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MEDEA: Women, my task is fixed: as quickly as I may
To kill my children, and start away from this land,
And not, by wasting time, to suffer my children
To be slain by another hand less kindly to them.
Force every way will have it they must die, and since
This must be so, then I, their mother, shall kill them.
Oh, arm yourself in steel, my heart! Do not hang back
From doing this fearful and necessary wrong.
Oh, come, my hand, poor wretched hand, and take the sword,
Take it, step forward to this bitter starting point,
And do not be a coward, do not think of them,
How sweet they are, and how you are their mother. Just for
This one short day be forgetful of your children,
Afterward weep; for even though you will kill them,
They were very dear — Oh, I am an unhappy woman! (With a cry she rushes into the house.)
Euripides (485?-406? BC) Greek tragic dramatist Medea [Μήδεια], l. 1236ff (431 BC) [tr. Warner (1944)]
(Source)
Medea, soliloquizing to the Chorus (of women) as she self-justifies killing her and Jason's sons. Though earlier she said she was doing so to revenge herself on him, here she seizes on the idea that they would otherwise be executed for her killing of Creon and Glauce through gifts that the boys carried to them. (There is a version of the Medea myth where that exact thing happens.)
My friends,
I am resolv'd, as soon as I have slain
My Children, from these regions to depart.
Nor thro' inglorious sloth will I abandon
My Sons to perish by detested hands;
They certainly must die: since then they must,
I bore and I will slay them. O my heart!
Be arm'd with tenfold firmness. What avails it
To loiter, when inevitable ills
Remain to be accomplish'd? take the sword.
And, O my band, on to the goal that ends
Their life, nor let one intervening thought
Of pity or maternal tenderness
Suspend thy purpose: for this one short day
Forget how fondly thou didst love thy Sons,
How bring them forth, and after that lament
Their cruel fate: altho' thou art resolv'd
To slay, yet hast thou ever held them dear.
But I am of all women the most wretched. ExitMedea
[tr. Wodhull (1782)]
This deed, my friends, is fix'd, to slay my sons
With quickest speed, then hasten from this land;
Nor fondly lingering leave them to be slain
By some more hostile hand: since they must die,
(For die they must) by me, who gave them life,
Death shall be given: and thou, my heart, be arm'd:
Yield not to weak reluctance, nor delay
A dreadful, but necessary deed.
Come, my unhappy hand, seize thou the sword,
Seize it, and wind thy progress to the goal
Of miserable life: faint not, nor thing
Of thy poor children, O how dear to me!
For this short day remember not thy sons,
Hereafter mourn at leisure: though I kill them,
Yet they were dear, and I -- a very wretch.
[tr. Potter (1814)]
My friends, this purpose stand approved to me,
Slaying my boys to hurry from this realm;
Not, making weak delays, to give my sons
By other and more cruel hands to die.
Nay, steel thyself my heart. Why linger we
As not to do that horror which yet must be?
Come, oh my woeful hand, take take the sword:
On to my new life's mournful starting point,
And be no coward, nor think on thy boys,
How dear, how thou didst give them birth. Nay rather
For this short day forget they are thy sons:
Then weep them afterwards. For though thou slay'st them
Oh but they're dear, and I a desolate woman.
[tr. Webster (1868)]
My friends, I am resolved upon the deed; at once will I slay my children and then leave this land, without delaying long enough to hand them over to some more savage hand to butcher. Needs must they die in any case; and since they must, I will slay them — I, the mother that bare them. O heart of mine, steel thyself! Why do I hesitate to do the awful deed that must be done? Come, take the sword, thou wretched hand of mine! Take it, and advance to the post whence starts thy life of sorrow! Away with cowardice! Give not one thought to thy babes, how dear they are or how thou art their mother. This one brief day forget thy children dear, and after that lament; for though thou wilt slay them yet they were thy darlings still, and I am a lady of sorrows.
[tr. Coleridge (1891)]
The deed is determined on by me, my friends, to slay my children as soon as possible, and to hasten from this land; and not by delaying to give my sons for another hand more hostile to murder. But come, be armed, my heart; why do we delay to do dreadful but necessary deeds? Come, O wretched hand of mine, grasp the sword, grasp it, advance to the bitter goal of life, and be not cowardly, nor remember thy children how dear they are, how thou broughtest them into the world; but for this short day at least forget thy children; hereafter lament. For although thou slayest them, nevertheless they at least were dear, but I a wretched woman.
[tr. Buckley (1892)]
Friends, my resolve is taken, with all speed
To slay my children, and to flee this land,
And not to linger and to yield my sons
To death by other hands more merciless.
They needs must die: and, since it needs must be,
Even I will give them death, who gave them life.
Up, gird thee for the fray, mine heart! Why loiter
To do the dread ill deeds that must be done?
Come, wretched hand of mine, grasp thou the sword;
Grasp it; — move toward life's bitter starting-post,
And turn not craven: think not on thy babes,
How dear they are, how thou didst bear them: nay,
For this short day do thou forget thy sons,
Thereafter mourn them. For, although thou slay,
Yet dear they are, and I a wretched woman. [Exit Medea.
[tr. Way (Loeb) (1894)]
Women, my mind is clear. I go to slay
My children with all speed, and then, away
From hence; not wait yet longer till they stand
Beneath another and an angrier hand
To die. Yea, howsoe'er I shield them, die
They must. And, seeing that they must, 'tis I
Shall slay them, I their mother, touched of none
Beside. Oh, up and get thine armour on,
My heart! Why longer tarry we to win
Our crown of dire inevitable sin?
Take up thy sword, O poor right hand of mine,
Thy sword: then onward to the thin-drawn line
Where life turns agony. Let there be naught
Of softness now: and keep thee from that thought,
'Born of thy flesh,' 'thine own belovèd.' Now,
For one brief day, forget thy children: thou
Shalt weep hereafter. Though thou slay them, yet
Sweet were they. . . . I am sore unfortunate. [She goes into the house.
[tr. Murray (1906)]
My friends, the deed’s resolved — that with all haste
I will kill my children and set forth from Corinth,
Not, hesitating here, yield up my sons
For other and less loving hands to murder.
Die they must, either way; and since they must,
Then I will slay them that did bring them forth.
Come steel thyself, my heart. What help to linger
Shrinking to do that dreadful thing thou must?
The sword, O miserable hand, the sword —
Take it and onward to that bitter race
Thy feet must run! No weakening now, no thought
Of thy sons, how dear they are, how thou didst once
Give life to them. For this one little day
Forget thy babes, and, after, weep for them.
For though thou slay them, yet dear-loved were they,
Thine own, — and I a miserable woman.
[tr. Lucas, ed. Higham (1938)]
Friends, now my course is clear: as quickly as possible
To kill the children and then to fly from Corinth; not
Delay and so consign them to another hand
To murder with a better will. For they must die,
In any case; and since they must, then I who gave
Them birth will kill them. Arm yourself, my heart: the thing
That you must do is fearful, yet inevitable.
Why wait, then? My accursed hand, come, take the sword;
Take it, and forward to your frontier of despair.
No cowardice, no tender memories; forget
That once you loved them, that of your body they were born.
For one short day forget your children; afterwards
Weep: though you kill them, they were your beloved sons.
Life has been cruel to me. Medeagoes into the house.
[tr. Vellacott (1963)]
My friends, I have decided to kill the children
Without delay and quickly depart from this country;
I shall not, by delaying, give my children over
To another, more unfriendly, hand to murder.
In any case, their death is inevitable, and since
It is, I who gave them birth shall kill them.
Up then! Arm yourself, my heart! Why wait
To do the dreadful evil that must be done?
Come, my wretched hand, take up the sword,
Take it and go to life’s goal of grief,
Do not be cowardly, do not remember the children,
How dear they are, how you bore them; for this short day
At least forget all about your children,
Then grieve. For even if you kill them, still,
You bore them, you loved them. I am an unlucky woman.
[tr. Podlecki (1989)]
My friends, my resolve is fixed on the deed, to kill my children with all speed and to flee from this land: I must not, by lingering, deliver my children for murder to a less kindly hand. They must die at all events, and since they must, I who gave them birth shall kill them. Come, put on your armor, my heart. Why do I put off doing the terrible deed that must be done? Come, wretched hand, take the sword, take it and go to your life's miserable goal. Do not weaken, do not remember that you love the children, that you gave them life. Instead, for this brief day forget them — and mourn hereafter: for even if you kill them, they were dear to you. Oh, what an unhappy woman I am! Exit Medea into the house.
[tr. Kovacs (Perseus) (1994); tr. Kovacs / Zhang / Rogak]
My friends, my resolve is fixed on the deed, to kill my children with all speed and to flee from this land: I must not, by lingering, deliver my children for murder to a less kindly hand. They must die at all events, and since they must, I who gave them birth shall kill them. Come, put on your armor, my heart. Why do I put off doing the terrible deed that must be done? Come, luckless hand, take the sword, take it and go to your life's miserable goal. Do not weaken, do not remember that you love the children, that you gave them life. Instead, for this brief day forget them — and mourn hereafter: for even if you kill them, they were dear to you. Oh, what an unhappy woman I am! Exit Medea into the house.
[tr. Kovacs (Loeb) (1994)]
My friends, I have decided to act and at once. I will kill the children and then quit this land. I will not delay and so deliver them to other hands to spill their blood more eagerly. They must be killed; there is no other way. And since they must, I will take their life, I who gave them life. Come, my heart, put on your armour! We must not hesitate to do this deed, this terrible yet necessary deed! Come, wretched hand of mine, grip the sword, grip it! On to the starting line! A painful race awaits you now! No time now for cowardice or thinking of your children, how much you love them, how you brought them into this world. No, for one day, one fleeting day, forget your children; there will be the rest of your life for weeping. For though you will put them to the sword, you loved them well. Oh, I am a woman born to sorrow! [Medeaturns and goes into the house.]
[tr. Davie (1996)]
Enough, my friends!
My mind is made up. I’ve decided to kill my children and to leave this country. I haven’t a moment longer lest someone takes my children and they are slaughtered by some enemy’s hands. Die they must and so, better they die by me who gave birth to them. Come, my heart, arm yourself. This is no time for equivocations. Need has forced this evil. So why wait? Come terrible hand, pick up the knife! Take it and take also the final, the most bitter step, the last step of life. Don’t be a coward now. Don’t think about the love you have for them, the life you gave them. Today, forget that you have any children at all! Leave the crying for another day. So what if you’re their murderer? Their love will follow you for ever -- just as misery will. Exit Medea
[tr. Theodoridis (2004)]
My friends. I have determined to do the deed at once,
to kill my children and leave this land,
and not to falter or give my children
over to let a hand more hostile murder them.
They must die and since they must
I, who brought them into the world, will kill them.
But arm yourself, my heart. Why hesitate
to do these tragic, yet necessary, evils?
Come, unhappy hand of mine, take the sword
take it, move to the dismal turning point of life.
Do not be a coward. Do not think of your children —
how much you love them, how you gave them birth.
For this one short day forget your children,
and mourn tomorrow. For even if you kill them
still you loved them very much. I am an unhappy woman. Exit Medea.
[tr. Luschnig (2007)]
I’ve made up my mind, my friends.
I’ll do it — kill my children now, without delay,
and flee this land. I must not hesitate.
That would hand them over to someone else
to be slaughtered by a hand less loving.
No matter what, the children have to die.
Since that’s the case, then I, who gave them life,
will kill them. Arm yourself for this, my heart.
Why do I put off doing this dreadful act,
since it must be done? Come, pick up the sword,
wretched hand of mine. Pick up the sword,
move to where your life of misery begins.
Don’t play the coward. Don’t remember now
how much you love them, how you gave them life.
For this short day forget they are your children
and mourn them later. Although you kill them,
still you loved them. As a woman, I’m so sad. [Exit MEDEA into the house.]
[tr. Johnston (2008)]
Philai, I am resolved upon the deed: I shall slay my children at once, and then leave this land. I will not delay and so surrender them over to some hostile hand for butchering. They must die in any case, and since they must, I will slay them — I, the mother who bore them. But come, my heart, arm yourself! Why do I hesitate to do the terrible [deina] evils [kaka] that must be done? Come, take the sword, poor hand of mine! Take it, and advance to the starting-post, where your life of sorrow begins! Away with cowardice! Forget your children, forget how most phila they are, and how you bore them. For this brief day forget, and after that lament. Though you will slay them, yet they are your philoi still. And I am a woman of sorrows. Medea enters the house.
[tr. Coleridge / Ceragioli / Nagy / Hour25]
Violence breeds violence. Acts of violence committed in “justice” or in affirmation of “rights” or in defense of “peace” do not end violence. They prepare and justify its continuation.
Wendell Berry (b. 1934) American farmer, educator, poet, conservationist
Essay (1999), “The Failure of War,” Citizenship Papers (2003)
(Source)
Many voices are heard as we face a great decision. Comfort says, “Tarry a while.” Opportunism says, “This is a good spot.” Timidity asks, “How difficult is the road ahead?” […] If I know aught of the spirit and purpose of our Nation, we will not listen to Comfort, Opportunism, and Timidity. We will carry on.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt (1882–1945) American lawyer, politician, statesman, US President (1933–1945)
Speech (1937-01-20), Inaugural Address, Washington, D.C.
(Source)
HECUBA: The clear actions of a man,
Agamemnon, should speak louder than any words.
good words should get their goodness from our lives
and nowhere else; the evil we do should show,
a rottenness that festers in our speech
and what we say, in capable of being glozed
with a film of pretty words. There are men, I know,
sophists who make a science of persuasion,
glozing evil with the slick of loveliness;
but in the end a speciousness will show.
The imposters are punished; not one escapes
his death.
O Agamemnon, never ought the tongue
To have a greater influence o'er mankind
Than actions; but whoever hath done well
Ought to speak well; and he whose deeds are base,
To use unseemly language, nor find means
By specious words to colour o'er injustice.
Full wise indeed are they to whom such art
Is most familiar: but to stand the test
Of time not wise enough; for they all perish,
Not one of them e'er scapes.
[tr. Wodhull (1809)]
Agamemnon, it never were fitting among men that the tongue should have greater force than actions. But if a man has acted well, well should he speak; if on the other hand basely, his words likewise should be unsound, and never ought he to be capable of speaking unjust things well. Perhaps indeed they who have brought these things to a pitch of accuracy are accounted wise, but they can not endure wise unto the end, but perish vilely, nor has any one yet escaped this.
[tr. Edwards (1826)]
Agamemnon, never should this thing have been,
That words with men should more avail than deeds,
But good deeds should with reasonings good be paired,
And caitiff deed be ranged by baseless plea,
And none avail to gloze injustice o'er.
There be whose craft such art hath perfected;
Yet cannot they be cunning to the end:
Foully they perish: never one hath 'scaped.
[tr. Way (Loeb) (1894)]
Agamemnon, never ought the tongues of men
To plead more eloquently than the truth.
Good men should prove good speakers, and the bad,
Their very argument grown rank, should find
No specious words to colour evil deeds.
Oh, they are strict professors of the art,
And they are wise; yet in the end of all,
Not wise enough. They perish. None escapes.
[tr. Sheppard (1924)]
Never ought words to have outweighed deeds in this world, Agamemnon. No! if a man's deeds were good, so should his words have been; if, on the other hand, evil, his words should have been unsound, instead of its being possible at times to speak injustice well. There are, it is true, clever persons, who have made a science of this, but their cleverness cannot last for ever; a miserable end awaits them; no one ever yet escaped.
[tr. Coleridge (1938)]
Agamemnon,
A man should talk as he acts.
Good speaks for itself --
The best make bad liars.
The opposite is also true,
Though it ought not to be.
Men with brains can conceal
Whatever they want concealed.
But the brain grows weary.
A bad end's in.
[tr. McGuinness (2004)]
Agamemnon, men shouldn't believe a speech counts for far more than actions ever did. If a man is good in deed, he's good in word. But bad deeds make a man's word rotten, too, and he can't give his injustice a fair gloss. They're clever with their tongues so finely tuned but you couldn't call them clever in the end. Their punishment will come. No one escapes.
[tr. Harrison (2005)]
Never, Agamemnon, should words have greater sway for men than do their deeds. When a man does good, his words ought to be good; when he does evil then his words should be unsound. No one should speak well of injustice. About this last thing, there are those clever fellows who have performed it to perfection but they will all, in the end, be destroyed. None of them have escaped so far.
[tr. Theodoridis (2007)]
Agamemnon, never in the affairs of men
Should the tongue have more power than facts,
Rather, when someone acts well, he should speak well,
And if the opposite, his words should be rotten.
Glib rhetoric may win us over for a while,
but in the end the smooth talkers die foully.
[tr. Karden/Street (2011)]
As to the Weather, if I were to fall into the Method my Brother J****n sometimes uses, and tell you, Snow here or in New England, — Rain here or in South-Carolina, — Cold to the Northward, — Warm to the Southward, and the like, whatever Errors I might commit, I should be something more secure of not being detected in them: But I consider, it will be of no Service to any body to know what Weather it is 1000 miles off, and therefore I always set down positively what Weather my Reader will have, be he where he will at the time. We modestly desire only the favourable Allowance of a day or two before and a day or two after the precise Day against which the Weather is set; and if it does not come to pass accordingly, let the Fault be laid upon the Printer, who, ’tis very like, may have transpos’d or misplac’d it, perhaps for the Conveniency of putting in his Holidays: And since, in spight of all I can say, People will give him great part of the Credit of making my Almanacks, ’tis but reasonable he should take some share of the Blame.
Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) American statesman, scientist, philosopher, aphorist Poor Richard (1737 ed.)
(Source)
"Brother J****n" is John Jerman, whose almanac Franklin had printed for several years, but who in 1737 moved to a different printer.
Weather, forecast, prediction, blame
POLYPHEME:Are ye the men
Who worthless Helen's ravisher pursued
To Ilion's turrets on Scamander's bank? ULYSSES: The same: most dreadful toils have we endured. POLYPHEME: Dishonourable warfare; in the cause
Of one vile woman, ye to Phrygia sail'd. ULYSSES: Such was the will of Jove; on no man charge
The fault.
[tr. Wodhull (1809)]
CYCLOPS: What, have ye shared in the unenvied spoil
Of the false Helen, near Scamander's stream? ULYSSES: The same, having endured a woeful toil. CYCLOPS: Oh, basest expedition! sailed ye not
From Greece to Phrygia for one woman's sake? ULYSSES: 'Twas the Gods' work -- no mortal was in fault.
[tr. Shelley (1824)]
CYCLOPS: Are ye the men who visited on Ilium, that bordereth on Scamander's wave, the rape of Helen, worst of women? ODYSSEUS: We are; that was the fearful labour we endured. CYCLOPS: A sorry expedition yours, to have sailed to the land of Phrygia for the sake of one woman. ODYSSEUS: It was a god's doing; blame not any son of man.
[tr. Coleridge (1913)]
CYCLOPS: Oho ! then you’re the men who went in search
Of Helen, who left her husband in the lurch,
And ran away to Ilium by Scamander? ODYSSEUS: Yes: slippery fish -- hard work to hook and land her. CYCLOPS: Yes -- and a most disgraceful exhibition
You made of your own selves! -- an expedition
To Phrygia, for one petticoat! -- disgusting! ODYSSEUS: Don’t blame us men: it was the Gods’ on-thrusting.
[tr. Way (1916)]
CAMILLO:My gracious lord,
I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful.
In every one of these no man is free,
But that his negligence, his folly, fear,
Among the infinite doings of the world,
Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord,
If ever I were willful-negligent,
It was my folly; if industriously
I played the fool, it was my negligence,
Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful
To do a thing where I the issue doubted,
Whereof the execution did cry out
Against the non-performance, ’twas a fear
Which oft infects the wisest. These, my lord,
Are such allowed infirmities that honesty
Is never free of.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616) English dramatist and poet Winter’s Tale, Act 1, sc. 2, l. 310ff (1.2.310-325) (1611)
(Source)
“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said Darcy, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.” “My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault — because I would not take the trouble of practising.”
Jane Austen (1775-1817) English author Pride and Prejudice, ch. 31 (1813)
(Source)
An evil doom of some god was my undoing, and measureless wine.
[ἆσέ με δαίμονος αἶσα κακὴ καὶ ἀθέσφατος οἶνος.]
Homer (fl. 7th-8th C. BC) Greek author The Odyssey [Ὀδύσσεια], Book 11, l. 61 (11.61) [Elpenor] (c. 700 BC) [tr. Murray (1919)]
(Source)
Odysseus first encounter in the Underworld is the shade of his comrade Elpenor, whose body had been left on Circe's island. This is Elpenor's explanation of his death (10.552-560). Drunk with his crew mates, he climbed a ladder to the roof of Circe's palace to sleep it off. When he heard his friends preparing to leave, he either fell from or forgot about using the ladder, plummeting to his ignominious death.
In Circe’s house, the spite some spirit did bear, And the unspeakable good liquor there,
Hath been my bane.
[tr. Chapman (1616)]
I had come along with th’ bark,
But that the Devil and excess of wine
Made me to fall, and break my neck i’ th’ dark.
[tr. Hobbes (1675), l. 54ff]
To hell my doom I owe, Demons accursed, dire ministers of woe!
My feet, through wine unfaithful to their weight, Betray'd me tumbling from a towery height.
[tr. Pope (1725)]
Fool’d by some dæmon and the intemp’rate bowl.
[tr. Cowper (1792), ll. 69-70]
I died
By stroke of fate and the dread fumes of wine.
[tr. Worsley (1861), st. 9]
Ill fate destroyed me, and unstinted wine!
[tr. Bigge-Wither (1869)]
An evil doom of some god was my bane, and wine out of measure.
[tr. Butcher/Lang (1879)]
God's doom and wine unstinted on me the bane hath brought.
[tr. Morris (1887)]
Heaven's cruel doom destroyed me, and excess of wine.
[tr. Palmer (1891)]
It was all bad luck, and my own unspeakable drunkenness.
[tr. Butler (1898)]
It was all bad luck of a daimôn, and my own unspeakable drunkenness.
[tr. Butler (1898), rev. Power/Nagy (1900)]
It was all bad luck of a superhuman force [daimōn], and my own unspeakable drunkenness.
[tr. Butler (1898), rev. Kim/McCray/Nagy/Power (2018)]
The harsh burden of some God sealed my doom, together with my own unspeakable excess in wine.
[tr. Lawrence (1932)]
It was the malice of some evil power that was my undoing, and all the wine I swilled before I went to sleep in Circe’s palace.
[tr. Rieu (1946)]
Bad luck shadowed me, and no kindly power;
ignoble death I drank with so much wine.
[tr. Fitzgerald (1961)]
The evil will of the spirit and the wild wine bewildered me.
[tr. Lattimore (1965)]
My undoing lay
in some god sending down my dismal fate
and in too much sweet wine.
[tr. Mandelbaum (1990)]
The doom of an angry god, and god knows how much wine --
they were my ruin, captain.
[tr. Fagles (1996)]
Bad luck and too much wine undid me.
[tr. Lombardo (2000)]
The malicious decree of some god and too much wine were my undoing.
[tr. DCH Rieu (2002)]
It was a god-sent evil destiny that ruined me, and too much wine.
[tr. Verity (2016)]
But I had bad luck from some god, and too much wine befuddled me.
[tr. Wilson (2017)]
Some god's ill-will undid me -- that, and too much wine!
[tr. Green (2018)]
Some fatal deity
has brought me down -- that and too much wine.
[tr. Johnston (2019)]
Originally published in the "Cynic's Word Book" column, New York American (1904-07-09) and the "Cynic's Dictionary" column, San Francisco Examiner (1904-07-17).
If a man be discreet enough to take to hard drinking in his youth, before his general emptiness is ascertained, his friends invariably credit him with a host of shining qualities which, we are given to understand, lie balked and frustrated by his one unfortunate weakness.
Agnes Repplier (1855-1950) American writer
“A Plea for Humor,” Points of View (1891)
(Source)
Offered as a hypothetical sardonic observation by the author William Dean Howells.
One day together, for pastime, we read Of Lancelot, and how Love held him in thrall. We were alone, and without any dread.
Sometimes our eyes, at the word’s secret call, Met, and our cheeks a changing color wore. But it was one page only that did all.
When we read how that smile, so thirsted for, Was kissed by such a lover, he that may Never from me be separated more
All trembling kissed my mouth. The book I say Was a Galahalt to us, and he beside that wrote that book. We read no more that day.
Gustave Dore – Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto 5 “The Souls of Paolo and Francesca” (1857)
[Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse; soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto.
Per più fïate li occhi ci sospinse quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso; ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.
Quando leggemmo il disïato riso esser basciato da cotanto amante, questi, che mai da me non fia diviso,
la bocca mi basciò tutto tremante. Galeotto fu ‘l libro e chi lo scrisse: quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.]
Dante Alighieri (1265-1321) Italian poet The Divine Comedy [Divina Commedia], Book 1 “Inferno,” Canto 5, l. 127ff (5.127-138) [Francesca] (1309) [tr. Binyon (1943)]
(Source)
In the Old French romance of Lancelot du Lac they were reading, Sir Gallehault (spelled variously) serves as go-between for Lancelot and Guinevere (a couple not able to express their love because of her marriage to King Arthur), and ultimately persuades the Queen to give Lancelot a first, dooming kiss. Similarly, Paolo was the intermediary to arrange the marriage of his brother, Gianciotto, and Francesca. After the marriage, reading together that racy tale of Lancelot seduced Paolo and Francesca into pursuing their carnal affair.
The Italian form of Gallehault -- "Galeotto" or "Galleot" -- became Middle Ages Italian slang for a panderer or pimp, and Francesca draws on this meaning in her chat with the Pilgrim, blaming the book and its writer for her damning sins with Paolo. See also, earlier, here.
Together we, for pleasure, one day read
How strictly Lancelot was bound by love;
We, then alone, without suspicion were:
T'admire each other, often from the book
Our eyes were ta'en, and oft our colour chang'd;
That was the point of time which conqurer'd us,
When, reading that her captivating smile
Was by the Lover the adored kiss'd;
This, my Companion, always with me seen,
Fearful, and trembling, also kiss'd my mouth.
The Writer, Galeotto, nam;d the Book.
But from that day we never read in't more.
[tr. Rogers (1782), l. 113ff]
One day (a day I ever must deplore!)
The gentle youth, to spend a vacant hour,
To me the soft seducing story read,
Of Launcelot and fair Geneura's love,
While fascinating all the quiet grove
Fallacious Peace her snares around us spread.
Too much I found th' insidious volume charm,
And Paulo's mantling blushes rising warm;
Still as he read the guilty secret told:
Soon from the line his eyes began to stray;
Soon did my yielding looks my heart betray,
Nor needed words our wishes to unfold.
Eager to realize the story'd bless,
Trembling he snatch'd the half resented kiss,
To ill soon lesson'd by the pandar-page!
Vile pandar-page! it smooth'd the paths of shame.
[tr. Boyd (1802), st. 24-26]
One day
For our delight we read of Lancelot, How him love thrall’d. Alone we were, and no Suspicion near us. Ofttimes by that reading
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue Fled from our alter’d cheek. But at one point Alone we fell. When of that smile we read,
The wished smile, rapturously kiss’d By one so deep in love, then he, who ne’er From me shall separate, at once my lips
All trembling kiss’d. The book and writer both Were love’s purveyors. In its leaves that day We read no more.
[tr. Cary (1814)]
'Twas on a day when we for pastime read Of Lancelot, whom love ensnared to ruin: We were alone, nor knew suspicious dread.
That lesson oft, the conscious look renewing, Held us suspense, and turned our cheeks to white; But one sole moment wrought for our undoing:
When of the kiss we read, from smile so bright. So coveted, that such true-lover bore. He, from my side who ne'er may disunite,
Kissed me upon the mouth, trembling all o'er. The broker of our Vows, it was the lay, And he who wrote -- that day we read no more.
[tr. Dayman (1843)]
One day, for pastime, wwe read of Lancelot, how love restrained him; we were alone, and without all suspicion. Several times that reading urged our eyes to meet, and changed the color of our faces; but one moment alone it was that overcame us. When we read how the fond smile was kissed by such a lover, he, who shall never be divided from me, kissed my mouth all trembling: the book, and he who wrote it, was a Galeotto; that day we read in it no farther.
[tr. Carlyle (1849)]
We were reading one day, for our delight,
In Lancilotto, bound in love so strict.
We were alone, and neither could suspect
Suspended were our eyes, and more than once,
In reading, and the visage colorless;
One point it was lone that conquered us.
When we read first of that -- the longed-for smile
At being kissed by one who loved so well;
Galeotti was the book -- he wrote it:
That Day we read not there any farther.
[tr. Bannerman (1850)]
One day we read, to pass a pleasant time, How Lancelot was bound in chains of love; Alone we were and no suspicion knew.
often we sigh'd; and as we read our eyes Each other sought, the color fled our cheeks; But we were vanquish'd by one point alone.
When we had read how the smile long desir'd Was kiss'd by him who lov'd with such deep love, This one, from me no more to be apart,
Trembling all over, kiss'd me on the mouth. Galeotto was the writer and the book; In it we read no further on that day.
[tr. Johnston (1867)]
One day we reading were for our delight Of Launcelot, how Love did him enthrall. Alone we were and without any fear.
Full many a time our eyes together drew That reading, and drove the color from our faces; But one point only was it that o'ercame us.
Whenas we read of the much longed-for smile Being by such a noble lover kissed, This one, who ne'er from me shall be divided,
Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating. Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it. That day no farther did we read therein.
[tr. Longfellow (1867)]
We were reading one day, for delight, of Lancelot, how Love constrained him; alone were we, and without any suspicion. Many times did that reading impel our eyes, and change the hue of our visages; but one point only was it that overcame us. When we read that the wished-for smile was kissed by such a lover, this one who never from me shall be parted kissed me on the mouth all trembling. A Gallehault was the book, and he who wrote it. That day we read no further in it.
[tr. Butler (1885)]
We read one day for pleasure, in the song Of Launcelot, how Love him captive made; We were alone without one thought of wrong.
Many and many a time our eyes delayed The reading, and our faces paled apart; One point alone it was that us betrayed.
In reading of that worshipt smile o' the heart, Kissed by such lover on her lips' red core. This one, who never more from me must part,
Kissed me upon the mouth, trembling all o'er: For us our Galeotto was that book; That day we did not read it any more.
[tr. Minchin (1885)]
We were reading one day, for delight, of Lancelot, how love constrained him. We were alone and without any suspicion. Many times that reading made us lift our eyes, and took the color from our faces, but only one point was that which overcame us. When we read of the longed-for smile being kissed by such a lover, this one, who never from me shall be divided, kissed my mouth all trembling. Galahaut was the book, and he who wrote it. That day we read in it no farther.
[tr. Norton (1892)]
We read one day, to while the hour, of Lancelot, how love enthralled him: we were alone, with never a thought of harm. And oft and oft that reading brought our eyes together and drave the colour to our cheeks ; but one point, only one, it was that overcame us. When that we came to read of how the smiling lips he loved were kissed by lover such as he, he that no more shall e'er be parted from me, kissed my mouth trembling through. Our Galahad was the book and he that penned it: that day we read in it no more.
[tr. Sullivan (1893)]
One day, by way of pastime, we were reading Of Lancelot, how love in fetters held him: We were alone, and without thought of danger.
Full often did that reading bring together Our glances, and made colourless our visage; But just one point was that which overcame us:
When as we read how that the smile much longed for Was kissed by one so passionately loving, He who from me shall never be divided
Kissed me upon the mouth, all, all a-quiver: -- A Galehalt was the book and he who wrote it: -- Upon that day we read therein no further.
[tr. Griffith (1908)]
We read one day for pastime of Lancelot, how love constrained him. We were alone and had no misgiving. Many times that reading drew our eyes together and changed the color in our faces, but one point alone it was that mastered us; when we read that the longed-fro smile was kissed by so great a lover, he who never shall be parted from me, all trembling, kissed my mouth. A Galeotto was the book and he that wrote it; that day we read in it no farther.
[tr. Sinclair (1939)]
One day we read for pastime how in thrall Lord Lancelot lay to love, who loved the Queen; We were alone -- we thought no harm at all.
As we read on, our eyes met now and then, And to our cheeks the changing color started, But just one moment overcame us -- when
We read of the smile, desired of lips long-thwarted, Such smile, by such a lover kissed away, He that may never more from me be parted
Trembling all over, kissed my mouth. I say The book was Galleot, Galleot the complying Ribald who wrote; we read no more that day.
[tr. Sayers (1949)]
One day for dalliance we read the rhyme of Lancelot, how love had mastered him. We were alone with innocence and dim time.
Pause after pause that high old story drew our eyes together while we blushed and paled; but it was one soft passage overthrew
our caution and our hearts. For when we read how her fond smile was kissed by such a lover, he who is one with me alive and dead
breathed on my lips the tremor of his kiss. That book, and he who wrote it, was a pander. That day we read no further.
[tr. Ciardi (1954), l. 124ff]
One day, for pastime, we reqd of Lancelot, how love constrained him; we were alone, suspecting nothing. Several times that reading urged our eyes to meet and too the color from our faces, but one moment alone it was that overcame us. When we read how the longed-for smile was kissed by so great a lover, this one, who never shll be parted from me, kissed my mouth all trembling. A Gallehault was the book and he who wrote it; that day we read no farther in it.
[tr. Singleton (1970)]
One day we read, to pass the time away, of Lancelot, how he had fallen in love; we were alone, innocent of suspicion.
Time and again our eyes were brought together by the book we read; our faces flushed and paled. To the moment of one line alone we yielded:
it was when we read about those longed-for lips now being kissed by such a famous lover, that this one (who shall never leave my side)
then kissed my mouth, and trembled as he did. The book and its author was our galehot! That day we read no further.
[tr. Musa (1971)]
One day, to pass the time away, we read of Lancelot -- how love had overcome him. We were alone, and we suspected nothing.
And time and time again that reading led our eyes to meet, and made our faces pale, and yet one point alone defeated us.
When we had read how the desired smile was kissed by one who was so true a lover, this one, who never shall be parted from me,
while all his body trembled, kissed my mouth. A Gallehault indeed, that book and he who wrote it, too; that day we read no more.
[tr. Mandelbaum (1980)]
One day, when we were reading, for distraction, How Lancelot was overcome by love -- We were alone, without any suspicion;
Several times, what we were reading forced Our eyes to meet, and then we changed color: But one page only was more than we could bear.
When we read how that smile, so much desired, Was kissed by such a lover, in the book, He, who will never be divided from me,
Kissed my mouth, he was trembling as he did so; The book, the writer played the part of Galahalt: That day we got no further with our reading.
[tr. Sisson (1981)]
One day, for pleasure,
We read of Lancelot, by love constrained:
Alone, suspecting nothing, at our leisure.
Sometimes at what we read our glances joined,
Looking from the book each to the other's eyes,
And then the color in our faces drained.
But one particular moment alone it was
Defeated us: the longed-for smile, it said, Was kissed by that most noble lover: at this,
This one, who now will never leave my side,
Kissed my mouth, trembling. A Galeotto, that book!
And so was he who wrote it; that day we read
No further.
[tr. Pinsky (1994), l. 112ff]
We were reading one day, for pleasure, of Lancelot, how Love beset him; we were alone and without any suspicion. Many times that reading drove our eyes together and turned our faces pale; but one point alone was the one that overpowered us. When we read that the yearned-for smile was kissed by so great a lover, he, who will never be separated from me, kissed my mouth all trembling. Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it: that day we read there no further.
[tr. Durling (1996)]
We read, one day, to our delight, of Lancelot and how love constrained him: we were alone and without suspicion. Often those words urged our eyes to meet, and coloured our cheeks, but it was a single moment that undid us. When we read how that lover kissed the beloved smile, he who will never be separated from me, kissed my mouth all trembling. That book was a Galeotto, a pandar, and he who wrote it: that day we read no more.
[tr. Kline (2002)]
One day, to pass the time, we read of Lancelot, who loved illicitly. Just the two of us; we had not thought of what, as yet, was not.
From time to time that reading urged our eyes to meet. and made our faces flush and pale, but one point in the story changed our lives;
for when we read of how the longed-for smile was kissed by such a noble knight, the one who for eternity is by my side all trembling
kissed my trembling mouth. The man who wrote this was a Galeotto; so was the book. That day the rest of it remained unscanned.
[tr. Carson (2002)]
One day we read together for pure joy how Lancelot was taken in Love's palm. We were alone. We knew no suspicion.
Time after time, the words we read would lift our eyes and drawn all color from our faces. A single point, however, vanquished us.
For when at last we read the longed-for smile of Guinevere -- at last her lover kissed -- he, who from me will never now depart,
touched his kiss, trembling to my open mouth. This book was Galehault -- pander-penned, the pimp! That day we read no further down those lines.
[tr. Kirkpatrick (2006)]
One day, to pass the time in pleasure, we read of Lancelot, how love enthralled him. We were alone, without the least misgiving.
More than once that reading made our eyes meet and drained the color from our faces. Still, it was a single instant overcame us:
When we read how the longed-for smile was kissed by so renowned a lover, this man, who never shall be parted from me,
all trembling, kissed me on my mouth. A Galeotto was the book and he that wrote it. That day we read in it no further.
[tr. Hollander/Hollander (2007)]
One day we read the story of Lancelot And how his love attacked and held him tight. We were alone and unaware of our thoughts.
More than once the story forced our eyes To meet, and as we looked our faces turned pale, But just one single moment hung and decided
Us. We read how a smile we longed for stayed On her lips until the greatest of lovers kissed them, And then this man, who cannot be taken away
From me, kissed my mouth, his body trembling. A famous go-between had written that tale. That day, our time for reading suddenly ended.
[tr. Raffel (2010)]
One day, to amuse ourselves, we were reading The tales of love-struck Lancelot; we were all alone, And naively unaware of what could happen.
More than once, while reading, we looked up And saw the other looking back. We'd blush, then pale, Then look down again. Until a moment did us in.
We were reading about the longed-for kiss The great lover gives his Guinevere, when that one From whom I'll now never be parted,
Trembling, kissed my lips. That author and his book played the part Of Gallehault. We read no more that day.
[tr. Bang (2012)]
Reading together one day for delight
Or Lancelot, caught up in Love's sweet snare,
We were alone, with no thought of what might
Occur to us, although we stopped to stare
Sometimes at what we read, and even paled.
But then the moment came we turned a page
And all our powers of resistance failed:
When we read of that great knight in a rage
To kiss the smile he so desired. Paolo,
This one so quiet now, made my mouth still --
Which, loosened by those words, had trembled so --
With his mouth. And right then we lost the will --
For Love can will will's loss, as well you know --
To read on. But let that man take a bow
Who wrote the book we called our Galahad,
The reason nothing can divide us now.
[tr. James (2013), l. 149ff]
The rich know anger helps the cost of living:
Hating’s more economical than giving.
[Genus, Aucte, lucri divites habent iram:
Odisse, quam donare, vilius constat.]
Martial (AD c.39-c.103) Spanish Roman poet, satirist, epigrammatist [Marcus Valerius Martialis] Epigrams [Epigrammata], Book 12, epigram 13 (12.13) (AD 101) [tr. Michie (1972)]
(Source)
"To Auctus." Closely parallel to 3.37, to the point where some translations are cross-applied in error. The general interpretation, from Ker, is that "picking quarrels with clients saves you giving them presents."
Acts and their consequences are the things by which our fellows judge us. Anything else, and all that you get is a cheap feeling of moral superiority by thinking how you would have done something nicer if it had been you. So as for the rest, leave it to heaven. I’m not qualified.
Roger Zelazny (1937-1995) American writer The Hand of Oberon, ch. 13 (1976)
(Source)
People at the top do not want to share their power. They’ve always got some marvellous reason: I’m following my religion; I’m following the laws of economics. Even Stalin: I’m representing the vanguard of the working class, so please don’t cause trouble. That is the battle that every generation has, and yet we mustn’t be pessimistic about it.
Tony Benn (1925-2014) British politician, writer, diarist
“Hope Is the Key,” Interview, Share International (Jan 2003)
(Source)
People may see hypocrisy and cynicism all around them, but in my experience, almost without exception, they believe their own views and actions — even when contradictory, even when private motivations differ from public explanations — are righteous and principled.
John F. Harris (b. c. 1963) American political journalist, editor
“‘He Is Our O.J.'” Politico (9 Jan 2020)
(Source)
I don’t have much truck with the “religion is the cause of most of our wars” school of thought because that is manifestly done by mad, manipulative and power-hungry men who cloak their ambition in God.
Terry Pratchett (1948-2015) English author
“I create gods all the time — now I think one might exist,” Daily Mail (21 Jun 2008)
(Source)
It is always tempting when you have political discontent in your own country to say it is the fault of some other country and not of your own government.
A. J. P. Taylor (1906-1990) British historian, journalist, broadcaster [Alan John Percivale Taylor] How Wars Begin (1979)
(Source)
When I talk about the death penalty to people, there are a zillion pragmatic arguments to make that the death penalty is more expensive, that you could make mistakes with the death penalty. I try to never use them, because I believe that as soon as I use them, I have dropped what matters to me. Because those arguments are disingenuous. To say, “What if we put an innocent person to death?” I am then telling you that if you can promise me we won’t put any innocent people to death that I’m somehow OK with that, and I’m fucking not. Killing people is wrong. Government shouldn’t fucking do it. End of story.
Penn Jillette (b. 1955) American stage magician, actor, musician, author
Interview by Kahterine Mangu-Ward, Reason (Jan 2017)
(Source)
We may then lay down this rule of friendship — neither ask nor consent to do what is wrong. For the plea “for friendship’s sake” is a discreditable one, and not to be admitted for a moment. This rule holds good for all wrong-doing, but more especially in such as involves disloyalty to the republic.
[Haec igitur lex in amicitia sanciatur, ut neque rogemus res turpes nec faciamus rogati. Turpis enim excusatio est et minime accipienda cum in ceteris peccatis, tum si quis contra rem publicam se amici causa fecisse fateatur.]
Marcus Tullius Cicero (106-43 BC) Roman orator, statesman, philosopher Laelius De Amicitia [Laelius on Friendship], ch. 12 / sec. 40 (44 BC) [tr. Shuckburgh (1909)]
(Source)
Let this law therefore be established in friendship, viz., that we should neither ask things that are improper, nor grant them when asked; for it is a disgraceful apology, and by no means to be admitted, as well in the case of other offenses, as when any one avows he has acted against the state for the sake of a friend.
[tr. Edmonds (1871)]
As to friendship, then, let this law be enacted, that we neither ask of a friend what is wrong, nor do what is wrong at a friend’s request. The plea that it was for a friend’s sake is a base apology, -- one that should never be admitted with regard to other forms of guilt, and certainly not as to crimes against the State.
[tr. Peabody (1887)]
Therefore let this law be established in friendship: neither ask dishonourable things, nor do them, if asked. And dishonourable it certainly is, and not to be allowed, for anyone to plead in defence of sins in general and especially of those against the State, that he committed them for the sake of a friend.
[tr. Falconer (1923)]
Therefore, let this law be established for friendship: that we should neither ask for foul things nor fulfill requests for them. For this is a foul excuse and ought not be accepted for any crime, but especially not if someone is shown to have placed themselves against the Republic for the sake of a friend.
[Source]
My word, how mortals take the gods to task!
All their afflictions come from us, we hear.
And what of their own failings? Greed and folly
double the suffering in the lot of man.
O how falsely men
Accuse us Gods as authors of their ill!
When, by the bane their own bad lives instill,
They suffer all the mis’ries of their states,
Past our inflictions, and beyond their fates.
[tr. Chapman (1616)]
Ha! how dare mortals tax the Gods, and say,
Their harms do all proceed from our decree,
And by our setting; when by their crimes they
Against our wills make their own destiny?
[tr. Hobbes (1675), l. 37ff]
Perverse mankind! whose wills, created free,
Charge all their woes on absolute degree;
All to the dooming gods their guilt translate,
And follies are miscall'd the crimes of fate.
[tr. Pope (1725)]
Alas! how prone are human-kind to blame
The Pow’rs of Heav’n! From us, they say, proceed
The ills which they endure, yet more than Fate
Herself inflicts, by their own crimes incur.
[tr. Cowper (1792), l. 41ff]
Mortals, ye Powers, upbraid us with their voice,
And brand us for the fount of all their ill,
Who, of their own acts, not of fate but choice,
Heap to themselves much toil and sorrow still.
[tr. Worsley (1861), st. 6]
Why! what reproach,
Ye gods! do mortals cast on deities!
To us all their calamities they trace,
While they, themselves, through their own senseless acts,
Feel pangs their destiny had ne'er decreed.
[tr. Musgrave (1869)]
Oh heavens! how mortals now to blame the gods!
From us they say spring ills! but they themselves
By their own folly bring unfated woes.
[tr. Bigge-Wither (1869)]
Lo you now, how vainly mortal men do blame the gods! For of us they say comes evil, whereas they even of themselves, through the blindness of their own hearts, have sorrows beyond that which is ordained.
[tr. Butcher/Lang (1879)]
Lo, how men blame the gods! From us, they say, spring troubles. But through their own perversity and more than is their due they meet with sorrow.
[tr. Palmer (1891)]
See now, how men lay blame upon us gods for what is after all nothing but their own folly.
[tr. Butler (1898)]
Oh my, how mortals hold us gods responsible! For they say that their misfortunes come from us. But they get their sufferings, beyond what is fated, by way of their own acts of recklessness.
[tr. Butler (1898), rev. Kim/McCray/Nagy/Power (2018)]
Look you now, how ready mortals are to blame the gods. It is from us, they say, that evils come, but they even of themselves, through their own blind folly, have sorrows beyond that which is ordained.
[tr. Murray (1919)]
It vexes me to see how mean are these creatures of a day towards us Gods, when they charge against us the evils (far beyond our worst dooming) which their own exceeding wantonness has heaped upon themselves.
[tr. Lawrence (1932)]
What a lamentable thing it is that men should blame the gods and regard us as the source of their troubles, when it is their own wickedness that brings them sufferings worse than any which Destiny allots them.
[tr. Rieu (1946)]
Oh for shame, how the mortals put the blame upon us
gods, for they say evils come from us, but it is they, rather,
who by their own recklessness win sorrow beyond what is given.
[tr. Lattimore (1965)]
Men are so quick to blame the gods: they say
that we devise their misery. But they
themselves -- in their depravity -- design
grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns.
[tr. Mandelbaum (1990)]
Ah how shameless -- the way these mortals blame the gods.
From us alone, they say, come all their miseries, yes,
but they themselves, with their own reckless ways,
compound their pains beyond their proper share.
[tr. Fagles (1996)]
Mortals! They are always blaming the gods
For their troubles, when their own witlessness
Causes them more than they were destined for!
[tr. Lombardo (2000), l. 37ff]
Strange to behold, what blame these mortals can bring against godhead! For their ills, they assert, are from us, when they themselves by their mad recklessness have pain far past what is fated.
[tr. Merrill (2002)]
How surprising that men blame the gods, and say their troubles come from us, though they, through their own un-wisdom, find suffering beyond what is fated.
[tr. Kline (2004)]
What a lamentable thing it is that men should blame the gods and regard us as the source of their troubles, when it is their own transgressions which bring them suffering that was not their destiny.
[tr. DCH Rieu (2002)]
This is not good! See how mortals find fault with us gods!
They say it is from us that all evil things come, yet it is by their
own recklessness that they suffer hardship beyond their destiny.
[tr. Verity (2016)]
This is absurd,
that mortals blame the gods! They say we cause
their suffering, but they themselves increase it
by folly.
[tr. Wilson (2017)]
My oh my, the way mortals will fasten blame on the gods!
From us, they say, evils come, yet they themselves
through their own blind recklessness have ills beyond
their fated lot.
[tr. Green (2018)]
It’s disgraceful how humans blame the gods.
They say their tribulations come from us,
when they themselves, through their own foolishness,
bring hardships which are not decreed by Fate.
[tr. Johnston (2019), l. 41ff]
Caution in handling generally accepted opinions that claim to explain whole trends of history is especially important for the historian of modern times, because the last century has produced an abundance of ideologies that pretend to be keys to history but are actually nothing but desperate efforts to escape responsibility.
Hannah Arendt (1906-1975) German-American philosopher, political theorist The Origins of Totalitarianism, Part 1, ch. 1 “Antisemitism as an Outrage to Common Sense” (1951)
(Source)
JERRY: Writing is also one of those things like … I’d rather fill in all the “o”s in the phone book. [Laughs]. You know what I mean? Anything is more fun than trying to write songs.
BOB: I’d rather be in the dentist’s chair. The blank page is the most frightening, most horrifying, the most toothy, snarling, god-awful thing I can imagine.
JERRY: Any excuse to not do it is good enough.
BOB: Man, look at those dishes mounting up. How can I work in this pigsty?
Jerry Garcia (1942-1995) American singer-songwriter and guitarist
Interview of Jerry Garcia and Bob Weir by Jon Sievert, Guitar Player Magazine (1993-05-20)
The interview was reprinted in Best of Guitar Player - Grateful Dead (1993-09). (Many thanks to Ryan Curry for sharing the photo.)
Howbeit, to me it is no less abhorrent,
When, caught in criminality, the culprit
Seeks with fine words to beautify his deed.
[tr. Donaldson (1848)]
More hateful still the miscreant who seeks
When caught, to make a virtue of a crime.
[tr. Storr (1859)]
But not less hateful
Seems it to me, when one that hath been caught
In wickedness would give it a brave show.
[tr. Campbell (1873)]
But, truly, I detest it, too, when one who has been caught in treachery then seeks to make the crime a glory.
[tr. Jebb (1891)]
I cannot bear to see the guilty stand
Convicted of their crimes, and yet pretend
To gloss them o'er with specious names of virtue.
[tr. Werner (1892)]
But verily this, too, is hateful, -- when one who hath been caught in wickedness then seeks to make the crime a glory.
[tr. Jebb (1917)]
But now much worse than this
Is brazen boasting of barefaced anarchy.
[tr. Fitts/Fitzgerald (1939), l. 390ff]
The criminal who being caught still tries.
To make a fair excuse , is damned indeed.
[tr. Watling (1947), l. 414ff]
I hate it too when someone caught in crime
then wants to make it seem a lovely thing.
[tr. Wyckoff (1954)]
But this is worst of all: to be convicted
And then to glorify the name as virtue.
[tr. Kitto (1962)]
But how I hate it when she's caught in the act,
And the criminal still glories in her crime.
[tr. Woodruff (2001)]
I hate it when someone, caught in ugliness,
afterwards wants to make it look pretty.
[tr. Tyrell/Bennett (2002)]
And there’s nothing I hate more than when someone is caught committing a crime and tries to hide it by embellishing it with sweet words.
[tr. Theodoridis (2004)]
How I despise
a person caught committing evil acts
who then desires to glorify the crime.
[tr. Johnston (2005), l. 562ff]
I, for my part, hate anyone caught in the act who tries to beautify his crimes thereupon.
[tr. Thomas (2005)]
I hate it when someone is caught in the midst of their evil deeds and tries to gloss over them.
[tr. @sentantiq (2020)]
The one and only test of a valid religious idea, doctrinal statement, spiritual experience, or devotional practice was that it must lead directly to practical compassion. If your understanding of the divine made you kinder, more empathetic, and impelled you to express this sympathy in concrete acts of loving-kindness, this was good theology. But if your notion of God made you unkind, belligerent, cruel, or self-righteous, or if it led you to kill in God’s name, it was bad theology. Compassion was the litmus test for the prophets of Israel, for the rabbis of the Talmud, for Jesus, for Paul, and for Muhammad, not to mention Confucius, Lao-tsu, the Buddha, or the sages of the Upanishads.
Karen Armstrong (b. 1944) British author, comparative religion scholar The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness (2004)
(Source)
“My thoughts are not your thoughts. For as high as the heavens are the above the earth, so are my thoughts above your thoughts, my ways above your ways.” It should be written over every preacher’s pulpit. […] Because so often we think that God’s ways are our ways. God’s thoughts are our thoughts. And we created God in our own image and likeness saying, “God approves of this. God forbids that. God desires the other.” […] This is where some of the worst atrocities of religion have come from. Because people have used this to give a sacred seal of a divine approval to some of their worst hatreds, loathings, and fears.
Karen Armstrong (b. 1944) British author, comparative religion scholar
NOW Interview with Bill Moyers, PBS (1 Mar 2002)
(Source)
Dorothy Parker (1893-1967) American writer, poet, wit
(Attributed)
In Hard Times, Vol. 6 (1967), the anecdote is that a messenger pounded on her door for several minutes, having been sent by a New Yorker editor for some promised writing. She finally opened a second-floor window, called down to find out what was the matter, and provided this retort.
The great appeal of fatalism, indeed, is as a refuge from the terror of responsibility.
Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr. (1917-2007) American historian, author, social critic
“The Decline of Greatness,” Saturday Evening Post (1 Nov 1958)
(Source)
The same phrase is used in the successor essay, "On Heroic Leadership," sec. 2. (1960)
Historians have a word for Germans who joined the Nazi party, not because they hated Jews, but out of a hope for restored patriotism, or a sense of economic anxiety, or a hope to preserve their religious values, or dislike of their opponents, or raw political opportunism, or convenience, or ignorance, or greed. That word is “Nazi.” Nobody cares about their motives any more. They joined what they joined. They lent their support and their moral approval. And, in so doing, they bound themselves to everything that came after. Who cares any more what particular knot they used in the binding?
Andrew R. Moxon (contemp.) American writer, critic [a.k.a. Julius Goat]
Essay (2017-01-16), “Sky,” Blogspot
(Source)
Frequently mis-attributed to Twitter, where Moxxon also posted under his @JuliusGoat handle. The original Julius Goat Blogspot site is no longer online.
When it comes to a question of our forgiving other people, it is partly the same and partly different. It is the same because, here also, forgiving does not mean excusing. Many people seem to think it does. They think that if you ask them to forgive someone who has cheated or bullied them you are trying to make out that there was really no cheating or no bullying. But if that were so, there would be nothing to forgive. They keep on replying, “But I tell you the man broke a most solemn promise.” Exactly: that is precisely what you have to forgive. (This doesn’t mean that you must necessarily believe his next promise. It does mean that you must make every effort to kill every taste of resentment in your own heart — every wish to humiliate or hurt him or to pay him out.) The difference between this situation and the one in which you are asking God’s forgiveness is this. In our own case we accept excuses too easily; in other people’s we do not accept them easily enough.
C. S. Lewis (1898-1963) English writer, literary scholar, lay theologian [Clive Staples Lewis]
“On Forgiveness”
It’s okay if you don’t want to feed the hungry, or heal the sick, or house the homeless. Just don’t say you’re doing it for their own good. Don’t say you’d like to help people, but your hands are tied, because if you did it would cause a “culture of dependency,” or “go against the Bible,” or, worst of all, “rob them of their freedom” to be sick and hungry. Just admit you’re selfish, and based on how little your beliefs mirror the actual teachings of Jesus you might as well be worshiping Despicable Me.
William "Bill" Maher (b. 1956) American comedian, political commentator, critic, television host. Real Time with Bill Maher (8 Nov 2013)
There are two kinds of Friends in our Society, and two kinds of people in the world: there are therefore people, and there are however people. Therefore people say, “There are children going to bed hungry in our community, Therefore …” and they proceed to devise and define the ways in which they can meet the need in their community. However people make the same beginning statement, “There are children going to bed hungry in our community,” but they follow that statement with, “However …” and they explain why nothing can be done about it.
Henry Joel Cadbury (1883-1974) American biblical scholar, Quaker historian, writer, activist
(Attributed)
We lie to ourselves, in order that we may still have the excuse of ignorance, the alibi of stupidity and incomprehension, possessing which we can continue with a good conscience to commit and tolerate the most monstrous crimes.
Aldous Huxley (1894-1963) English novelist, essayist and critic
“Words and Behavior,” The Olive Tree and Other Essays (1936)
The more lies are told, the more important it becomes for the liars to justify themselves by deep moral commitments to high-sounding objectives that mask the pursuit of money and power.
Bertram M. Gross (1912-1997) American social scientist, academic, bureaucrat Friendly Fascism: The New Face of Power in America, ch. 9 (1980)
There are many who find a good alibi far more attractive than an achievement. For an achievement does not settle anything permanently. We still have to prove our worth anew each day: we have to prove that we are as good today as we were yesterday. But when we have a valid alibi for not achieving anything we are fixed, so to speak, for life. Moreover, when we have an alibi for not writing a book, painting a picture, and so on, we have an alibi for not writing the greatest book and not painting the greatest picture. Small wonder that the effort expended and the punishment endured in obtaining a good alibi often exceed the effort and grief requisite for the attainment of a most marked achievement.
Eric Hoffer (1902-1983) American writer, philosopher, longshoreman Passionate State of Mind, Aphorism 181 (1955)
(Source)
How convenient does it prove to be a rational animal, that knows how to find or invent a plausible pretext for whatever it has an inclination so to do.
Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790) American statesman, scientist, philosopher, aphorist The Life of Benjamin Franklin (1791)
(Source)
Often paraphrased: "Man is a rational animal. He can think up a reason for anything he wants to believe." Sometimes attributed to Anatole France.
The welfare of the people in particular has always been the alibi of tyrants, and it provides the further advantage of giving the servants of tyranny a good conscience. It would be easy, however, to destroy that good conscience by shouting to them: if you want the happiness of the people, let them speak out and tell what kind of happiness they want and what kind they don’t want! But, in truth, the very ones who make use of such alibis know they are lies; they leave to their intellectuals on duty the chore of believing in them and of proving that religion, patriotism, and justice need for their survival the sacrifice of freedom.
Albert Camus (1913-1960) Algerian-French novelist, essayist, playwright
“Homage to an Exile” (1955)
Published as an essay in Actuelles III, originally a speech (7 Dec 1955) at a banquet in honor of President Eduardo Santos, editor of El Tiempo, driven out of Columbia by a dictatorship". Reprinted in Resistance, Rebellion, and Death (1960).
Liberty, next to religion, has been the motive of good deeds and the common pretext of crime.
John Dalberg, Lord Acton (1834-1902) British historian, politician, writer
Speech (1877-02-28), “The History of Freedom in Antiquity,” Bridgenorth Institute
(Source)
We live in an age of Wrath. It is to be found in the terrorist, the kidnapper, the hijacker, the looter, and in the clenched fist of the demonstrator. […] When we ask what is their justification, they hardly have to give an answer, because our age finds it for them. They are angry. That is apparently enough. We justify their Wrath, so we justify their violence. If someone thinks that he has cause to be angry, he may act from his Anger as destructively as he sees fit. In fact, we have come close to the point of giving to Wrath an incontestable license to terrorize our society, just as an angry man may terrorize his family, but whereas we do not excuse the husband or the father, we extend our sympathy and understanding to the terrorist.
Henry Fairlie (1924-1990) British journalist and social critic The Seven Deadly Sins Today (1978)
Necessity can make a doubtful action innocent, but it cannot make it commendable.
[La nécessité peut rendre innocente une action douteuse ; mais elle ne saurait la rendre louable.]
Joseph Joubert (1754-1824) French moralist, philosopher, essayist, poet Pensées [Thoughts], ch. 9 “De la Sagesse, de la Vertu, etc. [On Wisdom and Virtue],” ¶ 20 (1850 ed.) [tr. Auster (1983), 1808]
(Source)
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare;
At whatever time the deed took place — MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-British poet, critic, playwright [Thomas Stearns Eliot] Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, “Macavity: The Mystery Cat” (1939)
If all be true that I do think,
There are five reasons we should drink:
Good wine, a friend, because I’m dry,
Or least I should be by and by,
Or any other reason why.
Henry Aldrich (1647-1710) English academic, theologian, philosopher, architect, composer
“Five Reasons for Drinking” (1689)
(Source)
If on my theme I rightly think,
There are five reasons why men drink:
Good wine, a friend, because I'm dry,
Or least I should be by-and-by,
Or any other reason why.
If all be true that I do think,
There are five reasons we should drink:
Good wine -- a friend -- or being dry --
Or lest we should be by-and-by --
Or any other reason why.
Si bene quid memini, causae sunt quinque bibendi;
Hospitis adventus, praesens sitis atque futura,
Aut vini bonitas, aut quaelibet altera causa.
[If I remember correctly, there are five reasons for drinking:
The arrival of a guest, present and future thirst,
Or the goodness of the wine, or any other reason.]
[Google Translate]
In some versions it starts "Si bene commemini" and on the last line uses "Et" for the two "Aut"s.
An satirical extended version can be found in Mortimer Collins, Squire Silchester's Whim (1873):
If all be true that I do think,
Seven reasons are there why we drink:
Good wine -- a friend -- or being dry --
Or lest we should be by-and-by --
Or idleness beneath the sky --
Or a sweet girl's inviting eye:
Or any other reason why.
The poem was set to music by Henry Purcell as a "Catch" (Round), as recorded in Henry Playford, The Banquet of Musick (1688) (also here):
1. If all be true that I do think, there are Five Reasons, there are Five Reasons, we shou'd drink: 2. Good Wine, a Friend, or being Dry, or lest we shou'd be by and by, 3. or any Reason, or any other Reason, or any other Reason why, any Reason why.
The tune was borrowed by Temperance advocates for an anti-drinking Round (by 1865):
1. If all be true that I do think, there are five reasons, five reasons why we should not drink. 2. Our name, our health, our family, our peace both now and by and bye. 3. And many other reasons, and many other reasons, and many other reasons why, many reasons why.
There is a powerful craving in most of us to see ourselves as instruments in the hands of others and thus free ourselves from the responsibility for acts which are prompted by our own questionable inclinations and impulses. Both the strong and the weak grasp at this alibi. The latter hide their malevolence under the virtue of obedience: they acted dishonorably because they had to obey orders. The strong, too, claim absolution by proclaiming themselves the chosen instrument of a higher power — God, history, fate, nation or humanity.
Eric Hoffer (1902-1983) American writer, philosopher, longshoreman Passionate State of Mind, Aphorism 85 (1955)
(Source)
To find the cause of our ills in something outside ourselves, something specific that can be spotted and eliminated, is a diagnosis that cannot fail to appeal. To say that the cause of our troubles is not in us but in the Jews, and pass immediately to the extermination of the Jews, is a prescription likely to find a wide acceptance.
Eric Hoffer (1902-1983) American writer, philosopher, longshoreman Passionate State of Mind, Aphorism 126 (1955)
(Source)
A man’s worst difficulties begin when he is able to do as he likes. So long as a man is struggling with obstacles he has an excuse for failure or shortcoming; but when fortune removes them all and gives him the power of doing as he thinks best, then comes the time of trial. There is but one right, and the possibilities of wrong are infinite.
T. H. Huxley (1825-1895) English biologist [Thomas Henry Huxley]
“Address on University Education,” opening ceremonies of Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore (12 Sep 1876)
(Source)
We are all exceptional cases. We all want to appeal against something! Each of us insists on being innocent at all cost, even if has to accuse the whole human race and heaven itself!
Albert Camus (1913-1960) Algerian-French novelist, essayist, playwright The Fall (1956) [tr. J. O’Brien]
Anger is never without an Argument, but seldom with a good one.
George Savile, Marquis of Halifax (1633-1695) English politician and essayist
“Of Anger,” Political, Moral, and Miscellaneous Thoughts and Reflections (1750)
(Source)
I cannot accept your canon that we are to judge Pope and King unlike other men, with a favourable presumption that they did no wrong. If there is any presumption it is the other way against holders of power, increasing as the power increases. Historic responsibility has to make up for the want of legal responsibility. All power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men, even when they exercise influence and not authority: still more when you superadd the tendency or the certainty of corruption by authority. There is no worse heresy than that the office sanctifies the holder of it.
John Dalberg, Lord Acton (1834-1902) British historian, politician, writer
Letter (1887-04-05) to Mandell Creighton
(Source)
Often paraphrased, "Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely."
There is an alternate, probably spurious version of this quote, for which I have been unable to find an actual citation (except where it is mis-cited to this letter to Bp. Creighton): "And remember, where you have a concentration of power in a few hands, all too frequently men with the mentality of gangsters get control. History has proven that. All power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely." As the word "gangster" has only been traced back to 1886, and that in the US, its use by Acton (esp. in a modern sense) seems unlikely.
PEMBROKE: And oftentimes excusing of a fault
Doth make the fault the worse by th’ excuse,
As patches set upon a little breach
Discredit more in hiding of the fault
Than did the fault before it was so patched.
William Shakespeare (1564-1616) English dramatist and poet King John, Act 4, sc. 2, l. 30ff (4.2.30-34) (1596)
(Source)
BOSS KEAN: Ah'm jus' doin' mah job, Luke. You gotta appreciate that.
LUKE: Boss, when you do somethin' to me you better do it because you got to or want to ... but not because it's your damn job.
Ignorance of the law excuses no man; not that all men know the law, but because ’tis an excuse every man will plead, and no man can tell how to confute him.
John Selden (1584-1654) English jurist, legal scholar, antiquarian, polymath Table Talk, § 76.2 “Law” (1689)
(Source)
Samuel Johnson (1709-1784) English writer, lexicographer, critic
Comment (1775-04-07)
(Source)
In James Boswell, The Life of Samuel Johnson (1791). The full quote:
Patriotism having become one of our topicks, Johnson suddenly uttered, in a strong determined tone, an apophthegm, at which many will start: "Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel." But let it be considered, that he did not mean a real and generous love of our country, but that pretended patriotism which so many, in all ages and countries, have made a cloak of self-interest.
Ambrose Bierce wrote in his Devil's Dictonary, under "Patriotism," "In Dr. Johnson's famous dictionary patriotism is defined as the last resort of a scoundrel. With all due respect to an enlightened but inferior lexicographer I beg to submit that it is the first."
I don’t believe in twisting yourself into knots of excuses and explanations over the food you make. When one’s hostess starts in with self-deprecations such as “Oh, I don’t know how to cook …,” or “Poor little me …,” or “This may taste awful …,” it is so dreadful to have to reassure her that everything is delicious and fine, whether it is or not. Besides, such admissions only draw attention to one’s shortcomings (or self-perceived shortcomings) and make the other person think, “Yes, you’re right, this really is an awful meal!” Maybe the cat has fallen into the stew, or the lettuce has frozen, or the cake has collapsed — eh bien, tant pis!
Julia Child (1912-2004) American chef and writer My Life In France, “Le Cordon Bleu,” sec. 2 (2006)
(Source)
It is true, the bill is said to be founded on necessity; but what is this? Is it not necessity, which has always been the plea of every illegal exertion of power, or exercise of oppression? Is not necessity the pretence of every usurpation? Necessity is the plea for every infringement of human freedom. It is the argument of tyrants; it is the creed of slaves.
William Pitt (1759-1806) British Prime Minister (1804-06) [William Pitt the Younger]
Speech (1793-11-18), House of Commons, London
(Source)
Speech on a bill changing the process of governing India. Cf. Milton.
Whenever people say “we mustn’t be sentimental,” you can take it they are about to do something cruel. And if they add, “we must be realistic,” they mean they are going to make money out of it.
Brigid Brophy (1929-1995) Anglo-Irish writer, novelist, playwright Unlived Life
EDMUND: This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, — often the surfeit of our own behavior, — we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars: as if we were villains by necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers, by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers, by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star!
William Shakespeare (1564-1616) English dramatist and poet King Lear, Act 1, sc. 2, l. 125ff (1.2.125) (1606)
(Source)
Shallow men believe in luck, believe in circumstances — it was somebody’s name, or he happened to be there at the time, or it was so then, and another day would have been otherwise. Strong men believe in cause and effect.
Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882) American essayist, lecturer, poet
Essay (1860), “Worship,” The Conduct of Life, ch. 6
(Source)
Based on a course of lectures, "The Conduct of Life," delivered in Pittsburg (1851-03).
A man always has two reasons for what he does — a good one, and the real one.
John Pierpont "J. P." Morgan (1837-1913) American banker and financier
(Attributed)
Quoted in Owen Wister, Roosevelt: The Story of a Friendship, p. 280 (1930). There's no record in Morgan's writings, and versions of the quote from others can be found in the early 1800s. See here for more details.
Sometimes given as "A man generally has two reasons for doing a thing: one that sounds good, and a real one."
