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- THOUSAND PALMS July 1, 2015
- Chewed or brewed: A brief history of Popes and coca leaves :: Catholic News Agency (CNA) July 1, 2015
- From Radio Vatican: 01/07/2015 15:25: The Pope expresses his closeness to Greece in time of crisis July 1, 2015
- From the Guardian : US police killings headed for 1,100 this year, with black Americans twice as likely to die July 1, 2015
- #Greece may be getting a lifeline after all… and investors around the globe like it— CNNMoney (@CNNMoney) July 1, 2015 July 1, 2015
- L’histoire tragique de l’homme qui refusa de faire le salut nazi (anglais) — L’important (@Limportant_fr) July 1, 2015 July 1, 2015
- It’s only those who do nothing that make no mistakes, I suppose. Joseph Conrad July 1, 2015
- Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (1968) July 1, 2015
- word: cesspit July 1, 2015
- From France 24 July 1, 2015
- Light crystals clinch physics medal July 1, 2015
- From BBC : Light crystals clinch physics medal July 1, 2015
- Greece: imagine how the population in Greece feels about all these! (IMF A threat to every Greek!) July 1, 2015
- From the Guardian : IMF: austerity measures would still leave Greece with unsustainable debt July 1, 2015
- From BBC : USA 2-0 Germany June 30, 2015
- From the Guardian : Fracketeering: how capitalism is power-hosing the last drops of value out of us all June 30, 2015
- From the Guardian : failure to make IMF payment deals historic blow to eurozone June 30, 2015
- Holy Mass with the imposition of the Pallium 2015.06.29 June 30, 2015
- Pallium June 30, 2015
- WINTER FROZEN PASTELS June 30, 2015
- From BBC : Cuba stamps out mother-to-child HIV June 30, 2015
- From BBC : Greece seeks last-minute debt deal June 30, 2015
- great compositions/performances: Richard Wagner – Siegfried Idyll (BBC Proms 2012) June 30, 2015
- greaat compositions/performances: Pepe Romero: Concierto de Aranjuez ( Joaquin Rodrigo), Recuerdos de la Alhambra ( Francisco Tarrega) June 30, 2015
- Researchers discover what powers enzyme that helps cancer grow – UPI.com June 30, 2015
- picture of the day: Geronimo June 30, 2015
- Saint of the Day for Tuesday, June 30th, 2015: First Martyrs of the See of Rome June 30, 2015
- Pool parasite can live in chlorine for ten days – UPI.com June 30, 2015
- today’s holiday: Guatemala Army Day June 30, 2015
- quotation: “It’s extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts….” (Joseph Conrad (1857-1924)) June 30, 2015
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- From the Guardian : IMF: austerity measures would still leave Greece with unsustainable debt
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- From Radio Vatican: 01/07/2015 15:25: The Pope expresses his closeness to Greece in time of crisis
- L'histoire tragique de l'homme qui refusa de faire le salut nazi (anglais) — L'important (@Limportant_fr) July 1, 2015
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quotation: “It’s extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts….” (Joseph Conrad (1857-1924))
quotation: The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. Kate Chopin
Buck was raised in China by her American missionary parents and left the country but a few times before she was 40. She drew upon her experiences there in her Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, The Good Earth, which describes the struggles of a Chinese peasant and his slave wife. Together with Sons and A House Divided, it forms a trilogy, part of the body of work that earned Buck the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1938. Buck also wrote five novels under what pseudonym? More… Discuss
quotation: Words are but wind; and learning is nothing but words; ergo, learning is nothing but wind. Jonathan Swift
Best known by his pseudonym George Orwell, Eric Arthur Blair was a British novelist and essayist famed for his scathingly satirical and frighteningly political novels: the anti-Soviet fable Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, a prophetic novel that portrays the catastrophic excesses of state control over the individual. Orwell was distrustful of all political parties and ideologies, and this sentiment is reflected in much of his work. What are some of his other novels? More… Discuss
quotation: Rome took all the vanity out of me; for after seeing the wonders there, I felt too insignificant to live, and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair. Louisa May Alcott
quotation: The best of men cannot suspend their fate: The good die early, and the bad die late. Daniel Defoe
A prolific writer whose works fill more than a dozen volumes, Stowe was an American novelist and humanitarian. Spurred to action by the passage of the Fugitive Slave Act, she began writing an antislavery novel, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, which became an instant and controversial best-seller. Its impact on Northerners’ attitudes toward slavery was significant, swaying much of the public to support, or at least sympathize with, the abolitionist cause. What else did Stowe write? More… Discuss
The Bronze Horseman
A Petersburg Story
The incident, described in this story is based on a truth.
The details of the flood are taken from the contemporary magazines.
The curious ones can consult the record, prepared by V. I. Berkh.
On a deserted, wave-swept shore, He stood – in his mind great thoughts grow – And gazed afar. The northern river Sped on its wide course him before; One humble skiff cut the waves’ silver. On banks of mosses and wet grass Black huts were dotted there by chance – The miserable Finn’s abode; The wood unknown to the rays Of the dull sun, by clouds stowed, Hummed all around. And he thought so: ‘The Swede from here will be frightened; Here a great city will be wrought To spite our neighborhood conceited. From here by Nature we’re destined To cut a door to Europe wide, To step with a strong foot by waters. Here, by the new for them sea-paths, Ships of all flags will come to us – And on all seas our great feast opens.’ An age passed, and the young stronghold, The charm and sight of northern nations, From the woods’ dark and marshes’ cold, Rose the proud one and precious. Where once the Finnish fisherman, Sad stepson of the World, alone, By low riverbanks’ a sand, Cast into waters, never known, His ancient net, now on the place, Along the full of people banks, Cluster the tall and graceful masses Of castles and palaces; and sails Hasten in throng to the rich quays From all the lands our planet masters; The Neva-river’s dressed with rocks; Bridges hang o’er the waters proud; Abundantly her isles are covered With dark-green gardens’ gorgeous locks… By the new capital, the younger, Old Moscow’s eclipsed at once - Such is eclipsed a queen-dowager By a new queen when her time comes. I love you, Peter’s great creation, I love your view of stern and grace, The Neva wave’s regal procession, The grayish granite – her bank’s dress, The airy iron-casting fences, The gentle transparent twilight, The moonless gleam of your nights restless, When I so easy read and write Without a lamp in my room lone, And seen is each huge buildings’ stone Of the left streets, and is so bright The Admiralty spire’s flight, And when, not letting the night’s darkness To reach the golden heaven’s height, The dawn after the sunset hastens – And a half-hour’s for the night. I love your so sever winter’s Quite still and fresh air and strong frost, The sleighs race on the shores river’s, The girls – each brighter than a rose, The gleam and hum of the balls’ dances, And, on the bachelors’ free feast, The hissing of the foaming glasses And the punch’s bluish flaming mist. I love the warlike animation Of the play-fields of the god Mars, And horse-and-footmen priests’ of wars So homogeneous attraction, In their ranks, in the rhythmic moves, Those flags, victories and rended, The glitter of those helmets, splendid, Shot through in military strives. I love, O capital my fairest, Your stronghold guns’ thunder and smoke, In moments when the northern empress Adds brunches to the regal oak Or Russia lauds a winning stroke To any new and daring foe, Or, breaking up the light-blue ice, The Neva streams it and exults, Scenting the end of cold and snow. City of Peter, just you shine And stand unshakable as Russia! May make a peace with beauty, thine, The conquered nature’s casual rushes; And let the Finnish waves forget Their ancient bondages and malice And not disturb with their hate senseless The endless sleep of Peter, great! The awful period was that, It’s fresh in our recollection… This time about, my dear friend, I am beginning my narration. My story will be very sad. PART ONE On Petrograd, sunk into darkness, November breathed with fall cold’s harshness. And, splashing, with the noisy waves Into the brims of her trim fences, The Neva raved, like the seek raves In a bed, that has become the restless. Now it was very dark and late; The rain stroke ‘gainst the window’s flat. And the wind blew with sadly wailing. Right at this time, from being a guest Evgeny, for his nightly rest, Came home. This name was most prevailing In our young hero’s name choice. It sounds pleasantly. Of course, With it my pen’s had long connections It needn’t the special commendations, Though in the times, in Lithe gone, It might have been the most attractive And under Karamzin’s pen, fine, Sung in some legends, our native; But now it is forgotten by The world and rumors. Our guy Lives in Kolomna: he’s in service, Avoids the rich ones, and ne’er sad is For his kin which had left the world, Or for the well-forgotten old. So, he is home – our Evgeny, Took off his greatcoat, undressed, Lay in his poor bed, but oppressed He was by his thoughts, so many. What did he thought of? Well, of that That he was poor and that his bread, His honour and his independence Just by hard work must be achieved, That God should send to him from heavens More mind and money. That do live Such idle, fully happy creatures – The lazy-bones, quite ludicrous,. Whose life is absolutely light! That he had served for two long years; And that the weather, former fierce, Hadn’t come less fierce, that the flood In the Neva is getting higher, The bridges might be got entire, And that his sweet Parasha’s place For two-free days wouldn’t be accessed. There sighed Evgeny with his soul, And dreamed as dreams a real bard: “To marry then? Of course it’s hard. But why don’t marry, in a whole? I’m of the young and healthy sight, Ready to work for day and night; I’ll someway find the good repose, The simple and shy place, at last, Parasha will be there composed. The year or, may be, two will pass – I’m in position, to my dear I’ll give all family to bear And bring our children up, at once... Such we’ll start life, at last repose, With hand-in-hand, such we’ll come both, And our grandsons will bury us...” Thus he did dream. And a great sadness Embraced his soul in that night, He wished the wind’s weep to be lesser, Rain’s siege of windows – not so tight. At last his sleepy eyes were closed... And now the night is getting gray – That night, so nasty and morose, And it is coming – the pale day The awful day! During the night Neva had strived for sea ‘gainst tempests But, having lost all her great battles, The river ceased the useless fight… And in the morn on her shores proud, Stood people in a pressed in lot And saw the tall and heard the loud Fierce waters’ mountains, it had brought. But by the force of airy breathing Blocked from the Gulf, the wide Neva Came back – the wrathful one and seething - And flooded islands, near and far; The weather grew into the cruel, Neva – more swelling and more brutal, Like in a kettle boiled and steamed, And then, as a wild creature seemed, Jumped on the city. And before it, All ran away from its strait path, And all got emptied there; at once. The waters flew into the cellars, And raised up to the fence of canals – And, like Triton, Petropol sails Sunk in the water till his waist. Siege and assault! The evil waters Thrust into windows, like slaughters. The mad boats row into a glass. The stalls are under the wet mass. The wrecks of huts, the logs, roofs’ pieces, The stores of the tread, auspicious, The things, carried the pale want from, The bridges got away by storm, The coffins from the graveyards - float, Along the streets! The populace Sees God’s great wrath and waits for death. All is destroyed: bread and abode. And how to live? The monarch, blessed, Tsar Aleksandr, in a good fashion, Still governed Russia that year, dread, And from the balcony he, sad And pale, said: “Ne’er the God-made nature Can be subdued by any tsars.” And, in a thought, looked at the evil’s With his full of deep sadness eyes. The streets turned into the fast rivers, Running to made lakes, dark and grievous, The Palace was an island, sad, That loomed over the blackened waters. The Tsar decreed – from end to end, Down the shortest streets and longest, On danger routs over the waves, His generals set into the sailing – To save the drawing and straining On streets and in their homes-graves. Then on the widest Square of Peter, Where with his glass a new pile glittered, Where on its porch, too highly placed, With their paw raised, as if they’re living, Stood two marble lions, overseeing. On one of them, as for a race, Without his hat, arms – tightly pressed, Awfully pale – no stir appeared – Evgeny sat. And there he feared Not his own death. He did not hear How the wrathful roller neared, Greedily licking his shoes’ soles, And how flagged him the rain coarse, And how the fierce wind there wailed, Or how it’d blown off his hat. His looks of deepest desperation Were all set on a single place Without a move. The waves, impatient, Had risen there, like tallest crags, Lifted from waked deeps in a madness, There wreckage swam, there wailed a tempest … O, God! O, God! – Right on that place, Alas! so close to the waves, And by the shores of the Gulf Finnish, A willow-tree, a fence unfinished And an old hut: there they must be – A widow and her child Parasha – His soul’s dream … Or does he see It in a dream? … And, like the usher Of dreams – a sleep, is our life none – Just Heavens make of Earth a fun? And he, like under conjuration, Like in jail irons’ limitation, Cannot come down. Him around Only black waters could be found! And turned to him with his back, proudest, On height that never might be tossed, Over Neva’s unending wildness, Stands, with his arm, stretched to skies, lightless, The idol on his brazen horse. PART TWO But now, sated with distraction And tired of its rude attack, Neva, at last, was coming back, Looking at ruins with satisfaction And leaving with a little attention Its prey behind. A reprobate, With his sever and low set, Thus, thrusting in a village, helpless, Breaks, slaughters, robs all and oppresses: The roar, rape, swore, alert and wails!... And, under their large booty posted, Afraid of chases and exhausted, The robbers speed to their old place, Losing their loot along the road. The waves were gone, the pavement, broad, Was opened, and Evgeny, stressed, With heart half-dead and stifled throat, In a hope, fear and awful pains, Runs to the stream, just now restrained. But, in the winning celebration, Waves still were boiling with a passion, As if to flames, under them fanned; They still were with white foam covered, And Neva’s breast was heavily moved, Like the steed’s one after a race. Evgeny sees a boat here; He runs to it – a find, revered, – He calls a boatman at once – The boatman, a guy quite careless, Just for ten kopeks, with great gladness, Takes him into the waves’ wild dance. And for a long with these waves, close, The much trained rower was in fight, And to sink deeply mid their rows, The scuff, with its brave sailors both, Was apt all time… The other side Is reached, at last. And the frustrated Runs through the so well-known street To his old places. He doesn’t meet A thing, he’d known. The view’s rated As the worst one! All’s in a mess – All is failed down or swept or stressed: The little houses are bent down, Some – shifted, some – razed to their ground By awful forces of the waves; The bodies, waiting for their graves, Are lying round, like aft fight, merciless. Our poor Evgeny – his mind’s flamed – Half-dead under the tortures, endless, Runs there where the inhumane fate Would give him the unknown message, As if a letter, sealed to bear; He’s now in the suburbs’ wreckage, There is the Gulf, the house is near… But what is this? He stopped, frustrated, Went back, returned a little later… He looks… he walks … he looks once more. There is the place their house for And willow-tree. The gates were here – They’re swept… But where’s the house, o grace? And full of troubles, hard to wear, He walked and walked around the place. Told to himself in voices loud – And suddenly, as if all’s found, Struck his forehead and fell in laugh. The night embraced the city, stuffed With all its woe. And still for hours A sleep was running from each house – The folk recalling the past day. Now, through the clouds, weak and pale, The morn ray flashed o’er the mute city And did not found e’en a trace Of the past woe. The dawn, witty, Had safely screened the doing, base. The former life had got its place. Along the streets now free of flooding, With cold indifference, folks are moving. Just having left his lodge of night, The clerk is going at his site. The petty tradesman, very dauntless, Is opening his cellar – wet, Robbed by the waves’ impudent set – Intending to revenge his losses On brothers-humans. From the yard Is pulled the boat, full of mud. Count Khvostov, a pet of Zeus, Now is singing his songs, deathless, To the Neva shores’ former plight. What’s of Evgeny, our poor hero? … Alas! His agitated mind, Against the immense woe’s billow Didn’t stand untouchable. The wind’s And Neva’s noise was always growing In his poor ears. Mute and half-blind, With awful thoughts, he was a-roaming, Being quite tortured by some dream. A week, month passed by as a stream, At his past home he wasn’t returning And his landlord, when the rent’s time Had gone, gave his corner to some Bard, sunk in a poverty unduly. Evgeny didn’t come for his stuff And soon became a stranger, fully, To world: his day wasn’t long enough For walk; he slept on wharfs till morning His bread was one a beggar has, He wore the dirt and rotten dress. The evil children, with cries joyful, Sometimes threw stones to his back, Often the coachmen’ whips, wrathful, Stung his thin body – for his track Was cast without choosing direction – He seemed to notice nothing else – He was quiet deafened and oppressed By noise of inner agitation. And thus he strayed in his life’s mist – Not humane being, nor some beast – Not fish, nor flesh – not living creature, Nor ghost of dead … But once he slept By Neva’s wharf – the summer’s features Were now like autumn’s. The wind, bad, Was breathing there. The roller, sad, Was splashing its complain and groan And striking ‘gainst the steps of stone, Like the offended at the door Of justice that doesn’t hear him more. The poor waked up. All was gloom round: Falling the rain, wind wailing loud, And it was answered through the night By some alone distant guard... Evgeny got up in a hurry, He recollected his all flurry, Stood on a spot, began to walk And stopped again, almost choked, Intently gazing him around With a wild terror on his face... It seemed that he himself had found By a big house where were placed, With their paw up, as if quite living, Two marble lions, overseeing, And in the height, strait o’er him posed, Over the rock, fenced with cast iron, With arm stretched into the skies, sullen, The idol sat on his bronze horse. Evgeny startled. Became clear The strange thoughts, torturing his mind – He named the place where played the flood, Where ran the waters-spoilers, fierce, – Merging in one rebellious stream, – The lions, square and, at last, him, Who stood without a move and sound – The cooper head piercing black skies – Him, by whose fatal enterprise This city under sea took ground... He’s awful in the nightly dark! In what a thought his brow’s sunk! What a great might in it lies, hidden! And what a fire’s in this steed! O, proud horse, where do you speed! Where will you down your bronze hoofs, flittin’? O, karma’s mighty sovereign! Not thus you’d reared Russia, sullen, Into the height, with a curb, iron, Before an abyss in your reign? The poor madman circled around The foot of the black idol’s mass, He gazed into the brazen face Of the half-planet’s ruler, proud. And was his breast oppressed. He laid On the cold barrier his forehead. His eyes were veiled with a mist-cover, His heart was all caught with a flame, His blood seethed. Gloomy he became Before the idol, looming over, And, having clenched his teeth and fist, As if possessed by evil powers, “Well, builder-maker of the marvels,” He whispered, trembling in a fit, “You only wait!...”- And to a street, At once he started to run out – He fancied: that the great tsar’s face, With a wrath suddenly embraced, Was turning slowly around... And strait along the empty square He runs and hears as if there were, Just behind him, the peals of thunder, Of the hard-ringing hoofs’ reminders, – A race the empty square across, Upon the pavement, fiercely tossed; And by the moon, that palled lighter, Having stretched his hand over roofs, The Brazen Horseman rides him after – On his steed of the ringing hoofs. And all the night the madman, poor, Where’er he might direct his steps, Aft him the Bronze Horseman, for sure, Keeps on the heavy-treading race. And from this time, when he was going, Along this square, only by chance, A sense of terror was deforming His features. And he would then press His hand to heart in a great fastness, As if to make its tortures painless, Take off the worn peaked cap at once, Didn’t turn from earth his fearful eyes And try to pass by. A small island’s Seen in the sea quite near a shore. A fisherman, the late catch for, Would sail to it with his net, silent, Sometimes – and boil there his soup, poor; Or an official clerk would moor To it in a boat-walking Sunday’s. The empty isle. Seeds don’t beget There any plant. A player, sightless, The flood, had pulled there a ghost, sad, Of an old hut. The water over, It had been left like a bush, black. Last spring, by a small barging rover, It was conveyed to the shore, back – Destroyed and empty. By its entry, They’d found the poor madman of mine And, for a sake of the Divine, Buried his corpse in that soil, scanty. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, March, 2004 - March, 2005 © Copyright, poetryloverspage.com, 2004-2005
Among the giants of Russian literature, Pushkin was a poet and writer whose masterpieces include the poem The Bronze Horseman, the drama The Stone Guest, and his verse novel Eugene Onegin, which contains witty descriptions of 19th-century Russian society. Pushkin established the modern poetic language of Russia, using Russian history for the basis of many works, but his career was cut short when he died after a duel with a young Frenchman. How old was he when he died? More… Discuss
Haiku – Stephen Hawking,
poetic thought by George-B
Time before our Time
was a pendulum at rest
waiting for Hawking
(the Smudge and Other poems)
quotation:…judgement shall still have the last word in every argument, and the casting vote in every decision. Charlotte Bronte (1816-1855)
Khayyám was a Persian poet, mathematician, and astronomer. The details of his life are mostly conjectural, but he is known to have been a celebrated mathematician of his time. Yet, he is now best known for his Rubaiyat, a collection of epigrammatic verse quatrains whose hedonism often masks serious metaphysical reflections. It was little known in Europe until Edward FitzGerald’s loose English translations were published in 1859. What does the name Khayyám indicate about his lineage? More… Discuss
quotation: I needed some real danger and some mortal risk to run, to tranquilize me. Alexandre Dumas
quotation: In diving to the bottom of pleasure we bring up more gravel than pearls. Honore de Balzac
quotation: What’s the use of making mysteries? It only makes people want to nose ’em out. Edith Wharton
quotation: ‘While the laughter of joy is in full harmony with our deeper life,…’ Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)
quotation: True enthusiasm is a fine feeling whose flash I admire where-ever I see it. Charlotte Bronte
It was not that she was out of temper, but that the world was not equal to the demands of her fine organism.
George Eliot (1819-1880) Discuss
quotation: Of all the bewildering things about a new country, the absence of human landmarks is one of the most depressing and disheartening. Willa Cather (1873-1947)
Of all the bewildering things about a new country, the absence of human landmarks is one of the most depressing and disheartening.
Willa Cather (1873-1947) Discuss
quotation: Nothing contributes so much to tranquilize the mind as a steady purpose—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. Mary Shelle
One may be continually abusive without saying any thing just; but one cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.
Who is there who has not felt a sudden startled pang at reliving an old experience or feeling an old emotion?
Agatha Christie (1890-1976) Discuss
Gotham City is a fictional city that is best known as the home of DC Comics’ Batman character. Gotham is known to be architecturally modeled after New York City, but with exaggerated elements and styles. Gotham also sometimes serves as a nickname for New York, and was first popularized as such by the author Washington Irving. What is Arkham Asylum? More… Discuss
Published on Apr 4, 2015
Cartoon Movie Batman works desperately to find a bomb planted by the Joker while Amanda Waller hires her newly formed Suicide Squad to break into Arkham Asylum to recover vital information stolen by the Riddler.
Best Cartoon Movies https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IE_eF…
Music with a voice, †’Adoramus te, Christe’ (Palestrina / Rosselli) †, great compositions/performances
†Adoramus te, Christe (Palestrina / Rosselli)†
The eldest of the three famous Brontë sisters whose novels have become standards of English literature, Charlotte Brontë is best known for penning Jane Eyre, the story of a governess who falls passionately in love with her employer. Ranked among the great English novels, it addresses women’s need for both love and independence. Considered the most professional of the sisters, Charlotte endeavored to achieve financial success from the family’s literary efforts. What were her other novels? More… Discuss
The Murders in the Rue Morgue (FULL Audiobook)
20th April, 1841: First detective story (Edgar Allen Poe’s “Murders in Rue Morgue”) is published. — ✍ Bibliophilia (@Libroantiguo)
20th April, 1841: First detective story (Edgar Allen Poe’s “Murders in Rue Morgue”) is published. pic.twitter.com/OzKga6SHef
— ✍ Bibliophilia (@Libroantiguo) April 20, 2015
“BREATH IS LIFE”
Life is absolutely dependent upon the act of breathing. “Breath is Life.”
Differ as they may upon details of theory and terminology, the Oriental and the Occidental agree upon these fundamental principles.
To breathe is to live, and without breath there is no life. Not only are the higher animals dependent upon breath for life and health, but even the lower forms of animal life must breathe to live, and plant life is likewise dependent upon the air for continued existence. The infant draws in a long, deep breath, retains it for a moment to extract from it its life-giving properties, and then exhales it in a long wail, and lo! its life upon earth has begun. The old man gives a faint gasp, ceases to breathe, and life is over. From the first faint breath of the infant to the last gasp of the dying man, it is one long story of continued breathing. Life is but a series of breaths.
Breathing may be considered the most important of all of the functions of the body, for, indeed, all the other functions depend upon it. Man may exist some time without eating; a shorter time without drinking; but without breathing his existence may be measured by a few minutes.
And not only is Man dependent upon Breath for life, but he is largely dependent upon correct habits of breathing for continued vitality and freedom from disease. An intelligent control of our breathing power will lengthen our days upon earth by giving us increased vitality and powers of resistance, and, on the
other hand, unintelligent and careless breathing will tend to shorten our days, by decreasing our vitality and laying us open to disease.
Man in his normal state had no need of instruction in breathing. Like the lower animal and the child, he breathed naturally and properly, as nature intended him to do, but civilization has changed him in this and other respects. He has contracted improper methods and attitudes of walking, standing and sitting, which have robbed him of his birthright of natural and correct breathing. He has paid a high price for civilization. The savage, to-day, breathes naturally, unless he has been contaminated by the habits of civilized man.
The percentage of civilized men who breathe correctly is quite small, and the result is shown in contracted chests and stooping shoulders, and the terrible increase in diseases of the respiratory organs, including that dread monster, Consumption, “the white scourge.” Eminent authorities have stated that one generation of correct breathers would regenerate the race, and disease would be so rare as to be looked upon as a curiosity. Whether looked at from the standpoint of the Oriental or Occidental, the connection between correct breathing and health is readily seen and explained.
The Occidental teachings show that the physical health depends very materially upon correct breathing. The Oriental teachers not only admit that their Occidental brothers are right, but say that in addition to the physical benefit derived from correct habits of breathing, Man’s mental power, happiness, self-control, clear-sightedness, morals, and even his spiritual growth may be increased by an understanding of the
“Science of Breath.” Whole schools of Oriental Philosophy have been founded upon this science, and this knowledge when grasped by the Western races, and by them put to the practical use which is their strong point, will work wonders among them. The theory of the East, wedded to the practice of the West, will produce worthy offspring.
This work will take up the Yogi “Science of Breath,” which includes not only all that is known to the Western physiologist and hygienist, but the occult side of the subject as well. It not only points out the way to physical health along the lines of what Western scientists have termed “deep breathing,” etc., but also goes into the less known phases of the subject, and shows how the Hindu Yogi controls his body, increasing his mental capacity, and develops the spiritual side of his nature by the “Science of Breath.”
The Yogi practices exercises by which he attains control of his body, and is enabled to send to any organ or part an increased flow of vital force or “prana,” thereby strengthening and invigorating the part or organ. He knows all that his Western scientific brother knows about the physiological effect of correct breathing, but he also knows that the air contains more than oxygen and hydrogen and nitrogen, and that something more is accomplished than the mere oxygenating of the blood. He knows something about “prana,” of which his Western brother is ignorant, and he is fully aware of the nature and manner of handling that great principle of energy, and is fully informed as to its effect upon the human body and mind. He knows that by rhythmical breathing one may bring himself into harmonious vibration with
nature, and aid in the unfoldment of his latent powers. He knows that by controlled breathing he may not only cure disease in himself and others, but also practically do away with fear and worry and the baser emotions.
To teach these things is the object of this work. We will give in a few chapters concise explanation and instructions, which might be extended into volumes. We hope to awaken the minds of the Western world to the value of the Yogi “Science of Breath.”
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.