Thoughts Half-Formed, and a Poem

I did not intend to post today. Yesterday I abstained due to feeling bruised and tired following Tuesday's encounter with the colossal colander––wading through light fluffy snow like piles of powdered sugar is not dissimilar from slipping and sliding through an endless expanse of sand, except colder and whiter and with a secret layer of ice underneath forcing me to use muscles untouched since last winter (it did not snow all December)––and although to a lesser extent, this is also the case today.

Today, like yesterday, I have little of consequence to convey. I will spend my hours resting and studying. Specifically, I want to work through another chapter of Anachronic Renaissance by Alexander Nagel because parts of his book is on the syllabus for one of my classes. This is my first semester taking a pure Art History class. It's an adjustment, and one I'm excited to be making. The world of Art History is, of course, closely related to that of antiquity and Classical Studies, as is the case for most things in the West; we trace our heritage back to the Greeks through the Romans, frequently identifying Homer's Iliad as the beginning of our literature and building our alphabets around their sparse bones. But Art History employs a whole other cast of players that only narrowly overlap with those names of scholars I am already familiar with. The Renaissance artists, in this case, are no strangers to me, at least.

Contrary to the topic thus far, what I wish to leave you with is a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, Figs from Thistles: First Fig¹, published in 1918. It is also available to read here.

My candle burns at both ends;
   It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
   It gives a lovely light! 

 

Footnotes
1  Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Figs from Thistles: First Fig" from Poetry 8, issue 3. (Chicago: Poetry Magazine, June 1918.)