"Not only ... but"

An acquaintance posted this the other day:

My favorite movie quote of all time comes from the 1951 film version of 'A Christmas Carol', featuring Alistair Sim as Scrooge. Not only does this film capture the spirit of Dickens' original book, but screenwriter Noel Langley has the Spirit of Christmas Present address these words to Scrooge:

'Mortal! We Spirits of Christmas do not live but one day of our year; we live the whole three-hundred-and-sixty-five. So is it true of the Child born in Bethlehem. He lives in men's hearts not one day of the year, but in all the days of the year.'

And that, of course, makes it less faithful to the book. Not only does Dickens never so directly refer to Jesus (the closest is Marley's self-castigating cry)

"At this time of the rolling year," the spectre said "I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode! Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted me!"

but the Ghost of Christmas Present says quite specifically that he has but one day:

It was strange, too, that while Scrooge remained unaltered in his outward form, the Ghost grew older, clearly older. Scrooge had observed this change, but never spoke of it, until they left a children’s Twelfth Night party, when, looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open place, he noticed that its hair was grey.

“Are spirits’ lives so short?” asked Scrooge.

“My life upon this globe, is very brief,” replied the Ghost. “It ends to-night.”

That said, the Sim version is probably the most faithful, though it makes the usual hash of the "show me some tenderness connected with a death!" Oddly, the Jim Carrey version, which I saw for the first time last night, manages to get that right in the midst of the hot mess they make of the whole of Stave Four (here's the book if you haven't read it).

Winter Solstice, Camelot Station

This is one of my favorite poems of all time.
Enjoy it and the day...

Winter Solstice, Camelot Station

John M. Ford


Camelot is served
By a sixteen-track stub terminal done in High Gothick Style,
The tracks covered by a single great barrel-vaulted glass roof framed upon iron,
At once looking back to the Romans and ahead to the Brunels.
Beneath its rotunda, just to the left of the ticket windows,
Is a mosaic floor depicting the Round Table
(Where all knights, regardless of their station of origin
Or class of accommodation, are equal),
And around it murals of knightly deeds in action
(Slaying dragons, righting wrongs, rescuing maidens tied to the tracks).
It is the only terminal, other than Gare d'Avalon in Paris,
To be hung with original tapestries,
And its lavatories rival those at the Great Gate of Kiev Central.
During a peak season such as this, some eighty trains a day pass through,
Five times the frequency at the old Londinium Terminus,
Ten times the number the Druid towermen knew.
(The Official Court Christmas Card this year displays
A crisp black-and-white Charles Clegg photograph from the King's own collection.
Showing a woad-blued hogger at the throttle of "Old XCVII,"
The Fast Mail overnight to Eboracum. Those were the days.)
The first of a line of wagons have arrived,
Spilling footmen and pages in Court livery,
And old thick Kay, stepping down from his Range Rover,
Tricked out in a bush coat from Swaine, Adeney, Brigg,
Leaning on his shooting stick as he marshalls his company,
Instructing the youngest how to behave in the station,
To help mature women that they may encounter,
Report pickpockets, gather up litter,
And of course no true Knight of the Table Round (even in training)
Would do a station porter out of Christmas tips.
He checks his list of arrival times, then his watch
(A moon-phase Breguet, gift from Merlin):
The seneschal is a practical man, who knows trains do run late,
And a stolid one, who sees no reason to be glad about it.
He dispatches pages to posts at the tracks,
Doling out pennies for platform tickets,
Then walks past the station buffet with a dyspeptic snort,
Goes into the bar, checks the time again, orders a pint.
The patrons half turn--it's the fella from Camelot, innit?
And Kay chuckles soft to himself, and the Court buys a round.
He's barely halfway when a page tumbles in,
Seems the knights are arriving, on time after all,
So he tips the glass back (people stare as he guzzles),
Then plonks it down hard with five quid for the barman,
And strides for the doorway (half Falstaff, half Hotspur)
To summon his liveried army of lads.

* * *

Bors arrives behind steam, riding the cab of a heavy Mikado.
He shakes the driver's hand, swings down from the footplate,
And is like a locomotive himself, his breath clouding white,
Dark oil sheen on his black iron mail,
Sword on his hip swinging like siderods at speed.
He stamps back to the baggage car, slams mailed fist on steel door
With a clang like jousters colliding.
The handler opens up and goes to rouse another knight.
Old Pellinore has been dozing with his back against a crate,
A cubical, chain-bound thing with FRAGILE tags and air holes,
BEAST says the label, QUESTING, 1 the bill of lading.
The porters look doubtful but ease the thing down.
It grumbles. It shifts. Someone shouts, and they drop it.
It cracks like an egg. There is nothing within.
Elayne embraces Bors on the platform, a pelican on a rock,
Silently they watch as Pelly shifts the splinters,
Supposing aloud that Gutman and Cairo have swindled him.

A high-drivered engine in Northern Lines green
Draws in with a string of side-corridor coaches,
All honey-toned wood with stained glass on their windows.
Gareth steps down from a compartment, then Gaheris and Aggravaine,
All warmly tucked up in Orkney sweaters;
Gawaine comes after in Shetland tweed.
Their Gladstones and steamers are neatly arranged,
With never a worry--their Mum does the packing.
A redcap brings forth a curious bundle, a rude shape in red paper--
The boys did that one themselves, you see, and how does one wrap a unicorn's head?
They bustle down the platform, past a chap all in green.
He hasn't the look of a trainman, but only Gawaine turns to look at his eyes,
And sees written there Sir, I shall speak with you later.

Over on the first track, surrounded by reporters,
All glossy dark iron and brass-bound mystery,
The Direct-Orient Express, ferried in from Calais and Points East.
Palomides appears. Smelling of patchouli and Russian leather,
Dripping Soubranie ash on his astrakhan collar,
Worry darkening his dark face, though his damascene armor shows no tarnish,
He pushes past the press like a broad-hulled icebreaker.
Flashbulbs pop. Heads turn. There's a woman in Chanel black,
A glint of diamonds, liquid movements, liquid eyes.
The newshawks converge, but suddenly there appears
A sharp young man in a crisp blue suit
From the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits,
That elegant, comfortable, decorous, close-mouthed firm;
He's good at his job, and they get not so much as a snapshot.
Tomorrow's editions will ask who she was, and whom with...

Now here's a silver train, stainless steel, Vista-Domed,
White-lighted grails on the engine (running no extra sections)
The Logres Limited, extra fare, extra fine,
(Stops on signal at Carbonek to receive passengers only).
She glides to a Timkin-borne halt (even her grease is clean),
Galahad already on the steps, flashing that winning smile,
Breeze mussing his golden hair, but not his Armani tailoring,
Just the sort of man you'd want finding your chalice.
He signs an autograph, he strikes a pose.
Someone says, loudly, "Gal! Who serves the Grail?"
He looks--no one he knows--and there's a silence,
A space in which he shifts like sun on water;
Look quick and you may see a different knight,
A knight who knows that meanings can be lies,
That things are done not knowing why they're done,
That bearings fail, and stainless steel corrodes.
A whistle blows. Snow shifts on the glass shed roof. That knight is gone.
This one remaining tosses his briefcase to one of Kay's pages,
And, golden, silken, careless, exits left.

Behind the carsheds, on the business-car track, alongside the private varnish
Of dukes and smallholders, Persian potentates and Cathay princes
(James J. Hill is here, invited to bid on a tunnel through the Pennines),
Waits a sleek car in royal blue, ex-B&O, its trucks and fittings chromed,
A black-gloved hand gripping its silver platform rail;
Mordred and his car are both upholstered in blue velvet and black leather.
He prefers to fly, but the weather was against it.
His DC-9, with its video system and Quotron and waterbed, sits grounded at Gatwick.
The premature lines in his face are a map of a hostile country,
The redness in his eyes a reminder that hollyberries are poison.
He goes inside to put on a look acceptable for Christmas Court;
As he slams the door it rattles like strafing jets.

Outside the Station proper, in the snow,
On a through track that's used for milk and mail,
A wheezing saddle-tanker stops for breath;
A way-freight mixed, eight freight cars and caboose,
Two great ugly men on the back platform, talking with a third on the ballast.
One, the conductor, parcels out the last of the coffee;
They drink. A joke about grails. They laugh.
When it's gone, the trainman pretends to kick the big hobo off,
But the farewell hug spoils the act.
Now two men stand on the dirty snow,
The conductor waves a lantern and the train grinds on.
The ugly men start walking, the new arrival behind,
Singing "Wenceslas" off-key till the other says stop.
There are two horses waiting for them. Rather plain horses,
Considering. The men mount up.
By the roundhouse they pause,
And look at the locos, the water, the sand, and the coal,
They look for a long time at the turntable,
Until the one who is King says "It all seemed so simple, once,"
And the best knight in the world says "It is. We make it hard."
They ride on, toward Camelot by the service road.

The sun is winter-low. Kay's caravan is rolling.
He may not run a railroad, but he runs a tight ship;
By the time they unload in the Camelot courtyard,
The wassail will be hot and the goose will be crackling,
Banners snapping from their towers, fir logs on the fire, drawbridge down,
And all that sackbut and psaltery stuff.
Blanchefleur is taking the children caroling tonight,
Percivale will lose to Merlin at chess,
The young knights will dally and the damsels dally back,
The old knights will play poker at a smaller Table Round.
And at the great glass station, motion goes on,
The extras, the milk trains, the varnish, the limiteds,
The Pindar of Wakefield, the Lady of the Lake,
The Broceliande Local, the Fast Flying Briton,
The nerves of the kingdom, the lines of exchange,
Running to a schedule as the world ought,
Ticking like a hot-fired hand-stoked heart,
The metal expression of the breaking of boundaries,
The boilers that turn raw fire into power,
The driving rods that put the power to use,
The turning wheels that make all places equal,
The knowledge that the train may stop but the line goes on;
The train may stop
But the line goes on.

The Santaland Diaries

Now = 600 years ago

The local paper ran this "guest column" today, What do YOU know about the nativity? by Kent Bush. He makes possibly the most awkward pop culture reference I'll see this week:

They cast the rebellious storm trooper in “The Force Awakens” as a black man and now there is a black man in the nativity scene. Is this just more liberal political correctness run amok?

I mean, first ... "now"? "Now there is a black man in the nativity scene"?

At least he tacitly acknowledges later in the piece that "now" would be a stupid, bigoted, right-wing overreaction. Tacitly. He says

Fortunately, no one from either party will have to modify their manger scenes.

and adds

The black wise man became a part of folklore in the 1400s.

Exactly.

There have been black people around for quite a while, even if YOU haven't had to acknowledge their existence until now. But honestly - why the heck can't some people get over there being a black man in Star Wars? I mean, there's still only one.

Happy Holidays

Merry Christmas, Good Yule, Happy Solstice, Midwinter Joy, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Festivus ... however you celebrate the returning light in this midwinter season, may it fill you with joy.

A gathering of Santas

Christmas deer

Here's a gorgeous shot by Sue Vruno, in Eagan, Minnesota.

White wine in the sun

Did anybody even want to ask him?

So, Parade Magazine had one of their fluffy little pieces sparked by a new movie - in this case, a double profile on Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg because of Daddy's Home. I know it's Parade, and I don't expect hard-hitting journalism, but still. Here's a couple of paragraphs:

“Sometimes marriage can be difficult,” he admits. “We both come from homes of divorce, but we want our marriage to be successful. We work at it. We’ll go to couples counseling. We want to love and support each other, raise our kids and be there for each other in the good times and the bad. We both believe the same things, and we married for the same reasons. She was already Christian, but she converted to Catholicism so we could marry in the church. That’s where I proposed, in the church. When you take those [marriage] vows, you take them very seriously. For me, [keeping them] starts with my doing the right thing in my own home, being a good example, making sure that my kids are raised the right way and do the right thing in the community and the church.”

Catholicism plays a defining role in Wahlberg’s life, and he makes no attempt to hide it. “I feel very welcomed within my church and the parish community,” he says. “I feel comfort . . . peace . . . love.”

Let's pass by the whiff of better-than-you and just focus on that last paragraph.

Did anybody feel like asking him about the fact that he and his wife had three kids before they got married? Anybody? And if not, why not?

Happy Solstice and Good Yule!

Today is the Feast of Sol Invictus, the unconquered sun. Yes, there's plenty of winter ahead of us, cold and snow and darkness, but with every day the light is longer. Rejoice! 

Happy Winter Solstice to my Northern Hemisphere readers...

And happy Summer Solstice to my Southerners...

The Weeks in Entertainment

OMG I can't believe how long it's been. Wow.

Live: A one-man production by Mark Cabus of "A Christmas Carol", which was fine, though a bit heavy on the audience participation (which I much preferred to be warned about before I buy the tickets) and also I couldn't help notice that every single woman character, from the charwoman who tears down Scrooge's bed-curtains to Mrs Cratchitt, was played the same way, with titters and preeny poses - except Belle didn't titter, though it was a near thing.

Film: The Good Dinosaur, cute and in some places beautiful, and very good at tugging the heartstrings, though I wonder if mammalian megafauna would have evolved had dinosaurs remained.  Spotlight, an excellent, low-key but tense, movie, good acting, good story that still enrages. (Whenever anyone says anything about the current pope, I'm reminded that Cardinal Law is still living in Vatican City.) Trumbo, well worth watching, good performances. A couple of quibbles - why did they have to make Edward G. Robinson name names? He never did. And it was a little disconcerting to see Dean O'Gorman, Michael Stuhlbarg and David James Elliott (as Kirk Douglas, Robinson, and John Wayne) alongside the actual Ronald Reagan and other actors. PS: They manage to get O'Gorman to say "I am Spartacus". Dilwale, the first of SRK's movies I've actually seen on the big screen. It's a mixed bag - can't decide what exactly it wants to be - but SRK and Kajol save it. Star Wars: The Force Awakens, which I THOROUGHLY enjoyed.

TV: I'm sure I won't be able to remember everything - certainly I'm up to date on my regular shows, especially The Librarians which has had some wonderful episodes, especially the video-game one. Also the last two episodes of Doctor Who, the penultimate one of which I liked very much and the last one of which ... not so much. It annoys me that they canceled everything good and brave about Clara's end, especially just so they could pair her up with Me - which I flatly refuse to believe would happen. How can Clara forgive Me for her actions in what, to Clara, was just yesterday, especially after learning how long the Doctor was trapped and tormented???!! Bleagh.

Read: Greenstar Season 2 and Season 3. I like where they went in Season 3 especially. Good series. More Bookburners and Indexing. Voices from Chernobyl, very powerful stuff. And Walking With Zeke, by Chris Clarke, whose writing I have always loved. Been reading Michael Palin's Diaries and enjoying them very much.

'Tis the season

Somehow I've managed not to see this before: "My Christmas Story" by Mark Evanier. It begins quietly, and ends wonderfully. Go on and read it. Maybe with this playing.