#selected essays

[sjnjournal]

— Virginia Woolf, from Selected Essays; “Jane Austen”

[soracities]

The human imagination, however, has great difficulty in living strictly within the confines of a materialist practice or philosophy. It dreams, like a dog in its basket, of hares in the open.

John Berger, from “The Soul and the Operator”, Selected Essays

[iwswitoy]

In the old days dogs in our town roamed freely. But the old ways changed. One morning a puppy arrived in our yard with a length of rope hanging from his collar. He played with our dogs; eventually he vanished. But the next morning he showed up again, with a different rope attached, he was playful and friendly, and always accompanied by a chewed-through rope. Just at that time we were moving to another house, which we finished doing all in one evening. A day or so later, on a hunch, I drove back to the old house and found him lying in the grass by our door. I put him in the car and showed him where our new house was. “Do your best,” I said. He stayed around for a while, then was gone. But there he was the next morning at the new house. Rope dangling. Later that day his owner appeared--with his papers from Bideawee home, and a leash. “His name is Sammy,” she said. “And he’s yours.” As Sammy grew older he began to roam around the town and, as a result, began to be caught by the officer. Eventually, of course, we were summoned to court, which we learned quickly, was not a place in which to argue. We were told to build a fence. Which we did. But it turned out that Sammy could not only chew through ropes, he could also climb fences. So his roaming continued. But except for the dog officer, Sammy never go into trouble; he made friends. He wouldn't fight with other dogs, he just seemed to stay awhile in somone’s yard and, if possible, to say hello to the owners. People began to call us to come and get him before the dog officer saw him. Some took him into their houses to hide him from the law. Once a woman on the other end of town called; when I got there she said, “Can you wait just a few minutes? I’m making him some scrambled eggs.” I could tell many more stories about Sammy--they’re endless. But I’ll tell you the unexpected, joyful conclusion. The dog officer resigned! And the next officer was a different sort; he too remembered and missed the old days. So when he found Sammy he would simply call him into his truck and drive him home. In this way he lived a long and happy life, with many friends. This is Sammy’s story. But I also think there are one or two poems in it somewhere. Maybe it’s what life was like in this dear town years ago, and how a lot of us miss it. Or maybe it’s about the wonderful things that may happen if you break the ropes that are holding you.

Mary Oliver // Upstream

[wuuthering]

The first subject matter for painting was animal. Probably the first paint was animal blood. Prior to that, it is not unreasonable to suppose that the first metaphor was animal. Rousseau, in his Essay on the Origins of Languages, maintained that language itself began with metaphor: 'As emotions were the first motives which induced man to speak, his first utterances were tropes (metaphors). Figurative language was the first to be born, proper meanings were the last to be found.' if the first metaphor was animal, it was because the essential relation between man and animal was metaphoric. Within that relation what the two terms -- man and animal -- shared in common revealed what differentiated them. And vice versa.

John Berger, “Why Look at Animals?”, Selected Essays

[calyptapis]

How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?

Virginia Woolf, Selected Essays

[godzilla-reads]

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” —Mary Oliver

[skybluesol]

hehehehe hènd.

Cover for Virginia Woolf’s Selected Essay, made for my Literature class. Used a more impressionistic style just because I wanted to try it out, ngl. 

[nondualreality]

How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?

Virginia Woolf, Selected Essays