bluuebunny/crossref_metadata_2025 huggingface dataset:
Essentials on Observing and Violating the Fundamentals of Bodhisattva Precepts Wnhyo’s Nonsubstantial Mahāyāna Ethics
Authors: Park Jin Y
Published: November 2023

Making distinctions to create ethical categories and judging human actions based on these categories are generally thought to be major functions of ethics. Understood in this manner, ethics could be at odds with the commitment of Mahāyāna Buddhist traditions to the nonsubstantial nature of entities. To create precepts means to generate ethical categories. However, if entities are empty, precepts as well as the idea of observing precepts can contradict the basic position of Mahāyāna Buddhism.
Oboe
Authors: Ely Mark C , Van Deuren Amy E
Published: November 2023

Acoustical Properties: The acoustical and physical tonal characteristics of an instrument that affect its sound quality. The oboe is one of the oldest woodwind instruments. Traditionally made of wood, the oboe is a conical tube closed at one end (i.e., the double reed end) and open at the other (i.e., the bell end). The vibration of a double reed produces its characteristic timbre, and the key design is similar to other woodwind instruments. These design characteristics result in a tone that produces a full complement of partials. The oboe overblows the octave. 9at is, most of the Fingerings used in the lower octave will produce a note one octave higher when one of its two (or three) octave keys is depressed. Only the First (fundamental) and second partials are used for the majority of the normal playing range. See also Acoustical Basics, page 3; Construction and Design, page 479;
Bassoon
Authors: Ely Mark C , Van Deuren Amy E
Published: November 2023

Acoustical Properties: The acoustical and physical tonal characteristics of an instrument that affect its sound quality. Traditionally made of wood, the bassoon is a conically shaped tube closed at one end (the double reed end) and open at the other (the bell end). 9is construction, along with the vibration of a double reed, produces its characteristic timbre. These design characteristics result in a tone that produces a full complement of partials. The bassoon overblows the octave. 9at is, some of the Fingerings used in the lower octave (e.g., A-natural through D-natural) will produce a note one octave higher when the instrument is overblown or when the whisper key is opened. Only the First (fundamental) and second partials are used for the majority of the normal playing range. See also Acoustical Basics, page 3; Construction and Design, page 618; Harmonics, page 32 Action: See Action, page 3 Adjusting Pitch: The process of raising or lowering the pitch of notes. A general discussion of adjusting pitch is under Intonation in chapter 1. Specific suggestions for adjusting pitch on bassoon are under Intonation in this chapter.
The Baby Professor
Authors: Bliss Michael
Published: November 2023

‘Silence, Gentlemen.’

This was the routine command to a room full of McGill medical students, taking a break from a long day of classes, to stop their singing, yelling, jostling, and settle in for another dreary hour of recitation from a gruff bewhiskered professor.

Their teacher of ‘institutes,’ Dr Osler, barely mustachioed, instead chose to stand and wait until the noise subsided of its own accord. He probably had no alternative at first. At twenty-five he was younger than some of the students. They called him ‘the Baby Professor.’ He was not a natural teacher. He had no flair for public speaking and little experience in it – some of it disastrous. He tended to talk quietly and was very nervous. Cousin Jennette proofread his lectures to improve their style. Cousin Marian helped him practice speaking out. ‘My first appearance before the class filled me with a tremulous uneasiness and an overwhelming sense of embarrassment,’ he recalled.
The Woman Who Decided To Die
Authors: Munson Ronald
Published: November 2023

Advances in medical technology force us to struggle with new and often gut-wrenching decisions. How do we know when someone is dead and not just in a coma? Should a convicted felon qualify for a new heart? In The Woman Who Decided to Die, novelist and medical ethicist Ronald Munson takes readers to the very edges of medicine, where treatments fail and where people must cope with helplessness, mortality, and doubt. Using personal narratives that place us right next to doctors, patients, and care givers as they make decisions, Munson explores ten riveting case-based stories, told with a writer’s eye for illuminating detail. These include a young woman with terminal leukemia more worried about her family than herself, a stepfather asked to donate a liver segment to his stepson, a student who believes she is being controlled by invisible Agents, and a psychiatrist-patient who prizes his autonomy until the end. Raising fundamental questions about human relationships, this is an essential book about the very nature of life and death.
Like Leaving a Note
Authors: Munson Ronald
Published: November 2023

Here’s the beginning of the story as I later heard it: Susan Winters, at twilight on an overcast November day, was crossing Midway Boulevard, walking home from the branch library where she worked. Either she didn’t see the black van speeding toward her or she believed it would stop for the red light.

Whatever the reason, she was caught directly in its path.

The front edge of the bumper struck her at hip level, tossing her into the air like a coppy doll. When she fell, the back of her head struck the concrete curb of the center divider. She lay sprawled on the street, unconscious and bleeding from her injuries. A cashier in a sandwich shop who had seen the accident called 911, and within twelve minutes an ambulance arrived.

The paramedics made sure that Susan’s airway was clear and gave her nasal oxygen. They checked her blood pressure, injected a drug to boost it, then started a saline IV. They put a cervical collar around her neck to protect the upper part of her spine, then slid her onto a backboard. With their siren bleating, they rushed her to the ER at Midwestern Hospital.
The Agents
Authors: Munson Ronald
Published: November 2023

Nancy Trail woke up feeling terrible.

The muscles in her neck and back were stiff, and her stomach felt bloated and unsettled. She had slept badly and had a dull, low-grade headache. Her body felt so heavy that getting out of bed and putting on her clothes involved a series of small struggles. Each task took all the will she could muster, and she constantly felt on the edge of failing.

She zipped up her jeans, then searched the closet for her long-sleeved white shirt with the button-down collar. She put on the shirt, then pulled on a thick blue sweater. She wore the shirt on bad days, because it seemed to help. Maybe because white was for purity and the collar buttons kept things in order.

She felt especially bad this morning, but she knew what was wrong. The Agents had injected her with gold while she slept. They had been doing it for days, maybe weeks. She had lost track of the last time she felt really well. Maybe as long ago as a month. She’d been all right at the beginning of the semester, but then the Agents had started working on her. Now her body felt heavy and clumsy because it was filled with gold.
Peaceable Kingdom
Authors: Kenny Kevin
Published: November 2023

William Penn established Pennsylvania in 1682 as a “holy experiment” in which Europeans and Indians could live together in harmony. In this book, historian Kevin Kenny explains how this Peaceable Kingdom--benevolent, Quaker, pacifist--gradually disintegrated in the eighteenth century, with disastrous consequences for Native Americans. Kenny recounts how rapacious frontier settlers, most of them of Ulster extraction, began to encroach on Indian land as squatters, while William Penn’s sons cast off their father’s Quaker heritage and turned instead to fraud, intimidation, and eventually violence during the French and Indian War. In 1763, a group of frontier settlers known as the Paxton Boys exterminated the last twenty Conestogas, descendants of Indians who had lived peacefully since the 1690s on land donated by William Penn near Lancaster. Invoking the principle of “right of conquest,” the Paxton Boys claimed after the massacres that the Conestogas’ land was rightfully theirs. They set out for Philadelphia, threatening to sack the city unless their grievances were met. A delegation led by Benjamin Franklin met them and what followed was a war of words, with Quakers doing battle against Anglican and Presbyterian champions of the Paxton Boys. The killers were never prosecuted and the Pennsylvania frontier descended into anarchy in the late 1760s, with Indians the principal victims. The new order heralded by the Conestoga massacres was consummated during the American Revolution with the destruction of the Iroquois confederacy. At the end of the Revolutionary War, the United States confiscated the lands of Britain’s Indian allies, basing its claim on the principle of “right of conquest.” Based on extensive research in eighteenth-century primary sources, this engaging history offers an eye-opening look at how colonists--at first, the backwoods Paxton Boys but later the U.S. government--expropriated Native American lands, ending forever the dream of colonists and Indians living together in peace.
A Hunger for Land
Authors: Kenny Kevin
Published: November 2023

Land-hungry settlers who could not establish a foothold in Lancaster County began to cross the Susquehanna River into the Cumberland Valley in the 1730s. At the conference in 1742 when Canassatego expelled Nutimus and his people, western Delaware and Shawnee Indians complained that “they were greatly disturbed and injured by the Peoples settling” on their side of the Kittatinny Mountains. In October Lieutenant Governor George Thomas issued a proclamation prohibiting settlement west of the mountains. All settlers that “have presum’d to possess themselves of any Lands there,” he declared, “are manifest Intruders; and, as such, liable by the Laws to be removed, and, in Case of refusal, to be committed to Prison and severely Fined.” With winter approaching he gave the intruders until May 1, 1743, to vacate. The proclamation had little effect as it could not be enforced west of the river, where squatters continued to settle in increasing numbers.
Panic in Philadelphia
Authors: Kenny Kevin
Published: November 2023

When John Penn and his Council met on January 2, 1764, they had urgent business to consider. Edward Shippen had just forwarded an anonymous letter from Lancaster claiming that “many of the Inhabitants of the Townships of Lebanon, Paxton, and Hanover, in Lancaster County, were forming themselves into a Company of 200 Men, to March to Philadelphia, with a design to kill the Indians on the Province Island.” Many of “the Farmers near the Mountain,” Shippen’s informant reported, “had contributed largely to defray the Expences of such of them as were not able to procure Horses, and pay their charges, &ca.” Penn sent a message to the Assembly on January 3 warning that the killers of the Conestoga Indians “are making great addition to their numbers, and are actually preparing to come down in a large Body and cut off the Indians seated by the Government on the Province Island.” The only way to stop the rebels would be to meet force with force, yet no funds were available for “levying men to strengthen the hands of Government, and protect the Indians.” Penn therefore requested a bill furnishing him “with full powers to repel those bold Invaders of Law & Justice, & support the Honour & Dignity of the Government.” With the existing provincial forces “engaged in the defence of our long extended Frontier,” the Assembly agreed in principle to fund additional men for the defense of Philadelphia out of temporary funds, “till such a Bill as your Honour recommends, can be prepared and considered.” These last words were ominous, given the long history of contention between the legislature and executive over supply bills.1
American Modernism and depression Documentary
Authors: Allred Jeff
Published: November 2023

American Modernism and Depression Documentary surveys the uneven terrain of American modernity through the lens of the documentary book. Jeff Allred argues that photo-texts of the 1930s stage a set of mediations between rural hinterlands and metropolitan areas, between elite producers of culture and the "forgotten man" of Depression-era culture, between a myth of consensual national unity and various competing ethnic and regional collectivities. In light of the complexity this entails, this study takes issue with a critical tradition that has painted the "documentary expression" of the 1930s as a simplistic and propagandistic divergence from literary modernism. Allred situates these texts, and the "documentary modernism" they represent, as a central part of American modernism and response to American modernity, as he looks at the impoverished sharecroppers depcited in the groundbreaking Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, the disenfranchised African Americans in Richard Wright's polemical 12 Million Black Voices, and the experiments in Depression-era photography found in Life magazine.
From “Culture” to “Cultural Work”: Literature and Labor between the Wars
Authors: Allred Jeff
Published: November 2023

In this great undertaking the artists, the men of imagination will open the march: they will take the Golden Age from the past and offer it as a gift to future generations; they will make society pursue passionately the rise of its well-being, and they will do this by presenting the picture of new prosperity, by making each member of society aware that everyone will soon have a share in enjoyments which up to now have been the privilege of an extremely small class; they will sing the blessings of civilization, and for the attainment of their goal they will use all the means of the arts, eloquence, poetry, painting, music; in a word, they will develop the poetic aspect of the new system. In his memoir Exile’s Return: A Narrative of Ideas (1934), Malcolm Cowley remembers eavesdropping one night on John Dos Passos, Mike Gold, and Joseph Freeman at Squarcialupe’s, a Greenwich Village restaurant frequented by literary bohemians in the mid-1920s.
Moving Violations: Stasis and Mobility in James Agee and Walker Evans’s
Authors: Allred Jeff
Published: November 2023

Nothing has spread Socialistic feeling in this country more than the use of automobiles. To the countryman they are a The world is but a perennial movement. All things in it are in constant motion—the earth, the rock of the Caucasus, the pyramids of Egypt—both with the common motion and with their own. Stability itself is nothing but a more languid motion.
Thomas Hoccleve (c. 1368–c. 1426)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

from “The Complaint of Hoccleve: Hoccleve Remembers His Madness”

Aftir that heruest inned had hise sheues, Note: “v” and “u” are used And that the broun sesoun of Mihelmesse interchangeably. Thus, Was come, and gan the trees robbe of her leues “haruest” is “harvest,” That grene had ben and in lusty freisshenesse, “sheues” is “sheves” And hem into colour of yelownesse [sheaves], and, below, Had died and doun throwen vndir foote, “vnder” is “under” That chaunge sanke into myn herte roote.
Alexander Barclay (1475–1552)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

from “The Ship of Fools—Of Glotons and Dronkardes”

Some sowe-dronke, swaloynge mete without mesure, Some mawdelayne dronke, mournynge lowdly and hye, Some beynge dronke no lenger can endure

Without they gyve them to bawdy rybawdry; Some swereth armys, nayles, herte and body,

Terynge our Lord worse than the Jowes hym arayed; Some nought can speke, but harkenyth what is sayd.

Some spende all that they have and more at wast With ‘revell and revell, dasshe fyll the cup Joohn!’ Some their thryft lesyth with dyce at one cast; Some slepe as slogardes tyll their thryft be gone,

Some shewe theyr owne counsell for kepe can they none, Some are ape dronke, full of lawghter and of toyes,

Some mery dronke, syngynge with wynches and boyes.
Edward Young (1683–1765)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

from “Night Thoughts on Life, Death, and Immortality: Night I”

Tired Nature’s sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays

Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes; Swift on his downy pinion flies from woe,

And lights on lids unsullied with a tear.

From short (as usual) and disturb’d repose

I wake: how happy they who wake no more! Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams

Tumultuous; where my wreck’d desponding thought, From wave to wave of fancied misery,

At random drove, her helm of reason lost: Though now restored, ‘tis only change of pain, (A bitter change!) severer for severe.

The Day too short for my distress; and Night, E’en in the zenith of her dark domain,

Is sunshine to the colour of my fate.

Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth

Her leaden sceptre o’er a slumbering world. Silence, how dead! and darkness, how profound! Nor eye, nor listening ear, an object finds; Creation sleeps. ‘Tis as the general pulse

Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause; An awful pause! prophetic of her end.

And let her prophecy be soon fulfill’d: Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more.
Thomas Mozeen (published 1768)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

The Bedlamite

‘Tis not on the face displayed, What I suffer, cruel maid!

A burning poison lurks unseen:

O ease me; ease my sad chagrin!

See through yon fiery lake, yon flaming flood, Fierce dragons come to drink my blood.

Why, Jove, dost thou thus set them on?

O what have I done,

My dear, dear, dazzling sun, That no wind from the sea Blows tidings to me,

Whilst the tyrant frowns on my throne?

Shall we to the meadows go, Where the butter-flowers blow,

And the dainty daisies grow?

I say No, no, no, no, no, no.

For lend me a while your ear; How can I be merry, Whilst you guzzle sherry,

And I must sip small beer?——

Give me the reward, Give me the reward;

And fill the goblet high:

I now the traitor spy;—— Tread soft and fair, All light as air,

‘Tis my belief, Yon plantain leaf

Conceals him from your eye.
Thomas Chatterton (1752–1770)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

Sunday, A Fragment

Hervenis, harping on the hackneyed text, By disquisitions is so sore perplexed,

He stammers,—instantaneously is drawn A bordered piece of inspiration-lawn, Which being thrice unto his nose applied, Into his pineal gland the vapours glide; And now again we hear the doctor roar On subjects he dissected thrice before.

I own at church I very seldom pray, For vicars, strangers to devotion, bray.

Sermons, though flowing from the sacred lawn, Are flimsy wires from reason’s ingot drawn; And, to confess the truth, another cause

My every prayer and adoration draws: In all the glaring tinctures of the bow, The ladies front me in celestial row.

(Though, when black melancholy damps my joys, I call them nature’s trifles, airy toys;

Yet when the goddess Reason guides the strain, I think them, what they are, a heavenly train.) The amorous rolling, the black sparkling eye, The gentle hazel, and the optic sly;

The easy shape, the panting semi-globes,

The frankness which each latent charm disrobes; The melting passions, and the sweet severe,

The easy amble, the majestic air;

The tapering waist, the silver-mantled arms, All is one vast variety of charms.

Say, who but sages stretched beyond their span, Italian singers, or an unmanned man,

Can see Elysium spread upon their brow, And to a drowsy curate’s sermon bow?
John Keats (1795–1821)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

Ode on Melancholy

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist

Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be

Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;

For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies;

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips; Ay, in the very temple of delight

Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
Thomas Haynes Bayly (1797–1839)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

“I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!”

I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

I’ve bent beneath sorrow’s cold pressure too long. I’ve suffered in silence; how vainly I sought

For words to unburthen the anguish of thought; Despair haunts the silent endurance of wrong

I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

I welcome thee back as the Dove to the Ark: The world was a desert, the future all dark;

But I know that the worst of the storm must be past, Thou art come with the green leaf of comfort at last. Around me thy radiant imagining throng,

I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

I feared thee, sweet Spirit! I thought thou would’st come With memory’s records of boyhood and home;

The home where I laughed away youth, and was told It would still be my dwelling place when I grew old; But visions of hope to thy coming belong,

I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

Thou wilt not, sweet Spirit! thou wilt not, I know, Mislead to the fruitless indulgence of woe,

That shrinks from the smile that would offer relief, And seems to be proud of pre-eminent grief— Thou’lt soothe the depression already too strong: I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!

There’s a chord that I never must venture to wake, The sorrow a loved one hath borne for my sake;

But her love, which no change in my fortunes could chill, Her smile of affection that follows me still,
Matthew Arnold (1822–1888)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

from “Empedocles on Etna”

Callicles:

But oh! Pausanias, he is changed of late; There is a settled trouble in his air Admits no momentary brightening now,

And when he comes among his friends at feasts, ‘Tis as an orphan among prosperous boys.

Thou know’st of old he loved this harp of mine, When first he sojourned with Peisianax;

He is now always moody, and I fear him;

But I would serve him, soothe him, if I could, Dared one but try.

Empedocles: And lie thou there, My laurel bough!

Scornful Apollo’s ensign, lie thou there!

Though thou hast been my shade in the world’s heat, Though I have loved thee, lived in honoring thee,

Yet lie thou there, My laurel bough!

I am weary of thee.

I am weary of the solitude

Where he who bears thee must abide,— Of the rocks of Parnassus,

Of the gorge of Delphi,

Of the moonlit peaks, and the caves. Thou guardest them, Apollo!

Over the grave of the slain Pytho, Though young, intolerably severe! Thou keepest aloof the profane,
Sydney Dobell (1824–1874)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

from “Balder. Part The First,” Scenes XIII & XIV

Happier to drive

The patient ass along the beaten way, Laden with humble fruits to the set mart Of fixed reward, and back to certain rest,

And sweet assured possession, than like me Bound helpless on the fury of the winds,

To scour the plains I seek not, scale the height Where my brain swims, and leap, as in a dream, Down into the unfathomable void,

While from the fall—like my back-streaming hair— Fear-blown in all my veins the blood streams back, And faints with horror.

I that am called proud, Lying most humbly weary and abject

On the immoveable earth that doth so please This mortal frame, and seeing my dull race Doing their easy pleasures to and fro,

Self-ordinate, could sometimes sell my birth-right For any pottage that would feed the flesh

Of other men upon me.

Death, Death, Death!

I have seen every face but thine to-day!

And to behold thee, from sunrise till now, How have I strained these eyeballs

The fourth time the strong silence in the cell Was as the straining silence of the rack,

When the still-tightening torture wrenches him Who will not speak. The great veins in my brow
Thomas Hardy (1840–1928)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

Just the Same

I sat. It all was past;

Hope never would hail again; Fair days had ceased at a blast, The world was a darkened den.

The beauty and dream were gone, And the halo in which I had hied So gaily gallantly on

Had suffered blot and died!

I went forth, heedless whither, In a cloud too black for name:

—People frisked hither and thither; The world was just the same.

The Wound

I climbed to the crest, And, fog-festooned,

The sun lay west

Like a crimson wound:

Like that wound of mine Of which none knew,

For I’d given no sign

That it pierced me through.
Wilfred Owen (1893–1918)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

Mental Cases

Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight? Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows, Drooping tongues from jays that slob their relish, Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ teeth wicked?

Stroke on stroke of pain,—but what slow panic, Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets? Ever from their hair and through their hands’ palms Misery swelters. Surely we have perished

Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?

—These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished. Memory fingers in their hair of murders, Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.

Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander, Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter. Always they must see these things and hear them, Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles, Carnage incomparable, and human squander Rucked too thick for these men’s extrication.

Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented Back into their brains, because on their sense

Sunlight seems a blood-smear; night comes blood-black; Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh.

—Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous, Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.

—Thus their hands are plucking at each other; Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging; Snatching after us who smote them, brother, Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.
John Berryman (1914–1972)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

Dreamsongs 172

Your face broods from my table, Suicide.

Your force came on like a torrent toward the end of agony and wrath.

You were christened in the beginning Sylvia Plath and changed that name for Mrs Hughes and bred and went on round the bend

till the oven seemed the proper place for you. I brood upon your face, the geography of grief, hooded, till I allow

again your resignation from us now

though the screams of orphaned children fix me anew. Your torment here was brief,

long falls your exit all repeatingly,

a poor exemplum, one more suicide, to stack upon the others

till stricken Henry with his sisters & brothers suddenly gone pauses to wonder why he alone breasts the wronging tide.
Weldon Kees (1914–1955)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

from “The Fall of the Magicians”

No sound except the beating of a drum Is heard along this walled-in corridor.

“Time will go by,” we heard; “no messages will come.”

The guests seem sad without their opium. They stare at me and talk about the war.

There is not sound except the beating of a drum.

They want a different noise; like me, they thumb Through heavy books we keep behind the door. “Time will go by,” we heard; “no messages will come.”

Noise with complexity, however glum,

Might give some clue to what there is in store,

But there’s no sound except the beating of a drum.

A few wear beards, or sleep all day, while some

Have grown quite philosophical. Some pace the floor. “Time will go by,” we heard; “no messages will come.”

I think it is our hearts. Each paralyzed and numb With waiting. Yet what is it we are waiting for?

No sound except the beating of a drum?

“Time will go by,” we heard. “No messages will come.”
Robert Lowell (1917–1977)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

Visitors

To no good

they enter at angles and on the run— two black verticals are suddenly four ambulance drivers in blue serge,

or the police doing double-duty.

They comb our intimate, messy bedroom, scrutinize worksheets

illegible with second-thoughts, then shed them in their stride,

as if they owned the room. They do. They crowd me and scatter—inspecting my cast-off clothes for clues?

They are fat beyond the call of duty— with jocose civility,

they laugh at everything I say: “Yesterday I was thirty-two, a threat

to the establishment because I was young.”

The bored woman sergeant

is amused by the tiger-toothed samurai grinning on a Japanese hanging—

“What would it cost? Where could I buy one?”

I can see through the moonlit dark; on the grassy London square, black cows ruminate in uniform, lowing routinely like a chainsaw.

My visitors are good beef, they too make one falsely feel the earth is solid,

as they hurry to secretly telephone

from their ambulance. Click, click, click, goes the red, blue, and white light burning with aristocratic negligence— so much busywork.
Hayden Carruth (1921– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

from “The Asylum”

1

I came to this place one November day. Mauve walls rose up then tranquilly, and still Must rise to wind-burned eyes that way— Old brickwork on a hill,

Surfaces of impunity beneath a gray And listed sky. Yet I could read dismay There rightward in a twisted beech

Whose nineteen leaves were glittering, each A tear in a rigid eye caught in the pale

Deep-pouring wind. Now these walls Are thin against the dense insistent gale,

No good when the wind talks in our halls, Useless at night when these high window bars

Catch every whisper of wind that comes and falls, Speaking, across my catacomb of stars.

4

I hurt. Hungrier flowers try my rank ground. Indelible, one drifts across Japan,

Rooted as if its stem were wound Into the heart of a man.

A crumpling sky, a blurted dawn—the sound Of history burst the years and history drowned. We lived. An aftersilence fell

Like a wave flooding the plains of hell,

For what word matters? Pity? Shame? The roots Try my breast-cage, my bone

Gleams in the rot. I hear you, sir, cahoots Calling from many a dolmen stone, Murther, murther! Come on then, jacket me,
Stuart Z. Perkoff (1930–1974)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

from “The Venice Poems, I”

4.

spring & summer months of magic

from venice to new york a letter:

dear david/

monday, july 9, 1956

suzan desperate after

weeks of struggle with

what was a terrifying combination of

numinous paranoid insightful

pressures

& pressures

entered,with a glad relief &,

(on my part also

prayer

the general hospital psychiatric unit

where she is now

where i go to see her again today

where all my hope & agony are now entombed
Sylvia Plath (1932–1963)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

Elm

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear.

I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions?

Or he voice of nothing, that was your madness?

Love is a shadow.

How you lie and cry after it

Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,

Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons? This is rain now, this big hush.

And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets. Scorched to the root

My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs. A wind of such violence

Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren.

Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
From The Journal Of Saint Dympna (Earl “Pete” Nurmi, Editor) (Published 1979)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

I took a white cogentin

And a yellow thorazine

I took a demi-dixie-cup

Of water in between.

I took a white cogentin

And a yellow thorazine,

I think they tried to help us keep

From the things we’d seen.

Medication, medication, medication’

It is so good for you,

It is so good for the nation.

No more sadness

And no more elation!

Medication, medication, medication

I took a white cogentin

And a yellow thorazine,

I took a demi-dixie-cup

Of water in between,

I knew Napoleon of France

I knew sweet Joan of Arc,

I knew a man who walked his dog,

But it would not bark.

Medication, medication, medication’

So good for you,

So good for the nation.
Jim Harrison (1937– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

Noon

Spring: despondency, fall: despair,

onset of winter

a light rain in the heart

the pony tethered to the telephone pole day after day until he’s eaten the circle, moved to another pole, another circle: winter never deepens but falls dead upon the ground, body of the sky whirled

in gray gusts:

from Manitoba stretched brains of north; heat for heart, head, in smallest things—dry socks,

strange breasts, an ounce of sun glittering above the blue shadows of the barn.

Sequence I

The mad have black roots in their brains around which vessels clot and embrace each other as mating snakes.

The roots feed on the brain until the brain is all root—now the brain is gray

and suffocates in its own folds.
Les Murray (1938– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

from Fredy Neptune, Book I

Now Turkey was in, and Russia’s last trade lifeline blocked

so she would rot. It was all we’d come to do, I worked out later. We idled and dressed ship round the City and Black Sea playing skat, eating goulash.

When Gallipoli came, I thought: I will desert if I have to fight Australians. But instead

my mates and I, on shore leave up by Trabzon

at last saw women with their faces unwrapped in the open.

They were huddling, terrified, crying.

crossing themselves, in the middle of men all yelling.

Their big loose dresses were sopping. Kerosene, you could smell it. The men were prancing, feeling them, poking at them to dance— then pouf! they were alight, the women, dark wicks to great

orange flames,

whopping and shrieking. If we’d had rifles there

we’d have massacred those bastards. We had only fists and boots. One woman did cuddle a man: he went up screaming too.

The first time I slipped up badly was on that voyage.

We had a deck galley. The cook, a different cook, he was a drunk and the fire had been doused, in dirty weather. The boy was

relighting it

with kerosene, and it blew out and caught his clothes.

He was screaming blind when I reached him, half the galley alight too

and when I got him put out I didn’t notice

I had caught, here, all up my calf, you can see it.

They took the boy out, and there I’m tidying up, still burning.
Aimee Grunberger m(1951–1995)
Authors: Bauer Mark S
Published: November 2023

The Administration of Veterans

I just saw him, had to slow way down to be sure. Whatever the opposite of remission is, this was it. He stood there, an urban Robinson Crusoe,

sunburnt, barefoot, shirt in tatters, hair and beard electrified, drinking the dregs of coffee cups at a sidewalk café.

Jabbing a finger in the air, giving the finger to City Hall to the bank that calls itself Citizens’

to the boarded-up Union Station, stranded on a trackless railbed. He was keening in almost-Gaelic.

It might have been the wake of Parnell.

I remember how he once inspired the other vets. So clean and sober in a borrowed jacket and tie, prim as a bondbroker and full of jittery pride.

As long as Haldol kept the neural juices from scorching his brain like lye,

he remained my prize patient. My success story.

Before he took off, signed himself out as the shifts were changing,

he slipped this message under my office door:

Dogs no longer bark at me. In my handbook, this state is referred to as bliss.

But my time here is short.

I’m aging faster now, burning up along the primitive circuitry.

Already older than

my mother and father put together, and with so much

work left for me to do.
The Human Use of Animals
Authors: Beauchamp Tom L , Orlans F Barbara , Dresser Rebecca , Morton David B , Gluck John P
Published: November 2023

The Human Use of Animals presents case studies that look at the practical and ethical issues arising from the human use of animals. The case studies report the facts about some of the most compelling and difficult issues that confront society today in the human use of animals. Each case study combines the facts of the case with analysis of ethical issues.
David Brown
Authors: Scanlon Jennifer
Published: November 2023

Through her late twenties and early thirties, and assisted by her single and married friends, Helen Gurley dated widely, keeping a sharp eye on the pool of eligible bachelors in Los Angeles. By thirty-five, she determined she was ready not just for another affair but, she hoped, for a long-term commitment. But while age may have compromised her embrace of single life, by no means had it compromised her desire or determination to marry someone of substance. She considered only men of means, successful men, and stayed clear of “ordinary men [she] might have to help support” along with her family. One morning, as she walked for exercise with her friend Ruth Shandorf, Gurley listened intently as her companion described David Brown, a film studio executive and former New Yorker. Shandorf explained that Brown’s second marriage had recently ended and that he was “on the market,” and Gurley felt an immediate compatibility, not simply for an affair but for marriage: “It wasn’t love at first sight for me. It was love before first sight. I had fallen in love with his credentials.
Sex and the Single Girl
Authors: Scanlon Jennifer
Published: November 2023

At the 2001 opening of the Prada flagship store in Manhattan, Candace Bushnell announced to the press,”If you want to know the truth about it, I’m hoping to get laid tonight.” She made visible, in what seemed her singularly radical and direct manner, the enormous sexual agency single women of her generation exercised in New York City. A newspaper columnist, Bushnell had published a collection of her popular columns as Sex and the City, and HBO purchased and then masterfully transformed the book into what became an overnight sensation. The series ran from 1998 to 2004 and echoed the aspirations and frustrations of millions of single women intent on experiencing sexuality on their own terms. After six seasons, viewers blogged and wept their way through the final episodes, intent on continuing to exercise the permission the series gave them to stay single in style.
Normal Like Me: The Single Girl on Television
Authors: Scanlon Jennifer
Published: November 2023

In 1970 CBS introduced The Mary Tyler Moore Show and with it, television’s first independent career woman. “The world is awfully big,” Sonny Curtis sang as the show opened, “and girl, this time you’re all alone.” By the time The Mary Tyler Moore Show had entered its second season, the opening lyrics had been changed from the tentative, “You might just make it after all,” to the confident, “You’re gonna make it after all.” This not so subtle shift reflected the producers’ confidence that their character, Mary Richards, the first independent single female lead of a situation comedy, would actually make it on her own in urban Minneapolis. The more assertive lyrics also reflected a shift in the American viewing public, which, long resistant to televisual images of female independence, had truly embraced rather than simply tolerated this representation of womanhood.
Sexual Liberation On Whose Terms?: Defining The Second Wave
Authors: Scanlon Jennifer
Published: November 2023

When most other feminists considered Helen Gurley Brown at all, they found her brand of liberation vexing. For one thing, she was an enormous proponent of the free market. Implicit in much feminist ideology and prominent within most women’s liberation groups was a critique of the ways in which capitalism bolstered male supremacy. Employers offered women fewer opportunities than it offered men and paid women less than men because they continued to define women as domestic beings tied to the private rather than the public world. And women’s continued dependency was more or less guaranteed in a world in which the wheels of industry depended on complementary unpaid labor, virtually all of that female, in the home. Confronting these realities, many feminists perceived capitalism as an impediment rather than an ally in their quest for equality. A lifelong proponent of the free market, however, Helen Gurley Brown would prove loath to attack with too much venom the very system that had ensured not simply her visibility but her very viability as a single woman in pre- and postwar America.
An Editor Steps Down, Reluctantly
Authors: Scanlon Jennifer
Published: November 2023

During the 1980s a few things happened that made Helen Gurley Brown’s departure from Cosmopolitan seem increasingly imminent.
Introduction to Southern Road (1932)
Authors: Johnson James Weldon
Published: November 2023

In any inquiry regarding the important developments that have taken place in American Negro life within the past decade, I should at once cite the degree of ascendancy reached by the Negro artist, especially the Negro writer, as one of the most significant and vital. The record of the Negro’s efforts in literature goes back a long way, cover- ing a period of more than a century and a half, but it is only within the past ten years that America as a whole has been made consciously aware of the Negro as a literary artist. It is only within that brief time that Negro writers have ceased to be regarded as isolated cases of exceptional, perhaps accidental ability, and have gained group recognition. It is only within these few years that the arbiters of American letters have begun to assay the work of these writers by the general literary standards and accord it such appraisal as it might merit.
The Call of the Wood as a Prelude to Treaty
Authors: Velde Lea Vander
Published: November 2023

In the 1830s, great primal forests of tall white pine timber situated along Lake Superior’s southern coast in Wisconsin territory were an even more significant natural resource to the nation than lead or furs. These white pine forests no longer exist, but in the 1830s the fate of national expansion depended on them and their fate was to be decided by a treaty at St. Peter’s.
A New Baby in a New Land
Authors: Velde Lea Vander
Published: November 2023

The significant personal change for Harriet and Dred was that now they held a new baby in their arms. They had a new mistress, a new bride who surely gazed up at the impressive stone fort, as all newcomers did, a fort that would be her new home for the next two years. The freedman Jim Thompson met the steamboat at the dock, sent by Agent Taliaferro with a message for the Methodist missionary. The freedman had worked at the agency during the Reverend Brunson’s absence. Jim Thompson may have been baby Eliza’s first visitor. Who could fail to be charmed by a tiny baby and her proud parents? Jim’s Dakota wife had also recently had another baby. Blessed by the dockside visit of the lucky freed man, the new parents carried baby Eliza onto snow-blanketed, solid ground to her new home in free territory.
The Doctor Returns
Authors: Velde Lea Vander
Published: November 2023

In florida, the war against the Seminoles was going well. News reached St. Louis that Col. William S. Harney, one of the city’s own officers, had captured 40 Indian “savages” and hanged 10 of them on the spot. The newspaper applauded the swift executions as more effective than the government policy, which, they said, coddled the Indians and their runaway slave allies. Although in war Col. Harney’s brutality made him a hero, he was already infamous among the black population of St. Louis for having beaten a slave woman to death on the street for disobedience.
1843 Interlude: Jefferson Barracks between Wars of National Expansion
Authors: Velde Lea Vander
Published: November 2023

That spring, a third Sanford sister, Mary, and her officer husband, Capt. Bainbridge, arrived in St. Louis from Florida under circumstances much more favorable than the doctor’s. The Bainbridges had introduced Dr. Emerson to his wife, when Irene visited them in Louisiana in search of a husband. Since then Capt. Bainbridge had enjoyed a plum assignment recruiting in New York but he had reached Florida just in time to see some action and the end of the war. Soon after he rejoined his unit, the third infantry, it was feted in Tallahassee as the war’s heroes. What fortunate timing! Now Capt. Bainbridge’s unit returned from the war in high spirits, and it was assigned to Jefferson Barracks, south of St. Louis— exactly where Dr. Emerson had long desired to be.
Before the High Court
Authors: Velde Lea Vander
Published: November 2023

After hugh garland’s death, a much more prominent St. Louis lawyer, Henry S. Geyer, took over representing Sanford in the appeal. (His services too were probably arranged by Benami Garland.) Sanford himself was planning another trip to Europe at the time. Geyer appears to have been more of an ideological choice than Garland’s cousin, Hugh. Henry Geyer had represented the state in defending mandatory licensing of free blacks challenged by Charles Lyons by arguing that Lyons had no privileges and immunities that were impinged by the law because he was not a citizen of Kentucky where he was born free. Geyer would similarly claim in the high court that the Scotts were not citizens. Geyer had recently defeated Missouri senator Thomas Hart Benton for his Senate seat in the 1850 election. He agreed to argue the case without compensation, an incongruous gesture since his client was one of New York’s richest men. Former attorney general Reverdy Johnson was enlisted for Sanford as oral advocate before the nation’s high court. Reverdy Johnson had not only been U.S. attorney general in Taylor’s cabinet, but he had also represented the Chouteau family previously in land claims before the Supreme Court.
The Young Musician’s Survival Guide
Authors: Nathan Amy
Published: November 2023

Learning to play an instrument can be fund and, at times, frustrating. This lively, accessible book helps young people cope with the difficulties involved in learning a new instrument and remaining dedicated to playing and practicing. Teens from renowned music programs - including the Juilliard School's Pre-College Program and Boston University's Tanglewood Institute - join pro musicians such as Wynton Marsalis, Paula Robison, and James Galway in offering practical answers to questions from what instrument to play to where the musical road may lead. In this revised and expanded edition, Amy Nathan has updated the book to address today's more technologically-minded young musician. Expanded sections cover the various ways students can use technology to assist in mastering an instrument and in making practice time more productive, from using the Internet to download pieces to be learned and playing along with downloaded tunes to practicing with computer-based practice programs, CDs, and videos/DVDs of musical performances. She also addresses concerns of young composers and conductors, two groups not mentioned in the original edition. The book's updated Resource Guide suggests where to get additional help, both online and off.