On September 11th, 2012:
I HEAR America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics — each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat — the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench — the hatter singing as he stands;
The wood-cutter’s song — the ploughboy’s, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother — or of the young wife at work — or of the girl sewing or washing — Each singing what belongs to her, and to none else;
The day what belongs to the day — At night, the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.
— Leaves of Grass (1900) by Walt Whitman
At the age of 12, before I had had one full year of formal schooling, I had a conception of life that no experience would ever erase, a predilection for what was real that no argument could ever gainsay, a sense of the world that was mine and mine alone, a notion as to what life meant that no education could ever alter, a conviction that the meaning of living came only when one was struggling to wring a meaning out of meaningless suffering.
I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.
— Black Boy; American Hunger by Richard Wright, born today in 1908
A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life depend on the labors of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received and am still receiving.
— Albert Einstein
Very near my sunset, I bless you, Life […]
Because I see at the end of my rough way
that I was the architect of my own destiny
and if I extracted the sweetness or the bitterness of things
it was because I put the sweetness or the bitterness in them
when I planted rose bushes I always harvested roses […]
— from “At Peace” by Mexican ambassador & poet Amado Nervo, born today in 1870
The writer of stories or of novels settles on men and imitates them; he exhausts the possibilities of his characters. The poet is alone with infinite objects in his own obscure sphere and does not know whether he should be indifferent or hopeful. Later that single face will multiply; those gestures will become approving or disapproving opinions. This happens at the publication of the first poems. As the poet has expected, the alarms now are sounded, for — and it must be said again — the birth of a poet is always a threat to the existing cultural order, because he attempts to break through the circle of literary castes to reach the center.
— Italian poet Salvatore Quasimodo, winner of the 1959 Nobel Prize in Literature, born today in 1901
[…] I believe that we have been doing this not primarily to achieve riches or even honour, but rather because we were interested in the work, enjoyed doing it and felt very strongly that it was worthwhile.
Scientific research is one of the most exciting and rewarding of occupations. It is like a voyage of discovery into unknown lands, seeking not for new territory but for new knowledge. It should appeal to those with a good sense of adventure.
— Nobel Banquet speech, December 10, 1980, of two-time Prize-winner biochemist Frederick Sanger (born today in 1918)
[…] I’ve watched thee every hour;
I know my mighty sway:
I know my magic power
To drive thy griefs away.Few hearts to mortals given,
On earth so wildly pine;
Yet few would ask a heaven
More like this earth than thine.Then let my winds caress thee;
Thy comrade let me be:
Since nought beside can bless thee,
Return — and dwell with me.
— English writer Emily Bronte, born today in 1848
Today is a good time to learn more about The Writer’s Center in Bethesda, which nourishes writers of all ages, from youngsters who are just learning to tell their stories, to emerging writers eager to hone their skills.
No kind action ever stops with itself. One kind action leads to another. Good example is followed. A single act of kindness throws out roots in all directions, and the roots spring up and make new trees. The greatest work that kindness does to others is that it makes them kind themselves.
Please know that I am aware of the hazards. I want to do it because I want to do it. Women must try to do things as men have tried. When they fail, their failure must be a challenge to others.
— American aviator Amelia Earhart, born today in 1897
… This disease will be the end of many of us, but not nearly all and the dead will be commemorated and will struggle on with the living, and we are not going away. We won’t die secret deaths anymore. The world only spins forward. We will be citizens. The time has come.
Bye now.
You are fabulous creatures, each and every one.
And I bless you: More life.
The Great Work Begin.
Angels in America: Perestroika by American playwright Tony Kushner,
born today in 1956