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http://tapeart.com/new/files/gimgs/15_tapeart1700squirrels04.jpg

1700 animals are slaughtered in abbatoirs or sacrificed in research laboratories in well under a minute, every minute, of every day.

The Vermont Supreme Court Considers “Loss of Companionship” Damages for a Dog’s Death

http://writ.news.findlaw.com/colb/20100120.html

A Prisoner Seeks Vegan Food in Prison: Why Refusing Him is Both Illegal and Foolish

http://writ.news.findlaw.com/colb/20100331.html

What Vegans Can Learn from the Gay Rights Movement’s Successes

http://writ.news.findlaw.com/colb/20090902.html

Language must be raked, the secrets of slaughter-houses and infamous holes that cannot front the day, must be ransacked, to tell what negro-slavery has been.

from: Emerson, Ralph Waldo., Joel Myerson, and Len Gougeon. Emerson’s Antislavery Writings. New Haven: Yale UP, 2002.

After all there’s a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the earth garlic, of course, it stinks Italian organgrinders crisp of onions, mushrooms truffles. Pain to animal too. Pluck and draw fowl. Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh. Staggering bob. Bubble and squeak. Butchers’ buckets wobble lights. Give us that brisket off the hook. Plup. Rawhead and bloody bones. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. Top and lashers going out. Don’t maul them pieces, young one.

Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always needed. Insidious. Lick it up, smoking hot, thick sugary. Famished ghosts.

Ah, I’m hungry.

He entered Davy Byrne’s. Moral pub. He doesn’t chat. Stands a drink now and then. But in leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for me once.

What will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now. Shandygaff?

— Hellow, Bloom! Nosey Flynn said from his nook.

— Hello, Flynn.

— How’s things?

— Tiptop… Let me see. I’ll take a glass of burgundy and… let me see.

Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham and his descendants mustered and bred there. Potted meats. What is home without Plumtree’s potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad! Under the obituary notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree Dignam’s potted meat. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too salty. Like pickled pork.

Ulysses, Episode 8

‘I wrote a story of the Resurrection, where Jesus gets up and feels very sick bout everything, and can’t stand the old crowd any more – so cuts out – and as he heals up, he begins to find what an astonishing place the phenomenal world is, far more marvellous than any salvation or heaven – and thanks his stars he needn’t have a mission any more.’

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Escaped_Cock

Dear Dylan,

Thank you.

(I will have to see American Beauty again.) And as you can see I hold Primo Levi in deep regard but less obviously am a big fan of Coetzee.  The new book “Summertime” is pretty good.  If there are links to more of your writings please send them along.

Best,
Susan

from — “eyes wide shut”, 2010

What is man
If the chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.
(4.4.33-35)

The Phoenix and the Turtle

Let the bird of loudest lay,
On the sole Arabian tree,
Herald sad and trumpet be,
To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But thou, shriking harbinger,
Foul pre-currer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever’s end,
To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather’d king:
Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right.

And thou, treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak’st
With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st,
‘Mongst our mourners shalt thou go.

Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead;
Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.

So they lov’d, as love in twain
Had the essence but in one;
Two distincts, division none:
Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance, and no space was seen
‘Twixt the turtle and his queen;
But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenix’ sight:
Either was the other’s mine.

Property was thus appall’d,
That the self was not the same;
Single nature’s double name
Neither two nor one was call’d.

Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together;
To themselves yet either-neither,
Simple were so well compounded

That it cried how true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one!
Love hath reason, reason none
If what parts can so remain.

Whereupon it made this threne
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supreme and stars of love;
As chorus to their tragic scene.

THRENOS.

Beauty, truth, and rarity.
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclos’d in cinders lie.

Death is now the phoenix’ nest;
And the turtle’s loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,

Leaving no posterity:–
‘Twas not their infirmity,
It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be:
Beauty brag, but ’tis not she;
Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair
That are either true or fair;
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

C.f. Keats’ Truth and Beauty poem:

http://www.bartleby.com/101/625.html

 

 

img: www.birdforum.net/opus/Barn_Swallow

Ode to a Nightingale
  

MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains  
  My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,  
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains  
  One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:  
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,          5
  But being too happy in thine happiness,  
    That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,  
          In some melodious plot  
  Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,  
    Singest of summer in full-throated ease.   10
 
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been  
  Cool’d a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,  
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,  
  Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!  
O for a beaker full of the warm South!   15
  Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,  
    With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,  
          And purple-stainèd mouth;  
  That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,  
    And with thee fade away into the forest dim:   20
 
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget  
  What thou among the leaves hast never known,  
The weariness, the fever, and the fret  
  Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;  
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,   25
  Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;  
    Where but to think is to be full of sorrow  
          And leaden-eyed despairs;  
  Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,  
    Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.   30
 
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,  
  Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,  
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,  
  Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:  
Already with thee! tender is the night,   35
  And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,  
    Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays  
          But here there is no light,  
  Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown  
    Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.   40
 
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,  
  Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,  
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet  
  Wherewith the seasonable month endows  
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;   45
  White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;  
    Fast-fading violets cover’d up in leaves;  
          And mid-May’s eldest child,  
  The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,  
    The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.   50
 
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time  
  I have been half in love with easeful Death,  
Call’d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,  
  To take into the air my quiet breath;  
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,   55
  To cease upon the midnight with no pain,  
    While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad  
          In such an ecstasy!  
  Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—  
    To thy high requiem become a sod.   60
 
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!  
  No hungry generations tread thee down;  
The voice I hear this passing night was heard  
  In ancient days by emperor and clown:  
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path   65
  Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,  
    She stood in tears amid the alien corn;  
          The same that ofttimes hath  
  Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam  
    Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.   70
 
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell  
  To toll me back from thee to my sole self!  
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well  
  As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.  
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades   75
  Past the near meadows, over the still stream,  
    Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep  
          In the next valley-glades:  
  Was it a vision, or a waking dream?  
    Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?

 

c.f. Ovid’s Nightingale Poem:

http://english.sxu.edu/boyer/304_rdg_qst/304_ovid_for_titus.htm

Anactoria

Some say thronging cavalry, some say foot soldiers,
others call a fleet the most beautiful of
sights the dark earth offers, but I say it’s what-
ever you love best.

And it’s easy to make this understood by
everyone, for she who surpassed all human
kind in beauty, Helen, abandoning her
husband–that best of

men–went sailing off to the shores of Troy and
never spent a thought on her child or loving
parents: when the goddess seduced her wits and
left her to wander,

she forgot them all, she could not remember
anything but longing, and lightly straying
aside, lost her way. But that reminds me
now: Anactória,

she’s not here, and I’d rather see her lovely
step, her sparkling glance and her face than gaze on
all the troops in Lydia in their chariots and
glittering armor.

~http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-anactoria-poem/

Anactoria

And lay, to slake and satiate me all through,  
Lotus and Lethe on my lips like dew,  
And shed around and over and under me  
Thick darkness and the insuperable sea. 

~http://www.letrs.indiana.edu/cgi-bin/acs-idx.pl?type=section&rgn=level1&byte=97791