Twain - Silent Death
Hey Folks,
I’ve been re-reading Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur’s Court and sharing pieces of Twain’s political commentary with you here (this is the 33rd entry) .
His insights remain pertinent to this day. We haven’t changed much from Twain’s day – or from King Arthur’s, for that matter.
Chapter 43 - The Yankee enters the cave, turns
off the current on the outer fences, and returns to the darkness - with
Clarence - to observe:
We started a whispered conversation, but suddenly
Clarence broke off and said -
“What is that?”
“That thing yonder?”
“What thing? - Where?”
“There beyond you a little piece - a dark something -
a dull shape of some kind - against the second fence.”
I gazed, he gazed. I said:
“Could it be a man, Clarence?”
“No, I think not. If you notice, it looks a lit -
why, it is a man! - leaning on the fence.”
“I certainly believe it is; let’s go and see.”
We crept along on our hands and knees until we were
pretty close, and then looked up. Yes, it was a man -
a dim great figure in armor, standing erect, with both
hands on the upper wire - and of course there was a
smell of burning flesh. Poor fellow, dead as a
doornail, and never knew what hurt him. He stood
there like a statue - no motion about him, except that
his plumes swished about a little in the night wind.
We rose up and looked in through the bars of his
visor, but couldn’t make out whether we knew him or
not - features too dim and shadowed.
We heard muffled sounds approaching, and we sank
down to the ground where we were. We made out
another knight vaguely; he was coming very stealthily,
and feeling his way. He was near enough now, for us to
see him put out a hand, find an upper wire, then bend
and step over it, then bend and step under it and over
the lower one. Now he arrived at the first knight -
and started slightly when he discovered him. He stood
a moment - no doubt wondering why the other one
didn’t move on; then he said, in a low voice, “Why
dreamest thou here, good Sir Mar-” then he laid his
hand on the corpse’s shoulder - and just uttered a
little soft moan and sunk down dead. Killed by a dead
man, you see - killed by a dead friend, in fact.
There was something awful about it.
I’ve been re-reading Mark Twain’s A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur’s Court and sharing pieces of Twain’s political commentary with you here (this is the 33rd entry) .
His insights remain pertinent to this day. We haven’t changed much from Twain’s day – or from King Arthur’s, for that matter.
Chapter 43 - The Yankee enters the cave, turns
off the current on the outer fences, and returns to the darkness - with
Clarence - to observe:
We started a whispered conversation, but suddenly
Clarence broke off and said -
“What is that?”
“That thing yonder?”
“What thing? - Where?”
“There beyond you a little piece - a dark something -
a dull shape of some kind - against the second fence.”
I gazed, he gazed. I said:
“Could it be a man, Clarence?”
“No, I think not. If you notice, it looks a lit -
why, it is a man! - leaning on the fence.”
“I certainly believe it is; let’s go and see.”
We crept along on our hands and knees until we were
pretty close, and then looked up. Yes, it was a man -
a dim great figure in armor, standing erect, with both
hands on the upper wire - and of course there was a
smell of burning flesh. Poor fellow, dead as a
doornail, and never knew what hurt him. He stood
there like a statue - no motion about him, except that
his plumes swished about a little in the night wind.
We rose up and looked in through the bars of his
visor, but couldn’t make out whether we knew him or
not - features too dim and shadowed.
We heard muffled sounds approaching, and we sank
down to the ground where we were. We made out
another knight vaguely; he was coming very stealthily,
and feeling his way. He was near enough now, for us to
see him put out a hand, find an upper wire, then bend
and step over it, then bend and step under it and over
the lower one. Now he arrived at the first knight -
and started slightly when he discovered him. He stood
a moment - no doubt wondering why the other one
didn’t move on; then he said, in a low voice, “Why
dreamest thou here, good Sir Mar-” then he laid his
hand on the corpse’s shoulder - and just uttered a
little soft moan and sunk down dead. Killed by a dead
man, you see - killed by a dead friend, in fact.
There was something awful about it.
1 Comments:
Hey Tom.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/cartoons/0,,337484,00.html
;)
Democracy is a wonderful thing isn't it?
HA HA HA
Have fun
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