Towards Better Democracy

Good words, well written, better the world. Good literature betters the world immeasurably.

Dudley Taft – Have You Ever Loved a Woman

Dudley Taft – Have You Ever Loved a Woman

Malcolm  D B Munro
Sunday 18 November, 2018


Filed under: art, Literature, Media, Memoir, Music, poetry, songs, stories

David Gilmour / Richard Wright – The Barn Jams

David Gilmour / Richard Wright – The Barn Jams

Malcolm D B Munro
Wednesday 24 October, 2018

Filed under: art, Book Review, Current Events, Literature, Media, Memoir, poetry, songs, stories

50% off or more – Autumn Sale of Fine Art Work

Saatchi Art

Malcolm D B Munro
Wednesday 10 August, 2018

Should you be interested in purchasing more than one work, please contact the art through the Comments column of this blog.


Filed under: Archaeology, art, Arts, Book Review, cells, Current Events, Cytokines, English poetry, Eternailities, Eternalities, German literature, history, Internet threats, life sciences, Literature, Media, Memoir, Music, mythology, Paleoanthropology, poetry, Proteins, songs, Startup companies, stories

The Byzantine Project – Church of Saint Euphemianos, Lysi

Traditional interior Greek Orthodox Church

The Byzantine Project – Church of Saint Euphemianos, Lysi

The Greek Orthodox Chapel in Cyprus where the fresco that Dominique De Menil rescued and restored belongs.

Malcolm D B Munro
Tuesday 28 August, 2018

Filed under: art, Current Events, history, Literature, Media, Memoir, Music, mythology, poetry, songs, stories

Brohumil Hrabal – Closely Observed Trains

from p 10
And yet the beighbours could never forgive him. maybe it was because of Great -grandfathr Luke, who was only 18 when he was granted a disability pension of a gold piece a day, though afterwards, in the republic he got it in crowns.
My grandfather was born in 1830, and in 1848 he was drummer in the army, and as a drummer boy he took part in the fighting on Charles Bridge,. The students dug out cobble-stones from the paving to throw at the soldiers, and they hit Great-grandfather on the knee and crippled him for life. From that time on he was grated this disability pension, a gold piece every day and every day he would spend it on a bottle of rum and two packets of tobacco, but instead of sitting quietly at home to do his drinking and smoking, he went off limping about the streets and field paths, taking a special delight in turning up wherever there were people slaving away at some hard labour. And there he’d sit and grin and gloat over these workers, and drink this rum of his, and smoke his tobacco, and what with one thing and another, never a year passed without Great-grandfather Luke getting beaten up somewhere, and Grandfather would have to wheel him home in the wheelbarrow.
Bohumil Hrabal – Closely Observed Trains
Translated by Edith Parteger
Release Date: April 1990
Publisher: Abacus
Format: Paperback
Length: 96 Pages
Malcolm D B Munro
Thursday 23 August, 2018

Filed under: art, Literature, Media, Memoir, Music, poetry, songs, stories

Benedict Mason – String Quartet No. 1

Benedict Mason – String Quartet No. 1

Malcolm D B Munro
Sunday 8 July, 2018

Filed under: Current Events, Memoir, Music, poetry, songs, stories

Ethan Rose – Song Three (Ceiling Songs)

Ethan Rose – Song Three (Ceiling Songs)

Malcolm D B Munro
Thursday 5 July, 2018

Filed under: Arts, Memoir, Music, poetry, songs, stories

Reprehensible or not: James Comey: ‘You stare at children crying – what kind of people are we?’

Reprehensible or not: James Comey: ‘You stare at children crying – what kind of people are we?’

Malcolm D B Munro
Thursday 21 June, 2018

Filed under: art, Arts, Current Events, history, Literature, Media, Memoir, politics, stories

F. T. Prince – Soldiers Bathing

The sea at evening moves across the sand
Under a reddening sky I watch the freedom of a band
Of soldiers who belong to me. Stripped bare
For bathing in the sea, they shout and run in the warm air;
Their flesh worn by the trade of war, revives
And my mind towards the meaning of it strives.

All’s pathos now. The body that was gross,
Rank, ravenous, disgusting in the act or in repose,
All fever, filth and sweat, its bestial strength
And bestial decay, by pain and labour grows at length
Fragile and luminous. ‘Poor bare forked animal,’ (*)
Conscious of his desires and needs and flesh that rise and fall,
The sweetness of his nakedness: letting the sea-waves coil
Their frothy tongues about his feet, forgets
His hatred of the war, its terrible pressure that begets
A machinery of death and slavery,
Each being a slave and making slaves of others: finds that he
Remembers his old freedom in a game
Mocking himself, and comically mimics fear and shame.

He plays with death and animality;
And reading in the shadows of his pallid flesh, I see
The idea of Michelangelo’s cartoon
Of soldiers bathing, breaking off before they were half done
At some sortie of the enemy, an episode
Of the Pisan wars with Florence. I remember how he showed
Their muscular limbs that clamber from the water,
And heads that turn across the shoulder, eager for the slaughter,
Forgetful of their bodies that are bare,
And hot to buckle on and use the weapons lying there.
–- And I think too of the theme another found
When, shadowing men’s bodies on a sinister red ground
Another Florentine, Pollaiuolo,
Painted a naked battle: warriors, straddled, hacked the foe,
Dug their bare toes into the ground and slew
The brother-naked man who lay between their feet and drew
His lips back from his teeth in a grimace.

They were Italians who knew war’s sorrow and disgrace
And showed the thing suspended, stripped: a theme
Born out of the experience of war’s horrible extreme
Beneath a sky where even the air flows
With lacrimae Christi. For that rage, that bitterness, those blows,
That hatred of the slain, what could they be
But indirectly or directly a commentary
On the Crucifixion? And the picture burns
With indignation and pity and despair by turns,
Because it is the obverse of the scene
Where Christ hangs murdered, stripped, upon the Cross. I mean,
That is the explanation of its rage.

And we too have our bitterness and pity that engage
Blood, spirit, in this war. But night begins,
Night of the mind: who nowadays is conscious of our sins?
Though every human deed concerns our blood,
And even we must know, what nobody has understood,
That some great love is over all we do,
And that is what has driven us to this fury, for so few
Can suffer all the terror of that love:
The terror of that love has set us spinning in this groove
Greased with our blood.

                                                  These dry themselves and dress,
Combing their hair, forget the fear and shame of nakedness.
Because to love is frightening we prefer
The freedom of our crimes. Yet, as I drink the dusky air,
I feel a strange delight that fills me full,
Strange gratitude, as if evil itself were beautiful,
And kiss the wound in thought, while in the west
I watch a streak of red that might have issued from Christ’s breast.

F.T. Prince – Soldiers Bathing

Malcolm D B Munro
Monday 18 June, 2018

 * from King Lear by William Shakspeare

Filed under: art, history, Media, Memoir, Music, poetry, songs, stories

Roy Campbell – Luís de Camões

Camões, alone, of all the lyric race,
Born in the black aurora of disaster,
Can look a common soldier in the face:
I find a comrade where I sought a master:
For daily, while the stinking crocodiles
Glide from the mangroves on the swampy shore,
He shares my awning on the dhow, he smiles,
And tells me that he lived it all before.
Through fire and shipwreck, pestilence and loss,
Led by the ignis fatuus of duty
To a dog’s death—yet of his sorrows king—
He shouldered high his voluntary Cross,
Wrestled his hardships into forms of beauty,
And taught his gorgon destinies to sing.

Roy Campbell – Luís de Camões

Malcolm D B Munro
Monday 18 June, 2018

Filed under: art, history, Memoir, Music, poetry, songs, stories

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