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| As a Catholic, I have abandoned hope for the liturgy, which, in the typical American church, is as ugly and as maladroit as if it had been composed by Robert Ingersoll and H.L. Menchen for the purpose of driving people away.
Incidentally, the modern liturgists are doing a remarkably good job, attendance at Catholic Mass on Sunday having dropped sharply in the 10 years since a few well-meaning cretins got hold of the power to vernacularize the Mass, and the money to scour the earth in search of the most unmusical men and women to preside over the translation.
The next liturgical ceremony conducted primarily for my benefit, since I have no plans to be beatified or remarried, will be my own funeral; and it is a source of great consolation to me that, at my funeral, I shall be quite dead, and will not need to listen to the accepted replacement for the noble old Latin liturgy. Meanwhile, I am practicing Yoga, so that, at church on Sundays, I can develop the power to tune out everything I hear, while attempting, athwart the general calisthenics, to commune with my Maker, and ask Him first to forgive me my own sins, and implore him, second, not to forgive the people who ruined the Mass—William F. Buckley, Jr. (circa 1979) (From an article for the Remnant) | | |
| ‘This movement among the Jews is not new. From the days of Spartacus-Weishaupt to those of Karl Marx, and down to Trotsky, Bela Kun, Rosa Luxembourg, and Emma Goldman, this world-wide conspiracy for the overthrow of civilisation and for the reconstitution of society on the basis of arrested development, of envious malevolence, and impossible equality, has been steadily growing. It played, as a modern writer, Mrs. Webster, has so ably shown, a definitely recognisable part in the tragedy of the French Revolution. It has been the mainspring of every subversive movement during the Nineteenth Century; and now at last this band of extraordinary personalities from the underworld of the great cities of Europe and America have gripped the Russian people by the hair of their beards and have become practically the undisputed masters of that enormous empire.’ - Winston Churchill, Sunday Herald of February 8, 1920 "Governments do not govern, but merely control the machinery of government, being themselves controlled by the hidden hand." -- Benjamin Disraeli. | | |
| Pro Essendo Aevi simile Lineae
Many are they who with long-drawn face and with eyes which are empty
roll off slow from their tired tongues axioms they no longer taste -
Platitudes worn-thin, such as what potter on wheel he had lumped; he
sees it made smooth, then hard, and to mirror his buyers' eyes, glazed.
One such proverb would have it - (and has for its argument much that
seems to be solid on deck of this Ship full of Fools, whose keel
they would see set on a course without turning or curvature, such that
she circumnavigates always) - they'd have it that Time is a Wheel.
Hopeless they sift through, they pour over heaps of the volumes of hist'ry;
What they saw happen back then is the spectre expected back;
Rolled into scrolls, then unrolled, all the Past seems struck dumb at this myst'ry,
broken by torture, with spine that spirals its circular rack -
Nor just a circle: a globe; and the grains, in ephemeral shower, pass
into their alternate sphere on the desks of such desolate men.
Thoughts are revolved in their heads in what time they measure; the hourglass,
stood on its head, it returns, and they cycle it time and again.
Thus for such scholars; but an orb less morbid, which wound round the welkin,
stopped in its course for a warriour; it waited, forgetting its 'fate;'
and even when otherwise, launched for to glance off the gyring falcon,
spun of the groove-bound Sun, be the Sunbeams which strike out straight.
Nor are all broken with torture, nor bodies bent all bend the spirit;
Some be the saints such as salvage a crown from their temporal loss,
setting a strait course for Heaven, the which shall reveal when they near it
Him Who was thorn-crowned once, met His death on an angular cross.
Some vessels are fitted for honour, to glory elect of their Potter;
The Ship of Fools carries such cargo; tho' this Ark be what he'd overwhelm,
Jormungand circling earth soon shall eat himself dead in the water;
And man is the mast'r of his fate; and if Time be a Wheel, it's his helm.
(It goes without saying, but kudos to Chesterton...)
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| Just Wanted to Make Sure You Were All Aware of the Existance of this Man http://www.johnbradburne.com/ And that you've read his poetry: http://www.johnbradburnepoems.com/index.php And that you're praying for his canonization. | | |
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