Scel lemm duib

Next is a translation by Flann O'Brien, who kept the three stresses per line of the original in an attempt to convey what he called the “steel-pen exactness” of the 9th century original (which you can hear read aloud here):


Here’s a song –
stags give tongue
winter snows
summer goes.

High cold blow
sun is low
brief his day
seas give spray.

Fern clumps redden
shapes are hidden
wildgeese raise
wonted cries.

Cold now girds
wings of birds.
Icy time -
that’s my rhyme.

Apostrophes in Pinyin

http://www.pinyin.info/romanization/hanyu/apostrophes.html

German Tactical Manual

Dream of the Rarebit Fiend

koirakoira

Righting, Riting, and Rewriting the Book of Odes

Eduard Gaertner Unter den Linden 1853

Duel of Ages II

Letters from Iceland

Slings & Arrows

Outer Wilds

https://open.spotify.com/album/1U0A6RPNJB05PtuBcaTM7o

The Yellow Book: An Illustrated Quarterly

http://www.1890s.ca/Volumes.aspx?p=The%20Yellow%20Book

In April 1894 a young bookseller’s clerk, John Lewis May, assisted the manager of The Bodley Head in arranging the shop window. As he later recalled: “I filled the window of the little shop in Vigo Street—the original Bodley Head—with Yellow Books, and nothing but Yellow Books, creating such a mighty glow of yellow at the far end of Vigo Street that one might have been forgiven for imagining for a moment that some awful portent had happened, and that the sun had risen in the West”. The “mighty glow of yellow” emanating from this unnatural dawn continued long past the launch of the avant-garde magazine of art and literature, and indeed long past its final issue three years later in April 1897. In 1913, Holbrook Jackson, describing the impact of The Yellow Book, explained: “It was newness in excelsis: novelty naked and unashamed. People were puzzled and shocked and delighted, and yellow became the colour of the hour, the symbol of the time-spirit. It was associated with all that was bizarre and queer in art and life, with all that was outrageously modern”. A more recent commentator on the 1890s, Simon Houfe, echoes Jackson’s judgment, declaring that The Yellow Book and the 1890s are synonymous, the periodical functioning as “both a microcosm of the fin de siècle and an important trend-setter”.

Cui Hao 崔颢

Catechism of Cliché

What is a bad thing worse than?
Useless.
What can one do with fierce resistance?
Offer it.
But if one puts fierce resistance, in what direction does one put it?
Up.
In which hood is a person who expects money to fall out of the sky?
Second child.
If a thing is fraught, with what is it fraught?
The gravest consequences.
What does one sometimes have it on?
The most unimpeachable authority.
What is the only thing one can wax?
Eloquent.
How are allegations dealt with?
They are denied.
Yes, but then you are weakening, Sir. Come now, how are they denied?
Hotly.
What is the behaviour of a heated altercation?
It follows.
What happens to order?
It is restored.
Alternatively, in what does the meeting break up?
Disorder.
What does the meeting do in disorder?
Breaks up.
In what direction does the meeting break in disorder?
Up.
In what direction should I shut?
Up.
When things are few, what also are they?
Far between.
What are stocks of fuel doing when they are low?
Running.
How low are they running?
Dangerously.
What does one do with a suggestion?
One throws it out.
For what does one throw a suggestion out?
For what it may be worth.
What else can be thrown out?
A hint.
In addition to hurling a hint on such lateral trajectory, what other not unviolent action can be taken with it?
It can be dropped.
What else is sometimes dropped?
The subject.

Hubert Robert - Bridge over the Torrent

You N'wah!

The Square before the Gate

Shanghai at Night

Sea and rocks by William Trost Richards (1833–1905)

Judge Bao and the Rule of Law

Naoki Urasawa - Pluto

A famous Astro Boy story arc retold as a deadly serious cyber-noir thriller

The Art Deco alphabet- from Modèles de lettres modernes by Georges Léculier (1925).

Rain by Francis Ponge

The rain, in the backyard where I watch it fall, comes down at different rates. In the center a fine discontinuous curtain — or network — falls implacably and yet gently in drops that are probably quite light; a strengthless sempiternal precipitation, an intense fraction of the atmosphere at its purest. A little distance from the walls to the right and left plunk heavier drops, one by one. Here they seem about the size of grains of wheat, the size of a pea, while elsewhere they are big as marbles. Along gutters and window frames the rain runs horizontally, while depending from the same obstacles it hangs like individually wrapped candies. Along the entire surface of a little zinc roof under my eyes it trickles in a very thin sheet, a moiré pattern formed by the varying currents created by the imperceptible bumps and undulations of the surface. From the gutter it flows with the restraint of a shallow creek until it tumbles out into a perfectly vertical net, rather imperfectly braided, all the way to the ground where it breaks and sparkles into brilliant needles.

Each of its forms has its particular allure and corresponds to a particular patter. Together they share the intensity of a complex mechanism as precise as it is dangerous, like a steam-powered clock whose spring is wound by the force of the precipitation.

The ringing on the ground of the vertical trickles, the glug-glug of the gutters, the miniscule strikes of the gong multiply and resonate all at once in a concert without monotony, and not without a certain delicacy.

Once the spring unwinds itself certain wheels go on turning for a while, more and more slowly, until the whole mechanism comes to a stop. It all vanishes with the sun: when it finally reappears, the brilliant apparatus evaporates. It has rained.

How Zen became Zen

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