Welcome to my commonplace blog

The goal of this blog is to preserve a few ideas and quotes from books I read. In the old days when books were not so readily available, people kept "commonplace books" where they copied choice passages they wanted to be able to remember and perhaps reuse. The idea got picked up by V.F.D. and it's common knowledge that most of that organization's volunteers have kept commonplace books, and so have Laura and I.

I'm sure there are many other Internet sites and blogs dedicated to the same idea. But this one is mine. Feel free to look around and leave comments, but not spam.

13 September 2010

Moominsummer Madness (Tove Jansson)

Nature is once again unfriendly to the Moomins - this time it's a volcano. Nevermind, they can handle it. Snufkin becomes a daddy (for a while), Moomintroll goes to jail, Little My gets lost in the sea, but in the end everything is OK. We get introduced to Little My and to the fillyjonks. The hemulens (the good and bad kinds) also play an important part in this story.


Quotes:

It was quite a long time before he found the bark schooner. The back stay had gotten entangled in a bush, but it was undamaged. Even the little hatch was in its place over the hold.
Moomintroll walked back through the garden to the house. The evening air was cool and mild, and the dewy flowers had a richer fragrance than ever before.
His mother was sitting on the steps. She was waiting for him.
She was holding something in her paws and smiling.
"Know what I've got?" She asked.
"The dinghy!" Said Moomintroll, and burst out laughing. Not because anything was especially funny, but just because he felt so happy.

10 September 2010

Christianity for the Rest of Us (Diana Butler Bass)


An important book, well written, well researched, graceful, challenging and comforting. A study of the revitalization of mainline churches through intentionally applying classic Christian practices.

Quotes:

Nomadic spirituality, that sense of being alien, strangers in a strange land, is almost a given of contemporary life.

In the New Testament, Jesus asks everyone to change. With the exception of children, Jesus insists that every person he meets do something and change.

At first, it seemed odd that students regularly challenged me with the same statistic. Then, I discovered that the vast majority of them had seen the same video, America’s Godly Heritage, by an amateur historian named David Barton.

is the church “the gathering of the saints” or “a hospital for sinners”

Many mainstream congregations became a kind of Christian version of the Rotary Club, understanding the church as a religious place for social acceptability and business connections. [...] By the time I was born in 1959, church was an extension of postwar middle-class aspirations, run by bureaucracies in the faith business. [...] mainline churches of my childhood had essentially capitulated to American culture—their political practices of charity and social concern were basically secular.

Many people today, religious nomads isolated in time by modern amnesia, are trying to relocate themselves in the past. To get connected with the ancestors. To find their way back to an enchanted world.

Some Christians think that faith is like a set of MapQuest directions—that there is only a single highway to God. [...] Christianity is not a map religion. Christianity is a religion of the streets, of signposts on the ground, of people walking along the way.

Next to hospitality, discernment was one of the most widely spread spiritual practices among the research churches. [...] You have to pay attention when you are not entirely sure where you are going.

For my soul’s gonna be a place for God to live and laugh, to heal and love.

Christ has no body now on earth but yours, no hands but yours, no feet but yours.
Yours are the eyes through which to look out
Christ’s compassion to the world;
Yours are the feet with which He is to go about doing good; yours are the hands with which He is to bless men now.

(Teresa of Avila)

[S]alvation is a process whereby we enter into God’s saving work—not a single moment of miraculous transformation through which we are rescued from sin. [...] a lifetime of practice, receiving God’s healing grace and power, being changed by it, and offering healing back to the world. The healed heal.

Nothing in all creation is so like God as silence. (Meister Eckhart)

Prayer is then not just a formula of words, or a series of desires springing up in the heart—it is the orientation of our whole body, mind and spirit to God in silence, attention, and adoration. All good meditative prayer is a conversion of our entire self to God. (Thomas Merton)

testimony is the most democratic—and empowering—of all Christian practices

How can a religion that speaks so eloquently of love so brutally destroy its questioners, its dissenters, its innovators, and its competitors?

Tutu explains that Africans believe “a person is a person through other persons.” Fundamental to our humanity is that “we are set in a delicate network of interdependence with our fellow human beings and with the rest of God’s creation.” Tutu says, “The truth is we need each other. We cannot survive and thrive without one another.”

The end is reconciliation, the end is redemption, the end is the creation of the beloved community. (Martin Luther King)

While fairness, equality, and human rights are very good things, they are also primarily secular ideals. As shocking as the discovery may be to many American Christians, that secular language is not found in the Bible or in the vast consensus of Christian tradition. Instead, those ideals emerged during the Enlightenment [...]

This is the foundation of worship. If you can take an hour on Sunday morning and open people to experiencing just a quarter-second of awe, wonder, and surrender you just experienced, it is accomplished.

the object of worship “is not to create anything.” Rather, he says, “the goal is simply to invite people into a sense of openness and attentiveness [...] Worship, Robinson concludes, needs to be an “experience of God,” rather than a “reflection about God.”

Every act of worship, no matter how private or public, how discreet or elaborate, enacts God’s dream for the world.

Worship is much more than something Christians attend on Sunday morning—it is something pilgrims make together.

For more than thirty years, mainline Protestants have fought bitterly about worship. Typically, the argument is about the use of “contemporary” versus “traditional” music, art, and liturgy in church. Yet, as I journeyed through the mainline, I observed that the particular style of music did not necessarily matter to congregational vitality.

Perhaps unexpectedly in this highly technological age, young adults may well have found their way back to an untapped stream of American theological mysticism. Postmodern and ancient at the same time, new and old, innovative and traditional.

As a California Presbyterian said bluntly about art, “It helps move people away from blind literalism” to what is “truly there.”

Through the arts, human beings embody God by imitating God’s creative life—shaping the clay of their experience with voices and hands. In that place, everything becomes new as we participate in God’s continual creation of the universe.

In the churches along my way, change was not gimmicky innovation in search of cultural relevance. Too often, churches think that if they add guitars to worship, put DVDs in Sunday school rooms, or open a food court in the foyer, new people will join. This kind of change smacks of market tinkering—adjusting the product to improve sales. In my journey, churches changed at a much deeper level and for different reasons.

“We don’t do things arbitrarily,” says one woman. “We adopt them as part of our community when it feeds the spirit. When things don’t work, we shed them.”

Because of their unique sense of identity, almost all the congregations expressed reservations about their larger denominational identity.

I had seen an almost entirely different political vision in the study congregations—a nearly wholesale rejection of the definition of politics as systemic change and policy platforms. In the congregations I visited, politics was being redefined as communal practices of service, grassroots social transformation that works “up” toward larger change.

“We come with our own national identity. And that’s okay. But as we gather as God’s people, we need to say that we are something else at least an hour out of the week. We are a liturgical people worshiping God more than a bunch of Americans.”

Some congregations along my way leaned toward being blue-purples (especially in urban areas and in the west); others, red-purples (especially in suburbs and in the south). None matched the media stereotype of Christian politics; none was a pure form of any political party. Like their Roman Catholic brothers and sisters, they are somewhat politically unpredictable and do not form a reliably unified voting block.

Lent is not about being sad, not some sort of spiritual penance. Rather, she insists, Lent is about change—the change that God can make in our selves, our faith communities, and the larger world. Lent is a time that opens our hearts to transformation, to becoming God’s people and doing that which God calls us to do.

Transformation is the promise at the heart of the Christian life.

Christianity for the rest of us is not about personal salvation, not about getting everybody else saved, or about the politics of exclusion and moral purity. Christianity for the rest of us is the promise of transformation—that, by God’s mercy, we can be different, our congregations can be different, and our world can be different.

Mainline renewal is, as one Lutheran pastor told me, “not rocket science.” As he said, “You preach the gospel, offer hospitality, and pay attention to worship and people’s spiritual lives. Frankly, you take Christianity seriously as a way of life.”

04 September 2010

The Clicking of Cuthbert (P. G. Wodehouse)

I have absolutely no interest in golf, but P. G. Wodehouse is such a great writer, that i find this book surprisingly enjoyable. It consists of a series of short stories set in a golf club, where "The Oldest Member" explains the facts of life (or the facts of golf, which is more or less the same thing) to whatever young'un happens to be within earshot.


Quotes:

"No novelists any good except me. Sovietski--yah! Nastikoff--bah! I spit me of zem all. No novelists anywhere any good except me. P. G. Wodehouse and Tolstoi not bad. Not good, but not bad. No novelists any good except me."

that is how it goes in this world. You get a following as a celebrity, and then you run up against another bigger celebrity and your admirers desert you. One could moralize on this at considerable length, but better not, perhaps

"And so," (concluded the Oldest Member), "you see that golf can be of the greatest practical assistance to a man in Life's struggle.

Love (says the Oldest Member) is an emotion which your true golfer should always treat with suspicion.

Few things draw two men together more surely than a mutual inability to master golf, coupled with an intense and ever-increasing love for the game.

They were real golfers, for real golf is a thing of the spirit, not of mere mechanical excellence of stroke.

Fate is a dramatist who gets his best effects with a small cast

All over the links, happy, laughing groups of children had broken out like a rash.

Golf, like measles, should be caught young, for, if postponed to riper years, the results may be serious.

Talking of danger, the time when things really did look a little nasty was when the wounded gongo cornered me in a narrow tongo and I only had a pocket-knife with everything in it broken except the corkscrew and the thing for taking stones out of horses' hoofs.

A lifetime of observing my fellow-creatures has convinced me that Nature intended us all to be golfers.

Their friendship ripened rapidly, as friendships do in the South of France. In that favoured clime, you find the girl and Nature does the rest.

Mary, will you be mine? Shall we go round together? Will you fix up a match with me on the links of life which shall end only when the Grim Reaper lays us both a stymie?

It was a pathetic, a tragic letter, the letter of a woman endeavouring to express all the anguish of a torn heart with one of those fountain-pens which suspend the flow of ink about twice in every three words.

From now on, we start level, two hearts that beat as one, two drivers that drive as one.

The ideal golfer never loses his temper. When I played, I never lost my temper. Sometimes, it is true, I may, after missing a shot, have broken my club across my knees; but I did it in a calm and judicial spirit, because the club was obviously no good and I was going to get another one anyway.

He had a great gift of language, and he used it unsparingly.

in one or two other matters, like the choice of a putter (so much more important than the choice of a wife), I had been of assistance to him.

"Keep the head still--slow back--don't press," I said, gravely. There is no better rule for a happy and successful life.

"The only way," I said to Alexander, "of really finding out a man's true character is to play golf with him. In no other walk of life does the cloven hoof so quickly display itself. I employed a lawyer for years, until one day I saw him kick his ball out of a heel-mark. I removed my business from his charge next morning. He has not yet run off with any trust-funds, but there is a nasty gleam in his eye, and I am convinced that it is only a question of time. Golf, my dear fellow, is the infallible test. The man who can go into a patch of rough alone, with the knowledge that only God is watching him, and play his ball where it lies, is the man who will serve you faithfully and well. The man who can smile bravely when his putt is diverted by one of those beastly wormcasts is pure gold right through. But the man who is hasty, unbalanced, and violent on the links will display the same qualities in the wider field of everyday life.

Rules are rules, my boy, and must be kept.

One of the poets, whose name I cannot recall, has a passage, which I am unable at the moment to remember, in one of his works, which for the time being has slipped my mind, which hits off admirably this age-old situation.

"Breakfast," said Rupert, firmly. "If you don't know what it is, I can teach you in half a minute. You play it with a pot of coffee, a knife and fork, and about a hundred-weight of scrambled eggs. Try it. It's a pastime that grows on you."

He was one of those men who marry early and often.

"What I want to know is what a fellow does when he plays golf. Tell me in as few words as you can just what it's all about." "You hit a ball with a stick till it falls into a hole."

The main difference, we are told, between the amateur and the professional golfer is the fact that the latter is always aiming at the pin, while the former has in his mind a vague picture of getting somewhere reasonably near it.

A young woman of singular beauty and rather statuesque appearance came out of the club-house carrying a baby swaddled in flannel. As she drew near the table she said to the baby: "Chicketty wicketty wicketty wipsey pop!" In other respects her intelligence appeared to be above the ordinary.

Golf humanizes women, humbles their haughty natures, tends, in short, to knock out of their systems a certain modicum of that superciliousness, that swank, which makes wooing a tough proposition for the diffident male.

Yes, in his twenty-ninth year, Ramsden Waters had sunk to the depth of becoming a secret golfer.

She did not speak at all apologetically, but rather as a goddess might have spoken to a swineherd.

Why, the very instant that Eunice appeared in the place, every eligible bachelor for miles around her tossed his head with a loud, snorting sound, and galloped madly in her direction.

women are women, and I doubt if any of them really take up golf in that holy, quest-of-the-grail spirit which animates men. I have known girls to become golfers as an excuse for wearing pink jumpers, and one at least who did it because she had read in the beauty hints in the evening paper that it made you lissome. Girls will be girls.

The mind of a man in love works in strange ways.

Men are as a rule idealists, and wish to keep their illusions regarding women intact, and it is difficult for the most broad-minded man to preserve a chivalrous veneration for the sex after a woman has repeatedly sliced into the rough and left him a difficult recovery. Women, too--I am not speaking of the occasional champions, but of the average woman, the one with the handicap of 33, who plays in high-heeled shoes--are apt to giggle when they foozle out of a perfect lie, and this makes for misogyny.

Their eyes met. Hers were glittering with the fury of a woman scorned. His were cold and hard. And, suddenly, as she looked at his awful, pale, set golf face, something seemed to snap in Eunice. A strange sensation of weakness and humility swept over her. So might the cave woman have felt when, with her back against a cliff and unable to dodge, she watched her suitor take his club in the interlocking grip, and, after a preliminary waggle, start his back swing.

Even as her driver rose above her shoulder she was acutely aware that she was making eighteen out of the twenty-three errors which complicate the drive at golf.

03 September 2010

Finn Family Moomintroll (Tove Jansson)

Finn Family Moomintroll (original Swedish title Trollkarlens hatt, ‘The Magician's Hat’) is the third in the series of Tove Jansson's Moomins books, published in 1948. It owes its title in translation to the fact that it was the first Moomin book to be published in English, and was actually marketed as the first in the series until the 1980s. (Wikipedia)

A nice book, perhaps a gentler introduction to the world of the Moomins than "Coment in Moominland", but still, if you read "Comet" first, you get to know most of the main characters as Moomintroll did.


Quotes:

Far out to sea lay the Hattifatteners' Lonely Island, surrounded by reefs and breakers. (Once a year the Hattifatterners collect there before setting out again on their endless foraging expedition round the world. They come from all points of the compass, silent and serious with their small, white empty faces, and why they hold this yearly meeting it is difficult to say, as they can neither hear nor speak, and have no object in life but the distant goal of their journey's end. Perhaps they like to have a place where they feel at home and can rest a little and meet friends.)

Moomintroll was left alone on the bridge. He watched Snufkin grow smaller and smaller, and at last disappear among the silver poplars and the plum trees. But after a while he heard the mouth-organ playing "All small beasts should have bows in their tails," and then he knew that his friend was happy. He waited while the music grew fainter and fainter, till at last it was quite quiet, and then he trotted back through the dewy garden.

26 August 2010

Comet in Moominland (Tove Jansson)

Like Cormac McCarthy's The Road, this is a story of the end of the world. That was totally unexpected in a children's book. But it's so well written the characters are so good and the friendship that keeps them together is so strong, that it really works. Beautifully done.


Quotes:

"I think everything is still there," said Moomintroll. "Come with me and have a look."

22 August 2010

I, The Jury (Mickey Spillane)

This book reminded me of the Comedy Central "Roast" of David Hasselhoff: it wasn't funny and left me feeling a little dirty afterwards. I read somewhere that Raymond Chandler hated it. But i have to admit, it was well written and no BS in it. I guessed the killer correctly, about halfway, but i had the motive all wrong.

The only reason i thought of reading this book was because of a reference in the novel "Leaving the World". Besides the scenes of ultraviolence, the outdated viewpoints of the main protagonist are interesting to read.


Quotes:

From now on it’s a race. I want the killer for myself.

First, classify all murders. There are only a few. War, Passion, Self-Protection, Insanity, Profit and Mercy Killings. There are some others, but these are enough.

When I saw the light on I stopped in front of a mirrored door and gave myself a thorough inspection for lipstick marks. I managed to wipe my mouth clean, but getting it off my white collar was something else again. I could never figure out why the stuff came off women so easy and off the men so hard.

What we were both searching for was motive. There had to be one—and a good one. Murder doesn’t just happen. Murder is planned. Sometimes in haste, but planned nevertheless.

For a moment I wondered whether it would be decent to wear a gun when calling on a lady, but habit got the better of me.

A hell of a nice guy even if he was a moron.

No wife of mine is going to work. I want her at home where I know where she is.

Mary couldn’t wait until I closed the door. She flung herself at me and opened her mouth. Hell, couldn’t disappoint the hostess, so I kissed her.

How many times have you gone into the frailty of men and seen their weaknesses? It made you afraid. You no longer had the social instinct of a woman—that of being dependent upon a man.

I’m the jury now, and the judge, and I have a promise to keep.

18 August 2010

Lemony Snicket: The Unauthorized Autobiography

I didn't copy much from this one, but i liked it very much.


Quotes:

These passages hold some of the most crucial secrets in this sad and flammable world.

For various reasons, portions of this chapter have been changed of made up entirely, including this sentence.

when the tune came to an end, she turned around and found herself face to face with an old man with neatly trimmed gray hair and a moustache that turned up at the ends. He was dressed as if everything he wore -- a flowered shirt, striped tie, tweed coat, and plaid slacks -- had come from different stores or from a rummage sale, except aht the crease in his trousers was sharp and his shoes were shined.
The old man, whose back was very straight, saluted Ramona as if she were a soldier and said, "Well, young lady, have you been good to your mother?"

Beverly Cleary -- Ramona Quimby, Age 8

I didn't realize this was a sad occasion.
The world is quiet here.

Well, young lady, have you been good to your mother?
The question is, has she been good to me?

16 August 2010

The Adventures of Sally (P. G. Wodehouse)

This is not as funny as the Jeeves books, probably because the heroine here is a nice, honest person. :-) But it is Wodehouse. This book is out of copyright, so should be available in the usual places for free.


Quotes:

Of all outdoor sports, few are more stimulating than watching middle-aged Frenchmen bathe.

Fillmore--Gerald--all of them. There might be a woman in each of their lives, but she came second--an afterthought--a thing for their spare time. Gerald was everything to her. His success would never be more than a side-issue as far as she was concerned. He himself, without any of the trappings of success, was enough for her. But she was not enough for him.

Here was an estimable young man, obviously the sort of young man who would always have to be assisted through life by his relatives, and she had deliberately egged him on to wreck his prospects.

Chumps always make the best husbands. When you marry. Sally, grab a chump. Tap his forehead first, and if it rings solid, don't hesitate. All the unhappy marriages come from the husband having brains. What good are brains to a man? They only unsettle him.

If one could manage one's own life as well as one can manage other people's!

The trouble is, it seems, that about once in every thirty years a sort of craze for change comes over London, and they paint a shop-front red instead of blue, and that upsets the returned exile dreadfully.

I felt like a small lion in a den of Daniels.

And quietly and methodically, like a respectable wolf settling on the trail of a Red Riding Hood, he prepared to pursue.

She had always disliked Bruce Carmyle's hands. They were strong and bony and black hair grew on the back of them.

Bruce Carmyle gave it up, and lit a moody cigarette. He was oppressed by that feeling which so many of us have felt in our time, that it was all wrong.

08 August 2010

Leaving the World (Douglas Kennedy)

My first Douglas Kennedy book; found courtesy of Amazon/Kindle recommendations. The heroine finds herself going through a series of unfortunate events and somehow manages to land on her feet (barely). Freaking sad in parts, but it had me reading compulsively as i got closer to the end.

The central question of the book is whether it is possible for a person to be happy, without the help of self-delusion. The answer seems to be something along the lines of "not really, but we keep trying anyway."


Quotes:

No one's actually happy.

Words matter. Words count. Words have lasting import.

nobody gets away lightly in life

We try so hard to put our mark on things, we like to tell ourselves that what we do has import or will last. But the truth is, we’re all just passing through. So little survives us. And when we’re gone, it’s simply the memory of others that keeps our time here alive.

The reason everyone is so bitchy in academia is because the stakes are so low.

Brad’s employment policies were largely based on finding unhappy or awkward people with something to prove, training them into the laws of the marketplace, and then turning them loose in an unapologetically Darwinian environment.

That’s the greatest relief in the world—knowing that you have got away with something you really shouldn’t have.

...interpretation. How do you choose to perceive a moral choice? Guilt is all rooted in the interpretation of events. It’s predicated on your take on things. How willing are you to twist reality to your own version of events? What can you (or can’t you) live with?

When we look at each other, do we even begin to see the pain we both carry?

‘I can’t go on, I’ll go on.’”
“I can’t go on. I won’t go on.”

“Does it scare you, death?” “It’s going to arrive, that’s for sure. And I guess the one and only thing that perplexes me is the idea that I will be no more, that my entire story will vanish with me. No ‘me.’ How can that be?”

“Still, when the dark stuff hits, keep in mind that old line about how if you save one life you save the world.”
“Sergeant,” I said, “that’s bullshit—and you know it.”
He looked momentarily taken aback by this, then shrugged and took another slug of beer.

What I see as a metaphor for all the granitic grief in the world you see as a tanning opportunity. Life—even at its most excruciating—is never more than a few steps away from all its inherent absurdity.

07 August 2010

The Beatrice Letters (Lemony Snicket)

Interesting book, raised more questions than it answered. I hope there is a sequel.


Quotes:

I will love you until all codes and hearts have been broken.

I will love you until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faded by distant fog, and your fog is memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog.