Tag Archives: Max Arnott.

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In the 12 October 1929 issue of the Illustrated London News, G.K. Chesterton wrote:
". . . How much more melancholy is the condition of those, in modernised and rationalised Western communities, who have to go about conducting secretly the cult of the Great God Namse! How much more uncomfortable it is to call on Namse morning, noon, and night, and…


Yvor Winters, American poet, critic, and grouch, is by no means forgotten. Amazon lists 196 hits, including two selections of letters, and his magnum opus, Forms of Discovery, is available, although no one on Amazon has reviewed it. Never mind that, many of his pupils are still alive, and they cherish his memory.
And with merit too. Winters’ poetry stands up…

On our desk lie a number of small and rather drab books.
They are 3 ½ by 5 inches, a size that fits nicely into a shirt pocket. The covers are stiff paper, some faded blue, some pale yellow. Each book contains about 64 pages, stapled not bound. The paper is pulp; the print is tiny.
The titles are eclectic: Irish Fairy…

Every hour, day and night, year in and year out, from the higher of the two towers of the Basilica of St. Mary, a trumpet call sounds over the ancient Polish city of Krakow. The call is repeated four times, from the north, south, east and west windows of the tower. Each time the melody, a medieval Polish hymn,  is…

[The local children] . . . soon sensed that there was something mysterious about [their guests] . . . that they had gone through certain experiences which had left deep marks upon them . . . and . . . they tried to reach out to them by being very nice to them.
That we might speak to the dead  is…

There are many mysteries: most are read and shelved, but a few are reread, and sometimes reread again. Sherlock Holmes comes to mind, another series is that concerning Nero Wolfe, by American author Rex Stout.
Stout (1886-1975)  was a crew-member for Theodore Roosevelt, a cigar store clerk, a financial wizard, a propagandist, a novelist of the psychological school, and a pulp…

On our desk lies an elderly paperback, somewhat yellowed and a genuine curiosity.
In the upper right hand corner is a green seal with a penguin.
In the center of the cover is a face: a man, beardless, of middle age, wearing a fur cap with an elaborate jewel. His face is calm, but somber. The eyes look withdrawn, the lips are…

When we enter middle age we shed the illusions of youth (such as the merit of keg parties). As we approach the far border of that period we begin occasionally to lose faith in our disillusionment.
When I took Latin in high school, there was a certain unspoken consensus that the main point of dealing with original texts was to allow…

Why is C.S. Lewis loved so hard by so many people?
He was a man of wide reading (very wide reading), but as a scholar he was no Rosemond Tuve, and certainly no Voegelin. He produced few hard-core academic articles. His most famous scholarly work, The Allegory of Love, is learned, entertaining, and evocative, but its reader; rarely feels the pressure…


The Scorpion is black as soot,
He dearly loves to bite;
He is a most unpleasant brute
To find in bed, at night.
As everyone knows, many societies have at their root a song book or "hymnal," familiarity with which unites the members of the club and divides "us" from "them." The Chinese cherish the Shih Ching, or Book of Odes; devout Jews memorize…