Summer here has turned hot and it is good to finish a difficult read, "Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the West", by Cormac McCarthy.  I was led to read it because Harold Bloom had named it the best American novel ever written.  In matters of reading Bloom knows just about everything.  

The book is graphic and unsparing in its bloody history of the southwestern US.  I think he does capture much of the ground/foundation of our United State, and points to the roots of current violence.  Some of the roots anyway.  The "judge" at times tips his hand in philosophical interludes:

It makes no difference what men think of war, said the judge. War endures. As well ask men what they think of stone. War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade waiting its ultimate practitioner. That is the way it was and will be. That way and not some other way.

And then he finishes the section with "war is god."

Instead of a full review I offer the best off the web.  There is a new online journal, Archipelago that published_an_article by Katherine McNamara entitled, "The Only God Is the God of War, On Blood Meridian, an American Myth."

Mythic indeed.

It is my opinion to sustain a thoughtful life in rural America a body has to get out of town.  I accomplished just that this past week by attending a  Viola_Congress in Montreal Canada.  Besides a week of international caliber music performance and instruction there was the chance to experience a bit of culture shock in this decidedly French city.  The up side of the shock was the fine coffee and diversity of food offerings.

The highlights in performance for me were two violists--one new on the scene and one quite seasoned.  The new face was from France, Antoine Tamestit, who played in ensemble and solo.  One person described his sound like chocolate.  In my brief research on his work it seems he is not yet on CD.  And the other moment for me was with Barbara Westphal from Germany who provided the closing concert and had a touch on the viola that reached to the depths.

So it is good to get out of town when we can.

Mark Helpsmeet (from his website)

His full explanation of the programs appears in the Full Story...

So on this pleasant Sunday if you need a bit of a lift, check out the interviews, or the music_programming that he offers.

1995 J. B.Overworked Amer. vi. 164=20 Downshifters those who reject high-powered, demanding jobs in order to gain more control over their lives and will be the latest trendsetters.

1999 Independent 1 June (Open Eye = Suppl.) 12/1 In extreme cases they become downshifters, distancing themselves from consumer society.

This from "Word of the Day" by OED. Visit their home_page for more.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.

This from an internet service that provides Shakespearean Sonnets one at a time. Online Literature offers an email service (scroll down to the bottom of the page to sign up) that sends the sonnets, in chronological order, three times a week.  Over the course of a year the recipient will be exposed to the whole collection of sonnets.

The picture of Sassoon is from Oxford Virtual Seminars on teaching literature (here) which has detailed information on him as well as other poets of the time.

This version of the poem is from the BBC website, click here to access that site with other poems by WWI era authors.

"I Wish the Wood-cutter Would Wake Up"

By Pablo Neruda

. . .

I drink down your cup of green dew.

Yes, through Arizona and Wisconsin full of knots,

As far as Milwaukee, raised to keep back the wind and

The snow

Or in the burning swamps of West Palm,

Near the pine trees of Tacoma, in the thick odour

Of your forests which is like steel,

I walked weighing down the mother earth,

Blue leaves, waterfalls of stones,

Hurricanes vibrating as all music does,

Rivers that muttered prayers like monasteries,

Geese and apples, territories and waters,

Infinite silence in which the wheat could be born...

(translated by Robert Bly, from: Penguin Book of Socialist Verse; 1970; Middlesex, England)