Words about God and Life for the Attention Deficit Generation

Category: whimsy (Page 1 of 4)

Advice to a young man

Ignore everything your father says to you now. He’s an idiot. But be prepared to be amazed about how much sense he’s talking in five years’ time. (It’s not that you’ve grown up enough to understand what he’s saying: he will have learnt a lot).

Learn to lay bricks. This is a good and necessary skill. It’s not just useful for doing DIY around a house. It’ll teach you something about the dignity and rewards of labour.

Never believe a single word or image in an advert. They don’t want you to be happier, taller, sexier, more successful in work or love. They just want to sell you things. (It’s your money they’re after, not your welfare).

Go easy on “stuff”. You’ll have to carry everything you ever bought and wasted with you in the next life, so make it easier on your dead self.

Read at least one book a year which you disagree with.


Never say that you aren’t ready to settle down or grow up. Guy Gibson won a VC for the Dambusters Raid in 1943, and had to write the condolence letters to the families of 53 killed airmen before he had breakfast next day. He was 23. Growing up is one of the pleasures of life. Don’t postpone it.

The only way you’ll have a life is by learning to give it away: to others in service, to one other in love. Live your life for yourself and it will crumble to dust in your hands. Live your life for others and it will never be taken away from you.

Ignore cool. “Cool” is a lie told to make us despise other people. Cultivate “warmth”. Engage with people, especially those left out by the cool ones.

If you don’t vote, you have no right to complain about the way the country is run.

If you don’t volunteer in some way, you have no right to complain about the way the country is going to the dogs.

Life isn’t cheap. Life is expensive, and has always been costly. It’s death that’s cheap: cheap to get and cheap to impose on others. Your life is valuable only as much as you value the lives of others.

A music festival is 100,000 people confusing dysentery with a good time. The best experiences come in small groups. If it’s hard to do theology after Auschwitz, it’s harder to do Glastonbury after Nuremberg.

Look forward to friendships that have lasted forty years. Experiences shared and stories told and retold are the way we know we are human.

“FOMO” and “YOLO”: two more lies. Fear Of Missing Out is the real reason lurking beneath You Only Live Once justifications. Decide what is important to you and your family (however you want to define that) and do that. Don’t let other people try to sell you experiences.

Look for God and happiness in the small things, the small things that last.

There is more truth in a pair of boots that have been polished and patched for 20 years than in this year’s “must have”, “must buy” fashions.

Decide what your favourite meal is, and learn to cook it.

Change your mind every six months, and learn to cook the new meal.

Make sure the cooking involves washing dirt off ingredients: it’s not real food if you use scissors to prepare it rather than a peeler.

Eat something you have grown yourself every week, even if it’s just mustard and cress in a sandwich.

Oh, and bake your own bread.

The Long and the Short of It

I came across this lovely little essay today, by Odell Shepard, professor of English at Trinity College, Hartford, Connecticut, and later, Lieutenant Governor of the State. It is taken from a book of essays, The Joys of Forgetting: A Book of Bagatalles (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1928), pp211-217.


SOME people prefer the short sentence.

They think it sounds more honest than a long one.

Their ideal is a sentence blunt, direct, explosive.

A book appeared recently which contains nothing but short sentences. It was written by a famous American.

Reading this book is like jolting in a spring-less wagon over a corduroy road.

Some people like this kind of reading. It seems to wake them up.

Others do not like it at all. They would rather sleep than read that famous American. They think the short sentence too elementary. They say that it exaggerates, and also eliminates, too much.

They complain that it has no rhythm.

They prefer long sentences.

Whether it be that the prevailing practi­cality of the times in which we are now living has a tendency to make us somewhat impatient of and insensitive to those more delicate and more difficult graces of style which are attain­able only when writers approach their work in the mood of cultivated leisure and when readers also, in their turn, are not only able but willing to take time for enjoyment, to linger with delight upon the deft turning of this phrase and that as a connoisseur of wines pauses to savour each and every sip of an ancient Sauterne, and to listen for that total harmony of style which is to be heard only when a clause is finally closed and its rever­berations die away like the hum of some rich instrument, or whether it be that the pre­vailing and all but lethal influence of daily journalism has tended to abbreviate our periods and cut short our cadences so that he who commutes may read and the travelling sales­man, though a fool, may not err therein, or whether, finally, the reading public of our time—immensely greater in size than any other reading public that authors have ever before been called upon to address, and therefore, as we may surmise, somewhat less intelligent as a whole than the public of less democratic days—is no longer capable of understanding those elaborate patterns of words in which many divisions and sub-divisions mutually depend upon a single primary state­ment and all are closely knit together in one grammatical nexus, certain it is in any case that we may look far and wide, long and patiently, with the eyes of Argus or with the presbyopic vision of a professional proof­reader, in what passes for the literature of the last ten lustrums without encountering any single congregation of words brought together between capital letter and period that can stand for a moment in comparison with those intricate, enormous, sesquipedalian sentences that pour so voluminously down the pages of the younger Ruskin, gathering might and majesty and magniloquence as they flow, winding almost interminably on and down­ward with neither haste nor rest round many a comma, semi-colon, dash, and asterisk as though such a superfluous mark as a full stop had not yet been invented among the devices of punctuation, as though Time had been annulled and we were sitting down to read in some quiet ingle of Eternity, and as though the author had intended when he wrote them down that they should be read forth in the voice of Boanerges, son of thunder, or intoned by the lungs of Titans; for although those ample sentences of the leisurely old days give the reader some reason to expect, or at least to hope, now and then, that they are at last coming to an end, yet they never do quite come to an end, or almost never, but rather they delight in disappointing such premature expectations and in going on again with renewed vigour, just as Antxus of old was wont to double his strength whenever he touched with foot or hand or shoulder the reviving soil of his mother Earth, so that, having just grazed a full stop by the fraction of a hair as a skater does a hole in the ice, they move serenely on and out again past colons and semi-colons and dashes and asterisks and commas into a solemn grandeur of entirely unpunctuated print wherein the devoted reader loses for a season all notion of locality and all thought of time and merely floats in a blessed trance on and on from line to line with nothing whatever to guide him except the confident assurance that he is in the keeping of an excellent pilot who knows the channel and all its soundings by heart and who will bring him safely into port when he decides that the time has finally arrived for doing so but not a moment before that time arrives, he being a most leisurely and easy-going pilot who enjoys the river scenery far more than he, does the harbour that waits at the end of all, who loves to hear the knocking of little waves against the prow of his craft and the rustle of ,the wake behind, who takes a keen pleasure in the dip and sway of the deck beneath his tread and in all the subtle rhythms of a ship that answers to the swing of broken water, so that those who embark with him upon a sentence might almost be advised to bid farewell to their friends and to wind up all their affairs, seeing that for a long time they must entrust themselves unreservedly to his guidance if they are to have a prosperous voyage, never offering to snatch the tiller from his experienced hand or betraying the slightest desire to land at any of the numberless piers and wharves he passes calmly by, contenting themselves with admiration of the consum­mate skill he shows in his steering, content with the knowledge that however bewildered they may grow on the lower reaches and wide­spreading estuaries of a sentence that widens slowly towards the close in masterly rallentando, he, their pilot, is never bewildered at all because he has clearly foreseen the end of his sentence in its beginning, has looked quite through from capital letter to period, from Alpha to Omega, and is keeping his alert and expert eye steadily fixed not only upon the channel ahead but also upon the chart of that channel which he has prepared afresh for this particular voyage—a fact which any patient reader may readily deduce from the certainty with which he steers his way among the multitude of shoals and bars that obstruct the current as well as from the observation that however interminable the sentence may seem to him, the reader, and however numerous or even wearying may seem its detours and ramifications and serpentine meanders, yet the meaning of that sentence is at every moment pellucidly clear so that a grammarian could parse it and a child could paraphrase its thought in a few words, although the gram­marian might possibly wish to break it up into a hundred or so of its component parts and the child might innocently wonder whether perhaps the printer whose ill-fortune it had been to set it up in print had not found at the last moment that his stock of periods was temporarily exhausted, the truth of the matter being, however, that the printer to whom that evil lot has fallen has still an ade­quate supply of periods in his font and that one of them will certainly be forthcoming when the younger Ruskin feels that the proper time for it has been reached, but until that time arrives—if we may now return to our metaphor—he, the pilot, must ask us to keep our metaphorical seats, to exercise a little patience, to remember how much more blessed it is to travel hopefully than to have arrived, to observe the excellent landscape through which we are passing all the time, and not to expect of an author that he do the work of a painter and a musician and an architect and a solo dancer all at once, as he, the younger Ruskin, is cheerfully prepared to do under the proper conditions, unless we are willing to give him a certain elbow-room, reposing in him meanwhile an unquestioning faith that the same man who has dared to lead us out upon this Odyssey of words will know how to get us home again and will bring us in due season, after wide and various wanderings, after show­ing us the wonders of the sky and earth and sea, after delighting our ears with volumed harmonies and blessing our eyes with deep expanses, will bring us, I say, at last—oh, at long last !—somewhat surprised and perhaps a little breathless, not hastily or abruptly, to be sure, but by gradual and easy approaches, like those of a yachtsman who prides himself as much upon his skill in landing as he does upon his sailorship on the open sea, to the end, the goal, the conclusion of his sentence, that is to say, to the full stop—in short, to the period.

Some people prefer short sentences.

Others prefer long ones.

On the whole, I prefer them neither very short nor very long.

Incidentally, the essay collection as one of the books August Courtauld had with him in his ice cap station, and he listed it as one of the books worth reading in his New Year Resolutions for 1931. Deliciously, given the title of the volume, he misremembered it as “The Art of Forgetting.”

Ayn Randed (nearly branded…)


There are two novels that can change a bookish fourteen-year old’s life: The Lord of the Rings and Atlas Shrugged. One is a childish fantasy that often engenders a lifelong obsession with its unbelievable heroes, leading to an emotionally stunted, socially crippled adulthood, unable to deal with the real world. The other, of course, involves orcs.

Original Page: Ephemera 2009 (7), http://kfmonkey.blogspot.com/2009/03/ephemera-2009-7.html?m=1, 19 March, 2009

The Plain-Chant Whinge


The flat top of the truncated pyramid was in fact quite large, with plenty of room for statues, priests, slabs, gutters, knife-chipping production lines and all the other things the Tezumen needed for the bulk disposal of religion. In front of Rincewind several priests were busily chanting a long list of complaints about swamps, mosquitoes, lack of metal ore, volcanoes, the weather, the way obsidian never kept its edge, the trouble with having a god like Quezovercoatl, the way wheels never worked properly however often you laid them flat and pushed them, and so on.

The prayers of most religions generally praise and thank the gods involved, either out of general piety or in the hope that he or she will take the hint and start acting responsibly. The Tezumen, having taken a long hard look around their world and decided bluntly that things were just about as bad as they were ever going to get, had perfected the art of the plain-chant whinge.

Terry Pratchett, Eric, Discworld 9 (London: Victor Gollancz; Corgi, 1991).

[H/T Dr Hannah Matis Perrett]

Here at the Beaker Folk, we are very keen to embrace people who claim to be “spiritual but not religious”. I find they tend to have very high discretionary spending levels, on things like self-help books, rosaries, tea lights and aromatherapy oils. Importantly, they aren’t often involved in regular standing-orders to religious organisations – which can be so tedious to transfer across – especially without asking them.


[Read more]

Getting the Diocesan Strapline Right

A guest post from the Rev’d Dr P.T. (name changed to protect the cynical):

As you will be aware one of the major tasks facing the dioceses of the Church of England is to ensure that they have the correct three word strapline or slogan. If we can only get that right then surely the kingdom will arrive. However some of you may be nervous that you are serving in a Diocese whose strapline is rubbish. That is why I have done extensive research and put the (rather limited selection of) words used to construct these straplines into a wordle. It is attached. If you belong to a Diocese where they say: ‘God transforming communities’, you could not be in a better place. If you are ‘empowering diverse worship’ you need to look for a move. I note that ‘Jesus’ and ‘love’ do not appear, and that ‘transform’ appears once in the NRSV translation of the Bible.

PS – the word fatuous never passed my lips.

Anonymous Irony Overload

Reported on BBC News

The former owner of a “revenge porn” website has been threatened by hacktivist collective Anonymous.

Hunter Moore used to post sexual images of men and women without their permission, along with links to their social networking profiles.

Mr Moore said he will launch a new site soon, telling one technology blog he would also post home addresses.

He later said he was “misquoted”, but Anonymous has said he must be held “accountable for his actions”.

“We will protect anyone who is victimised by abuse of our internet, we will prevent the stalking, rape, and possible murders as by-product of his sites,” the group said in a media release.

It added: “Operation anti-bully. Operation hunt Hunter engaged. We are Anonymous, we are legion, we do not forgive, we do not forget, Hunter Moore, expect us.”

So, “Anonymous” do hacking, but they don’t do irony?

Contra Individualism

“Indvidual” is a science-made word denoting an object-like, statistical idea. The proper term for a human being is “self” or “person”.

Jacques Barzun Science: the Glorious Entertainment, (Secker & Warburg, 1964), note on p. 197. Barzun died this month at the age of 104, after a distinguished career at Columbia.

Not sure I’d like to limit myself to being an “object-like, statistical idea”, and yet, to be an individual is the highest good in our society. All the better for being poured into the statistical manipulations required by post-modern corporatist capitalism?

Contra PowerPoint Pedagogy

One scientist, Professor Robert Heizer, has been heard to declare that “one idea is worth a thousand pictures,” and he accordingly prefers to teach by lecturing rather than by showing slides and films.

Jacques Barzun Science: the Glorious Entertainment, (Secker & Warburg, 1964), note on p. 155. Barzun died this month at the age of 104, after a distinguished career at Columbia.

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