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The temptation to rhapsodize about the snow is pitched past pitch of joy. Outside the world whitens. True: it will be smeared with trade again soon enough and, ere that, corrupted with salt and plows and that vilest of all inventions, the snow blower, until at last this baptized world once again bears man’s smudge and wears man’s smell. But tonight it whitens. Tonight, though the earth be as scarlet, it shall be white with snow.
The snow gathers higher and higher on my pile of maple, split and stacked and ready to warm this buzzing joyous domicile. Lo! The snow mounts white on white upon the rails of my deck, the roof of my shed, the cedars across the ravine. See it swirl in the air and yet drop as the gentle dew of heaven. Its quality is not strained. How like imputed righteousness it comes to me; how like a robe of incorruption it adorns this too too sullied flesh.
It will keep doing this as long as it wants to, and, thank God, there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about it. The snow is going to do what it wants to do until it’s done doing it, and I, like Thomas Merton in his shack listening to the sheer gratuity of the rain (listening to get its meaning before someone re-means it by bottling and selling it)—I am going to listen and find out what it has to say.
They definitely do have a way with words, do they not?
Often in winter days, I heard the forlorn but melodious note of a hooting owl indefinitely far; such a sound as the frozen earth would yield if struck with a suitable plectrum, the very lingua vernacula of Walden Wood (Walden)
The quiet twilight was still trembling on the topmost ridges of the heath; and the view of London below me had sunk into a black gulf in the shadow of the cloudy night, when I stood before the gate of my mother's cottage. (The Woman in White)
I tried to comfort myself by repeating again and again the assurance, 'the thing is purely disease, a well-known physical affectation, as distinct as smallpox or neuralgia. Doctors are all agreed on that, philosophy demonstrates it. I must not be a fool.' (In A Glass Darkly)
When was the last time you complimented someone or something in a post?
I admit I don't think I've ever seen you say anything positive, about anything.
Which brings me to my second question. What is your problem with living?
Originally posted by Astyanax
Shall we return to the thread topic now, or would you like to insult me some more first?
Originally posted by bsbray11
I was getting around to how miserable nearly every single one of your posts are, including to others because I don't even respond to you most of the time.