Last night, disgusted with the hours I was keeping, I decided I was going to put my phone and my 'puter in my car, and whenever I got up I was going to read a damn book. I didn't know what I was going to read this morning, but something. So this morning, doing my best impression of Schopenhauer I got up, put a dress shirt and tie on and looked over the bookshelves...Fine. Kristin Labransdatter by Sigrid Undset.
About fifteen years ago I bought a dozen or so books from the "Nobel Prize Library," collections of excerpts from the literature laureates. I don't know if I read them all but I read a lot of them. I then chose authors who the excerpts intrigued me and ordered their signature work. One of those was Kristin Labransdatter, set in 14th century Norway. When I began this morning I noticed that there were two bookmarks fashioned out of my old business cards in the book, one between pages 110-111 and the other between 354 and 355. I had evidently read about one third of the book but I could not have told you one damn thing about it. It was a mistake. Selecting Kristin Labransdatter to read first thing in the morning when I am an emotional clean slate--and hence vulnerable--was a mistake for it is an emotionally painful book.
Before I realized that however I came across at least one glittering passage, and a feel good passage at that, that helped win the Nobel Prize for Undset in 1928. Seven year-old Kristin is left by her father Lavrans in the care of a Catholic monk, Brother Edvin, for the day while he transacts some business. Immediately, I got nervous. Brother Edvin takes little Kristin into the church and leads her to the top (Uh oh).
But now come hither," said he...First he climbed up a ladder and laid some boards straight up there, and then he came down again and helped the child up with him.
Upon the greystone wall above her Kristin saw wondrous fluttering flecks of light; red as blood and yellow as beer, blue and brown and green. She would have turned to look behind her, but the monk whispered, "Turn not about." But when they stood together high upon the planking, he turned her gently round, and Kristin saw a sight so fair she almost lost her breath.
Right over against her on the nave's south wall stood a picture, and shone as if it were made of naught but gleaming precious stones. The many-hued flecks of light upon the wall came from rays which stood out from that picture; she herself and the monk stood in the midst of the glory; her hands were red as though dipped in wine; the monk's visage seemed all golden, and his dark frock threw the picture's colours softly back. She looked at him questioningly, but he only nodded and smiled.
...
"Stand here," he whispered, "and 'twill shine right upon you from Christ's own robe."
The height of medieval churches was to impress upon a largely illiterate laity the immensity of heaven itself and the stained glass in the windows, the beauty.
About fifteen years ago I bought a dozen or so books from the "Nobel Prize Library," collections of excerpts from the literature laureates. I don't know if I read them all but I read a lot of them. I then chose authors who the excerpts intrigued me and ordered their signature work. One of those was Kristin Labransdatter, set in 14th century Norway. When I began this morning I noticed that there were two bookmarks fashioned out of my old business cards in the book, one between pages 110-111 and the other between 354 and 355. I had evidently read about one third of the book but I could not have told you one damn thing about it. It was a mistake. Selecting Kristin Labransdatter to read first thing in the morning when I am an emotional clean slate--and hence vulnerable--was a mistake for it is an emotionally painful book.
Before I realized that however I came across at least one glittering passage, and a feel good passage at that, that helped win the Nobel Prize for Undset in 1928. Seven year-old Kristin is left by her father Lavrans in the care of a Catholic monk, Brother Edvin, for the day while he transacts some business. Immediately, I got nervous. Brother Edvin takes little Kristin into the church and leads her to the top (Uh oh).
But now come hither," said he...First he climbed up a ladder and laid some boards straight up there, and then he came down again and helped the child up with him.
Upon the greystone wall above her Kristin saw wondrous fluttering flecks of light; red as blood and yellow as beer, blue and brown and green. She would have turned to look behind her, but the monk whispered, "Turn not about." But when they stood together high upon the planking, he turned her gently round, and Kristin saw a sight so fair she almost lost her breath.
Right over against her on the nave's south wall stood a picture, and shone as if it were made of naught but gleaming precious stones. The many-hued flecks of light upon the wall came from rays which stood out from that picture; she herself and the monk stood in the midst of the glory; her hands were red as though dipped in wine; the monk's visage seemed all golden, and his dark frock threw the picture's colours softly back. She looked at him questioningly, but he only nodded and smiled.
...
"Stand here," he whispered, "and 'twill shine right upon you from Christ's own robe."
The height of medieval churches was to impress upon a largely illiterate laity the immensity of heaven itself and the stained glass in the windows, the beauty.
