Good Reading: “Hunger” by Frank Owen (in English)

 

1

All his life Mel Curran had been hungry. He had never known the pleasure of sitting down to a good meal. Hunger is a rat that gnaws at a man's stomach as if it were an empty, untenanted house whose beams were sagging.

Mel Curran was not a credit to humanity, but then neither was humanity a credit to him. He was undersized, underfed, and his mind was not normal. He believed that the dusk-shadows of evening were haunted by all sorts of weird ghosts and wraiths. He was more credulous than a child. He believed everything he heard, everything that was told to him, no matter how fantastic or preposterous. He believed that night was filled with creeping, crawling things, that sleep was a dreadful state. Each night he fought against it. He subjected himself to physical pain to escape the horror of unconsciousness. He held the lids of his eyes open so that the black horror could not creep in. All night long he kept a candle burning beside his bed so that the whirling, plunging, closing net of darkness would not close down upon him. Sometimes he groaned and shrieked in terror, and the sounds of his anguish echoed weirdly throughout the dank, cobweb-draped cellar in which he dwelt. For hours he would fight off the plague of sleep, but eventually, inevitably, from sheer exhaustion he would succumb to it.

Another of his eccentricities was his total vagueness regarding numbers. To him "one", "six", "seven", or any other numeral was merely a word without meaning, and not infrequently his vision also became jumbled. He would see the same man two or three times at once. He never knew how many men were walking toward him. Sometimes it would be only one man and he would appear like four, or, as not infrequently happened, it would be four men and they would appear to him like one. There were times when he walked smack into a person because his distorted vision had taken the person for a group. The same phenomenon was true of buildings, of trees, of automobiles, of stairways. When he walked down a subway stairs he walked as gingerly as if he were walking on eggs, for it was as if he were trying to descend several flights of stairs at once and he was unaware which he was really treading upon.

His life was filled with horrors and tragedies, with fears and desires and dim hopes that never were realized. But greater than all his desires was the supreme wish for a good meal. He was well past sixty, and very thin, like a wisp of straw. He was very tall, and his clothes were greasy and green with age. His eyes always shone fanatically and they bore a searching, hunted, haunted look. Sometimes he would spy a filthy crust of bread by the curbstone. Immediately he would rush forward and devour it as if all the people of New York had perceived it also and were pursuing it. Not infrequently the bit of crust would seem multiplied to four or five pieces, and he would grovel and whine pitifully when he could find only one. He was a familiar sight on the waterfronts, creeping about like an ugly shadow, sinister, ominous, dangerous, as if bent on some uncanny, dreadful mission, and yet his mission was purely an endless search for food to appease the loathsome gnawing rat that was clawing at his stomach—hunger.

 

2

One night he stood before a window in a small restaurant on South Street. The window was a vault containing the most precious of all jewels—food. He licked his dry lips with his doglike tongue. In the moonlight his teeth glistened like fangs: the gums seemed drawn back from them to permit greater ease in chewing. In the window was a cold boiled ham, a huge cake, a box of strawberries and a few garnishings of vegetables. But in his vision all this was multiplied. There was enough food for an army. His mouth watered so that the froth dripped from his lips at the corners. Everything on earth was blotted out. He had found food. He gazed furtively about to see that no one was approaching. Then deliberately he climbed up the side of the door as if he had been a jungle beast. It was quite easy to climb through the huge transom above the door, which, fortunately, was wide open. The next moment he was in the restaurant and the ham had been snatched from the window. In his frenzy he crouched upon the floor chewing at it as if he were a dog. All caution had fled from him. He fairly gloated over his prize, grunting and growling with satisfaction.

The restaurant proprietor dwelt upstairs. He heard the commotion and rose stealthily from his bed. He seized a huge revolver, so large that it appeared like a cannon, and crept downstairs. Mel Curran on his knees was fawning over the ham.

For a moment the restaurant proprietor gazed on him. Every nerve in his body revolted at the sight. He could not help shuddering. Then he pulled himself together.

"Throw up your hands!" he cried angrily.

Mel Curran only whined and chewed at the ham all the more ferociously. Then the revolver went off, whether deliberately or accidentally will never be known. Mel Curran was not touched. But the crash of the shot brought back to him a bit of rationality. He realized that his precious food was about to be taken from him.

With a cry of rage, he sprang to his feet. He seized the first thing his hand fell upon. It was an enormous platter, a platter that must have weighed a dozen pounds. With all his force he brought it down upon the intruder's head. With a groan the restaurant proprietor sank to the floor.

Then Mel Curran returned to his precious food.

He crouched over the huge ham as if it were a child and he were intent on protecting it.

The next moment the doors were burst open and the street mob surged in. It was headed by two burly policemen, who dragged him away from all that was dearest to him on earth.

 

3

Two months later, for the first time in his life, Mel Curran sat down to a feast fit for the gods, a turkey dinner with all the usual Yuletide trimmings. There was cranberry sauce, plum pudding, all sorts of fruits and nuts, and an enormous mince pie. He sat and ate slowly and deliberately. For the moment his vision was normal. First he ate to appease the gnawing of the rat, then he continued eating purely for his own pleasure. At last the appetite of his life was satisfied. When the meal was finished, he drank three cups of coffee and a glass of cider. Then he smoked a huge cigar. He heaved a sigh of satisfaction. He had not lived in vain.

When his meal was finished, he was given a somber black suit. Wonderfully content, he arrayed himself in it. Everybody was trying to outdo everybody else in being nice to him. A chaplain came to see him, a man whose face was truly beautiful—beautiful with a calm and restful peace.

"Have you anything to say, my brother?" the chaplain asked in a voice that was as soft as the wind through the treetops.

"Nothing," replied Mel Curran contentedly. "That was the finest meal I ever ate. I shall never forget it."

The chaplain placed his hand on his shoulder and prayed aloud. It was all very wonderful, Mel thought. It seemed rather fine to have people taking such an interest in him.

Then the gate of his cell was thrown open and he was led to the grim, gray chamber in which stood the electric chair. He gazed upon the scene blankly. He wondered what they were going to do with so many chairs. Without a word they led him to the gruesome chair. He sat down comfortably as if it were good to rest after such an enormous meal. He gazed at the little group of spectators who sat grimly in a huddled bunch on one side of the room. Their faces were chalklike in the shadows. To him the score of people seemed a multitude. And their gaze was centered on him as if he were a personage of prominence or an actor in a splendid play.

Someone stepped forward and placed a black cap over his eyes.

That was good. Now he could sleep.

Then other hands began fastening buckles about his legs and other parts of his body. That was very foolish. He was not going away. He was going to sleep.

Then the guards stepped back. There was a moment of utter silence—a silence so intense that it was almost deafening. The next instant the prison lights flickered dim. Then bright again, then dim.

Mel Curran would never be hungry again.

Tuesday's Serial: “Lavengro” by George Borrow (in English) - XIV

 

Chapter 27

my father—premature decay—the easy-chair—a few questions—so you told me—a difficult language—they call it haik—misused opportunities—saul—want of candour—don't weep—heaven forgive me—dated from paris—i wish he were here—a father's reminiscences—vanities

 

My father, as I have already informed the reader, had been endowed by nature with great corporeal strength; indeed, I have been assured that, at the period of his prime, his figure had denoted the possession of almost Herculean powers. The strongest forms, however, do not always endure the longest, the very excess of the noble and generous juices which they contain being the cause of their premature decay. But, be that as it may, the health of my father, some few years after his retirement from the service to the quiet of domestic life, underwent a considerable change; his constitution appeared to be breaking up; and he was subject to severe attacks from various disorders, with which, till then, he had been utterly unacquainted. He was, however, wont to rally, more or less, after his illnesses, and might still occasionally be seen taking his walk, with his cane in his hand, and accompanied by his dog, who sympathised entirely with him, pining as he pined, improving as he improved, and never leaving the house save in his company; and in this manner matters went on for a considerable time, no very great apprehension with respect to my father's state being raised either in my mother's breast, or my own. But, about six months after the period at which I have arrived in my last chapter, it came to pass that my father experienced a severer attack than on any previous occasion.

He had the best medical advice; but it was easy to see, from the looks of his doctors, that they entertained but slight hopes of his recovery. His sufferings were great, yet he invariably bore them with unshaken fortitude. There was one thing remarkable connected with his illness; notwithstanding its severity, it never confined him to his bed. He was wont to sit in his little parlour, in his easy-chair, dressed in a faded regimental coat, his dog at his feet, who would occasionally lift his head from the hearth-rug on which he lay, and look his master wistfully in the face. And thus my father spent the greater part of his time, sometimes in prayer, sometimes in meditation, and sometimes in reading the Scriptures. I frequently sat with him, though, as I entertained a great awe for my father, I used to feel rather ill at ease, when, as sometimes happened, I found myself alone with him.

'I wish to ask you a few questions,' said he to me one day, after my mother had left the room.

'I will answer anything you may please to ask me, my dear father.'

'What have you been about lately?'

'I have been occupied as usual, attending at the office at the appointed hours.'

'And what do you there?'

'Whatever I am ordered.'

'And nothing else?'

'Oh yes! sometimes I read a book.'

'Connected with your profession?'

'Not always; I have been lately reading Armenian—'

'What's that?'

'The language of a people whose country is a region on the other side of Asia Minor.'

'Well!'

'A region abounding with mountains.'

'Well!'

'Amongst which is Mount Ararat.'

'Well!'

'Upon which, as the Bible informs us, the ark rested.'

'Well!'

'It is the language of the people of those regions.'

'So you told me.'

'And I have been reading the Bible in their language.'

'Well!'

'Or rather, I should say, in the ancient language of these people; from which I am told the modern Armenian differs considerably.'

'Well!'

'As much as the Italian from the Latin.'

'Well!'

'So I have been reading the Bible in ancient Armenian.'

'You told me so before.'

'I found it a highly difficult language.'

'Yes.'

'Differing widely from the languages in general with which I am acquainted.'

'Yes.'

'Exhibiting, however, some features in common with them.'

'Yes.'

'And sometimes agreeing remarkably in words with a certain strange wild speech with which I became acquainted—'

'Irish?'

'No, father, not Irish—with which I became acquainted by the greatest chance in the world.'

'Yes.'

'But of which I need say nothing farther at present, and which I should not have mentioned but for that fact.'

'Well!'

'Which I consider remarkable.'

'Yes.'

'The Armenian is copious.'

'Is it?'

'With an alphabet of thirty-nine letters, but it is harsh and guttural.'

'Yes.'

'Like the language of most mountainous people—the Armenians call it Haik.'

'Do they?'

'And themselves, Haik, also; they are a remarkable people, and, though their original habitation is the Mountain of Ararat, they are to be found, like the Jews, all over the world.'

'Well!'

'Well, father, that's all I can tell you about the Haiks, or Armenians.'

'And what does it all amount to?'

'Very little, father; indeed, there is very little known about the Armenians; their early history, in particular, is involved in considerable mystery.'

'And, if you knew all that it was possible to know about them, to what would it amount? to what earthly purpose could you turn it? have you acquired any knowledge of your profession?'

'Very little, father.'

'Very little! Have you acquired all in your power?'

'I can't say that I have, father.'

'And yet it was your duty to have done so. But I see how it is, you have shamefully misused your opportunities; you are like one, who, sent into the field to labour, passes his time in flinging stones at the birds of heaven.'

'I would scorn to fling a stone at a bird, father.'

'You know what I mean, and all too well, and this attempt to evade deserved reproof by feigned simplicity is quite in character with your general behaviour. I have ever observed about you a want of frankness, which has distressed me; you never speak of what you are about, your hopes, or your projects, but cover yourself with mystery. I never knew till the present moment that you were acquainted with Armenian.'

'Because you never asked me, father; there's nothing to conceal in the matter—I will tell you in a moment how I came to learn Armenian. A lady whom I met at one of Mrs. ——'s parties took a fancy to me, and has done me the honour to allow me to go and see her sometimes. She is the widow of a rich clergyman, and on her husband's death came to this place to live, bringing her husband's library with her: I soon found my way to it, and examined every book. Her husband must have been a learned man, for amongst much Greek and Hebrew I found several volumes in Armenian, or relating to the language.'

'And why did you not tell me of this before?'

'Because you never questioned me; but, I repeat, there is nothing to conceal in the matter. The lady took a fancy to me, and, being fond of the arts, drew my portrait; she said the expression of my countenance put her in mind of Alfieri's Saul.'

'And do you still visit her?'

'No, she soon grew tired of me, and told people that she found me very stupid; she gave me the Armenian books, however.'

'Saul,' said my father musingly, 'Saul. I am afraid she was only too right there; he disobeyed the commands of his master, and brought down on his head the vengeance of Heaven—he became a maniac, prophesied, and flung weapons about him.'

'He was, indeed, an awful character—I hope I shan't turn out like him.'

'God forbid!' said my father solemnly; 'but in many respects you are headstrong and disobedient like him. I placed you in a profession, and besought you to make yourself master of it by giving it your undivided attention. This, however, you did not do, you know nothing of it, but tell me that you are acquainted with Armenian; but what I dislike most is your want of candour—you are my son, but I know little of your real history, you may know fifty things for what I am aware: you may know how to shoe a horse for what I am aware.'

'Not only to shoe a horse, father, but to make horse-shoes.'

'Perhaps so,' said my father; 'and it only serves to prove what I was just saying, that I know little about you.'

'But you easily may, my dear father; I will tell you anything that you may wish to know—shall I inform you how I learnt to make horse-shoes?'

'No,' said my father; 'as you kept it a secret so long, it may as well continue so still. Had you been a frank, open-hearted boy, like one I could name, you would have told me all about it of your own accord. But I now wish to ask you a serious question—what do you propose to do?'

'To do, father?'

'Yes! the time for which you were articled to your profession will soon be expired, and I shall be no more.'

'Do not talk so, my dear father; I have no doubt that you will soon be better.'

'Do not flatter yourself; I feel that my days are numbered, I am soon going to my rest, and I have need of rest, for I am weary. There, there, don't weep! Tears will help me as little as they will you; you have not yet answered my question. Tell me what you intend to do?'

'I really do not know what I shall do.'

'The military pension which I enjoy will cease with my life. The property which I shall leave behind me will be barely sufficient for the maintenance of your mother respectably. I again ask you what you intend to do. Do you think you can support yourself by your Armenian or your other acquirements?'

'Alas! I think little at all about it; but I suppose I must push into the world, and make a good fight, as becomes the son of him who fought Big Ben; if I can't succeed, and am driven to the worst, it is but dying—'

'What do you mean by dying?'

'Leaving the world; my loss would scarcely be felt. I have never held life in much value, and every one has a right to dispose as he thinks best of that which is his own.'

'Ah! now I understand you; and well I know how and where you imbibed that horrible doctrine, and many similar ones which I have heard from your mouth; but I wish not to reproach you—I view in your conduct a punishment for my own sins, and I bow to the will of God. Few and evil have been my days upon the earth; little have I done to which I can look back with satisfaction. It is true I have served my king fifty years, and I have fought with—Heaven forgive me, what was I about to say!—but you mentioned the man's name, and our minds willingly recall our ancient follies. Few and evil have been my days upon earth, I may say with Jacob of old, though I do not mean to say that my case is so hard as his; he had many undutiful children, whilst I have only—; but I will not reproach you. I have also like him a son to whom I can look with hope, who may yet preserve my name when I am gone, so let me be thankful; perhaps, after all, I have not lived in vain. Boy, when I am gone, look up to your brother, and may God bless you both! There, don't weep; but take the Bible, and read me something about the old man and his children.'

My brother had now been absent for the space of three years. At first his letters had been frequent, and from them it appeared that he was following his profession in London with industry; they then became rather rare, and my father did not always communicate their contents. His last letter, however, had filled him and our whole little family with joy; it was dated from Paris, and the writer was evidently in high spirits. After describing in eloquent terms the beauties and gaieties of the French capital, he informed us how he had plenty of money, having copied a celebrated picture of one of the Italian masters for a Hungarian nobleman, for which he had received a large sum. 'He wishes me to go with him to Italy,' added he, 'but I am fond of independence; and, if ever I visit old Rome, I will have no patrons near me to distract my attention.' But six months had now elapsed from the date of this letter, and we had heard no further intelligence of my brother. My father's complaint increased; the gout, his principal enemy, occasionally mounted high up in his system, and we had considerable difficulty in keeping it from the stomach, where it generally proves fatal. I now devoted almost the whole of my time to my father, on whom his faithful partner also lavished every attention and care. I read the Bible to him, which was his chief delight; and also occasionally such other books as I thought might prove entertaining to him. His spirits were generally rather depressed. The absence of my brother appeared to prey upon his mind. 'I wish he were here,' he would frequently exclaim; 'I can't imagine what can have become of him; I trust, however, he will arrive in time.' He still sometimes rallied, and I took advantage of those moments of comparative ease to question him upon the events of his early life. My attentions to him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, fatherly, and unreserved. I had never known my father so entertaining as at these moments, when his life was but too evidently drawing to a close. I had no idea that he knew and had seen so much; my respect for him increased, and I looked upon him almost with admiration. His anecdotes were in general highly curious; some of them related to people in the highest stations, and to men whose names were closely connected with some of the brightest glories of our native land. He had frequently conversed—almost on terms of familiarity—with good old George. He had known the conqueror of Tippoo Saib; and was the friend of Townshend, who, when Wolfe fell, led the British grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of Montcalm. 'Pity,' he added, 'that when old—old as I am now—he should have driven his own son mad by robbing him of his plighted bride; but so it was; he married his son's bride. I saw him lead her to the altar; if ever there was an angelic countenance, it was that girl's; she was almost too fair to be one of the daughters of women. Is there anything, boy, that you would wish to ask me? now is the time.'

'Yes, father; there is one about whom I would fain question you.'

'Who is it? shall I tell you about Elliot?'

'No, father, not about Elliot; but pray don't be angry; I should like to know something about Big Ben.'

'You are a strange lad,' said my father; 'and, though of late I have begun to entertain a more favourable opinion than heretofore, there is still much about you that I do not understand. Why do you bring up that name? Don't you know that it is one of my temptations: you wish to know something about him. Well! I will oblige you this once, and then farewell to such vanities—something about him. I will tell you—his—skin when he flung off his clothes—and he had a particular knack in doing so—his skin, when he bared his mighty chest and back for combat; and when he fought he stood, so . . . if I remember right—his skin, I say, was brown and dusky as that of a toad. Oh me! I wish my elder son was here.'

 

 

Chapter 28

my brother's arrival—a dying father—christ

At last my brother arrived; he looked pale and unwell; I met him at the door. 'You have been long absent,' said I.

'Yes,' said he, 'perhaps too long; but how is my father?'

'Very poorly,' said I, 'he has had a fresh attack; but where have you been of late?'

'Far and wide,' said my brother; 'but I can't tell you anything now, I must go to my father. It was only by chance that I heard of his illness.'

'Stay a moment,' said I. 'Is the world such a fine place as you supposed it to be before you went away?'

'Not quite,' said my brother, 'not quite; indeed I wish—but ask me no questions now, I must hasten to my father.'

There was another question on my tongue, but I forebore; for the eyes of the young man were full of tears. I pointed with my finger, and the young man hastened past me to the arms of his father.

I forebore to ask my brother whether he had been to old Rome.

What passed between my father and brother I do not know; the interview, no doubt, was tender enough, for they tenderly loved each other; but my brother's arrival did not produce the beneficial effect upon my father which I at first hoped it would; it did not even appear to have raised his spirits. He was composed enough, however: 'I ought to be grateful,' said he; 'I wished to see my son, and God has granted me my wish; what more have I to do now than to bless my little family and go?'

My father's end was evidently at hand.

And did I shed no tears? did I breathe no sighs? did I never wring my hands at this period? the reader will perhaps be asking. Whatever I did and thought is best known to God and myself; but it will be as well to observe, that it is possible to feel deeply, and yet make no outward sign.

And now for the closing scene.

At the dead hour of night, it might be about two, I was awakened from sleep by a cry which sounded from the room immediately below that in which I slept. I knew the cry, it was the cry of my mother; and I also knew its import, yet I made no effort to rise, for I was for the moment paralysed. Again the cry sounded, yet still I lay motionless—the stupidity of horror was upon me. A third time, and it was then that, by a violent effort, bursting the spell which appeared to bind me, I sprang from the bed and rushed downstairs. My mother was running wildly about the room; she had awoke, and found my father senseless in the bed by her side. I essayed to raise him, and after a few efforts supported him in the bed in a sitting posture. My brother now rushed in, and, snatching up a light that was burning, he held it to my father's face. 'The surgeon, the surgeon!' he cried; then, dropping the light, he ran out of the room followed by my mother; I remained alone, supporting the senseless form of my father; the light had been extinguished by the fall, and an almost total darkness reigned in the room. The form pressed heavily against my bosom—at last methought it moved. Yes, I was right, there was a heaving of the breast, and then a gasping. Were those words which I heard? Yes, they were words, low and indistinct at first, and then audible. The mind of the dying man was reverting to former scenes. I heard him mention names which I had often heard him mention before. It was an awful moment; I felt stupefied, but I still contrived to support my dying father.

There was a pause, again my father spoke: I heard him speak of Minden, and of Meredith, the old Minden sergeant, and then he uttered another name, which at one period of his life was much in his lips, the name of . . . but this is a solemn moment! There was a deep gasp: I shook, and thought all was over; but I was mistaken—my father moved, and revived for a moment; he supported himself in bed without my assistance. I make no doubt that for a moment he was perfectly sensible, and it was then that, clasping his hands, he uttered another name clearly, distinctly—it was the name of Christ. With that name upon his lips, the brave old soldier sank back upon my bosom, and, with his hands still clasped, yielded up his soul.

Monday's Illustrated Word: "Killer Gorilla" by unknown writer (in English)

  art by unknown artist - Captain Aero Comics vol.3 #9 - Temerson-Helnit-Continental, September 1943.

 

 

Good Reading: "Brasil" by St. Joseph of Anchieta (in Portuguese and Latin)

O Brasil que, sem justiça,
andava mui cego e torto,
vós o metereis no porto
se lançar de si a cobiça
que de vivo o torna morto.

Quae sine iustitia prauo Brasilia cursu
ibat et obliquum, caeca, tenebat iter,
nunc directa, tuae iusto moderamine uirgae,
seruabit, tuis rectis, iusque piumque uisu.

Friday's Sung Word: "Para Sempre Adeus" by Cândido das Neves (in Portuguese)

Adeus ao luar a refulgir
Minha gôndola vai partir
Vai findar o nosso amor
O pranto magoa os olhos meus
Quanto amargor ter que partir
Ter que dizer adeus

A luz desta lua singular
Tendo estrelas a brilhar
Refletindo os sonhos meus
Vejo o meu barco correndo
E a minh’alma morrendo
A te dizer adeus

E do meu coração
Indolorado como estás
Não terá nunca mais alegria
Saudade atrás ardia
Ó esfíngica emoção
Por que vens devorar-me o coração?
Ó mar o azul das tuas águas
Reflete talvez as minhas mágoas
A dor que eu tenho de carpir
Na hora de partir

Não sei se um dia regressarei
Não sei como viverei
Tão longe dos olhos teus
Nada valeu ter jurado
Está tudo acabado
Eu vou partir
Adeus

 

You can listen "Para Sempre Adeus" sung by Vicente Celestino here.

Thursday's Serial: "Commonitorium" by St. Vincent of Lérins (translated into Portuguese) - I

 

Este pequeno livro, cheio de vigor e ciência, tem atraído a atenção dos estudiosos sobretudo a partir do século XVI, e suas afirmações têm sido levadas em conta nos momentos de confusão doutrinal, desde as polêmicas entre protestantes e católicos do século XVII até a crise modernista, porque nele se encontra um excelente testemunho cristão e resposta ante os riscos do ceticismo e do relativismo teológico. Com efeito, os temas chave do tratado são: fidelidade à Tradição e progresso dogmático.

O Comonitório é um dos livros que mais história tem deixado sobre si. Hoje passam de 150 edições e traduções em diversas línguas. A palavra Comonitório (Commonitorium), bastante frequente com o título de obras naquela época, significa notas ou apontamentos postos por escrito para ajudar à memória, sem pretensões de compor um tratado exaustivo.

Nesta obra, São Vicente de Lerins se propôs facilitar, com exemplos da Tradição e da história da Igreja, os critérios para conservar intacta a verdade católica. Não recorre a um método complicado. As regras que oferece para distinguir a verdade do erro podem ser conhecidas e aplicadas por todos os cristãos de todos os tempos, pois se resumem em uma excelente fidelidade à Tradição viva da Igreja. O Comonitório constitui uma joia da literatura patrística. Seu ensinamento fundamental é que os cristãos devem crer quod semper, quod ubique, quod ad ómnibus: somente e tudo quanto foi crido sempre, por todos e em todas as partes. Vários Papas e Concílios confirmaram com sua autoridade a validade perene desta regra de fé. Segue sendo plenamente atual este pequeno livro escrito em uma ilha da França, há mais de quinze séculos.

 

São Vincente de Lerins - Sabemos pouco sobre a vida de São Vicente de Lerins. Foi um Padre da Igreja do século V. Se possuem escassos dados sobre sua vida; apenas os de uma breve notícia que lhe dedica o marselhês Genádio (De viris illustribus, 64; PL58,1097-98) e os que se desprendem de sua obra mais importante: o Comonitório.

Era de origem francesa, ainda que se ignore seu local de nascimento e onde passou sua vida, somente que, se fez religioso uma vez “afugentados os ventos da vaidade e da soberba, aplacando a Deus com o sacrifício da humildade cristã”. Teve um passado tempestuoso, como parece deduzir-se de certa alusão que faz em um de seus livros? Não é seguro, possivelmente a ênfase que põe em suas palavras deve-se porem conta a severidade com que os santos costumam julgar-se a si mesmos. O que sim é induvidável é que foi um homem muito douto nas Escrituras e nos dogmas e com profundos conhecimentos das letras clássicas.

Sacerdote no mosteiro da ilha de Lerins (chamada hoje de São Honorato), como o pseudônimo de Peregrino compôs um tratado contra os hereges. Genádio narra também que é autor de outra obra de tema análogo, cujo manuscrito foi roubado, e que elaborou um breve resumo, que foi conservado. Morreu no reinado de Teodósio e Valentiniano, pouco antes de 450. O Comonitório foi escrito três anos depois do Concílio de Éfeso, ou seja, em 434. Somente duas obras lhe são atribuídas com certeza: O Commonitorium primum, cujo título mais antigo é De Peregrino em favor da antiguidade e universalidade da fé católica contra as profanas novidades de todos os hereges, e o Commonitorium secundum, recapitulação do livro que foi roubado. Lhe é atribuído também uma outra intitulada Objectiones lerinianae, cujo conteúdo conserva Próspero de Aquitana (Pro Augustino responsiones al capitula objectionum vicentianarum: PL 51,177-186), e um florilégio de frases de Santo Agostinho concernentes ao mistério da Santíssima Trindade e da Encarnação, que conserva o Cód. 151 de Ripoll sob o seguinte título: Excerpta sanctae memoriae Vicentiilirinensis insulae presbyteri ex universo beatae recordations Augustini in unumcollecta.

Excellent Readings: Sonnet CV by William Shakespeare (in English)

Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
   Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone,
   Which three till now, never kept seat in one.