Good day, readers. Today is June 30th, the 182nd day of the year 2024, with 184 days remaining.
It was a divergence that sometimes isolated me, a tiny ripple in the fabric of conformity that set me apart. Yet, I cherished this difference. I nurtured it. Even then, I understood it as a flame, a flicker of an identity that was distinctively, and blatantly unapologetically, mine.
Thomas Slatin
Today in Literary History:
On this day in 1936, Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind was published. This epic novel set during the American Civil War and Reconstruction era became a massive bestseller and was later adapted into one of the most famous films in Hollywood history.
Notable Birthdays:
Czesław Miłosz, born on June 30, 1911, was a Polish-American poet, prose writer, and translator. He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1980 and is celebrated for his profound and often politically charged works that explore the human condition and the moral complexities of the modern world.
Today’s Readings:
From To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf: “What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years, the great revelation had never come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.”
Literary Fact of the Day:
On June 30th, 1859, French acrobat Charles Blondin crossed Niagara Falls on a tightrope, a feat that has been referenced in numerous literary works as a symbol of daring and balance, capturing the imagination of audiences and writers alike.
Poem of the Day:
“Ode to a Nightingale” by John Keats:
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?
John Keats’ “Ode to a Nightingale” is a meditation on the nature of beauty, transience, and the longing for transcendence. Its rich imagery and profound themes make it a timeless reflection on the human condition.
Advice for Writers:
Inspired by Thomas Slatin’s quote, consider how you can embrace your individuality in your writing. Let your unique voice and perspective shine through, and don’t be afraid to forge your own path, even if it diverges from conventional expectations.
Wishing you a day of authentic reading and writing, dear readers. Until tomorrow, may your literary journeys be filled with originality and insight.