Why are the Cupid-children tearing off petals from the roses to scatter them? “Efeuiller” is not really “to defoliate”; it is to pull the petals off. One would expect baskets of rose petals to be provided. Tearing off petals carries a hint of destruction. (In the next sonnet there will be dead leaves whirling.) It is unsettling enough. And then to conclude with the omens that Antony fails to see in the Cupids: Desire and Death!

Below are a prose translation, my verse translation and one by Edward Taylor. Another, by Eli Siegel, can be found here:
http://www.aestheticrealism.net/poetry/Cydnus-Heredia.htm


Prose translation (literal):
THE CYDNUS

Under the triumphal* blue, with sun blazing, The silver trireme whitens the black river And its wake leaves a perfume as from a censer With sounds of flute and shivers of silk.
* transferred epithet.
At the prow brilliant* where the sparrow-hawk bends/ stoops, Out of her royal dais leaning to see better, Cleopatra standing in the splendour of evening Seems like a great bird of gold that looks out for its prey.
* could be a transferred epithet, but the prow was gilded, according to Plutarch.
Here is Tarsus, where awaits the disarmed warrior, And the brown/ dusky Lagide opens in the charmed air Her amber arms on which the purple has placed rosy reflections.
And his eyes have not seen, omen of his destiny, Beside her, tearing off their petals [from roses] and scattering them on the dark water, The two divine children, Desire and Death.

THE CYDNUS (©2016 by Ruth Heredia)

In blue triumphal sky the sun’s ablaze,
Silver trireme’s sheen turns black waves to milk
Its wash disperses scents like incense haze
With soft sound of flute and shiver of silk.

On dazzling prow a sparrow hawk perches;
In eve’s splendour, for better view leaning
From royal dais, Cleopatra searches—
A great bird of gold chosen prey seeking.

Waiting in Tarsus, the warrior disarms.
While the dusky Lagide in air she charms,
Through purple stretches her arms of amber,

Children shred roses on waters sombre.
And in this divine pair he fails to see
Desire and Death foretell his destiny.


THE CYDNUS (Tr. by Edward R. Taylor, 1906)

Beneath triumphal blue, in flaming ray,
The silver trireme tints the dark flood white,
And censers breathe rich perfumes that unite
With rustling silks and flutes' mellifluous play.

Where, at the prow, the spread-hawk holds his way,
Cleopatra forward leans for better sight,
And seems, as stands she in the evening light,
Like some great golden bird in watch for prey.

Now Tarsus sees the warrior captive there:
The dusky Lagian opes, in that charmed air,
Her amber arms with roseate purple dyed;

Nor has she seen anear, as fateful sign,
Shredding the roses on the sombrous tide,
Those twins, Desire and Death, of life divine.


Ruth Heredia is the originator and holds the copyright to all material on this blog unless credited to some source. Please do not use it or pass it off as your own work. That is theft. If you wish to link it, quote it, or reprint in whole or in part, please be courteous enough to seek my permission.

José-Maria de Heredia – 6 Au tragédien E. Rossi

Ernesto Rossi was one of the best-known Italian actors of his day. He was admired in particular for his Shakespearean roles as Macbeth, King Lear, Romeo and Hamlet. Romeo and Juliet was his favourite play.

In May 1865, a great three-day festival was held in Florence by the newly united Italy, to honour its national hero, Dante Alighieri, whose six hundredth birth anniversary was being celebrated. The three greatest actors in Italy travelled at their own expense, for no payment, laying aside rivalries, to take part. Several Dantesque tableaux were presented, and Rossi performed one from the Purgatorio, and two from the Inferno.

Dante’s famous terza rima is an interlocking scheme in which the middle line of a tercet rhymes with the first and third lines of the next (aba bcb cdc) and so on, ending the perpetual motion usually with a single, separate, line rhyming with the middle line of the preceding tercet. To get an idea of how it works, here is a colour coded sample of some lines that Rossi recited from the Inferno:
Ed el mi disse: «Volgiti! Che fai?
Vedi là Farinata che s’è dritto:
da la cintola in sù tutto ’l vedrai».
Io avea già il mio viso nel suo fitto;
ed el s’ergea col petto e con la fronte
com’ avesse l’inferno a gran dispitto.

E l’animose man del duca e pronte
mi pinser tra le sepulture a lui,
dicendo: «Le parole tue sien conte».

With this information, the following sonnet should be easier to comprehend. For no reason I can think of, it was placed in the section of Les Trophées titled Nature and Dream, under the sub-group The Sea of Brittany. After the original sonnet, comes the literal translation in prose, and then my version, followed by a translation each by Edward R. Taylor and Maurice Egan.

Au Tragédien E. Rossi
Après une récitation de Dante

Ô Rossi, je t'ai vu, traînant le manteau noir,
Briser le faible coeur de la triste Ophélie,
Et, tigre exaspéré d'amour et de folie,
Étrangler tes sanglots dans le fatal mouchoir.

J'ai vu Lear et Macbeth, et pleuré de te voir
Baiser, suprême amant de l'antique Italie,
Au tombeau nuptial Juliette pâlie.
Pourtant tu fus plus grand et plus terrible, un soir.

Car j'ai goûté l'horreur et le plaisir sublimes,
Pour la première fois, d'entendre les trois rimes
Sonner par ta voix d'or leur fanfare de fer;

Et, rouge du reflet de l'infernale flamme,
J'ai vu—j'en ai frémi jusques au fond de l'âme!—
Alighieri vivant dire un chant de l'Enfer.

Prose translation (literal):
TO THE TRAGEDIAN E. ROSSI: AFTER A RECITATION OF DANTE
O Rossi, I have seen thee, trailing thy black cloak, breaking the feeble/ weak heart of sad Ophelia, and tiger exasperated by love and madness, strangle thy sobs in the fatal handkerchief.
I have seen Lear and Macbeth, and wept to see thee kiss, supreme lover of old / immemorial Italy, in nuptial tomb Juliet pale. But thou wast more grand and more terrible, one evening.
For I have tasted the horror and the pleasure sublime [plural, hence applies to both emotions], for the first time, to hear the triple rhymes sound in your golden voice their iron fanfare/ trumpet call;
And, red with reflection of the hellish flame, I have seen – (seeing it) I have trembled to the bottom of my soul – Alighieri live recite/ speak a chant/ song of Hell.

[Actually, “trois rimes”, triple rhymes, is not the same thing as Dante’s invention, the terza rima. A triple rhyme is one where the words have at least three syllables, the last two being unstressed as in tearfully, fearfully. Heredia should have used the Italian term to avoid confusion - it has been adopted into English, and French (where it is sometimes hyphenated) - but he wanted a rhyme for sublimes. I have used the word linkèd because it gives some idea of Dante’s rhyme scheme. The Italian plural, terze rime, would look like a rhyme but it would not sound like one!]

To The Tragedian E. Rossi
AFTER A RECITATION FROM DANTE (©2016 by Ruth Heredia)

I have seen you, Rossi, trailing your black cloak
As the gentle heart of sad Ophelia broke,
And tigerish your misprised love’s mad raging
When fatal kerchief stifled your wild sobbing.

Lear I have seen, Macbeth, and still I grieve
For the famed Italian lover long ago
Kissing Juliet, entombed in nuptials of woe.
But grander you were, more terrible, one eve.

That taste of horror and pleasure, both sublime,
Was the first.  Your golden voice in trumpet calls
Of iron sounded in the linkèd rhyme;

And, redly reflecting a flame most fell,
I saw – to its depths my soul it still appals -
Alighieri live, recite a chant from Hell.

AFTER A RECITATION FROM DANTE (Tr. by Edward R. Taylor, 1906)

I've seen thee, Rossi, robed in black, give fair
Ophelia's tender heart thy rending blow,
And, tiger mad with love and phrenzied woe,
Read in the handkerchief thy soul's despair.

Macbeth and Lear I've seen, and wept whene'er
I saw thee, who lov'st olden Italy so,
Kiss Juliet in her nuptial tomb laid low;
Yet once beyond all these I found thee dare.

For mine the horror and the joy sublime
Of then first listening to the triple rhyme
Sound in thy golden voice its iron swell;

And, lit by flames of the infernal shore,
I saw and shuddered to my being's core
The living Dante chant his song of Hell.

To the Tragedian Rossi (Tr. by Maurice F. Egan, ca 1902)

Trailing thy mantle black, I’ve seen thee break,
O Rossi, weak Ophelia’s saddened heart,
And, as the love-mad Moorish tiger, start
Strangling the sobs thy victim could not wake;

I Lear, Macbeth have seen, and seen thee take
The last cold kiss in love’s supremest part
Of older Italy;—high flights of art!—
Yet greater triumphs have I seen thee make:

For I did taste of joy and woe sublime
When I did hear thee speak the triple rhyme,—
In voice of gold you rang its iron knell;

And red, in reflex of the infernal fire,
My very soul moved by deep horror dire
Saw Alighieri, living, chant of hell!


The sonnet seems expressly designed to lead up to the I-wants-to-make-your-flesh-creep final line. It probably works when recited in French, but I find it excessively contrived for all that. It has language I found difficult to turn into expressions acceptable to me, forcing me into compromises for lines that would rhyme and scan, and so giving the translation a dated effect. Some of Heredia’s own compromises for the sake of rhyme, and getting his alexandrines, and fitting everything into fourteen lines of a set pattern, are evident in the prose translation above. One of his contortions is complicated, and must be explained in order to shed light on the misunderstanding that both his poet translators fell into. Heredia got out of naming Hamlet and Othello, at the same time earning points for cleverness. That was easy with Hamlet’s black cloak and the mention of Ophelia. Desdemona is not named, but there are the handkerchief and the word ‘strangling’ (although the victim was smothered). Pale Juliet in her ‘nuptial tomb’ ought to suffice for Romeo, but something more was required to fill a line. What clothing, what object, what characteristic comes to mind? None. But Romeo is one half of a famous pair of lovers; they are Italian, and theirs is a once-upon-a-time story. Hence, the “suprême” lover, of “l’antique” Italy. But the phrasing – dictated solely by the requirements of versification – is ambiguous. Taylor has taken it to mean that Rossi is one “who lov'st olden Italy so”. Egan does not fall into that error, but what does “love’s supremest part of older Italy” mean? The play is English, not Italian.

Ruth Heredia is the originator and holds the copyright to all material on this blog unless credited to some source. Please do not use it or pass it off as your own work. That is theft. If you wish to link it, quote it, or reprint in whole or in part, please be courteous enough to seek my permission.

José-Maria de Heredia – 5 Le Voeu

In the late decades of the 1800s, there was a buzz of interest among scholars, historians and archaeologists, over certain Stone Age and Bronze Age remains in the Pyrenees. Among relics of a much later date, after the Roman conquest of the region that the victors named ‘Gaul’, were blocks of marble carved with a thankful message from the votary to the deity, and described as altars. Like this one – of particular interest to José-Maria de Heredia’s sonnet, Le Voeu (The Vow):

Perhaps it was because of what he heard in the salon of Gaston Paris, writer, professor of Romance languages, and philologist, as well as historian, palaeologist and specialist in epigraphs, that Heredia took a holiday in Bagnères-de-Luchon. That was during 1885 or 1886. While there, he became acquainted with a monograph by a learned local man, Julien Sacaze, Épigraphie de Luchon (available online, along with Histoire Ancienne de Luchon by Sacaze). The result was a set of five sonnets, grouped as Sonnets Épigraphiques, in the section titled Rome and the Barbarians.

Le Voeu is the first sonnet, and in it he declares his intent in writing the set. Each sonnet will be his own votive altar, therefore the next sonnet takes up the “Subterranean Nymphs” in the last line, and its last line leads to the dedication of the following sonnet. The Garumnian of Le Voeu reappears in the third sonnet.

Luchon is a corruption of Ilixon or Lixon, the local deity, tutelary genius of the healing, sulphurous hot springs. In 76 BC, Pompey, returning to Italy from Spain over the Pyrenees, founded Lugdunum Convenarum (now St. Bertrand-de-Comminges). One of his soldiers, afflicted by a skin disease, was advised by a local tribesman to seek a cure by immersion for 21 days in the waters of Ilixon’s thermal springs. He was completely healed. That was recorded and remembered. The Emperor Claudius is said to have had pools dug and thermal baths built at the springs, “the baths of Ilixon”, now “Bagnères-de-Luchon”.

Another name that occurs in the votive marbles set up (by Romanised tribesmen and tribeswomen) was Iscitt, worshipped at Garin. The votive marbles were inscribed as seen in the illustration, with the deity’s name, the donor’s name, and V(otum) S(olvit) L(ibens) M(erito) which means in effect “this is in fulfilment of a vow, gladly and gratefully”.

Vervain, verbena, ‘Juno’s tears’ was a sacred herb, and mallow was offered to Apollo. This might apply as well to the worship of Celtic gods, or it might be the effect of Roman culture. These details don’t matter now. Heredia’s mentor, to whom Les Trophées is dedicated, Charles Leconte de Lisle, was provoked to laughter by the whole business: the Celtic gods Iscitt and Ilixon, solemnly invoked by Heredia, Hunnu son of Ulohox, the painted Garumnian, and “bald Venasque”. Port de Venasque is a pass in the Pyrenees near Luchon. In a photograph of 1875 by Eugène Trutat, the massive rocks bare of vegetation (bald?) may be seen, and they are part of that same moraine the sonnet refers to:

Provided I kept tongue firmly in cheek, it was possible to make a translation in lines of twelve syllables, but not in Heredia’s rhyme scheme, unless I did violence to sensible English. But Edward R. Taylor wrote his translation in the revised edition according to the rules. For me this exercise was undertaken mainly because curiosity about Iscitt and Ilixon led to a lot of interesting information, partly to complete a set of seven translated sonnets, and mostly because it was amusing to translate a sonnet I, like Leconte de Lisle, find rather absurd! The original sonnet is followed by a literal translation in prose, mine in verse, and Taylor’s second version.

Le Voeu

ILIXONI DEO FAB. FESTA V. S. L. M.
ISCITTO DEO HVNNV VLOHOXIS FIL. V. S. L. M.

Jadis l'Ibère noir et le Gall au poil fauve
Et le Garumne brun peint d'ocre et de carmin,
Sur le marbre votif entaillé par leur main,
Ont dit l'eau bienfaisante et sa vertu qui sauve.

Puis les Imperators, sous le Venasque chauve,
Bâtirent la piscine et le therme romain,
Et Fabia Festa, par ce même chemin,
A cueilli pour les Dieux la verveine ou la mauve.

Aujourd'hui, comme aux jours d'Iscitt et d'Ilixon,
Les sources m'ont chanté leur divine chanson;
Le soufre fume encore à l'air pur des moraines.

C'est pourquoi, dans ces vers, accomplissant les voeux,
Tel qu'autrefois Hunnu, fils d'Ulohox, je veux
Dresser l'autel barbare aux Nymphes Souterraines.


Prose translation (literal):
THE VOW
Once the dark Iberian and the Gaul with tawny body hair [hair on the head is cheveux] and the brown Garumnian painted with ochre and carmine, on votive marble cut/ carved with their hands, told of the water beneficent and its power to save.
Afterwards the Emperors, below bald Venasque, built the pool and the Roman thermal baths, and Fabia Festa, by the same road/ in the same way, gathered for the Gods vervain and mallow.
Today, as in the days of Iscitt and of Ilixon, the springs have sung to me their divine song; sulphur smokes/ fumes again in the pure air of the moraine.
That’s why, in these verses, fulfilling vows, as in past times Hunnu, son of Ulohox, I want to dedicate a rude/ crude/ barbarian altar to the Subterranean Nymphs.


THE VOW (©2016 by Ruth Heredia)

ILIXONI DEO FAB. FESTA V. S. L. M.
ISCITTO DEO HVNNV VLOHOXIS FIL. V. S. L. M.

Once, the dark Iberian, the tawny Gaul, and brown
Garumnian with ochre and with carmine painted,
These waters’ powers to heal, do good and save made known
On the votive marble their own hands engravèd.

Came Emperors who built the pools and thermal baths
In Roman style, below Venasque’s bald rock crown,
And Fabia Festa, she who trod the Roman paths,
Mallow and vervain, before the Gods to lay down.

The springs to me have sung their song divine again,
As in bygone days of Iscitt and Ilixon;
Sulphur infuses the pure airs of the moraine.

As Hunnu, Ulohox’ son, made thanks-offering,
Vow to fulfil, these verses are my orison
To Nymphs Below – an altar crude I’m proffering.

THE VOW (Tr. by Edward R. Taylor, 1906)

ILIXONI DEO FAB. FESTA V. S. L. M.
ISCITTO DEO HVNNV VLOHOXIS FIL. V. S. L. M.

The brown Garumnus smeared with red and ochrous stain,
The swart Iberus and the light-haired Gaul, of old,
Upon the votive marble cut by them, have told
The virtues of the water and its power o'er bane.

Below Venasque bald the Emperors then were fain
To build the pool and thermae of the Roman mould;
And next 'twas Fabia Festa who, like them controlled,
Collected for the Gods the mallow and vervain.

To-day, as when Ilixon and Iscitt were young,
The springs their song divine to me have sweetly sung,
Where still the sulphur fumes in the moraine's pure breath.

Hence in this vow-fulfilling verse 'tis mine to raise,
Like Hunnu, son of Ulohox, in the bygone days,
A rudely-fashioned altar to the Nymphs beneath.


Ruth Heredia is the originator and holds the copyright to all material on this blog unless credited to some source. Please do not use it or pass it off as your own work. That is theft. If you wish to link it, quote it, or reprint in whole or in part, please be courteous enough to seek my permission.

José-Maria de Heredia - 4 Villula

The Romans, especially Romans of the Republic, do not give the impression of being sentimental or given to fancy. Yet they did have one ideal – that of rustic simplicity – which sounded well in poetry but was not so popular in real life. Few Romans elected to be another Cincinnatus. Virgil and Horace wrote pastoral poems, which José-Maria de Heredia certainly read, but only Horace loved his ‘Sabine farm’, living in a villa there. Did this inspire Villula?

Heredia’s Gallus lived in a little villa (villula) on his small ancestral holding. Heredia is particular to set it on a Cisalpine hill. Cisalpine, “the hither side of the Alps”, designated the region across northern Italy in which the Gauls (Galli) settled after much opposition. Having settled, they began to adopt Roman ways of living. Finally, as always happens, they were accepted as ‘Romans’ or at least as ‘Roman citizens’. Gallus went from being a noun, the singular of Galli, to becoming a personal name, regardless of the ethnic origin of the owner. All this is by the way, in order to make the sonnet better appreciated. Heredia was intelligent and could be subtle, as we shall see at the end of this series of commentaries.

Villula belongs in the section of Les Trophées titled Rome and the Barbarians. In the case of Villula the category is appropriate for an account of one who is probably a Romanised barbarian – else why the mention of the Cisalpine hill? Heredia suggests Gallus’ transformation by giving him a diet of favoured Roman food, and in other ways indicating that he chose to live the Roman ideal of simplicitas. He could have titled his sonnet in French, but Petite Villa sounds rather feeble beside the robust Latin – so I think! At first glance, one might think that this sonnet is one of those whose rhyme scheme is not Heredia’s usual. But in conformity with the rules of French versification (Oh those rules!) passage and sage are not akin to héritage, étage etc. The consonne d’appui – the consonant preceding the vowel - is different.

First the original, followed by the prose translation, my version and then E. R. Taylor’s from the 1906 revision. I have retained the original title in Latin.

Villula

Oui, c'est au vieux Gallus qu'appartient l'héritage
Que tu vois au penchant du coteau cisalpin;
La maison tout entière est à l'abri d'un pin
Et le chaume du toit couvre à peine un étage.

Il suffit pour qu'un hôte avec lui le partage.
Il a sa vigne, un four à cuire plus d'un pain,
Et dans son potager foisonne le lupin.
C'est peu? Gallus n'a pas désiré davantage.

Son bois donne un fagot ou deux tous les hivers,
Et de l'ombre, l'été, sous les feuillages verts;
À l'automne on y prend quelque grive au passage.

C'est là que, satisfait de son destin borné,
Gallus finit de vivre où jadis il est né.
Va, tu sais à présent que Gallus est un sage.


Prose translation (literal):
LITTLE VILLA
Yes, it is to old Gallus that the inheritance belongs which you see on the slope of that little Cisalpine hill; the whole house fits under the shade of a pine and the thatched roof covers at most one floor/ storey.
It suffices to host one guest. He has a vineyard, an oven to bake more than one loaf, and in his kitchen garden harvests lupins. [The Romans enjoyed eating the legume seeds of the lupin, called lupin beans.] It is little? Gallus does not wish for more.
His woods supply a bundle or two every winter, and shade in summer under the green foliage; in autumn one can catch some journeying thrush there. [Romans also prized thrushes for eating.]
It is there that, satisfied with his limited lot, Gallus is finishing his life where once he was born. Go, you know now that Gallus is a wise man.

VILLULA (©2016 by Ruth Heredia)

Yes, that’s old Gallus’ inheritance you see
Perched on the slope of the Cisalpine hill. Small
It certainly is – fits in the shade of a single pine tree,
And what the thatched roof covers, that is all.

But it suffices. He can give one guest a bed,
His kitchen garden yields lupins for his store,
There’s a vineyard, his oven bakes enough bread -
You find it little? But Gallus wants no more.

In winter his woods yield a bundle or two,
Under green shade summer days he can spend,
In autumn he catches a thrush passing through;

It’s here, where he was born, Gallus means to end,
Satisfied with his destiny’s narrow span.
Go, now you know that Gallus is a wise man.


A LITTLE VILLA (Tr. by Edward R. Taylor, 1906)

Yes, that's the heritage of Gallus hoar
Thou dost on yon cisalpine hill descry;
A pine his humble house is sheltered by,
Whose lowly roof the thatch scarce covers o'er.

And yet for guest he has sufficing store:
His oven is large, his vines make glad the eye,
And in his garden lupines multiply.
'Tis little? Gallus ne'er has longed for more.

His grove yields fagots through the winter hours,
And shade in summer under leafy bowers,
While autumn brings some passing thrush for prize.

'Tis there, contented with his narrow round,
He ends his days upon his natal ground.
Go, now thou knowest why Gallus is so wise.

Ruth Heredia is the originator and holds the copyright to all material on this blog unless credited to some source. Please do not use it or pass it off as your own work. That is theft. If you wish to link it, quote it, or reprint in whole or in part, please be courteous enough to seek my permission.

José-Maria de Heredia - 3 Soleil Couchant

Before passing on to the subject of this instalment, a Postcriptum to the previous one. Floridum Mare was very much a painting in words, and there are two paintings which could illustrate it. One may even be called La Bretagne et la mer (Brittany and the Sea), if one sees it on the website of the Galerie Enora (http://www.officiel-galeries-musees.com/galerie/galerie-enora), where it is not identified but I read the signature as “A(ndré) Wilder”. The other is La moisson au Pouldu (Harvest at Le Pouldu) [on the coast of Brittany] by Adolphe Beaufrère (http://www.concarneau-peintres.fr/francais/beaufrere/moisson.htm). Both paintings are protected by copyright and so here are only postage-size images to guide an online search:
  

*****
The second sonnet to surprise me, after the effect made by L’oubli, is another in the group called The Sea of Brittany. It was a mixed pleasure to read it. To me it seems more artificial than the two sonnets already considered, as if Heredia has not got to grips with that time between day and night always appealing to a poet, or with the strange, rather wild setting. A comment by the poet Eli Siegel is pertinent: “Heredia had his fourteen-line form and then looked for something in history (or it might be just in landscape, with history faint) to become words, lines, sentences, rhymes, rhythm”. Has the writer of this sonnet been too artful in making use of two clever ideas that he had – the infinite sea beginning where the land ends, and the sun’s last display as a fan of red with golden ribs? (It was satisfying to match the French “sans fini ... finit” with the exact equivalent in English, “endless ... ending”. Such an opportunity seldom comes to one translating into English verse!)

Here is Soleil Couchant followed by a literal translation in prose, my attempt in verse, and a translation each by two poets:

Soleil Couchant

Les ajoncs éclatants, parure du granit,
Dorent l'âpre sommet que le couchant allume;
Au loin, brillante encor par sa barre d'écume,
La mer sans fin commence où la terre finit.

À mes pieds, c'est la nuit, le silence. Le nid
Se tait, l'homme est rentré sous le chaume qui fume;
Seul, l'Angélus du soir, ébranlé dans la brume,
À la vaste rumeur de l'Océan s'unit.

Alors, comme du fond d'un abîme, des traînes,
Des landes, des ravins, montent des voix lointaines
De pâtres attardés ramenant le bétail.

L'horizon tout entier s'enveloppe dans l'ombre,
Et le soleil mourant, sur un ciel riche et sombre,
Ferme les branches d'or de son rouge éventail.

Prose translation (literal):
SETTING SUN
The shining gorse/ furze, adornment of the granite, gilds the rugged summit/ height which the sunset lights up; far away, still shining through its tide of foam, the endless sea begins where the land ends. [Backing up my choice of gorse over furze, a choice based on its sound in the context of the other words, there is Sabatini’s The Marquis of Carabas, which mentions gorse alongside “surging blocks of granite” but never furze.]
At my feet it is night, silence. The nest holds its peace, the man has gone in under the smoking thatch; only the evening Angelus disturbs the mist/ haze, to the vast clamour/ roar of Ocean it joins/ unites itself.
Then, as from an abyss’ depths the trails, the moors, the ravines, rise up faraway voices of tardy herders/ shepherds collecting/ rounding up their livestock. [See footnote.]
The entire horizon is wrapped in shadow, and the dying sun, on a sky rich and sombre/ darkening, shuts up the golden ribs of his red/ crimson fan.

SETTING SUN (©2016 by Ruth Heredia)

Splendid shines the gorse, granite cliff adorning,
Which the sun in setting gilds on rugged height.
Far off, its foaming tide once more made bright,
The endless sea begins where land is ending.

Night spreads below my feet, silent. The nest
Is hushed, man has returned ‘neath smoking thatch;
The Angelus alone disturbs the mist,
And the vast roar of Ocean strives to match.

As from an abyss’ depths there now arise,
To gather their flocks, tardy shepherds’ cries
From out the moors, the ravines, and the trails.

Shadow takes the horizon in its span,
As the sun, in a rich, sombre sky, fails,
Furling up gold ribs of his crimson fan.

SUNSET (Tr. by Edward Robeson Taylor, 1906)

The blossomed furze gem of the granite's crest
Gilds all the height the sun's last glories fill,
And far below, with foam refulgent still,
Unbounded spreads great ocean's heaving breast.

Silence and Night are at my feet. The nest
Is hushed; the smoking thatch folds man from ill;
And but the Angelus, with melodious thrill,
Lifts its calm voice amid the sea's unrest.

Then, as from bottom of abyss, there rise
From trails, ravines and moors the distant cries
Of tardy herdsmen who their kine reclaim.

In deepening shade the whole horizon lies,
And the dying sun upon the rich, sad skies
Shuts the gold branches of his fan of flame.

SUNSET (Tr. by Maurice F. Egan, ca 1902)

The sunlit brush light to the dark rock lends,
And gilds the summit of the mountain dome
Where sets the sun; beyond—a bar of foam—
The endless sea begins where the earth ends:

Beneath me, night and silence; tired man wends
To where the smoking chimney marks his home.
The Angelus, deadened by the mists that roam,
In the vast murmur of the ocean blends.

As from the depth of an abyss, the sound
Of far-off voices in the space around
Comes from belated herdsmen with their clan.

The western sky is clothed in shadows gray;
The sun on rich dark clouds sinks slow away
And shuts the gold sticks of his crimson fan.


Even a minor English poet can make a pastoral evening scene personal and unforgettable:
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Thomas Gray’s ploughman is recognisable; “homeward” evokes a certain response. In Soleil Couchant, we have this: “l'homme est rentré sous le chaume qui fume”. What man? The “smoking thatch” may be a clever phrase but does it really give such an immediate sense of nostalgia as “homeward” does? Can the unseen shepherds and scattered flocks of the sonnet compare with “the lowing herd” or “the drowsy tinklings” which “lull the distant fold”? Heredia’s Angelus has to struggle for a place beside “the curfew tolls the knell of parting day”.

It is a question of what happens to French words used in classically structured poetry. They become symbolic signs – what in computer-influenced jargon are named (with possibly unintended disrespect) icons. In English poetry words can be crammed with connotations and take on an almost incantatory power: those “immemorial elms”, “innumerable bees”, “darling buds of May”, “autumnal leaves that strow the brooks in Vallombrosa”, “like a garment, wear the beauty of the morning”. One could quote a bookful of such phrases and lines, all powerfully evocative, holding a particular emotional resonance for the reader. (In some sonnets, Heredia does find the memorable phrase or line but often one gets the feeling that the rules govern his choice of words, and so the words become counters in a game.)

English has a rich vocabulary but is poor in possibilities for rhyme. Heredia’s sonnets are known for their rhyme scheme, and the skilled use of the feminine rhyme. This is difficult to reproduce in English, as are the alexandrines – syllabic verse where twelve syllables usually fall into two sections by means of the stress, although they may be divided into three or four such sections. As for the rules regarding rhymes, I find them so complicated that I would never dream of trying to write verse in French! Furthermore, what about being true to every detail in the original, Heredia being known for his care over choice of detail; and what of striving to make of the English version something as near as possible to an acceptable poem, not a collection of lines forced into a rhyme scheme to match the French? It seems to me more productive to compose something that is likely to tempt the reader on to the original sonnets, rather than to be very strict with metre and rhymes but write something very artificial, with odd word formations or amending the original either by omission or by addition.

Footnote: “Pâtre” is synonymous with either “berger” or “pasteur”, (and is generally kept, along with “pasteur”, for literary use), signifying one who minds the “betail”, which could mean bulls, cows, sheep or goats. A “pasteur”, or a “berger”, however, only tends sheep and must be rendered as shepherd. Although he was careful to put in certain details as they suited his purpose, I doubt that Heredia greatly cared whether it was cattle or sheep that he heard, for both are to be found in Brittany, but chose “pâtre” and “betail” for the effect on his line. Taylor and Egan opt for cattle. I could as well have used herdsmen and beasts for the French, the syllables are a match, but the connotations are not comparable with shepherds and sheep.

Ruth Heredia is the originator and holds the copyright to all material on this blog unless credited to some source. Please do not use it or pass it off as your own work. That is theft. If you wish to link it, quote it, or reprint in whole or in part, please be courteous enough to seek my permission.