“
Your tale is of the longest," observed Monks, moving restlessly in his chair.
It is a true tale of grief and trial, and sorrow, young man," returned Mr. Brownlow, "and such tales usually are; if it were one of unmixed joy and happiness, it would be very brief.
”
”
Charles Dickens (Oliver Twist)
“
A belligerent samurai, an old Japanese tale goes, once challenged a Zen master to explain the concept of heaven and hell. The monk replied with scorn, "You're nothing but a lout - I can't waste my time with the likes of you!"
His very honor attacked, the samurai flew into a rage and, pulling his sword from its scabbard, yelled "I could kill you for your impertinence."
"That," the monk calmly replied, "is hell."
Startled at seeing the truth in what the master pointed out about the fury that had him in its grip, the samurai calmed down, sheathed his sword, and bowed, thanking the monk for the insight.
"And that,"said the monk "is heaven."
The sudden awakening of the samurai to his own agitated state illustrates the crucial difference between being caught up in a feeling and becoming aware that you are being swept away by it. Socrates's injunction "Know thyself" speaks to the keystone of emotional intelligence: awareness of one's own feelings as they occur.
”
”
Daniel Goleman (Emotional Intelligence: Why It Can Matter More Than IQ)
“
She couldn’t picture anyone falling madly in love with such a person as Fish. What a name, Fish...Fish: think cold, slippery, detached. Benedict: think dry scholarly monk from the Dark Ages. Denniston: think English preparatory school, stolid country squire. Nothing about his name sounded the least bit romantic.
”
”
Regina Doman (Waking Rose (A Fairy Tale Retold #3))
“
There must be a Joke Monastery up here – and Joke Monks.’ He explained : ‘You see, they think the world was created as a joke, so everyone should give thanks by having a good laugh.
”
”
Terry Pratchett (Dragons at Crumbling Castle: And Other Tales)
“
No, there was a better story here. He would become Yuri, let the boy do the talking for him, and when the time came, the monk would be his chosen one--a boy who came from nothing, endowed with great power.
They'd loved Alina's little fairy tale. They'd love this one too.
”
”
Leigh Bardugo (Rule of Wolves (King of Scars, #2))
“
Good storytelling is one thing rural whites and Indians have in common. But native Americans have learned through harsh necessity that people who survive encroachment by another culture need story to survive. And a storytelling tradition is something Plains people share with both ancient and contemporary monks; we learn our ways of being and reinforce our values by telling tales about each other.
”
”
Kathleen Norris (Dakota: A Spiritual Geography)
“
Three things refuse to obey my will: the waters of the Kamo River, the fall of the backgammon dice, and the monks of the Enryakuji Temple.
”
”
Shirakawa
“
Ye sey right sooth; this Monk he clappeth lowde.
He spak how Fortune covered with a clowde
I noot nevere what; and als of a tragedie
Right now ye herde, and pardee, no remedie
It is for to biwaille ne compleyne
That that is doon, and als it is a peyne,
As ye han seyd, to heere of hevynesse.
Sire Monk, namoore of this, so God yow blesse!
Youre tale anoyeth al this compaignye.
Swich talkyng is nat worth a boterflye,
”
”
Geoffrey Chaucer (The Canterbury Tales)
“
torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
”
”
Charles Dickens (A Tale of Two Cities (Bantam Classics))
“
The Matriarchs The Tales of Terror Phasaelis and Herod Antipas My Life in Nazareth Lamentations for Susanna Jesus, Beloved Yaltha
”
”
Sue Monk Kidd (The Book of Longings)
“
Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards.
”
”
Charles Dickens (A Tale of Two Cities)
“
The Matriarchs The Tales of Terror Phasaelis and Herod Antipas My Life in Nazareth Lamentations for Susanna Jesus, Beloved Yaltha of Alexandria Chaya: Lost Daughter The Ways of the Therapeutae Thunder: Perfect Mind Remembering
”
”
Sue Monk Kidd (The Book of Longings)
“
Martin Luther was a thoroughly educated man but he wore this lightly. His sermons were littered with only examples and improving tales, drawing equally from the fables of Aesop and the follies of life he observed all around him.
”
”
Andrew Pettegree (Brand Luther: How an Unheralded Monk Turned His Small Town into a Center of Publishing, Made Himself the Most Famous Man in Europe—and Started the Protestant Reformation)
“
Lewis read Udolpho within days of it appearing, and there was much in the novel he would have found ‘interesting’: a persecuted and captive heroine, an implacable villain, mysterious infatuation and abduction, strange music, convents and Catholicism, robber gangs, hallucinatory occurrences and ghostly tales, a dark and claustrophobic castle, hidden corpses and the brooding omnipresence of death and murder, veiled figures, and secret passages and suffocating darkness. But
”
”
Matthew Gregory Lewis (The Monk)
“
A special attendant was detailed to wait upon each flower and to wash its leaves with soft brushes made of rabbit hair. It has been written ["Pingtse", by Yuenchunlang] that the peony should be bathed by a handsome maiden in full costume, that a winter-plum should be watered by a pale, slender monk. In Japan, one of the most popular of the No-dances, the Hachinoki, composed during the Ashikaga period, is based upon the story of an impoverished knight, who, on a freezing night, in lack of fuel for a fire, cuts his cherished plants in order to entertain a wandering friar. The friar is in reality no other than Hojo-Tokiyori, the Haroun-Al-Raschid of our tales, and the sacrifice is not without its reward. This opera never fails to draw tears from a Tokio audience even to-day.
”
”
Kakuzō Okakura (The Book of Tea)
“
The monks had murdered Danes and Ragnar had punished them, though these days the story is always told that the monks were innocently at prayer and died as spotless martyrs. In truth they were malevolent killers of women and children, but what chance does truth have when priests tell tales?
”
”
Bernard Cornwell (Lords of the North (The Saxon Stories, #3))
“
with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards.
”
”
Charles Dickens (A Tale of Two Cities)
“
France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
”
”
Charles Dickens (A Tale of Two Cities)
“
A scribe might copy out a single book for years. An illuminator would then take it and work on it for longer still. Not to mention the tanner who made the parchment, and the bookbinder who stitched the book together, and the librarian who worked to get the book for the library and keep it safe from mold and thieves and clumsy monks with ink pots and dirty hands.
”
”
Adam Gidwitz (The Inquisitor's Tale: Or, The Three Magical Children and Their Holy Dog)
“
When monks talk about happiness, they tell the story of the musk deer, a tale derived from a poem by Kabir, a fifteenth-century Indian mystic and poet. The musk deer picks up an irresistible scent in the forest and chases it, searching for the source, not realizing that the scent comes from its own pores. It spends its whole life wandering fruitlessly. In the same way we search for happiness, finding it elusive, when it can be found within us.
”
”
Jay Shetty (Think Like a Monk: Train Your Mind for Peace and Purpose Everyday)
“
And I read something else," Jacob goes on. "There was this discussion of the story of Cain and Abel, from the Bible. After Cain kills his brother, God says, 'The bloods of your brother call out to me.' Not blood. Bloods. Weird, right? So the Talmud tries to explain it."
"I can explain it," says William. "The scribe was drunk."
"William!" cries Jeanne. "The Bible is written by God!"
"And copied by scribes," the big boy replies. "Who get drunk. A lot. Trust me."
Jacob is laughing. "The rabbis have a different explanation. The Talmud says it's 'bloods' because Cain didn't only spill Abel's blood. He spilled the blood of Abel and all the descendants he never had."
"Huh!"
"And then it says something like, 'Whoever destroys a single life destroys the whole world. And whoever saves a single life saves the whole world."
There are sheep in the meadow beside the road. Gwenforte walks up to the low stone wall, and one sheep--a ram--doesn't run away. They sniff each other's noses. Her white fur beside the ram's wool--two textures, two colors, both called white in our inadequate language.
Jeanne is thinking about something. At last, she shares it. "William, you said that it takes a lifetime to make a book."
"That's right."
"One book? A whole lifetime?"
William nods. "A scribe might copy out a single book for years. An illuminator would then take it and work on it for longer still. Not to mention the tanner who made the parchment, and the bookbinder who stitched the book together, and the librarian who worked to get the book for the library and keep it safe from mold and thieves and clumsy monks with ink pots and dirty hands. And some books have authors, too, like Saint Augustine or Rabbi Yehuda. When you think about it, each book is a lot of lives. Dozens and dozens of them."
Dozens and dozens of lives," Jeanne says. "And each life a whole world."
"We saved five books," says Jacob. "How many worlds is that?"
William smiles. "I don't know. A lot. A whole lot.
”
”
Adam Gidwitz (The Inquisitor's Tale: Or, The Three Magical Children and Their Holy Dog)
“
In Buddhism monks recite daily the Five Remembrances, which are: I will lose my youth, my health, my dear ones and everything I hold dear, and finally lose life itself, by the very nature of my being human. These are bitter reminders that the only thing that continues is the consequences of our action. The fact that all the things we hold dear and love are transient does not mean that we should love them less but—as I do Karen and Serena—love them even more. Suffering, the Buddha said, if it does not diminish love, will transport you to the farther shore.
”
”
Huston Smith (Tales of Wonder: Adventures Chasing the Divine, an Autobiography)
“
Wynter's Pass was a picturesque region in the north of Vohlfhein, where the Bleak Hills eventually collapsed into the Frozen Sea. From the back of Mr. Buckles, who had been on a slow trot since sunrise, Monch watched the light glisten off of the frozen branches of the evergreens. As the sun warmed the frozen ground, sending the evening's frost into retreat, Monch absorbed the splendor of it all and wondered how expensive the local real estate must be around here. He then contemplated attempting to find an agent that would represent his interests well.
"This land is such a spectacular wonder," the Lion of Ahriman declared. "It would be very much sought after if they could just do something about the bears, the White Orts, the wolves, the bloodthirsty cannibals, the snow manapés, the frost wizards, the northern bandit gangs, the dire lynxes, the similarly sounding but not related pygmy bloodthirsty cannibals, the demon possessed yaks, the dead-soul animated trees, the..." Monch paused for a moment.
"It just occurred to me that this land is really not safe at all. It seems almost everything in it wants to kill me," the Templar admitted.
”
”
D.F. Monk (Tales of Yhore: The Chronicles of Monch)
“
Monch was on no simple retreat. The journey he had plotted for himself was much longer, and took him many buckets away from Appollon to Angarr's Sorrow, the land of fetid bogs in southeastern Sarthiss. This was a world far away from everything he knew... from everyone he knew. Granted, the list of people he knew was exceptionally short, especially since Monch was horrible with names and only slightly less horrible with faces. Regardless, he did not wish to accidentally advertise his inexperience to anyone he might possibly know, which is why he travelled so far afield.
There were ruins in the swamps, ruins hidden under years of neglect and heavy with decay. Things lurked in those ruins, inhuman beasts with forbidden hungers. He intended to use the dangers of the swamps as the whetstone that would hone his abilities to a razor-keen edge. Monch would test his blade against and come back all the stronger...
...or dead.
No... that wasn't right. Given the fact that he was immortal, death really wasn't an option. So then, he would come back stronger...
...or something something horrible. Monch decided to fill in those particular details later on, when he had time to ponder his autobiography at length. He would tidy up that particular idiom later.
”
”
D.F. Monk (Tales of Yhore: The Chronicles of Monch)
“
Because it wasn’t enough to be accompanied by the beast who scared the crap out of every god in Heaven, Xuanzang was assigned a few more traveling companions. The gluttonous pig-man Zhu Baijie. Sha Wujing, the repentant sand demon. And the Dragon Prince of the West Sea, who took the form of a horse for Xuanzang to ride. The five adventurers, thusly gathered, set off on their—
“Holy ballsacks!” I yelped. I dropped the book like I’d been bitten.
“How far did you get?” Quentin said.
He was leaning against the end of the nearest shelf, as casually as if he’d been there the whole time, waiting for this moment.
I ignored that he’d snuck up on me again, just this once. There was a bigger issue at play.
In the book was an illustration of the group done up in bold lines and bright colors. There was Sun Wukong at the front, dressed in a beggar’s cassock, holding his Ruyi Jingu Bang in one hand and the reins of the Dragon Horse in the other. A scary-looking pig-faced man and a wide-eyed demon monk followed, carrying the luggage. And perched on top of the horse was . . . me.
The artist had tried to give Xuanzang delicate, beatific features and ended up with a rather girly face. By whatever coincidence, the drawing of Sun Wukong’s old master could have been a rough caricature of sixteen-year-old Eugenia Lo from Santa Firenza, California.
“That’s who you think I am?” I said to Quentin.
“That’s who I know you are,” he answered. “My dearest friend. My boon companion. You’ve reincarnated into such a different form, but I’d recognize you anywhere. Your spiritual energies are unmistakable.”
“Are you sure? If you’re from a long time ago, maybe your memory’s a little fuzzy.”
“The realms beyond Earth exist on a different time scale,” Quentin said. “Only one day among the gods passes for every human year. To me, you haven’t been gone long. Months, not centuries.”
“This is just . . . I don’t know.” I took a moment to assemble my words. “You can’t walk up to me and expect me to believe right away that I’m the reincarnation of some legendary monk from a folk tale.”
“Wait, what?” Quentin squinted at me in confusion.
“I said you can’t expect me to go, ‘okay, I’m Xuanzang,’ just because you tell me so.”
Quentin’s mouth opened slowly like the dawning of the sun. His face went from confusion to understanding to horror and then finally to laughter.
“mmmmphhhhghAHAHAHAHA!” he roared. He nearly toppled over, trying to hold his sides in. “HAHAHAHA!”
“What the hell is so funny?”
“You,” Quentin said through his giggles. “You’re not Xuanzang. Xuanzang was meek and mild. A friend to all living things. You think that sounds like you?”
It did not. But then again I wasn’t the one trying to make a case here.
“Xuanzang was delicate like a chrysanthemum.” Quentin was getting a kick out of this. “You are so tough you snapped the battleaxe of the Mighty Miracle God like a twig. Xuanzang cried over squashing a mosquito. You, on the other hand, have killed more demons than the Catholic Church.”
I was starting to get annoyed. “Okay, then who the hell am I supposed to be?” If he thought I was the pig, then this whole deal was off.
“You’re my weapon,” he said. “You’re the Ruyi Jingu Bang.”
I punched Quentin as hard as I could in the face.
”
”
F.C. Yee (The Epic Crush of Genie Lo (The Epic Crush of Genie Lo, #1))
“
nder the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history.
”
”
Charles Dickens (A Tale of Two Cities)
“
Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history.
”
”
Charles Dickens (A Tale of Two Cities)
“
I have been all day thinking of a legend," he said. "I don't remember whether I have read it somewhere or heard it, but it is a strange and almost grotesque legend. To begin with, it is somewhat obscure. A thousand years ago a monk, dressed in black, wandered about the desert, somewhere in Syria or Arabia. . . . Some miles from where he was, some fisherman saw another black monk, who was moving slowly over the surface of a lake. This second monk was a mirage. Now forget all the laws of optics, which the legend does not recognise, and listen to the rest. From that mirage there was cast another mirage, then from that other a third, so that the image of the black monk began to be repeated endlessly from one layer of the atmosphere to another. So that he was seen at one time in Africa, at another in Spain, then in Italy, then in the Far North. . . . Then he passed out of the atmosphere of the earth, and now he is wandering all over the universe, still never coming into conditions in which he might disappear. Possibly he may be seen now in Mars or in some star of the Southern Cross. But, my dear, the real point on which the whole legend hangs lies in the fact that, exactly a thousand years from the day when the monk walked in the desert, the mirage will return to the atmosphere of the earth again and will appear to men. And it seems that the thousand years is almost up . . . . According to the legend, we may look out for the black monk to-day or to-morrow.
”
”
Anton Chekhov (The Lady with the Dog and Other Stories (The Tales of Chekhov, #3))
“
It reminds him of a tale the elder monks told him once, when he was a youngster: the Last Ride of the Tiger Tickler. There was, according to fiction, a man who came upon an untended tiger cub. He took it home and raised it, and, when it was fully grown, he took to riding into town on its back. He steered the beast with a silk handkerchief: he’d lean forward and flick the tiger’s left or right ear to make it turn, or brush its nose to make it start or stop. Of course, the tiger, brought up on milk and honey lapped from a bowl held in the kind man’s hands, didn’t know any better, so he went along with it. Disregarding the tiresome details of the tale, when the Tiger Tickler mistakenly rides into town on a different tiger, who despite similar build and markings has a radically different opinion as to the rightful place of mankind (namely in, not on), everybody gets eaten up.
”
”
David Whiteland (Book of Pages)
“
There’s a story that comes from the tradition of the Desert Fathers, an order of Christian monks who lived in the wastelands of Egypt about seventeen hundred years ago. In the tale, a couple of monks named Theodore and Lucius shared the acute desire to go out and see the world. Since they’d made vows of contemplation, however, this was not something they were allowed to do. So, to satiate their wanderlust, Theodore and Lucius learned to “mock their temptations” by relegating their travels to the future. When the summertime came, they said to each other, “We will leave in the winter.” When the winter came, they said, “We will leave in the summer.” They went on like this for over fifty years, never once leaving the monastery or breaking their vows. Most of us, of course, have never taken such vows—but we choose to live like monks anyway, rooting ourselves to a home or a career and using the future as a kind of phony ritual that justifies the present. In this way, we end up spending (as Thoreau put it) “the best part of one’s life earning money in order to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it.” We’d love to drop all and explore the world outside, we tell ourselves, but the time never seems right. Thus, given an unlimited amount of choices, we make none. Settling into our lives, we get so obsessed with holding on to our domestic certainties that we forget why we desired them in the first place. Vagabonding is about gaining the courage to loosen your grip on the so-called certainties of this world. Vagabonding is about refusing to exile travel to some other, seemingly more appropriate, time of your life. Vagabonding is about taking control of your circumstances instead of passively waiting for them to decide your fate. Thus, the question of how and when to start vagabonding is not really a question at all. Vagabonding starts now. Even if the practical reality of travel is still months or years away, vagabonding begins the moment you stop making excuses, start saving money, and begin to look at maps with the narcotic tingle of possibility. From here, the reality of vagabonding comes into sharper focus as you adjust your worldview and begin to embrace the exhilarating uncertainty that true travel promises. In this way, vagabonding is not a merely a ritual of getting immunizations and packing suitcases. Rather, it’s the ongoing practice of looking and learning, of facing fears and altering habits, of cultivating a new fascination with people and places. This attitude is not something you can pick up at the airport counter with your boarding pass; it’s a process that starts at home. It’s a process by which you first test the waters that will pull you to wonderful new places.
”
”
Rolf Potts (Vagabonding: An Uncommon Guide to the Art of Long-Term World Travel)
“
Ye are stirring up a lot of trouble, arenae ye?” “Me? I just came to explore this building. She is the one stirring up trouble. She wants Cathal, I think.” “She does, e’en though his Outsider blood sickens her. Edmee would like to be the lady of Cambrun. She has ne’er been able to convince Cathal of that, however. It doesnae help her cause that she makes her contempt of his mother so verra clear. Cathal has ne’er intended to wed with a MacNachton, either. He wants bairns.” Bridget frowned at him. “There is a wee bit more to me than a womb, ye ken.” “Och, aye, a wee bit.” He laughed when she softly hissed in annoyance, then grew serious. “O’er the last few days ’tis evident neither of ye will suffer in the making of a bairn.” He only briefly smiled at her blushes. “Tis a blessing, that. And where is the insult in a mon thinking a woman a good choice as mother to his bairns?” None, she supposed, but she was not about to admit it. “There should be more.” “Ah, poor lass, so unsure of yourself.” He nimbly danced out of her reach when she tried to hit him. “The only thing I will say is that, compared to the rest of us, Cathal is nearly a monk. He isnae one to be caught in embraces with a lass round every corner. And, aye, mayhap he thinks too much on a bairn, but ’tisnae just an heir he seeks, is it? Tis the salvation of his people. Tis no small thing that. So, do ye cease teasing the fool and say aye?” Bridget sighed. “Tisnae an easy thing to decide. Tisnae just my fate, but that of my children I must consider and ye ask me to do it in but a week.” “We are but a wee bit different.” “Och, aye, ye are that.” “But, that shouldnae trouble a Callan, I think.” He sighed when she did not respond to that remark. “We arenae what ye think we are, lass. Nay exactly. I dinnae believe the soulless dead breed bairns.” He smiled gently at the look of consternation that briefly crossed her face. “We are but different. Cursed in some ways, blessed in others, but ’tis Cathal who must tell ye the tale.
”
”
Hannah Howell (The Eternal Highlander (McNachton Vampires, #1))
“
Although they made it their own, the Vikings were not the first explorers of the North Atlantic. For at least two centuries before the beginning of the Viking Age, Irish monks had been setting out in their curachs in search of remote islands where they could contemplate the divine in perfect solitude, disturbed only by the cries of seabirds and the crashing of the waves on the shore. The monks developed a tradition of writing imrama, travel tales, the most famous of which is the Navigatio sancti Brendani abbatis (The Voyage of St Brendan the Abbot). The Navigatio recounts a voyage purported to have been made by St Brendan (d. c. 577) in search of the mythical Isles of the Blessed, which were believed to lie somewhere in the western ocean. The imrama certainly show a familiarity with the North Atlantic–the Navigatio, for example, describes what are probably icebergs, volcanoes and whales–but they also include so many fantastical and mythological elements that it is impossible to disentangle truth from invention. There is no evidence to support claims that are often made that St Brendan discovered America before the Vikings, but Irish monks certainly did reach the Faeroe Islands and Iceland before them. Ash from peat fires containing charred barley grains found in windblown sand deposits at Á Sondum on Sandoy in the southern Faeroes has been radiocarbon-dated to between the fourth and sixth centuries AD. Although no trace of buildings has yet been found, the ash probably came from domestic hearths and had been thrown out onto the sand to help control erosion, which was a common practice at the time. As peat was not used as a fuel in Scandinavia at this time but was widely used in Britain and Ireland, this evidence suggests that seafaring Irish monks had discovered the Faeroes not long after Ireland’s conversion to Christianity. No physical traces of an Irish presence in Iceland have been found in modern times, but early Viking settlers claimed that they found croziers and other ecclesiastical artefacts there. There are also two papar place-names (see here) associated with Irish monks, Papos and Papey, in the east of Iceland. The monks, all being celibate males, did not found any permanent self-sustaining communities in either place: they were always visitors rather than settlers.
”
”
John Haywood (Northmen: The Viking Saga, 793-1241 AD)
“
Rainbow Monk -
What waits there beyond death's door?
Golden Master -
Four as One beloved Rainbow....
Infinite Spirit,
Light,
Love,
and Manifestation
All is One
”
”
Leland Lewis (Angelic Tales of The Universe. Tale 1. The Ancient Woman, The Secret Cave)
“
In this latter sense the Buddha has defined trivial talk. He said: If the mind of a monk inclines to talking, he should think thus: “I shall not engage in the low kind of talk that is vulgar, worldly and unprofitable; that does not lead to detachment, dispassionateness, cessation, tranquility, direct knowledge, enlightenment, Nirvana; namely talk about kings, thieves, ministers, armies, famine and war; about eating, drinking, clothing and lodgings; about garlands, perfumes, relatives, vehicles, villages, towns, cities and countries; about women and wine, the gossip of the street and the well, talk about ancestors, about various trifles, tales about the origins of the world and the sea, talk about things being so or otherwise, and similar matters.” Thus he has clear comprehension. “But talk that is helpful for leading the austere life, useful for mental clarity, that leads to complete detachment, dispassionateness, cessation, tranquility, direct knowledge, enlightenment and Nibbana; that is talk on frugality, contentedness, solitude, seclusion, application of energy, virtue, concentration, wisdom, deliverance and on the knowledge and vision bestowed by deliverance—in such talk shall I engage.” Thus he has clear comprehension.
”
”
Erich Fromm (The Art of Being)
“
As if this wasn’t enough, word spread of a new peril. Enemy troops masquerading as refugees were said to be infiltrating the lines. From now on, the orders ran, all women were to be challenged by rifle. What next? wondered Lance Bombardier Gentry; Germans in drag! Fear of Fifth Columnists spread like an epidemic. Everyone had his favorite story of German paratroopers dressed as priests and nuns. The men of one Royal Signals maintenance unit told how two “monks” visited their quarters just before a heavy bombing attack. Others warned of enemy agents, disguised as Military Police, deliberately misdirecting convoys. There were countless tales of talented “farmers” who cut signs in corn and wheat fields pointing to choice targets. Usually the device was an arrow; sometimes a heart; and in one instance the III Corps fig leaf emblem. The
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Walter Lord (The Miracle of Dunkirk (Wordsworth Collection))
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The story starts with the merging of two heritages, Christian and pagan, as monks reclaimed beer from the shaman, codifying his belief system and marrying it to their own. Early
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William Bostwick (The Brewer's Tale: A History of the World According to Beer)
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But racism is most outrageously to the fore in ‘Ashraf and Anjab’, in which the sadistically villainous Anjab is described by Harun al-Rashid as follows: ‘This man is black as a negro … with red eyes, a nose like a clay pot and lips like kidneys’, and his mother is no better looking for she ‘was black as pitch with a snub nose, red eyes and an unpleasant smell’. In ‘Sa‘id Son of Hatim’ the monk Simeon predicts that the shrine of the Ka’ba will be destroyed by drunken and singing blacks. As Bernard Lewis’s Race and Slavery in the Middle East put it when discussing the role of blacks in The Thousand and One Nights, it ‘reveals a familiar pattern of sexual fantasy, social and occupational discrimination, and an unthinking identification of lighter with better and darker with worse’.9
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Malcolm C. Lyons (Tales of the Marvellous and News of the Strange)
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A belligerent samurai, an old Japanese tale goes, once challenged a Zen master to explain the concept of heaven and hell. But the monk replied with scorn, “You’re nothing but a lout—I can’t waste my time with the likes of you!” His very honor attacked, the samurai flew into a rage and, pulling his sword from its scabbard, yelled, “I could kill you for your impertinence.” “That,” the monk calmly replied, “is hell.” Startled at seeing the truth in what the master pointed out about the fury that had him in its grip, the samurai calmed down, sheathed his sword, and bowed, thanking the monk for the insight. “And that,” said the monk, “is heaven.” The sudden awakening of the samurai to his own agitated state illustrates the crucial difference between being caught up in a feeling and becoming aware that you are being swept away by it. Socrates’s injunction “Know thyself” speaks to this keystone of emotional intelligence: awareness of one’s own feelings as they occur.
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Daniel Goleman (Emotional Intelligence)
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Radhanath Swami once told me a story from the Bhagavad Gita about Krishna as a boy that exemplifies the necessity for lightness and joy when confronting dark power. As is often the case in mythical tales, a village was besieged by the mischief and evil perpetrated by a tyrannical and wicked serpent. This serpent was a real arsehole and was living in the lake where the villagers got all their water. He had multiple heads – that means he was a hydra, a many-headed monster – and he had a few wives too. Oddly they are depicted as human, and if you don’t mind my saying so, quite fit. When I saw them, in the form of a statue depicting the event, I was peeved that this venomous troublemaker got to live in his lake with such top-notch crumpet. To say nothing of the fact that there were two of them. In the proper version of the story, when told by a monk (to me in my garden),
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Russell Brand (Revolution)
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to.” “And only have one wife?” “Only one wife. They’re strict about that.” He thought about it. “I still think I should do it,” he said, “because Eadred’s god does have power. Look at that dead man! It’s a miracle that he hasn’t rotted away!” The Danes were fascinated by Eadred’s relics. Most did not understand why a group of monks would carry a corpse,
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Bernard Cornwell (The Saxon Tales 4 Book Collection (The Last Kingdom, The Pale Horseman, Lords of the North, Sword Song))
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I've found the Great Silence, and I've come to see that the noise was inside.
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Theophane the Monk (Tales of a Magic Monastery)
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I walked up to an old, old monk and asked him, 'What is the audacity of humility?' The man had never met me before, but do you know what his answer was? 'To be the first to say "I love you.
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Theophane the Monk (Tales of a Magic Monastery)
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The problem is not TIME; the problem is HEAVINESS.
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Theophane the Monk (Tales of a Magic Monastery)
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An ancient tale tells of a novice who asked an enlightened monk to reveal the secret of happiness. The monk told him, “I eat, and I walk and I sleep.” When the novice replied that he also did these things, the monk replied, “When I eat, I eat. When I walk, I walk. When I sleep, I sleep.
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David Michie (Mindfulness Is Better Than Chocolate: A Practical Guide to Enhanced Focus and Lasting Happiness in a World of Distractions)
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A belligerent samurai, an old Japanese tale goes, once challenged a Zen master to explain the concept of heaven and hell. But the monk replied with scorn, "You're nothing but a lout—I can't waste my time with the likes of you!" His very honor attacked, the samurai flew into a rage and, pulling his sword from its scabbard, yelled, "I could kill you for your impertinence." "That," the monk calmly replied, "is hell." Startled at seeing the truth in what the master pointed out about the fury that had him in its grip, the samurai calmed down, sheathed his sword, and bowed, thanking the monk for the insight. "And that," said the monk, "is heaven." The sudden awakening of the samurai to his own agitated state illustrates the crucial difference between being caught up in a feeling and becoming aware that you are being swept away by it. Socrates's injunction "Know thyself speaks to this keystone of emotional intelligence: awareness of one's own feelings as they occur.
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Daniel Goleman (Emotional Intelligence: Why It Can Matter More Than IQ)
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In this world we cannot afford to be careless. When travelling, keep the money in your waistband out of sight. Do not display your knife to a drunkard, and don't show your daughter to a monk, even if he seems to have given up the world
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Saikaku Ihara (Five Women Who Loved Love: Amorous Tales from 17th-century Japan)
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When an entire world had abandoned us, or at least while we felt like that, and even when nasty ogres killed my monk and Arnd's chevalier the brutal way, gathering to be a group of heroes & heroines gave us the recovery and idealism to live-on nonetheless.
I had hate, contempt, puzzled looks, and sometimes even understanding for those mainstreamers who knew nothing but sex about adulthood. As I have the roots of a European Barbarian who shared his tales at the campfire (old way of books) PLUS knowing that the intimicy of a mature relationship can be spoiled by sex, but it can never be built and maintained by sex alone...
Nah, much to contemplative and honest. Let's link-in some light-hearted fun:
Mikey Mason, over at youtube dot come has the songs 'Best Game Ever, and Summer of 83'...
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Andrè M. Pietroschek
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When an entire world had abandoned us, or at least while we felt like that, and even when nasty ogres killed my monk and Arnd's chevalier the brutal way, gathering to be a group of heroes & heroines gave us the recovery and idealism to live-on nonetheless.
I had hate, contempt, puzzled looks, and sometimes even understanding for those mainstreamers who knew nothing but sex about adulthood. As I have the roots of a European Barbarian who shared his tales at the campfire (old way of books) PLUS knowing that the intimacy of a mature relationship can be spoiled by sex, but it can never be built and maintained by sex alone...
Nah, much to contemplative and honest. Let's link-in some light-hearted fun:
Mikey Mason, over at youtube dot com has the songs 'Best Game Ever, and Summer of 83'...
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Andrè M. Pietroschek (Attempted Poetry)
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Good describes a situation in comparison with its opposite. Not only that, but what is good or bad also depends on context, which itself is changeable.
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Nathan Tamblyn (The Monk's Tale: Stories about Happiness)
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most of us never really grow up or mature all that much — we simply grow taller. Oh, to be sure, we laugh less and play less and wear uncomfortable disguises like adults, but beneath the costume is the child we always are, whose needs are simple, whose daily life is still best described by fairy tales.
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Robin S. Sharma (Who Will Cry When You Die?: Life Lessons From The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari)
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They’re mean bastards, those monks,” I said. I was supposed to deliver a weekly cartload of firewood to Saint Rumwold’s, but that was a duty I ignored. The monks could cut their own timber. “Who was Rumwold?” I asked Willibald. I knew the answer, but wanted to drag Willibald through the thorns. “He was a very pious child, lord,” he said. “A child?” “A baby,” he said, sighing as he saw where the conversation was leading, “a mere three days old when he died.” “A three-day-old baby is a saint?” Willibald flapped his hands. “Miracles happen, lord,” he said, “they really do. They say little Rumwold sang God’s praises whenever he suckled.” “I feel much the same when I get hold of a tit,” I said, “so does that make me a saint?” Willibald shuddered, then sensibly changed the subject.
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Bernard Cornwell (The Saxon Tales Collection 4 Book Set (The Burning Land, The Death of Kings, The Pagan Lord, The Empty Throne))
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Instead of working from a place of favour and out of a secure identity, we worked for favour and to have an identity! Our reason for living wasn’t life itself. We weren’t satisfied with the life that we had, so we did all we could to disengage from life and in so doing created for ourselves some sort of false world which was only relevant to those living in it! No wonder guys wanted nothing to do with us. No wonder our families and old friends thought that we had totally lost the plot and feared for our sanity! Religion is no different the world over, they honour what their traditions say are relevant and in so doing they make themselves irrelevant to all around them! A form of godliness but with no real power!
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David Vaughan (Tales from the Couch - Memoirs of a Drunk Monk)
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I have done everything that you have asked, Brother Saxon,’ he told Eadulf. ‘Brother Madagan has regained consciousness but is weak. Abbot Ségdae has also recovered and is trying to organise the brethren to face our enemies with more discipline.’ He glanced rather shamefaced at Fidelma. ‘We did not acquit ourselves well at the gate when the warrior came, Sister. For that I must apologise.’ Fidelma was forgiving. ‘You are Brothers of the Faith and not warriors. There is no blame on you.’ She was still peering anxiously southward where she had detected the movement of a body of horsemen. Brother
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Peter Tremayne (The Monk who Vanished (Sister Fidelma Mysteries Book 7): A twisted medieval tale set in 7th century Ireland)
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No-one can own our Lord Buddha. That would be a foolish claim, but the roads that lead to him, the Way... That is a different matter. They are all filled with toll-gates, like the roads of Japan, and the monks collect the fees.
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Erik Christian Haugaard (The Samurai's Tale)
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...The words of explanation Edward long to say grew tangled in smoky perfume and wet tendrils of long fair hair, conflicting thoughts of assassins and magic, insane monks and false nuns and holy quests and somewhere, long ago, the tale of a wild witch of the wood with whom, if a man fell in love, he was lost forever....
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Margaret Weis (Mistress of Dragons (The Dragonvarld Trilogy, #1))
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Declară război gândurilor slabe care s-au strecurat in palatul mintii tale.Ele vor vedea că sunt nedorite și vor pleca asemenea unor oaspeți care simt că nu sunt bineveniți.
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Robin S. Sharma (The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari: A Fable About Fulfilling Your Dreams and Reaching Your Destiny)
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During my time here, I learnt that one could not escape the secular world anymore than one could escape the web of karma that one had sown. True enlightenment comes not from isolation but immersion. The monks in the temples never really abandoned the world. Their doors were always open, and they took up arms when necessary as they had demonstrated countless times before. Their severance with attachment was to connect them with greater compassion, a higher love.
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J. Lam (Snow at Heaven's Edge: A Tale from the Carefree Swordsman Saga)
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It is the simple narrative of an uneducated and unprotected female, who escaped from the old Black Nunnery of Montreal, or Hotel Dieu, and told her tale of sufferings and horrors, without exaggeration or embellishment. Though assailed by all the powers of the Romish priesthood, whom she accused, and by the united influence of the North American press, which, with very small exceptions, was then unenlightened by the discoveries of the present day, the book remains unimpeached, and still challenges the test of fair and open examination.
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Maria Monk (Awful Disclosures Containing, Also, Many Incidents Never before Published)
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For the time being, standing on the tallest mountaintop,
For the time being, moving on the deepest ocean floor,
For the time being, a demon with three heads and eight arms,
For the time being, the golden sixteen-foot body of a buddha,
For the time being, a monk's staff or a master's fly- swatter,
For the time being, a pillar or a lantern, For the time being, any Dick or Jane,
For the time being, the entire earth and the boundless sky.
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Ruth Ozeki (A Tale for the Time Being)
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Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!” — Tales From The Crypt, HBO, 1999–1996
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Camilla Monk (Island Chaptal and the Ancient Aliens’ Treasure (Spotless, #5))
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A belligerent samurai, an old Japanese tale goes, once challenged a Zen master to explain the concept of heaven and hell. But the monk replied with scorn, “You’re nothing but a lout— I can’t waste my time with the likes of you!” His very honor attacked, the samurai flew into a rage and, pulling his sword from its scabbard, yelled, “I could kill you for your impertinence.”“That,” the monk calmly replied, “is hell.
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Daniel Goleman (Emotional Intelligence)
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A belligerent samurai, an old Japanese tale goes, once challenged a Zen master to explain the concept of heaven and hell. But the monk replied with scorn, “You’re nothing but a lout— I can’t waste my time with the likes of you!” His very honor attacked, the samurai flew into a rage and, pulling his sword from its scabbard, yelled, “I could kill you for your impertinence.”“That,” the monk calmly replied, “is hell.” Startled at seeing the truth in what the master pointed out about the fury that had him in its grip, the samurai calmed down, sheathed his sword , and bowed, thanking the monk for the insight. “And that,” said the monk, “is heaven.
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Daniel Goleman (Emotional Intelligence)
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This is the chapter in which he praises his young monks for their commitment to a path of awakening and explicates the granular nature of time: the 6,400,099,980 moments40 that constitute a single day. His point is that every single one of those moments provides an opportunity to reestablish our will. Even the snap of a finger, he says, provides us with sixty-five opportunities to wake up and to choose actions that will produce beneficial karma and turn our lives around.
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Ruth Ozeki (A Tale for the Time Being)
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The Monk then undertook to tell us the history of the world -- an over-ambitious project, I thought, but it passed the time.
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Geraldine McCaughrean (The Canterbury Tales)
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For me, walking in a hard Dakota wind can be like staring at the ocean: humbled before its immensity, I also have a sense of being at home on this planet, my blood so like the sea in chemical composition, my every cell partaking of air. I live about as far from the sea as is possible in North America, yet I walk in a turbulent ocean. Maybe that child was right when he told me that the world is upside-down here, and this is where angels drown. Listening to the voice of the sky, I wonder: how do we tell our tales, how can we hope to record them? I’d like to believe that deep in our bones the country people of Dakota, like poets, like monks, are, as Jean Cocteau once said of poetry, “useless but indispensable.
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Kathleen Norris (Dakota: A Spiritual Geography (Dakotas))
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Jesus is just one among many folktales claiming resurrection from the dead or people taken to heaven. Such tales abound in various ancient cultures; examples include tales concerning Osiris, Romulus, and Asclepius (Carrier 2009, pp. 87–88). In the Buddhist tradition the sixth-century monk Bodhidharma was said to have been seen carrying his sandals and walking home after he died and was buried, and when his disciples opened up his grave the body was supposed to be missing. Additionally, there are various similarities (virgin birth, resurrection, etc.) between the stories of Jesus and the deities of other religions such as Mitra, Krishna, etc., even though these religions affirm different theologies from Christianity.
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Andrew Loke (Investigating the Resurrection of Jesus Christ: A New Transdisciplinary Approach (Routledge New Critical Thinking in Religion, Theology and Biblical Studies))
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You are only superior to the man my uncle proposes in two ways.” “Oh?” “You are forty years younger and you don’t wish to kill me.” “I’m certain both of those will change given enough time.” “Three things. You have a sense of humour.
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April Munday (The Monk's Tale (The Soldiers of Fortune #2))
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From the plotting of strangers and iniquitous
Monks, as the water flows from the fountain,
Sad and heavy will be the day of Cadwallon.
The lines come from the Red Book of Hergest, a collection of Welsh poems written in the late-fourteenth century but containing material that is much older.
This brings us, neatly, to J. R. R. Tolkien. For according to a learned authorial conceit, the source of his tales of Middle-earth was the Red Book of Westmarch. Tolkien was the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon at Oxford University and one of his aims was to create a mythology for England, as the Red Book of Hergest, which contains the Mabinogion and other material, could be said to preserve the mythology of the Britons.
Many if not all the writers and scholars involved in Anglo-Saxon studies first came to the field through reading the professor’s stories – and I am one of them, so it is no accident that this story is called Oswald: Return of the King, in tribute and homage. Tolkien writes of Oswald in his seminal essay Beowulf: The Monsters and the Critics and the parallels between him and Aragorn – rightful king in exile returning to claim the throne – are obvious.
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Edoardo Albert (Oswald: Return of the King (The Northumbrian Thrones, #2))
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[T]here is another side to this Christian story, one that is worlds away from the bookish monks and careful copyists of legend. It is a far less glorious tale of how some philosophers were beaten, tortured, interrogated and exiled and their beliefs forbidden; it is a story of how intellectuals set light to their own libraries in fear. And it is above all a story that is told by absences: of how literature lost its liberty; how certain topics dropped from philosophical debate – and then started to vanish from the pages of history. It is a story of silence.
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Catherine Nixey (The Darkening Age: The Christian Destruction of the Classical World)
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In the early eleventh century AD, a monk called Orderic Vitalis recorded a tale that had been told to him by a young priest, Walchelin. Returning from a sick call late at night, the priest had heard what he thought sounded like an approaching army. Taking shelter between four medlar trees he watched as the group approached, and saw to his horror that it was not a living army but a procession of the dead, all being punished for the sins they had committed while they were alive. Passing by his hiding place, Walchelin saw thieves forced to tote impossibly heavy sacks of their ill-gotten loot, a murderer whipped by demons, ‘lecherous’ women on saddles made of nails, plenty of badly behaved knights – even a segment of corrupt churchmen, which caused Orderic to muse that while men faultily judge from external appearances of goodness, God knows better.xiii This is the first attestation we have of a group of the dead parading through the night, and, according to Orderic, like all good monsters, they had a fondness for Christmastime – Walchelin stumbled across them on 1 January.
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Sarah Clegg (The Dead of Winter: Beware the Krampus and Other Wicked Christmas Creatures)
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The Bodhi Tree Grows in L.A.
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Bhante Walpola Piyananda (The Bodhi Tree Grows in L.A.: Tales of a Buddhist Monk in America)